Here's a peek into "Iranians of the day". What does it take an Iranian to make it into this elite list? Clicky on the linky to find out.
http://www.iranian.com/main/iranians_of_the_day
P.S: If you are Iranian: RightF*ckingNow supports your Darius-style attempts to get on that list with all its Ahmedinajad.
Wednesday
Monday
lost and found: short fiction
A Birthday Party
The awful stink of disinfectant wrinkled my nostrils. Hisses and clicks from various medical equipment were punctuated by the rhythmic beep of the cardiograph connected to the vegetable in the next bed.
“Fucking hell! Can you turn that shit off!?” bellowed Guy motioning to the television that was playing some soap opera that I didn't recognize and hadn't noticed until that moment. I obliged and clicked it off.
“That guy just sleeps all day.” offered Guy motioning to the prone and silent body in the other bed. Guy was also lying prone in his own hospital bed, his hands wrapped in bandages.
“I think he's in a coma, Guy.” I responded.
“Whatever. Can you hand me his pudding? I can't grab shit with these.” He hoisted his mummified hands into the air and shrugged. “I don't even know why they leave him food. Seems like a waste to me.”
“Sure.” I said, smiling, and set the small bowl of quivering brown goo on his bedside table. “I brought you this so you don't get bored.” I extended an older Gameboy to Guy who, wincing, clasped it between his bandaged mitts. “Tetris.”
“Ha! Thanks!” he said with a sardonic but playful grin.
“What's the deal with those anyway?” I asked, motioning to his bandaged hands.
“Oh, that's where the cold did tissue damage.” Guy quipped, grinning. “Got my feet too!”
A large cart loaded with trays rumbled by propelled by a young bearded man that looked like some suburban conception of White Jesus.
“Christ, hospitals creep me out. Couldn't you have got a private room?” I asked, motioning to the inanimate body in the next bed.
“No way. Do you know what this is costing me?” Guy's face sank a little for the first time since I had seen him again. It was strange, he had been all smiles since the paramedics had revived him.
“Speaking of money, I brought the money I won from the contest. I wanted you to have it. I figured that maybe it could help with your medical bills.” I handed him a heavy envelope that bulged and clinked due to the assortment of change contained within. “That's all of it. Seventeen dollars and eighty nine cents.”
Guy's mouth laughed but his eyes did not. He didn't look at me. He seemed to be doing a few calculations in his head. “That was the whole wager?!” he shouted. A nurse looked in through the open door at us and shook her head disapprovingly.
“Yeah that's my percentage for winning.” I replied.
“Stick it in my bag, okay?” he asked.
I stuffed the envelope under a gray cashmere sweater in the fraying backpack full of unwashed clothes I had brought for him. I smiled encouragingly at Guy, moved the bag to the floor and sat down in the chair beside his bed.
“Oh man, what a ridiculous party.” Guy said. “Hey... why did we even get involved in such a stupid contest?”
The headlights made little pools in the center of the road. Trees and rock walls skidded through these pools fluidly. It was as if the car wasn't moving at all but rather the world was rising up to meet it and just as quickly slipping under and away. Everything beyond the road was trees and rock walls. Skeletal grasping at the navy blue skies. Rock walls hugging narrow country roads with more curves than their sibilant names. Sanders Store Road and Sassafras Street. Everything was trees and rock walls and road.
“Of course I know where we are going,” I said to Guy. “We're going to a birthday party.”
“Yes, but where are we? We're lost,” lisped a slightly unkempt and increasingly agitated Guy.
“We aren't lost. I know where we are going. See? This looks familiar.” I motioned to a stand of barren black trees near a crumbling wall.
We drove on in silence. I enjoyed the scenery. Truly, I felt that I must because I did not often have opportunities for leisure. But as luck would have it I found myself deep in the rural landscape. It was odd. Just earlier I had turned off of a busy thoroughfare and now it seemed as if the presence of another car would be an affront to the noble solitude of this place. However, I didn't view my own car as an intrusion. This scenery had the appeal of the driving stock footage that you sometimes see in old movies. Beautiful but existing only to communicate motion to me, the viewer. Yes, I truly liked this place.
