Ode To Loved Ones

My fellow survivors, I salute you.

Those stuck at home, impelled by these extraordinary circumstances; a pandemic and the consequent economic disaster, with their ‘loved ones’, suddenly thrust into constant contact with them, I salute you.

Those dealing with ‘loved ones’ who simply because they enjoy yelling, or because they’re bullies and feel the need to assert their dominance, constantly pick fights out of nothing and nowhere with you, I salute you.

Those unable to run away from their ‘loved ones’ who, for reasons best known to themselves, or perhaps to make themselves feel better about their own shortcomings and failures, continue as they’ve always done, to belittle and demean you; to never listen to you and dismiss your feelings and values out of hand, I salute you.

Those who suffer through all that even though they have always done their best to help their ‘loved ones’; never once asking for anything in return nor ever holding anything over these ‘loved ones’ heads, no matter how important or impactful to their lives, I salute you.

Hang in there, fellow survivors. Endure not just the virus, but those ‘loved ones’ who only take and never give, not even a kind word. Those who have discarded you as family long a go; who care more for strangers than you, their own flesh and blood, perhaps their only offspring, sibling, what have you. Endure because, as the saying goes, this too shall pass. The virus, one way or another, will stop taking lives and upending the world, and you will once again be free to run away from them, perhaps never again to look back; to resume building your own lives, pursuing your own dreams and goals, leaving those toxic ‘loved ones’ behind once and for all.

I know this to be true because I am you, fellow survivors.

And I salute you.

Nothing To Fear But…

By now, you all know me, at least a little.

Either you’re my family or a close friend, or you’ve been kindly reading these posts. Point is, you know I grew up in Tehran during the 80s, and was there for most of the Iran-Iraq war. You also know Iraqi air force conducted random bombing raids on Tehran and its suburbs, mainly to destroy morale and to scare us into submission, but also to occasionally destroy an important target; a power station, military barracks, whathaveyou. But mainly to scare the shit out of us citizens.

And, at least in my case, it worked.

There also existed economic hardships, most of which persist to this day. The middle class slowly disappeared, incomes stayed the same while the cost of living skyrocketed, and even the basic foodstuffs were rationed. Tehran’s population suddenly exploded when people running away from the front lines of the war in southern Iran made their way to the capital, their meager possessions on their backs, and populated the sidewalks with their families; social services existing only in the minds of hopeful reformers.

Things were terrible. Things were hopeless… and yet, not nearly as terrible and hopeless as they are now.

The pandemic has me rattled. For the first time in a long time, I’m actually scared. A lot of it probably has to do with my constant exposure to the news, none of it good, compounded by my absolute hatred for all things Trump, especially his bungling, idiotic, self centered mismanagement of this crisis.

But what else is new with this creep, am I right?

What really scares me about the COVID-19 pandemic is the lethal speed with which it has overtaken the globe, and how it isn’t done yet. Thousands, maybe even hundreds of thousands, have already perished, with thousands more yet to come. The elderly, the young, the middle aged medical staff who are overwhelmed with the virus and what is often shocking lack of basic equipment needed to combat it.

I hear you say ‘hey, that’s what a new virus does. It spreads and overwhelms.’ Fair enough, nothing I’ve said so far is exactly news. Ultimately, what really scares me, is the ease with which we, the human race, have reverted to our less advanced selves; levels of racism and xenophobia are on par with what they were during the Spanish Flu pandemic, and subsequently during WW2 and The Korean War. Hoarding of resources have reached unnecessarily epic levels, leaving some with no food to eat and nothing with which to wipe their bums.

Why tho?!?

Then there’s that whole price gouging and profiteering thing. It’s almost as if they were waiting for their opportunity! This has become so bad that states are in bidding wars to procure medical masks and respirators and other tools they need to at least keep their respective death tolls to a minimum. And the federal government isn’t doing anything about it, because… well, because Trump.

What. The. Fuck!?!

I’m scared, gentle friends. Not so much of the virus, but of us, the human race. The global economy is going to be a wounded animal on the other side of all this, and judging by how we’re behaving during our most dire hour…

I’m scared.

Thing Fall Apart - II

Tuesday morning, I called the office and was told, much to my shock and horror, that there indeed was no kitchen or fridge. I was renting only a room and a common bathroom. I told them I couldn’t live without an icebox at least, and cancelled the room. I then hung up the phone, took a deep breath, and…

“ “

let out the biggest, loudest silent scream I could manage. After a few minutes tamping down my rage, I thought of the refugees of the world; Syrians, Yemeni, Ecuadorian… and how they live in tents without even bathrooms, never mind fridges. Saddened but calm, I went downstairs and extended my hostel stay for a few more days; as long as I could afford, and went back to looking for a room.

