Grigory Perelman

–The Reluctant Genius

I know, I know, I should be blogging about popular stuff. Stuff like the fact Ricky Martin has decided to come “out of the closet” years after most of us decided to sell the closet – because there was a camp, hip-swinging, Latino gay man singing Livin' la Vida Loca whilst suckin’ la vida cocka – in it. Or the news, Jamie Oliver has appeared on Oprah in order to patronize educate American parents on the virtues of healthy eating. No doubt hoping no one will notice he’s not exactly a size zero himself. The trouble was BOTH stories had a soporific effect on me.

So instead, I’m beaming you this brilliant news item from Omar Towers; it’s about a Russian man that’s so brainy he makes Stephen Hawking look like one of Tupac Shakur’s bodyguards. His name is Grigory Perelman (pictured below).

Grigory Perelman has solved a problem that has perplexed the world’s elite mathematicians for ages…and ages. It was one of those impossibly hard conundrums that can confuse even the most illuminated luminaries. Questions like: why can’t Jennifer Aniston get a new husband for love nor money? And: is Michael Jackson really dead, or did he just bump off La Toya and change his weave?

Apparently, the conundrum was so difficult to solve and baffled so many genii, the FBN (Federal Bureau of Nerds) offered a prize of one million dollars *said whilst holding pinky finger at corner of mouth* to anyone who could solve it.

Then, colour me happy! The super-brainy, unemployed, Ping-Pong playing reclusive mathematician who lives in Russia with his octogenarian mother (no, I’m not making this up) solved the equation and won the *holds pinky finger back to corner of mouth* one million dollars.

Here’s the bit that got my attention. On hearing that he won the prize the reclusive brainiac issued a statement that he may not accept the money and that he was, “Thinking it over.” Apparently, the reluctant genius is notorious for declining awards (click here for full story).

Now, there’s one half of me that wants to hitchhike to Hull, then get a ferry to Rotterdam, then get the Fyra train to Amsterdam, and then get the overnight train to Moscow, and then catch a coach to Saint Petersburg and finally, a taxi to his house (I have an irrational fear of flying) to mollywop him so hard across the left side of his face, that the synapses on the right side of his brain would only work during hurricane weather. Then, remove his glasses (all boffins wear glasses) and shake him so hard I’d give his mother whiplash just from watching. All the while shouting: TAKE THE FUCKING MONEY DICKWAD! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW MANY BLOW JOBS YOUR AVERAGE TWO-BIT HO HAS TO ADMINISTER TO EARN THAT KIND OF DOSH?! JUST TAKE THE MONEY ALREADY!!

But then the other half of me is like…man, what a clever fucker – not only did he solve the equation – he also knows there’s no such thing as a free lunch.

-Cheyelle Omar

COPYRIGHT ©2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: CHEYELLE OMAR

The Elephant's Sad Eyes

– Images that make me glad death is an inevitably

Poor elephant. – Miles from home, surrounded by performing monkeys.

- Cheyelle

COPYRIGHT ©2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: CHEYELLE OMAR

The Diagnosis of Emily Parr

- Nigger and other N-words

There was this well-spoken young white girl from Bristol, England, called Emily Parr.  When Emily was around nineteen, she managed to get on the British version of the reality show, Big Brother. Whilst on the show, Emily was having a chat and a cigarette with a black girl called Charley Uchea. And during the conversation, Charley lifted her top up to show Emily her stomach (she believed she had gained weight). At which point Emily said – referring to Charley’s stomach – “You’re pushing it out ya nigga.”

The furore generated by that young white girl’s response to Charley was quite simply, mind-boggling. She was immediately removed from the show (via the back door) and unceremoniously thrust into what was left of her life. Meanwhile, “The N-Word Debate” rumbled on for what seemed like an eternity.

I personally, call everyone nigga – white folks, black folks, boyfriends, friends, the Chinese…Jews. Hell, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve said to my beloved little fawn Pug dog (who, infuriatingly, gets up in my business every time I’m about to eat): “Step away from my food nigga, ‘fore I knock you into a different breed!”