“Stop here and get directions.”
A squat cinder block building blazing with white Christmas lights stood in front of the car. The large hand painted sign read ROBBINS GRO. The door spilled yellow light into the parking lot. As I crunched through the gravel of the lot I noted with some satisfaction that my car's paint job was in substantially better condition than those of the other patrons.
Crossing the threshold I was surprised to see that there were fewer customers than I had anticipated. Other than the fellow at the register there was only one other person in the entire place. The lone man wore a green hat pulled low over his eyes and leaned jauntily against the counter. The place also appeared to be some sort of taqueria or grill. The man watched intently as I entered and approached the register. He stepped back from the counter and ambled away in order to lurk somewhere behind me, his boots echoing in slow, hollow thuds.
“Hello!” boomed the clerk in a voice that was neither friendly nor threatening. “How can I help you?” His enormous voice caused the blonde hairs on his thick moustache, poised under his shining red eyes, to vibrate.
My neck inclined sharply upward, I realized that this man was very tall. “I was wondering if you could tell me how to get to Happy Valley Road?” I asked, a little unsteady.
“Yeah,” he said, trailing off into an uncomfortable silence. The flash and roar of a video poker machine behind me made my skeleton jump. “You take a left. Then it is your second left.”
I smiled. “Got it Left, second left.”
“Anything else?” he boomed.
“Uh, yeah. Two boxes of cigarettes,” I said, pointing at my brand's display.
“Five dollars even.” His moustache buzzed. I laid a five dollar bill on the counter leaving my wallet empty. Pocketing the cigarettes, I strolled confidently back to the car.
“Are we alright?” asked Guy smugly.
“Yes,” I said. “Left, second left.”
The light from the party was warmly glowing, a sharp contrast to the deadening cold outside. My car's thermometer had read eighteen degrees Fahrenheit (just under eight Celsisus) when we pulled up. I wandered through what was otherwise a spacious living room, now tightly packed with unfamiliar faces. Meeting my social obligations, I made small talk and silently wondered how I was connected to these people.
A stocky man with a face like a jack-o-lantern and a wiry tuft of black hair atop his head approached me confidently. This was my host and today was his birthday.
“Hi! Good to see you! Man, is it ever cold out!” I took the initiative because at that moment I realized that I could not remember his name. Surely I knew it. I had, after all, been invited to his party. He shook my hand vigorously. Our eyes met but no recognition registered in his pupils. His eyes focused again on some distant point beyond my head and his mouth bent crooked. He couldn't remember my name either!
“So glad you could make it out!” He weasled his way through small talk just as I had. “Have you had any of the cider? It is wonderful. I made it myself,” he beamed.
I hadn't tried it, nor was I likely to. The warm smells of mulling spices radiated through the air but I was not swayed. I was feeling particularly inert that evening.
However, I soon found myself sweating as I drifted from one awkward conversation to another. Nothing I said seemed to agree with any of the other guests. I knew almost no one there and a combination of social anxiety and the blasting furnace soon obliged me to remove my coat.
“Surely,” I said “What is happening in the Sudan is a great tragedy but one must ask 'Where does my responsibility for others begin and end?' For that matter, what are the limits of my responsibility for myself?” This comment did not seem to please my incidental conversation partner. He was a tall, skinny man with a pointed beard smelling strongly of herbs and soil. He seemed to be a pragmatist of some kind. A practical man interested in solutions but not in deeper philosophical questions.
Guy floated toward me clutching a bottle of beer. He too had doffed his jacket and was sweating profusely.
“It is awfully warm in here,” he complained.
“Yes, it certainly is,” I agreed. Motioning to the door with my head I asked: “Care for some air?”
