Christmas Carols

(The following is an experimental critique on the show "An Eastern Christmas. Please share your opinion on whether this style should continue in the comments)

 The Dozan wa Awtar Establishment had brought a decidedly unique performance to Jordan by showcasing old and new Christmas carols in Armenian, Coptic, Syriac, Byzantine and numerous other languages. It was conducted by Missak Baghboudarai (who did an absolutely fantastic job), directed by Nedy Muna, managed by Mercedes Alonso, choreographed by Lana Abu-Khader and composed and arranged by Nareg Abajian and Quassi Al Daker (who should both be commended especially for their incredible effort in the monumental task of collecting the songs and, at times, composing all new music for them). Now that we have the boring stuff out of the way, let’s get started. As this is an amateur production, I will make some exceptions and be lenient in some criteria (even though I often don’t need to be) and I will refrain from commenting on the segment done by the sub-group Atfal Dozan as they are children and I happen to have about a quarter of heart.

Let’s start from the beginning. From the start you had a video projected on a background behind three dancers while music played. It was a galactic themed video (which was actually pretty cool) and the music was fitting, though not for a Christmas Caroling event. The dancers were two women and a man. One of the women appeared to have been dunked in a bucket of silver glitter before coming on stage.

I'm essential to the show!

The women were often graceful in their movements and at times were in unison, the man seemed to be trying very hard to not do “the robot” and failing. The dance ended rather abruptly and was followed immediately by the choir group that got on stage and began to sing with no pause in between, leading me to wonder whether it was a new song or the continuation of the old one (a trend that would continue throughout the first half of the performance and often leave me very confused). The first song (which was definitely not space age) started a wonder in me that would continue for the vast majority of the performance. The choir was often perfectly in tune and in harmony with one another and the music (a great testament to the conductor) and the music was well attuned to the choir and fitting. If I had a complaint it would be that the costuming of the singers which didn’t seem to be fitting or even planned. It was apparent that somebody just told them “get some white clothes and tan pants, I don’t care.” One lady was even just sitting there wearing a white skirt. The minimal costuming that was given was given to the men who were wearing black robes which, when combined with the music, made them seem straight out of Hogwarts.

The second song (or the fourth, I couldn't tell if the first three were separate or parts of the same, very long, song) was one of the highlights of the evening. It had a distinctly Roman feel and was very different from the previous compositions. It had minimal musical accompaniment but was counterbalanced by a choir that accommodated many different tenors and tempos. It was also characterized by what appeared to be Emperor Palpatine and a KKK member gone rogue (in black) suddenly appearing on stage a Bible in hand. It would later be discovered that these would be the soloists for this song and the reverse-KKK guy produced a marvelous solo which complimented the background choir greatly. The final song in the repertoire sounded like Caribbean Jazz and was extremely fun to listen to as it was very upbeat, something that some in the choir acknowledged by moving to the beat but many didn’t, leaving them looking like total fucking stiffs.

After an intermission the audience was greeted by a beatboxer who looked not unlike a Jamaican drug lord accompanied by the Glitterina.

If I could dreadlock my nose hairs, I would.

He was a good beatboxer individually, she was a good ballerina/dancer individually but they were not good together and the harmony often seemed forced. Also, while the man’s beatboxing was excellent I must comment that saying “Merry Christmas” at the end of a song does not a Christmas carol make. This was followed by the type of music you hear at the really Christmassy part of a cheesy Christmas special. For this one I feel as though the music was without a doubt done well, but it asked for much movement which the choir was mostly unwilling to give, instead giving the impression of singing trees. At some point I swear about ten people dressed as Death Eaters came in and started praying upon what I assume was Mother Mary. While I was unaware that Death Eaters were devout Christians I am glad to have been exposed to that knowledge.