Now, that’s not to say I’d walk into the White House or Buckingham Palace and be all like: “Wazzz-up niggras?” to the Obamas or The Queen & Prince Phillip respectively. But that’s because I have a ‘common-sense filter.’ Nigga is a term of endearment I save for those in my inner-circle – folks who know me well enough to know where I’m coming from, where I come from and where I’ve been. Besides, the simple truth is, by making certain words taboo – it makes folks (especially, people like me) UTTERLY COMPELLED TO SAY THEM.

Occasionally, I think about Emily Parr. The white girl who was metaphorically thrown to the lions for being guilty of, in my opinion, having an underdeveloped ‘common-sense filter.’ Based on what I saw, her and Charley were friends. She weren’t no racist. I would’ve liked to of told her so too…asked her how things have been since she left the show. Told her not to worry.

It’s interesting, cos the last time I was in the States. I noticed one of the things a lot of young black people have done in order to bypass the politicalization of the N-word, is to assert that there are different variants of the word: 

• Nigger – pejorative term.
• Nigga  – affectionate term.

It reminded me of an event that occurred before I entered the care system. At the time I resided in the UK with my blood family – first-generation North African immigrants. I remember how they changed their names from Omar and Kwildi, to Hardy – a more European name. It was done in order to get a foot in the door when they sent out job applications. I often wonder if they chose the name “Hardy” because of how hard it must of been for them to waive their own heritage; their own name. Perhaps, if they had altered the spelling of their names but kept the pronunciation the pill would have been less bitter. Opting for Homer instead of Omar and Quilday instead of Kwildi. I’m sure the difference is academic to all but those who have had to renounce their own identity, in order to get by.

In my opinion, the real racists; sexists; elitists to be mindful of are the ones in power: the law makers/enforcers, employers, doctors, politicians, teachers, surgeons and judges. Educated, Machiavellian, politically correct types. People skilled in the art of duplicity, social etiquette and the English language. People who would never be heard saying words such as nigger, nigga or even niggard!

Did Emily Parr say nigger or nigga? Does is it even matter? Not to me.  I know my name, and I know its worth. Was she a racist? I’m not so sure. Perhaps she was just another fame-nabbing, naïve, nitwit.

To triumph; know your opponent. (source: Madea)

- Cheyelle Omar

COPYRIGHT ©2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: CHEYELLE OMAR

Bullock vs. Bullshit

- For America’s Sweetheart…

There once was a beautiful actress named Sandra,

who had the misfortune to marry a philanderer.

She hit the heights

but he preferred bikes.

So he tinkered with a MySpace pole-dancer.

-Cheyelle Omar

Keep your chin up Ms. B…x

COPYRIGHT ©2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: CHEYELLE OMAR

A Tweet & Twitpic

– About me and my dog

He’s epileptic, incontinent, can hardly walk & got only 1 testicle - but I ♥♥♥ him. What can I say, I'm loyal like that.

For those of you who don’t follow me on twitter, don’t worry about it, my tweets are usually rubbish. However, it is a good place to pick-up random cyber-friends; chew the fat for a while and then cut loose. Perfect for a confirmed bachelorette like myself. Yesterday, I learnt how to do twitpics* – the image above is the result. It was a snapshot, but on reflection, the impromptu picture of my dog sat at my desk has some of the best days of my life (so far) contained within it. I wanted to share it with you. So I did.

Dedicated to Boycie (pictured above): My first dog. He will ALWAYS be the 'Bo' to my 'Jangles'.

* Twitpic is a website that allows users to easily post pictures to the Twitter microblogging and social media service.

COPYRIGHT ©2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: CHEYELLE OMAR

The Bad Girls Club

– The dull, the mad and the fugly

For those who don’t know, the Bad Girls Club is an American “reality show.” The show gets a bunch of fame hungry, money driven hos. Then dumps them in a house somewhere in LA to let ‘em duke it out whilst in various states of undress and drunkenness – basically, it’s like Newcastle City Centre on any given night.

