I'm back, guys

I know, I know. I did you dirty. I went on a two week hiatus. I get it. I had just earned your trust when out of the blue I just vanish. Do I have a decent excuse? No. Well, kind of. But actually, no... No, I do not.

So, I'm going to move along with this post and not focus on how I've failed you as your beacon of light in your grueling miserable lives.

Well... I mean, I guess I'll touch on what's been going on.

So, two weeks ago, I went to Lebanon. This time was different though. I went with my girlfriend... and the Turkish lira tanked so EVERYTHING WAS UNGODLY EXPENSIVE. I'm surprised I didn't have to start selling my ass in order to afford cab fare. Jesus.

What's interesting is that I had it set in my mind that I was leaving on a Saturday when in fact it was a Friday. Thank God I checked the day's date on Thursday or I would have been woefully ill-prepared for my trip... also, I would've had a very angry girlfriend on my hands.

Now, I love Lebanon. I love it a lot. I could never live there though. That much I knew before going. But it was during this trip that I realized that I've kinda outgrown going to Lebanon every summer. Don't get me wrong. Lebanon is wonderful, but it's a great place for a single, young man. Not that it's brimming to the rim with loose women and booze... it is... but I never went for that. Hell, I'm lucky to have a girlfriend on account of my "game" being virtually non-existent. This might come as a legitimate shock to some of you... I kinda talk a lot.... I mean... A LOT. I'm a conversation slut. But that doesn't translate to being a ladies man as some would think. When it comes to the ladies, I have as much tact as that one guy who stares at women like a fat man stares at the ice cream selection behind the glass. There's a lot of sweat, matched only by the sheer desire in his eyes, as he licks his lips furiously, puts a finger on each nipples, and sensually moans, "I've been a bad, bad boy... Ouuuuu!"

Where was I? Reading... reading... oh yeah! Lebanon. So I went to Lebanon as an escape to something familiar. The hustle-and-bustle of Lebanon is much like Puerto Rico. The traffic, sheer chaos, and culture are almost identical. Yet there is also a more traditional feel that Puerto Rico has lost that is ever-present in Lebanon, especially outside of Beirut. But, it is ultimately for a single, young man. I've usually gone there with one or more friends who are from there. They take me to the hole-in-the-wall places, the places only locals know, the famous sites, -y'know- the whole nine yards. I've always felt a part of Lebanon. It's always been this second home on this side of the world.

We would stay late into the night talking politics and history and religion while smoking argile/ nargile/ shisha/ ... *shutters* hookah. We were carefree and had no responsibilities. Mo would usually hatch a crazy scheme that would get us a rented van that looked like it was going to drop dead and ascend to car heaven. He would also insist on driving despite having the driving skills of an autistic sea otter who lost most of it fingers to a land mine. Was I the better driver? Of course, and no one can dispute that. What I'm saying is that this sort of thing is great if you are a sole adventurer. When the car broke down in Nabitieh in the middle of the night, it was all part of this crazy, fun adventure. It was experiencing the ups-and-downs of Lebanon.

Well, this time was different. There was no car, there was no Mo... I mean, there was... he just wasn't in Lebanon. He's still alive, and most likely his driving skills have not improved. My friend in Lebanon was busy with his finals. I was on my own with my girlfriend and a horrible exchange rate for Turkish liras. I should mention that I had an Arabic-speaking friend with me, but he's Iraqi. He was just a tourist like we were. Furthermore, my girlfriend mostly speaks Turkish, and so I had the role as translator. Not that it was bad. I love my girlfriend. I'm glad I got to show her what I could of Lebanon, but it was a different role. I was no longer an adventurer... I was a guide. Being a guide sucks... especially when you have to take taxis and buses everywhere. I had to be conscious of her sensibilities. Things that I usually shrug off are not the same things she would take lightly. The smells, the food, the landscape, the general chaos... these aren't appealing to some. Sure, there is the other side of Lebanon which is all non-stop parties and rampant cocaine use, but neither of us were interested in that.

