The Nerd's Eye View

Well it's taken me a day or two to get to grips with the whole Michael Jackson death thing. Unlike a lot of people who have been weeping in the streets and clubs and in their cars as his songs play over and over. Last night at a fundraiser at Citrine in the City, when MJ's songs played girls got choked up and ran out of the room. I was not among them, but the moment wasn't lost on me. When you think about it, Michael Jackson was the soundtrack to a large portion of everyone's life - EVERYone. There's not many places you could go in the world where people didn't know him, where his songs didn't get the party started. I'm grateful to have been around for the whole thing (even though it got weird at the end), and in small measure, I'd like to thank him for the happiness, the songs and for helping me get everyone up to dance at Lisa Rubin's New Years Eve party in 2004. You made me a hero that night, so thanks MJ.

I could go on and on, reminiscing about the first time I heard the Thriller album, but I'm doing a crappy job of eulogizing the guy so I'll kick it over to this short piece by Ray Smuckles.

Posted by Lo Fat Mo at 8:19 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Not head to head mind you, after all I love these characters way too much to risk losing either even in a hypothetical head to head (quoth Peter Griffin: "Nope, I never risk the Fett man, even on a sure thing"). My friend Andrew sent me this brilliant link which unearths the most nefarious of conspiracies, and yet one I wouldn't dream of trying to stop. The thesis of this incisive blog post is that most of 30 Rock is ripped off from the Muppet Show.

While the evidence is not exactly super-compelling, there are a ton of similarities which just serve to make me love both shows more. You should follow the links to Muppet-ized 30 Rock episoides, but even more you should watch the Muppets' appropriation of 30 Rock!

And if that's not enough, watch Tina Fey, the "Bookaneer" - adorable.

Posted by Lo Fat Mo at 1:58 PM | Permalink | Comments (3)

Growing up among the Sudanese there are things that I took for granted. Specifically in the NY, when I was a child, we would live our almost American lives at school and then come home to a foreign culture and language which was mostly our own. By mostly, of course, I mean that it was something we were born with but not proficient at, like birds pushed out of a nest. There was a lot of flapping, and lots of free-fall.

Examples abound: my parents would have Sudanese friends over; friendly brown people who smiled and sat on our sky blue velveteen sectional (I loved that couch) and speak broadly about the latest foibles of Benny Adam. "This Benny Adam doesn't know what he's doing! The Benny Adam is so selfish, or shortsighted ..." etc. It got so sometimes that I wondered why they were still friends with him! For God's sakes if a guy is that unreliable or fickle then it's time to just scratch him out of your address book. Now this might not seem funny to your non-Sudanese (although to be honest, some Arabs might get it), it's a hilarious mistake on my part. "Benny Adam" is not a person at all, it's the Arabic expression, "bani Adam", or child of Adam, or in short, human being. It's an archaic expression that has made it's way into the 21st century, seemingly unchanged and caused me much confusion as a child.

Things didn't get much better once we moved back. With NY accents, my brother and I stood out despite our attempts to blend in. Our Arabic wasn't very good (and, I would argue, it still isn't that great) either and it made for more errors, and finally refuge in reading and sports (and anything else that wouldn't require a lot of talking to people). Back in the Sudan, we were quickly pulled out of our nascent interest in basketball, football (American) and hockey and thrown pell-mell into the crucible of football (soccer). Our classmates seemed to have been born with soccer balls tethered to their feet, and like a good nerd, I did the one thing I could do and studied the game. Unfortunately this was pre-Internet and football (soccer) can only be learned by watching and doing. Doing brought confirmation of one's ineptitude so watching was the beginning. Luckily, every Friday a match from the German Bundesliga would be televised after lunch and we would huddle around the tv with cousins and friends to watch (and take notes). Still my brother and I were confused, in every game there seemed to be a guy named Harris Merma. The guy seemed to change teams with alarming frequency, always playing goalie for one side or another. His performance was spotty though, some days a veritable wall in front of the goal, others a sieve. It must have been almost a year before we figured out that "Harris Merma" was actually "haris marma" which is Arabic for "goal tender".