So, with Oxygen’s Bad Girls Club coming to its finale next week, and in honour of the young women whose ridiculous antics have entertained me up here in Omar Towers. Here is a quick rundown of the show’s leading ladies and links to the videos that contain their defining moments.

Ready? Let’s do it…

• Natalie “I run LA” Nunn: Machiavellian, desperate and ignant [sic]. If she were white, I’m pretty sure she would have confessed to being another of Tiger Woods’ fuck-buddies by now (whether she’d fucked him or not). Entertaining, but for all the wrong reasons.

• Kate aka Malibu Barbie: Definitive proof Aileen Wuornos is probably a better role model for young girls than Barbie – meretricious, meretricious, meretricious. She was labeled a racist after she refused to go to a nightclub because she didn’t want to go to, “…A sweaty, black place.” Who cares? – An unintelligent racist is about as dangerous as having unprotected sex with a Ken doll.

• Flo the bisexual Albanian-New Yorker: Built like a Russian shot-putter, wouldn’t look out of place as an extra in Million Dollar Baby; she had all the finesse of a transatlantic cargo ship. Started off cool, but then broke her ankle after she got pushed in the pool during a fight with one of the other house-hos. She limped on, but soon had a nervous breakdown and hobbled back to Yonkers – but not before the other girls water-bombed her ass on the way out.

• Kendra: the 21^st century’s version of Shug Avery (The Colour Purple) – only without the charm, the soul or the talent. She was the prettiest one. It’s just a shame she couldn’t resist spitting at people – seriously, the girl was like LA’s answer to the Trevi Fountain.

• Then there was the fat one, the dull one, the baby-muffa and the one whose name escapes me for all the right reasons.

Bravo ladies! You weren’t better than a Charles Bukowski book or a Tennessee Williams play, but you certainly put on a good show. I was going to write to the BBC to ask them to do a British version – then I realized, we already had it…it's called Buckingham Palace: The Fergie Years.

- Cheyelle Omar

Mission Statement

I’m an equalist™ (as opposed to a feminist). I believe all humans are equally as mad, violent and prone to self-destruction as each other. Equalists™ believe all Homo sapiens – men and women – must learn to fight our inherent base instincts.  Unfortunately, one of the downsides to my equalist™ philosophy is that successful equalists™ are, by definition, prone to being extremely dull aka Ben Affleck. A condition we refer to in the movement as, Affleckism™.

Click here for the Bad Girls Club season 4 in its entirety.

COPYRIGHT ©2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: CHEYELLE OMAR

Beyoncé & Gaga

– Leave a message after the tone…

I was gonna review Telephone – the “groundbreaking” new video by Gaga & Beyoncé. The video unfurls at a monumental nine minutes, thirty-two seconds. The collaboration is rapidly becoming one of the most watched videos of all time, notching up 17 million views in its first four days.* Thing is, I thought it was Shite (with a capital ‘S’)…dare I say, even a bit dull.

I liked the bit where they danced in sync but that was about it. I watched their endeavor twice but felt nothing – twenty minutes I will never get back. Was it the incessant and crude product placement? Perhaps it was the cliché pseudo-homoeroticism? Or maybe it was the bastardized B-movie motif that left me cold? Truthfully, I couldn’t tell ya. According to Gaga the video was, "A commentary on the kind of country that we are [referring to the States]." It’s not my place to say – I’m an outsider – but it didn’t represent the America I know.

So, here instead is a music video of exquisite beauty and incredible integrity. In my opinion it’s the auditory equivalent of a 3-minute orgasm. I didn’t pay for it and the artist weren’t selling – I literally stumbled across it today. I am immensely grateful to Ronnie, the musician. The performance made me feel – and I am the richer for it.

