Slangtastic

"Going Multiball"

A synonym for going mental. Literally, a state of flux; as in the multiball stage of a pinball game wherein the player must keep two or more balls in play.

"The project deadline is tomorrow! I am totally going multiball!"

We have a strain of this growing on my current project. It is called "MultiBelle", after its inventor, and a style of convoluted problem solving. Firstly, you overhear that there has been a problem. Secondly, you do not allow the speaker to finish their story so you don't get the full story. Thirdly, you prematurely call it a disaster. You force a whole bunch of people to solve one small problem (usually via a Sunday workshop) and in all the panic, everyones ends up running around in different directions, bumping into furniture and tripping over each other.

37°2 l’après-midi

I told you it was humid this morning. My internet weather report said it was 89%.

By this afternoon, this was the scene outside my office.

 

But there's no point letting a little water get in the way of places to be ...

... or indeed, from doing so in any direction you choose ...

... because flood is in the eye of the beholder.

Weathered

Hanoi is finally hitting its humid straps and I noticed something coming at me this morning through the rising heat. I now know it was a worst case scenario.

Step 1. 

As I got dressed for work today I realised that they are shrinking my clothes. Everything is progressively getting tighter and smaller. They are shinking them at the laundry, they are shrinking them in my washing machine. I don't know how they did it but they even managed to shrink my belt when I wasn't looking. Shrinking, shrinking, shrinking. I feel like the British Empire. 

So I am wearing uncomfortably tight clothes. The relevance of this will soon become apparent.

Step 2

My job is business dress so I wear a long-sleeved shirt and a tie to work. This doubles the ill effects of all heat and humidity. The relevance of this will soon become apparent.

Step 3

When I wake up I am supposed to put on my apartment air conditioner, so that I can dry down appropriately before work. I forgot to do it this morning and left the apartment a tad moist. Nothing visible, but still teetering on the edge of sweaty.

Step 4

The local breakfast. I meet up with R and we drive to the local streetstall. It's pretty full so we need to crouch on a short plastic stool at a table by the dusty road in this hot weather with tight pants and no more than 20cm off the ground. By the dusty road means that my back is about 50 cm from various car and motorbike tyres ... it's a challenge.

Step 5

I put too much chilli in my soup. This starts me sweating even more. Combined with the dust from the road, I am sweating, coughing and sniffling. The dust soaks up some of the sweat in the short term, but before long the dam walls burst and my shirt is quite soaked around the middle. I grab some serviettes and do my best to mop up my brow and eyes. I roll up my shirt sleeves but it's too late: the sweat has already started to pool around my elbows. My plastic chair is contributing to the sweaty mêlée by sticking to my pants and am thankful that they are black: hopefully no one will think I've had a granny accident when I stand up.

Step 6

I finish my meal and go to get up off my plastic stool. It gives a little bit, my wet hand slips on the edge, and I take a little tumble into the dirt. I fall onto my hand and shin, but luckiliy the fall is broken when they land on a bed of discarded limes and paper serviettes; descendents from customers past. I ask R to go up and pay as I steady myself and peel a lime off my forearm.

Step 7

I walk back to my motorbike and stupidly check myself in the rear view mirror. My shirt is now completely soaked in the middle, my face (apart from looking miserable) is dripping with sweat and I'm making the final attempts to brush wet dirt away from the obvious spots on my pants. This is not the styling of a fresh office worker doing his final glance in the mirror before heading out at 8:15. And I do appreciate that I'm a potato and I'm in Hanoi and it's summer and all that ... but sweet baby Jesus come on!

Step 8

So on goes the helmet and I start up the bike. It's parked in a bit of wet dirt, which cakes around my shoes and refuses to do anything but move slowly upwards. As I go to turn onto oncoming traffic my laptop bag tips off its spot without warning and falls into the dirt. I suspect a suicide attempt or at the very least, a cry for help.