I stood naked, save for my shoes, in the cold night air. A gentle breeze caressed my nude flesh like some deathly lover. Guy stood beside me, matching my nudity. Neither of us could rightly say why we were standing outdoors in a profound state of undress. There was something about a contest, though no prize had been named. I was pretty sure that I had suggested this irresponsible farce of a challenge to Guy out of boredom but as the uncomfortable circumstances became more and more clear I found that I wasn't willing to claim responsibility. Our host stepped onto a box and addressed the assembled spectators.
“The rules of the contest are as follows,” he said, his enormous grin splitting his face in half. “Each contestant is permitted his shoes only. Time will be kept by a designated time keeper. The contestants may not interfere with each other in any way. This means no touching or other forms of sabotage. The winner is the last man standing. A contestant can forfeit at any time by simply walking into the house. If you gentlemen are ready,” he motioned to Guy and I, “We will begin.”
The cold was not nearly as awful as I had expected. In fact, I did not even shiver at first. Guy wore a stoic expression and likewise did not shiver. His silence suggested to me that his expression was merely a facade that required a great force of will to maintain. The minutes crept by slowly, ticked off by the time keeper, an enormous, bearded man who claimed to work in a French restaurant.
After thirty minutes had elapsed, many of the spectators lost interest in the contest and returned to the warmth of the house. Guy was shivering now, as was I. I knew that I could win this contest. Of the two of us, I was best equipped. I had a greater body mass and, unlike my opponent, I had not been drinking. Alcohol brings the blood to the surface of the skin, creating the illusion of warmth for a moment but ultimately decreasing the body's core temperature.
“I think you've got an unfair advantage,” Guy joked. “You're still wearing your lipids.”
I flashed my teeth at him and laughed “You aren't ready to quit are you?”
The next fifteen minutes were significantly worse than the previous thirty. It seemed to have gotten colder, if that was possible. Guy was inspecting a spilled cocktail near his foot that had frozen solid. His lips were noticeably blue and his skin was glowing red. I was dealing with the cold by retreating into an empty spot in my mind. Empty of care and worry, of sensation. Empty of body and empty of mind. I glanced at Guy and shot him a thumbs up then retreated back to my emptiness.
I was startled to awareness by the time keeper's announcement:
“One hour,” he said. “Very impressive. Would you gentlemen care to step inside for some cider?”
“No!” Guy nearly shouted. He had a funny look in his eyes.
“No.” I said diminutively. “That would constitute a forfeiture.”
“As you wish,” the time keeper conceded.
As our bodies' temperatures dropped so did Guy. He had adopted a squatting position, resting on his heels. His arms were wrapped tightly around his shoulders and he rocked gently back and forth. His skin was bright red now and his shivering had become increasingly violent. All was silent save for the chattering of his teeth. I stood motionless, hands at my side. My shivering had subsided again.
“One hour and thirty minutes,” the time keeper announced.
So long, I thought. Guy was not in good condition. He was exhibiting the symptoms of advancing hypothermia. I hope he quits soon, I thought.
“Do you wish to concede, Guy?” I asked gently.
“No.” he said weakly but with determination. He looked up at me and smiled wanly. His head dropped back between his knees.
“One hour and forty five minutes,” chimed the time keeper.
I glanced at Guy. He was in much the same condition as before except his skin was no longer red. It was taking on a pale hue. He really should give up. Truly, someone should make him quit. He might get hurt.
At the two hour mark I made the decision to forfeit. The party was winding down and it had gone on quite without us. Guy was now slumped on the ground, sitting in a frozen puddle of whiskey and sour mix. His lead lolled gently from side to side. I gathered my clothing and carefully inserted my numbed extremities into the corresponding articles until I was dressed. Walking toward the house I glanced over my shoulder at Guy and said: “Alright. That's it. You're the winner. Get yourself together and come inside.” There was no answer. I turned and saw the great, bearded waiter looming over Guy. He turned to me with an alarmed look on his face.
“I think he's unconscious,” the gargantuan waiter said. “Maybe someone should call 911?”
The awful stink of disinfectant wrinkled my nostrils. Hisses and clicks from various medical equipment were punctuated by the rhythmic beep of the cardiograph connected to the vegetable in the next bed.
