Prolific Immigrant

PLEASE GROW YOUR HAIR, SAMSON.

Love of God, you’re killin’ me.

xxo
Maha

PS Recently…
M: I need to buy a pair of night goggles.

“Friend”: What? Why?

Why not?

Seriously. Why?

They seem like so much fun. Like…if I could get a unicorn, I’d get one of them too. Not for any discernible reason, but just because. Who doesn’t want a unicorn? Or, like, a Care Bear to always give me hugs?

What are you talking about?

IMAGINE THE FUN I COULD HAVE WITH NIGHT GOGGLES!

Only if you’re planning on taking out insurgents…
(pause)
You need help. Like, so much.

You. You need help. You? You are never allowed to play with my goggles. When I get them. Which…I don’t even know where?

Please stop talking. Adults are coming.

Awesome. They’ll totally know where I can score a pair…

etc.

Y’all remember S? He’s been MIA for some time because he’s finishing his screenplay. Though S has been working a great deal on his writing, I am humbled that he still finds the time to pop in here for the occasional quickie read. (Hi S!)

In an email he sent, he asked: PS — I do, however, have one question: When a woman lists “protection” as a prime attraction attribute she looks for in a man, what the heck does that mean? Protection from what? Wind? Rain? Roving packs of dingos? Great White sharks? Bonks on the head? Do women really feel so unsafe they prize a bodyguard above all else?

…so below, I answer the above.

It’s not that I feel unsafe (at least not here in North America where I don’t have to worry about rape as genocide and my man murdered due to his chosen religion) or actually need protection. It’s more that I want to make certain the man I’m with would – should the occasion arise – be capable of protecting me both physically and where exercising his brain happens.

This doesn’t mean I can’t protect myself (though in some instances it most definitely does), nor does it mean that I would not protect myself should the need arise. It also doesn’t mean I can’t speak for myself or stand up for myself; but rather, it does mean that I believe he should afford better physical protection and equal mental faculties as well (as the ‘metaphorical’ bloody knuckle is equally an exercise in fierce intelligence).

Ultimately, I like me a fearless, and aggressive man, both in mind and physicality.

In return, there are things which he could find inside himself (to a degree), but are better received from me. For me equality does not mean ‘sameness’, but rather, recognition that the differences inherent in both must be equally valued and revered.

The best way to explain this is to reference two of my favourite movies, the quintessential chick flicks: Fight Club, and Gladiator.

The former rips into the notion that men live in gyms and sculpt their bodies for the aesthetic (read: Mr. Universe) rather than out of necessity (read: war & hunting), and that this changes the very nature of masculinity. In the later, Crowe’s character embodies all of the characteristics I look for in a man. Especially the short skirts.

As we don’t live in the age of Maximus, I find that I lean toward the aggression of Tyler (who > had he lived in the time of Maximus, would have been a less romantic version of).

Tyler Durden is the anti-Metrosexual. I thought I used to dig the Metrosexual, until I was placed in some situations where the Metrosexual proved himself the Superpansy. The Tyler Durdens of this world are primal and aggressive and they bleed and they don’t manicure their nails (though they do keep them short and clean).

When faced with challenge and fear, they are anything but scared…which, I think, is a rare quality these days because it seems that nothing is easier and more pedestrian than a man on the run.

As an aside and beyond the above, let me get to the nitty gritty of Tyler Durden. As basic instinct dictates, Tyler seems to possess both incarnations of swaggering rightfully-cocky sex-bomb & animal. Keeping in mind that I think Brad Pitt’s kind’a ugly, the swagger which his character carries in the film is based in both his intelligence and his physical ability.

On a personal note, I’ve only ever met two men who fit the above profile(s). They are the archetypical alpha males and always, there is an aggression that sits right beneath the surface and in to which they could tap (and both have) should they need to.

Many women like the soft-spoken and tortured soul, someone I got over when I was 22. I prefer the guy that’s metaphorically spitting blood and with knuckles ripped, defying and challenging anything which stands between him and what he wants, between him and what he stands for.

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A variation of the above was originally published: 06/03/21.

Dear Kirk Cameron,

My infantile crush was on the cartoon character Orion Quest of Grendizer. On occasion, I find myself still humming the show’s tune, and would today argue that Grendizer far outdoes Transformers.

NERDS! WE ARE ALL CAPS DISAGREEING.

When I matured, I developed my first ever really true-and-tried-though-never-tested crush on you, convinced that I was in the throes of passionately heady and unrequited love. This, well before you found your version of God and decided that humans have only been around for, like, 17 years or something.

When mum and dad punched one another in the marriage, I decided to take advantage of the wound which had swallowed my mother whole. (What can I say? She was vulnerable, and I wasn’t v nice.)

