The idea that Scott was Mo’s best friend, but never mentioned it till that moment, was bewildering. If he were my best friend, I would surely mention it often—discreetly, I would hope, but you get the idea. I guess that’s why Mo was Scott’s friend and not mine. Mo was the enfant terrible of the art world, but his reputation went beyond the art world. He was in every sense of the word a celebrity. I had met him at a couple of occasions, but never really made any contact with him. I did not understand art all that well, but I knew what I liked. I liked his realistic paintings, but never his abstract ones. I heard if an exhibit of his abstract paintings does really well, his next one is sure to be very realistic. I wanted to meet him. I pretended it was not important. I tried to find out what their relationship was. Scott assured me they were best friends. They had been living together for a while.
I finally met him. It was uneventful. He was polite. I should say he was not rude. Polite would be stretching it. He practically ignored me most of the time. Every time I went into his studio to talk to Scott, he would stop painting. He would not start again until I left. After a while, the novelty wore off. I stopped caring whether I saw Scott at my place or his.
I realized I loved Scott. We also realized we were not in love. About two months into our relationship we mutually decided that we liked each other too much to have sex. We became what in the “business” is called sisters.
He was coming up the stairs to my flat when he got his first attack. He had been looking haggard the past week, but nothing was seriously wrong. I can’t recall exactly what happened. He was coming up the stairs. He had to stop midway because he ran out of breath. I was at the top of the stairs waiting for him to come up. I asked if he was okay. He assured me he was fine, but needed to catch his breath. He then fainted and fell down the steps.
I don’t know what came over me. Instead of calling 911, I picked him up and carried him the two blocks to Davies Medical.
I had to call Mo, but I did not have his number. I could call Scott’s number, but I doubted he would pick up. I could not try information since I never knew what his last name was. I don’t know if anybody did. He never divulged it, to my knowledge. It finally occurred to me to call Heller, where I knew he showed his work. I left a message with them for him to call me at the pay phone.
“Kurt?” he screams into the phone.
“Hi, Mo,” I say soothingly. “Calm down. He’s going to be all right. He fainted coming up the steps. They’re checking him now.”
“I’ll be right over,” he says.
…
August 5th, 1996
Dear Diary,
My grandson was circumcised today. I was surprised how easily my son-in-law accepted his son’s circumcision. He is Christian, Greek Orthodox. I think it is a good thing it happened. During the war, they were exchanging corpses of dead fighters on both sides. The Christians found out they had eighteen unidentified corpses. They weren’t sure whether to send them to West Beirut or keep them. Bashir Gemayel told them to undress the corpses. If they were circumcised, send them to West Beirut. If they happened to be circumcised Christians, they deserved to be buried with Muslims.
…
The current definition is that of a 1981 United States presidential commission which recommended that death be defined as “irreversible cessation of all functions of the entire brain, including the brain stem,” the brain stem being that part of the brain that controls breathing and other basic body functions.
We have presidential commissions to tell us what death is. God, I love this country.
…
Behold, I have two daughters who have not known man.
This line always fascinated me for some reason. It isn’t simply because we have a father pimping his two virgin daughters. There is something poetic about it.
Behold, I have two daughters who have not known man.
It has a ring to it. I like this translation better than “Look, I have two daughters who have never slept with a man,” or “Lo, I pray you, I have two daughters, who have not known anyone.” Translation is so important. The new American translations of the Bible sound like a Judith Krantz novel. I would never believe the men of Sodom called to Lot, “Where are the men who came to you tonight? Bring them out to us so that we can have sex with them.” But the Bible readers today prefer simple fare.
Behold, I have two daughters who have not known man.
