The Enabler

And here we go again. My plan tonight was to meet R. at Indigo's after work, have a birthday drink with him, crash early, and wake up at 5am for a video shoot at Fort Ruger.

Instead I'm at home, chain smoking [after a week totally free of nicotine] & still shaking from the fight. Met R. at Indigo's. He was already drunk. He spilled part of his drink on the waitress, called her a bitch, and then started to explain to her what her problem was.

And I snapped. I knew the day would come, and too bad it was on his birthday. I read him in front of the bar, and announced I would not drink with him unless he learned to behave in public.

He went nuclear. The fight went out into the park and continued down Hotel Street. I got called every name in the book, and then some. Who the fuck do you think you are? he asked. And I told him. I'm the guy who's been taking care of you the past year. So he let me know: I'm a stereotypical faggot. All he wanted to do is love me, and all I care about is money, parties, and dick. I'm a sexual predator. I'm all ego. I ruined his birthday. I'll be alone the rest of my life. And in case I didn't get the message, my voice mail is full of similar messages.

I told him to set a date, and move out. I still don't have the heart to throw him out on the streets tonight, although I desperately want my life back. I was hoping he'd get a job, stabilize, & save up some money before this day came. I actually feel guilty. In my head I know that my friends are right: I'm enabling, and he will do the bare minimum to keep me from throwing him out. It's been going on since I let him move back in, "until you get back on your feet," last September. I'm tired of being the cold bitch pushing him to get a job and quit drinking - but empathy hasn't worked. Intellectually I know this is what I have to do. But my heart still feels sick about it all.

It's past midnight. I left him in Chinatown, drunk and angry and with no money. I doubt he'll come home tonight. He never comes home anyway once he starts drinking. I have no idea what the weekend will bring.

I saved the messages. It'll help to keep the anger burning, and to resist the impulse I'll have to forgive come Sunday. You can quit the Church, but Catholicism digs in deep and stays there.

I can't recall how many hundreds of people I counseled who were in this same situation. I would have never guessed that one day the person on the other end of the line would be me.

Baqiya ib hayatkum… Akhir il ahzan

From Riverbend's blog this morning:

It promises to be a long summer. We're almost at the mid-way point, but it feels like the days are just crawling by. It's a combination of the heat, the flies, the hours upon hours of no electricity and the corpses which keep appearing everywhere.

The day before yesterday was catastrophic. The day began with news of the killings in Jihad Quarter. According to people who live there, black-clad militiamen drove in mid-morning and opened fire on people in the streets and even in houses. They began pulling people off the street and checking their ID cards to see if they had Sunni names or Shia names and then the Sunnis were driven away and killed. Some were executed right there in the area. The media is playing it down and claiming 37 dead but the people in the area say the number is nearer 60.

The horrific thing about the killings is that the area had been cut off for nearly two weeks by Ministry of Interior security forces and Americans. Last week, a car bomb was set off in front of a 'Sunni' mosque people in the area visit. The night before the massacre, a car bomb exploded in front of a Shia husseiniya in the same area. The next day was full of screaming and shooting and death for the people in the area. No one is quite sure why the Americans and the Ministry of Interior didn't respond immediately. They just sat by, on the outskirts of the area, and let the massacre happen.

At nearly 2 pm, we received some terrible news. We lost a good friend in the killings. T. was a 26-year-old civil engineer who worked with a group of friends in a consultancy bureau in Jadriya. The last time I saw him was a week ago. He had stopped by the house to tell us his sister was engaged and he'd brought along with him pictures of latest project he was working on- a half-collapsed school building outside of Baghdad.

He usually left the house at 7 am to avoid the morning traffic jams and the heat. Yesterday, he decided to stay at home because he'd promised his mother he would bring Abu Kamal by the house to fix the generator which had suddenly died on them the night before. His parents say that T. was making his way out of the area on foot when the attack occurred and he got two bullets to the head. His brother could only identify him by the blood-stained t-shirt he was wearing.

People are staying in their homes in the area and no one dares enter it so the wakes for the people who were massacred haven't begun yet. I haven't seen his family yet and I'm not sure I have the courage or the energy to give condolences. I feel like I've given the traditional words of condolences a thousand times these last few months, "Baqiya ib hayatkum… Akhir il ahzan…" or "May this be the last of your sorrows." Except they are empty words because even as we say them, we know that in today's Iraq any sorrow- no matter how great- will not be the last.