On the last day before what seemed my inevitable homelessness, I found what looked like the perfect room. But having been there before and having met with a disastrous end, I kept my hopes in check. The room was on the ground level, in a nice house in a good neighborhood, large and furnished. I filled out another application, this time free, and was told by the guy I would hear from him the next day. Having no place else to go, headed to the nearest Starbucks.

And that was where I stayed until the next afternoon. Although, I slept outside between 10:30 pm and 5:30 am, since Starbucks was closed during those hours. I spent the bulk of the day trying to contact the guy, but he never answered his phone.

I know, I know, this has gone on for fucking ever. Suffice it to say, if it wasn’t for one of two friends I had made in Buffalo, and her kind, generous heart, I’d be screwed. After a couple of more days, I suddenly get a call from dad, to whom I hadn’t spoken in more than six years, asking me to go live with him in Virginia. Having absolutely no other options, I accepted and was on my way two days later.

And that is where I am right now, and why I hadn’t posted anything in ages.

Aren’t you glad you waited?

Things Fall Apart - I

“Hi. I’m inquiring about the room you have advertised for rent on Craig’s List.

Is it on the ground floor? Or on the second floor? How much is the security deposit? Are utilities included? Do utilities include wifi? How long is the lease?

Thank you for your time.”

I must have typed those words about a hundred times, in some order or other, between December of last year and mid February. Many of my messages brought about texts asking me to get a Google code (??) or follow a link to Roomster or some other weird ass website. Most, however, went completely unanswered; ignored, lost, discarded…

But a few were answered with useful information, such as answers to my questions, and even dates and times when I could go see the room. And I went, with the help of my landlady, and found a few useful rooms as well; ones that either matched my needs or at least offered enough incentives for me to accept their flaws. The first room I found was perfect. On the ground floor, lovely roommates, and in a good neighborhood.

Huzzah!

Alas… when I called the young man whose lease I was to take over a few days later, he said his move had fallen through, and he wasn’t going anywhere after all.

Drat!

The next room I found was on the second floor, but was less expensive, furnished, and the son of the landlord who was in charge of the building, was willing to accept theNew York state agreement instead of cash deposit. So we shook hands and he said he will bring the paper he had to fill in for that agreement to my house the next day, and will then set up a time to sign the lease, etc. I offered to pay the first month rent, but he refused to accept any rent until I had signed a lease. Okay, makes sense. Sure. The next day he brought back the filled in and signed sheet of paper, and said he will text me a bit later for the time and location when I would sign the lease.

Yay!

Except… he texted me a short while later, saying someone had shown up and given him cash deposit so he had given the room away to him.

MOTHERF@$%^?*R!!!

I was big time pissed off. I told him we had a deal, and had he said he wouldn’t accept the New York state agreement I, too, would have given him cash. But it was too late… the douche had given the room away and left me screwed in the wind.

After that, I waited until after the Christmas holidays and all that nonsense. I needed a break, and people were not going to be terribly reliable then anyway. I picked up again a week or so after the holidays, and was faced with the same mess, more or less.

Until two days before the end of January, when I had to leave my place. I found a room on the second floor of an older, solid brick building owned by a property management firm. No chance of these people flaking out or being douchbags, I figured. Well, less likelihood of it, anyway. I went and saw the room; looked nice, furnished, and carpeted. I filled out the application, paid the $20 application fee, and waited to hear back.

I was approved! The next day, Friday, I received a phone call and the property folks told me I’m good to go. However, the rooms had been empty for a while, so it would take until Tuesday for them to prepare the room for my moving in. No problem, I could stay at a hostel or something for a few nights, since I wouldn’t be paying rent on the first.

That Monday night, I laid down on my bed at the hostel, and as I was thinking about the logistics of moving in the next day, something horrifying occurred to me: I hadn’t seen a kitchen at that house. No kitchen, kitchenette, or even a fridge. But surely there had to be some manner of kitchen-esque accommodations somewhere in that house…

Didn’t there?

I'm Done!

I am heartbroken.

It’s this world, you see. It’s just too much. All of it. There’s way too much misery and sadness in this world. And there’s no sign of it ebbing anytime soon. In fact, there’s more misery and sadness piling up everyday.

Just last week, only a few days into the new year, 176 innocent souls perished at the hands of idiots, who couldn’t tell a passenger airliner from a goddamn cruise missile! Who were too scared and too gutless to buck up and do their job properly, instead of shitting themselves and firing anti aircraft missiles into the night sky, fearful of their own lives and not thinking, even for a second, of the consequences of their actions.