It takes getting used to, the idiom, and frequent adjustment. You have to adjust between the language you use among your peers, and the language you use with adults; between the language of the street and the language of polite society. Now of course I speak fairly fluently (although I lose some of my fluency from lack of use), though of course I speak like older men speak, since I spent a lot of time among my father's friends, but that's a different story.

Posted by Lo Fat Mo at 1:39 PM | Permalink | Comments (4)

Folks, I was talking to my friend Stevie W, who is a stand up guy with a enlarged public service gland, and he told me that his company launched a contest for users to vote for their favorite non-profit. I'll let him state the rest:

The nonprofit with the most votes by June 4th wins some $$ (granted not a huge amount...we're a startup ya know) and some other useful stuff. The link is at http://www.givezooks.com/promos/i-give-a-zook.

Now you folks know me. I love charity and ESPECIALLY my favorite, World Action For Humanity. But you don't have to vote for my charity, you can vote for your own. I think awareness of non-profits means that everyone wins! So go ahead and vote, because democracy isn't just for bailing out the California state government.

Posted by Lo Fat Mo at 8:19 PM | Permalink | Comments (5)

In 1987 my Dad was finally transferred back to the Sudan, from his posting in NY city. For 8 years he had worked at the UN representing the Sudan, and we lived and grew up in NY. It made perfect sense to have a subway, to not have a front yard, to only be allowed out of the apartment in the company of your parents and to eat hot dogs out of a cart that had dubious standards of health to say the least. This was the world I knew best, with its filth, its crime, it's muggy summers and slushy winters. So when the transfer came it was hard to wrap my mind around. We went to an airport that we had seen countless families away from, at the edge of the city that was home.

From there we flew across an ocean and a continent, and a sea and a desert to homeland we had been to only twice (and in the case of my little sister, never). It was hours before dawn on a July day when the plane landed, but we were wide awake. Our minds were reeling with apprehension at this new place; would they have GI Joe here, or McDonald's, and what cartoons would be on television? Even before we stepped out of the plane's doorway I felt the furnace heat of the desert outside elbow aside the air conditioned cool as it embraced us. At the threshold I looked down the stairs - no jetway - and then around, the sodium lights of the airport making everything a sickly orange. My parents rushed down the stairs and at the bottom a man (my mother's brother, who worked for the national airline) hugged my parents, then my brother and me. his beard bristled against my cheek and I felt overwhelmed by the moment. My mother started crying in what had to be joy, my father beamed and I stood there somewhat awkwardly and confused.

I wish I could say that the rest of the arrival was a blur, but it wasn't. The arrivals hall was dimly lit and had the air of an open air market. There didn't seem to be any rhyme or reason to the lines at passport control, with their desultory officers glancing up from bare, ink-stained desks. The people crowded around and pushed forward when a counter was vacated by the previous traveler. A scrawny cat walked across the baggage claim area where our bags took forever to arrive. The hall was lit by fluorescent lights that made everyone darker, but more washed out and more tired, exhausted as they waited for their turn through customs. There our belongings were removed one by one from our bags and a disinterested customs agent undid the packing that my mother had done over the past month. We managed to escape with some dignity and were out at my uncle's beat up red station wagon as the heat broke finally.

His house at the time was actually quite close to the airport as the crow flies, but getting there was an ordeal. The airport road was paved but one had to turn off at what seemed like a random point in the darkness and drive through a broad open field, following trails carved out by other cars - or perhaps this same car over many weeks and months. The house itself stood almost solitary, with the nearest neighbor visible about 30 meters away. It was surrounded by a wall taller than my father, it's formerly gray exterior mottled by fine, light brown dust. I could hear the high whine of what I discovered was a water pump. This sound would become very familiar over the coming months but I didn't know that then. My uncle's wife came out and hugged us, one after the other, and led us into the living room. Again my mother cried making me feel awkward. I looked around at the sparse uncarpeted space, lit again by fluorescent lights, a cooled with an overhead fan - the first I had ever seen. Behind me the adults chatted rapid fire in Arabic, which I was somewhat familiar with but not fluent in. I was tired, and disoriented and wondering how long we were going to be here. My brother and I were bundled away into a room with three beds and a large but flimsy looking armoire lined against the walls. As we lay there all the lights in the house went out and the whining of the pump stopped, outside in the living room the adults laughed, and I fell asleep fitfully. I was home, but I didn't know it yet.

