Tom Jones and Me ... in the ME!!!!! (Live in Qatar)

"It's not unusual to be loved by anyone.  It's not unusual to have fun with anyone ..." 

"It's Not Unusual", by Tom Jones

Uhmmmmmmmm ...

I think this is the part where we add in "unless that fun involves a bevy of 40-plus-year-old 'Sex Bombs' gyrating and singing at the top of their lungs on a beach in the Middle East to the tune of a 73-year-old Welsh crooner who fully expects them to throw their undies his way."

That kind of fun is frankly 'way-out-there otherworldly bizarre', yet it's about to happen.  For any of the 'under-18' crowd who might mistakenly wander onto this post, I would venture so far as to say the image of it all might well be growth-stunting.  

(If I do in fact cause great visual/mental anguish to you by virtue of this post, I sincerely apologize.  If you're already feeling nauseous:  "STOP reading NOW!")

Far from the Diamond Jubilee Concert in front of the staid walls surrounding Buckingham Palace, or the pulsating song hall at Caesar's Palace in Las Vegas, Tom Jones in his tight pants is coming this September to expose his graying chest hairs under the spotlights shining down at night on the beach in Doha.  

I'm really not sure who to give credits to this photo to.  It's a picture I took of a flyer I got from Virgin Stores.  It reads "Alive Entertainment, Iconic Qatar, Iloveqatar.net & Intercontinental Hotel" present ...  If you are reading this and I am in violation of any infringement laws, please let me know, and I'll remove this pic of a pic immediately.  Or tell me if you took it, and I'll give you credit.  This is NOT my pic. :-)

Is it pure coincidence that he would choose to hold a concert in his 70's - surely the culmination of his performing career - in a mecca of middle-aged, booze-hazed, desperate-for-kicks expat wives (a significant number of whom are Welsh, British, Scottish and American)?  

(Calm down, desperate Doha wives, don't be offended ... I count myself in your midst ... I don't diss lightly.)

Is it all a sign of how far he's come or of how far we've fallen, I wonder?

Now, hear this.  I am NOT a raging Tom Jones fan.  

But nor am I immune to breaking into an enthusiastic rendition of "Delilah" on the odd occasion when QBS radio (Qatar Broadcasting Station) decides to play it at 7:00 a.m. on the Breakfast Show.  

I've been known to get teary-eyed and Sauvignon-sappy to a Pinoy karaoke rendition of  "Green, Green Grass of Home". 

And I admit to secretly believing Smilin' Vic wrote "She's a Lady" for Tom Jones with only me in mind. 

But those aren't the reasons I feel compelled to spend close to $350 on VIP tickets for Smilin' Vic and me.  Nope.  Not at all.

No.  The compelling reason behind dishing out an absurdly grotesque amount of money to go sweat on a beach in 40C weather at 9 p.m. on a week night is the sheer fun, eccentricity, atrocity and madness of it all. 

I often refer to Doha as a Las Vegas of sorts (minus the gambling ... unless you count the stock market).  It's a desert oasis, covered in dust yet punctured by the occasional greatness of grossly entertaining, pure fun, truly majestic and absolutely surreal performing arts experiences.  Far from the bedouin tent-dwelling existence my family continues to believe I have been relegated to, Doha provides us with everything from Barney, to Disney on Ice, to the Harlem Globe Trotters, to the Doha Tribeca Film Festival, to The Russian Ballet, to Cirque du Soleil, to Placido Domingo, to TOM JONES!

Doha is a continuous dichotomy of traditionalism and modernism.  The community awakens at morning call to prayer, black abayas and white thobes pepper the crowds, camel racing is still alive and well, and the desert sands beckon.  

But pop music resonates in Land Cruisers on the return home from mosque, skinny jeans and Leboutin's lurk under the abaya, and ghutras come in all styles, from cobra to cowboy.  And while camel racing and desert camping are popular, desert sand duning in custom-made go-carts is all the rage.  

And so I can't help but think that bringing Tom Jones to Doha is the ultimate depiction of that traditionalist/modernist dichotomy with a twist.  Because ask anyone where Tom really fits, and they can't really tell you.  Where DOES he fit?  He's kind of 60's, 70's, 80's personified; but 90's, 2000's glorified.  The twist is that he fits.  Kind of everywhere.  In a good way.  Apparently even in the ME.

I was never a Tom Jones fan.  But I knew his songs.  I sang along.  And I'm really psyched he's coming to Doha.  Believe it or not, so is Smilin' Vic.  I'm really excited for this chance to touch a bit of the past today.  An American (Welsh) icon playing in the Middle East, an old boy playing for a youngish (if that's what you consider middle-aged to his advanced age) crowd.  

