The Name Is Bond…Jane Bond. And She Is a Lesbian.

Jane Bond...has the world shaken and stirred

She is sleek, she is chic. She is a cold hearted cold blooded spy-assassin. She is not a Thespian, but she is most definitely a lesbian. A lipstick lesbian.

A few days ago I was watching a very interesting documentary on Ian Fleming and how James Bond became the character and the movie franchise we all know and some of us love so much. In James Bond Fleming had incorporated his own alter ego, turning him into an ultimate “heterosexual adult male, not for school kids”. He believed that the world of tomorrow would see many villains who want to single-handedly destroy the world and a strong man with the wits and strengths of a spy and cold blooded ruthlessness of a killer would be needed to keep the world going to hell in a hand basket.

Even though many of the elements of the Cold War and conflict have changed since Fleming’s 1940s, many also remain as present as ever. But one thing Fleming could have not foreseen was the extent to which mores and ethos of societies, particularly in the Western World, would change. 

From the feminist movement and the sexual revolution all the way to the identity politics of gay rights and ethnic minority rights the world is no longer enough. Bond has managed to re-invent himself in the post-cold war era but I have a feeling the end of Bond as we know him is near. The original vision of Fleming for Bond as a quintessential heterosexual male is under threat more than ever. Who is to say, after all, that only a man can save the world? Why can’t a woman live and let die? Why can’t a bi-sexual man be the spy who loved (someone!) and on what basis shouldn’t a lesbian Bond be the one trying to save the planet so that tomorrow never dies? And what about Octopussy? Frankly, I never figured that one out!

I can already see the next generation of Bond being under review and meticulous re-design. The new Bond will be a lesbian female, against the use of force with a Starbucks membership and a well groomed poodle by her side. She believes in dialogue and understanding and buys her accessories from Michael Kors. She doesn’t speak a language other than English, but she is internet savvy and uses google translate to do her spy work. She definitely needs her weekends to herself and reaches an agreement with the most notorious terrorists on the planet not to attack and destroy the Earth on a Saturday or Sunday. She’s classy, one may say even sassy but she refuses to name her dog Lassie (too old school for her). She is witty and tries not to place herself near any explosive devices. She is not a pacifist, but she truly believes stopping villains shouldn’t require hand to hand combat or harsh interrogation tactics, given advances in science and technology. 

Wouldn’t that be something different? A Bond who is neither a misogynist nor a chauvinist? A Bond in high heels and with highlights who tries to put the terrorists in touch with their feminine side. A bond who is not only a bomb expert, but also a bombshell. 

This antithesis to Ian Fleming’s vision and imagination would be the natural outcome of a world that gradually defines and has defined not only concepts of bravery and dedication but also gender roles and, for that matter, gender itself. This new character has no penis envy. She actually has no penis. But as different, radically different, this new version of Bond may be she has two things in common with Fleming’s Bond: She never says never to a good fight, and when all is said and done, she always, always gets the girl.

Oh! Jane…

The True Story Of The Cell Phone That Died

Where should I insert the SIM card?

I was about to call a number I had gotten through one of my contacts. I wanted to inquire about a really good opportunity in downtown Toronto to, for once and all put me and my car out of the misery of a 3 hour daily commute when my phone died.

At first, I thought it is one of the many inconveniences my cell phone had been causing me for the previous few months so I restarted the phone. It didn’t. I tried over a dozen times until I realized this time it is different. My phone had simply died and there was no way to revive it. I went to a repair shop, called the mobile network customer service, looked online for discussion groups and tips on troubleshooting with no luck. It was then when I realized I had lost all my contacts and anything I had on that phone was for all intends and purposes gone.

What an awful feeling. Is that how people feel when they lose a loved one? Is that how one feels after a break up or divorce? Is that how an Olympic athlete feels when she comes fourth by a millisecond and is kept off the podium? Why did I save all my contacts on the phone and not my SIM? Why? 

Then I thought, but there had to be a way out of this; wait! I can send an email to all my contacts and tell them to send me their numbers, it may be inconvenient but at least I can get back all those 200 numbers I never call. It was then that I realized the true tragedy of my predicament: I had lost all my pictures and videos, anything I had saved on my phone for more than 3 years was gone: the weddings, family visits, birthdays and anything I thought was worth taking my clunky phone out to take a picture of. 