The story of Sodom and Gomorrah is a simple story. Two angels come to visit Sodom and are invited by Lot, our hero, to stay at his house. All the men of Sodom, young and old, come to Lot’s door wanting to get better acquainted with the angels. Those were the days, huh? So Lot, chivalrous host that he is, says, “I beg you, my brothers, do not act so wickedly. Behold, I have two daughters who have not known man; let me bring them out to you, and do to them as you please; only do nothing to these men, for they have come under the shelter of my roof.” Isn’t that precious? Let’s get this straight, and I do mean straight. God tells us men fucking men is a terrible thing, but a father offering his two daughters, vestal virgins no less, to a horde of horny buggers is heroic. Now that’s straight.
It gets better. God tells Lot, the pimp, to get away from Sodom, with his wife and vestal virgins, for He is to unleash His wrath. Don’t look back, the angels tell them. Well, his wife does, failing to follow simple instructions, and is turned into a pillar of salt. The pimp is spared, but the wife who does not follow orders is not. Lot and his daughters end up in a cave. One day the older daughter says to the younger, “Our father is old, and there is no man around here to lie with us, as is the custom all over the earth. Let’s get our father to drink wine and then lie with him and preserve our family line through our father.” So the pimp gets drunk, his daughter fucks him, and he doesn’t remember anything the next day. This is a common pattern among straight men. They always forget what happened the night before while they were drunk. The next night, the pimp gets drunk again and his younger daughter fucks him. All in the family and so on. Vice is nice, but incest is best.
So here we have the story of Sodom and Gomorrah. God destroys the faggots with fire and brimstone. He turns a disobedient wife into salt. But he asks us to idolize drunks who sleep with their daughters or offer them to a horny, unruly mob. This is the lesson of Sodom and Gomorrah: Homosexuals are bad.
…
“Habibi?”
“I’m here, dear.”
“The catheter hurts.”
“Do you want me to increase your dosage?”
“No, no. It’s okay.”
“Would you like anything?”
“Yes. A naked Julio Cortázar on a platter.”
“Shit. I’m still working on Naipaul. Are you sure you wouldn’t settle for Tom Cruise?”
“Ugh. I’d even take Gore Vidal first. I still have some taste.”
Luckily, those were not Scott’s last words, but it was a close call.
…
I idolized Karim. We moved in different circles most of the time, but we did spend time together. He played guitar in a rock hand. I attended all their concerts, as well as many of their practices. The hand was atrocious, but he played well. I think he enjoyed the fact the hand was awful, since everybody noticed how well he played. He enjoyed having me around, being that I worshiped him.
I still consider the skiing trip we spent together as the best time of my life. His family had a chalet in The Cedars. I don’t care what other people say, The Cedars was the best skiing in Lebanon. Even though Faraya and Fakra were more modern resorts, The Cedars was better, less pretentious, less nouveau riche. The Cedars itself, the village, was one of the oldest villages in Lebanon, so it had a natural charm. The resort was old money, class all the way. Anyway, what man in his right mind, if given an opportunity to ski among ten-thousand-year-old trees, would give that up to ski somewhere else just because they had be
tter ski lifts? The Cedars was the best skiing in the world.
I had gone up as a guest of Jamal, whose family also had a chalet up there. It was Easter vacation, 1974, a few months before everything changed. We were only staying for a couple of days; both Jamal’s father and Karim’s had business to attend to. Those couple of days were uneventful. When the time came for us to get back to Beirut, Karim decided he wanted to stay. He actually asked me if I wanted to stay with him for another week. For whatever reason, he assumed I was hesitating. He explained to me all the fun we could have just the two of us, the parties we could attend, the extra skiing we could do, the alcohol we could drink, wink, wink. I did not need any convincing. I would have stayed with him no matter what we did.
That week was great. I discovered so much. I learned how to drink vodka. I learned how to smoke hash, how to tell the difference between the various blends. I met all these different people. We had a party every night. We also started a ritual which Karim and I would repeat practically every time we met. We would both get high out of our minds before we got to bed. We would both be in our underwear. He would play guitar just for me. I was in heaven.
