Night Three in Bangkok ...

... and off I went to Thai Boxing.

Yes, Muay Thai. มวยไทย.

I went there with J. He had already bought a ticket and I caved in to peer pressure. A lack of social alternatives can do strange things to a person ... just ask William Golding.

I hate violent sports but given I went to the girly bars on Wednesday night I thought ... well ... "what the hey". May as well scratch my arse and spit into the sawdust with the rest of them.

The ticket said that it started at 18:30. Luckily the hotel told us not to go until about 20:30 when the adults get into it. Until then, I think it starts at kindergarten and works its way up.

Needless to say we arrived at 20:15 and they still looked pretty young. (Actually the whole country looks pretty young.)

"Shut up!"

"No YOU shut up!"

"No. YOU. YOU shut up!"

"Mum! Muuuuummmm! Somchai just kicked me!"

"I did NOT!"

As soon as the bell sounds, though, they are completely nice to each other. There was a ring of sincerity (and maturity) about the way they smiles and patted each other on the back at the end of each round.

Fagin: "You'd like to make pocket handkerchiefs as easily as the Artful Dodger, wouldn't you my dear? "

Oliver Twist: "Yes, if you teach me sir."

Fagin: "We will, my dear, we will."

At the beginning of each fight there is a dance. Apparently this is for the fighters to pay respect to their teachers. If I taught boxing and my pupils came out and did this, I would be mortified:

Ummm. Excuse me? Do you work here? Which stadium is playing the fight? Oh. Are you sure?

If these were my students they would be in so much trouble. Embarrassed, even. I would be like "No! No! That's not what we practised at all!".

Like the Sydney Olympics Opening Ceremony, when Cathy Freeman lit the flame and it stalled on its way up to the cauldron.

I went out to check what this guy in the box was doing. I think it was a crossword. At least he wasn't smoking.

The worst part though? I actually, really, sincerely, wholeheartedly ...

Enjoyed it.

"Well you can tell by the way I use my walk"

I even enjoyed it when the blood came pissing out of the last guy's cheek. Maybe because. Maybe especially because. I don't know. I just liked it. It was fascinating and interesting and suspenseful. And violent. And I was a bit pissed by then.

"Mummy are two those men fighting?"

"Yes dear. Yes. Fighting. Now grab your bag we have to go. Quick!"

"But can't we stay to the end of this fight? You promised!"

"No. Hurry up. We're going to miss our train."

"But we don't catch a train."

"Don't talk back to your mother!"

Until then, I had no idea that's why they called it the ring.

Sweating the Small Stuff

Today was all sweat sweat sweat cough cough cough sweat sweat cough sweat.

A mini bout of flu, with some fever, and coughing, doesn't mix with 35 degree humidity. Nor does a chambray coloured shirt. I looked like the potato who just landed yesterday and hadn't gotten used to the humidity. All I was missing was a hooker and a fake Rolex.

I've had a pretty bad cold for a few days and a bit of fever. You say man cold; I say dengue fever.

Today I had a lot of presentations with the client, meaning walking up the road to various meetings in full suit and tie, in 35 degree humidity.

This is never good on a slight fever. It is even worse when you have to do hours of standing in front of people, waffling on confidently about something you don't know.

It is a lot of pressure to be flown into a country and be trotted out as the world expert in a subject that you didn't even know existed 48 hours ago.

I coughed and sweated my way through 3 presentations today. Each one was about 2 hours duration and I was the main presenter (meaning that I strut up to the front after a 5 minute intro and stay there).

Today, because of the heat and the fever, I didn't have time to cool down from the walk. I had to keep my suit jacket on during the presentation to cover the unsightly large patches of sweat on my shirt. This only made me hotter. Temperature, of course.

Because the World Expert was quite new to this topic and probably had less experience (but far better PowerPoint) than many people in the audience. So he had to really concentrate. And I really concentrated.

Notwithstanding all this focus, I still couldn't stifle a second narrative inside my head.

Imagine if someone really wanted to become a translator but didn't have language skills. One day they find themselves lying their way into a job as a film subtitler for, say, something obscure like Bulgarian. "Sure, I can speak Bulgarian" they said in the interview, desperate for a break. For whatever reason, their references aren't checked and they get the job.

When they get their first Bulgarian film to subtitle, they have to create another story that matches the visual on the screen. My second narrative today felt like I was that Bulgarian actor, whose words were being butchered.

My spoken word:

"The industry expectation of change has more than doubled since 2004."

The subtitles:

"Is that a bead sweat on my forehead? I wonder if I could brush it off discretely? Oh fuck I don't think I can. Hang on. Just turn to look at the screen and go to point at something. Brush past it on your way through."

Spoken:

"We are starting to see more focus on revenue growth and business model innovation. This will likely continue until 2012."

Subtitles.

"Oh fuck it really was a full bead of sweat! This is not going well. What if I break out and it starts running down my neck? Don't think about it. You'll only get your heart rate up and it will happen. Just concentrate on breathing slowly and not moving around too much."

