Outtro of bahraini rants

I never liked reading blogs that ended without a conclusion, so I wont do the same to you. I always felt that having read so much of this persons’ jamblings (jumbled ramblings, use it I don’t mind) a sort of explanation was necessary, some sort of closure, flightless birds finally free, or some cryptic nonsense like that. But nonetheless, like relationships teetering on the verge of being finished, something needs to be said …

A chapter in my life has just shut and a new one is about to begin, if I may, with little writing and explanation: it’s gonna be intense and draining, and I am seriously looking forward to it. I think we can all fairly say that I’ve lost interest in this blog, but not because I don’t like writing my thoughts out anymore. I used to write with a purpose in mind, and to be honest, I’ve lost that purpose. Doesn’t mean I don’t think about you all the time, it just means that I can’t be bothered to write and write and rewrite and hope that you’ll catch the secret double entendres and so on and so forth.

So after these few and far between posts, emotional cries for help, and many years of reading: I hope I’ll be someone you’ll remember fondly.. Yeah him Bahraini Rants, he was good, I miss him.. I wonder what he’s up to now? Do you think I should search for him? Maybe I should go back and read some of his old posts, I wonder if they’re still funny, and then you’ll go back read over stuff, remember me as that loveable scamp you secretly dreamt of, maybe cry a little since I’m no longer in your life & then seriously spend some time contemplating what went wrong. As opposed to, Bahraini Rants? Whatever, that was just a point in my life when I needed some form of enjoyment to rebound from whatever I was rebounding from. Let me go back to my life and to be honest he was never that entertaining to begin with… in the words of red, sneef…

So what’s next for me? Well that’s part of the reason I have to stop, I’m leaving this place, making the whole ranting from Bahrain kinda silly. I’ll be gone only for year to start, but maybe longer (all contingent on getting my visa approved), so hiphiphooray for me, too bad for the three of you that read this blog. I’m sure we’re still close enough for you to be getting emails from me, so if you really really like hearing my silly words, I’ll only be a send/receive away..

I’m not retiring my blog because I want you all to come back and visit.. it’s really been a wonderful experience writing and I’m hoping one day, I’ll be convincing you folk to sell me your souls, but until then..

À bientôt

siestas con pimientos de padron

For weeks I sat there in front of the monitor reading the headlines hoping and praying. I analytically looked over historical data trying to come up with an intelligent conclusion, but alas, it was a house not meant to stand. Although my fastidious research on the dollar to euro and our incumbently painful peg led me to the brink of madness; as time came to board the plane, I brushed off any currency related worries and looked forward to the rioja and tapas.


Ibiza and the Balearics
Take away all the industrialized nightclubs and insane posters, the hippies, the clubbers, the djs, the bullshit and the hype, and you’re left with something incredible, a place with real magic, beautiful beaches, great food, lovely country side, and a laid back vibe that you just can’t beat. With the season wrapping itself up, I don’t think I would’ve enjoyed Ibiza if I had been during the shmack dab middle of hectic season, everyone was just so happy that things had calmed down and we enjoyed a nicer holiday because of it.

Pairing the refreshing waters with a gorgeous companion in a bikini, life just couldn’t get better. I’m not too sure what it is, but we both are much happier by the sea, and what better place to be happier than the beach on an island with fantastic views? However; in true European fashion, the nude sunbathing did catch us off guard. Walking along the beach searching for a spot, we were continuously surprised by the image of naked privates. Let’s setup there. Shit no, 7 naked Germans sunbathing and having a bbq on the beach, let’s just find another spot. I’m just curious, aren’t they worried about flying sparks? Crazy naked Germans and the burning bush. Although we couldn’t muster the nerve to skip the swimwear, I did start to get comfortable with the idea of a little skin on the beach, quite liberating to not give a toss about changing on the beach with no towel. It was good to feel the wind between my…

The sun and sand was lovely, but the chiringuitos came in all shapes and sizes: from the best seafood at es torrent, to the delectable choripans from a shack on aquas blancas. Wine was consumed with great laughter as we ate lunch on the beach appropriately taking our time. Short siestas that brought back the nonchalance and aioli that could make perfume stink. The no nonsense take on eating and culinary exploits brought back the basics of gourmandizing that we so appropriately crave. Having investigated and enquired, we found our relaxed and lavish meals with the right touch of sabor. The Paella was good, but I think I learned something quite important about myself this trip: I don’t like fighting too much with food.. Not a big fan of needing to stab, pierce, crackle and pop hard shells to get to a little bit of meat that you need to suck out. I don’t mind breaking a sweat trying to catch or cook my meal, just not while I’m trying to eat it.