That tragedy itself was brought about because Trump decided not to just assassinate, but absolutely VAPORIZE Maj. General Soleimani, the Iranian equivalent of our Joint Chief Of Staff, as he landed in Iraq to… well, no one will ever know why he was there, will they? He and some other Iraqis were made into ether by a couple of Hellfires. Apparently, according to Trump, the General was planning some serious shit. No, wait, he wasn’t, but he could have been. No, hang on a sec… he was just a bad dude and he deserved to die anyway. Okay okay, this is the one, this is the one: the president has the right to self defense and doesn’t have to even pass it by the congress. You know, like our constitution says he has to? Yeah, there you go.

Ah fuck it. Trump doesn’t have to have a reason for doing anything. He’s motherfuckin’ Trump!

Fuck off, Don.

As if hanging on the brink of war with Iran wasn’t bad enough, Australia has been on fire for months now. I mean that literally. Almost the entire continent island has been devoured by wildfires brought about by an epic drought and raising temperatures; read: climate change. The parts that aren’t on fire are choked by clouds of smoke, making life much more dangerous than it usually is down under. Billions (!!!) of animals have perished so far; the exotic, unique, and beautiful Australian wildlife has been absolutely decimated, and many species are on the verge of extinction.

To make matters worse, the Australian PM is a climate change denier who is in pocket of the coal industry there, and isn’t doing a particularly good job of managing the crisis. So, basically, he’s Trump, Oz edition.

And that’s just the new shit. Syria is still submerged in a genocide/civil war hybrid going on a decade now, Lebanon and Iraq are showing signs of revolt, ISIS is still blowing people up in Afghanistan, Al Qaeda is making something of a comeback, the massive protests in HongKong continue as well, while people in China are dying of poverty and oppression, Russia’s annexation of the Crimean peninsula and the conflict it has bred show no signs of ending anytime soon, and Venezuela and Chile are also unhappy at their rulers.

Then there’s the earthquake and other natural disasters in Haiti, the floods in Indonesia, Italy, and many other places, and so many other heartaches and pains all over the world. Add to all that the rampant xenophobia, nationalism, fundamentalism, and absolute hateful racism that has taken over the world…

My God the racism.

Lest you thin k that is an American problem; hardly a week goes by without one or more fan of a soccer club in England, Italy, or the Balkan states isn’t banned for racist chants and sign directed at players of color by either the FA or UEFA, when it happens during European club competitions. There’s less coverage when it happens in Africa or South America or Asia, but be sure it is a sad and festering constant in the world of the ‘beautiful game’.

So that’s why I say I’m done with this world. Or rather, with the humanity that occupies its inhabitable corners. Yes, I’m fully aware we have yet to colonize the moon and I’m stuck here; don’t take me too literally there. What I mean is I’m just not going to participate anymore. I don’t like who I have to become in order to succeed, therefore on this, my 46th year on this earth, I officially withdraw from society, and will only do the bare minimum in order to survive.

Ali out.

A Long Time Ago, In This Very Galaxy...

Dad came home from work with a birthday cake. It was my eighth birthday and I was excited about the small family party to come in a couple of hours; presents were sure to come, and now the cake was a certainty. And that was all I cared about.

But then, without saying a word, dad went back outside. Is he leaving? Won’t he be there for my birthday? Oh look, mom is taking my cake out of the box! Chocolate. Nice. Before my childish attention span had the chance to move on, dad came back through the front door, holding… A VCR!!! Wow! I get to watch a movie while eating cake and playing with my presents! Wait… did he also rent any movies?

In the post Islamic revolution Iran, VCRs and most movies were strictly forbidden. However, there sprang an underground network of movie and VCR rental shops; part of the Iranian people’s resistance to the oppressive fundamentalist regime’s wish to stifle all signs of life from a once vibrant culture. Same things happened with wine and music and other sudden taboos, but those were of no concern to me.

Dad put the chunky Sony Betamax VCR down near the TV and stretched his back. He then turned and handed me a small video cassette. “Here, this is apparently all the rage these days.” Written in bold black carefully written letters were the words…

Star Wars.

Seeing Star Wars (Episode IV: A New Hope, I later found out) as a child made such an impact on me that, nearly 40 years later, OI still recall the details of that experience. I spoke no English at the time, but I still managed to cobble together most of the storyline just by swimming in and absorbing every last drop of that magical trip. It was all I talked about for days. Dad had to constantly remind me about the illegality of the VCR and the movie and sternly telling me to quit blabbing on about it.

But even then, he couldn’t help but smile at my overwhelming joy.