Spoken:

"The highest impact to capital expenditure will come from the creation of new assets to enable informed and collaborative customer insights."

Subtitles:

"Oh no. There goes the neck. There's going to be a ring of sweat on my collar soon. Who's controlling the airconditioning here? Is it working at all? Is that a ceiling vent over there? Maybe I should see if it's blowing out any cool air. How can I get myself under it? OK so let me do a little walk-and-talk. I'll find a reason to walk to that whiteboard and draw something and go via the vent. If it's blowing, I'll go back to that spot when I'm finished on the whiteboard. Just draw a triangle on the board - don't worry the rest will come to you one the triangle's been committed. OK so let's go now ..."

Spoken:

"This creates 3 competing priorities for your organisation. The key is understanding how to balance them."

[Selects a green marker, it doesn't work, replaces it and picks a red one, this works, draws a triangle.]

"Firstly, there's the overall customer experience ..."

Subtitles:

"I don't think I felt any air coming out of it. I think it was cooler back at the other spot. Should I try to get back there before ... wait a minute. I think I'm cooling down. Maybe that Panadol has kicked in. Oh no now I need to cough again. When was the last time I coughed? Should I wait a bit? OK just try speaking in a low, even tone for a while and it might go away."

Spoken:

"A new, converged, competitive media and communications landscape is evolving."

Subtitles:

"That didn't work. I think I'll try a little cough now to clear the throat. I hope it doesn't open the flood gates. Where's the glass of water? Oh fuck it's back over there. How can I get back over there again? I know ... just start pacing and looking across at everyone from left to rightflood. [Cough cough cough cough]. Oh fuck that didn't go well at ALL! At least someone else just coughed in the audience as well. I might be starting something."

Spoken:

"Organisational restructure provides many benefits. However, if it is not timed effectively the benefits will become eroded."

Subtitled:

"Fuck I feel hot again. Oh no. Now I'm sweating at the front ... I think it's visible through the shirt again. [cough cough] Why did you wear the blue shirt today when you knew you would be presenting to these people? You shouldn't even wear it when you're not sick. [cough cough] OK time to do up the button on the suit jacket before I look like a complete mess. [cough] So now all the heat is going to bottle up and rise out the top. I must look terrible. I wonder where we're going for lunch today. I think I'm feeling a bit faint. What that dizzy or did the lights flicker? Oh no. Who's that fucker with his hand up?"

Spoken:

"That's an excellent question. Firstly, I would ask whether you consider your strategy to be cost driven or value driven. I'll be talking about these alternatives soon in the presentation. ... This next slide covers component business modelling to drive process transformation in large entreprises. It should answer your question quite well."

Subtitled:

"I have no idea how to answer this. Just put him off for a few slides ... he won't have the guts to ask it again later. Fuck there is a typo on this slide as well. I hope we don't go anywhere for lunch where they ask for our jackets. Because this one isn't moving. This is going to take a lot of toilet paper to dry me off."

Spoken:

"That concludes my presentation. Does anyone have any questions? I'm happy to share my experiences and point of view."

Subtitled:

"Keep a straight face when you say 'share my experiences'. If only they knew the truth. Please just please no one ask anything. Oh no ... shit ... who's that nerdy engineer looking guy with his hand up. This is going to be tricky ... fuck!"

I think you get the drift. Is there anyone out there who would envy this job?

Night Two In Bangkok ...

... and my pants are split. Thankfully it was the leg at the seam. I'm referring to it as a wardrobe malfunction.

... and I got electrocuted with a massive jolt up the arm. I jumped back and made a very odd sound in my throat. I guess I'm supposed to be all Zen now. Like Randle McMurphy.

... and when you book a wake-up call at the Four Seasons they do it personally, with a knock on the door. When you open it they hand you coffee.

Night One In Bangkok ...

... was spent at an Irish pub (delicious Thai food, if you can believe it). This was followed by a couple of beers at a girly bar in Nana Plaza. A networking dinner in Bangkok is never safe.

Two stages ran through the room with seating all around them. Each stage held about about 15 girls, standing crammed next to each other. They were wearing identical, skimpy white underwear. These were bad girls. Bad girls with lots of tattooes and a number visibly pinned to their bra straps.

They were all ... I think the word is ... dancing. The dominant dance style tended to be a slow, gormless, twisty sway. Out of time with the music. This must be their Macarena.

If I was on So You Think You Can Dance, this is the routine I'd like to pick out of the hat.

The girls were casually chatting to each other as they were swaying, somewhat oblivious to the leering men in the audience.

They could have been subway commuters.


They could have been socialites at a busy cocktail bar, drinking Cosmopolitans. Socialites in undies, holding poles in lieu of martini glasses.

