The Nerd's Eye View

I've been spending an inordinate amount of time in front of the television lately, mainly because I find myself having to do a bit of work when I get home. The television is ostensibly on to "keep me company" - yes I am a child of that generation - and of course to occupy whatever peripheral senses I have that are not being engaged by typing or trying to make sense of multi-colored points on two axes. As you can imagine this leads to distraction and a lot of by-the-way information.

One of the things that distracted me was the sight of a Victoria's Secret commercial for their semi-annual sale, but not for the reason you think. As the scantily clad and scandalously thin women of Victoria's Secret stretched out across the screen, filling it only by dint of a particularly powerful zoom lens, I remembered my own visits to the store around sale time. Now don't take it into your head that I've got some dark secrets shaped like ladies' unmentionables in the proverbial closet - no, what took me to Victoria's Secret was my friend Pirate Jen. Pirate Jen wasn't my girlfriend, she wasn't on my list of female friends to be held in reserve until an emotional emergency, she was simply my friend. She was also dating my friend and roommate Pops (names have been changed to protect the very guilty), a bear of a man, at the time which further put the kibosh on any prurient interest.

Pirate Jen would stride into my shared office at the university on the day of the sale and loudly proclaim that we needed to go bra shopping. In the monastic atmosphere of that office you could probably slaughter a pig without the other graduate students raising their heads, but they'd all raise their heads when Pirate Jen made her announcement. Always on the lookout for something better to do than science, but reluctant to go underthing shopping with my roommates girlfriend (soon to become his fiancee, and now his wife mind you), I struggled with the decision for a few moments before caving in.

Going underwear shopping for most men dredges up uncomfortable feelings from deep in their childhood. It could be from the sight of underwear reminding you of folding your granny's dainties on laundry day; or the fidgety queasiness of waiting for your mother on the very edge of the women's underwear section at JC Penny's. Wherever you get it, it's a strong, almost atavistic, feeling and hard to shake. It was made worse for me by the nature of the skivvies in question (lacy, froufy, not quite un-torrid) and the questionable ethics of being there with Pirate Jen in particular. So after a few minutes of staring at mannequins from the neck up only, I wandered back outside and stood in front of the store, no doubt looking like an even bigger deviant. In only a few steps I had walked back to those early uncomfortable days at Sears, and stood marooned at the mall like any one of hundreds of 10-year-olds.

Posted by Lo Fat Mo at 2:26 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I wrote recently about watching the Star Wars 30th anniversary program and all the humbug that involved. The sinking ship of my childhood couldn't survive getting rammed by the Lucas marketing machine, so it's with some relief that welcomed news of the Robot Chicken Star Wars special. After all it combines everyone's favorite movie with action figures (not dolls, Mom) which is totally awesome. Actually more to the point, it's the sort of ironic comeuppance that I'd been hoping would come along. After all if it weren't for the marketing Death Star at LucasArts, we wouldn't have had the extensive collection of action figures that enabled Seth Green and his merry band of vulgarians to regale us with the unsanitized b-reel that is Robot Chicken. That they are returning to their roots and attacking Star Wars is quite a delicious little treat, which I intend to relish.

Posted by Lo Fat Mo at 5:14 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

We knew Uncle Ali pretty much all our lives. He was a friend of my father, who he met when they went to middle school together at the presitgious Khor Taggat school in Kordofan. There, Uncle Ali was known as Ali "Rock" , since he was the best at "rock and roll dancing". My dad, still a young bumpkin then, was no doubt impressed at his friend's modern abilities. He was also the first Sudanese my father had ever met who had personal space, a rather excessive amount of it. He told me about an early prank where hre was speaking to Uncle Ali, all the while moving incrementaly closer. Unconsciously he moved back, until my Dad had him cornered.

From this odd friendship, their family and ours were intertwined starting then. They both went to college, and afterwards, entered public service; my father entered the ministry of foreign affairs and Uncle Ali joined the Arab League.

Their careers followed similar paths, leading both young men and their young wives to London, where both I and Uncle Ali's son, Mohamed, were born. New York, Tunisia, Cairo. Everywhere we went, they followed, or vice versa. Mohamed is like another part of me, more rambunctious and adventurous to contrast my cautious nature. Anywhere I went there was a family waiting, or a family on the way.

Uncle Ali had a heart attack on Friday and passed on, in Cairo. My dad spoke to him last week and he was fine. Mohamed and his sisters flew there today. At the same time I find myself going to a friend's wedding, when all I want to do is something useful for them or for my own dad. How do these things happen? Where do they come from? Why is it always too late to say good-bye, and why do we always say good-bye anway into the space that's left when someone goes away?

Good bye Ali Rock.

Posted by Lo Fat Mo at 12:03 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)