Praise our Lord, Jesus Chirst

This was followed by four Arabic songs, two of which were performed by children, that were done quite well and the lead female soloist involved was pretty goddamned decent. The last song was the Arabic classic “Laylet 3eid”. Although it did not appear that the audience agreed with me, I found the choir tremendously flat for once and although they put more effort into the costumes (Santa fezzes), it still felt like I was at an Arabic Christmas reunion with an extremely intoxicated hive-mind.

After a further intermission, we were greeted by an actually costumed choir. I was so proud.  The good archaic Arabian costumes were complimented by a nomadic desert-montage type of song that brought back faith into the show. It ended with the Glitterina climbing a rope all trapeze style and hanging on for dear life while acting like the star which guided the wise men to baby Jesus.  The performance ended with a nativity scene that was given the music of Silent Night but without any kind of singing, only humming. It gave a certain dramatic tension to the air and gave the performance a very smooth ending. In retrospect, while it had its ups and downs in terms of aesthetics, one should keep in mind that it was a musical event and from the auditory aspect, Dozan wa Awtar gave an absolutely stunning performance.    

Hidden Evil

When you first make a friend they're pure. Y'know we all have that one friend who just seems to be the most innocent thing ever and all new friends are like that. They just seem to be like a cherub among satanists, so pure and innocent and out of place. Just waiting to be corrupted. More often than not you sift through the new friends and absolutely destroy the innocence in most of them, except for one. One will always resist your temptations. One will remain innocent and resist even the most cunning of your efforts. More often than not, the evil will be so uncomfortable with the incorruptible that they will distance themselves from them. I did the opposite of that and became what was basically my character foil's best friend. For the most part I would trust her with my life and she's even done some illustrations for this comic. But as a best friend you discover things. Incredible things. You just find out shit that's so deliciously interesting about your friends and for me it all began with weird music taste.

While listening to music with her using the same earbuds I discoverd that the person who constantly apologizes, the person who has a Shi-Tzu, the person who once chastised me for making a joke about small furry animals is quite partial to death metal (Avenged Sevenfold to be specific) and some crazy techno shit that scared even me. Further inquiry and examination of phone music led me to the finding that Miss Innocent was a fan of anime. And not the cutesy animes, nah. Some full blown scaryass weeaboo shit like Madoka Magica.

To those of you blissfully unaware Madoka Magica is basically Powerpuff Girls, except the Girls are controlled by a sadistic evil cat thing and get murdered by horrible monsters. sometimes through very graphically depicted beheading (and remember, she's the kind of person who apologizes for apologizing). Although I was initially horrified I just passed it off as weird taste. Gradually, though, I slowly uncovered more. I found that while she had an extremely long fuse, it was connected to a ball of hand grenades around a core of C4, tied together with a net of dynamite. I also discovered that while the relaxed don't often hate, when they do. It radiates. I once witnessed the class prankster (who deals exclusively with painful or annoying pranks that barely even qualify as pranks) flee in terror only from feeling her rage from a distance.

But the final nail in the coffin? That came during a dance performance. The school had kindly once sponsored a theatre trip and we ended up at Riverdance. In the middle of the dance she turned to me and said exactly this "Y'know the person in front of me? I could do whatever I want to them. I could just stick my tongue in their ear and if they made a noise they'd get in trouble." At that point I was enlightened and now I truly know:
Nobody is incorruptible. 

Miso is Terror

 Monkeys, Capuchin monkeys especially, are known to be generally lovely, if slightly impish creatures as portrayed in cutesy films like Night at the Museum and such. This is a lie. This is the biggest motherfucking lie in media.

Capuchin monkeys, especially the monkeys used in cinema are the meanest motherfuckers I have ever met, and I should know because my uncle had one.

 My uncle works in props. He supplies movies with the weird shit they require: gramophone? Got it. Printer from the 1980's? No prob. A live monkey? Sure, fuck it. As a result of this he has the coolest room in the universe. I have at different points in time found the following in his room at my grandparent's house: an Indiana Jones style satchel (with a scroll inside), a typewriter, a ninja star, a  half-eaten chicken and (of course) a living, breathing Capuchin monkey. My uncle, being a  fan of Japanese food, named this little simian denizen of destruction Miso, after the soup.