In an attempt to avoid eye contact I scanned the room for signs of pubes (no result). In a second attempt to avoid eye contact I started checking out their Fuck Me boots. I noticed that they all had different coloured socks peeking out over the top of the boots. Glimpses of individuality: probably their only creative outlet. That and the hair. Most of the girls had died and styled their hair to the extreme. This hair was more than just teased. It was bullied. Combined with the babydoll make-up and the swaying, they looked like abandoned drunk gonks.

At the table next to us was a middle-aged Japanese man sitting with his son (early-20's). A young, skinny girl in white underwear was sitting/leaning on the son's lap. She was laughing hysterically and patting her hair at everything he said, all the while knocking back her drink and encouraging him to do the same. Lots of cheersing.

The son had his left arm around her waist. He had worked his hand up and through her armpit, so that he could fondle and squeeze her left tit without his father seeing. His hand was continually scanning the breast terrain, stopping occasionally for a break or a slow squeeze.

It looked like she was having a breast examination but he didn't look like a doctor.

I bade my colleagues farewell as they left to get a massage. 400 Baht. Special price. Just for you. Them. Not me.

'I'm so lucky to be here.'

I thought to myself as I climbed into a cab.

Who would have imagined I would have such glamour in my life?'

I thought to myself as the cab driver started handing me a couple of cards with pictures hookers on them while giving me a cheeky thumbs up.

Bleak House (Part B – Bleak)

Your first and last impressions of a country come from the airport.

Actually for some people it's the beach (refugee anyone?); a ship terminal (Julie McCoy anyone?); or a roadside checkpoint (dirty scumbag student backpacker anyone?). But this doesn't count though because these are not real people. Right?

Hanoi International Airport is bleak. It's fucking bleak.

And no matter how chirpy your Vietnam travel memories are, the experience of arriving and leaving via Hanoi Airport traps them between 2 very miserable bookends.

This morning I marched through the entrance to departures (keeping an eye out for barrels and ladders). I located the Singapore Airlines check-in and was herded onto the end of a very long queue, flanked by metal gates. I wondered whether this was how sheep felt when they are waiting to get drenched … and detected a slight acrid taste in my mouth.

There is more than one check-in queue. After half an hour of shuffling along this queue you are instucted to go stand in another queue, which is directly behind the check-in desk you have been told to use. The second check-in queue can be very long, or very short, but is always very unfair. It's tanty material.

At least the Evil Milkmaid is not the only person in Vietnam to treat me like livestock.

Fortune smiled on me today because the desk I was sent to was empty, even while others were 5 or 8 deep. Then I was sent along aa perplexing to-ing and fro-ing as one desk checked in my luggage while the other one produced my boarding pass. If they had been wearing leotards I would have sworn I had stumbled across an aerobics class.

I eventually stood in the middle of the two instructors and asked why 2 desks were being used for my check-in when it was so busy. And which one of them had my passport. They just smiled and ignored me. At least I knew one thing: my luggage would not be turning up.

Next step - Immigration. I completed in the Customs Declaration form, listing my occupation as "fancypants" and queued up for Immigration. After lots of page flicking and staring and stamping I was released.

I then joined another queue for the Customs checkpoint. This is a new queue. I hadn’t seen it before. There is always someone at the desk but they usually ignore you as you pass by waving your form.

For some reason, today she was doing her job. “Someone must be on Performance Management”, I thought to myself,before quickly reminding myself which country I was in.

In all my arrivals to and departures from I have never had this form collected or even reviewed. I have never met anyone who has. God knows I've asked. It's quite an ice-breaker actually ("Hey, I was just wondering ...").

I have tried to have my form processed. One time I even approached the desk with a "here you go", just to see what would happen. She just looked up, glanced at me, looked back down and returned to her game of Sudoku while casually saying "OK. I've seen enough". I laughed loudly and so did she.

I have named the desk Checkpoint Gladys and always say "Thanks Gladys" to the Sudoku player (male or female) as they ignore me walking past.

This time was different. I saw that she was checking boarding passes and passports. No one was handing over a Customs Declaration form. No one in the queue even had one ready.

When I got to the front I asked her whether I needed this form.

"No need" she told me. I asked why and she just repeated "No need".

A helpful man waiting behind me kindly explained that I didn’t need the form; that there was no need. I outwardly thanked him while inwardly wondering whether he really thought he was helping, or just wanted to practice his her his English.

I asked her why they still provided these detailed forms. Why had the Immigration official stamped mine? Gladys looked up, shrugged and said "No form now. Next time maybe new form." before waving me through. I walked through, a seasoned traveller, now more confused than a beginner.

Onto the bag X-ray. I emptied my pockets into the tray and walked through the door frame. It went off. I automatically turned around, walked out, then went back through while doing a self pat-down.

It went off again so I headed over to the guy behind the wooden podium with my arms automatically raising, ready for my crucifixion. He just shook his head and waved me away to get my bags. I guess he couldn't be bothered thwarting terrorists today. Maybe he had a date tonight.