Posted by Lo Fat Mo at 5:26 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

I recently got a surprising comment on one of my posts. It was from a stranger who asked that I write more about the Sudan that I remember and partially grew up in. It seems that this person is Sudanese but has not lived in Sudan and is curious as to what it was like to grow up there. Well, it's not very often that I get requests and frankly it's something that I do think about occasionally so I will try to pop out a post or two (and dig up some of my old posts that never made it). So be on the lookout folks!

Posted by Lo Fat Mo at 5:19 PM | Permalink | Comments (13)

Now, I'm sure you're going to say "No one trusts corporations these days! Look at the outrage over the bailouts!". To which I reply, yes, there is some generalized mistrust of corporations but to a great extent that mistrust is bounded by the overt actions of those corporations. In other words, when the corporation leverages other means of influencing popular sentiment or public perception - such as advertising - it's generally transparent to the general population. Look to the two billboards above 8th street as an example, telling you to retool your 401k with the help of FinancialCo, and to "Get on the road to retirement! We'll guide you". This coming from a company in a sector whose value has dropped 60% in the last year and a half.

aside: In the movie Total Recall, Arnold Schwarzenegger's character lives in a time when Mars has been colonized and there is a push on the part of the colonizing corporation to encourage people to resettle there. On Earth, the advertising for the Martian colony shows verdant pastures and happy, smiling people, content with their decision to be pioneers! All this is terrible slimy and heavy-handed. Now, contrast this, with the hawking of various wares in Minority Report which is much more subtle, but much more insidious. Step out one more layer and you realize that in predicting a future where advertising is much more pervasive, etc, they are actually pitching products to you in a much more pervasive way (ie as "entertainment"). Enjoy your Tab.

Now this nudging of the public consciousness is not as advanced as it is in our dystopian fictions, nonetheless examples of it abound. Beyond product placement in movies, music videos, concerts, sporting events, etc

Continue reading "The Ads, Man" »

Posted by Lo Fat Mo at 4:26 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Yesterday was my birthday, boys and girls, and now I am old - er. Older. Basically one year older than I was, but in many ways have not changed at all. Proof, you say? Well the proof is that I spent my birthday doing the same things I like to do before my birthday. Eating pizza. Sleeping. Going out and getting rowdy with my friends. Yes these are all things that I usually do, and that I did last night. Sure there are some details that mark the event as somewhat unique. For example, the pizza was deep dish from Little Star which was not one of my typical choices. We continued to the Rite Spot, which was cozy and warm in spite of its swinging doors. The staff asked if we had come to see "Tohiro" which apparently was the kindly looking Japanese gentleman who was wandering around the place like someone's granddad. It was strangely like he was getting ready to do some Country and Western music and sure enough in a moment he started yodeling. Yes, the old Japanese fellow in the plaid shirt sang yodeling cowboy songs in a thick Japanese accent. And he was pretty good actually! How could the night get better? Well apparently it could at Nihon, where we shoehorned ourselves into one end of the bar and hunkered down for the rest of the night. The music was great, the staff was awesome and the company was fantastic. Our DJ looked like a younger Isaac Hayes, and kept the great tunes coming and even gave me his copy of Off the Wall at the end of the night!

All in all, a good birthday.