 He needed the monkey for some weird obscure Jordanian movie about some lady getting stoned, or
being stoned, I'm not sure. Regardless the monkey was not good with dealing with stress of acting or dealing with crowds and took to eating cigarettes to cope. My uncle  (who happened to be a smoker) would often leave a pack of Marlborough's on the desk in his room. Miso (who lived in the room) would sneak up to the table...

open the pack and eat a few cigarettes...

and then get crazy high on the nicotine.

What is drugs

This would ordinarily be alright, except that the monkey was a complete asshole. Upon getting really high Miso would go totally batshit insane. He would leap around the room shitting on everything, screaming and biting people. My grandma fucking hated the animal.

 The real issue came about 2 months after the monkey's début at granny's house. He started to be able to open the door. Naturally, being an asshole who just happened to be either high or experiencing nicotine withdrawal, Miso often broke out of the room and would wreak havoc until being recaptured and detained in my uncle's room. One Wednesday everyone was out for once. The room had been inadvertently been left unlocked and Miso, using the much underestimated power of opposable thumbs, opened the door and crept out of the house like a teenager on a beer run.

 Little known fact about my grandmother's house: located right next to a Preschool/Daycare centre. Well known fact about monkeys: attracted to bright colours, especially when high. The hairy little bastard waddled across the street, to the brightly coloured Preschool/Daycare and leaped into the play-area where the children were currently having their play time in the bright rainbow coloured jungle gym. This monkey was, let me reiterate, uncomfortable with crowds and loud noises (2 things small children excel at) and also, to reiterate once more, high as fuck on nicotine and extremely aggressive. It did not end well for a couple of 2 year olds and some teachers. The police confiscated the little twat and we haven't seen him since.

The Coffee Machine

The only thing keeping me alive in the IB is the coffee machine. I go to a full IB school. Partially as a result of that, I've decided that coffee is essential to my survival as a human being. The only building in the school that has a coffee machine is the IB. It's the single redeeming quality of the building that is double my age. The building is so derelict it feels like it's going to cave on me and the things that make this elderly building even more shitty are the posters plastered all over every section of wall available. The moronic posters defacing the wall make we want to lose my mind. I just want to rip them off the wall and shove them into the asshole of the stupid bastard that created them, who probably went through the thought process of: "kids don't like gremlins, right? Therefore making a gremlin who plagiarizes will stop kids from plagiarizing." I mean the fucking plagiarism gremlin? Seriously?

Oh. Wow. Ouch... Hurtful.

An it's not only the fucking plagiarism gremlin.The classes are polluted by half-assed sketches of historical figures. (who are often just fucking destroyed with Nazi vandalism, what is this freaky obsession with the swastika and toothbrush mustaches? Nelson Mandela never deserved this) Actually, to be honest some of the sketches are pretty incredible, but focusing is difficult when Karl Marx is staring intently at you during economics.

I can see you...

The coffee machine is my savior. The coffee machine is to me what the Sun is to planet Earth. I love the coffee machine like my mother. It's functional and delicious and if marrying it was possible, I'd have little cyborg coffee machine babies with it. Now imagine me with 5 hours sleep. It's the last lesson of the day and I have to take it with a teacher who has an unfortunate habit of talking very softly and slowly. Very, very slowly, in a soft grandma-like voice that just begs “have a glass of warm milk and go to bed”. I want to focus, I need to focus. It's my higher level subject and to do that, I must visit my Mechanic Messiah for my dose of sweet, sweet caffeine.