It's an old face in a new town.  

It's East meets West.  

It's a coal miner's son come to visit the land of oil and natural gas.  

It's Tom Jones and Me ... in the ME.  LIVE!  In Qatar! 

What Is the Liebster Award?

I recently accepted a Liebster Award nomination. 

Follow this link to find out more.

Bigger is NOT Always Better ... (Little Things That Make Me Smile)

In my last job, I had a HUGE office.  I had a door that locked (with an open-door policy of course), floor-to-ceiling windows, two ginormous white boards, six locked bookshelves and two filing cabinets.  I had chairs for visitors, and a small round table at which to hold informal working meetings.

Unfortunately, the mouths that attached themselves to the bottoms that occupied those chairs most often came in with gripes, complaints, concerns, fears, grievances.  Those chairs pretty much became a runway for tears, anger, worries, and the occasional utter meltdown.

In a way, I blame that huge isolated office for my gradual informal and unintentional transition to mediator, counsellor, disciplinarian and psychologist.  I blame it for my eventual descent into professional despair.  But in reality, I know it's mostly because I couldn't bring myself to turn anyone or their problems away. Once someone - anyone - walked their problems through that door, those problems became mine.  They stuck to the chair fabric and permeated that swanky office until solutions were found. 

Unfortunately, there were far too few positive outcomes.  The environment was just not conducive to success and productivity.  Over the years, the futility of it all it simply wore me down.

In my new job, I sit at a desk in a pool office.  Other than the executive staff who occupy private offices, everyone is assigned a cubicle.  I have no door, no window, and no white boards, but I can pin contact lists and reminders to my partition wall (which only reaches the top of my pc screen).  I have one lockable drawer, and one lockable book shelf.  Every day, people walk by my desk, and though they stop by to say hi and chit chat I can't offer them a seat because I only have one chair, and it's occupied by my bottom.

I know what's going on because I can HEAR all the conversations taking place in the cubicles around me. Because I have a clear view of a third of the floor's cubicles.  But I can tune it out enough to carry on with my work.  Despite being smack dab in the middle of everything that's going on, my vantage point is way too exposed to encourage anything but casual banter.  Plus, counseling, engaging in matters of policy, and trying to find solutions to world hunger are no longer my role.  AT ALL. 

Ironically, I'm absolutely loving the freedom that comes with having no real space.  I'm loving the peace that comes with the chaos that surrounds me.  I find myself smiling at and greeting everyone who walks by my workstation.

I'm loving the little things, like my Arabic 'next-door' cubicle dweller teaching me a new arabic word "Ku'ula yamn" ('every day' .... I know i've spelled it wrong ...).  I basically give him a word/phrase I've heard repeated over and over and he translates it for me.  My most important word find so far is "Maadre"  (again, sure I've misspelled it), which translates to "I don't know".  That one comes in very handy, as there are so many things I actually don't know.

I find myself catching funny snippets of conversation, and laughing out loud with the person who sits next to me when I realize they've heard it too.  Like yesterday, when a new recruit six cubicles down was given the great news that his family could now join him in country as his wife and son's residence permits had been approved.  And to hear him exclaim "YES!" in excitement, before reality kicked in and he followed up with a confused "But I don't have a SON."

We found out later that he does have a daughter, and it's not uncommon for mistakes to be made upon issuing residency documents, but out of context the whole situation was ridiculously funny. 

These are just a few of the very simple little things that make me smile these days.

  Bigger is NOT always better.

What's Wrong With Me?

You know those moments when you realize you're living the dream?  Except the dream isn't all it was cut out to be?  And you realize that what you dream of now is reality; that reality you knew so well before you became an expat.  And you wonder if you'll ever make it back to that reality ...

******

Two nights ago, Smilin' Vic insisted we go out to celebrate my new job in style, whisking me off to the poshest hotel in Doha to enjoy drinks and a meal at "THE" happening spot, where all the local celebrities (???) go to chill.  

We pulled out all the stops, dressing to the nines, enjoying a crisp pre-dinner gin and tonic, leaving Kiddo behind.  I went the extra mile, donning a never-before worn little number, stilettos, and (gasp!) fake eyelashes.  I even indulged in foundation, smokey eyeshadow and hairspray.  

We stepped into that swanky restaurant ready to party like it was 1999 (if you don't get the reference, you're too young to be reading my blog).  The dinner was just a prelude, premising an exciting evening bound to end in lustful dancing, running down the beach barefoot, and watching the sun rise on the car ride back home.

