Picture of the Day

Picture of the Day

Rocks all week, my friends.

Moroccan Jukebox

As everyone is aware, Cat Stevens has maintained for some time now the stage name, Yusuf Islam. As none of you are aware, this is also the name of a humble fish vendor in a small town on the Moroccan coast.

Moroccan joke:

These Japanese guys bring a large refrigerator on an airplane. The plane has trouble, and they say, “we are going to push it out.” And they do.

My moment with the Moroccan Yusuf Islam was brief, but in the short time we shared, I watched as he kneeled on a beachside rock formation. He opened and cleaned fish using only his hands. I discreetly hummed the refrain of “Wild World.”

How did I learn his name you ask? Is this an attack on Islam, flimsily disguised?

No. In case you haven’t read my recent four part offering to you (Funny Scene II), or in case you did not read it in its entirety, or in case you read it through to the last sentence, but you happen to be one of the half-conscious pre-teens that have been plaguing me:

I have a newfound connection to the town. All of the people converse with me now. I may have a future as a Moroccan bon vivant.

Despite my burgeoning social status, I found myself stealing away into the dark alleys of YouTube, my poor-man’s jukebox. Sometimes, if you’re really lucky, in lieu of authentic video, someone ‘dedicated’ has compiled a hackneyed slide-show via stock photo sites like photobucket.com or some such purveyor of vague, disembodied images.

Moroccan joke two:

A man say he love woman. She say, if you love me, get this bracelet (bras-let) and she throw it in lake. The man go in and get it, and when he gets out, she is not there. Where did she go?

Remember that refrigerator they threw out the plane?

There is a live acoustical performance of “Wild World,” from ’71 on YouTube. Cat has chosen a high school janitorial closet as the venue. The audience either sits cross-legged on the floor in a semi-circle or lurks awkwardly around brooms, ladders or buckets.

A crucial event occurs before the singing begins. Cat, in his delicate British voice, intones,

“Uhm, this song is called ‘Wild World,’ and…. it’s a hit.”

One older ‘bachelor’ in the audience laughs in a slow, croaking,

‘oh ah uh.’

If you are ever at an exclusive concert, or anything recorded live, for that matter, right before the performance, laugh in a loud and absurd manner. For the price of a concert ticket, you can slide easily into the second-hand underwear of immortality.

To that man with the cancerous throat, he and Cat shared a joke together. He was the one who understood Cat. That man is like that woman in the holiday sweater, over-laughing through Twelfth Night. It’s just that, you know, she so gets Shakespeare.

Cat Stevens, over here! Hey, Cat! Hey, if you want, we could get a beer together, later. It’ll just be the two of us, two mature adults; like-minds enjoying like-minds. Look, I don’t want to move too fast, but if you want, I’ll be your live-in sycophant. I mean, if you want me. Just murmur, “it’s a hit,” it’ll be our code word. I’ll know you’re inviting me to sleep at the foot of your bed, curled like a cat. Oh! Gosh! I said like a cat, but you’re Cat, I don’t know what I’m even saying. It doesn’t matter. Oh Cat, I’ll always be there, Cat Stevens; I’ll always be ready to choke out low throaty chuckles for you.

Almost six million people on YouTube have heard that man’s odorous laugh. I am confident that there are not six million people on the planet who know I even exist. Maybe twenty thousand people are even peripherally aware of the existence of me.

YouTube’s comment section often becomes an impromptu forum on, say, Islam. The person who posted this particular Cat Stevens video made the opening remarks/ fired the first salvo:

“Cat Stevens the performer is what this video is about. The deal with Islam and such has nothing to do with this. No religious beliefs are perfect, you must use your own mind.”

A core sampling of the responses:

One viewer huffily tells another that they,

“commented [their] opinion like everyone else.”

“Religion is a guidance not a law in which to punish and hate, and also u are so retard.”

“it was weird when a very gifted Cat went all Yusuf on us.”

This ‘it was weird’ comment sparks a zealot, hovering over the keyboard, waiting for just such a moment to shriek,

“cat stevens is now a muslim, glory to Allah!!!”

NOTE: Moroccan jokes have been appropriated from my friend Abdullah and shared without his permission, as is customary with Moroccan jokes.

NOTE TWO: I'm out of Taghazout, and into Jimi Hendrix's old haunt, Essaouira.

Be ready.

Picture of the Day

The wind cuts angrily through the rocks, howling like a wounded camel.
(this is the local saying, apparently)

Picture of the Day

An odd alien, perhaps, form emerges from the rocks

Picture of the Day

Just water in rocks. Although, this photo does illuminate my theory of how why the rocks look the way they do. I think the water just pools and over time, it erodes into the above.