HELP! PLEASE! They're MILKING ME

The problem with the coffee machine is that it is (like everything else in this shoddy excuse for a building) old and unreliable. The coffee machine is (as I have now discovered) fickle. Hear my epic tale of betrayal. I've got to focus in the higher level subject and cannot afford to offend the granny-teacher. It's the lunch break and directly before the lesson and someone has even offered to buy me a 30 p. cup. It is literally the perfect time and situation. I get to the spot. Locate my precious, insert 25 p. into it and hear the indistinguishable clatter of coin on plastic. Not on other coins, but plastic. I check the change slot. To my slowly growing horror I realize that the machine has rejected my advances. Please honey,Please sunshine; take my money. No, it refuses yet again. The only clue to its sudden failure was the German label under the coin slot (which said "Sprung von einer Brücke"). After whacking it a few times and shouting at it until the university counselor told me to fuck off, I realized it would be to no avail. Thwarted, I went to class knowing that I shall  inevitably, be slain by the demons of slumber and not be woken up by the teacher because she'll either think that I need it, or be too insulted to do so. When I needed it most, my starshine, my beauty and my one true love decided that it was going to go AWOL. I’m not bitter though. I can’t be. I need the machine, it doesn't need me. But I feel the need to say: Fuck you coffee machine, I hope you explode.

Update

Hi! I'm starting IB.

You laugh at my unpleasant situation, you make fun of my helplessness. The time will come when you will sink into sorrow, when you will cry for mercy. Death will prevail and sadness widespread. I wish the the most LETHAL, VILEST most VEXATIOUS problem. Welcome to IB
-Kesh (sent via whatsapp)

Vinaigrette

Before I start this story, I need you to understand that I have the bare minimum in dress sense. The barest of the bare, like, just enough to be respectful (tux at wedding and funeral and that's it) otherwise I judge by comfort, for example: hoodies galore, yak wool gloves, sweatpants and yellow crocs.

Basically, I don't understand formal dress and this sometimes poses a problem, especially at fancy restaurants.

I show up at a fancy restaurant (like, sushi at the top floor of a hotel fancy) dressed like this and I sit down next to my (equally hobolike) buddy Celien. We grumbled for a full half an hour about how hungry we were while looking at a menu.

We  could see the waiters wondering if we were hobos who just wandered in and contemplating kicking us out. Eventually our friends; SLJ and his (then) girlfriend Teeny showed up and we ate.

Fast forward a bit, we're going down the agonizingly slow elevator and the "cute couple" (ugh) are being all coy and feeding each other candy. While Teeny is pitched over in the middle of popping candy into SLJ's mouth while he's on one foot, ballet style.

The elevator stops at the fifth floor. The door opens and a resident of the hotel (a little old man) steps into the elevator. We each ,embarrassingly, shuffle into a corner of the elevator, with the elderly man in the middle. Embarrassment quickly turns into tension. You could practically smell the tension. The tension in this fucking elevator is palatable. It tastes like sushi and shame. Between the 4th and 3rd floor, Teeny coughs. It's all it takes. The pent up idiocy goes off,erupts,explodes and each of us is practically on the floor with laughter, while this little old man in the middle wonders what the floating unicorn fuck just happened.

I am quite literally on the floor by this point, SLJ slumped by the side of the elevator totally spent, Celien is looking at the floor, her shaggy mane covering her idiotic grin and Teeny is just done, turned towards a corner and sniggering like a shroom addict. The old guy thought we were totally baked. Eventually we reached the ground floor and, again, lost it at the sight of three old women who gave us the dirtiest looks. We stumbled out of the elevator and were promptly kicked out.

Creds to buddy Celien for the illustrations and much more; without you, my awesomeness would be greatly diminished.
  

I Was an Awful Child

November 8, 1998. An infant is ejected into the world outside of the Jacuzzi known as the womb.

That infant was me. I was a dickhead within the first minute of being born. I refused to feed. My mother and the nurse attempted to force feed me titty, but I was adamant. The doctors' analysis: "kid's gon die". Eventually I opened my mouth to scream and and had a boobie forcefully thrust into my mouth, I then realized that I liked breast and haven't been shaken of that faith yet.