Needing to introduce ourselves to an adorable almost two year old cherub, we packed up the car and took a short ferry ride over to the tiny island of Formentera, which for me was a haven for the soul looking to get lost. Much quieter than Ibiza, the laid back doctrine was lackadaisically stretched to the extreme. As the local economy, run by hippy juntas, everyone could do nothing but follow ensuite, a lovely experience for me since I was in that zone to begin with. The lovely unofficial motto that I have freely given them, “Formentera, do what you want, no one gives a toss.”

All roads lead to Madrid
Having done my research, I came to Madrid prepared with my list of cool hunting to investigate and neighborhoods to soak in. Needing the allure of a city to compliment our sun and sand, Madrid had everything we needed, enough art, enough politics and just the right amount of the sometin sometin we were looking for. Special occasions and reconnecting with old friends made the city just that more interesting and celebratory. As the standard operating procedure on our trips, neither wanted to waste time in a-typical sightseeing tourist traps.. Although we did efficiently hit up the “big three” (you can’t go to Madrid and not check out the triangular bastion of art). Luckily for me, my khormaloo is one of those people who can make you see things you would’ve never thought to see in a work of art and I learned to appreciate the masters. My one real flirtation was spent staring at an Egon Schiele that rightly demanded attention… if you’re wondering, Nouvel’s extension at the Reina Sofia is definitely worth your time, so’s the restaurant..

Spending time with the lads in Madrid was excellent; catching up over an Asado we all laughed and rejoiced in our reunion. Drinking in La Latina I cheered Kimi on as the Spanish Pride was just happy that Khamilton “la puta madre” didn’t win the Formula 1. Opting to ditch Serrano and the desperately hola’d out crowd, we armed ourselves with the Moleskine Madrid City guide for our hunting notes and city traipsing. Precisely cool in cheuca and fuencarral we found what we came for - random pieces here and there that Lagerfeld would be jealous of, yeah you heard me Karl…

One of the highlights of our contrasting city tour which included art, fine dining, sneaker hunts, cigalles, and Sunday tapas completed with a football match. With Athletico Madrid playing Zaragoza, we opted for the authentic fan crazed experience and headed over to the Vicente Calderon. Picking up a couple of beers we walked in for Khormaloo’s first game and were not disappointed. 4 goals (yes I saw Diego Forlan score), rabid fans, insults to the ref and later on discovering we were drinking non-alcoholic beer. Picking up an Athleti Scarf (cheers gin), I blended in with the crowd and even got a couple of Forzas from the fans (always feels good knowing that you can fit in with the rabid fans when you need to). Muchisimo gracias for the tickets alej..

All in all
Up and down the narrow streets of the enclosed dalt vila, we romanced in the moonlight. Breakfast in Porrig with a view to take your breath away. Early morning strolls on the beach and the newfound love for ibizenco hounds. Drunkenly negotiating a taxi driver to get off strike. Siestas in comforting arms with the sound of the med to lull you to sleep. Convertible driving and beach discovery. Thunderstorms and one star hotel displacements. Passable Spanish with a fairly good accent.. Spain was beautiful..

ishrig and cleansing

Historically, the last Wednesday before Ramadan has always been a busy time in Bahraini homes… Bahraini’s, being the cool holistic cats that they are, cleansed and detoxed their systems to ring in the coming holy month properly. They used to drink a strange combination of leaves, roots and branches called “ishrig”, mixed up by the local Hawaj (apothecary) and brewed into a god awful drink to help cleanse your system. In other words, a diuretic with the devastating outcome reminiscent of a raging cyclone steriods, nice enough picture for you?

A couple of years back, right before the start of Ramadan, I jokingly mentioned to my father about wanting to cleanse my system before fasting. He replied with giving ishrig a try, and I said, why not. My why not was met with a very disdainful scoff and grave statement that will forever ring in my ears, “if you do take ishrig, you will not leave the house for a while, and you will feel pain, insurmountable pain”. He then regaled me with stories of his childhood on attempted escapes from the clutches of his house to avoid drinking the stuff. Let me tell you, the ol’man has a pretty high tolerance for weird herbal remedies, and if he’s adding a disclaimer to ishrig, then this stuff was pretty bad.