You cannot imagine the utter despair and sadness I felt at that moment. The pain was so intense, the grief so massive that I went into fetal position and started to cry like a little girl. Tears were flowing like a river running through a sun-dry valley. I kept asking myself why I hadn’t backed up my phone knowing the risk. What have I done to suffer such agony, such unbearable pain, such immeasurable loss? 

I tried to pull myself together. Life is full of challenges and I was now facing one of the worst a human being can face. I have always taken pride in being a survivor no matter what the circumstance and I decided, darn it, if I have to send a mass email and ask for everyone’s number again I’ll do it. I’ll even take the unthinkable step of actually calling some of my friends on this thing called Telephone which we carry with us but seldom use to actually call anyone, and ask them if they have copies of pictures I’d lost. I will suffer the indignity of checking other people’s Facebook walls to find those blurry, ugly images I used to post straight from my cell phone twenty at a time which nobody wanted to see but everyone “liked”. 

Worst of all,  and now that I can no longer stare at a 4 inch LCD screen for a few hours at a time to fill the unbearable emptiness I feel within when removed from social network, I will actually look at people’s faces and do this thing some call “converse” to fill some of the void in my life (the last time I did this face to face talking thing was, oh I hardly remember, in a birthday party where I looked at the birthday boy and said “happy birthday”. What a strange feeling that was. I had the urge to text him even though he was 5 inches away from me and I could hardly hold the phone without touching his belly). 

Oh! The horror, the horror! To think I may actually have to carry a 4 minutes conversation with a sentient being. Not since the Vietnam War one has been subjected to such humiliation.

I struggled to come to terms with this life changing experience. I had heard and read in tweets about great men such as Mandela and Gandhi who had risen to the occasion in order to make man’s life better and more dignified. All of a sudden, and as if by a miracle I lifted my phone, took the SIM card out and cried out loud: “I shall insert you in a different mobile phone, just to see if there is hope. I believe I shall overcome”. At that moment I felt like one of those legendary men on course to change history. I inserted the SIM card in my spare cell phone and, what do you know?! I had actually saved all of my contacts. So basically, all this blog was for nothing. 

Sorry to waste your time. I have to go now to post a few pictures of my half eaten salad on my profile. Make sure you check it out. 

Remembering Haleh

It has been over fifteen years since I last heard her voice on the phone, reassuring me all would be fine and that I should not worry. She said our faith in the benevolence of God and what is to come should be our anchor. I remember for the following few weeks I kept wondering if I should call again, knowing she was not feeling well and probably not in a condition to talk until one evening my mom told me she had passed on.

It is not an exaggeration to say there is not a single day since then that I do not think about my youngest aunt, Haleh, at some point during the day. A cross between an older sister and younger mother, I still listen to a song I first heard her sing during her first visit back from Spain. Completely captivated by her voice as she played her guitar, swaying her shoulders from side to side, as an 11 year old boy I imagined how some day I’d get to learn Spanish, play guitar and sing like her. Upbeat, funny and full of life I still remember her taking me to the movies to watch Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, women’s basketball game and other events where she’d sing and tickle me as I sat by her.  

I didn’t see my aunt again until a few years later when I moved to Catalunya too, where she had gotten married and settled near Barcelona. It seems strange now when I think she was only 28 at the time, but her young age never stopped her from being a voice of reason, a guide throughout my life even many years after I left and our contact was limited to few letters and phone calls a year or occasional visits. 

Each year, and specially as I get close to the anniversary of her passing, I go through many “what would she say” moments. I ask her questions, tell her of my dilemmas and then listen to her voice softly advising me, with a couple of funny inserts in between. Then, and almost without fail, I get the urge to listen to El Vendedor, the song I most vividly remember her sing. I listen to it over and over, dissecting the lyrics as I try to remember each wall and perspective in her beautifully decorated living room where she’d sing the song. 

A short walk with her along the city’s old Gothic quarter is enough to make me smile. She, as always, covers me with a blanket of warmth, knowing what I care to say, saying what I care to know…

In the calm and quite of her smiling face, along the imaginary streets where she paces, something lurks, something chases; something I have never forgotten about, from a time I have never written about.

