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THE FEBRUARY 4th ENTRY WILL BE DELAYED. MY APOLOGIES.

TIME MAGAZINE announced last month that its 2011 person of the year was “The Protester.”  It was a perceptive, albeit obvious, choice (although the editors almost stumbled badly: Kate Middleton was one of the runner ups) . In the Middle East alone, 2011 saw three revolutions — Tunisia, Egypt and Libya — uprisings in Bahrain, Yemen, and Syria, and major protests in Algeria, Jordan, Kuwait, Morocco, and Oman, not to mention smaller protests all over the region. [skip rest of post and view this month's Tahrir Square slideshow HERE]

Though the heavy duty action was in the “Arab world,” it wasn’t exactly serene in the other worlds: in Santiago, 200,000 marched calling for more government support for education; in Madison massive labor protests spilled into the statehouse; in Madrid tens of thousands encamped in the central square demanding economic reform and a more representative electoral system; in Greece tens of thousands rallied against fresh rounds of austerity measures; in Jerusalem 15,000 gathered outside Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu’s house to protest growing income inequality and high costs of living.

That’s just a sampling of the global rumbling. And of course the year of protest fittingly concluded with the rise of the self-proclaimed 99 percenters and the Occupy Wall Street movement, with offshoots springing up all over from London to Oakland. Arrests for civil disobedience soon became commonplace events and with the ubiquity of cameras, no act of police aggression was left unrecorded (one of the more memorable certainly being the Zen-like composure with which a U.C. Davis campus police officer sprayed seated student protesters in the face with pepper spray, much as if they were garden weed):

www.youtube.com/watch?v=6AdDLhPwpp4

Of course, the most brutal and lethal police actions are still going on, unrecorded, in the Eastern Mediterranean (Syria). 2011 may have been the year of the protester but 2012 doesn’t look to be the year of the inert. In fact, what was an Arab Spring of 2011 may prove, in a far less violent and revolutionary form of course, to be the American Spring of 2012 (the cover article of November’s New York Magazine about Occupy Wall Street was titled “2012 = 1968?“).

With the 2011 protester in mind, I thought I’d do a three-part post this month focusing on Cairo’s Tahrir Square and Occupy Wall Street’s Zucotti park, both of which I visited this past fall. Today I’ll post photos from Tahrir Square; on February 4 I’ll post photos from Zucotti Park and Occupy Wall Street marches as well as video footage from Tahrir and Occupy Wall Street.

So here’s Part I. The link below leads to a slideshow of photos I took on October 7 in Tahrir Square while visiting my friend Sean Moylan who lives in Cairo. Sean and I visited Tahrir on a Friday, the day of prayer and protest.  The protest was heated but relatively small and peaceful. After the rally we walked over to the charred party headquarters of Mubarak, which protestors had set fire to during the uprising earlier in the year.

The violence came a few days later, the night before I flew out, when we learned over dinner that a group of marching Coptics had been attacked. At 11pm the television was still showing “live” footage of the event. Finally, unable to watch it anymore on television when it was just 15 minutes away, I hailed a taxi. After negotiating a price to make it worthwhile for him, we set off, only to quickly find out that the “live” video was just a loop of replaying footage. Since the violence had ended and the roads were blocked off, there was nothing to do but turn back. The next morning I learned that over two dozen people had been killed. Upon seeing the footage (on a foreign English-language news station) of military police firing into the crowds and running over people with tanks I can’t say I wasn’t a bit relieved that my Tahrir Square slideshow wouldn’t include tanks:

TAHRIR SQUARE PHOTOS

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THE FOLLOWING VIDEO accompanies the photos I posted last month from Patagonian Chile and Argentina. The footage includes the glaciers Perito Moreno, Viedma  and Grey; Torres del Paine National Park; Calafate; and the penguin colony on Isla Magdalena (slideshow of photos HERE).

www.youtube.com/watch?v=eHxCjJjNWE8

As a sidenote, don’t be troubled by the background cheering when the glacier calves off into the glacial lake: the glacier, called the Perito Moreno, is an advancing glacier so the collapsing face is a regular, ordinary event (it advances at the rate of about 2 meters per day). What should trouble you instead is the fact that Perito Moreno is one of only three glaciers in Patagonia that are advancing; the rest are receding at a faster rate than in any other region of the world.

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THE FOLLOWING PHOTOS came out of three weeks of travel through Patagonian Chile and Argentina last December. I could introduce them with the usual effusions about Patagonia’s stark grandeur but I’d rather open with another cliche, that the photos speak for themselves. They chronologically follow travels from the Perito Moreno Glacier to Torres del Paine National Park to the penguin colony on Isla Magdalena to Ushuaia, the self-professed end of the world.

Next month I’ll post a video from Patagonia, which includes footage of the face of the glacier Perito Moreno calving off.

CLICK HERE to view the Patagonia slideshow

To see some my other photo sets, click here

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I filmed the following music video in Chile’s Magdalena Island in Patagonia last December. No penguins were desecrated in the making of this YouTube.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=2a4Vnsd0KT0

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**This month’s essay will be posted on OCTOBER 14 instead of October 4 

It’s the fourth night and I have nothing to offer you. But it’s August and you’re probably busy with / recovering from weddings and rooftop barbecues and beachside skin cancer sunbroils with the latest bodice ripper. So instead I have a request of you. Last month I recorded myself reading Don K’ Shayne. If you heard any of them, you’ll know I had fun. Now it’s your turn.

Pick one of the  Q&As  you like, have a shot of cornwater, and then go ahead and record yourself reading the question (in your voice) followed by Big Don’s response (in what you imagine, or would like to imagine, Big Don’s voice to be). Read two or three if you’d like. Use your computer microphone or your iThingymajiggy or the latest pro audio mic. Whatever you have. And don’t worry about whether or not someone else is reading or has read the same Q&A. The essential thing is to let your inner BDK run wild.

Send me your .mpeg recording before September 4th to fourthnight@gmail.com. You can remain anonymous if you’d like. Thanks. I now must be going as this coffee shop is about to close and I need to find somewhere tonight, preferably tic-free (I got unlucky last time), to pitch my tent. I await your performance.

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BIG DON should be read aloud. So for this July 4th entry — the sixth anniversary of Fourth Night — I include eight recordings of myself reading the first eight emails that BDK sent me. In each one I’ve tried to interpret him differently. I include links alongside each audio file that take you to the text of the email in a new window so that you can read along while listening:

To read along with “Let Me Introduce Myself” click here  to read along (it opens as a new window)

 To read Con Man! click here

To read “Seven mines ones six” click here

 To read “Five! Oh McGarrett!” click here

To read “Is Been Discovert” click here

To read “small fava” click here

 To read more of “small fava” click here

To read “da wethurs” click here

Now that you’ve gotten a taste of BDK read aloud, I ask you to offer your own voice and interpretation. Go to the Q&As and find a question you’d enjoy reading. If you’re interested, email me at fourthnight@gmail.com and I’ll give you details on recording the audio file. Whoever contacts me first gets first dibs on any particular comment (after the comment’s author, who gets first priority). Don’t be shy now. Let your inner BDK come loose.

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FOR BIG DON K’ SHAYNE CLICK HERE

I intended this post to be Big Don K’ Shayne-related but the project — a multi-media endeavor — is proving very time consuming. So I’m leaving that for July 4. Until then, I offer a love poem (unfortunately, the indents didn’t come through).

In the meantime, please go ask Big Don a question since he’s generously volunteered to stay on Fourth Night as an advice columnist and creative juice maker. Many of you keep telling me you plan to ask a question. What are you waiting for? Is it really that hard? (You see, I just asked two in about five seconds…)

THE BIKER’S INDIGNITY:

A LOVE POEM

My dear abused bike.

My bike was recently knocked over twice in one day,

backed into by oafs on four wheels.

At least in both instances they righted her again,

unlike the many times last summer when I found her

on her flanks, downed

by barbarians and left

to lie amongst her spilled fluids.

Although not on her side this time, evidence of the offense was there:

the gas stain on the concrete, the displaced side mirror, the scuffs, the bent blinker mounts,

the sputtering protestation when I turned the key (she needed 45 minutes to be coaxed back to purring life).