There was also an attack yesterday on Ghazaliya though we haven't heard what the casualties are. People are saying it's Sadr's militia, the Mahdi army, behind the killings. The news the world hears about Iraq and the situation in the country itself are wholly different. People are being driven out of their homes and areas by force and killed in the streets, and the Americans, Iranians and the Puppets talk of national conferences and progress.

It's like Baghdad is no longer one city, it's a dozen different smaller cities each infected with its own form of violence. It's gotten so that I dread sleeping because the morning always brings so much bad news. The television shows the images and the radio stations broadcast it. The newspapers show images of corpses and angry words jump out at you from their pages, "civil war… death… killing… bombing… rape…"

Rape. The latest of American atrocities. Though it's not really the latest- it's just the one that's being publicized the most. The poor girl Abeer was neither the first to be raped by American troops, nor will she be the last. The only reason this rape was brought to light and publicized is that her whole immediate family were killed along with her. Rape is a taboo subject in Iraq. Families don't report rapes here, they avenge them. We've been hearing whisperings about rapes in American-controlled prisons and during sieges of towns like Haditha and Samarra for the last three years. The naiveté of Americans who can't believe their 'heroes' are committing such atrocities is ridiculous. Who ever heard of an occupying army committing rape??? You raped the country, why not the people?

In the news they're estimating her age to be around 24, but Iraqis from the area say she was only 14. Fourteen. Imagine your 14-year-old sister or your 14-year-old daughter. Imagine her being gang-raped by a group of psychopaths and then the girl was killed and her body burned to cover up the rape. Finally, her parents and her five-year-old sister were also killed. Hail the American heroes... Raise your heads high supporters of the 'liberation' - your troops have made you proud today. I don't believe the troops should be tried in American courts. I believe they should be handed over to the people in the area and only then will justice be properly served. And our ass of a PM, Nouri Al-Maliki, is requesting an 'independent investigation', ensconced safely in his American guarded compound because it wasn't his daughter or sister who was raped, probably tortured and killed. His family is abroad safe from the hands of furious Iraqis and psychotic American troops.

It fills me with rage to hear about it and read about it. The pity I once had for foreign troops in Iraq is gone. It's been eradicated by the atrocities in Abu Ghraib, the deaths in Haditha and the latest news of rapes and killings. I look at them in their armored vehicles and to be honest- I can't bring myself to care whether they are 19 or 39. I can't bring myself to care if they make it back home alive. I can't bring myself to care anymore about the wife or parents or children they left behind. I can't bring myself to care because it's difficult to see beyond the horrors. I look at them and wonder just how many innocents they killed and how many more they'll kill before they go home. How many more young Iraqi girls will they rape?

Why don't the Americans just go home? They've done enough damage and we hear talk of how things will fall apart in Iraq if they 'cut and run', but the fact is that they aren't doing anything right now. How much worse can it get? People are being killed in the streets and in their own homes- what's being done about it? Nothing. It's convenient for them- Iraqis can kill each other and they can sit by and watch the bloodshed- unless they want to join in with murder and rape.

Buses, planes and taxis leaving the country for Syria and Jordan are booked solid until the end of the summer. People are picking up and leaving en masse and most of them are planning to remain outside of the country. Life here has become unbearable because it's no longer a 'life' like people live abroad. It's simply a matter of survival, making it from one day to the next in one piece and coping with the loss of loved ones and friends- friends like T.

It's difficult to believe T. is really gone… I was checking my email today and I saw three unopened emails from him in my inbox. For one wild, heart-stopping moment I thought he was alive. T. was alive and it was all some horrific mistake! I let myself ride the wave of giddy disbelief for a few precious seconds before I came crashing down as my eyes caught the date on the emails- he had sent them the night before he was killed. One email was a collection of jokes, the other was an assortment of cat pictures, and the third was a poem in Arabic about Iraq under American occupation. He had highlighted a few lines describing the beauty of Baghdad in spite of the war… And while I always thought Baghdad was one of the more marvelous cities in the world, I'm finding it very difficult this moment to see any beauty in a city stained with the blood of T. and so many other innocents…

Common Article 3 of the Geneva Conventions

In the case of armed conflict not of an international character occurring in the territory of one of the High Contracting Parties, each Party to the conflict shall be bound to apply, as a minimum, the following provisions:

(1) Persons taking no active part in the hostilities, including members of armed forces who have laid down their arms and those placed 'hors de combat' by sickness, wounds, detention, or any other cause, shall in all circumstances be treated humanely, without any adverse distinction founded on race, colour, religion or faith, sex, birth or wealth, or any other similar criteria.