“Fucking hell! Can you turn that shit off!?” bellowed Guy motioning to the television that was playing some soap opera that I didn't recognize and hadn't noticed until that moment. I obliged and clicked it off.
“That guy just sleeps all day.” offered Guy motioning to the prone and silent body in the other bed. Guy was also lying prone in his own hospital bed, his hands wrapped in bandages.
“I think he's in a coma, Guy.” I responded.
“Whatever. Can you hand me his pudding? I can't grab shit with these.” He hoisted his mummified hands into the air and shrugged. “I don't even know why they leave him food. Seems like a waste to me.”
“Sure.” I said, smiling, and set the small bowl of quivering brown goo on his bedside table. “I brought you this so you don't get bored.” I extended an older Gameboy to Guy who, wincing, clasped it between his bandaged mitts. “Tetris.”
“Ha! Thanks!” he said with a sardonic but playful grin.
“What's the deal with those anyway?” I asked, motioning to his bandaged hands.
“Oh, that's where the cold did tissue damage.” Guy quipped, grinning. “Got my feet too!”
A large cart loaded with trays rumbled by propelled by a young bearded man that looked like some suburban conception of White Jesus.
“Christ, hospitals creep me out. Couldn't you have got a private room?” I asked, motioning to the inanimate body in the next bed.
“No way. Do you know what this is costing me?” Guy's face sank a little for the first time since I had seen him again. It was strange, he had been all smiles since the paramedics had revived him.
“Speaking of money, I brought the money I won from the contest. I wanted you to have it. I figured that maybe it could help with your medical bills.” I handed him a heavy envelope that bulged and clinked due to the assortment of change contained within. “That's all of it. Seventeen dollars and eighty nine cents.”
Guy's mouth laughed but his eyes did not. He didn't look at me. He seemed to be doing a few calculations in his head. “That was the whole wager?!” he shouted. A nurse looked in through the open door at us and shook her head disapprovingly.
“Yeah that's my percentage for winning.” I replied.
“Stick it in my bag, okay?” he asked.
I stuffed the envelope under a gray cashmere sweater in the fraying backpack full of unwashed clothes I had brought for him. I smiled encouragingly at Guy, moved the bag to the floor and sat down in the chair beside his bed.
“Oh man, what a ridiculous party.” Guy said. “Hey... why did we even get involved in such a stupid contest?”
The headlights made little pools in the center of the road. Trees and rock walls skidded through these pools fluidly. It was as if the car wasn't moving at all but rather the world was rising up to meet it and just as quickly slipping under and away. Everything beyond the road was trees and rock walls. Skeletal grasping at the navy blue skies. Rock walls hugging narrow country roads with more curves than their sibilant names. Sanders Store Road and Sassafras Street. Everything was trees and rock walls and road.
“Of course I know where we are going,” I said to Guy. “We're going to a birthday party.”
“Yes, but where are we? We're lost,” lisped a slightly unkempt and increasingly agitated Guy.
“We aren't lost. I know where we are going. See? This looks familiar.” I motioned to a stand of barren black trees near a crumbling wall.
We drove on in silence. I enjoyed the scenery. Truly, I felt that I must because I did not often have opportunities for leisure. But as luck would have it I found myself deep in the rural landscape. It was odd. Just earlier I had turned off of a busy thoroughfare and now it seemed as if the presence of another car would be an affront to the noble solitude of this place. However, I didn't view my own car as an intrusion. This scenery had the appeal of the driving stock footage that you sometimes see in old movies. Beautiful but existing only to communicate motion to me, the viewer. Yes, I truly liked this place.
“Stop here and get directions.”
A squat cinder block building blazing with white Christmas lights stood in front of the car. The large hand painted sign read ROBBINS GRO. The door spilled yellow light into the parking lot. As I crunched through the gravel of the lot I noted with some satisfaction that my car's paint job was in substantially better condition than those of the other patrons.