Before you press play, I recommend you take the phone off the hook…

- Cheyelle

*source: The Daily Telegraph

COPYRIGHT ©2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: CHEYELLE OMAR

Lowry’s Street Scene & The 100th Post

– Crossing the lines

Well, I’ve done it. It’s official – this is my 100^th post. And I’m gonna celebrate by ceasing from blogging…for a spell. The fact is, this blog was originally started as an elaborate alternative to a suicide note, or rather, a ‘message in a portal’ if by chance I was to die prematurely…that and the fact I needed a place to practice my spelling, punctuation and sentence structures. It’s not that I thought I would die per se. It’s just that it occurred to me – last October – that without family, children or husbands (ex or otherwise), if I were to die, no one would have known who I was, what I liked to eat, what made me smirk; sad; vexed; inspired. How would the kind strangers, teachers, carers, employers and friends who have embellished my life along the way, know that I knew their worth? It occurred to me, that once my estate was handed over to Barnardo's – the childrens' charity that saved me – as is set out in my will. There would be nothing left, nothing left of me, nothing left to accompany the published poems.

It’s not that I thought my life was interesting, special or noteworthy. It’s just that like many others, I have spent large swathes of my life being misunderstood. I suppose you could say: I am more afraid of being misunderstood than I am of death.

So I did what I do – I wrote. And a hundred posts later; here I am…still alive, with better grammar, a half-decent blog, and you.

I need to stop writing for a bit now. I have to maintain what I have made – my labels are a hot mess and I need to update my links 'n' shit. Boring stuff, but stuff that needs to be done proper – how I do’s it. There’s also stuff that needs to be done if others are to find me, like how you did.

So, while I take this short break (certainly no longer than a week) to do routine maintenance, I leave you with my favourite L.S. Lowry picture, Street Scene (above). A couple of years back, I contemplated buying this picture – went as far as getting a representative to call the dealer and negotiate a price. I love it you see. But, something inside said: Don’t look at life as you once knew it, live it as you once dreamt it. Besides, it was well-fucking expensive for what is fundamentally a fucking doodle.

Oh! And here are some darn good blogs I suggest you read in my absence:

Mccaffery

A Misplaced Boy

Not Worth Mentioning!

The Japing Ape

The Clean White Page

Eccentricity

 Holla…

- Cheyelle

Ps. Please don’t overfeed the fish.

COPYRIGHT ©2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: CHEYELLE OMAR

The Bachelorette Menus - Menu 4

Meals for confirmed bachelors & bachelorettes...

Sweet and Fire Prawns

When I lived on the old farmstead in Algeria – with my nana – we used to recite a little food inspired ditty, it went a bit like this: We ain’t black, we ain’t Caucasian, but when it comes to food we sure loves Asian. Okay, we never really said that…never…not even once. However, for this installment of the Bachelorette Menus, I am going to bring you an Asian inspired platter for your delectation.




What you need is…

1-2         Packet(s) of tempura prawns from your local supermarket

1            Bottle of sweet chilli dipping sauce

1            Bottle of Encona hot sauce

1            Pkt of ready to eat samosas (optional)

The ingredients for this finger licking dish are on the pricey side; so do shop around for budget range crustaceans if you’re feeling the squeeze of the recession. For my part, I’ve opted to wash less and stay in more in order to maintain my preference for good quality seafood. As most of the ingredients are pre-prepared, you won’t have to worry about the time constrains of actually prepping, cooking and cleaning – honestly, this dish is so easy to make even Richard Reid (the shoe bomber) could pull it off.

How I do’s it…

• Heat king prawns/jumbo shrimp as directed on packaging.
• Fill a ramekin (I use an eggcup) ¼ of the way up with Encona hot sauce.
• Fill the remainder of the receptacle with the sweet chilli sauce (to taste).
• Stir.
• Line a bowl with kitchen roll (to soak up excess oil from the prawns).
• Open pre-cooked samosas and layout on plate (as pictured below).

And hey presto! It’s done. In fact, I had the dish two nights ago whilst watching a five-part drama about a cross-dressing Muslim, on BBC iPlayer. I generally opt to have this meal when I fancy finger food, or I want to impress an unsuspecting suitor with my cooking prowess.