I mention all this because the latest movie in that storied franchise has just hit the silver screens; the final episode in “The Skywalker Saga”, apparently.

And I couldn’t care less.

It just isn’t that special anymore. Not to me, anyway. A few years back, Disney bought the franchise and started what I like to call ‘Marvelizing’ it; cranking out movie after movie as quickly as possible with the aim of making as much money as quickly as possible. Ironically, Disney now own Marvel, too.

It was years after my eighth birthday before I saw the Star Wars sequels, while living in Tanzania where renting movies and owning VCRs (VHS, sadly) was perfectly legal and the only entertainment for a teenager. I didn’t even know there were sequels until then, which explains why I watched “Return Of The Jedi” before “The Empire Strikes Back”!

And that’s the whole point. I waited. I was pleasantly surprised. I was rewarded with great experiences, specially since I now spoke English and could follow the story properly. And I was saddened when it was all over. That rollercoaster of emotions has no chance of reaching the top if Star Wars movies come at us one after another as if fired from a Hollywood Gatling gun. The books and comics that expanded the Star Wars universe and filled the gaps in between the movies and kept us all entertained no longer matter. Add to that the fact that mass production hurts quality, and you have exhausted and disappointed fans; middle aged people like myself, whose magical childhood experience has become their only connection to their beloved characters and quotable lines of dialogue. What are we to do? Where can we point our childish glee?

Is Star Trek still a thing?

The Insistence of Hope

Nietzsche wasn’t much on hope. Of it, he wrote “Hope in reality is the worst of all evils because it prolongs the torment of man” or some words to that effect. Up until I read that, I had seen hope as my only means of survival; the only way out of my doldrums and depressions into which I have sunk ever since my disability became a constant and lifelong companion couple of years ago.

But after everything that has been happening recently, I can see Nietzsche’s point. I had kept hope alive, even after years of failing to find a simple part time job so I can spread my wings and make something of my broken and generally useless existence. I told myself, every night as I went to bed, tomorrow is another day, things will happen, and they just might be good things. Then, early evening November 29th, my landlady handed me a one line eviction notice, something to the effect of this arrangement is no longer working for me, and I want you out by the end of December. No real reason, no discussion…

Just a simple ‘fuck off’.

Suddenly I understood what Nietzsche meant. As a means of dragging one’s worn and hollow carcass from one obstacle to the next, hope is utterly useless. After all, what’s the point? One can only take so much failure and humiliation, especially while trying to achieve the most mundane of goals. Nietzsche’s words have been bouncing around in my brain as I make the rounds begging whoever with some power to help for the security deposit I need to find a decent room to rent in a corner of a house somewhere. Social services handed me a stack of papers for my perspective landperson to fill out so they can guarantee my security deposit, in case I tear the place apart.

All I need now is someone kind enough to agree to do paperwork and who trusts the state of New York enough to forgo good ol’ cash.

Yeah right.

I’m off to beg the Catholics for help next. I really don’t want to start the new decade either on a street corner or in a homeless shelter. So yeah, I guess I’m still hopeful. It’s pissing me off to no end but I’m still hopeful. After all, what’s the alternative? Ending my life? That’s just stupid. how will that help anything? Just sitting in a corner and withering away? That’s just as pointless. Besides, I get hungry easily. And I like to eat.

Oh shut up.

So yeah, I keep kicking and keep trying. I have a birthday coming in about a month. Let’s call that the minimum mark until which I’ll keep banging my head against all the walls that continue to be erected before me. I’ll get my free drink from Starbucks; my free burger from Red Robin, and see where I stand. Maybe by then, I’ll have some crumbs to feed that “thing with feathers”.

The little bastard.

Take Your Time, I Can Wait.

I’ve been an Amazon Prime customers since its early days, more or less. I hopped on the wagon as soon as I learned students can join for half the cost, and haven’t left since. Back then, I was in college and didn’t have a car, so I bought whatever I could from Mr. Bezos; not only was it convenient, more often than not it was also cheaper.

Those were the pre-‘Prime” days, so I had to wait a few days for my orders to arrive at my doorstep. And I was perfectly okay with that. And still am, as a matter of fact. Free two day shipping, along with inexpensive next day option, were pleasant surprises when they were added to my Amazon experience, kind of like when Prime Video was launched. TV shows and movies at no extra cost? Cool!

But they were never requirements for me to keep my Prime membership. And that was how I greeted the free next day shipping currently offered by Amazon. Heck, I didn’t even know it was happening until it was in full bloom! I especially appreciate that news because I’ve become disabled and need Amazon’s help with my shopping more than ever.

