A little discourse on things that seemed funnier under the influence

Posted on September 25, 2006

8


On Thursday night E and I went to the Cairo Jazz club to see a “rock and roll” band called Dirty Looks. They were really great, although I didn’t see much rolling – there was rocking, however. Maybe there was Elvis or something after we took off in a wave of searing desire for shisha. They played their own version of the song from the Muppet show, with their own name transposed. I was ecstatic and may have clapped delightedly in a most unme-ish way. E thought the lead singer was cute, but he was a little too earnest and his jeans too tight to appeal to me. It also drives both of us crazy when musical performers talk to the audience…talent and charm almost never reside in the same person and most of the people who do talk end up sounding like their heads are firmly wedged somewhere in their large intestine. E got all excited and started talking about how she wants to get more creative and start playing the 3oud. She already plays the flute. I just raised my eyebrows, but our friend, one delightfully named Adam Molyneux-Berry (8000th in line to the British throne, apparently), said what I felt was some hilarious shit in response to her desire: “What next? Oriental jazz?” A more searing criticism I cannot imagine. Oriental jazz is the gayest thing there is. E was like, “But I want something Egyptian.”
“Oh, you’re so Egyptian. That’s just so nineties!”
She got told. Will not dissuade her from Egyptianing it up though.

Friday was W’s birthday. The little muffin is 22! I feel wrinkled with age, it’s time to get the hip replaced. We celebrated with a Mexican fiesta, complete with piñata. The piñata was fantastic…when they get around to sending me pictures, I’ll put them up. He was called Pedro. He had bling and a hat and a puzzlingly human face. I’m afraid his creators got really carried away and there are numerous pictures of a small paper animal being crushed to various bosoms to protect him from harm, when the rest of us wanted nothing more than to harm him – and that with speed. In fact, various human shield jokes were made. That’s what you get when your friends are all political and stuff; distressing (and nerdy) levity about large-scale tragedy. I believe that at one point something was even analogized to the “birth pangs of a new Middle east”. Said thing may have been a card game. Thankfully the alcohol has blocked out the details of that tortured metaphor.
Anyway, we all backed up against the wall of the “playroom” and handed W a broomstick and turned him around to make him dizzy, and he took a resounding thwack. It hit Pedro smartly across the flank (?) We all squealed in excitement, but nothing else happened, especially nothing of a candy producing nature. He took another powerful swing, and the broom handle bent like it was liquorice. Sort of thing that would happen with an Egyptian broom – it fails in the manful face of flour, water and newspaper. Another person took a swing, and the cord on which Pedro was suspended snapped, but Pedro remained stoically unpierced, and fat with candy.
“Let’s just stamp the fuck out of it!”
“Let’s just set it on fire.”
“Give me the fucking candy!”
– were some things that were said. Or shouted.
It’s safe to say we did not grasp the idea of the piñata. It’s altogether a different sort of thirdworldness, pinatas and the like. When we want candy here, we purchase it and then we put it into our mouths, without any detours.
We were then forced to get all insurgent (or terrorist, or whatever the new trendy term is) on its ass and actually decapitate it using a complicated broom handle-bending chokehold maneuver probably gleaned from years of television. Its green crepe head popped right off and a stream of Cadbury éclairs, hard candies and snickers bars poured out. We’d have preferred more of an explosion, but we had to content ourselves instead with a pretty massive candy fight, mobilizing in teams. Éclairs can really hurt when thrown with enough strength! And I had to fish them out from all kinds of awkward places afterwards.
W, we’ll be really sad when you’re gone.

Advertisements