Crossing the threshold I was surprised to see that there were fewer customers than I had anticipated. Other than the fellow at the register there was only one other person in the entire place. The lone man wore a green hat pulled low over his eyes and leaned jauntily against the counter. The place also appeared to be some sort of taqueria or grill. The man watched intently as I entered and approached the register. He stepped back from the counter and ambled away in order to lurk somewhere behind me, his boots echoing in slow, hollow thuds.
“Hello!” boomed the clerk in a voice that was neither friendly nor threatening. “How can I help you?” His enormous voice caused the blonde hairs on his thick moustache, poised under his shining red eyes, to vibrate.
My neck inclined sharply upward, I realized that this man was very tall. “I was wondering if you could tell me how to get to Happy Valley Road?” I asked, a little unsteady.
“Yeah,” he said, trailing off into an uncomfortable silence. The flash and roar of a video poker machine behind me made my skeleton jump. “You take a left. Then it is your second left.”
I smiled. “Got it Left, second left.”
“Anything else?” he boomed.
“Uh, yeah. Two boxes of cigarettes,” I said, pointing at my brand's display.
“Five dollars even.” His moustache buzzed. I laid a five dollar bill on the counter leaving my wallet empty. Pocketing the cigarettes, I strolled confidently back to the car.
“Are we alright?” asked Guy smugly.
“Yes,” I said. “Left, second left.”
The light from the party was warmly glowing, a sharp contrast to the deadening cold outside. My car's thermometer had read eighteen degrees Fahrenheit (just under eight Celsisus) when we pulled up. I wandered through what was otherwise a spacious living room, now tightly packed with unfamiliar faces. Meeting my social obligations, I made small talk and silently wondered how I was connected to these people.
A stocky man with a face like a jack-o-lantern and a wiry tuft of black hair atop his head approached me confidently. This was my host and today was his birthday.
“Hi! Good to see you! Man, is it ever cold out!” I took the initiative because at that moment I realized that I could not remember his name. Surely I knew it. I had, after all, been invited to his party. He shook my hand vigorously. Our eyes met but no recognition registered in his pupils. His eyes focused again on some distant point beyond my head and his mouth bent crooked. He couldn't remember my name either!
“So glad you could make it out!” He weasled his way through small talk just as I had. “Have you had any of the cider? It is wonderful. I made it myself,” he beamed.
I hadn't tried it, nor was I likely to. The warm smells of mulling spices radiated through the air but I was not swayed. I was feeling particularly inert that evening.
However, I soon found myself sweating as I drifted from one awkward conversation to another. Nothing I said seemed to agree with any of the other guests. I knew almost no one there and a combination of social anxiety and the blasting furnace soon obliged me to remove my coat.
“Surely,” I said “What is happening in the Sudan is a great tragedy but one must ask 'Where does my responsibility for others begin and end?' For that matter, what are the limits of my responsibility for myself?” This comment did not seem to please my incidental conversation partner. He was a tall, skinny man with a pointed beard smelling strongly of herbs and soil. He seemed to be a pragmatist of some kind. A practical man interested in solutions but not in deeper philosophical questions.
Guy floated toward me clutching a bottle of beer. He too had doffed his jacket and was sweating profusely.
“It is awfully warm in here,” he complained.
“Yes, it certainly is,” I agreed. Motioning to the door with my head I asked: “Care for some air?”
I stood naked, save for my shoes, in the cold night air. A gentle breeze caressed my nude flesh like some deathly lover. Guy stood beside me, matching my nudity. Neither of us could rightly say why we were standing outdoors in a profound state of undress. There was something about a contest, though no prize had been named. I was pretty sure that I had suggested this irresponsible farce of a challenge to Guy out of boredom but as the uncomfortable circumstances became more and more clear I found that I wasn't willing to claim responsibility. Our host stepped onto a box and addressed the assembled spectators.