But of course me and my father have this very XY chromosome chest thumping dare double dare contest perpetually going on, and we agree to drink ishrig together and deal with consequences (a previous contest between us was betting the waiter at an Indian restaurant on how hot they could make their lamb vindaloo and then who was man enough to eat it all – end result, a very painful evening with no real winner). His claims of me not being able to handle it were met with my pointing out his old age and inability to re-hydrate fast enough.. In keeping with traditions and all gentlemanly rules, we set the date for the last Wednesday before Ramadan to cleanse our systems, and see who’s made of mettle and who’s a yellow belly baby..

The day of the test: the Ishrig arrives at our house in a sealed bag which looked as though someone walked through a forest, scooped up a bunch of leaves and branches and roots from the ground and placed them in a bag, dirt and all. The instructions were there and the ol’man and me decided to get ready. Brewed up for our pleasure, a massive jug of black water gets placed in front of me and I must’ve had this worrying look on my face because my dad let out a mocking snicker. A quick sniff of the jug and I pull my head back in disgust. It was as though someone fed a goat everything from spoiled fruits & vegetables, to meat that’s been left out in the sun, to tin cans that previously housed baked beans, to sewer style garbage; then cut the goat’s stomach open and that’s what you smelt, absolutely rancid. But this was no time to show that I was already considering chickening out, soldier on I must.

Two glasses poured in front of us and he turns to me, “listen, drink it all in one shot, the entire glass, if you don’t, you will not be able to keep it down…” Wrapping my fingers around the glass, the warmth of the recently brewed ishrig reminded me of how real this was. But after all this is a tradition of my country and I wasn’t going to live my life without having tried it once. Breathing from my mouth, I applied my lips to the rim of the glass and began to chug.. my dad, looking at me starts chugging too and his eyes widen with that frat boy look “oh yeah come on, lets see what you got frosh..” I cannot tell you how bad this stuff tasted because it was so traumatically horrible that it’s been blocked from my memory, but I did manage to knock a glass back. Wiping my mouth, remnants of some black stuff remained on my arm, the aftertaste was painful, but at least the hard part was over.

Then my father pours me another glass and the fires of fear get stoked once again. “what are you doing?” “there’s half a jug left, what do you think I’m doing, we have to finish this” “ you must be mad, I can’t do another glass, isn’t one enough?” “Come on, you want the experience don’t you? this is it, the experience is in the second glass”. And with that, I again feel the warmth of the glass on my fingers and again take a succession of deep breaths to psyche myself up. We start chugging again to see who can drink faster, but this time the aftertaste of the ishrig and the bottom of the jug sediment is starting to catch me off guard. Midway through my chug, I drop my head down and stop drinking.. He was right, the minute you stop drinking, the idea of throwing up becomes invitingly plausible… I don’t have to put up with this disgusting flavor, I could throw up, wash this all down with a cola and be fine.. But my pride got in the way and I had to be satisfied with one and a half glasses. I understood how traumatic this would be for a child having this forced down his throat back in the day.. so I gave up.

Victoriously forcing the final gulp of his second glass, my father wipes his mouth with his sleeve.. His bellowing laugh is enough to crush my hopes of triumph - yes he won the drinking ishrig contest, but I was still in this race, all was not lost, maybe I could rouse an upset with the final outcome, just maybe..

So we sat there waiting, in the living room, watching tv but not really focusing, both wondering when the turbulence was going to start. When the pain was going to come, and when it did, I traversed across the plains of detoxification cleansing with little ease.

I will spare you the details, because this is not an essay in scatology so to speak, but more about the experience. You will feel pain in your stomach as though someone was trying to squeeze your intestines into a ball and shoot some hoops. Your body will push out junk that has been in your system that has been there for ages and it will not smell good. Magazines, crossword puzzles, and lots of bathroom reading will help you through it all. Yes it was dehydrating, I was wiped out, the more water I drank the more water I lost.. But end of the day when everything was all said and done, and the sweat from my brow was wiped.. When I could actually sit down for a prolonged period of time without having to hear strange noises from my stomach, I looked over to my dad and gave him the winning thumbs up.. All his years of yoga and careful eating made his experience a lot easier than me.. He gave me a supportive nod and we vowed to take it easy with our male ego contests…

It was that day, that after many years of abuse, junk food, and other unspeakable acts that my tortured body was set free. I was lighter, I was happier and I was healthier. The journey was a tough one, but the end result was worth it all. Ramadan came and went, and I felt fantastic for quite some time.. Until the burgers and fries found their way back into my belly, and the processed sugars along with the preservatives and artificial flavorings...