I learned much that week. I figured out I was homosexual. There were times early on when I knew I liked boys, but I always thought I would outgrow the predilection. That week I figured I would never outgrow it. I also figured out I really didn’t want to. At the time, I could not care less if I had sex with Karim. I loved him and that’s all that mattered. He obviously liked me too. What else could a boy want? I was very happy that week.
I also learned much about other boys. Quite a few of the other boys who came to our parties were very different than I was. They were modern. They handled their drugs much easier, also their Scotch. They were more sophisticated. They spoke of Nietzsche as if he were one of their best friends. They were all teenagers like I was, but many of them seemed like a different breed. They all talked about politics like adults. They could all put together a machine gun, and then dismantle it, blindfolded.
I thought that was cool.
The war started not long after.
…
The invalid is a parasite on society. In a certain state it is indecent to go on living. To vegetate on in cowardly dependence on physicians and medicaments after the meaning of life, the right to life, has been lost ought to entail the profound contempt of society.
“Hey, Nietzsche boy,” I told Friedrich. “Look who’s talking about parasites on society. How many people supported your every whim and desire? You should be ashamed of yourself.”
He never liked me anyway.
…
They kept Tim alive for five months more than they should have. He was a vegetable. His parents, born-again Christians, refused to have the doctors pull the plug. The machines kept forcing themselves on him. It was rape. Five months later his lungs actually exploded.
…
December 24th, 1987
Dear Diary,
What a day. We had to drive all the way to Ba’albak to buy our car back. It was our second trip. The first time, they told us our car had not arrived yet. They did have it, they assured us. It just hadn’t arrived at their depot yet. Apparently it takes about five days for a stolen car to get up there. They had the gall to tell us they are trying to get more efficient. Soon it would take only three days for them to steal the car, drive it up to Ba’albak, for it to be ready to be sold back to its owners. What is this world coming to?
…
I am in a mausoleum. I climb, reaching one of the higher vaults, and enter. I have to break through an intricate spider’s web. At the end of the tunnel is a bright room. I reach it to find the devil, sitting on his throne, lifelike, yet larger than life. I can feel his power. I am pulled in. He is seductive. At the end of his tail is a large penis. I am entranced.
“You can’t keep your eyes off it, can you?” His voice resonates through my entire being.
A dwarf comes in. He is deaf and mute. He gestures for me to follow. I follow him out of the room. He wants to lead me through a journey of self-discovery. He directs me to a room. In the room I find my father, sitting on his throne, lifelike; yet larger than life.
…
It was a gray morning. I went into the kitchen to get my coffee. Scott had left some Danish pastries out for me. On the table, he had the paper with a headline circled in red. I sat down with my cup of coffee, and picked it up. Next to a small story on the Lebanese war, the headline read:
Reagan Wins on Budget, but More Lies Ahead.
…
(Excerpted from a letter by Mr. Kasem sent on the Internet.)
There is a historical parallel to Lebanon which, hopefully, can establish a precedent and move all Lebanese past this point of national identity as Arabs, Phoenicians, Aramaic, or whatever.
It is a well-established fact, if one looks objectively, that the very nature of Lebanon and its uniqueness lies in pluralism. Lebanon’s history is that of a place of refuge, a sanctuary, for oppressed people throughout the region. It is by no means an accident one of the largest communities of Druze in the region calls Lebanon home, since the Druze sought refuge in the Lebanese mountains from persecution in Egypt. It is no accident either that the largest community of Shiite Muslims outside of Iran calls Lebanon home. Shiites, as the minority Muslim sect, were historically dominated by the majority Sunnis. It is also for this reason the largest Christian community in the region finds its home in Lebanon as well. The Maronites sought refuge in the mountains over one thousand years ago. Since then, Armenian and other Christian sects have sought refuge. Lebanon is multicultured because it is a place of refuge. It is a place where the people revel in the fact they are different from the monolithic uniformity that laps at their borders.