I breached the subject matter of moving to Los Angeles (Beverly Hills specifically) and dating you. I was so mindful and devoted to this idea that I drew up a contract on a napkin and made mum sign that I would be allowed to date you when we moved to L.A. Naturally, the dating would have been ever-lasting and we would have been married. I was 13.

I would have mailed you a copy of the contract, only I have now deleted your name and inserted Alex O’Loughlin’s instead accidentally flushed it away, which begets the inevitable: What if?

Having matured, I now know that we would have been ill-fated, you and I. You, eventually calling me a terrorist, while I repeatedly asked: Why tf are you scared of science?, and quickly following it up with: MUSLIMS HEART JESUS (pbuh)!!

Right. So yesterday, my Boss Lady told me that it’s not necessary for me to say everything out loud. Something about an inside voice. Because of her encouragement, I thought to write you this letter because surely, this is one quality — ♥ing you, Kirk Cameron — which I should never hide.

Love,
Maha
P.S. I believe in dinosaurs. See you in hell!

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This film is about awkward dating scenarios.

Like mistaking a feeding funnel for sex toy? Awkward.
Dinner date made up of the boiled body fat of your beau’s ex girlfriend? Way awkward.
Anal rape? AWK.Ward.

Awkward and brilliant. Utterly and completely brilliant if you are the sort who enjoys falling head first into discussions of human psychology and the nature of relationships, adoration and love. More brilliant if you wish to consider the extent to which we have proprietorship over our own bodies. Penultimately brilliant if you want to think about the nature of consumption and human capacity to cruelty. Most brilliant if you are not the sort who defaults to “this is shit and nothing more than for-shock value because I don’t actually get it so will instead pee’n'poo on it“. (Thank you to the beautiful A whose obscure taste in cinema forced this film upon me.)

Inside of the first five minutes, I had paused it to respond to a text from my bestie. Because I am a judgy monkey, I wrote: “Hello, my love! I am watching a film about fatties in pink ribbons and their lovers with bad dye jobs. I am also having Thai. You? xxo”

Caution! Don’t be a judgy monkey. You will be thankful; if not, at least you will be thinking. Promise.(1)

Let me state for the record that the sickos who wrote this film are my heroes and as any proper lunatic who could, I would work in any capacity (slinging coffee! Shining sunglasses!) with this team if they would have me. I mean, the conversations alone must be incredible when one considers the absurd humour of the film. (Imagine the hours spent talking shit with the writers – Patrick Thompson, Alex O’Loughlin and Kieran Galvin.)

There is very little information about the film, but you may watch the trailer here.

Interestingly, I was yelled at by S + M when I mentioned this film. S couldn’t believe I was unfamiliar with the director Brett Leonard. I am quite certain I heard him mumble ‘if I was on Facebook, I would totally unfriend you‘. (This mumble may or may not be entirely made up by me.)

M was shocked that up until seeing Feed, I had never heard of Alex O’Loughlin, at high volume stating into the telephone that “he’s been around forever!” The Story of O is that he is very popular with the ladies; if you are among these ladies, I warn you that in this film he is bewilderingly unattractive (but for his bottom; he has a lovely bottom).

Sidebar: Speaking of bums and Australians, I recently learned that koalas have massive bottoms which they use to securely wedge themselves into trees, and why they never fall out even though completely stoned on eucalyptus. I wish I had this feature of big bum, considering how often I fall out of and over things. For those of you still believing koalas are cute, let me tell you: they are not. They are perpetually bored and they flop about swaying their massive bottoms in a most snobby manner. Also, they have disturbingly long claws.

Before you email to wildly exclaim how “ALEX O’LOUGHLIN IS ATTRACTIVE AND MORE THAN THE SUM OF HIS BUM CHEEKS”, I will cede that I watched with great enjoyment some of the fan videos made in his honor and yes he is handsome now, but not in Feed. Additionally, a shit talent would not have engendered such a rave endorsement, so chill.

Erm. If anyone knows how I can thieve his fans and make them my own, please ping me an email. I want someone to make a video of me and set it to a musical score. They are an amazing and devoted lot, these ladies. Lucky boy.

See the movie.
Godspeed.

(I am off to have cake. x)

———-
(1) “Judgy”. Not a word; should be a word.

P.S. To the creep who just Googled “sex f-ck zoo” and made their way on to this site, note that this film will please your otherwise flat brain.

P.P.S. What’s up Google? See above Post Script.

I recently purchased for the first time ever, Men’s Fitness magazine. Coincidentally, this was the cover:

If you have been reading me long enough, you know I have two types: (1) the Jaxx (Charlie Hunnam) / Tim Riggins (Taylor Kitsch) / (the absolute beast in Bronson) Tom Hardy type, serviced by long hair, facial hair, calm and quiet strength; and, (2) Coach Eric Taylor.

