the random events that are my life

alright, so i've been out of the wilderness now for a couple of weeks and unfortunatly fes doesn't offer much in the way of spectacular landscapes and stars and camels and funny old men in neat houses. so you'll have to content yourselves reading about some of the less impressive, but more random, events of my life. i have three for you. may they be progressivly funnier and more random and bring cheer to your otherwise cubicled lives.

you might say that my supervisor and i have clashing personalities. really, they're more like bitter arch enemies; those pairs in nature like the lion and water buffalo who are born to fight each other until one dies. he is extremely controlling, completely inflexable, and has lived long enough to have gained perfect wisdom in all areas of life. so naturally, everything should be done his way. for example, he asks that i wash my bedsheets at least ocnce a week and even asks about it when he comes over, "so, have you done laundry lately?" when i was about to leave for my trip to The desert he says, "now, i don't want you taking my camera and getting sand all over it but you can take your camera if you'd like." well thank you, kind, merciful sir for giving me permission to take my own camera somewhere. what would i do without you asking me to make a log of every hour of the day and what i plan on doing with it? you can tell i'm slightly bitter. so he comes over the other day and asks to see the storyboard i had been working on. i show him what i have (it's more like a general outline of what i wnat to do with the video with some stcik figures and such) and he throws a fit. he says this is not what he asked for, he needs a complete, shot by shot layout of the entire production. and i say it's really hard for me to work that way. i'd rather go get some footage, see what it looks like and then produce the video from there. you know, a more organic aproach; let it take a life of its own. well, we'd been at odds for quite a while now with me openly contradicting things he's suggested and arguing in defense over the slighest disagreement in the wording of my script. he sits me down and looks at me and says "i can tell you have some issues in your life. you have a problem with authority. and i can tell you don't like me so let's just have out with it." haha. i have issues? i have issues? what about you, mister "please make out a will before your trip" ? so we sit there for about three hours arguing over life philosophies and the amount of control you should have over people's lives. and finally he says, "i'm old, i'm more set in my ways and this is my show so we'll do things my way." we haven't gotten anywhere. so i give up. but we're not finished. he says he thinks he can get to the root of my problems if i'm willing to let him help me. and so i'm interested in what he thinks is really wrong with me so i say sure. haha, he has me sit back on the couch and starts asking about my childhood and my relationship with my parents. i barely keep myself from laughing but i indulge him and now he thinks, "we've made some progress." he probably thinks of me as a troubled youth with a dark past, always conflicting with those in charge of me and being generally hard to get along with. i think he's been trying to catch a peek of prison tatoos under my shirt and looking up my permanent record online for juvenile offences like vandalism and attempted arson of my father's house. i almost told him about last year's songfest but then thought better of it.

incedent number two: people often yell at me in the street, usually in french, but rarely do they ever attempt to save my obviously condemned-to-hell white soul. so this chain-smoking, younger guy stops me the other day. i tell him i don't speak french and only a little arabic but he is determined. i'll spare you the boring details (we stood there for a good twenty minutes) and i didn't understand most of what he said. but this is the gist of it: i am obviously american since i don't speak french. but besides that, being white means i have a cross painted on my chest and lots of people around here don't like christians, especially american ones. god often tells them to kill people like me. i am marked for death. he pointed to his forehead and made a bull's eye. then he showed me various scars on his arms and face (probably from where he cut himself in a drug induced trance) and makes slashing motions across his throat. but he can help me; he wants to help me. if only i will turn to god, when i die at least i'll end up in heaven. he stabs my stomach a few times, points to the ground and then up to the sky. become a muslim and i'll go to heaven when i'm killed by osama ben laden. then he says "say this," and tries to have me recite the muslim confession. so finally i tell him no and start to walk away. but he grabs my arm and shows me a casset tape he is holding. it's the muslim equivelent of gospel music. it has a picture of a fat, bearded imam with sun glasses on, super-imposed on a picture of mecca. he tells me this guy can help. pray to god. be saved. finally i just walk away and he keeps yelling "say it!" and i keep yelling "god-willing!" (the cultural equivalent of saying, "no way." or, "only if god possess my body and forces me to.") yes, he tried, but when ole osama comes for me i'm afraid my soul is bound for hell. tough luck.

imagine my suprise when this text shows up on my phone (all spelling and grammatical errors are accurate to the message) "Hey boo i have a bottele johny walker wiskey if u want we drinkin in your home its not probleme or.?" i laughed for a good five minutes before i could compose myself to write back. so i ask "who is this?" and the reply, "In your house .Me and you" it's like some really crappy rap song. where did this guy learn english?maybe he's got me confused with his american girlfriend. so i write back, in french, "what's your name?" and if it isn't my friend, the fake khalid, mr. "he called me john," the guy i accidentally called and spent the evening with a few weeks ago. and for a while i contemplate having him over and having a drink with him. what could be funnier than watching a preppy young moroccan guy get drunk in your apartment? one who barely speaks english and, with a few in him, might suggest that we, "go halla at shorty and get our freak on." but no, even with the words of dh in the back of my mind, don't be afraid to do things no one else would, i think better of it and tell him we'll have to find somewhere else to enjoy johny walker. this boo just can't have pimps and playas all up in his crib. unfortunatly he never calls me back and i spend the evening watching a meril streep, robert redford movie and looking through my french dictionary and the french grammer book dwayne gave me. almost up to johny's standards, but not quite pimp'n it. well, he did learn his english from the backstreet boys. god bless america.