I eventually got through the gates and headed to the Sky Cafe to do some work. I asked for a seat next to a power outlet. They were all taken. I asked if the wifi was working because last time it was flake.
We do not have wireless here, she told me. I have used it many times before, I said.

She responded with a blank look before repeating "No wireless".

"But ... you had wireless before, right?" I asked her ... then ... "When I was here before in May and June and July and August you had wireless?".

She smiled again and said "No wireless".

I headed out to waste some time, elsewhere, anywhere, knowing full well that shopping is limited in this terminal. There are many stores here but little variety. 3 souvenir stores sell exactly the same set of products and 50%-70% of your purchases will be confiscated at Singapore Airport on arrival. There are 4 cosmetic stores which sell exactly the same limited set of products.

It feels like that Simpsons episode where Bart goes to Springfield Mall to get his ear pierced and every store is a Starbucks except for the ear piercing place, which warns him he'd better be quick because they were about to reopen as a Starbucks. He struts out with a pierced ear, sipping a coffee.

There are 4 abandoned outlets which look like they used to sell either souvenirs or cosmetics.

No. This one has not been abandoned.

There are 2 fashion outlets which sell odd things, like $4000 handbags and $600 Bally shoes. I have never, ever seen a customer in any of the fashion stores.

So I walk upstairs to a second restaurant. This one seems to be abandoned, save for 2 potatoes and a Vietnamese family. That makes 6 waiters and 6 customers, counting me.

The only products I see on display here are an upright freezer full of New Zealand Ice Cream tubs and a row of giant Chinese rice wine bottles.

I sit at a table next to a power point and order a soda water off the menu.

There is no soda water. No, I would not like a tonic instead. I try to trick her by ordering something with soda water in it, but she's onto me.

As I wait for my lemon juice to arrive I look around again, bored and ajar. The word "bleak" comes to mind and I start writing this entry.

I finish my drink and head downstairs to the gate. The escalator is broken and I descend gingerly, expecting it to jolt into action at any time.

Me. Waiting at the gate. Yes it's really me. Hi.

Tick Tock

This doesn't sound good.

Lucky for me, this blog has never had a bad word to say about anyone.

I think I'm safe.

Bleak House (Part A)

Vietnamese legislation dictates that when traveling to the airport by taxi, at least 2 things need to go wrong. This was originally a Vietnamese Tourist Board initiative aimed at forcing people to stay a bit longer in the country, even though it made them swear to never return. It is so common now that we rarely even think about where it came from. It’s like “cheers”. Or butter.

Today's cab ride to Hanoi Airport was on par with the others. It started normally. I flagged him down, confirmed my destination, put my bag in the boot and climbed into the back seat.

The driver just sat there for a while, doing nothing. Then he picked up his two-way radio and talked to head office for a bit. I heard the word for "airport" and assumed he was receiving his instructions from Moneypenny. His prescribed list of blunders for my trip:

1. Start off on the wrong foot

He headed off in the opposite direction to the airport.

Lucky for me, the word "U-Turn" is international. I used it loudly to no avail. He nodded, pointed forward at the road and continued driving. I eventually opened my door to make him stop. He stopped and I forced him to do a 3-point turn, or should I say a 7 point turn, before we headed off in the right direction.

2. Sweat potato

For the first half of the journey he couldn’t get the air conditioner to work. I intervened. It was not my turn to be the guy in the queue with the wet patch, aka Nana’s accident.

3. Find a traffic jam

We took a few turns which I thought were a shortcut, only to realize that he was looking for a traffic jam. He found one

This one was caused by (yet another) fatal motorbike accident. It was appropriately accessorized with a circle of slack-jawed onlookers, a mangled bike and a dead body.

‘What a lovely parting image for the tourists’, I thought as we inched past.

4. Make the potato yell "Stop!” and “U-Turn!" again

We drove straight past the highway exit which was clearly marked 'Airport Departures'. I mean, "He" drove and I waited until it was too late to say anything.

5. Hey potato ... more walk less talk, OK?

When a Hanoi cab driver is ready to say goodbye, he's ready to say goodbye.

If you are not yet ready to say goodbye, he’s still ready to say goodbye.

Needless to say my driver attempted to dump me at the first available parking spot, as far away from the International check-in as possible. This is an old trick and I was ready for it. I pointed at my final destination with a firm "Di Thang!".

“Di Thang!" buys you about 10 metres at a time. But I persevered:

“Di Thang!" [pause] “Di Thang!" [pause] “Di Thang!" [pause] “Di Thang!"

I was like a new parent, desperately willing his baby to cross the room without taking a break. Or a yokel with a cattle prod in Texas. Or a new parent with a cattle prod in Wyoming.

6. The protracted farewell

I asked for a receipt. He pulled out a fresh book but seemed confused for a while about where to start. He then proceeded, slowly, completing each section (driver’s name, from, to etc). On the last line he wrote the "per km" rate instead of the total amount.