To this end, the following acts are and shall remain prohibited at any time and in any place whatsoever with respect to the above-mentioned persons:

(a) violence to life and person, in particular murder of all kinds, mutilation, cruel treatment and torture;

(b) taking of hostages;

(c) outrages upon personal dignity, in particular humiliating and degrading treatment;

(d) the passing of sentences and the carrying out of executions without previous judgment pronounced by a regularly constituted court affording all the judicial guarantees which are recognized as indispensable by civilized peoples.

(2) The wounded and sick shall be collected and cared for.

An impartial humanitarian body, such as the International Committee of the Red Cross, may offer its services to the Parties to the conflict.

The Parties to the conflict should further endeavour to bring into force, by means of special agreements, all or part of the other provisions of the present Convention.

The application of the preceding provisions shall not affect the legal status of the Parties to the conflict.

too scared to Google

I was on tribe.net earlier, and decided to see who else had listed Saline - my hometown - in their profile. I was shocked when hundreds of entries popped up. And then confused, when I realized that most all were leather types. And then I completely lost the plot when 'Saline' was listed in their interests column. As in Profile Name: bootmaster. Interests: piercing, sounding, fisting, catheters, electro, pumping, and saline.

I don't know what the hell it is, and I'm not about to google it on a work computer. Judging from the context, I'm pretty sure it's hard-core and disturbing. I'll call Madame Lim and see what she says.

Morning Bitchfest

My favorite scene from John Sayles' Lone Star takes place half-way through the movie. Cliff [a white guy], is talking about the family of his girlfriend [a black woman]:

Mickey: Are they gonna be okay with you being a white guy?

Cliff: According to her they'll be happy that I'm a man. Apparently they think any woman over 30 who isn't married is a lesbian.

Mickey: Yeah, its always heartwarming to see a prejudice defeated by a deeper prejudice.

In Jerusalem, ministers, rabbis, and clerics have joined together to demand that the government stop World Pride. American rabbi Yehuda Levin flew to Jerusalem to warn that there could be violence if the parade continues. Fliers are being distributed putting a $4500 bounty on every queer killed. It doesn't say much for monotheism that the first issue to unite these people since the days of Abraham is hate, not love.

Yeah, I'm feeling cynical this morning. North Korea is playing games with nuclear weapons, terrorists are bombing civilians world-wide with impunity, the US Executive branch keeps trying to overturn the Constitution, the seas are turning acidic and the ice sheets are melting, Iraq is lapsing into civil war ... and yet the Pope's big speech last week was about stopping queers from marrying in Spain, the President's big press conference revolved around taking the Japanese Prime Minister to Graceland, and the big feature on the morning news was Interior Design Using the Zodiac.

Maybe it's this that put me over the edge this morning - seeing the photos again of Mahmoud Asgari and Ayaz Marhoni being executed in Iran for being lovers. July 19 is the first anniversary of their deaths. I never cared for all the breast-beating over Matthew Shepherd's death. It was a tragedy, but the false martyrdom-by-proxy and celebration of victimhood by the activists turned me off. Iran's execution children chills me to the bone.

Tacos de Lengua

A few years ago I tried tacos de lengua - cow's tongue tacos - for the first time, and it was surprisingly good. I'd never thought about making them myself, but the last time I put in an order with D`Artagnan tongue was on sale, and I figured ... why not.

I was thinking that I would get some prepared meat, sliced nice and thin and just waiting for me to spice it up. Nope. They sent me the whole damn tongue - a giant monster of a thing that scared the bejeesus of me when I opened the box.

I didn't know what the hell to do with it, and the only recipes I could find were horribly vague ... along the lines of boil tongue until soft, peel the skin, slice and serve. It wasn't enough.