I had to stop and think why Lebanon is so important to me and how can I translate that importance to her. The problem is that it's very personal for me. Lebanon is important to me as a Puerto Rican (because of the similarities) and as a Shi'a Muslism (due to a group that will go unnamed, but you totally know which group it is... they're great). Especially concerning the latter, I love going to the South (Jnoub) and taking it all in. I see people going their daily lives in peace and pride of where they are from, and I think of the sacrifices they had to make to have it and how they never wavered in their resolve for a better future. These are the people that fought the seemingly-invincible behemoth and sent it back with its tail between its legs, demonstrating that even monsters can bleed. My heart swells with pride knowing that we follow the same path in Islam. We venerate the same figures who served as examples in our fight against oppression...

so HOW THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO GET SOMEONE ELSE TO FEEL THAT?!
... and in TURKISH, no less!?

I realized that I'll never be able to do that because my girlfriend isn't me. I can make parallels, but it won't ever be her reality. It will never have the same impact. Not to say it's impossible, but for a week-long vacation and taking into account my level of Turkish... yes, it woulda been fuckin' impossible.

Her world doesn't translate into the reality in Lebanon like mine does. Turkey was never colonized and it's biggest enemies have usually been internal. Puerto Rico and Lebanon were both colonized and both face threats from outside as well as from within (Puerto Rico: the US; Lebanon: Israel). She can only really be an sympathetic observer. And don't get me wrong, she's very sympathetic to a certain group that again will go nameless, but it isn't internalized. They are just allies for her, as opposed to brothers-in-arms.

With all that said, I realized that I've moved to this new stage in life. I need to be conscious of "we" and "us," not just "I" and "me." The days of being a lone adventurer are behind me. That's not to say my days of international travel are over; of course not. I just need to keep my other half in mind from here on out because it is my responsibility as a boyfriend and eventual husband... and -God help us- eventual father.

Growning up is fuckin' weird, guys... but it's not half-bad.

Lon's Guide to Dating: Part 2

... So as I mentioned in my previous post, I actually already wrote this one. However, the internet had other plans and erased all my hard work. FUCK YOU INTERNET!
Anyway, without any further ado...

The Second Part to Lon's Guide to Dating...

this one is for the ladies.

Step 1: Exist.

This is pretty straightforward since most men will copulate with anything with a pulse.

Step 2: What to wear.

For the love of God dress practical. You're pursuing the most dangerous game: man. Dress the FUCKING part. Heels? ARE YOU TRYING TO DIE?! Short-shorts? STOP! Throw away all those cute outfits! Sure, they are fashionable, but FASHIONABLE WILL GET YOU FUCKIN' KILLED! Have you ever had to square-off one-to-one with a cornered man-baby with a neckbeard and acne?! IT AIN'T FUCKIN' PRETTY!

Let's start from the bottom. Boots. No heel. Steel-toed is preferred. Real leather. AND YOU BETTER BE WEARING SOCKS!

Next: Pants. Nothing too loose. You don't want them getting snagged on something. Make sure they're thick too. They should be either black or brown.

Moving up: Long-sleeve shirt or preferably a tunic. What's a tunic?

This is a tunic.

Any dark color will suffice. Definitely use a belt. No one likes a saggy tunic.

Next: Padded/Leather Armor. This should look kinda like a coat... I'm sure I can give you a picture for a reference... um.... 

SHA-BLAMO!

 

Last: Just like the picture above, a hooded cloak will finish your outfit. Now to Step 3!

Step 3: Weaponry

Melee Weapons: Short sword, skinning knife (you'll thank me later), hachet

Ranged Weapons: Crossbow, about 20 bolts (the things you put in the crossbow... you're already disappointing me), javelin

Miscellaneous: Rope, several bear traps

Step 4: Pursuit

Now you are ready to pursue a man. Never wait for one to come to you. That's just asking for trouble. Despite what your well-intentioned mother/ friend/ aunt/ cousin/ talking dog/ ghost of Emily Bronte says, waiting is how people get killed. You are a huntress! ACT LIKE ONE GODDAMMIT!

First: Where the men at? You can find them everywhere. They have a distinct call. It is often heard in public areas such as bars and parks. "Hey, Bro! Hey, Bro!" or "Dude! Dude!"
Once you've spotted a herd of men, choose your prey. Will you go for the strongest of the pack? Or will you go for the old or weak?... That one is in a wheelchair... no... don't go for that one... Ok... that one is well into his 80s... are you taking this shit seriously?... that one is a chick who only has guy friends! This pack has been tainted by her presence. Find another pack.