We basked in the muted bluish fluorescent lighting, lounging on the "sofa-in-lieu-of-dining-chairs".  We laid our mobile phones down on the gleaming marble tabletop (just in case Kiddo wanted to text goodnight), right there between the lotus flower floating in a crystal bowl of water and the "paired" wine list.

Endeavoring to ready our palates for the renowned crispy duck salad and delectable sea bass, we ordered their best cheapest bottle of wine (actually two eventually ...) and some very expensive water (you know, the kind that comes in a glass bottle).

We spent the next while indulging in some fine conversation and people watching.  We witnessed a heated lovers' quarrel to our right, which ended with her leaving in a huff and him following right behind (it's only interesting when you're not involved).  We "tsk' tsk'd" the guy at the table across from us who thought the 'casual-elegant' dress code translated to jeans, a t-shirt, a jean vest and white velvet shoes.  

Our people watching fun was barely dimmed by the fact we were seated directly behind the servers' station.  The view from our vantage point actually allowed us some insight into how much effort goes into napkin folding in a 5-star establishment.  

We chilled to the lull of the French lyrics wafting over the speakers to the tune of an Asian/Bohemian/Alternative pan-fluted melody.  It's while chilling that we may have realized how truly surreal the whole evening seemed.

Screeeeetch .... Rewind .... 

I do think it's around that point that Smilin' Vic looked at me and wondered out loud at how far we'd come.  Not necessarily in a good way, not necessarily in a bad way.  Just looking back at how we hooked up, how we fell in love, how we used to chalk up a great night.   And how different that all was from that night two nights ago.

How it used to be that we'd just head down to the local pub.  How we'd be happy with beer and Caesars (Canadian take on Bloody Mary).  How every table had a view of the kitchen door and the bar.  How we sat on striped cushioned benches and stools.  How the wooden tables were etched with "AK loves JB".  How some old fart and young dude would stand on a raised platform in the corner playing old Celtic tunes.  How everyone else in the bar would chime in while Smilin' Vic and I remained mostly oblivious.  How we'd get silly drunk and head back to the tiny house on the lake and watch the sun rise over the water.

What's wrong with me?  

What's wrong with us?  We have everything we'd ever f&*%in' asked for, everything we'd ever dreamed of.  We can go dine in a five-star restaurant whenever the fancy takes us.  We can hop on a plane and visit exotic lands four or five times a year, more if we really wanted.  We could buy designer clothing if we chose to and drive fancy cars if that was our thing.  Kiddo's education is taken care of, and we don't ever have to worry about not having a roof over our heads.

So why do we still miss the thrill of saving for two weeks for that $120 to spend on one night out at the pub?  Why do we still yearn for waking up for quick fry steak and canned split pea soup at midnight?  Why do we still remember so fondly those frigid nights in Nova Scotia when the power would go out, the water pump would stop working, and we'd have to boil water for coffee on the wood stove and take snow baths? 

Our night out two nights ago cost us over 1,000 QAR (roughly $300).  That didn't include dancing.  Or running down the beach barefoot.  Or watching the sunrise.  It cost us that much for what I must admit was some pretty amazing tasting crispy duck salad and Chilean sea bass.  But I ended up with a rumbling, grumbling tummy, and we were back home by midnight.  

So we basically paid $300 for me to get the runs.  Unfortunately, a new dress, false eyelashes and stilettos get you nowhere when you've got the runs.  If anything, they're a hindrance and end up making you look even more pathetic.

The sad reality is, eventually the glitz doesn't shine.  What once seemed exotic now seems contrived.   But what's real never fades.  Those etchings on wooden tables.  Those sad Irish pub ballads.  That sun rising over the lake.  They never fade.

Sadly, that night two nights ago left me with nothing but a tummy-ache and a yearning.  I know Smilin' Vic wanted it to be something grand, something great.  But we both know we don't need grand to be great.  We just need each other.  And eventually, we need to get back home.  To what we've really earned.  To what's real.

What's wrong with me?  The ME.  But it's not the ME, it's me.  I just don't know if we can make it work... 

 ******

P.S.  I didn't feel like cooking tonight, and I still had a slight taste of vinegar in my mouth from two nights ago, so I went and got takeaway ... from a tiny Thai joint in Doha.

Brought it back home, and we enjoyed it with bottled beer and boxed wine ... for a little over 100 QAR (roughly $30).  Afterwards, I sat down in jeans, a t-shirt and a little lip gloss (even on my worst day), and started to blog.  

It struck me how a meal from a hole-in-the-wall that blatantly advertises it is selling you crap could bring more satisfaction than one of the poshest establishments the city has to offer.

A picture of the dine-in menu, where chicken bum is displayed prominently (see item # 4.1).  But at 5 QAR (+/- $1.50), it's a steal ...