I asked him to please write the full amount in the total. He didn't cross it out. He didn't complain. He just nodded, tore up the receipt and slowly started again on a fresh canvas.

7. Peel the potato

He didn't give me my change. I had to ask for it but this time I don't think it was deliberate. Taxis rarely pull that stunt here and he was friendly. I just think the receipt writing was so overwhelming that it threw him off the rest of his game.

8. Free the spud

By the time I walked away from the cab I felt like Mario in Donkey Kong, climbing ladders and jumping over barrels to get through each stage.

Something Cute

The caretaker of my apartment block has two kids, aged about 4 and 6.

Sometimes when I arrive home they are hanging out the front with the security guard.

I greet them with a hearty "Chào cháu", which is how I was taught to say "Hello Kids".

They smile and shout back loudly "Chào Chú", which means "Hello Uncle" or more literally, the younger brother of your father.

As I walk up the stairs to my apartment I can hear them echo my greeting to each other and laughing, enjoying the novelty of my accent. It makes me smile.

iSnack 2.0

Every now and then something happens which is so impossibly stupid that I feel a bit giddy.

When I heard about the iSnack 2.0 I felt drunk and glee. Or drunken glee. I'm not sure what it was, but it was good.

What's not to love about the name iSnack 2.0?

Nothing.

There is nothing not to love about the name iSnack 2.0.

Firstly, it reeks of desperation. A desperate attempt by Marketing Professionals: take a couple of buzzwords, scrape the sparkle off of them and rub it into their new product.

An ironic attempt to be fresh, and contemporary. Ends up sounding awkward, and dated.

Kraft didn't realise that it was the Apple products themselves that made the "i" cool, not the other way around.

Poor little iSnack 2.0.

So unfair to take this Nutella-looking savoury spread and compare it with the industrial design and sex appeal of an iPhone.

You've gotta feel sorry for Kraft's Australasian Strategic Marketing department.

Imagine the brand building workshops they must have gone through. 4 weeks of intense, facilitated workshops to pick the winning name. Ensure the final choice was aligned to the brand architecture, the brand essence. The brand personality. The brand chemistry.

All this for a savoury spread that looks like the contents of a nappy.

These workshops would have started early. The office junior would have come in early to set up the room. Mini muffins and pots of coffee provided for breakfast. Her hair would still be wet because she didn't leave enough time before he train left.

The workshops would have required a working lunch. Because hey - we've got such a tight schedule and we have a lot to get through, guys. Sushi were brought in. Groovy sushi, with ponzu instead of wasabi, made by thatreallygreatplaceuptheroad.

The the ritual evening ordering of Pizza. "It's going to be yet a long night again guys", which would cause a ripple of smug chuckles around the boardroom table. This pizza came from thatotherreallygreatplaceuptheroad. Ithas cherry tomatoes and fresh basil leaves; Parma ham and black olives with the pits still in them.

The facilitator is standing in front of the whiteboard, obscuring a blue and red mindmap still there from yesterday afternoon. She goes to write something on the flipchart with the green marker, only to find that it's dry. She places it back in the tray rather than the bin ... just like the last person before her.

One of the older guys in the room said he only vaguely recognised the term "2.0" but didn't know what it meant. He was senior enough to be brave enough to admit that he didn't understand something.

The young guy in the fauxhawk rolled his eyes as he explained to everyone in the room what 2.0 means: this surefire marketing buzzword that couldn't fail. He explained it in such detail that people were left wondering whether he knew what he was talking about. No one dared ask questions for fear he would keep going.

There were some in the room who said to themselves "I initially thought this sounded dumb but it must be me who's dumb because everyone else here fucking loves it."

Others in the room must have been thinking "this sounds really stupid but I'm too junior to say anything. I hope I've got a new job before it comes out.".

The overpaid marketing consultant who advised that Kraft must not to run consumer focus groups in case of a leak. We know how to ensure we are aligned to what our consumers want, she told them.

Kraft's senior marketing executive who - 2 months earlier - sat in this same boardroom thinking to himself "iSnack 2.0? I don't get it. Everyone else seems to get it. What's wrong with me? Is that why they picked on me at school? OK you'd better say something soon so people remember you're in charge." He's the one who is now announced yesterday that:

"The winning entry was chosen for its personal call to action and clear identification of a new and different Vegemite".

I was talking to J today about what must be now happening at Kraft's offices.

Multiple conference calls with Global Marketing: loud American accents screaming down the phone. Muffled stammers and awkward silences coming back from Melbourne.

Global immediately despatch the big guns. The American Marketing Executive arrives in a Purple power suit. It looks like Armani but is really a copy she had made in Thailand during a recent business trip. You can tell by the distinctive sheen of the fabric she selected from the bolt ("Silky"). She has never worn it in New York but thinks Australians won't be able to tell the difference. She has a long blonde bob, pulled back by an age-inappropriate Alice band. Her flight arrives at 6.20am, on time (it wouldn't dare not), and she heads straight to the office for a series of emergency meetings. The first person she sees when she arrives is a girl with wet hair.

