el gouna

“I want the web to reflect our hopes and fulfil our dreams, rather than magnify our fears and deepen our divisions,” Sir Time Berners-Lee, quoted in today’s Guardian lead.

“What if, after technology allows us to reveal our inner voices, what we learn is that many of us are authentically toxic?” Andrew Marantz, in a current New Yorker piece.

The insidious Orange Lout continues on with his vileness; the recent weekend rally in Pa was pathetic in its bald-faced attempt to rile Liberals — I will call them by their true name — at every possible opportunity.

Disturbissimo was the visual of all those airhead, young, right-wing women at his back, some aiming their smartphones at the obscene creature speaking before them, some jiggling their jigglies, as they jumped up and down in delirious proto rapture, programmed to react to every fascist dog whistle.

In particular, the deliberate, calculated offensiveness of seeing to it that the news networks prominently televised young women holding up signs that in effect conveyed the message that Women support a sexual predator was about as twisted as right-wing Americana gets.


This one kept shuffling signs, including the creepy one that read “Women for Trump.” On a side note, the habit of CNN International interrupting, say, Anderson’s coverage of these type of events with bizarrely unrelated short infomercial segments such as World Women’s Rugby or Japanese boy bands is perhaps even more peculier. I wonder, too, if the US taxpayer ends up eating the bill for delivering the circus to what was obviously not official business.

Young and principled conservative women with outstanding career prospects? Or eye-candy bought and paid by some nefarious pro-Vileness PAC? Who knows? Maybe they were fleshware trolls — aping the bigly troll of them all — who love to make Liberals bristle. Maybe they were just some clueless skanks who’d been duped into carrying those signs for their 5 seconds in the limelight. If they truly support him, and grasp fully what that implies, then whatever horrible tragedy happens next shall be on their dance card for the rest of their lives, way back home at the trailer park, with the out-of-wedlock kids, the Fentanyl, and the Wal-Mart or waitress job at Denny’s.

No one in Gouna cares about that stuff. Hell, they’re even oblivious to what goes on in Cairo.

Here it is about how to earn a mazag living off the tourist euro.

How to find a crazily improbable way to rise above subsistence wages — if you’re, say, an enterprising young guy making 4,000 LE a month (about 200 USD) — despite the suffocating stranglehold that many foreigners, some shady, some not, and of course connected Egyptians, have on much of the choice businesses and locales and opportunities to make the real money.

I’ll be moving my stuff out of this villa in two days, and checking out officially on Thursday.  It is going to be a real problem saying goodbye to Sandy, the cat who adopted me. She has increasingly been my constant companion since late December, and spends more and more of her time inside the house. I don’t let her spend the night, because there’s no litter box here.

I woke up this morning around 6am and opened the screened windows in the kitchen to let the fresh air in. This is my usual ritual, prior to making the Turkish coffee I brew every morning, and taking up the broom to sweep out sand that the desert wind has brought in during the night. Suddenly I hear an unusual noise, and there she was at the window sill: having climbed up the front of the house to greet me at dawn.

el gouna

I let her in. She nibbled on some kibbles, then went to sleep in the living room on the carved wooden couch, as has been her wont as of late.

Then I settled down to drink my coffee and read the news, which in my case means catching up with what is going in NYC, which I consider my home town.

The horrifying helicopter crash in the East River immediately caught my eye, as it took place around 88th St, where my wife and I used to live in the 90s.

I read about it in this article in the Daily News, where I came across the name of a Manhattan resident — Tuan-Lung Wang — who lives around where my wife and I used to live. He had witnessed the crash as he was “chilling” in his living room with his wife.

For some reason, I was curious about the name, so I googled him.  Turns out Tuan is a young software engineer, who works at a NYC financial software firm called Axoni.

Intrigued, I googled them, and became fascinated with their distributed financial products ledger technology.

ocamelSoon I was lost in the buzz world of bitcoin,  blockchain implementations, Scala, Ocamel, and Byzantine fault tolerance.

I used to revel in this sort of stuff in the 90s when I worked for five years for a buy-side firm that purchased a variety of financial products from Wall Street as a hedge for their own financial product offerings.

I truly loved that life.

I loved living in Manhattan, hanging out on the Upper East Side, being with my wife in that tiny apartment as we struggled to finally make it, but also, crucially, I loved the completely abstract nature of my work — which was often about digitally modeling some imagined yet real world scenario in some profitably tradeable way.

Then I thought back to those women at the PA rally — and the sorts of people who probably listened to the speech on FOX; most likely, they would never have any idea of what type of work someone like Tuan-Lung Wang performs, and might even resent him for living well in a place like Manhattan, and possibly be suspicious of him due to his name, and for not having to depend on 19th century technology for a living.

It has been a long time since I lived in NYC; about the same time that I have been out of programming or systems analysis or leading the deployment of complex large-scale financial systems — which is typically a young man or woman’s game.

I do miss it, because probably that was the one period in my life where I was most engaged, intellectually, in my work. Especially considering that, some years later, I found myself wondering if, in my 50s, I could physically risk applying for a no-bennies job unloading UPS delivery trucks in a warehouse in the summer Florida heat. I didn’t, but ended up in the ER anyway.

There will be other days, and other opportunities ahead, but at my age, a sense of gloomy realism must prevail, but only in the sunniest manner possible.

I had finished my coffee and was now ready to get on with it. After all, The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel just came on. Fantastic movie for an old coot like me to be watching while in Egypt.

Funniest line so far, Judi Dench’s “what exactly is a tuc-tuc?”

leaving america


37 Days

gouna pool

The annoying Talayna in the villa next door have ruined the first nice weekend warm enough to swim in the pool: this is the Gouna two-step, at the first sign of good weather, the place becomes infested with loud people, who invariably travel in packs

I am returning to America in a little over a month, and am dreading it — although it shall be lovely to see me Mum in New York again, and of course my wife in Florida.