I rescue my bag, wedge it between my knees and head off into the traffic. The stand is down so I need to stop embarrassingly in front of "my local" as I hold up a road full of noisy traffic. Their horns alert all diners that I'm in awkward trouble, just in case no one noticed. Just to complete the scene, I lurch and stall as I attempt to make a hasty exit.

If this was Austria they would all be lying on the floor laughing by now. I think of this and am thankful for the sea of gormless looks that is my audience.

The drive to work is relatively uneventful. I take on a couple of potatoes, somewhat successfully. There is no feeling more triumphant than overtaking a potato in traffic and none more humiliating than the opposite. There can be no worthier road death.

While it's still very hot and humid, the exhaust-scented breeze is helpful and I dry off a bit on the trip to work. I pull into the basement carpark and queue for my ticket with the other motorbikes. I imagine that I'm still looking like shit, but somewhat recovered. The carpark is like an oven and the longer I sit there in the queue the worse it gets. A couple of long transactions occur ahead of me in the queue and this adds at least 5 minutes to my wait.  I feel my granny patch returning and my shirt is replenishing its reserves. The dam walls are cracking. I pay the attendant, park illegally near the lift and pull of my helmet. A wave of heat pours off my head and I feel like one of those deep sea divers as they are pulled back onto the boat. My hair is completely wet and matted to my scalp.

The elevator takes forever to arrive. It is not so much broken as refusing to come to me. It knows.

So I take the stairs and as I emerge onto my floor get a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Shirt sleeves are crumpled and messy and unfurled ... like a paper bag which has decided it no longer wants to hold onto the sausage roll. My hair is appalling (and I mean toddler-at-a-swimming-pool appalling). Black pants are still hiding the sweat but showing every grain of dirt. The mid section of my shirt (not my best section) is completely drenched and transparent through the patches which are sticking to my skin. There are other islands of sweat in mysterious little places like the left shoulder . There is mud caked around my shoes and inexplicably, a little piece has worked its way up onto one of my knees. There is nowhere to run and nowhere to dry. So I walk in through the automatic glass doors and greet our receptionist, Linh, who is visibly shocked by what she sees. She quickly gets up and opens the door for me: a gesture of kindness in stark contrast to the climate.

There is no remaining spring in my step. In fact I feel somewhat surreal as I limp along past the rows of desks. Some colleagues notice me as I pass them and have a look of guilty relief on their faces. I recognise this as the face I pull when reacting to someone else's bad news. 

This is not the entrance I had planned.

This is not a fresh, well-dressed young manager arriving to work ready to inspire and impress. This is not even Melanie Griffith, allowing her miniskirt to ride up suggestively as she takes off her sandshoes. This is the final scene of a spaghetti western and I am halfway through my twenty paces.

Went to Market

I ride past Truc Bach every day on my way to work and on each occasion I think of the images of John McCain being ... umm ... let's call it "liberated" from its depths. 

Truc Bach is actually a very small lake quite close to the old quarter of Hanoi. It's so bizarre to think that the Americans were able to get so close to Hanoi and bomb the fuck out of it for ... umm ... some good reason or other.

Yesterday as I was driving along Truc Bach lake I had a different purpose. I was trying to catch this guy in front of me so that I could film him. 

He was hunched over and weaving in and out of traffic, gunning it.

In case you're wondering, they're pigs. Lots of pigs.

Deflating the Doll

This new colloquialism from Urban Dictionary is fantastic.

Deflating the doll

1) Packing up a hotel room to check-out; or

2) Generally keeping your colleagues waiting in your hotel lobby

"Hey Bill, what's the hold-up? We're all waiting for you in the lobby to catch a cab to the airport!"

-- "Sorry Mike, just deflating the doll. Be right down"

Go All Blacks

I work with a Japanese girl who was telling me yesterday about her time in New Zealand.

Her first impression was that there was a high level of entrenched racism.

