MALL STALK

These Arab men in their pressed dishdashas stalk the malls like ghosts, talking into their remote mobile microphones. They pile their headgear atop their laced Muslim beanies flipping one corner over the other creating what they call "The Cobra"--which it does sort of resemble, a Cobra flaring its head; the Cobra ghutra--the "rag" as they say pejoratively in "rag head" also reminds me of a cowboy hat with a pinched brim pulled down a bit over the forehead.

These are not the Mall rats of western culture. They are not young men, that is to say, they are not Dudes scoping and a hoping for Babes. They are men in their thirties, forties, fifties, wandering without direction through malls--chatting into their mouthpieces.

I'm told they meet their potential paramours in this fashion--not face to face, but at least in the same building. I'm told that they follow their veiled objects of the heart at a distance pitching woo while appearing to be conversing with an invisible friend, or God or both.

It must be nice. Seriously. This Muslim mating dance taking place well beyond the age I was when the little things left me swollen as all the sensible blood drained into the equator.

What used to do it for me? A glimpse of a bra strap. Shoulder blades. Sweaters. Long necks. Tiny hands. A giggle.

What does it for me now? This is a family blog, sa? Can I say, "For starters, a rent one get the second at half the price China doll special and a 50 mg blue diamond shaped pill."