Because each community of Lebanon has known oppression in its history, none should oppress the other.
In recent history, there is another country which was founded as a refuge for the people of the world who were different and therefore not tolerated in their place of origin. These people flocked to this country seeking freedom of religion and expression, and they found it. However, they, too, had the same problem as the Lebanese. Since they arrived from many different places, being of many different ethnic backgrounds and religions, they, too, did not identify with their host country. Rather, they identified with their clans, with their states, or with their regions. I guess by now you have figured the historical precedent for Lebanon I am describing is the United States of America. And it is true, during the first sixty years of the country’s existence no one called themselves “Americans.” It was not used. The people referred to themselves as “Georgians” or “New Yorkers” or “Alabamans” or “Virginians.” They never referred to themselves as Americans.
We had our civil war, as Lebanon had hers, in which one group tried to overcome the other, Northerners (Anglo-Saxons) against Southerners (Scot-Irish). Our war was more violent, and much bloodier than the Lebanese war. We, too, had the dominant international power of the day intervene on behalf of one side (the British intervened on behalf of the South in an attempt to break up the United States). The result of the civil war was the South and the British lost, and the concept of union won. It was really from that point forward that the citizens in America began to identify with the country first and referred to themselves as Americans, rather than members of one clan (read state) or the other. We adopted the national slogan, E Pluribus Unum, “From the Many There Is One.” It is appropriate that Lebanon should assume this national motto. The Lebanese should not feel delegitimized because they experienced civil war. Rather, the war was a legitimizing event. It was the crucible in which the nation of Lebanon was born, in much the same way as the American Civil War was the crucible in which the nation of America was born.
I am an American. I am also a Southerner. The South is the only region of America to have ever experienced “foreign”
occupation as we were occupied by Federal troops from 1866–1872. We, in the South, did not assume the identity of our conquerors by becoming Yankees. We stayed Southerners, and to this day are proud of our unique heritage. However, we became even better Americans. To this day most of the American military is made up of Southerners. We make the finest officers and foot soldiers.
No person who engaged in, or lived through, the Lebanese Civil War—which ended, by the way, in 1976; the rest of the fighting was a proxy war of aggression executed against Lebanon by her neighbors—should feel compelled or threatened into surrendering their cultural identity as a result of the Lebanon war. Rather, a national identity should emerge, in conjunction with a cultural one. Everyone from Lebanon is a Lebanese first. Everyone passed through the war, suffered from the war, and now faces occupation because of the war and its outcome. There is a common history which weaves each community, ethnic, regional, and religious, together to form one national identity. It was the common thread of the American Civil War that did the same for America.
To be from Lebanon means you are from a place of refuge and tolerance. You share a country with people of many different backgrounds, cultural identities, and faiths. To make Lebanon like its Arabic neighbors is to deny her identity.
I agree with many of the writers that Lebanese are free to be Arabs if this is their cultural identity, and they are free to be Western if that is their cultural identity, or even Aramaic. This is the point. In Lebanon, one should be free to be different. This is the essence of being Lebanese and the essence of being American.
Wayne Kasem
…
“Can’t we all just get along?” asked the modern-day philosopher with puffed lips.
…
I sent a note to Mr. Kasem asking, if the South was a hotbed of refuge and tolerance, how come they have the highest rates of gaybashing in the world. He was not very amused. I received death threats.
…
My mother was baptized when she married my father. She had no choice. Either one of my parents had to take on the other’s religion to get married. We have no civil marriage in Lebanon, only religious. Neither of them was very religious, nor were their families. I have two aunts and one uncle who had interfaith marriages. Even after my father died, and the city was divided, my mother adamantly refused to move to West Beirut, which was probably safer for her. We would have to cross to visit her parents twice a week. Grandma Salwa crossed with us on a number of occasions. For her, it was a pilgrimage, a rebellion against a state of affairs she had little control over.
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