She kept seeing the sign "Go All Blacks" on posters and sometimes as graffiti on buildings.

She was surprised her that they would:

- group all black people together like that

- want all of them to go away

- be so open about it

Why Didn't She Just Wipe It Off?

"Hi - could I please speak to Ms Huong?"

-- "Who is this? Who are you?"

"It's Anthony. I need to talk to Ms Huong about my visa."

-- "She is not here."

"Oh. Will she be back later this afternoon?"

-- "No. She is not here. A little bit sick on the face today. Try Monday"

Here She Comes

I'm sitting in a cafe at the moment with gentle piano music playing.

The tune seemed quite familiar at first ... but I couldn't put my finger on it ... but the basic similarities and key changes definitely indicate that these are piano variations ... but what's the theme? 

Then I realised.

It's "Here Comes the Bride"!

I'm eating my lunch while listening to 10 easy listening variations on Here Comes the Bride. I'm tempted to suggest an 11th.

Displace we call home

Coming back from Brisbane after such a brief visit feels really strange. For one, Brisbane is not my home. I don’t even know the name of the main street but hope for Brissake it’s not Adelaide. I used to like the way so many ordinary towns and street names in Australia were derived from grander English equivalents. Even the insubordinate spelling of Surry Hills had a certain charm. But not any more ... I submit the following examples as evidence: 

a) I’m standing behind a 20-something English backpacker on the up escalator of Kings Cross station. Her pedigree is revealed via a cheap tangerine croptop stretched over a cheap bra. Her newly tanned hips are spilling out over her jeans and running into my line of sight. Coincidentally, her other hand is holding a muffin. She is boasting loudly on the phone (“I love the wevahh here in Sydney but everyfink else is 5 years behind London”).

b) I’m walking back home at 3am on a Friday morning after a very late Thursday night out. From a distance I see a 31-year-old Jordie in a suit, pissing on the stairs of my building. By the time I get to the stairs he is vomiting into his fresh puddle. I imagine that he works in a merchant bank and on Thursday night work drinks he is the first to declare loudly across the pool table that Australia has no fucking culture or history of its own.

This makes me ponder whether England is best experienced from within England.

Back to me.

I’m sitting here on the return flight and have come to a couple of conclusions:

a) I’m homeless. 

3 months in Hanoi is too early to start calling Vietnam home. Home needs to contain an address, a community, a minimum time period … and I’ve only just ticked the first box.

b) I don’t miss people. 

“Missing” is what happens to a ball or a flight. Sometimes it happens to the point. But for me, the feeling of being away from people is more corporeal. When I'm away from people who are important to me, it feels like a piece has been carved out of my body and replaced by something unfamiliar. I’m talking about a real piece, too. Give me a black marker, a Stilnox and 3 glasses of red wine and I would draw a little island just under my left rib cage. 2 Stilnox and I'll vacuum the furniture at the same time. Notwithstanding all that, I think this is the place where my sense of communion lives and I can feel when it's not right. It also looks like New Zealand and lurks near the spleen.

So I sit here for hours on the plane, thinking about all this and wondering at times wherethefuckamIgoing and whatthefuckamIdoing. This feeling is intensified when an ageing flight attendant presses his penis into my shoulder while trying to avoid an old lady who is bulldozing past him in a purple Magnetic Island t-shirt. 

I shift my shoulder and the attendant moves on. I look around again and notice that this aircraft is being dominated by pensioners, frog marching along the aisles, waging war on thrombosis and leaving nothing in their wake. There are currently 7 tracksuits on aisle patrol so I decide to wait it out and hunt for a vacant toilet later  ... when my captors are fatigued ... so I lay back and close my eyes ... and mutinously pray for turbulence.

I flick through the in-flight magazines and consider buying (yet) another $200 pair of Bang & Olufsen earphones from the duty free catalogue. They are advertised in Green and White, both of which look quite ugly. So I tell myself – and a flight attendant with very bad breath – that I will only buy them if black is available. He comes back, leans over at near-point-blank range and tells me that black is not available and white looks nice. I nearly pass out and whisper “ok” as I recoil weakly back in my seat. Surely this intimate sales technique is not legal.