I become sixteen again:

Drowning myself in her love

Cleansing myself in her strums

Clothing myself in the meandering melodies of her amorphous songs;

I’ll see you again one day

To float adrift in the plain of your white

O! Queen of unforgettable hearts,
Poet of untenable loves,

Troubadour of unforeseen roads, I am

The shapeless raft of the seeker of your peace

Trans-ported through ether and space,

Cast in the shadow of the parallel of your rhymes

Crossing your path in the perpendicular of time

Listen to "El Vendedor"

How To Propose To A Woman While Eating Swedish Meatballs At IKEA

These meatballs are harder to digest than your proposal

Since the beginning of time men have tried to one-up each other when it comes to capturing the heart of their beloved. From romantic clichés of proposing in Paris on top of Eiffel Tower to popping the question while on a Safari in Africa, men have tried and women have rejoiced in recounting the story to their female friends: “Oh, he was so nervous, it was so romantic; he’d been acting very suspicious for a couple of days, I knew there was something off; he wasn't himself; he knelt down in front of me with a diamond ring in hand…; it was beautiful, it was wonderful, delightful, delirious, delectable, delovely”.

Well, who knows, maybe this is an important gesture, we can’t really know for sure. But just in case it is, I think I've just came up with one of the most original proposals in the history of mankind (as in man-kind). Whereas common sense and wisdom points to a unique act of over-the-top romantic significance, I thought maybe one should look for the most common, least unique experience. Hence, the idea of proposing at an IKEA restaurant. You’re probably thinking “poppycock, this is an awful idea; she’ll kill me if I ever did something like that”. I cannot guarantee there won’t be an attempt on your life but I assure you the idea is worth exploring.

Just think about it. First of all, you are taking her to a chain furniture store; the last thing she’d expect is a proposal. Therefore, you manage to surprise her (check mark). As you’re walking through the maze-like path inside the store you can pause in the bedroom section and say something like “I can’t wait til we put our bed together, look we can add a Vejmon side table for $2.99”. She’ll be a bit disoriented; first because she expects the bed to be bought from a more reputable place and two, she assumes you’ll be putting the bed frame together while she caresses the duvet covers; and third, a side table for $2.99? What the hell is that? What is it made of? Cardboard?!

Regardless, you have managed to somewhat puzzle her so the element of shock will be even stronger when she hears the proposal. Then, as you go through kids section you can drop a Woody Allen-like comment such as “let’s have three kids honey, one of each sex”. She’ll laugh but deep down she is confused which means you’ll have a better chance of getting a positive response before she comes to her senses.

Then, the master piece, the coup de grâce if you will.  You take her to the infamous IKEA restaurant and choose the best deal on the menu (usually Swedish meatballs with side of vegetables for $5.99). Go wild, I mean after all how many times does a man get to propose to the love of his life? Two, three, four times max? Add a side of vegetable for extra $1.29. You don’t need to go crazy, just one side for both of you, you can say something like “I’m getting one because I want to share everything in my life with you”. Then, you sit down and look into her eyes from across the table. As you’re applying the tomato sauce to your meatballs (and maintaining your eye contact with her) you pop the question: “You know honey, everyone always wants to choose a unique place, a “this is me” location for the most important moment of his life. But I wanted to do something different and choose a “this is not me” place to express how I feel about you; and I think nothing does that better than this setting, in the midst of these cold Scandinavian designed tables, minimalist and impersonal, Bergmanesque and suicidal. Oh, darling, let me be the one putting together your bed and reading the assembly instruction for your cabinets; let me be the one pulling out the sofa bed and wonder what all those extra screws are for. Oh darling, (use a 1930s movie for proper intonation for the following sentence) I love you, you know I do. Will you marry me, oh darling will you, will you? 

Remember, you never stop enjoying your meatballs throughout the whole ordeal. It’s actually not that bad for a furniture store.

At this point a couple of things will have happened. She has gotten up and thrown the tray in your face while swearing at you for being cheap and pathetic (obviously she hasn't seen the bigger picture here). Or, she was so dumb-founded by what has just transpired that she said yes while trying to digest the events of the evening (and the meatballs).

What you have done here, she’ll realize soon enough, is your ingenious idea of choosing a franchise, a place with many branches across the world to propose in order to be reminded of your affection for each other in any country, and soon enough, every city on the planet you go to. There is one Eiffel tower, one Sagrada Famila, one tower of London, but there are hundreds of IKEAs all over the world. No matter where you go, there is a branch that will remind you of how much you love each other, there are, in other words, hundreds of places where you made your proposal.