After the initial scream I suppose I made a correlation between vocally attacking eardrums and titties because I continued my endless ear-jarring shrieks for the next 9 months of my life. My great aunt once threatened to throw me out of the window of a moving taxi cab because I wouldn't shut the fuck up.

At the strike of 10 months old I learned how to talk and have found it much more satisfying than screeching.

After that I became a rather quiet, slow talking child who did not say much at home and managed to develop an unholy, demonic obsession with skulls, black magic and the undead. I also learned how to draw by grabbing a shitton of colored pencils and attempting to draw a lion on a wall, (that wall being the single most important hallway in the house and the one all guests saw upon entering).

Recreation of my pretty lion. So pretty

Although I was quiet at home, on holiday and at school I was a complete terror. On holiday I persisted in being a little shit and getting lost (occasionally on purpose because why the fuck not). I once notably ruined a holiday in Lebanon by receiving the commands "don't PISS in the pool" which I interpreted as "don't piss IN the pool" and so took a leak from the diving board.

My parents pretended they didn't know me and even moved seats.

In school I was what is commonly known as "a weirdass little shit". I slept under the table. Marked every tree in the Junior School playground as my territory. Danced in lessons. Joined a gang of 9-year olds. Pantsed a classmate in class. Drew on every available surface. Ate a science experiment and on one occasion vomited on a teacher for refusing to allow me to go to the bathroom.

Eventually my satanic obsessions and evil streak died down into mild insanity and an affinity towards being annoying. I still retain the power of being a total cunt but alas, I am not young enough to avoid getting slapped for it. Someday I guess I'll pass down this evil power to my children through the magic of genetics but till then, I'll just have to get more creative.

Steven Hawking

My dog ran away. It wasn't exactly too much of a loss for the family because nobody really liked her but mostly out of guilt for being so callous, we visited the Thieves Market. I swear to God it exists; anytime a pet goes missing or a house is robbed, off to the Thieves Market where you can get a dining room for 11.55 JOD flat (about $15) and buy back your stolen South Peruvian death hamster.

We didn't find her but what we did find, was a hawk. A living, breathing, murderous feathered beast of death and keeping with the familial habit of compulsive spending, we bought it for 15 JOD (19$), including a cage originally meant for a pigeon. On the way back I decided to name the hawk something that would make people want to attack me; Steven Hawking.

Back home after getting angrily yelled at for buying a hawk I decided to train the hawk under the assumption; how hard could it be? Apparently hard enough to require a 2 year apprenticeship in some countries and being totally illegal in others because of danger to the animal and the trainer. After trying to feed it with a half thawed chicken wing, I decided that the hawk was a beautiful free animal and should be set free, also "danger to the trainer" was a significant factor in my decision, augmented by the fact that Steven Hawking was angrily maiming the cage in the direction of my face every time he saw me.

I took Steven Hawking to a farm in the country, cracked open his cage by dislodging the cheap iron from the plastic base, and ran as fast as I could in the opposite direction.

 Steve Hawking stood there, looked around in slight confusion then spread his mighty wings and flew right into a tree.

Public Speakers

I've given you a little demonstration of the way my school handles assemblies before but this one was a new low. Some teacher decided to get us a guy with a project called "Coexist" and told him to give us a speech. He walked on stage wearing one of those ugly head mike thingies and the shitstorm started.

First he told us that he usually gives this speech to universities but decided that the younger generation would more likely benefit more. I then (erroneously) believed that it must be a good, intelligent speech. I could not be more wrong. I think it was because the college students just threw rancid tomatoes at him until he left.

 He started with giving us an incorrect definition of the word coexist. You know a speech is going to be shit, when the speaker tries to cherrypick information from a dictionary definition. After fucking up the definition of coexist, he proceeded to attempt to use the technique of "selective information" on the Quran and Bible; he first translated the sayings to English (for an Arabic school that takes religion lessons in Arabic), then vaguely described the place the saying was found in, and finally obviously misinterpreted it and looked like he hoped we wouldn't notice. A religious guy (Haggis) was sitting next to me and I could see him fuming with rage.