The Sydney branch of the international PR agency; appointed from New York to mop up this mess. They are at Purple's first meeting. Their team of senior sycophants suck up to her, nodding while she instructs them on obvious first steps that they have already completed. They are all "great" and "excellent feedback" and "he he ... you've obviously done this before" while secretly thinking she is an idiot. In the taxi back to their office, they make jokes about her Alice band.

The CEO of Kraft Australia who signed-off on the winning name. He is not turning up to these conference calls with Global. This helps him distance himself from the problem. Teflon. He is currently deciding which of his employees will be the Spokesperson, forced into being humiliated in front of TV cameras. He is deciding which executive will be forced into breaking the news to Spokesperson. High grade Teflon.

Poor little iSnack 2.0.

I love everything about this name. So much so that it has inspired me to start another blog in its honour.

I can't keep up with this blog so what do I do? Launch a spin off, of course. My own Knots Landing.

Finally, Proof That God Exists

There is a Susan Boyle drag act in West Hollywood.

She even goes a bit crazy in the middle.

That's three yesses from me. Through to the next round.

Our Days And Our Nights

"Woody Allen Signs Petition to Free Roman Polanski"

Oh, Woody; I really don't think you're helping.

You married your daughter.

Then again, I doubt that David Lynch fares any better. Wikipedia describes his style thus:

"Beaten or abused women are also a common subject, as are intimations or explicit mention of incest and sexual abuse (most of his films)."

Who next? Charles Manson?

Oops. I just realised what I said. Where's my manners? That may have been in bad taste. Sorry Shazza.

I meant to say Charles In Charge. Go and get Charles in Charge to sign your fucking petition, Roman. I'm not promising that he would be any less scary than your other mates. But I do miss his theme song. It still pops into my head from time to time.

Jogjakarta

Knowing how close the Jakarta bombings were to my heart (and my hotel), I've been keeping myself up to date with the investigations.

Nevertheless, I found this latest article completely shocking. I couldn't believe it.

It details how highly organised and structured these bombings were "... funding, recruitment, spiritual guidance, welfare officers for jihadi families, and others who were assigned such tasks as securing explosives, looking after transport, making videos and acting as couriers and messengers."

That part was fine. Stock standard even.

The other part was not. The part where the suicide bombers were going jogging during their final days.

Jogging?

Whatever for?

The benefits from jogging are not immediately felt. It can take weeks (or even months) to feel the positive results from jogging. It can even weaken you in the short term with sore muscles. Or a bleeding toe.

When, exactly, were they expecting to reap the benefits from this exercise regime?

Imagine if a giant asteroid was going to hit earth in 5 days and we were all going to be killed. We've all imagined what we would do in our final days. Panic, sure. Alcohol, definitely. Debauchery, probably.

But jogging?

A lot more people have put a lot more thought into this than me. There are countless films about Armageddon events. There are traffic jams. Blackouts. Kids with dirt on their cheeks clutching stuffed toys. Black Presidents. White looters. A mandatory wealthy old retired couple serenely drinking tea on the porch of their beach house.

But never, never, someone putting on a tracksuit and going for a run.

Why would a suicide bomber - someone with a clear deadline - decide that the final days leading up to his fireworks display was the time to get fit?

What sort of a sick bastard could do something like this:

"Oh my God! We're going to die! Only 1 day left! Tomorrow! What will we do??"

-- "How's about a 5k run?"

"Sure. I've been feeling like bit of a fatty lately."

I don't think I like terrorists any more. They scare me.

The Milkmaid's Tale (Part Evil)

I've been meaning to write about the Evil Milkmaid for some time. As each day brings more to tell and the task feels insurmountable. So much split milk under the bridge. So much to tell. Where to start? Where to end? The longer I leave it the more daunting it gets.

I am like an 8 year old wandering aimlessly around a messy bedroom.

Today I was thinking about the film Memento, where the main character develops anterograde amnesia and needs to rely on present events to reconstruct his past.

So that is how I'm going to explain the Evil Milkmaid. Provide just enough information about the present day events for you to slowly (and painfully) reconstruct this painful past.

A kind of Groundhog Day. That is, if Groundhog Day had an unhappy beginning and an unhappy ending. And no nauseating Whatsherface in it.

Back to the Evil Milkmaid.

Senior executives of large companies in Vietnam nearly always come from rich, connected families. This is true socialism - where poor business acumen, work ethic or experience are no barrier to promotion.

You start with an arranged marriage. Combine it with a big house. Stir in some high-ranking government connections. Add a dash of overseas education. Bake slowly for 12 years in an air-conditioned office and ... Ding! You're at the top!

Ergo the Evil Milkmaid is very senior in my company.

This means that she needs to sign-off or approve things. Lots of things. Including lots of things I need to do.