The second strike took place an hour later, while I was in the post office, in a laborious

unmoving

queue

that I finally ditched, muttering

anti-government obscenities

(still riled up over the earlier fiasco).

I emerged only to find a large empty space in front of my bike where an SUV had been parked

and

a postal worker covering up the gas stain next to her with handfuls of grass he was uprooting from a sidewalk tree.

He sopped up the fuel with green clods of earth as I raged:

“I left this much space!” I brayed, extending albatross arms. “Ten minutes I’m inside and look what happens! New York drivers are idiots! How would they like it if tractors plowed into their sides? Morons!”

The postal worker bent to his task, unmoved, as I paced and seethed.

I wasn’t the first fellow he’d seen

go postal.

Anyway, he couldn’t have understood my outrage

just like those miscreants on four wheels can’t understand.

Only riders understand.

Especially New York City riders, who contend daily with the monumental disregard of lead-

footed knuckle-

heads who lane change as if in go

karts and park as if in bumper cars.

It takes thick skin,

or better yet, leather

to survive on two wheels

in a world overrun

by those on four, eight, sixteen,

where the rules of engagement are dictated by bumpers, seat belts, side impact protection beams, crumple zones, laminated windshields, suspension systems, electronic brake force distribution, automatic braking, lane departure warning systems &

for worst case scenarios

A/C to stay cool

as you wait behind an airbag for the medics to arrive.

No offense, drivers, we all know that your metal cages kill your kind

too.

It’s just that we have no safety apparatus to house us.

Our only protection is our gear:

leather, like the cowman,

a helmet, like the warrior,

maybe even some armored padding on the elbows and shoulders

since an ambush may always await over the hills

and far away

or at the next intersection

(the hand bikers extend to one another on the road is a greeting, but it also carries the possibility of a farewell).

If at times bikers strike you as disagreeably in-your-face

with their roaring engines and loud colors, it’s because self-preservation demands it.

Think before you scowl

at the Harley as it rumbles by, disrupting your precious

peace.

Unlike those obnoxious muffler-removing mustang

sallies on four wheels

there are practical reasons for being

heard on a motorcycle:

most motorcycle collisions occur from cars turning left

in front of the biker’s right of way

so from a biker’s perspective

and hopefully yours too

it’s better to disturb the peace

than to go flying over a hood

into a telephone pole.

Only riders understand the perils of the road,

just like only parted lovers can know the glittering caverns of heartbreak,

or soldiers the siren song of war and the crags

upon which it wrecks them.

I spoke of indignity earlier but I should

confess that

questions of dignity rarely arise:

usually I’m just pissed off

that some asshole knocked my bike over.

Only in retrospect, under the mellowing breeze of reflection,

do I see that indignity indeed provoked my ire.

Indignity,

because it’s not just some vehicle that’s been outraged,

not some object, some mere thing,

but your steed,

the mare upon which you charge the plain,

the stallion upon which you plunge into battle

(bikes, you see, come in neutral, male, & female

and sometimes even swing

between genders depending on the circumstance).

Perhaps I exaggerate.

When you first buy a bike, sure, it’s a vehicle,

but as the years pass,

the miles pass,

the trials pass,

you grow to recognize your history in its scars & dents,

like a kind of photo album

you always carry

when you travel.

It’s bulky for an album,

especially in the digital age,

but you never misplace it,

nor accidentally delete it.

Mine holds few family photos

mostly just backcountry scenes, and records

of bang ups & skirmishes.

Here,

come out,

take a look:

See these crooked handlebars?

They’re an oldie. A decade

ago my lobsterman friend, more adept

on water than land

spun her out a on a dirt road turnaround.

As a result, to ride straight I now have to hold

the handlebars as if I’m veering to the left.

In return, he let me dock his boat

(but didn’t

let me crash it).

The gas tank

makes me chuckle. It has a

moral: label any canisters with kerosene,

especially if they usually store gas,

unless you want to gum up

your carburetors and marvel

at the quantity of white smoke an exhaust can spew

(riders too commit indignities)

The Yamaha logo

is a microcosmos of my bike, broken & superglued

(from when someone backed

into it on Clinton Ave). And that dent on the other side of the engine? Another knockdown, also on Clinton,

other side of the street.

The bent front blinker stand

is from another spill.

Can’t remember which. Same with the jury rigged rear

blinker.

The battery,

ah, the battery!

Don’t get me started. Let me merely say that phasing out

the kickstart was folly.

Here’s one last one, the latest

addition to the album:

The dried oil under the engine

is from when my bike sprang a gushing leak outside Holland Lincoln

Tunnel a few weeks ago, stranding me in impatient

midtown traffic, leaving me gloomy

that my ’82 Yamaha Maxim, which I bought my junior year

in high school off a friend for a mellow $400

($1 per CC)

and which has endured a symphony

of outrages over the last 17 years,

some of which you now know about, may at last be

in its dying throes. I was

wrong: “You have to know when to jump

off,” the mechanic said, “but you’ll still get a few years out of her.”

His words were oil to my ears.

You see, as your album grows,

your bike transforms

from thing to steed.

(imagine my indignation

when I once heard her referred to as an “old thing”)

In fact, I partly owe my fierce love for my bike

to the indignities she has suffered

for without them

our album wouldn’t be nearly as

colorful.

In the end,

one can even celebrate these indignities

for they are part of the unruly

seas of riding, much like those

of love.

As with love,

you can go from 0 to 60 in a flick of the wrist

and 60 to 0 even faster.

As with love,

there is much to negotiate:

right hand for throttle & front break, left hand for clutch, right foot for rear break, left foot for shifting gears.

You may be on two wheels but

like spiderman

you must maneuver with all four limbs.

As with love,

you deal with exposure,

hard rains, breakdowns,

& close calls

like when my rear tire skidded out briefly on the Manhattan bridge last year after fast-slowing traffic forced me to to sharply brake and downshift

(caused by my daydreaming and consequent slow reaction

but fret not, mother, I

don’t dream & ride

anymore)

As with love,

sometimes you take a bad spill,

like when I was on a moped on the Greek isle of Skopelos

and braked hard

on a slick, steep, downhill

around a sharp bend

and

the front wheel flipped out,

sending me and the rental sliding across the opposite lane into the ditch seconds before a truck blasted by around the corner

As with love,

sometimes you do insane things that you hope

never to do again

like when a friend,

during a rough spell,

dislocated his shoulder

upon striking an open car door while riding drunk

and

fleeing the cops.

As with love,

riding is a high,

the addict’s rush and relief as you open the throttle, a brief movement of the wrist,

as simple as a thumb depressing a syringe

and usually not as dangerous.

As with love,

you have to know when to let go,

or as another friend, Zeke, (who has repeatedly crossed the continent and makes me look like a backyard putterer) put it,

“sometimes you have to bury your bike

before your bike buries you,”

like when the engine of his Honda

seized up on him on Route 3,

his tires instantly locking,

his bike suddenly skidding along

on two wheels at 50 mph

(he managed to stay upright)

burning rubber the length of a football field

until he came to a standing stop,

the bus behind him braking just in time.

He then rolled the stricken Honda into the field,

removed the plate and registration,

a rider’s sky burial,

and walked away

to find a new one.

For all he knows, the Honda is still out there,

sprouting poppies.

But me, no, I still have more photos to put in this album,

My bike and I.

True, we occasionally have to part ways,

she at the shop, me at the writing desk,

both of us being repaired,

but that’s just a matter of upkeep.

Now if you’ll excuse me,

my steed awaits outside

this coffee shop,

still standing,

I hope.

_____

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*THIS IS A LONG POST SO HERE’S THE SHORT OF IT: A very funny and wise fellow named Don K’ Shayne has generously volunteered to be an advice counselor on this website. Ask him any question you want HERE. You won’t regret it. To see examples of recent questions and his answers click here. If you want to read more about the whats and whys of this, keep reading.

This month Fourth Night offers readers a unique online service. For the rest of this month, a noteworthy guest named Don K’ Shayne (aka Big Don or BDK) has volunteered, free of charge, to serve on this website as therapist, spiritual minister, sex mentor, online confidant, royal jester, and whatever else you wish him to be.