Overall experience, I highly recommend this detoxification.. a little bit of history with a little bit of taking care of yourself.. I’m just wondering if I can relive the horrors and go through it again next week before Ramadan comes along..

Wooster Collective Baby!!

strolling to daiso i stopped by and took some pictures of the coolest wall art in Bahrain.. Sent the picture to the wooster collective, and guess what? they posted it.. so yes, Bahrain is now in the archives of the wooster collective.. go check it out..

for those who dont know, the wooster collective is a regularly updated street art website from cities all over the world...

if the artist will come forth, we need to talk..

i'm thrilled..

Facehunted on Facebook

By now I’m sure you’ve all heard of the phenomenon that is facebook, if not, then wiki it then digg it then get all del.ic.ous with it, then do whatever else cause I’ve run out of web2.0 shenanigans to throw around... I remember my first social network invite a couple of years ago.. hi5, friendster, myspace, etc etc etc. I never joined these networks in fear of them stealing my identity and selling it on the internet in exchange for the visa of a little 7 year old Indonesian boy named kuluk who’ll now be a 27 year old occasional blogger..

And then facebook came along, which I also avoided at first but eventually caved when some friends convinced me to get on.. During the facebook honeymoon, it was nice getting reconnected with old friends, making new friends and keeping some of your friendships at a social networking distance. As we all started to sink into this addiction of checking to see who’s added who, what’s being said and what photo albums people have put up; the compulsive nature of people began rear its ugly head. Marriages were being tested as to who has a bigger friend list, people started wasting hours upon hours replying to unnecessary wall messages, some took to creating groups left right and center, and others were installing applications just for the hell of installing applications (I am at fault for installing the Chuck Norris one). The worst came in the form of facebook trawling, where people would connect to you and start stalking your wall, your photo albums, your hobbies and whatever other applications you installed on your profile. Heavy users were already experiencing social network fatigue getting tired of updating, tagging, uploading, and statusizing their life.. but the stalkers, the trawlers and the wanderers, they’re all still there – and still checking you out..

Taken from a conversation with a nonfacebookee friend this week that went a little like this:

(Exasperated on the phone) What is this facebook shit? why the hell does it exist? How can I take my picture off facebook?

What do you mean? What’s happened? You don’t even have facebook..

Exactly. Check this out, I come to work today and find out that my coworker saw a picture of me on facebook with my nuts hanging out. She just comes out and says my nuts are in a picture..

You’re kidding me.. nuts hanging out? Full view? (Contemplating email forwards with the red circle pointing out my buddie’s nuts and the mastercard priceless tagline “your nuts exposed on the beach picked out by your coworker, priceless”)

Yeah, I guess someone took pictures from some beach party and there’s a picture of me in my shorts with my nuts exposed..

This is exactly why I don’t wear board shorts, there’s rarely any mesh to keep everything in place..

You’re not helping right now, I need to get these pictures off this fucking facebook..

And your coworker, seriously,,,, searching pictures for your nuts.. Is this a bad thing that could be construed as a good thing? Or is it an embarrassing very embarrassing bad thing where you’re wondering if everyone in the office has now seen your nuts..

You’re missing the point, but thanks for making me wonder if the office manager’s seen my ‘ticles or not. I’m not on this damn site, my picture gets taken and all of a sudden I’m on it, my nuts are on it.. and I haven’t even seen this picture, it’s coming from a coworker who’s already seen my nuts.. my permission wasn’t granted, how the hell am I supposed to react?

A couple of phone calls and we’ll have everything sorted out.. don’t worry too much.. at least you’re not on facebook and weren’t tagged in the picture.. then whenever they’d click on your name the picture of your nuts would be in the database of your photos..

This is a really big mess this facebook.. people can get into a lot of trouble you know..

What do you mean?

Well what if a picture gets taken of me and I’m with a girl and it’s totally innocent, but the picture reveals a completely different story.. I could get into a lot of trouble with my girlfriend. All because someone put me on an album..

Well if you have nothing to hide, than you have nothing to hide.. but what were you doing having someone taking almost revealing pictures of you with a girl. I do see your point though..