And that is ultimately what angers me about all these reports and journalists’ investigations into the horribly oppressive and unsafe working conditions in Amazon warehouses. These always start with the accusatory “Do you know what has to happen so you can have your Amazon package the next day?” As if I am solely to blame for whatever horrors are befalling Amazon warehouse workers daily. Do I deserve to feel guilty simply because I shop on Amazon? Is it fair to make people like me (I’m not unique, after all, as my father makes sure to remind me often) feel like shit for shopping online?

I want to make one thing very clear: I am in no way siding with Amazon, nor am I discrediting those reports on which many young reporters worked very hard. But Jeff Bezos’ never ending quest for ever more wealth is his and his alone. The man worth about, what is it these days, $20 Billion, can easily slow things down and make sure his warehouses and fulfillment centers fully comply with all safety regulations, and allow his workers to take a breath every once in a while.

Seriously, how much more money does anyone really need?

So gentle reader, and possible NPR reporter (it could happen!); next time you want to point your possibly journalistic finger at someone for the ills of consumerism and how people are suffering in its boney, bloody hands, point it at the top of the money heap, not at me here on the penniless bottom.

I have no problem waiting a few days for my underwear to arrive from Amazon.

My Favorite Poem

A man said to the universe:
“Sir, I exist!”
“However,” replied the universe,
“The fact has not created in me
A sense of obligation.”

- Stephen Crane

A Good Mind

I spent four years in Tanzania; between 14 and 18; 1988 to 1992. The first three of those four years were spent in the capital, Dar es Salaam, where dad was assigned to the Iranian embassy as the CFO. That sounds important until I tell you the embassy’s staff totaled 5, including the ambassador and the embassy secretary, a young Tanzanian man named Mohammad, if I recall correctly.

Second in the ranks was the diplomatic attaché, the assistant to the ambassador, the man who wore many hats, especially since he spoke English and the ambassador, a mullah (surprise surprise) did not (surprise?). This man was Brahman Jahangir, an educated and smart man in his forties, with curly reddish hair and rimless glasses.

We all became good friends with Bahman and his young wife, mainly because none of us gave two hoots about the restrictive rules of the Islamic regime by which were all made a pretense of abiding while in public. We got together for dinner and drinks (wine for the adults, soda for me) and spent many fun nights, mom and Bahman’s wife in their own world on the sofa while we three played dominoes; Bahman quizzing me on English grammar; praising me when he realized my English skills were fast surpassing his own.

All his life, it seemed as if Bahman had been forced into decisions and situations he didn’t necessarily like, but put up with because what the hell, why not. In doing so, he often overcompensated by trying too hard to do a good job; to please his superior, and it made him come across as a bumbling simpleton to strangers; and dad being dad, constantly needled him about it. It was all good natured, and they shared a laugh together, Bahman turning red as he chuckled and tried to needle him back. I even managed to get a couple of good ones in on him before I was checked by dad and told to remember to respect my elders.

There was another side to Bahman, a side I was introduced to when I was left in his charge for a while as his wife, mom, and dad all went back to Iran for a while to do… whatever. He’d come home from work, frazzled and tired. We’d all eat the meal the housekeeper had prepared, and then rest for a while as we caught up with each other’s day and whatnot.

And then came the evening, and with it brought a sparkle to Bahman’s eyes. A mischievous glint, accompanied by a wry smile that signaled his intent to let lose, to do things he normally wouldn’t. Alas, we were limited in how much adventure we could find, what with me being a 15 year old and him being the second in command at the Iranian embassy. We were expected to act restrained and Islamic like, which meant stuck up and boring.

So we went to the beach, we rented rude comedies from the video store, and we blasted whatever music we had in the car as we went to the beach and the video store. Doesn’t sound like much but we had fun! Bahman was just happy to be free of the constraints of his daily life; his job, his obligations, and everything else that was foisted upon him somehow and he surrendered to.

Even when we had to accompany the ambassador whathisname to the mosque and line up behind him in prayer, he couldn’t help but crack up because he realized I, like him, was just mouthing the prayers and mimicking others’ movements. Neither of us had a clue how to be a ‘proper muslim’, and neither of us cared to learn. It was all we could do not to burst into laughter mid prayer and get into huge trouble.

That week or however long it was, Bahman was a teenager like me. He was free to let loose, albeit in a constrained measure, knowing full and well that I would let loose with him. Because that’s what teenagers do. Faced with all the pressures and heft of life, every once in a while…

They let loose

Bahman (an old Zoroastrian name meaning “good mind”) Jahangir died a few days ago, on the 24th of October. He lost a four year battle with Lewy Body Dimentia. I guess that teenager inside him finally won the fight. For one last time…

Bahman let loose.