What kind of question? Perhaps you seek meaning in the giant chicken nugget rampaging through your dreams; perhaps you’re Buddhist and fear it’s in your karmic cards to reincarnate as a dung beetle; perhaps you’re an End Timer who wants to know, since consensus among pamphleteering soothsayers is divided, whether the Apocalypse will occur on May 21 or in 2012; perhaps you wonder if it’s abnormal that your nipples harden whenever the Pillsbury Doughboy is poked in the belly; or perhaps you’re just looking for a new stew recipe for your crockpot. Nothing is too strange or mundane.

Think about it. Why drain your bank account on an overpriced conventional psychotherapist when you can tap for free into the mythological wellspring and maniacal intellect of BDK? Why waste minutes scrounging for stamps and printing letters addressed to some magazine column hack when you can streamline the process at this real-time, one-stop wisdom shop.

I first received an email from Big Don on March 25 but passed over it in my bloated inbox, assuming it was spam. He sent me several more in the following weeks, all of which I passed over without reading for the same reason. Only upon glancing over the words “Con Man” in his latest message one evening did I go back and read the correspondence from the beginning. I instantly realized that something strange and hilarious and diabolically ingenious was going on.

So who’s Big Don? For one, he could be a she. But who am I to go snooping in his backyard? If Fourth Fiction taught me anything, it’s that truth isn’t always what you assume it to be – and if and when you do ever put your finger on it, it’s already gone and transformed into something else. So I take the BDK at face – or actually faceless – value as the BDK. You will too, I’m sure, when you get to know him firsthand. And to that effect, I’m appending below all of the emails he’s sent me. This is a good time for you to now go brew a pot of coffee.

As with Finnegan’s Wake, Big Don’s writing best coheres when read aloud and when given the right accent. Don’t be timid. Put some mustard on it. Perform, don’t read. If you do, you’ll enter the world of BDK and will soon be carrying his turns of phrase like contagious song lyrics that can’t be shaken off. You’ll be the weirdo talking and laughing alone on the street. And you won’t care.

After you read this, don’t hesitate to write in a comment to Big Don. He expects to hear from you. If anything, do it for the rest of us. If you want privacy (say, for instance, that the earlier Pillsbury Doughboy example applies to you) just comment under a pseudonym. I’m sure Big Don is an equal opportunity advisor when it comes to questions of identity or lack thereof.

In his first March 25 email Big Don had yet to fully come into his own, into his lilting literary voice. I initially intended to leave the email out of this compilation but changed my mind. His intro, while tamer in style, does wean one into his diction, something which he may have intended.

On occasion I interject commentary between the emails to clarify the context. And for those more intrepid readers, I’ve also inserted links, videos and photos that relate to some of BDK’s cultural references. If by including them I’ve robbed you of the joys of self-discovery, I apologize, but you can be sure there’s plenty more to dig through on your own.

So here he is, the one, the only, the big, Don K’Shayne:

______________

Don K’Shayne to me – Let me introduce myself – Mar 25

Con Man,

Dig this…

Now..what I gots to say may be hard to wrap yo mind around at firss, but you gots to hit the ground runnin an fall-in, cause I ain’t goin to short bus this shit for your sore ass. Dig?

No remedial motherfuckers allowed in dis here Cad-lac. Dig? Alright, sit yo ass down and hole on.

Now lookie here…

My name is Don K’shayne, but anyone, or anything, that knows me past a good morning knows me as the Big Don.

Ya welcome.

You more than anyone should know the sticky power of the un-clever nickname.

Everyone’s always grateful once they know me, not just Mister Wayne Newton. Dig?

httpv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uUryeDLpY_c

Now lookie here…

I am what you call Inspiration. If I were to take on female form, I’d be wass you call a Muse.

Now, I pride myseff on my work anna I ain’t goin nappeal to your sorry ass through mere sexuality. Nah man, that shit’s too easy. I take pride in my craft so I likes to make my work more of a challenge, so to speak.

Ya see, I reside, currently, in your mind.

Dass right.

I have made my home inside that rocky calcium deposit you call a skull. I say currently, because I do not obey the laws a time or space as you do.

My tomorrow could be your yesterday or your day after next, dig? I can bounce around to any time I want since I am not bound to your seemingly linear eggsistanss. I come an go as I please.

So if I feel that my message ainna coming through yo hifi, I just FedEx my ass to the next mutha who may have a more welcoming ear. I needs a comfortable bed, ya dig?

I ain’t above sending yo un-listenin, un-interested, un-equiped ass back to the Sleepy’s store.

That being said, I on’t upack my bags til I know my word will be heard. Follow? Mind you, I don’t have belongings in the knick-knack paddywack sense of the word, I’s just making an example.

Now, keep up, son, I get deeper than this so take a deep breath and less dive on furrer.

Nah, look ahear…

I’ve been trying to get thru you, but damn if you don’t pay attention to the signs, man. Now, I know’s yous been awkappied with yo impenndin move and all, so I been trying to be payshunt.

Now, I think I should ansah your biggest queshun… why does my Imagination speak like an East St. Louis Pimp?

Firssafal, I ain’t YOUR muthafuckin Imagination. I AM Imagination, I am universal an shit. I come an go as I please. I blong to da people, you entiled muthafuck.

Second, I speak like I do cause it is entertainin as HELL to talk like this and I know for a damn fact it is fun as three hos in a bagga Jello to read. Am I right? Shit! How else am I to capture yo attenshun.

So. To my point, cuz I do have one.

So yeh ask. Why have I not juss appeared to yo ass?

Muthafuck, I tried! But issah hard as a mutha to compee in dis ere day un age gainst tellvision, innernet an all that. Dig?

You juss wern lissn! So I got this gee mail to tawk yo ass. Plus, muthafucks won’t let a muthafuck do dah twiddah.

So. My poin is. Be receptive. Keep an open mine. Lissen! An maybe, I’ll decide a sticka rown an help yo assout a bit mo wi

Till next time, keep an I open.

Big Don K.

You’re welcome…..

Sent live, bedside, from the broke ass depths of yo skull. Word.

______________

Don K’Shayne to me – Con Man! – Apr 7

 

Geevenin and shit…

Con Man, why you gots to make an abstract consepshul mutha like Supreme Maj-Nation work so damn harr fo yo abstrack inteleckshuns, man?

Eyes juss tryin elighten you an ennertain myseff, biggun!

That was one mutha offa prank with all em fo-letter karrackers writtin yo ass off! Fo sho.

Ennway. What’s goin on?

I’s juss inneressed inne gowins on o yo grey matter. Wass on yo mine my vertical brutha? Enquirrin mines wanna kno!

Man, diss aumatic spell check makessit a pissah to type like a muthafuck wanssa muthafuckin type!

So…. whirr muthafucks wasseye?

Rite! So looka hyuh!

Affer my lass temp at reachin fru you, I cided take a high 8uss from envadin yo mine.

So looka hyugh ….

Sin lass we spoke, rect that, sin lass I spoke to you cause I ain’t a gotten blip one on da gee mail, I susessfla iffultrayded tha mine offa lil mongrill mutt I sawr and I convinss it ta proseed an nestroy da signer shoes offis ownas gurl.

I dont say master n account I fine it be naproprat.

Enway….

Inner rage, she nugletted a see that er shoe dee-bree wa stroon bout inna eggsact replica uh Fra Fillipo Lipi’s Da Annuncia Shun.

Iss unnerstanble…  who looks forrat shit?

Fo reels…. dass how untouchable my shit is…. Werd.

Now… Magine iffa had axess to a human mine! Dig?

Think bout it… juss think….

Yous an I cood reck sum havoc on the unsuspecktin minds offa masses!

So… eyesah gone give ya seven days an accept my creativ invite fore I discard you an moov on.

Dig?

Respects!

Sent live, bedside, from the broke ass depths of yo imagination. Word.

___________

Don K’Shayne to me – Sev mines one’s six – Apr 8

Snarky Marky Mark the Con Man!

www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sj3joGzdyqk

Yessum. Wassup Issanbull?

Dis ere is day one. The begin o da end. Dee-a numero ooo-No.

Sept jours et tout c’est fini! Dig?

Lass chance to jump owna nite train to Magicville…. yessum, da countdown isaapawnuss!