Once you've chosen your target, keep your presence hidden. Keep in the bushes or a safe distance from him. Men can be skiddish. If he becomes alerted of your presence, retreat. Last thing you want is him approaching you. When he is alone, ready your crossbow and aim at one of his calves. This will reduce his chances of running away, but it is still nonlethal. When you have the shot lined up, fire.

Now, one out of two things has just happened. You either hit or miss. If you hit, emerge from your hiding spot and ready your sword and rope. Hogtie that bad boy and cart him off to your horse/ car/  motorcycle.

If you missed, there are couple of things you can still do. If he didn't hear/ see the shot, reload and shoot again. If he was alerted to your presence, either flee or fight. If you fight, you may have to chase the fucker down. Have your sword at the ready, but keep your javelin in hand. The javelin is really useful because you can throw it or you can use it as a short spear. Make sure to go for his legs. If you can disable his legs, capturing him will be easy. Be warned though. Be prepared for close quarters combat. Man is like any other animal. When cornered, he is at his most dangerous.

With any luck, you've got the bastard hogtied.

Step 5: The Date

Bring your hogtied lad to your favorite restaurant or a restaurant you've been dying to try. Make sure your man is bound and gagged. He shouldn't do any talking. Men should be seen, not heard. Make sure to tell him that. Talk to him about your dreams, feelings, day at work, that slut Karen, ex-boyfriends, any issues pertaining to your father, your allergy to left-handed mice, your crippling fear of that one Barenaked Ladies song that was really popular in the late 90s (the one that goes "IT'S BEEN..."). Anything and everything. Constantly remind him of how great a listener he is. Is he crying? Grab his face and gaze into his tear-filled eyes. Is he trying to look away? Shake his head violently until you two make eye contact. Lick the tears from his face. Savor the saltiness.

After you've finished your meal, take his wallet and pay for the meal with his money. CHIVALRY IS NOT DEAD, GODDAMMIT! Before you see each other off, write down your name and number on a napkin. Shove it in his pocket. Now, with the skinning knife, cut his ropes. Watch him scurry off into the night.

With any luck, he'll call you within the next day or so. If not, oh well! Just find yourself another man. Happy Hunting! 

An Update

So, Ramadan ended last week. So I'm officially back. In fact, I wrote Part 2 of my guide to dating... BUT THEN THIS FUCKIN' THING DIDN'T SAVE IT AND I HAVE TO WRITE IT ALL OVER AGAIN!

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!

 

So, I kinda don't have any steam for this week, but I GOTTA KEEP CONSISTENT.

I don't even think I'm gonna post this on Facebook.... meh....

Almost forgot to do this

As the title suggests, I almost forgot to write this week. I always write on Monday, but this Monday I totally spaced it. I WILL NOT LET YOU DOWN, DEAR READERS!

That being said, I'm phoning it in again.

Look, Ramadan is almost finished. There's only a couple of days left. It's weird because I'm so used to fasting. When Ramadan is over, you feel almost guilty eating and drinking during the day that first day. Then, you get used to it and return to your shitty lifestyle.

Y'know, I kinda treat Ramadan like a New Year's sort of thing. It's my chance to start new things that are better for my life. I guess I make resolutions, and much like New Year's resolutions, I take it as an opportunity to disappoint myself in new and creative ways.

So, random thing, but I have a callous on top of my left foot. I've had it for some time now, but I couldn't figure out why it was there and why there wasn't one on my right foot. I thought it was just my shoes, but if that were the case, I'd have one on my right foot too. Then, it hit me. It's from praying (the Muslim kind, not the normal "talk to God" and so forth one). So, let me explain this to my non-Muslim readers...

Muslims pray five times a day. As I've said before in other posts, I am a Shi'a Muslim (12er/ Ja'fari) so I'm gonna explain ours. It's basically the same as Sunni prayers with a few differences.

The first prayer is before sunrise (I usually do this one late when it isn't Ramadan... I know... bad Muslim). This is made of two rak'a... and a rak'a is basically a "round." Just hear me out. So, you start by putting down your prayer mat facing Mecca and putting down a tablet of clay where your forehead will touch the ground (this is a Shi'a thing). Now you face Mecca. You put your hands near your ears and think "I offer this prayer of Fajr (morning prayer) of rak'atain (2 rak'at) to gain closeness to God." Then, looking at the clay tablet, you say "Allahu Akbar." Now the fun begins.