“The rules of the contest are as follows,” he said, his enormous grin splitting his face in half. “Each contestant is permitted his shoes only. Time will be kept by a designated time keeper. The contestants may not interfere with each other in any way. This means no touching or other forms of sabotage. The winner is the last man standing. A contestant can forfeit at any time by simply walking into the house. If you gentlemen are ready,” he motioned to Guy and I, “We will begin.”
The cold was not nearly as awful as I had expected. In fact, I did not even shiver at first. Guy wore a stoic expression and likewise did not shiver. His silence suggested to me that his expression was merely a facade that required a great force of will to maintain. The minutes crept by slowly, ticked off by the time keeper, an enormous, bearded man who claimed to work in a French restaurant.
After thirty minutes had elapsed, many of the spectators lost interest in the contest and returned to the warmth of the house. Guy was shivering now, as was I. I knew that I could win this contest. Of the two of us, I was best equipped. I had a greater body mass and, unlike my opponent, I had not been drinking. Alcohol brings the blood to the surface of the skin, creating the illusion of warmth for a moment but ultimately decreasing the body's core temperature.
“I think you've got an unfair advantage,” Guy joked. “You're still wearing your lipids.”
I flashed my teeth at him and laughed “You aren't ready to quit are you?”
The next fifteen minutes were significantly worse than the previous thirty. It seemed to have gotten colder, if that was possible. Guy was inspecting a spilled cocktail near his foot that had frozen solid. His lips were noticeably blue and his skin was glowing red. I was dealing with the cold by retreating into an empty spot in my mind. Empty of care and worry, of sensation. Empty of body and empty of mind. I glanced at Guy and shot him a thumbs up then retreated back to my emptiness.
I was startled to awareness by the time keeper's announcement:
“One hour,” he said. “Very impressive. Would you gentlemen care to step inside for some cider?”
“No!” Guy nearly shouted. He had a funny look in his eyes.
“No.” I said diminutively. “That would constitute a forfeiture.”
“As you wish,” the time keeper conceded.
As our bodies' temperatures dropped so did Guy. He had adopted a squatting position, resting on his heels. His arms were wrapped tightly around his shoulders and he rocked gently back and forth. His skin was bright red now and his shivering had become increasingly violent. All was silent save for the chattering of his teeth. I stood motionless, hands at my side. My shivering had subsided again.
“One hour and thirty minutes,” the time keeper announced.
So long, I thought. Guy was not in good condition. He was exhibiting the symptoms of advancing hypothermia. I hope he quits soon, I thought.
“Do you wish to concede, Guy?” I asked gently.
“No.” he said weakly but with determination. He looked up at me and smiled wanly. His head dropped back between his knees.
“One hour and forty five minutes,” chimed the time keeper.
I glanced at Guy. He was in much the same condition as before except his skin was no longer red. It was taking on a pale hue. He really should give up. Truly, someone should make him quit. He might get hurt.
At the two hour mark I made the decision to forfeit. The party was winding down and it had gone on quite without us. Guy was now slumped on the ground, sitting in a frozen puddle of whiskey and sour mix. His lead lolled gently from side to side. I gathered my clothing and carefully inserted my numbed extremities into the corresponding articles until I was dressed. Walking toward the house I glanced over my shoulder at Guy and said: “Alright. That's it. You're the winner. Get yourself together and come inside.” There was no answer. I turned and saw the great, bearded waiter looming over Guy. He turned to me with an alarmed look on his face.
“I think he's unconscious,” the gargantuan waiter said. “Maybe someone should call 911?”
Tuesday
Sunday
We're drinking to show we care!
Come have a cocktail with us to raise money for Street Library programs in Ocean Hill and beyond. The evening is simply going to be fantastic. Where else can you get two martinis and hors d'oeuvres for $20? Advance tickets are available. See the flier for contact info.
-N
Wednesday
Gandhi
A pretty American food connoisseur and social activist enjoying Indian food and beer offered by Gandhi in exchange for her depreciated dollarsA recent jaunt to the East Village took me to Gandhi. Gandhi, as everyone knows, was a staunch advocate of non-violence and vegetarianism. Gandhi, albeit knowingly or unknowingly, also marketed "Brand Gandhi" to his countrymen and captivated the West with what had to be offered.