Diggit Foo!

So looka hyuh, Con Con!

I caint compurr-end yo callous an contrariun stance to da magicul happenstans dat be my kolosall an cosmic colishun dat beelies common supahstishun!

WOOOOOO!

I bees legit man!

I ain no tiny dansah, Tony Dansa, Sancho Panza!

NAH surr!

I’s Voltron, Megatron, Optimus Muthafuck Prime all in one disembadeed concep!

I’s da Rocketman! Man! BALLAH!

Dig?

httpv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1GAKOLOnfV4

I’s one hunned puhcent stone cold co-fuckin cane fo yo ninja brain!

Bruce Lee dis shut! HuWAHHH!!!

I juss wawnna Hoodini you mine open an break yerass free a awl dat edcashun dass keepin yer ass from truly goin Kraka-fuckin-Toa on dees muthas.

Ya kno? Co-labrate!

NO BULL!

I juss wanna work wiff yews, Istanbul not Conssansinopull!

httpv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gi0Rt0slfy4&feature=fvwrel

Fo sho!

Sadly affur danite, I’s retirin da pimp voice, alees as fah as yer ass is concernt.

I gots six days a get thru you. An I gots to try all means nessary. Malcom X diss shit.

httpv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M4DlfEQ7cyk&feature=related

Dats incluein droppin ma favrit modality a ma tonality an possibly speakin like a genlman.

It’s possible, but I find it strictly appalling.

DAMN! That even tayssed blan as fuck ritin it!

Doen gnore me fella! Less work agether!

Fellater!

Sent live, bedside, from the broke ass depths a yo imagination.

Word.

______________

Don K’Shayne to me – Five Oh! McGarrett! – Apr 10

Anuffa day dat passes issa notha day without hearins frum da Con Man.

Iffa eye had feelins,  I’d be hurtin like a mutha.

Butteye ain’t sad. No not a bit.

Evens tho wees on McGarrett Five O on our countdown!

Nah I’s readying myseff fo nutha mutha offa missaventure.

Dassrite! Yurrs truly, the Big Don, has ackwired surrin innellekshal propahtees.

Dass rite baby!

The Big Don is doin it like the Jeffersons! An I ain’t tawkin bout stickin it to Sally in Monny Chello!

Hell No!

I’m talkin MOVIN OWN UP, baby!

TO A DEElux APARMEN in a sky high brain dass gone ennertain ole Big Don an my suggessionatin an resonay-tin.

Dig?

Ya see-  I had hurrd dat der wassa vaycansee at the house of Sheen not too longs ago, ya see. But if ole Miss Chief hadunna planta her fine ass in señor Charlie’s head fore Big Don culda inffatrate!

An lemme tell you she’s ain’t no angel for that Charlie and he’s a got it bad got it bad got it bad, he’s a red hot for teacher, baby!

Hoooo-wee!

Any a ways, ole Miss Chief hassa deecide to cum to Big Don hissef an ax fo sum cunsultin work as it be.

So I’s gone be occupie fer a hot ass minute. Miss Chief can be damn purrswaysuff. She’sa got de damn finess ass I ERR seen!

An Big Don’s a seen em all Baby! Dis ere ass issa purrfecly circular.

I means it baby! Damn Mursaydees Benz enginears could kalabrate der insrumentation on dat ass!

Fo sho! Youssa coulda derive pie to seven digiss jussa lookin at it!

FREE poin Wan fo Wan FEYE NINE Too!!

Aw hell! All eye know issa there’s got to be GOT TO BE a fine sissynine in that pie fo ME!

Hoooweeee!

So I’msa sayun chow fo now. But I ain’tsa forgots bout da Con Man for a secon.

No mo worrin bout dees lass few days leff on the seven I said youssa had leff. Enjoy yo seff!

Want SUM? Get SUM!

I’ssa be back, beleev dat!

Knows it!

- The BDK

Sent live, bedside, from the broke ass depths of yo imagination. Word.

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Only upon receiving the above email did I realize that Don K’ Shayne was the real thing. I decided to respond in kind, and since Big Don reminded me of Fido, I emailed back in imitation of Fido’s style:

Constantine Markides to Don – Re: Five Oh! McGarrett! – April 10

a big dunkeschöen to the Big Don K’Shayne! are you my brutha from anutha mutha or my mutha from anutha brutha or maybe just my sista from anutha mista or more like my muse who’s here to abuse? damn yo, this mangy mutt is trippin’ on the depths of your imagination cuz he didnt browse his houndsnout through the first messages and thought he was just gettin’ some green eggs and spam, but now he knows you be the real ham, thank you ma’am! cause yo know about fido and his fellow fo-letter karrackers and about my being awkappied with impenndin moves and so on… damn, this blind ol’ dog is bitin’ at his chomps to find out who’s flashing these pork chops at him, at who’s the trickster conning the conman! i’ll tell you, yo, i’m glad you’re not hurtin’ like a mutha and dont take no e-ffense at my e-gnoring your e-mails cuz this ol’ mongrel has been yowling his words into the ragged night for twelve lousey years and all he’s gotten back is his Echo. and you can take that straight to your bedside Psyche. but even so, yo, un grande dogeyed pardonemwah for not responding earlier, i got outtrickstered that’s all, and that’s what makes the world go round and the big bang go boom so don’t retire yourself yet, my mind is open like you asked, i accept your creative invite, you’ve got my dogeared attention even if I’m missin’ the signs. so I’m just gonna curl up here with my bone at the doorway, listenin’ and waitin’ for your FedEx return.

p.s. and what’s this about the mine ya successfully iffultrayded? speakin’ of grey matter, you’ve got mine goin’ pop goes the weasel. e-word!

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Don K’Shayne to me – Apr 11 – I’s Been Discovert

Atlass! An I dont mean that big mussel mutha holin up the planet.

I means finelee! At lass!

Whitney Houston the Eegull has muthafuckin landed!

Done expeck this ere respawnss by fedex, man.

UPS, Con Man!

You PEE-ess! What can Brown do fo yerass?

Dig?

Now lookie hyuh!

Iss answa time!

As far as ma ginetick linage. I’s whatevess you needs my ansessree a bee.

Brutha, cousin, whassafuckevah! Tho all evidens says I’s a real mutha!

Whoooo!

Brutha’s good tho… fo starrers. No nee fo no Big Don, SuPREME Maja nashun jussayet.

Henneway, no nee fa pall gizin. I’s unnerssan sat na-days yews gossahav eyes like a, like a ka-million. Caint be too carful deese days, baby.  Dig?

Nah looka hyuh!

Henneway…. the mine I’s iffultrayded turnsoussabee a reel lame ass mutha.

Damn unimajnive reepubcan peessa shit.

So I’ssa goen Hall an Oass it an Say No Go!

Hells Naw!

Dat an that Charlie turn outta be a stray po-lah mutha! No helpun that.

So…. colabrashun! You goss sum ideeus or ar youss ready a rap yo surbellum rouns the Mine-a-mite dis ere Alfreh No Bull’s gown lawnch acher ass?

Dig?

Fo sho.

-The BDK

Sent live, bedside, from the broke ass depths of yo imagination. Word.

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Don K’Shayne to me – small fava – Apr 12

Con Man,

Lissen… howsa bouts you doos Ole Big Dons a solid fava?

Sis kine uff mbarassin an all… buh here goes…

Iss cozee as hells uppin hyuh in yo skull an all but… well.. I’s tryinna warch my Dominikan novelas onna TV an all, but syo foe-ludge sis innerfurrn wissa reecepshun, chief!

Parsah wha caughts ma- tenshun bow choo was yo verricality brotha!

Yo melons a good spot furra nareul antunna. Dig?

So howsa bouts you do me a solids an gets you legs a displace yous a nearess barber?

Juss a trim ya hyah? Nussin drassic!

Issa Fo o Fo now. Iffa you cans get it fo 8 I’d preshate it. Dat Josefeena sho is a site ta see!

Mo affur ma novelas! Oh, an I’ds awso preeshate iffa you keps ma viewun habiss to yoseff, please.

Don’t git sassy…

Sent live, bedside, from the broke ass depths of yo imagination. Word.