Picture of the Day

A glimpse of the coastline. Taghazout is just over the rocks.

Funny Scene II: Backlash (Part Four of Four)

JAMES

sotto voce to SANGRE

I say the word, here’s what you do.

CUT TO: JAMES’ VIOLENT HALLUCINATION

JAMES kicks the table forward.

Placemats scatter in an arc. Old man Rubbermaid would shit himself.

JAMES

YEAH? YEAH?  Think I need twenty placemats? Think I'm 'messy infidel?' 

Sangre’s golden necklace gleams in the Moroccan sun. He leaps into the pile of rubber mats and tears into them with primal rage.

WAITER

HEY… (unrecognizable Berber words)

He begins to reach for the surviving placemats.

JAMES

Quietly, to Sangre.

Si.

Sangre goes for the waiter’s reaching hand. SANGRE lunges violently and rapidly, issuing multiple strikes before the man can pull away. This waiter will wear a shabby, woolen-glove for the rest of his days to hide the fingerless mound of weeping scar tissue, formerly known as, “right hand.”

JAMES

Take that you little bastard.

The WAITER clutches his hand, and goes into fetal position.
In an instant, he sees his future: pity will give way to teasing, which will devolve into malicious jeering:

“Too bad Michael Jackson’s dead, he could refer you to his surgeon,”

or from the visiting pidgin speaker:

“Hey, dat medical wase you bin stealin' ees leakin ow  yo glove. Oh wait. Dat yo han.”




END JAMES’ VIOLENT HALLUCINATION



SANGRE awaits the initiation sequence.

JAMES points to the ground.

The monkey leaps violently

at the goat’s head.


He resumes his peaceful gnawing.

The little man finishes washing one table, lays down a placemat,

and returns to JAMES’ table to get his next one.

JAMES

All for me?

JAMES smiles, exposing straight, white teeth.

WAITER

 Heh!

He gives his grin, exposing

one remaining upper tooth. It is hanging guiltily, the

sole survivor of this plane crash of a mouth.

JAMES

To SANGRE

See that? Caught him off guard. Now we're buddies.

EXT, AFTAS SURFER CAFÉ: Evening.

JAMES, RASTA and HORACE sip ginger-kiwi-orange smoothies while the sun retreats.

JAMES

 And at that moment, I didn’t give a shit anymore about his placemat transgression.

RASTA

You have to sympathize with these waiters. Economically speaking, they’re stuck here.

JAMES

 There was a moment when culture faded away and we shared a universal connection.

HORACE

Got ourselves a regular goddamn rainbow coalition. ‘We all experience the human condition’- are ya gonna say that next?

JAMES

 Today I became expansive, my limey friends. I realized none of it is personal.

RASTA 

 Exemplary self-restraint. I would’ve moved the mats straightaway.

HORACE

 Naw. You's just a manipulative bastard, you is. Jealous of RASTA kissin’ all the locals, thought you’d get a suck on that wing-y tooth a his, did ya?

An man wearing a Hash Point Surf Shop tee-shirt approaches the diners.

He is carrying flyers.

HASH POINT GUY

Surfers?

HORACE

Bloody hell!

JAMES

I think we’re cool.

HASH POINT GUY

America?

HORACE

Collective consciousness, like ants. Know when you're talkin' about 'em.

JAMES

You prefer Canada?

HASH POINT GUY

No, America good. Too much British

HORACE

The whole colony will have a go at us now. 

JAMES

That’s true.

HORACE

Bugger off.

RASTA

Watch ‘im. He’ll be kissin’ ya soon.

HASH POINT GUY

Obama good. I think, good guy, but no power. Power is- how you say?

JAMES

Congress?

HORACE

And politics leads to locking lips.

HASH POINT GUY

Yes yes. Okay. Nice to see you, America.

The man smiles, shakes JAMES’ hand and walks on.

The trio is astonished.

HORACE

He shook your bloody hand’n moved on.

The table is silent.

JAMES

Breakthrough. I have tapped into the town’s collective-

SANGRE the monkey leaps from behind the boats.

He latches onto HASH POINT GUY’s back.

The table sits back to witness the carnage unfold.

JAMES

Brief breakthrough?

SANGRE clutches HASH POINT GUY’s hair in one paw, and

uses his other paw, with its’ freakishly long fingers,

to slap the man in the mouth.

The monkey leaps off, and scampers away behind the boats.

JAMES

Breakthrough.