I hold my breath while the earphones are handed over while promising myself to love, honour and protect these earphones from misadventure; but knowing deep down that their days are numbered.

So here I am, a dirty white potato with ugly white earphones held captive in my chair by veiny pensioners. I’m missing pieces under my ribs and getting peeled by flight attendants with bad breath. Trapped and cored and peeled. By November I can probably be painted and hung on a Christmas tree.

The Art of Potatoes

Don't Look Left, Don't Look Right, Don't Look Bike. 

Here are some rules you could die fighting for:

a) When crossing the road, demonstrate your commitment by trusting everyone.

b) Even the easiest roads will turn against you without notice.

c) "Tight Squeeze" is the language of cowards

d) Never forget where you came from.

Taken. TO the Cleaners, BY the Cleaners, FOR the Cleaners

I received a new email from my building manager, Hang Nga. The email’s subject pun was quite sweet, making the sting in her tail far more painful.

20 May 2009 23:17 Subject: Clearing up your queries

Dear Mr Anthony,

We would like to inform you that:

Ms Hao (your cleaner) has been your cleaner since you came and lived here.

We only favour you with these such as washing dishes, folding clothes in short time. However, If you want our cleaner to do these, you shall have to pay for these. And the charge is as reported in last time.

Many Thanks and best regards

Lake side garden

hang Nga

If I can be of any help, please contact to me.

Well, well well ... yes I do remember this “charge as reported last time”. It was $100 USD/month. And I refused to pay. And I suggested alternatives. But I guess it’s just easier to go back in time to the part where I have to pay money.

'That fucking two faced fucking Bich Ha!*', I mused.

I think the subject of her email should have been something like:

Subject: Maybe you thought you were up 15-30? Well Anthony I’m still fucking serving!

[Either way it’s now 30-All]

10 minutes later I received another email. So we're calling it “trouble” now? What am I - Northern Ireland?

20 May 2009 23:27 Subject: My opinion of your trouble

Dear Mr Anthony,

 I tell following idea in a private capacity (I tell myself, Not on behalf of Lake Side Garden)

 In my opinion, You should give your cleaner (Ms Hao) improved item(incentive bonus)instead you have to pay for small things such as washing dishes, folding clothes monthly. I guess that you do not have to pay that fee.

If you want, I can talk to her. However, If you do not want, Please count that I have never concerned with this matter. 

[Let. First Service.]

Thank you very much! 

Hang Nga

Well I'll be. I think Hang Nga has just turned double agent. And I think I like it. I don’t know how to describe this feeling, but I’m going with “caramel”.

Of course this threw me into a complete spin. I had no idea what to do with this late-landing development. After extensive consultation with R on merits and ethics I decided on the road most taken: bribery. 

In the absence of any experience we agreed it would be best to offer just under $25 USD/month, which is about half of what R pays for his cleaning..

Here is my email response back:

21 May 2009 00:50 Subject: My opinion of Re: My opinion of your trouble.

Dear Hang Nga

Thanks for your suggestions. This is very little work but what do you think if I left 400,000 VND for her on the table every month?

[30-40]

To which I received the following:

21 May 2009 16:08 Subject: Re: My opinion of Re: My opinion of your trouble.

Dear Mr Anthony,

If you want, I will tell to her. 400,000 every month, I think it is too much. You can reward less than

400,000vnd every month. However,it is great If you left 400,000 vnd for her. 

[Deuce]

Thank you. I shall tell to her on tomorrow morning.

[Ace!]   [Advantage Server!]

Thanks you and best regards

Hang Nga

Whoa whoa whoa whoooooooa there ... Hang Nga! 