I recommend you have this dish with a glass of homemade pineapple juice with umbrellas and sparklers in it. However, if like me, you've rarely got the time for all that DIY folly – I recommend you have the seafood fare with a lovely glass of Rubicon mango juice with plenty of ice (like how I do’s it).

An ‘O-mar-God tip’ for all you bachelors & bachelorettes out there: If all the fussing around with wrapping, kitchen roll and stirring in the main course has left you too flustered to prepare a dessert, I suggest you serve the dish with a delicious Bounty bar (or a Hershey’s Almond Joy, if you live stateside). – Perfect for sharing with a special someone or a perfect reminder of who needs a “special someone,” when being single means you get to have both pieces all to yourself. – Yama, Yama, Yama.

Enjoy…

And remember, if “Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels*” then why are bulimics always feeling sick? – Hey!

- Cheyelle Omar

* A controversial quote recently made by British supermodel Kate Moss

COPYRIGHT ©2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: CHEYELLE OMAR

“Don’t fuck with old senior citizens…

…They’ll surprise you once in a while.”

The Masticating Lady

The title of this post is a quote from the 67-year-old “star” of the latest YouTube video to go viral. Some have said that the video exemplifies racial tensions in America. The video shows two “gentlemen” getting into an altercation on an AC Transit bus. However, I’m less interested in the rights and wrongs of the two protagonists – an elderly white gentleman dubbed Epic Beard Man, and a younger black gentleman nicknamed, Young Black Dude. What’s interesting to me, are the reactions of the passengers on the bus, who on the whole, act as though nothing is happening.

For those who haven’t already seen the video, I warn you now: this video does contain graphic images of violence and is unsuitable for minors and those of a sensitive disposition (I’ve always wanted to say that).

As I see it, the video has less to do with race and more to do with stupidity. Young Dude shoulda known better than to fuck with old boy - them old folks been through wars and shit; and I don’t mean Call of Duty 4 on an Xbox 360. Ain't he seen Gran Torino!? – Duh!

What strikes me about the video is the pluckiness of The Masticating Lady in the blue top and white trainers/sneakers. I’ve yet to see or read anything that highlights her laudable response to the volatile situation. Yes, she laughs it off at first. But by intervening and trying to stop the fight from escalating – when it would've been far easier for her not to get involved, or worse still, encourage the violence like the two idiots filming – she exhibits a level of courage I find hard to ignore. 

I hope good things come to her, for me she really is the star of the video. I hope one day she won’t have to ride the bus anymore. I really, really do.

- Cheyelle

COPYRIGHT ©2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: CHEYELLE OMAR

The Million Pound Motor

- And its one thousand buck doppelgänger

Here’s a picture of the 1 million pound, Italian supercar the Zonda Tricolore. The car is due to be unveiled at the Geneva Motor Show (4^th–14^th March 2010). According to the makers of the car – Pagani – the jet planes of the Italian air force’s aerobatic team were the inspiration behind the vehicle. The car/wannabe-jet can go from 0-62mph in just 3.4 seconds; comes with blue sports seats, special carbon fibre finish to its bodywork, and can max out at a whiplash-inducing 220mph (click here for the science bit). And for those who pride themselves on originality, the car is a complete one-off  – the Joneses wouldn’t be able to keep up with you even if they could afford to.

I don’t have a million pounds; bucks; or even M&M’s right now and I can’t drive, so I’m looking at it from purely an aesthetics point of view. Nevertheless, the “supercar” does look a bit like a suped-up/pimped-out TR7 to me (pictured below).

It's probably a girl thing or the fact, that for a million quid/bucks, I’d expect the car to not only get me from A to B without me having to actually drive it…or park it! – I’d also expect the car to come with an en suite toilet and be capable of wiping my arse, not to mention walking the dog and doing the same for him. 

I guess Knight Rider’s got a lot to answer for…

- Cheyelle Omar

COPYRIGHT ©2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: CHEYELLE OMAR