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I replied, once again staying in character with Fido:

Constantine Markides to Don – Re: small fava – Apr 13

da-amn, don k’shayne! ya better live up to your name and tell your korean girlfriend marcy bo koo to also send me some lovin’ thanks my way cuz i done gone what you begged of me. you better have savored yer dominikanation fannylicious pootang cuz this ol’ mongrel’s tossin’ and turnin’ and yearnin’ for his mutthairs back. shee-it, homey, I’m tellin’ you and every mr bo’ diddly fo’ diddly mutha out there that my poor little corpus is itchy as all hell and on fire like them sorry ass souls stuck down there in hadesville behind old three headed cerbie. see, coupla hours ago i stuck my snout for too long into a vat of rye firewater and then got all misty in the head for what big ol’ don k’shayne asked of me and I went to a polish barber and just told him “yo bro shave me dawn just like i was the juicebox of a 21st century pawnstar” and now I’m just a bald little chihuahua whose burnin’ and turnin’ under the sheets. shee-it, without my furry flesh I’m just as naked and miserable as when my mamma squeezed me all blind and hollerin’ and drippin’ out of her udder. but shee-it, at least I’ll be able to swim like a muthafucka manana! sent to you live bedside from my bald ass depths of my epidermis nation. word.

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Don K’Shayne to me – Re: small fava – Apr 13

Koreens!? Whedju gits dat eyedee-us Con Man?

I likes er name tho!

Not dat Big Don dont dig on ayshuns, iss not data tall baby!

Issa juss dat ayshuns tenna be onna smalla side, an dey done calls me Big Don fa nuthin baby!  I nees a woman who can hannels hesseff rounsa creecha of sirrun mass.

Dig?

Wiff ayshuns Ole Dons gots to double up! Yunnersan?

Lass time I’s wiff ayshuns wassin Hon-loolass. I’s der soekin up da rays, yunnerssan, an deese two fine sissas star flirrin wiff Ole Don, ya see?

Dey wurrn sistahs inna Foxy Brown sense. Nah. Dey were sissas inna gin-neck mutha dawtah sissah sense, dig? Deys famly,  yunnerssan?

Hennway….. I done member days names… but I calls em Mooch Ass n Grassy Ass onna count one wassa hoola dansa an otha wan took ma favra sunglassa un daint giffum back! Dig?

Hennway…. I hain seen the new cutta yo foe-ludge owna counss I’s hain been ousside aday.

Big Don dones do rain baby…. an I curr hears dat thunners lass nite.

Ole Thor’s an I’s gots a grudge goes ways back. Lass thing I wants issa boltsa litenins and thunners frum Ole MaJoelamurr ruinins my nite.

Tho I ains bleevin you gossa lots a herrs cut owna counts da rucepshun own ma novelas wassa cepshunlee grizlee lass nite. Tho it cudda bins owna counts a you drinkin dat derrs farrwaters dat made thins fuzz up.

I’s diggin yo Sirrbus reffunce. Tho, dass wan uh ma innervenshuns dat got outsah cun-troll, ya see?

Issa nots errdays yous russponsible fo starrin a ho metholojuss.

Ewassa cup thousun years go, ya see, an I gots diss ideus fo a new arrissic mooment. I’s bin drinkkin heffalee backssen yunnersan? I ain’ts prouds offits, but dass wha whens down.

Henneways, I’d juss polish offa cuppa dozun botulls o lowcull medtrainin wine, ya see, an thins starr gowins fuzz like. Immajuss dublin and tripplin up in my mine’s eye, yasee?

I’s drunkass I’s err been.

I’s seein thins frum multpull purspeckiffs awla wonce, yunnerssan?

Juss enn, dis lil mongrull doggie no bigga yo arm came un starr likin on Ole Don’s face. He wussa sine mentsa keeps Ole Don’s in chek!

Hennaway…. ness day, I’s awokes witha one mutha uffa headayk….

Dat vurr day, I swo off gettins drunk. So…. to co-memmarays ma new soburr-eyeatee I’s cided a co-mishun an artissic repsentashun a whasseye saw. The artiss was purr good, buttee juss cudn acuralee potray wasseye’s sayin. So the harmluss lil doggie came a multi-heads monsser.

An a rest assay-say is hissaree..

It tooks me nutha cup thousun yurrs a finelee gets my vishun reelize.

 

Issa call cubissum deese days baby! How you like?

So… I’s hopes I’s enliesens you a bit…. esspannen yo whirl view….

Keep up yo howlins intoos a nite baby. It mites souns likes a eckos, but iss juss otha dirry ass dogs howlins back atchuse!  We’s juss farraway…. yunnerssan?

Keep dat leash loose baby….

-The BDK

Sent live, bedside, from the broke ass depths of yo imagination. Word.

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Don K’Shayne to me – da wethurs – Apr 16

Con Man!

I cided a venshur outta yo mines a bits ons wessday an agins yesseday an enjoys sa nice wethurs. So I apollo geye fo nah been pressen a hewps wicho tasses, yu procrasinay lass minah mutha! Serrslee!

HoooWEEE!

Henneways… looka hyuh!

Assalway happuns onna firss day a nice wethurs, awlsa gurlies acided a sho a lil skin, yunnersan?

Sho wuss a seye dasee! Ains nuthin lika seye a fresslee shay legsa gits a creeaff juices a flowins!

Evwhars Ole Big Don turns darwarsa fine yun ting a struttin like sheessa puttin soussa fires!

I tell you wass! Da ladies aparels is come a lone ways since hot pants, Fuh reels!

Con Man, lemme tell yous, dis citiss chainge! Datsa downseye a bein a neeternuls ennitee a createevatee, da peoples an places da matters an arr nears an deersa yo harr starsa issapurrin!  Iss sad man!

But I ont gits chokes ups baby! Too muchsa do agits sadsabous times passin.

So withsa wethurs beinas nice sitiss I wenns walkabous lika hossrailyun!

I wenssa fines my ole somppin grouns.

I wens lookins fo Unner the Volcannus wers I ussago wiss my bud Maccoms whens hes visstins frum Vankuvass. But it was gones. Ginger man wasill crossa street, tho.

I whens lookins fo da Nackerr Narwall whers I gav ole Herma da ideus fo Queeweh,  but sa Nahwall’s gone too! I mussa done sonem rite do, cus deres Stahbuss errweres! HoooWEEE!

Thins chane too fass suhties fo Ole Don’s a hannel. Buh lika says, canssa get too nossagic, ess yu miss da magics o da pressen! Werd!

So… I’s juss wrinin a lets you kno, keeps yo eyes opens, an neff let yo creatif side go astrays, baby. You ne’ers kno whensa wethurs goins gets rainna an clouss yo vishun, dig?

Like tonite… diss wethurs da Suck!

Werd.

- The BDK

Ya welcome!

Sent live, bedside, from the broke ass depths of yo imagination. Word.

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I warned Big Don that I’d be able to search his IP address if he posted a comment directly on Fourth Night. This was his response, in a comment on my website no less:

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Fido then jumped in (this time the real one, not just my impersonation of him):

Fido to Don – Comment: “Go For a Swim, Qaddafi” – April 17

da-AMN, the dankeschoen is in da dank house and s/he aint scared of no beware of the dawg signs! s/hee-it host, big don just dropped a big ol’ dookie in a plastic bag by yer front door and set her afire, and then don done gone pushed the ding-dong! easy there, host! don’t go turnin’ yer porch into a poopstoop! but here, since sniffin’ out troubles and snuffin’ out fires is right up my messy little alley, let me check her out… peeYUUU! smells like big don’s been eatin’ some big ol’ chile dawgs and i aint talkin’ bout my street slinking brothas and sistas down in that long suramerican pais, pah-lease! hellz, no point in checkin’ no IP addresses with the big don cuz he knows how to get all up and tweaky in yer head. he’ll just leave you insane in the membrane and barkin’ up the wrong bark.