HASH POINT GUY shakes it off,
chokes a bit on some smallish tooth fragments, but

his mouth looks human enough.



EXT. Evening. Main street, Taghazout

We see CALAMARI, back at work on the mail truck.
He and POSTMAN 2 are unloading the van. We get a close look at CALAMARI-

his mouth is full of gauze.   SANGRE approaches...

POSTMAN 2

Calamari!

SANGRE moves quicker now.

 Calamari makes a move to hide in the van.

 SANGRE is too quick. He gets in front of CALAMARI.

In a deft movement, SANGRE  removes his golden dog tags.

We see the tags gently placed in CALAMARI’s hand who cowers against the side of the van.

 It is a restitution for the shredded tongue.

CALAMARI attempts a smile.

SANGRE closes himself into a crate marked for the KIEV zoo.

JAMES gives him a little salute.



Fade Out.

Funny Scene II: Backlash (Part Three of Four)

 JAMES

 Fuckin’ Mohammed shop.

JAMES' REENACTMENT:

EXT. DAY Mohammed Shop window


JAMES holds a bottle of Ciel-brand water, and a bunch of Moroccan bananas. He is waiting for the shopkeeper to acknowledge him. A local enters, puts his purchases on the counter, says some words to the shopkeeper, and pays. James continues waiting.

END REENACTMENT

HORACE

 They do that shit, I leave. Drop my items on the counter and walk out. I’m bloody running out of stores.

RASTA

 They don’t believe in queuing. In Marrakech, though,  you’ll feel some love.

HORACE

In the souk, I wear sunglasses and earphones. You make eye contact, you're done for. This one here, just encourages 'em.

RASTA

One man selling carpets says to me, “Rasta- man!” and he proceeds to grab me by the face like this, and kisses me, both cheeks in his hands, like this. A bit much, I say.

HORACE

The filthy wankers love this one. I won’t even shake their hand. They'll hold it bloody forever if you do.

JAMES

They all have to show you their store. First day in Agadir, I got stuck in a lotion shop for half an hour.

HORACE

Yeah you did. In Marrakech, I just let 'em gather. Didn’t say no to a single one. Talked to all of them, until we had a crowd around us-

JAMES

An entourage, we like to say.

HORACE

Feeding pigeons, we like to say.

JAMES

 Ever go into the hills? You know that gully with the trash? Turns out, it drains directly to the ocean.

RASTA

 De rigueur, mate

HORACE

 Fuckin’ live like animals.

JAMES

 Maybe that's why they hate animals. I watched a small boy yanked sharply away from a kitten. The boy was pulled away and his father went back. The old man was yelling and trying to stomp on the kittens. 

HORACE

Up at Imswam, they was roasting cats. 

The groups’ outrage is lost in this bizarre imagery of cooking a cat over a campfire.

HORACE:

Hair was still on ‘em too.

After a moment JAMES takes his leave. SANGRE
places the curled kitten on
 the seat of the boat and follows.





EXT: panorama beach. Day.

JAMES picks his way across the large boulders that lead to the beach, avoiding the collections of refuse that line the way.  The front half of his wetsuit hangs down, as is the style. He carries the surfboard on his head, and the monkey sits atop the board.

JAMES  

Find a place to stay cool.

THE monkey hones directly in on a group of Berbers who have brought their camels to the beach.  One camel lounges on its side, like a big, spindly-legged dog. SANGRE runs at the camel. The camel snorts and leaps, to the extent a camel can leap, to its hooves. It snorts and kicks at SANGRE, who hisses, teasing the camel. SANGRE jumps, and slaps the dromedary's flank. He is seen skipping away into the rocks as
JAMES paddles out into the surf.



INT: La Pointe restaurant, Taghazout. Lunchtime.

JAMES sits typing on a small laptop, waiting for his lunch. He is resigned to the fact that every meal takes fucking forever. SANGRE quietly gnaws at a medium-sized goat’s head in the shade of the table.



WAITER ENTERS and drops a grimy set of placemats on JAMES’ table.

He proceeds to clean the other tables. JAMES and SANGRE are the only patrons.

JAMES

Are you kidding me?

The waiter moves on, cleaning the other tables.

JAMES

Addressing SANGRE.

Fucking kidding me?

Sangre shrieks, leaps at the wooden table leg, and grips it and shakes it the way he would shake down a coconut. Letting go of the table leg, he smashes his sinewy hands into the ground.

PART FOUR OF FOUR TOMORROW

Picture of the Day

The fisherman's lockers by the beach....

and,

presenting....

ME!

BALD!

Can I just say, it was a two-day labor of love, shaving with only a small, worn razor.