In the former category, the men tend toward a pretty ridiculous perfect physique, with the most obvious feature being that they can hold their own in a serious fight (as so many flimsy men exist, this is – for me – hotness to the nth degree), and a full often pouty mouth. As a joke, I would have usually posted the above photo of Hunnam with the caption Doesn’t he look smart?

Only apparently, he is. I have heard rumblings of this from friends who have met him, and now Lainey has spoken and so it must be true. Today Janey pointed me to this article, in which Hunnam throws down in terms of spirituality and belief in God.

I was reading the article while we were skype-ing and squealed at the religious portion only to choke and faint at the training to be a fighter portion.

I have since had to revise the script in my head re our first meeting, when we – Charlie and I – fall in love. Up until this early evening, the script was entirely about very discreet leopard print and long black hair. Essentially, the script was all about me, as much else is regularly. Now however, I must inject in to this script a conversation about God and the wonders of asking…always always always…asking and seeking out information. Because if one’s Faith is strong enough (like, say, one’s abs), then there can never be a question put to them that could shake their Faith.

Absolutely none.
To the (healthy) Believers, we understand – at least within Islam – that everything (sorry about that arrogance sitch, Dawkins) can never be fully within our grasp, because Knowledge of Everything exists solely within Him. However, it is a duty of the Believer to seek out knowledge at each and every opportunity, asking questions about everything, with nothing off limits. (If one’s roots are solid, there is no worry when limbs sway.)

With a few words, Hunnam stood facing the often thought but not always stated heart of a debate between a Believer and a non-Believer. Stripped down (pray yes, please), he places challenge to the notion that Believers are non-thinking, fundamentally unintelligent, ignorant beings.

Personally, I believe this divide comes from the underlying asinine and totally unfounded idea that religion and science do not and can not mix, and that science is an exercise of thinking, whereas Faith is not.

*sigh*
The two hottest things about a man, aside from well formed pectoral and abdominal muscles? (1) A man whose Belief is sophisticated, thinking-based and inclined; and, (2) none of your business, Reader.

Incidentally, do you watch Sons of Anarchy?
You should, for Kim Coates. Recall Kim Coates here, who has since had a very special place in my heart.

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As just mentioned in the entry before this, S is a writer, and Maxi is a director.

To refresh your memory, stories about Maxi may be found here and also here, while stories about S start here.

They are now officially bringing to life Foreverland, with the likes of Juliette Lewis and some amazing young actors. Read about the coming to life of Foreverland here, please.

Side note, I threatened Maxi (more so than I did S) that I would slander him on this blog should I not be a part of the film’s premiere. Fun!

Also…Stay tuned!

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.1. I have a dreadful fear of all things crawly, but for fatso babies. For this reason, I am completely freaked out about the ant infestation we have in Ottawa this summer. Enough of a sense of freaking out that I am dreaming about them. Dreaming that every time I slip my foot into a slipper, an ant is waiting to attack my foot before making its way up my ankle.

.2. Firmly convinced that the best and only way to wake up in the mornings is to have a Dance Party. Among the songs to which you must get down seriously (like a serious loser) is 38 Special’s ‘Caught Up In You’ because HOLY does that song get your loser feet moving. That and Santana’s ‘Hold On’. (You’re welcome.)

.3. Dear Ryan Gosling.

I really shouldn’t have to say more than your name, but I will so no one misunderstands me.

I wish to marry COACH ERIC TAYLOR (HI! I miss you!); steel and steal Taylor Kitsch for affairs; and grapple with Vampire Eric. But then there’s you. Suddenly. You with your squinty eyes and that curved mouth? You make me want to push you into dark corners and down dark alleyways.

Hi mom!

Thank you…

Maha

.4. Someone recently told me my heart was too big; that no matter how angry and hard I could be…my heart somehow always won out.

I was staring at them thinking (1) nice hair; (2) does this place sell cupcakes; (3) do I need to reapply my lip gloss?; is *my* hair nice?; and, (3) ameen.

Team Big Hearts!

.5. No 4 presenting the perfect segway to: If you have a tendency to pout and sulk because you don’t get what you want, then you’re a fantastical loser who needs to get over themselves and understand that this world and those within it aren’t here to serve your entitled sense of self. Also, you should probably remember that adulthood isn’t about playing in the sandbox, and therapy helps. True story.

In support of the Divestment campaign, Costello cancels his two scheduled concerts in Israel.

Read his full statement here and share the information, as you see fit.

If you support his stand, please let him know.

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“Serene”
“Lovely”
“Blissful”
“Peaceful”
“Calm”

These are only a few of the words used by folks when discussing the first snowfall of the year. For instance, today I was speaking with someone who described this day as one akin to a “blanket of warmth”.