Item 116 on the takeaway menu is a little more expensive at 6 QAR, but it's not everywhere you can order "butt-to-go" ...

The Pains That Are Withheld For Me ...

This is the post that blocked me.  The post that didn't want to be written but that wouldn't let me write anything else until it HAD been written.  Rarely have I felt so utterly uninspired.    

This post is about suicide and what it leaves behind.  And about what it doesn't leave behind. 

"A brave man once requested me,  to answer questions that are key, is it to be or not to be, and I replied 'oh, why ask me?'"

(Suicide is Painless, Johnny Mandel) 

I have no answers, only questions.  Please don't ask me.

****** 

Apparently the lyrics to the song "Suicide is Painless" were written by a 14-year-old.

The story goes he was tasked to write the song for the movie M*A*S*H, and told only that it must carry the name "Suicide Is Painless" and be humorous.  

It's been said it took him about 5 minutes to write the song.

His father was the original movie's director.  

And that's the mystery behind one of the most melancholy songs of all time.  

Rather anti-climatic isn't it?

 ****** 

Much like suicide itself I guess. 

Years of pain, suffering, and tortuous rumination culminating at the bottom of one big, black, empty, unromantic, anti-climatic hole.   Nothing left in the wake but questions.

• "Surely there had to be more to it?"  
• "There was some greater meaning behind it all, right?"  
• "A legacy has to be more than a self-inflicted bullet hole or a final agonized breath, doesn't it?" 

Those are just some of the questions that have plagued me for the last year.  

www.gypsyintheme.com

I've spent the last year experiencing sporadic moments of overwhelming and gut-wrenching pain, wondering which signs I overlooked, which moments I neglected, which opportunities I missed.

I've spent the last year feeling guilty about feeling so betrayed; I've spent the last year feeling like I have no right to these feelings.  

Because he wasn't closest to me.  He had many buddies who were much closer.  He had life-long friends.  He had a beautiful loving wife.  He had the most beautiful, amazing, loving, lovable daughters.  He had brothers and parents who loved him so very much.

When he died, I hadn't seen him in almost a year.  We lived thousands of miles apart.  I can't say I ever felt I missed him, but I can honestly say that it was impossible to think about him or mention his name without wishing he were around.

He was just a great great friend.  He was just the guy who managed to light up any room he walked into.  He was just the guy who always made time for everybody else.  He was just the husband we'd all tell our husbands to look to for inspiration.  He was just the most amazing dad.  He was just a great human being.  

None of those equated to owing me a damned thing.  Yet I felt the treachery in his act as though it had been meant for me alone.  

I'm starting to forgive myself for feeling betrayed.  I'm starting to feel less guilty about the ache ... the first little while, I was ashamed to admit to it.  How could I complain of the pain in the face of his wife and daughters?  How could I burden his mother with my tears?  How callous to think I should deserve to grieve him.

I think I'm not the only one who's felt it.  I think all of us who loved him have felt guilty about missing him so much.  It's almost like we shouldn't have the right.

I think we've all wanted to lash out at him, but felt that would be unfair when he'd already obviously been suffering so much.  

I think we've all wondered at some point if there was ever anything we did or said that drove him to it, if there was ever one small act on our part that could have stopped him.  And I think all of us have prayed that the answer to both those questions is "nothing".

These are the pains withheld ... the ones that wouldn't be laid to rest until they'd been acknowledged. 

I've spent the last two days wondering if I could somehow be inspired to write something meaningful about suicide.  I was hoping that by doing so I might be able to bring comfort to three women I love so dearly.  Maybe I could inject meaning into those final moments for them.  Maybe I could conjure up a magical lyrical balm that would ease the pain, soothe the ache, remedy the ills.

I actually thought I could write something that would make things better. 

I can't. 

I wish I could, but I can't.   

I can't convince his daughters that he loved them.  I can't convince his wife that she was his life.  They know this already.  They don't need me to tell them what they must never doubt.

I can't make them stronger in all of this.  I can't make them want to carry on.  Their spirit, their courage, their bond, their love and their resilience have already far exceeded any tenacity I could ever hope to instill in them.  

Ironically, all I can do is look to them for inspiration.  

And maybe let them know that after a year I can finally say I'm sad, I'm mad and I'm glad.  I guess I've finally abandoned the futility of wondering about the last moment.  I guess I've figured out that whatever the reasons for suicide, there are no real answers.  Or more precisely, no answers that really matter.  And I guess I could tell them that I know that what really counts is the lifetime of loving, praying, giving, living, and learning that preceded that last moment.  

That's what's left behind.  

No questions asked.

****** 

P.S.  To my three ladies, I love you.  More than you will ever know.