And with that, we had the case of exposed nuts sorted out.. some people were relieved, some were upset and others didn’t even raise an eyebrow. But this got me to thinking, how much time do random strangers sit and search through your pictures? The eerie thought of people trawling through your photo albums learning of your misfits, your adventures and your life.. But then the counter thought to that, is that people put up their photo albums to get seen by their friends, meaning that they indirectly don’t mind you searching through their pictures.. So where do I stand on this? I’m not too sure…

cold beverages for a flippin' hot summer

Know when you pull out a nice cold can of soda / pop / cola from the fridge and there’s this cool layer of condensation forming on the can? Now imagine the condensation, covering the entire can, getting pretty wet, cool to the touch, and slippery, so slippery.. This is what summertime is like in the Middle East, except it’s so hot that there’s no coolness to the condensation forming on your skin. Instead, it’s hot humid sweat that forces your clothes to stick to your body, that makes you want to peel your skin off and release the steam that’s making your blood bubble and boil. It’s this unbearable heat that you don’t just think about cooking an egg on the road, no you think about making an omelet, frying up some bacon, and even some toast.. Nothing is as futile as wiping the sweat off your brow in our climate this time of year, because just as soon as you wipe, there’s more sweat dripping down. You’ll start to discover new things about your body, like, “wow! I didn’t know I could sweat from my ear lobes, wow, summertime really teaches you new things about your body…”

Yes, summer is here: there are no more flirtations with semi cool days, there are no more clouds in the sky to protect us, and there is certainly no more room for anything long sleeve. But the sea is still pleasant, it’s not cool, or chilly, it’s perfect room temperature water, which I don’t have to tell you is a lot better than swimming in soup (if you’ve ever gone swimming in July/august you know what I mean).

In this heat, there are only a couple of things that actually keep us cool in this weather. You can either live the next few months in linen (always a good idea) or you can rehydrate/dehydrate yourself with some nice cold refreshing beverages. When it’s really khot outside, this is what I like to drink…

1. Gin and Tonic – The history of this drink dates back to the east India tea company, which introduced the glass of something to its troops stationed in the heat of Asia. Tonic contains quinine (a crystalline alkaloid that acts as an anti-inflammatory, pain reliever and anti-malarial). Because tonic was so bitter at the time, the troops could only knock it back if gin was added to it. the magic mix: In a tumbler filled with ice, mix, three parts tonic to one part gin, add a squeeze of lime and toss the wedge in, stir and enjoy. I know a lot of people that don’t really like g&t, but I find people just don’t drink it in the right environment, try it this summer and you’ll see what I mean. The combination of the ice, the refreshing tonic, and a healthy dose of gin makes the whole concoction flow down your throat so easily. I like to keep the lime wedges in my glass, helps me keep track of how many drinks I’ve had... G&T, I love thee..

2. Mojito – (pronounced moheeto if you didn’t already know) now I admit, I do not appreciate Bacardi taking advantage of a resurrected drink and beating it senseless with advertisements. But if a place makes a good mojito, well then there’s nothing better than that. Drafted in from Cuba, the Mojito is essentially made from: rum, mint, limes, sugar, and soda water. The trick is to muddle (with a pestle) the mint leaves sugar and limes in a glass, add the rum and then top off with the soda water and some mint or lime garnish. #1 you must use decent rum, #2 the muddling releases the flavors and reaffirms your expert mixology whether you have it or not, #3 The sugar you use is also very important, cane sugar works best. Hemingway and Hunter S. Thompson drank Mojitos (separately, although I’m sure they would have been the best of friends) until the sun came up and then set again.. we even came up with a song, “Mo. Mo. Mo. MoMo… MOJITO”

3. Sangria – coming from the Spanish word (derived from latin), sangre or blood, is a refreshing summer drink that is easily enjoyed by everyone. I learned to make from uncle hamad who learned it from his friend, an Argie dip living in Madrid – so the recipe does have a little history, which is always cool. Although the recipe was passed down in confidence, I think it’s time to share this wealth of information; sangria is for communal enjoyment, you can’t all enjoy it if someone’s hiding the recipe. So here we go: regular table wine, cointreau (orange liquer), either vodka/brandy/cognac (depending on what you have), sliced fruit (apples, oranges, pears), juice (apple or orange), sprite, and sugar. Slice up the fruit, and pour the wine, then add a good measure or two of cointreau and then the other liquor you’ve got. Pour some juice into the mix, add a spoon of sugar, and then add the sprite. Now people will tell you to save the sprite till the end because of the carbonation, I say hogwash, add it and make sure the taste all works together. Let it chill in the fridge and then serve it over some ice. Through many pitchers, I’ve learned that no one really enjoys a lethal and strong sangria; but a subtle easy to drink sangria – that’s what gets people in the mood.