Posted by Lo Fat Mo at 3:20 PM | Permalink | Comments (10)

So, I talked to the ACLU fellow this weekend. As expected it looks grim - apparently the attorney thinks that this is more a contractual issue than anything else. That is to say (lawyer speak already, I might turn into one of those guys who goes to prison and gets a law degree, except without prison), that the bank or Western Union and I have a contract wherein they render a service. If that contract is written by a lawyer worth his or her salt then it will likely have all sorts of loopholes for them to drive a truck through and run over my "rights". I am going to go ahead and look through the fine print as it is written on the backs of the forms that I wasted my time filling out, though I think it highly unlikely that there will be much traction there.

I think I want a second opinion.

Posted by Lo Fat Mo at 10:03 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)

I got an email three weeks ago from my Dad, asking for a favor: to transfer money to his friend's son for a college tuition installment. I have to admit I secretly enjoy that. There's a part of me that retains that kid pride at being the go-to guy for your folks, of being useful. At any rate, my Dad asked me to do favor and wire tuition/rent money to his friend's son, who is going to school in the UK. Easy as pie, Pop, I said and headed down to the local branch of my bank (of America). A little paperwork, a quick withdrawal from the account, and I was back at the office, basking in the glow of my effectiveness.

A few days later I get an email from my Dad asking if I've sent the money yet. Of course I have, Dad! Look, let me check my account, and sure enough the money is gone (plus wire fee!). A day later the bank calls, and ask for a few extra bits of information for "regulatory purposes" and would I call back. I called back the next day and they discovered that the so-called extra information was my address, my email address, and my account number. Mind you, this is exactly the sort of information that the bank, first of all, has, and also the sort of information that is on a wire transfer form.

My Dad emails again, to ask where the money is. I tell him that the bank needed some extra info and the money would be there soon. This scene is reported two more times, with my father asking me to check what has happened to the money since it has not arrived in the UK. So I check again, and the money is gone, but this time I called the bank as well. They confirmed that my money had been debited from my account, and that it would be in the UK as soon as the information reached the receiving bank . But I'd given the information at least 4 days ago, what gives? Judging by my discussions with the staff at my branch (can't give the information over the phone of course) it was simple incompetence. Or was it?

A few more days of assurances from the bank staff, and still nothing, this with the kid's semester and rent at risk. So I did what any good, God fearing nerd would do - I demanded to speak with the manager. The manager informed me that the money had been returned to my account because the receiving bank had refused to take it without the compliance information. At this point I began to wonder whether this regulatory compliance was applied to all wire transfers or all wire transfers by people named Mohamed. After all, how hard is it to pass along information you already have? And why was the bank manager stammering and stumbling over his words? After the lame offer to retry my wire (two weeks late) , I demanded and got my wire fee and money credited back and headed for Western Union.

So here I am on a Friday afternoon at Western Union, being told that for the amount I wanted to send is too large for credit cards, and I needed it in cash. So back to the bank then back to Western Union, then more paperwork and an exorbitant fee, and we're done, right?

Cut to next morning when I get a call from the UK saying the money is still not there, and that Western Union had said there was a "problem" on the sender's end. So here I am on a Saturday running to find a fax machine and a copier, so I can make a copy of my driver's license and fax it to them, for "compliance". It was easier to pump the Western Union customer service folks for information, it turns out. My suspicions were borne out, and "compliance" is basically a codeword for "the US govt is checking everything about you, your Dad, his friends, his friends' kids, any pets, the people you see on the train ...." you get the idea.

So I think the time has come to get a lawyer. This is not a question of taking on the US government, per se. It's more a question of forcing the various private entities that have, through dissembling and outright lies, delayed much needed cash to a poor student. I know what you're thinking, and frankly I don't care. I follow the rules, I am peaceable, I am reasonable, even when I know I am being discriminated against. I take my shoes off at the airport, I chuckle when I am the last person a plane because I am the only person who can't check in online, and I don't rock the boat. But in all those cases, I know what the rules are. They've been spelled out and I follow them. Here, I don't get that chance; there's just a vague "oops, we messed up, can you send that again along with a retinal scan and a clear thumb print?". I just can't stand it and I am going find out how I can stop it.