When i had my rendezvous with Gandhi in the East Village, a lot had changed. Gandhi presented me with a full menu of Non-Vegetarian and Seafood entrees not to mention a selection of Indian beer. Motivating millions of Indians was clearly not the goal- "Brand Gandhi" was now being targeted at a completely different crowd. The young and hip in and around the East Village. Clearly, the message had changed. Gandhi enticed me and my girlfriend to spend a major part of our evening listening to the music, food and Indian beer that was offered. A quick glance around proved my worst fears- the crowd was almost all American, white and young. Once again capitalism reared its proverbial head and forced Gandhi to cater to people who were willing to part their money for something that can be marketable if packaged in a clever way- in this case Indian food. Gandhi no longer was for the masses, certainly not for the poor, neither for the austerely vegetarian nor for the mild mannered intellectuals. Half a century ago Gandhi won a battle but now lost a war eventually succumbing to "Market forces". Long live the Dollar!
Friday
The Unedited...
We haven't been posting for a while because we've been touring the universe in a hot air balloon powered by jazz and there's no internet on one side of my room. Recently I browsed through my gmail spambox and found a great Nigerian scam email. It isn't from Nigeria (an innovation I appreciate - very clever you scammers). The best part of it, other than the awkward english, is the super heavy christianity. Boy it's thick! Enjoy!
From Mrs Naomi Solomon
No[204 Rue Des Martyrs Cocody
Abidjan, Cote d'Ivoire
ATTN:
DEAREST ONE OF GOD
I am the above named person from Kuwait . I am married to Mr Anthony Solomon who worked with Kuwait embassy in Ivory Coast for nine years before he died in the year 2004. We were married for eleven years without a child. He died after a brief illness that lasted for only four days.Before his death we were both born again Christian. Since his death I decided not to remarry or get a child outside my matrimonial home which the Bible is against. When my late husband was alive he deposited the sum of $2. 5 Million (Two Million Five Hundred U.S. Dollars) in the bank here in Abidjan in suspense account.
Presently, the fund is still with the bank. Recently, my Doctor told me that i have serious sickness which is cancer problem. The one that disturbs me most is my stroke sickness. Having known my condition I decided to donate this fund to a church or individual that will utilize this money the way I am going to instruct herein. I want a church that will use this fund for orphanages, widows, propagating the word of God and to endeavour that the house of God is maintained.
The Bible made us to understand that blessed is the hand that giveth. I took this decision because I don’t have any child that will inherit this money and my husband relatives are not Christians and I don’t want my husband efforts to be used by unbelievers. I don’t want a situation where this money will be used in an ungodly way. This is why I am taking this decision. I am not afraid of death hence i know where I am going. I know that I am going to be in the bosom of the Lord. Exodus 14 VS 14 says that the Lord will fight my case and I shall hold my peace.
I don't need any telephone communication in this regard because of my health hence the presence of my husband relatives is around me always I don't want them to know about this development. With God all things are possible. As soon as I receive your reply I shall give you the contact of the bank here in Abidjan . I want you and the church to always pray for me because the Lord is my shepherd. My happiness is that I lived a life of a worthy Christian. Whoever that wants to serve the Lord must serve him in spirit and Truth. Please always be prayerful all through your life.
Contact me on the above e-mail address for more information, any delay in your reply will give me room in sourcing another church or individual for this same purpose. Please assure me that you will act accordingly as I Stated herein. Hoping to receive your reply.
Remain blessed in the Lord.
Yours in Chris
Mrs Naomi Solomon.
Go with Chris bra.
From Mrs Naomi Solomon
No[204 Rue Des Martyrs Cocody
Abidjan, Cote d'Ivoire
ATTN:
DEAREST ONE OF GOD
I am the above named person from Kuwait . I am married to Mr Anthony Solomon who worked with Kuwait embassy in Ivory Coast for nine years before he died in the year 2004. We were married for eleven years without a child. He died after a brief illness that lasted for only four days.Before his death we were both born again Christian. Since his death I decided not to remarry or get a child outside my matrimonial home which the Bible is against. When my late husband was alive he deposited the sum of $2. 5 Million (Two Million Five Hundred U.S. Dollars) in the bank here in Abidjan in suspense account.