 He proceeded to continue fucking up basic definitions of words (for example: he said successor meant CARETAKER, CARETAKER? YOU COULD BE THE SUCCESSOR TO THE PREVIOUS LEADER OF THE KKK, DOES THAT MAKE YOU A CARETAKER MOTHERFUCKER?), continued with the mistranslation and lazy misinterpretation of the Quran and Bible, showed us a video with the sound cut (I mean at least double-check beforehand), severely mutilated basic grammar ("I'm sorry, This are a technical issue". THIS ARE? You usually give this speech to goddamn universities! WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN "THIS ARE?") and made a weak attempt to instill an idea within us before going home. The audience collectively yawned or fumed with each idiotic sentence after idiotic sentence. My English teacher wanted to give him a 5/10 for his presentation.
I just wanted to throw a dictionary at him.

Eldest Cousins

Eldest cousins are, by their very nature, assholes. With the responsibility that comes with being an eldest comes the need to let off steam, and what better way to do that than play some video games? Nah, really the best way to blow off steam is is to scare the ever loving shit out of little children.

As an eldest cousin on one side and a younger on the other I received some good experience on exactly what was the most terrifying thing to do to little children. To me, it was one of my closest cousins pretending to be possessed by a ghost by the name of Mr. Melon.

Everyone would play along until I locked myself somewhere safe. They would then make exorcism noises and tell me that Mr. Melon was purged. Then the cycle would repeat itself.

It is in the very nature of small children to be afraid of stuff. The monster under the bed, the thing in the closet, the dark. All of it presents a strange unknown to a child and therefore makes them afraid of it. But being the eldest grants the "I am large" bonus. To the mini-people you are Big, the Big people are loving, caring, nurturing and protective. But, when you do something unpredictable such as snarl and roar, you are Bad Big. The same kind of Bad Big as the people in white vans who offer free candy. You are unknown, you are scary and you have the power.

Power is a corrupting substance to anything, but is especially corrupting to bored, hormone boosted, mentally unwell teenagers who have just found out that just by growling, you can scare a child shitless. I myself was once on a trampoline at a family reunion with two infants (a little boy and girl), then suddenly, I wanted the trampoline to myself.

It was a shitty trampoline, I don't know why I wanted it to myself, I didn't even want to jump, I just wanted it
and knew I could have it. I turned to the boy and made a growling noise, he just ran. He jumped of the trampoline and ran. I let the fear mature in the other one; not too short as to not get enough fear, but not too long so that she would stop being scared. After a good amount of time I looked theinfant in the eye and roared.

She did not only jump. She FLEW. she jumped and ran for her life,crying tears of terror all the way.

Later at the same reunion, after nightfall I put a jacket on top of my head, waited outside behind a tree in the utter darkness, and started to make the growling noise.

I was just outside the front door with small children inside.I sat and made the noise until the fear was overcome by curiosity and one of my close cousins came up, I told him to run back in screaming. Every time one would inch forward, propelled by curiosity, I would roar them back into fear. Then the second to eldest cousin came along (around 5 years younger than me) He bravely went out, at which point I covered him with the jacket and made growling noises while he screamed. In the confusion I told him my plan, " pretend you are dead, I will drag you off, hide until this is over". He complied; adding death of a close cousin to the background terror. This went on until my close cousin (the first one) decided to foil my plan by hitting me. I pretended I had died, planning to make a comeback until I heard my uncle tell me:
"shit that kid isn't going to sleep tonight, yo Monster tell the poor kid monsters aren't real".
I look up and find some poor kid crying his eyes out. I threw off the jacket and convinced him monsters are not real. But inside I knew, the real monster was me.
And The Monster will make a comeback.