And when you think about it (unless you prefer not to) what better place to express your love than a furniture store where you are asked to put the pieces of something together? You are putting together a common future (albeit without a guidebook) with many pieces that don’t quite fit and are mostly assembled wrong; but through repeated efforts and couple of broken legs and chipped exteriors you’ll manage to live together happily ever after. Isn't that worth taking a risk and proposing in the restaurant of a furniture store? If it isn't, then I don’t know what is.

Good luck.

Am I Free Range?

Live Free Range Or Die Hard

Having solved all the significant issues facing our world, issues such as racism, ethnic cleansing, child labour, child soldiers, poverty and sexual slavery of helpless young girls, I decided to focus my attention on improving my dietary intake. After all, what better way to say I care about our planet than to say I want my food to be organic; not for selfish reasons, but because of the benefits it presents to the carrots and radishes inhabiting our planet and their right to grow under humane conditions. I myself had refused to accept, for the longest time, the wholesale massacre of vegetables under the banner of vegetarianism. I refused the word organic describing food since I assumed anything I eat would be, by definition, organic, which is why I eat it, and not synthetic, which is usually what I wear. However, with the advent of Obama and the coalition of hope I decided to reconsider my rigid and dogmatic view of the world and read more about healthier lifestyle: less fat, more exercise, and so on. 

One of the topics that truly captured my imagination was the issue of free range animal husbandry. At first I thought this is another alternative life style where one, after a certain period of courtship, takes a chicken or a rooster as spouse. The mechanics of such a relationship didn’t quite make sense to me but I kept my mouth shut since I did not want to be accused of bigotry. After all, who am I to judge? It wasn`t until sometime later when I realized I was reading about how chickens, eggs, and livestock in general are taken care of and produced for the purpose of human consumption. But as I read more and more I came to a radical and eye opening realization: that I am not free range. So I asked myself, isn’t it hypocritical for me to expect the animal I eat to have a better lifestyle than me?

You may ask, what do you mean? This doesn’t make sense. Well, let me explain. The definition of free range, to be clear, is: “a method of farming husbandry where the animals can roam freely for food, rather than being confined in an enclosure. On many farms, the outdoors ranging area is fenced, thereby technically making this an enclosure, however, free range systems usually offer the opportunity for extensive locomotion and sunlight prevented by indoor housing systems”. 

Well, are we, these dwellers of modern urban landscape, buried in our iPods, iPads, iMacs and other iCraps, truly roaming free? Do we see enough sunlight? Do we even notice the sun when we’re outside typing on our virtual keyboard searching for the weather condition as we are soaked wet under the pouring rain? Do we have a big enough enclosure within our cubicles, cars, local buses and subways breathing air conditioned air and observing the world under a neon light through a window, whether made of glass or version 8? Do we, these Pub inhabiting, sports-watching, video-game-in-the-basement-playing global villagers have a big enough space and a wide enough fence enclosure to roam? Would we be able to lay eggs that a free-range-chicken buys? Do we have tenderloins tender enough for a cow to buy on its local super market, preferably at full price and without a coupon? If the roles were reversed, would Donald Duck, as the inspector of organic human farms, certify us as organic, with no anti-biotic residue and chemical free? Would Donald approve our life style as stress free lives in green pastures with enough sunlight to brighten our days and pleasant enough to force us to take the drastic and dramatic step of saying hi to a stranger in the elevator? Would Donald, certify us as free range?

In all fairness, I do think of myself as a tender, somewhat delicious man, but I am not sure if I would pass this test. The fact is, I am not free range. I can only dream of being in such a farm, roaming freely with chickens and cows in peace and harmony. What would life be like with such freedom? How would I interact with my fellow free rangers? Would free love rule the farm? Would cows and chickens be able to discuss human condition? Would they be able to lead normal lives and date and form a family? If a chicken and a cow met, would they be able to date and form a family? Would their kids be shunned by the larger free range community because of their mixed background? Would their relationship be considered a lesbian relationship and would they avoid discussing the day when they will be on the McDonald’s menu list?

The fact is we will never know, and most of these questions are irrelevant to the original question anyway. But one thing we do know is we have a long way to go to reach the type of living standards we promote for our livestock. I am free, but not within range. And maybe that’s the safest way to live.