The idea of being in the same country as the toxic Orange Pig — who now seems to be gearing up to meet Kim Jong Un, yet another bizaroid lunatic, as some sort of pointless, empty suit macho political posturing event, prior to launching a possible nuclear conflict in NK (and, later, Iran) to save his lamentable presidency — is intolerable.

Everyone is waiting for Mueller to drop the hammer. How Trump reacts when Mueller nails him could very well lead to civil war — unless the Russian stooge continues with ever more outrageous circus acts simply to delay the inevitable. Imposing martial law is not out of the question, if millions begin to descend on Washington to remove this madman from the WH, and the Ar-15 crowd shows up to teach those libtard antifa traitors who’s who and what’s what.  This is where this is all heading; from my admittedly distant vantage point in Gouna, it is rather obvious.

In the meantime, the idea that America could be so easily brought to her knees like a cheap slut giving a blowjob to some diseased whoremonger lays to rest any notion of the supposed greatness of that country.

I can only imagine what my grandson will one day think, once his generation has to start paying off the trillions of debt that this calamity of a president and his corrupt, racist party has saddled them with.

I am most definitely going to book a round trip back to Gouna.  I will start moving my stuff into the new villa next Wednesday (I have the right to stay here in this one till next Thursday, the pool is no longer ice-cold, so I shall enjoy, starting Monday, when the Italian dickwads clear out of here, three days of swimming till then. So, bottom line: a three month rental, culminating in only three days of potential swimming time, unless the weather changes or other neighbors move in next door and have themselves a delirious Gouna party time, three days out of three months to enjoy the unheated pool during that entire time; kind of makes you wonder why you should bother having one, particularly when it gets really hot in a month or so and the pool becomes a magnet for breeding skeeters).

If the new villa is suitable (I like being closer to town for the convenience of it, as well as the proximity to the sea), I shall most likely book it again starting in early October.  I will miss Sandy when I leave here, but will not regret the intolerable skeeter situation in this house.

She just can’t keep her little eyes open for long, despite the charming olive oil dawsha next door

But I am absolutely dreading once again having to being in the skin-crawling presence of right-wing America when I get to FLA.

As it now stands, I will be in my hometown of the mind, NYC — where numerous places are trying to remove the despised Trump name off their buildings — to visit Mum for a brief time, and shall stop by the Egyptian Consulate in Manhattan.

It is now located in the East Village on 7th Street (at 110 2nd Ave Rm 201, to be exact, whereas it used to be uptown on the UES), and apply for a 9 month visa, which is possible to do.  I believe Donald Trump will be removed from office within a year, so that will work just fine.

I plan to spend a few days with Mum, or longer if need be, and plan to troll my old haunts in the East Village and elsewhere.  I look forward to that so much, even though the city I have lived in for 30 years has changed almost beyond recognition.

But it is New York, and now that I’m no longer a fat old Florida fuck, I can walk about just like the old days, no problemo — especially since the toe thingie has healed up nicely, thank you very much.

I do not want to live in America until the Orango Khanzeer is removed from office, but I must also bear in mind the responsibilities I have in the US, and not just think about myself.


Big toe on right foot almost healed!

But I will never waver in my absolute determination to oppose everything that vile disgusting ignorant animal stands for, and am determined to stay away from the US until he is impeached or voted out of office in 2020.

Until then, I will try to live as little as possible in an America that has been infected with acute Trumplandia disease: that is why I am now an expat (for the last 6 months, and counting) — I may not have any power to remove Donald Trump from office, but I can remove myself from directly being subjected to the ubiquitous stench of his malevolent, avaricious presence, him, and all the rest of the Bible-thumping, gun-loving retards who cheer his every despicable move.

In the meantime, there’s Real Madrid vs Elbar to look forward to tomorrow at 2PM.


One of the loutish wops from the next door villa. I tried swimming in the pool at 4:30PM, but then they turned on some blaring radio, so that was that. Nowhere in Gouna is peaceful, when it is nice. Sure enough, when the sun dipped over the mountains around 5:30PM, and the desert cold descended like some ice pick, as the wind ripped up, yup, they all took off for some drunken loud downtown dinner, oblivious at having ruined what could have been a beautiful first day in the pool.

Wonder if the dragos (who are nowhere near retirement age) in the villa next door will suddenly realize that their endless chattering and yammer means absolutely nothing in the scheme of things, that whatever insignificant things they say will be forgotten by morrow, and that it will at last occur to them, once and for all, to shut the fuck up and perhaps admire the mountains and the lagoon instead of coming here for the sole purpose of creating a three or four-day ruckus, every fucking week, probably, now that the weather is pleasant.

It is the endless lament of the solitary expat: do I resent the extroverted happiness of others (who evince no obvious interest in talking with me), or do I simply crave solitude and the deep silence needed to reinvigorate one’s sense of spirituality?

Alas, even in the desert mountains, there would be no relief, for nowhere on this earth are we truly alone, as even the wings of our guardian angels do not flutter noiselessly.

leaving america


Leaving me

Here is the subway stop at 42nd nowadays.

Here is how it was in ’86.

Notice any difference?

Let’s imagine you have now taken the shuttle from Times Square.

I won’t show a pic or provide a link, but the $14 caviar sandwich at the Oyster Bar in Grand Central has just been taken off the menu.

If, like me, you know the Oyster Bar, this is a time to weep, deeply, with the blithering nostalgic intensity of a former dyed-in-the-wool commuter.

Speaking of which I almost died in the subway station at Times Square 8 years ago.  I felt I was leaving myself, but then, I stayed.

It’s been a long road back.

leaving america