Presently, the fund is still with the bank. Recently, my Doctor told me that i have serious sickness which is cancer problem. The one that disturbs me most is my stroke sickness. Having known my condition I decided to donate this fund to a church or individual that will utilize this money the way I am going to instruct herein. I want a church that will use this fund for orphanages, widows, propagating the word of God and to endeavour that the house of God is maintained.
The Bible made us to understand that blessed is the hand that giveth. I took this decision because I don’t have any child that will inherit this money and my husband relatives are not Christians and I don’t want my husband efforts to be used by unbelievers. I don’t want a situation where this money will be used in an ungodly way. This is why I am taking this decision. I am not afraid of death hence i know where I am going. I know that I am going to be in the bosom of the Lord. Exodus 14 VS 14 says that the Lord will fight my case and I shall hold my peace.
I don't need any telephone communication in this regard because of my health hence the presence of my husband relatives is around me always I don't want them to know about this development. With God all things are possible. As soon as I receive your reply I shall give you the contact of the bank here in Abidjan . I want you and the church to always pray for me because the Lord is my shepherd. My happiness is that I lived a life of a worthy Christian. Whoever that wants to serve the Lord must serve him in spirit and Truth. Please always be prayerful all through your life.
Contact me on the above e-mail address for more information, any delay in your reply will give me room in sourcing another church or individual for this same purpose. Please assure me that you will act accordingly as I Stated herein. Hoping to receive your reply.
Remain blessed in the Lord.
Yours in Chris
Mrs Naomi Solomon.
Go with Chris bra.
Free Cyber-Punk Yoga: Fridays @ 10AM
Biko Arts Collective is hosting a free cyber-punk Yoga class at 1474 Bushwick Avenue (on the corner of Bushwick and Granite St) for any and all interested member of the greater Bushwick community.
You may find yourself asking, "What is cyber-punk yoga?"
The answer is simple: instead of a yoga instructor we've got pirate yoga DVDs playing 9 feet tall on the walls of our performance space. Come check out our new oak floors and do some stretches with a Rodney Yee DVD for free.
You may find yourself asking, "What is cyber-punk yoga?"
The answer is simple: instead of a yoga instructor we've got pirate yoga DVDs playing 9 feet tall on the walls of our performance space. Come check out our new oak floors and do some stretches with a Rodney Yee DVD for free.
Sunday
MOVIE REVIEW: Gran Torino
Yesterday I had the distinct pleasure of attending the motion picture film Gran Torino, starring a well-preserved Clint Eastwood spouting jarringly repugnant racist invective with frighteningly casual frequency. The response of the Ohio audience sharing the theater with me was rather disconcerting. They laughed as if "gook" or "spook" were the punchline to all of their favorite jokes. I'm making the assumption that the laughter was a nervous response to something that should otherwise be held as unacceptable. (Though you know what they say about assumptions.) Racial insensitivity aside, Gran Torino is far from the violent revenge flick it has been billing itself as in the trailers. Very far from it, in fact. Vendetta fans be warned! Eastwood never even fires a weapon. This fact, ladies and gentlemen, is what makes Gran Torino such an acceptable film, in spite of Eastwood's (as crusty Korean war vet Walt Kowalski) painfully flippant use of nearly ever racial slur I've ever heard (he even revives the classic anti-Caucasoid jeer 'ofay' which I am now on a mission to reclaim for my people). No, rather than being a violence-packed revenge tale Gran Torino is a story of redemption. I won't spoil the film and simply urge you to go see the film that may be Hollywood legend Clint Eastwood's last starring role. The film is writer Nick Schenk's first actualized screenplay and, in my estimation, he has earned himself license for at least one more flick.
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