4. Cerveza – end of the day, there’s very little that can come between you and a cold cerveza on a hot day. There is nothing more refreshing than shoving your hand in a bucket of ice or cooler to pull out a cold can of brew. And then when you fish out the beer, you shake off the excess cold water and crack it open. I think the most beautiful image is the beach, a bucket with ice, and a couple of beers resting in that bucket, blissfully blissful..

Yeah so it is an alcohol related post. Just helping you decide what you should consider drinking this cruel summer. Kampai..

mtv smut: and the men rejoice..

Not that I’m complaining or anything.. but has anyone noticed how much smut has now made its way to dance music videos on MTV?

This recent music video smut phenomenon kicked off with that catchy 2004 “tearing up the dance floor fist pump” commersh anthem Call on Me by Swedish flash, Eric Prydz. If you haven’t seen the video well then let me sum it up for you.. A sexually suggestive video reminiscent of Physical with Olivia Netwon John, but instead of all those fat guys, it’s an aerobics dance class of the choiciest of ladies dressed in 1980s aerobics gear. As the class goes through its “sexafied” workout, the girls spend a lot of quality time rubbing their breasts and slapping their respective buttocks, attracting the alluring eyes of its male viewership. The video was so popular in Australia that it was downloaded 35,000 times onto people’s mobiles. Needless to say, if Bahrain had a functioning 3G network at the time, we’d all be watching and rewatching the video ourselves, instead, we had to settle for leaving MTV in the background until it came up. Luckily for us, MTV has nothing good to offer and relooped the same video a couple of times in one sitting.. Rrraaadiicall.

It seems that the formula of catchy dance tune + pretty girls + sexually suggestive dance moves = popular music video. With a winning formula like that, people remain glued to their TV sets watching and then when they’re walking around the office, they continually hum the tune while mentally recalling the brazen booty of a particular dance sequence… aaah, good times..

The other day, I was at a friends place and in the interest of background noise, MTV was thrown on the telly.. Luckily, it was the dance video segment and I must say, the formula is back and badder than ever. Out of the 10 videos that appeared during the segment, 6 had the formula. I watched two friends fastened to their seats in front of the TV with no desire to even contemplate moving or offer a helping hand while the rest cooked.

Averting my eyes to the screen briefly, my brain quickly registered what was going on in the video, blocked out all the noise and surroundings, and sent neural messages to my body to stop everything and just watch. I remained a catatonic mass disinterested in anything except the girls in skimpy cotton underwear playing football. The booms and beats in the background were of little consequence except for the fact that while that music was on the girls were still running around. We watched the whole video, a football match between the blondes and the brunettes, and neither of us new who won, who scored a goal or what was going on. Yes it did feel slightly Pavlovian, completely sucked into the formula of watching girls move around, but I didn’t care. The close-ups, ohh the close-ups.. After the video I realized the formula and how effective it was… now I feel programmed to definitely watch the next time I see this video come on and I will demand to watch it if possible, and eventually, hum the tune at work. Yes, sex sells and has been taken to a new level.

After the girls playing football I saw the girls in cleaning lady outfits (not French maid outfits, cleaning lady outfits) with cleavage exposed and round heinies bumping and bobbing. The concept of taking a cleaning lady, making her super sexy and just having her move around and clean while dance music is pumped through the speakers, sounds pathetic as I write this, but during the airing, made as much perfect sense as breathing.

There were a couple of more videos that I causally glanced over, and tried to pull myself away from. The one thing that stayed true is that they all kept to the formula: dance music, half naked women, and lots of provocative dancing.

I don’t know if Arabic music videos took a lesson from Eric Prydz or if they knew the formula all along, but the music channels like “Mazzika” can get pretty soft core. I always chuckle when I see the older gentleman on the treadmill at the gym salivating over Nancy or Maria or Alyssa (running out of names) in her latest music video. You hear the claps and cheers, the “aaakkhhhh” s and so on and so forth.

Eventually I had to remove myself from the viewing angle of the screen, I was just becoming antisocial and was getting annoyed with myself because I was slobbering over TV women, and that’s not very becoming. Living in the middle east, we spend a considerable amount of time watching fashion tv. At first, it’s all fun and games watching wave after wave of beautiful models in swimwear or lingerie. But then the reality of the fact sets in, that all you’re doing is frustrating yourself cause hell will definitely freeze over before zainab, khatoon and moza get fit and strut their stuff..