Smooth...

I'm really not sure what to say about this.

Obviously, the building was soundly built, which is encouraging (if I can assume that, perhaps, my own building is also soundly built).

At the same time, though, this kind of tom-foolery doesn't inspire confidence.

When I say "gimmick"...

... you say "cheap".

50 Cent is in Turkey this week. Curtis Jackson, in the middle of a performance in the Aegean summer resort of Çeşme, draped himself in a Turkish flag and began holler'in at the crowd:

"When I say Atatürk, you will say respect."

He also went on to ask audience members where he could find some weed.

Hayatimda bu kadar aptal bir hedefi benim memleketimden buraya gelebilecektiğini inanamiyordum.

Or in English, "Why do only douche bags have passports?"

Atatürk is a debatable figure, particularly among the audience that would want to see 50 Cent in concert here. It's hip-hop for god's sake, anti-establishment, anti-authoritarian, and lots of shiny. Bling... bling... come on!

Is it poor planning on the part of his handlers? I seriously doubt Curtis Jackson would knowingly go to Spain and pay his respects to Franco, or give a shout-out to Mussolini in Italy.

It's crap like this that makes it distincly embarrassing for me to be an American living in Turkey. In general, Americans know two things about Turkey:
1. Mustafa Kemal Atatürk (by that I mean his name)
2. A problem with Kurdish people is happening somewhere near here

Many would be hard pressed to find it on a map, because we haven't ever formally declared war on the country, so there's been little media interest.

Just as when Hillary, and later Obama, came to visit, I'll hear about this event for months; from taxi drivers and pastry sellers, and all sorts of people, generally on the right wing of Turkish politics that I prefer not to speak with because most of them will probably echo the same damn opinion. Somehow, this will get sucked into the nationalist rhetoric that I so frequently run into, and I'll be the ass (or worse, really offend someone) for pointing out that Curtis Jackson, in point of fact, is just an ignorant hip-hop star and not really the sort of person a proper Kemalist wants waving the flag around.

Seriously, every time an American gets a hold of a microphone in this country, they take a shot at exposing how fundamentally retarded and ill-informed we can be. I need my insulated, self-righteous indignation and sense of cultural superiority in order to justify continuing to live here. It's just too easy to connect the dots: Curtis Jackson = Tard, and Curtis Jackson = American, thus American = Tard, and in conclusion Sean = Tard.

Thanks a lot Curtis, keep on rockin.

These things happen...

... I suppose.

I'll start with a story my friend Phil told me, one night over cards in Damascus.

One afternoon, whilst wandering the ancient paradise-turned-real estate venture we were using as a place for Arabic study and spy games, Phil had an epiphany: "The instance of random death or injury are much higher in the Middle East, than other places I have been."

This revelation was inspired by an air conditioning unit. Air conditioning units being not uncommon in desert climates, this unit was unique in that it had, seemingly out of boredom or discomfort, detached itself from the side of a tall apartment building. Without so much as a murmur to warm pedestrians, the air conditioner fell in a path predetermined by the Earth's gravitational pull, and crashed into the sidewalk fifty meters or less in front of Phil.

Friends may have noticed my habit of looking up whilst walking the city. This is an attempt to mitigate the threat of random death. If nothing else, this routine has saved me from having dirty laundry water dumped on me, and enabled me to avoid a few carelessly discarded cigarette butts.

Alas, in a world where the only benevolent force I observe is that of Murphy's Law (not so much a force as a universal constant), randomness caught up with me over the weekend.

Beşiktaş was in its final, and most important match of the past several years, Saturday night. Effectively tied with Sivas Spor, Beşiktaş needed a win in order to secure the championship. This has been a great season for my team (we won the Turkish Cup not two weeks ago), but I had never before had the pleasure of witnessing a winning season, much less a championship, for Beşiktaş.

I was excited.

Excitement took me to a crowded alley, that for the night of the match, was serving as a restaurant and viewing area. The match was taking place in Denizli, so television was our best option for watching it. Rakı, bira, peynir, yemek...

(Drunk + food)^match = good time

Here's a taste:




By the second half, we were ahead by a goal, and the news had come down that Sivas Spor was losing. You could smell the coming alcohol-fueled celebrations only 45 minutes away. We watched and drank and enjoyed the moment.

This is me, getting into the drama:




Sometime later, I noticed a few tourists walking past, gawking at the fervor. I thought to myself, "let's invite them to join us!"

So, I took my beer, left the throng of tables and people and food, and walked behind the TV to say "hello" to these Austrians, as they turned out to be.

The first rule about Beşiktaş matches: Never turn your back on the game. That's when you miss goals.

The second rule has something to do with fire...



Anyhow, I was separated from the solidarity of the pack... easy prey, as it were, for other drunk fans. When Beşiktaş scored its second goal, I didn't see it. I saw the reaction of my fellow diners, and I put my hands in the air. I began screaming some Turkish cheer (probably "Şampiyonluk bizim, kupa bizim!", the championship is ours, the cup is ours).

Then, someone picked me up...

I'm not sure why, but now airborn, I understood that this was all part of the celebration. I was fully held off the ground, by someone slightly shorter than me, but strong. Whoever he was, he was himself jumping around.

Then, he lost his balance.

As we tumbled I planted my right leg to stop the fall, and immediately felt the pop, which my doctor later identified as a torn ACL. Despite my effort, I didn't stop falling, and managed to end our trip ground-ward by planting my face firmly into the corner of the table which held the TV.

In the aftermath, as I collected my pieces, I noticed that the man was gone. I don't know who it was, and never saw him. My glasses were on the ground, and before I could collect the pieces, I had to wipe the blood off my face.

Then, for the first time that evening, I set down my beer.


Go Beşiktaş!