So one rak'a starts with reciting two surahs while standing. A surah is like a chapter from the Qur'an. The first one is always Fatiha which is the first surah of the Qur'an. It's gotta be in Arabic too. All of this is in Arabic. Anyway, you then recite another surah of your choice. I always do Ikhlas. It isn't too long. After your two surahs, you say "allahu akbar" and then bow. Now if you're like me, you just say "subhanallah" three times while bowing. That just means "Glory be to God." There are other things to say... but I don't speak Arabic and this is the easiest to remember. Then you rise and say "sami'allahu liman hamidah" which means "God listens to those who praise him." You say "allahu akbar" and then you get down on the ground on your knees. This is where you bow and put your forehead on the tablet. Again, three subhanallah's with your head down and you rise to a kneeling position. Now, we Shi'a keep our feet tucked under us with our right on top of the left. THIS IS WHERE THE CALLOUS COMES FROM. You say "allahu akbar"... pause/ say something like "god forgive me for my sins"... "allahu akbar" again and go back to putting that forehead of yours on some clay.

And that's one rak'a. You stand up and do it again. Now there's a few differences in the last rak'a of a prayer and a couple of more differences, but you get the gist.

"But Lon!" I hear you say. "Why does it need to be in Arabic?"

Good question. These are NOT normal prayers where you talk to God and ask for stuff like lotto numbers or an potential spouse or meaning to your sad, pitiful existence. Muslims have those prayers too. And they can be in any language. The five daily prayers have a different purpose. They are a reminder of your obligation to God and the connection you have to God. It's kinda like an agreement you make as a Muslim. The same goes for fasting during Ramadan. It's purpose is to keep you constantly connected with God and humbled.

And that's how I got my foot callous.

Hopefully, some of you learned something. Oh, and I didn't translate Allah to mean Allah because Allah is just God in Arabic.

Also, if you have Arab friends, they say "wallah" or "wallahi" a lot. There is no "probably" about this. They do it. That just means "I swear to God." If you want to pretend to be Arab, you need to say this about 3 times in a minute of normal conversation to pass for being Arab. Wallahi them the rules... see what I did there.

Quick Update

Yeah, guys. I'm phoning this shit in this week. I only got like one more week or so of Ramadan, so hold on to your panties.

I'm pretty impressed with myself though. I have been consistent as hell. I mean, the quality has dramatically plummeted but just look at that consistency.

So, I learn a couple of new things every Ramadan. This Ramadan, I learned that Sunnis and Shi'a don't break their fast at the same time. That means I hear the call to prayer blare throughout the city and watch as my fellow Muslims break their fast, but I get to wait 10 more minutes or so to break mine. You guys in non-Muslim countries are so lucky. You don't get Ramadan "blue balls."

Also, I need to eat more fiber. I feel like I'm slowly filling up with poo that won't come out.

That visual... ah... you're welcome.

So, I'll be finishing those two Part 1 posts in the coming weeks. Plus, I got some ideas from some other posts for you guys. And yes, I usually plan these posts in advance... which is so sad.

Anyway, I'll be back next week.

An Interview: Part 1

It was a cold, rainy day in the grey streets of the Lower East Side in Manhattan. In an attempt to get out of the downpour, I had sought refuge in a dingy little bar tucked away off a small street. The neon signs glowed ominously in the haze of New York City.

I immediately took off my soaked coat and hat as soon as I walked into the seemingly deserted establishment. The lights were low, and the only real illumination came from the various beer advertisement signs hanging on the walls of the bar. The atmosphere was straight out of a late 1920s speakeasy that had seen its glory days many years before. Over the bar was a sign. It read Vincent's. That would mean the man behind the bar was the aforementioned Vincent.

I walked up to the bar and looked the bartender in the eye. He was a man in his fifties, definitely Italian, a native New Yorker just by looking at him. His dark heavy eyebrows hung low over his nearly black eyes. A thin moustache stood atop his thick obviously Sicilian lips. I looked up at the sign and back down at him. "So, you must be Vincent."