now, Big D, you lend me your dogear and listen close, cuz this ol’ mangy mutt’s gotta tell you that last night i was out hangin’ with hairy host and his sassy sissa vassa visa and some hobolicious homies and HOOyah we were singin’ all yer emails out loud and laughin her up so hard that we near busted a coupla ribs and windows. da-amn, host can’t even keep up with you, yo, tho we gotta cut the brutha some slack cuz he’s sick right now in all sortsa ways, little sick in the heart, poor fella, little sick in the head, tho he’s always had a touch of that, and a little sick in the good ol’ fashioned flemmy way if ya dig what I’m hackin’ up. but really what I’m coughin’ here, big DK, is that you’re up in all kinda sistas and bruthas heads right now, ya hear? mr. dalvin klein, dig it or not, you’ve become some cult indie celebrity, or maybe i should say cult injun celebrity seein’ hows you yap like my ol’ misssissippi trippi granpy hucklyberry and jumbalaya jimbo except more blackface. hellz, yer so up in the broke ass depths of their minds that a coupla brothas think ol’ fido here is big don! cause you know how this here hound’s got a drop of cunnin’ stealin’ troublemakin’ blood in him, just like my bro coyote and loco loki i know how to subvert the moral code and pervert the oral code like doggone big dong, if ya doggie-style what i’m sayin’.

but shee-it i’m no big donkey. i mean, hellz, yeah, i got some chameleon blood mixed in with my dogblood so i know how to bust it out like the BDK if I wanna but the big con is from the big don, if you can double up what i’m sayin! Causa looka hyuh, lemme tellee, issa truth dat dis ole dog can sounda lika Ole Big Don if hes gots da yurnin fo it. Issa like in my geneticks tadoo dat, yunnerssan? Taint fa nuthin dat deys call me da tricksta, if ya ketch ma drift. Issa not dat fido is da ole don, issa not data tall baby! Fuh reels! Henneways…

whooWHEE! who needs wheaties when you got the early bird Special K! just one bite and yer down the K-hole, yo! hellz yeah, don’t call me fido no more, call me lazarus or shee-it call me hermes melville cuz i’m feelin’ resurrected as ishmael when he come whooshin’ out all smelly n’ jizzed up with whalejuice from the belly of the beast. it’s like i just come crawlin’ out of hibernation and am alive once more. free at last, free at last, thank dawg almighty, i am free at last!

whooHEEE, feels good, yo, to be howlin’ again into the moonnight! next time some questionarrio asks me to talk bout my personal hero, I’m puttin’ down Don K’Kong. hellz, I’m almost in the mood to go scramble up the empire state building like King D’Kong and start singin’ “Will the real slim k’shayney please stand up, please stand up, please stand up” except i aint gonna cuz i like my shady characters layin’ low.

word out from the BK. WOOF!

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After several days, I received the following email from Big Don. It turns out he had posted a comment but, as the website filter had flagged it, my approval was needed:

Don K’Shayne to me – Post ma Post! – April 20

Con Man!

I gossa cup a quessins fo yerass. Firssafal, how lons you gotssa takes sa gets my commens possed on yo commens on yo intermess page? Issa lie been fo days o somen! Moderashun? Diss aints drinkins an drivins baby! I dain’t reelize dassa fourthnight ments how longs issa take-a pose on you’s interness page!

Wha? Are yous all hungs ovars fromma passova sayda? Or is you is all flemma still frum yo illnassus?

NESS QUESSION!

Wha the fukisup wiss da weathus in dis city, Con Man? The weathus is da true con man coninuss awl!

Hots cold hots cold!

Issa maykin Charrie Sheen look wella jussed!

Why, I’s luvin the ladie’s leggie leg leggie show, fo sho juss da otha day! Now issa cole an gray as a golen gurl ree-runs!

Am I’s rite? Damn stray!

Nah, looka hyuh! Anna paya closa senshun cuz I’s abousa gess com-catus on yo ass.

Curran evenss.

How you feels bouss tha news outsa NASSA dass theys gots photos of a black hoe swallwins a star innis dyins lass momens? Coo photis too! Iss notta furss time dass happens, an idaint’s juss NASSA gots photiss like dass eitha. You rememmers Divine Brown anna Hue Grant?? HAAA! Dass right baby!

Alrigh Con Man! I’s goinna leave you bee fo now.

All this curran evenss hassa gots me a mite sleepa. I’s a gowenna curr up inna creviss tween da two hemsphurs o yo melon. Dig? I’s gonna nap.

Ya welcome!

Sent live, bedside, from the broke ass depths of yo imagination. Word.

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I received the above email on my phone while heading to an evening Arabic class. I said I’d approve the comment once I was back at my place. His reply:

Don K’Shayne – Re: Post ma Post! – Apr 20

Kool and da Gang!

Say hi to Aladdin and da ayatollah fer me.

That turbo headed mutha still owes me a harrum a hoes fer some ghosswritin I did fer his OPEC ass backina day.

Werd

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And here is the comment which, for whatever reason, I had to approve:

Don K’Shayne to me – Comment: “Go For a Swim, Qaddafi” – April 18

Dayums fo reals. Con Man! Dis houssisa danka danna chursh baysamens owna…owna ka’sina nite! Fo reels! Opens a winnahs or sumn.

WHOOO!!! Bingo!

Is you issa tryinna gro da mushroos in diss ere place? Truffuss sho are spensif!

I thins sombaees leff a rottin corrs in hyah!

So! Arr co-mewnikays issa owna vurge a goins veyeras? Coo! I’s ready fores a Don K Outbrakes!

Whip oucha paniceilins!

Gladda hear yowes kin foke apurrshate oursa co-mewnikays! They mussa be peepas a cepshunaw quawltees an inneleck.

Con Man, you gossa sassy sissa? I figurrs yo parens gave ups affer ey had you! No senn makin dat missake twice!! HASSARYE! HAAA!!!!

I’s juss playin wichoo Con Man! Shurree she a luvly hueman been like you.

Assafars as cuttin you slack. No wurrs baby! Big Don knows yous is all kines sa sick! Fo sho!

Remembess do, dass essacly the storrs you shoes be writins bouss baby! Ders aint’sa been a singa sickna a da hueman harr da hassen been worthiss a pen to papah. Dig?

So… reersa back… takes a deepass breff ans yous ee’rs had, and lonsh a biggus wads a flemmuge on the page baby! Lets it oussayewe! Coffit UP! WHUTHAW!

Let sat spitooey an illnuss fills up da page baby!

Fo reels. I aintsa goin a judge… naw! I hase a judge.

Tay you time. I’s a bee rouns.

Werd!

-THE BDK

ya welcums.

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Fido then replied to BDK’s post. You can read it HERE

After a lull, BDK emailed again:

Don K’Shayne to me -- Tornaduss -- April 29

Conn knee chee wah Con Man!

Done tinks you’s in da cleahs juss yet baby! The Big Don ain’tsabowssa figgeta bouss you yets!

I’s been busys. That Josafeenas really owdid heseff diss week on my novelas. She an Marias gotsintoo a scuffa ovah a tall tan rasclee mutha offa dude name a Faleepay. Those gurls really gots intos it too. Dey letsum do a lots a dem’s owns stunn work in tv derr in da Dee-Are.

I’s seen youssas poesed a notiss one yo innermess site nouncin a lil sum’n sum’ns goinssa go down owna forf a dis upcommin.

Whachu gots cookins Con Man? Is I is or is I’s ain’ts a gowenns a be surprised?

HOOOOOOooooo!!!! Didje see da messes made down Sout lass few days? Dats whass happens when Loki and Miss Chief bote gits loadeds on muscadine wine an corn watars, djesee?

Now, looka hyuh!

I’s tell you what Con Man… I’s gots to make dis ere brief. I’s gots ta broker a release fo ole Miss Chief. Seemsa while she n Lokis was owna tare, deys bussed up a cabnet o chochkiss an niknacks at Thor’s crib. I’s goinssa gots a lobbiss wit Odin hisseff!

Good thing I’s used to babe sit his ass backinaday.

Dass rite.

Laters on Con Man!

Stay juicy.

- The BDK

Sent live, bedside, from the broke ass depths of yo imagination. Word.

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On April 29 I wrote to Big Don asking if he’d let me post his writings and if he’d offer his ministerial services to readers. His reply:

Don K’Shayne to me – Re: Tornaduss – May 1

Con Man!

I’s honors an shit dat youss sallow me a make a mess ah yo innermess site.

It’s on baby! I’m down!

