The truncated normalcy that phagocytes the city is betrayed by the avail-
ability of parking spaces, by the Brian Eno-ish humming of emergency
generators that cure its power failure and duct-tape its muteness, by the lack
of synchronization of the TV sets for either the grand finale of a Mexican (Or
South American in general) soap opera, or by the absence of the mitigated
shouts of approbation or resentment to a goad during the World Cup (Wasn’t
this summer supposed to be the “time to make friends” TM in Germany?).
The city is lathered in its mid-afternoon siesta, pity those dignitaries who
have been given its “keys”, for on the non-existent doors, signs stating “Do
not disturb” (Stolen from the many vacant hotels that regurgitated their tour-
ists the moment things started to boil) adorn imaginary gold-plated handles.
Summertime in Beirut, it is the unsold football branded merchandise baring
the German and Brazilian logos when it was the Italians that won. It is the
six-pack “Pepsi Football 2006” emblazoned with heads of soccer gods, now
sold in a “buy 5 get 1 for free” offer. It is the sun-drenched Hardee’s bill-
board still advertising the offer with watches and other memorabilia to win.
It is the “forced amnesia” that this city’s genetic mutants of inhabitants have
learned to master. And it is the 70% sales and clearance offers that shops
offer in preparation for the fall/winter arrival. It is the room temperature
that meets the boiling point. My crushed ice baths have shrunk my testicles
beyond recognition; the hairs dangling from my balls appear now too long,
unplayed with, and miserably lonely. It is the body temperature that meets
the freezing point.