I went on Tribe & asked around for recipes. I got some great stories about how D's grandmother used to serve tongue on cold Saskatchewan mornings ... but no specific recipes that really improved upon the original. And a few people asked why I was bothering, why I just didn't grill a chicken like normal folks.

So, why tongue [and snails and rabbit livers and wild boar bacon & all the other exotic meats I keep ordering]?

I would never eat any of the 'gross' cuts when I was a kid. I would throw a tantrum if my mom tried to serve us any innards. And then I lived overseas for a bit, and one day I was asked to kill a pig for a feast. Literally. It was here's the bat kid, and there's the pig.

And that changes things. It changes your relationship to meat. Either you go veggie, or you realize that respect for the animal & the life you took demands that you do not waste a thing. And suddenly I was doing things that would have sickened me a year earlier ... draining a pig's blood for soup, boiling the head for the meats near the cheek, rendering the fat for lard, cleaning the intestines for chittlins, and so on.

So food tastes different now. And now that I'm back in the states I find I still want some of the non-traditional meats - both for the flavor, and for the feeling that I'm re-connecting with something lost.

So that's why tongue.

And for the benefit of anyone Googling tacos de lengua recipes - here's my version. It was touch and go for awhile, and half-way through I was sure that I had completely mucked it all up. In the end the tacos turned out amazing. Better than anything I've had in the states, actually - go figure. Maybe I lucked out and had good tongue. Maybe fresh tongue is better? Who knows.

MC's Tacos de Lengua

1. Remove tongue from package. Marvel at its complexity. Empathize with cow. Resist urge to "lick" the cat with it. Rinse under cold water.

2. Bring salted water to boil. I seasoned the pot with a bit of onion, chile, carrot, peppers, garlic, parsley, bay leaf, cinnamon, cloves, and nutmeg. Add tongue, reduce heat, and simmer for three hours.

3. Remove tongue & let cool. I usually save stocks, but this one had much too strong of a smell to be useful. Toss it.

4. The "recipe" said to skin the tongue, which sounds self-explanatory. It isn't. There was an outer covering that felt like sandpaper. I removed that. There was an inner layer of very thin gristle which didn't peel off. I didn't know what to do, but since I couldn't get it off cleanly I left it on.

5. Slice the main part of the tongue. Surprisingly, it's very soft - like a firm bologna. It was easy to cut into pastrami-thin slices.

6. And now the part that confused me: what to do with the back of the tongue? There was a big hunk of dark red meat and fat and gristle that covered the back bottom half. The instructions said to clean the fat and remove the small bones, but I couldn't tell what was fat and what was meat. It was all marbled and jumbled up. Eventually I gave up & declared it all junk. Fed it to the cats.

7. Stare at bowl of sliced tongue. Think Damn. Now what?

8. Mince and fry one clove garlic, a touch of onion, and a touch of jalapeno. Add tongue, season, and stir fry until no longer pink.

9. Throw some corn tortillas on the fire. When they're done fill 'em up with tongue, tomatillo salsa, and a few tomato chunks.

Eating tongue by itself might be a challenge, but they were great in tacos. The meat is soft - you can cut it with a fork - and the flavor has a subtle gaminess to it. I'd do it again as a treat, but probably not as a regular dish.

The meat does pick up a lot of oil, though. I fried the slices in a few Tbs of olive oil, and could've probably only used a few drops.

I wish I had pics.

News to me

From Sunday's New York Times article Ten Days That Changed the World:

MARCH 2, 1955: Almost a Heroine

When a brave young African-American woman was arrested for refusing to give up her seat on a Montgomery, Ala., bus, local and national civil rights leaders rallied to her cause. Claudette Colvin, 15, seemed poised to become an icon of the struggle against segregation. But then, shortly after her March 2 arrest, she became pregnant. The movement's leaders decided that an unwed teenage mother would not make a suitable symbol, so they pursued a legal case with another volunteer: Rosa Parks.

That switch, says the historian Douglas Brinkley, created a delay that allowed Martin Luther King to emerge as a leader. He most likely would not have led the bus boycott if it had occurred in the spring instead of the following winter. "He might have ended up as just another Montgomery preacher," Professor Brinkley says.