Ain’t no worries bout findin out who I am. Cause I ain’t lied to you. I’s the BDK! I’ve knowed yer ass since your verricality was floor bound an yous crawlins round on all fours baby!

I’s there whenchoo graduated from pickin yo nose wiff yo index an starred usin yo thumb!

Dass rite!

So done go fryin yo melon figren out who’s I be. Iss poinless.

Relaxan joy da ride!

Caint waita see ma posts!

Walk tall baby!

- The BDK

Sent live, bedside, from the broke ass depths of yo imagination. Word.

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If you’ve made it this far, you’ve got a comment or a question in you. So go ahead. Juss ass da Big Don HERE

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*This month [April] Fourth Night will be posted on the 14th instead of 4th

**Scratch that. Due to tax day, which I just found out is tomorrow, and due to a mystery lunatic emailer self-dubbed “Don K’ Shayne” (read that with German language in mind) who has been pulling a Fourth Fiction on me and humoring me to distraction with almost daily hilarious emails that are “sent live, bedside, from the broke ass depths of yo imagination,” I’ve decided to cash in my Get Out of Jail April Fool’s card and bypass this month’s post. By the way, Big Don, be advised that I can do an IP address search on yo’ ass if you post a blog comment…

Gaddafi, Berlusconi, and formerly virgin bodyguard

ON JUNE 28, 1914, a 19-year-old Bosnian Serb named Gavrilo Princip assassinated Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria, thereby setting off World War I. Almost a century later, on December 17, 2010, a 26-year-old Tunisian street vendor named Muhammad Bouazizi set himself on fire in front of a local government building after authorities confiscated his produce. This act of self-immolation by Bouazizi, who died of his burns eighteen days later, sparked off the protests in Tunisia that toppled the government, an uprising that then spread to Egypt, toppling Mubarak, as well as to Yemen, Bahrain, and Libya, to name other recent headliners.

It’s fitting that World War I, with its meaningless trench-butchery and toll of over fifteen million, began with a bullet; and it’s just as apt that the 2011 uprisings, which have been spreading through the region like a raging forest fire, began with a flame. This conflagration has left Arab autocrats scrambling in confusion, with some of them promising democratic reforms (Yemen), others handing out $2650 to every family (Bahrain), and yet others staging absurdist umbrella video-ops and ordering warplanes to bomb their own citizens (Libya).

Last weekend, Muammar el-Qaddafi’s son Saif gave a press conference. “Now, everything is calm, and Tripoli is safe,” he said. “Today, in the whole of Libya, no casualties, no attacks. Everything is peaceful, so today everybody is happy…” His father’s hired men, meanwhile, were machine-gunning protestors from the back of trucks.  (Of course, Saif’s Theatre of the Absurd presentation comes across as sober diplomacy when compared to his father’s claims on Libyan state TV that Osama bin Laden and fellow al-Qaeda militants were fomenting the youth of the country by drugging them with “hallucinogenic pills in their coffee with milk, like Nescafe.”)

A dictator like a Qaddafi or a Mubarak, who has held power for decades by suppressing opposition and crushing revolt, inevitably develops a conviction that he is a demigod. The lavish U.S. military and diplomatic aid he often receives (Qaddafi being the exception, although even that changed in recent years) only further reinforces his sense that he is The Chosen One. His personal creed is best expressed by Louis XIV of France’s declaration “L’ État, c’est moi.” Of course, ‘I am the State’ can be a real bummer during revolutions, as Mubarak learned. One wishes that Qaddafi would learn it too, although it appears he’ll still be proclaiming, “they love me all” down to the final moment, when he may well be staring down the barrels of a firing squad (hallucinogenic Nescafe is as good as any explanation for his insanity).

Astonishing as the degree of delusion that these despots suffer from may be, the sudden uprising of the Arab populations is even more astounding. These revolts have unsettled not only autocrats the world over, who now fear that their flock of sheep might suddenly morph into a pack of wolves, nor business interests on the right whose salaries depend on the energy resources being in the right iron fists (‘stability’ for shorthand), but also those liberal academics, pundits and diplomats who once cleared their consciences over their complicity in Washington’s support of the region’s thugs by telling themselves that Arabs are too apathetic, tribalist, and unfit for or rejectionist of democracy to allow for a less authoritarian political structure.

As with the last awesome sweep of revolutions in modern history – the toppling of the Soviet tyrannies in Eastern Europe in 1989 – poverty and miserable social conditions have been central motivating factors in these revolts. But there’s no downplaying the calls for a more open society that has fuelled the Arab revolutions. Young and old, Muslims and secularists, bearded and clean-shaven, in t-shirts and in hijabs, they were all out there chanting the kinds of things one hears at any pro-democracy rally. Fox News pundits may rant about and long for the threat of an Islamist takeover but anyone reporting without a blindfold knows that the demands are for freedom of speech, freedom of the press, equal justice under law, more transparency, etc. – not exactly stuff out of an Islamist agenda.

I was traveling through Patagonia when the Tunisian protests began and was in the process of moving back to New York City from Buenos Aires as the revolution took place. As a result, I didn’t follow the events closely, nor did I recognize how momentous they were. And even after I had settled back into New York, I soon turned into something of an ostrich, my head buried in my inner sands. I was too consumed with my own petty preoccupations to give much attention to the grievances of the outside world.

I’m embarrassed to say that it wasn’t until long after the Egyptian uprising was in full swing that I began to realize the magnitude of the events. On Thursday, Feb 10, shortly after Mubarak declared he wouldn’t step down, I looked into flights to Cairo and began conniving ways to make the trip happen. By that point the events in the Middle East had touched me to the core. But I was too late to witness the revolution: the next day newly appointed vice president Omar Suleiman appeared on state TV and grimly announced Mubarak’s resignation.

This wasn’t a revolution headed by an intelligentsia vanguard or a mutinous officers corp or even a religious or ideological group. It was a true broad people’s revolution whose common fabric consisted of a demand for basic rights and decent living conditions. No foreign powers assisted the rebellion (to the contrary, the dictator overthrown was a cherished U.S. ally whom top US diplomats have previously called a “family friend,” hence the “Made in USA” labels on the discarded tear gas canisters). As far as revolutions go, it was non-violent, despite every effort by Mubarak to instigate violence through Molotov-throwing camel-riding undercover police. And it was successful: it led to the overthrow of a despot of the largest Arab country – no small thing seeing that as Egypt blows so blows the Arab world.

Not that there’s little to be concerned about now: power has temporarily been assumed by the military – not an institution known for promoting democracy and human rights – and a good part of the modern history of the Arab world is one of revolutions gone awry. But things were already awry in Egypt. And when a population so large forcefully articulates a vision for a more democratic society, it’s not easy for the next chump in power to keep the dungeons and torture chambers running, no matter how much his zest for them.

No political event in my life had ever stirred up so much in me as the Egyptian Revolution. These events in the Levant and the neighboring spontaneous, non-violent revolts against decades-long authoritarianism and repression are to me at least the most astonishing and inspiring uprisings of my generation. But along with a sense of exultation at the ousting of Mubarak, I also selfishly felt regret that I hadn’t flown to Cairo in late January. I’d been in regular communication with my friend Sean, who’s now living in Cairo and who recounted his experience of the Alexandrian uprisings in last month’s post. The post-revolutionary euphoria wasn’t lost on him: he announced a couple of weeks ago that he’d gotten engaged (he mentioned he might get married in his post, although no one took him seriously at the time since the possibility applied to both of the Egyptian sisters whom he was traveling with to Alexandria). My enthusiasm and support, meanwhile, found outlet in a more modest and less committal way: I enrolled in an evening Beginner Arabic course.

It raises one’s spirits to watch these despots get the public boot. So to those men and women who’ve risked and faced teargas, imprisonment and live rounds, I raise a non-alcoholic beer in several toasts:

• Here’s to Tunisia for kicking it all off.
• Here’s to Egypt for putting on the most spectacular show (with the hope that you remember that, while the guy in the undecorated fatigues may be your brother, the one with the stripes and medals is Mubarak’s buddy).
• Here’s to Libya who’s been handed the hardest act yet.
• Here’s to the rest of you: may your respective uprisings bear fruit, or at least shed the rotten ones, as they did in Tunisia or Egypt.
• And finally, here’s to el-BrotherLeader, Qaddafi: may Your Homicidal Eminence overdose on Nescafe and plunge raving mad with umbrella in hand (but without Amazonian once-virgin bodyguards) into the Mediterranean, where a misplaced and disoriented great white shark might mistake You for an elephant seal and bite off Your testes, leaving You after four months of drifting in agony to wash up a dispirited eunuch on the topless shores of the French Riviera, Inshallah.