It turns out that his real name wasn't Vincent at all. He'd bought the place from the original Vincent years ago. Part of the deal was that he would also inherit the name Vincent. He'd absorbed the original Vincent's essence and that was that. He was now the one who donned the name Vincent. After the explanation, I asked what his original name was. As he dried a glass with a rag, he said that it had been forgotten long ago.

Trying desperately to avoid further talking to this man, I ordered a Coke and looked toward the only patron besides myself. He was a man in his seventies who had clearly seen more than any one man should. Wearing a top hat and a dusty tuxedo, he looked like a man who had been on his way to a gala when he was suddenly struck with homelessness and alcoholism. He sat at the end of the bar knocking back a glass of whiskey as I approached him.

"What's with the get up, old timer?" I asked as I leaned facing him against the counter.

"Don't you know who the fuck I am, pup?" he growled back.

Now, my interest was piqued, but I slyly told him I had no idea. He looked at me, his eyes half-cocked and dazed. Clearly he'd been drinking a bit. His lips were pursed and his brow furled. He presented both hands with palms towards me. He didn't break eye contact, and I wasn't going to be shown up by some geezer, so I didn't break it either. In a flash, he reached behind my ear and pulled a comically large coin from behind it.

"Your pussy wet yet, kid?" He grunted smirking. It was. It most certainly was.

He returned to his drink as I stared at him bewildered. What was this man? What sort of sorcery was this? I couldn't keep my eyes off him.

He stared down at his drink for a few moments and said, "I know what you're thinking, kid. How does someone with such skill end up in a bar like this?" He chuckled. "Well, it's quite the tale." He knocked back another glass of whiskey.

I insisted I had time to hear it. He looked over at me studying my face intently. Then, with a quick flurry of his hand, he was holding a deck of cards. He fanned the cards and instructed me to pick any card. He then called me a "pussy." I picked out a card and slowly brought it up, making sure to hide it. What was his game? What was the purpose of this? And where the fuck did those cards come from?

He gazed directly at me. I sat frozen as he peered into his eyes. A moment passed. Then another.

That's when he vomited a flurry of color straight into my face. It was vomit, booze, and a long rope of tied colored scarves that hit me square in the face. "Five of hearts," he belched.

"Uh..." I wiped the chunks off my face as I said, "Yeah."

"Still got it," he grumbled as he collapsed on the floor unconscious. This was immediately followed by the sound of him audibly defecating his trousers. A dove then burst from his waistline and flew frantically in the bar.

Vincent rolled his eyes, picked up a broom to swat the panicked dove, and said, "Not again."
__________________________________________________________________

Tune in next week for more of my Interview with a Magician.

Ramadan

So, I got some bad news. I don't think I can possibly deliver the quality of toilet humor and ridiculous banter that my readership has grown accustomed to while I'm fasting. Fasting essential turns my brain into mush. Not in a bad way... but in a more like... um... not coherent way.

It's weird. There's normal Lon, and then there's Ramadan Lon. Normal Lon smokes way too many cigarettes and drinks way too much coffee and tea. Ramadan Lon doesn't really do that. He usually speaks about himself in the third person... to be honest, he does this in his normal state as well.

When I fast (that is to say that I don't eat or drink anything from the first call to prayer [around 3:30 in the morning] to the fourth call to prayer [about 8:30 in the evening]), time goes by slowly. I like to spend time outside in the shade and just relax.... I know, gay, right?

So, I will have to put my consistency on hold... which by definition means I'm not being consistent. Well, so be it. You guys will live. Also, I won't forget about you. I still owe you Part 2 of the guide to dating.

Let me give you my Ramadan routine though. If I have work, I work. Pretty straight forward there. I also have a habit of falling asleep on the bus to and from work. Fasting makes me tired. If I don't have work, I watch TV series. It has been a Ramadan tradition to watch Adventure Time and as God is my witness, I will not break such a sacred tradition. I also don't play any video games. I'm not sure why though.

Anyway, I will talk to you guys again once Ramadan is over. That'll be... um... June 14th-ish. Don't worry. In the words of the Terminator: "Are you John Connor?" ... wait... no... it's not that line... um... which one is it... it's on the tip of my tongue... um... "Terminate this, fucker!"

No... that's Sarah Connor's line... um... "hasta luego, toddler"

Yeah... that seems right.