I have been forced to work with her in a number of areas. I'm her only potato underling and she hated me from the get go. She has consistently obstructed or objected my attempts at working with local clients. I didn't recognise this as racism at first but it didn't take long. (She's an Evil Milkmaid, remember, not a Subtle Milkmaid.)

She has a huge amount of confidence and power, neither of which is supported by ability or aptitude. In a professional sense, the Evil Milkmaid has little idea about what I do. She has no absolutely no experience or knowledge in my area of expertise. Neither do I ... but that's hardly the point. I'm not the one stopping me.

When I go to her she often. Just. Stops. Me. Deadinmytracks. She won't approve it. When I ask why, she usually says I don't understand the Vietnamese people or Vietnamese business culture. When I ask for more information or help on this front, she will typically tell me to go away - that she's too busy to answer my questions.

I am not talking about the impression she leaves me with. I'm talking about the actual words she uses, eg:

"Go away please Anthony - I'm too busy to talk to you."

Seriously.

That's why she's evil.

A couple of weeks ago the Evil Milkmaid went on leave. Now I know what it feels like to be the prison Bitch whose Daddy had been granted an early parole.

I was able to set my own direction on dealing with clients and made some good decisions.

Last week I had a series of meetings with a new client which went swimmingly. On the Friday I did a large presentation to the CEO which was very well received.

When the Evil Milkmaid heard about this she was pleased. She smiled as she repeated the positive feedback that she had heard from my colleague and the client.

Because let's get this straight. The Evil Milkmaid is not. And nor will she ever be. Warming to me.

She needed me now. She realised that I could help meet her sales targets for the year.

The next couple of times I talked to her about this client she was quite friendly, albeit through a strained smile. As we talked about "next steps" or "sales strategy" she would occasionally brush me on the arm. Vietnamese people can be a bit touchy when they like you, even at work, but this did not feel genuine or warm. This felt more like a paedophile testing his boundaries.

Moving right along though.

The Evil Milkmaid has an accomplice. In my head I call him Gay Gordon. He is neither Gay, nor Gordon. In fact he is a devout Muslim with an English accent who also seems to hate white people. The Evil Milkmaid loves him. (Or should I say, needs him.)

My disobedient mind gave him this nickname quite early on in our relationship. I don't know why, but probably because both of these words would repulse him: Gordon is so whitebread. Gay is so ... umm ... gay.

So I call him Gay Gordon under my breath and smile. Sometimes when he's talking, I imagine him awkwardly dancing at a céilidh. And smile.

This week I've been sitting close to the Evil Milkmaid's desk. Yesterday afternoon I overheard a phone conversation between her and Gay Gordon that went like this:

"Yes Anthony did his presentation to them last Friday."

[Pause]

"Oh no. No. They were actually very impressed with it."

[Pause]

"Yes Gordon. Yes I am sure."

[Pause]

"No. Very happy with Anthony. No Gordon I am sure. Because checked with them ..."

[Pause]

"Me too. I am surprised, too. I think maybe he is learning. Learning finally."

Well ain't she just the best Evil Milkmaid a cow could ever hope for?

Mooooooo!!!!!!

Stick That In Your Pyramid

Yesterday morning I went to my usual street stall for my usual breakfast: a warm, hearty, freshly-cooked bowl of phở bò. All you have to do is sit down for a few minutes and your meal arrives. They only cook one thing and they cook it well. Henry Ford would have approved.

I arrived late morning and it was not busy. The staff were having an early lunch in advance of the next rush.

There were very few customers at this time so most of the condiments at my table were flyblown, even the bowl of lime segments and fresh chilli. However, New Me is a pragmatist who knows that Pho is cooked at high temperatures. New Me has never been sick from eating anywhere in Vietnam. New Me waved the flies away as he sat down and waited for the Pho to arrive.

The owner was sitting on a stool, eating pieces of fruit which had been cut up and piled next to the chopped raw meat (the bò). As each customer arrived she would get up to prepare their meal by using her hands to measure and toss the right amount of meat, noodles and vegetables into the boiling stock. These hands also regularly carried food to the tables, cleared the tables, took money, gave out change and grabbed another piece of fruit on their way back to the stool.

I finished eating and went over to pay my slightly turgid bill. This was accompanied by an established ritual where I smilingly exclaim my approval "rất ngon" ("very delicious") in Vietnamese and she repeats it back twice, noddingly as she hands me my change.

Today she also picked up a piece of fruit and offered it to me with an emphatic straight arm. This piece had clearly been marinating in a shallow pool of raw meat juice at 35 humid degrees for some time.

What does one do in this situation?

Does one pretend to be very full and gently decline?

I'll tell you what one does.

One accepts it.

Immediately, gracefully and gratefully.

I smiled, thanked her again, accepted the bleeding toxic fruit and took a demonstrable bite out of it. I chewed enthusiastically. It tasted bland, like raw potato with hints of blood. I pronounced that this, too, was rất ngon and she agreed again.