Posted by Lo Fat Mo at 5:49 PM | Permalink | Comments (6)

It could be the incessant tweeting or the constant updating of my Facebook status but I am a bit burnt out on this. Don't worry dear reader, I'm not prepping you for those dreaded words. You know the ones, "I'm putting the blog on hiatus for a bit." No not me. I wouldn't do that to you.

But I am tired. I feel like there's nothing to talk about anymore. Nothing acceptable anyway...

Hey, do you want to hear about my dancing? This is not a joke! I am taking dance classes. Lots of old timey dance classes: 1920's Charleston, Balboa Shufflle/Swing and Blues. I'd do more but there just isn't enough time and the costume changes are killing me!

I jest. Mostly.

The dancing keeps me out of the house which is wonderful considering the dark days of last fall are still staining the walls (figuratively of course!), and it keeps me relatively fit until soccer season starts (end of April!). The price of course is that it's all-consuming - the feature of many subcultures - and binds me to a rigid schedule. I love structure, but I am aware of the lost opportunity to do other things ...

Which brings us to the part wherein I can't write anything. Nothing comes. It's an odd feeling, since I usually have little to no problem with forcing my opinion on other people, but lately not so much. In fact, I think I've said all that needs to be said about this .... hmmm. Any ideas?

Posted by Lo Fat Mo at 3:09 PM | Permalink | Comments (3)

I'm still here ... just ... busy. That is all.

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

Kids, we all need aspirations and goals. Here is an idea for you all:

Posted by Lo Fat Mo at 1:55 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

It was actually a dark and stormy night, believe it or not, but not sinister at all. I went to bed gratefully due to having not slept well the night before and had every intention of sleeping the whole night through. At about 4:20a my dreams were interrupted by a loud beeping. Upon awakening I discovered that the beeping was coming seemingly from everywhere at once. I stumbled bleary eyed around the apartment wondering if I was just going nuts or if in fact the fire alarms were really going off. My roommate's appearance outside his bedroom door was confirmation that the fire alarms were real.

I dressed quickly, and glanced at the rain pouring in sheets down the window, then gathered wallet and passport and marched down the stairs. With each step I was more and more aware that the sound of the alarms was fading. You couldn't hear them at all on the ground floor, and a glance at the master alarm panel showed "All systems ok - no alarms". After a momentary hesitation I walked back up the stairs, roommate in tow, and started looking for smoke, or fire, or anything at all. Risky, yes, but necessary I think.

We started deactivating the alarms (which, it turns out, were all linked together), until one last one remained. Pulling it off the ceiling we found the back of it wet. There was a leak. From the roof. It had started our alarms going off, scaring the bejeezus out of us. An inspection of the roof showed a puddle about an inch deep, smack dab in the center of the roof, around a large, poorly designed drain. It was right above our smoke detector.

Now I should point out the the area of the roof that was under water is also the second litter box for our neighbor's cat from the building next door. The cursed thing pads over and relieves itself, then tries to cover it's deed and ends up scraping away just a little bit of the weather proofing material of our roof. Hence, the large bare patch that happened to be underwater. It took an hour of bailing out in the rain and sweeping to the drain to reduce the size of the puddle and we still had a minor leak. I suppose I should be happy, after all, there was no fire. Glee.

Posted by Lo Fat Mo at 2:14 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

It's a wet Tuesday and as the rain bent over at the waist to get under my umbrella I got that peculiar feeling that says, "these pants are not going to be on me all day, are they?" By the time I got to the train, I was making small puddles in the grubby carpeting that's on the floor of BART. Then there's the socks ...

Luckily I had some workout clothes at work, and so if you were in my cube around 9:30a you would see me in my green training pants with the yellow stripe. Can we say, "clown"? I think we can. But what can you do? Certainly not sit around feeling your wet jeans against the back of your calves. No good ...

Posted by Lo Fat Mo at 4:49 PM | Permalink | Comments (4)