Day 2: The buckles

Posted on January 13, 2009


Yeah, I’m sticking with this painstaking transcription, even though clearly hardly any of the 82 permitted people read the last one. Well, it can just be a diary then.
I spent most of the morning with DNA, a man who is so profoundly strange and unusual that I should have felt no surprise when he announced that he has
XXY syndrome (although actually he has none of the symptoms, I’m sure he would hasten to add). More Kuwait traditions followed: we went to the Avenues, ate at Johnny Rocket’s (I LOVE IT THERE) and said hello to a million friendly Philipinos. We were there for ages not doing much (also in keeping with the spirit of this fine land).
Some time later my dad and I went to freezing Kuwait city to look for belt buckles in the tailor supplies area. My dad is so infinitely sweet that I had just to mention that a coat buckle broke to set us immediately careering around looking for just the right set of buckles among flocks of raucous Kuwaiti women hustling small children about our knees and shrewd, multilingual Pakistani vendors.
Then we went laptop shopping for me, my dad having previously spent the whole day looking at different stores until he narrowed the search down to the best bargains in the best stores for me to then peruse. My dad is a complete life support system, way more than other dads appear to be, Middle Eastern or not. I mean, I am nearly 26 (you guys will be expected to give much support during that undoubtedly traumatic birthday) and am still not expected to get even the smallest thing done for myself while he is around. In fact, it has recently occurred to me that I have not once ever purchased a shawerma for myself within this jurisdiction. He’s always bringing me them. When I got home from the airport, I found that my dad had stocked the fridge full of all my favourite foods, which regrettably I do not have the appetite to eat. There was a sign on my bedroom door saying “Welcome Home” made with some ancient 90s application that my dad keeps on a CD for this express purpose. Two kinds of high speed internet were in situ. A Kuwaiti sim card with a hilariously easy number was immediately placed within my hands, as was a bunch of money, my protests brushed aside. Best of all, my dad had installed a showerhead the size of a dessert plate. I can walk around the bathtub and still be under its pleasing precipitation. I also like it very much when life echoes
Seinfeld episodes. I wanted to take a picture of the showerhead next to my hand for comparison, but my dad took my camera to be fixed (and it took him a bunch of annoying trips too).
A few errands later he dropped me off at home to have dinner with my mother. I usually use this time to try to talk her out of Christianity and I set forth anew. She nodded in agreement at my salient points and went on about her business, pausing only to press upon me a poorly written evangelical book given the terrifying, and terrifyingly banal, title of “Liar, Liar: Pants on Fire”, by Cheryl Bohl. The idea behind the bestowal was to stop me using the words “idiot” and “stupid” to which my mom has long taken exception (if only she knew about my unstoppable flow of profanity which has infected even my boss); the learned author posits that the use of such words is the result of a “lying spirit”. After ranting about its stupidity at a nearly comatose mother for a while, I browsed through the book more carefully, finding that pretty much everything nice had been deemed the result of a spirit of something bad. In fact, masturbation is actually having sex with a demon.
I have to agree with her about goatees, though. They mostly are the result of a perverse spirit.