I asked what it was called in Vietnamese. She told me. I repeated the word back. She corrected me firmly. By now 4 people (2 staff, 2 customers) had stopped what they were doing in order to watch.

I tried again to pronounce it. 5 people laughed. I assumed that I'd once again used the wrong tone or vowel and said "cunt". It's always cunt. All 5 people corrected me this time, in an awkward unison that sounded like an echo in a tunnel.

My next attempt was more successful and I was permitted to leave. I promptly took another public bite of my toxoid, forgot my new word and walked to my bike.

This got me thinking about Abraham Maslow. Maslow dictated that people will prioritise their needs and choices based on a particular hierarchy. In order to aim for higher needs, you first need to satisfy the lower levels.

Given a choice between the two, people will satisfy their lower-level need first. It makes perfect sense. For example if you were starving to death you would look for food first and pontificate on whether contemporary American literature is painting an accurate picture of working class homosexuals second. (Poppy Z Brite is not huge in Darfur.) Oh, and if you were busting to go to the toilet you wouldn't care whether or not your President was black.

But if this particular experience taught me anything, it is that Maslow had never been to Vietnam.

As this proprietor handed me her toxic piece of fruit she was also handing me a choice between Safety (of health) and Esteem (respect by others). I chose the latter in a heartbeat.

The little piggy that cried "Wee! Wee! Wee!" all the way home

My September 11 disaster was not an isolated incident this month. I also managed to lose my running shoes at sometime during the past month. Somehow. Somewhere.

It probably happened the last time I went to the gym. That was the visit which started with a run on the treadmill and ended with 2 bottles of red wine and a couple of packets of sour worms. It is an accomplishment to arrive at a gym sober and leave drunk. An unworthy accomplishment.

I have been evicted from so many shoe stores in Hanoi that I didn't bother trying. The eviction usually goes like this: walk in the store, greet the shopkeeper, try to read their giggling smile, ask them if they have anything in your size, hear a gentle "no" as they show you the door. I waited until I was in Kuala Lumpur to buy some new running shoes. I figured that Kuala Lumpur has enough potatoes and tall Malays for me to find good footwear in my size and it did.

Last Monday my new running shoes and I eloped to the gym. My shiny new bride, wrapped in white tissue paper.

On arrival I realised that I had left my socks at home and would have to go without. Just one time without protection won't hurt, I told myself. Don't even think about using this as an excuse to go home, I told my fat self.

After a few minutes on the treadmill my right little toe was hurting from the friction of running. So I stopped, tied my shoes more tightly and continued. After 10 minutes it started hurting again but I ignored it. After another 10 minutes it became much worse so I stopped.

I looked down to see that the right side of my new white shoe had turned a dull pinky red colour. Blood had seeped through the shoe from my bleeding toe. You can use this as an excuse to go home, I told my fat self.

When I got home I was tempted to hang it from the balcony and proudly yell "virginem eam tenemus!". I thought better of this and rinsed it in the kitchen sink. With cold water.

Things That End With "itney"

Last weekend I watched the Oprah-Whitney interview.

Whitney: overdressed, overstyled, raspy. Measuring out her life story in even doses.

Oprah: fine, fat, fantastic. I prefer my Oprah with a bit of plump. She's more humble; less smug. More empathy. Less sympathy.

My favourite thing about Oprah, though, is how she can bring herself to the brink of emotional breakdown on cue. Her ability to well up is not just remarkable ... it's Meryl Streep remarkable.

Oprah knows when she should get that point, how to get there, how long to stay there, and how to bring herself back. And no matter how close she goes to the line, she never crosses it. Michael Hutchence should be so lucky.

Alternatively, it's possible that she just brings along a knife and a bag of onions: chopping vigorously off camera in key moments. Either way, she knows what she's doing. You'll never find Our Oprah swinging limply from a coat hook.

Back to the interview. Most of it was pretty boring. It was the usual schtick ... divorce fame highs lows career success control pressure motherhood blah blah blah.

It became more interesting when we got to Whitney's very candid and revealing drug stories. She has obviously done a great job of fucking up her voice -- and much her life -- through years of abuse.

This goes to show that you should never name a child anything which ends in "itney". That includes Shitney. Also Clitney.

Whitney recounted her years of freebasing and speedballing and blowing and snorting and snowballing and sprinkling and I was impressed by her accomplished use of drug street slang. But as the interview wore on, I became more and more unsettled by the interview. As I listened to her drug experiences I could feel the dull ache of my own. My drug past is nowhere near as extensive and destructive as Whitney's, but there were some similarities that I could relate to.

I'm not sure where this ache came from, but the more she talked the worse it got. I couldn't work it out. Guilt? It wasn't guilt. That wasn't it. Regret? No. It wasn't even remorse.

Then I realised. This was not an ache. This was a longing. This was envy.

By the time the interview was over I was so jealous of Whitney that I was squinting.