Standing back sipping my coffee I wondered quietly what kind of hashish this individual had smoked, and surely it was laced with something chemical? Because, are you serious?

The first snowfall is oftentimes accompanied by my brothers and sisters Canuck who – having invented the world’s warmest winter jacket – can’t remember how to drive slowly or carefully and so more often than not, usually kill a few other Canucks during the first 24 hours of this prick we call Winter.

Today is precisely this day in Ottawa, the one for which I have been preparing since early October when I began wearing my very large parka, taking up much too much room on both elevators and buses, suffocating at least one person who dared stand next to me (much in the same way as the effects of quicksand, this is what happens when one is caught in the outer layer of my parka). Really, everywhere I go I take up the same space as a baby elephant. Thanks, Canada Goose.(1)

Since morning, there has been neither calm nor peace. There has, however, been an endless array of sirens and ambulances rushing about in an attempt to keep up with the useless Canuck drivers who keep forgetting how to drive in such weather. As equally bothersome are three other minor sounds: the slobbering of wet pant bottoms across floors and carpets; snow pelting at one’s exposed skin including eyeballs; and, the yelps of people as they crash over snowbanks and slide off of sidewalks.

…and one major sound, that of the shovel scraping across the walkways and driveways. The sound most bothersome to your webMum most especially when she is the one generating said noise.

We recently purchased a very pretty snow-blower. It remains pretty and shiny and lovely, sitting quietly in the corner of the garage because I am too afraid to use her. This evening, I walked into the garage and stood quite still in front of the snow-blower, staring at her very hard, willing her to tell me how she is to be used.

If we were in a relationship, she would have said something like: I don’t mind if you occasionally have a thing with Mr. Shovel, or even Miss. Broom, depending on the amount of snow that drops. But the moment you need real and serious support, you had better come to me. Or it’s over. Because between you and me, that’s the only thing that really gets me going…

I walked away from the snow-blower with the same amount of knowledge I had when I approached her – zip. I don’t know how to use one and I am in fact scared to use one. They are really loud and look like they could run away if you don’t strap them to your arms. And, what if I blow snow in the wrong direction? Like, into the wind? Or at my neighbor? Or in my ear?

Anyway. All the above to say that today was Ottawa’s first prick of a snowfall. I shoveled while a beautiful snow-blower sat in the garage warm and cozy. I did this while padded into my parka…and later realized that had I just laid down and rolled across both my walkway and my driveway, the size of me in my parka would have done a better job than Mr. Shovel.

**********
(1) I am rendering null and void my prior thought that Javier Bardem smolders. For the record, please let it show that I now find his head much too large for his shoulders and so think he is creepy looking. Thanks very much.

Dear Taylor Kitsch,

Hi Rigglett. How are you? I am very well – more so than usual, because Ramadan is over and I may now have my morning venti americano with a lot of milk.

Also, I have been cheating on you ever since Jared Padalecki took off his shirt. I thought you should know.

Thanks for the memories,
Maha
P.S. I hope you don’t think of me as a slut for cheating on you, unless, of course, you like cheating sluts, in which case, I remain yours forever.

Dear Jared Padalecki,

Hi. How are you? I am good.

You look terribly smart in your towel and I bet you love to talk about politics and theology.

Also, thank you for being the descendant of People With Fantastic Genes. Really, seriously. Unlike yours, my Tribe is not fitted up by People With Fantastic Genes, but rather People With Alright Genes And Every Once In A While, You Know…Not Too Shabby And We Can Really Surprise You.

Also, please undress more often.
Er…! I hope you like the font color I have chosen in honor of you.

I love your body,
Maha
P.S. I am having great difficulty not calling you DEAN as I loved you very much on Gilmore Girls. Much more than dirty Jess and definitely more than the blond man-child who Rori dated for much too long.

P.S. no 2 Please cut your hair, my love. Or grow it to one length. Anything but bangs..’cus bangs are for pixies.

Dear Connie Britton & Kyle Chandler,

HI! HOW ARE YOU?
O! So happy that we’re talking again!
I miss the both of you equally.
I understand you will be away until the stupid Executives at whichever dumb place you work for have decided it’s time for you to return because they are completely out of touch with reality and clearly good taste is dead.

I thought I would let you know that your absence is noted and you are missed by both myself and every single one of my 9 friends who I have introduced to Friday Night Lights.

That is all (insert sad emoticon here, please),
Maha
P.S. This shade of font is called “lavender blush”. I don’t get it, either.
P.S. Coach Eric Taylor? I would trade both above mentioned children Taylor Kitsch and Jared Padalecki for you in your angry man shorts. For true. xo