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Alexandria burning at the corniche. Photo by Sean Moylan

Last night around midnight I spoke with a friend who moved to Cairo in the fall to teach English. I hadn’t heard from him since the uprising began. Several days ago he left Cairo for Alexandria. Our webcam conversation about the protests there was abruptly cut off ten minutes later due to a lost connection. I tried calling his phone and contacting him online but there was no getting through. Instead I messaged him, asking if he’d write an account of his experiences over the next few hours for today’s Fourth Night post.

I woke up five hours later to find a long message from him that had been hastily written from an internet cafe. He didn’t recount everything that he’d described to me the night before – which included telling details like the Made in USA teargas canisters used against the protestors – but the piece offers a picture of the tumult in Alexandria that may be news to those who might assume from the Cairocentric news coverage that only the capital is burning.

Noam Chomsky, who is 83 and no abecedarian in the history of revolutions, referred on Democracy Now to the events in Egypt as “the most remarkable regional uprising that I can remember.” The monster in the closet of every unpopular political regime is that a popular revolution in the neighboring country (the proverbial “rotten” apple in the barrel) may spread to their corner. From Tunisia to Egypt to Yemen, this is what’s happening in the Arab world now. The ‘rot’ of revolt against authoritarians allied to Washington is spreading. And the events are increasingly looking to be not a footnote to history but a new chapter.

I’ve decided, therefore, to postpone Part II of my “Es Complicado” essay on the convoluted psyche of the Buenos Aires porteño until next month. Instead I append the message that my friend sent through this morning. I’ve minimally edited it for clarity, breaking up the stream of text into web-friendly chunks and occasionally including bracketed asides for clarification. I have, however, preserved the uncapitalized facebooky format.

The photos are his. But he claims his best material is his video footage – of clashes between protestors and police, of men praying in the street while police cars burn. Unfortunately, he’s been unable to send any of it through yet. As soon as I receive the files I’ll edit and post the video here.

So here it is, the Alexandria uprising in the words of Sean Moylan:

“i went to alexandria last thursday night with two beautiful alexandrian sisters. there had been protests in cairo and we knew there would be a protest in alex after friday prayers but we thought the demonstration would only be in the main midan [square]. friday morning we head downtown to the corniche [the road that runs along Alexandria's seafront] to see the library, shop, have lunch and avoid the protests in the main square.

after the noon prayers, we found our backs to the ocean and tens of thousands of protesters to our right, left, and front. there was a violent confrontation with the police. strangely, there were still families sitting along the ocean. there were kids. fishermen were fishing. but no taxis. no direction was safe. so we stayed put until the protesters passed. we walked behind them in the opposite direction of their procession. tear gas was in our eyes.

Alexandrian uprising. Photo by Sean Moylan

the city quieted for 3 o’clock prayers. i remember seeing police vehicles burning and hundreds of men praying in the street adjacent to the mosque. immediately after the prayer ended, the men rose in a tumult. the group sounded like an angry beehive. they wielded pipes and clubs and began a fast walk. the girls and i had to run or else be caught up in the mob. each street we ran to had more protesters. we passed a group who was praying. i wasn’t sure how they’d react to us walking through them. fortunately they were in a deep conversation with allah and ignored us.

we slipped into the cecil hotel, where al’jazeera, the new york times, and other journalists were staying. from the rooftop bar i saw the crowd burn the next hotel over and the bank and train station. they paraded the body of a dead protester on their shoulders. i searched for every exit in case they torched us. i was with a group of pirates – salvage crew actually – dutch and south african engineers, divers, captains. i’m not going to lie. i was nervous and drinking beers to calm my nerves.

after 5 or 6 hours, against everybody’s advice, we left. managed to find a taxi and headed to the outskirts of the city. the next day, saturday, i taxied all the way to cairo because the train station was burnt and the bus would drop us off in downtown cairo in the country’s biggest melee, the one you’ve most likely seen on american news channels.

when i arrived in cairo, many businesses and government buildings were torched. tanks and armored vehicles were everywhere. in the shadows of the pyramids, civilization was crumbling. in my neighborhood the banks were out of money. food and water was flying off the shelf, but the egyptians were working together to get through these difficult times.

one of the most impressive and memorable sights was of the young men of every neighborhood erecting whatever roadblocks they could and defending the neighborhoods all night long. they built fires for warmth. we brought them food. occasionally they fired a gun into the air to communicate with neighboring streets and to scare potential looters. they caught a few and treated them humanely, turning them over to the army. the police were gone. the militia worked with the army.

Tank in Alexandria. Photo by Sean Moylan

the people love the army and cheered the tanks as they rolled through. the people hate the police. the police who rob blatantly. the police known for their torture chambers. every cop who got his ass kicked probably deserved it. the looters were criminal elements in a city of 20 million. no surprise there. what is surprising is mubarak encouraging anarchy in the hopes the people will want his return to power for sake of stability alone.

the political protesters were peaceful. criminals are criminals. yesterday mubarak paid thugs 50 LE to throw molotov cocktails and rocks on the peaceful protesters in tahrir (‘liberation’ in English). the same thugs who intimidate voters. the monster cut off our phones and internet in the middle of an emergency, as if people didn’t know to meet in tahrir to protest.

on monday my school evacuated us to sharm al sheikh. there is no military in the sinai according to the treaty with israel. halfway down the peninsula, we hit a bedouin roadblock. they took control of the sinai. they made us wait while they prayed and then allowed us to pass. the bus drivers hauled ass for many kilometers after that roadblock.

so here i am, put up in a 5 star resort in the middle of a revolution. it’s not my fight, but i’m pulling for the people. i love the egyptians. love em. in fact, i think i’ll marry my alexandrian friend. it’s sad it came to this. i can’t believe the mubaraks of the world have held power as long as they have. the protests turned into a revolution quicker than anybody could’ve imagined. egypt is the most populous arab country. it has the suez canal, billions of american taxpayer dollars every year, and many more vested interests than tunisia. mubarak is stubborn indeed. he would rather watch his country burn than step down after 30 years. the man is 82 years old. give it up, asshole.

let me add too obama has got swagger. his statement after mubarak’s speech was right to the jugular. i only wish he’d come out stronger against mubarak. america’s fear is that strict islamists would take over if no dictator was here. but the egyptians don’t want that. only a small percentage of the population supports that approach. i don’t know where it will lead. but i hope it is resolved soon.

tonight i will hike to the summit of mt. sinai and watch the sun rise over the holy land. i may head to addis ababa and wait this out. pardon my sloppy writing. my thoughts are a bit jumbled as i haven’t had time to sort all this out myself yet. the situation is complex. many institutions are involved. there are social, economic, political, and other issues to be resolved. i hope minds stronger than mine are working hard on it.”

And I just received these messages from him:

“another thing. during the crisis, my neighbors formed long orderly lines at the grocery store. typically, egyptians politely elbow their way to the front the way americans get a beer in a crowded bar. there were runs on banks for cash. today is a crucial day. the VP is negotiating with opposition groups.the state run media is stepping up anti-foreigner rhetoric. one of my colleagues was harassed in cairo yesterday for the first time ever in 5 years. and he speaks decent arabic. i’m going to try to download pando [software to send and receive large files]…“

“the free pando is inaccessible in this country. the $25 one says ‘This product is not available at this time.’”

“and the so-called strict islamists here in Egypt are the Muslim Brotherhood. they are of the most moderate and tolerant of all islamists. mubarak and the west have played out the islamist bogeyman card. the islamic brotherhood will have a voice in the new govnerment proportionate to their numbers in the population. we may as well get used to it.”

-quoted text by Sean Moylan

*Read a more extended account by Sean in a Feb 11 Daytona Beach News Journal interview HERE

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