Let me be clear: this all started with me not wanting to pay anything at all. Now you think I'm the one insisting on paying above market rates?  And while it’s not about the money ... it’s about being fair on all potatoes past and present. I will only be peeled so far.

I sent the following email:

21 May 2009 19:37 Subject: Re: My opinion of Re: My opinion of your trouble.

If it is too much then I will leave 300,000.

I don't want to pay too much - just a fair price.

[Deuce]

To which I received the following reply:’

21 May 2009 20:42 Subject: Re: My opinion of Re: My opinion of your trouble.

Dear Mr Anthony

It depends on you. I have prospected for view of some people. someone reward 300,000, others award 400,000 and some reward 500,000 to their cleaner.However, I think 300,000 or 350,000 is hightly appreciate.

[Advantage Server]

I shall talk to her about this in tomorrow morning.

On behalf of her, I thank you very much.

Have a nice trip!

Thank you and best regards

Hang Nga

Whoa whoa whoa whoooooooa there ... Hang Nga! 

Oh, so now I’m a scab???!!?! If you and your private thoughts know what I should have been paying, then why aren't you telling me?

At this point I imagine myself scuttling along the bribery sea bed, squinting through my darting beady eyes with my sour mouth and my 300,000 VND tightly grasped in my hand. I also have a forked tail.

Oh - and another thing - Hang Nga also knows I’ve gone away today. How does she know? I didn’t tell anyone.  The security guard must have told the cleaner who told someone who told someone who told her. 

This is some of grapevine and I think to myself,  'I bet everyone also knows I’m a scab.'

One last email to salvage my tarnished reputation. This time I added lowercase to appear groovy and skypey.

21 May 2009 20:45 Subject: Re: my opinion about your trouble

hi hang nga

i think 350,000 is fair then. i will leave this amount every month.

thanks for your assistance.

[Game to Ms Hang Nga! Ms Hang Nga leads 3 games to Love ...]

At this moment I imagine Hang Nga in a tennis dress, gulping on her Coke-branded water bottle before getting up from her chair to change ends.

21 May 2009 20:53 Subject: Re: my opinion about your trouble

Dear Mr Anthony,

Thank you very much

I shall talk to her.

have a nice trip!

Many thanks and best regards

Hang Nga

On balance, I should also see this as a win for me. Deep down, I think HN was guiding me away from her rip-off building owner and into a more suitable outcome for all.

It’s not always so easy to hit the right notes when you’re singing in the Key of Bribe … but I think this little birdy just found its voice. I'm going to buy people's love and friendship via a bribing campaign.

* There is someone in my company whose real name is Bich Ha. Regrettably (for her) she is also a bit of a Bich Ha. She occupies one of those anonymous admin jobs which you never knew existed until one day, it reaches up out of an email and bites you hard on the nose. I recently received one such introductory email from Bich Ha, where she highlighted some process violation which delayed me getting expenses paid. Something along the lines of saying I should have used cash and not used a card. A card is for hotels, not transport. So explain yourself and don’t you dare do it again. No it’s not documented anywhere but you should have known. I quickly settled matters with an apology which was both outwardly heartfelt and inwardly detached. From then on, R and I have used the term Bich Ha to refer to any person or admin event which is unnecessarily cold. Mostly it’s along the line of “I don’t even know what this email means – what a Bich Ha”.

Somewhat Legitimate Potatospeak

The potato lives on urban dictionary, under potato definition number 21. 

Some of its urban neighbours are less than wholesome but we may just need to draw from them later so I'll reserve judgement.

Please go in and do a thumbs up for me ... it may improve my potato position.

Oh, and the wikipedia entry has survived its 10th day on death row.

Cleaning Up This Mess

Here is an update on my cleaning demarcation dispute.

Last Sunday, I received the following email response from the building manager:

Thank you for your feedback and We are awful sorry about ordering flower.

If I can be of any help, please feel free to call me

Have a nice weekend

Thanks you and best regard,

Hang Nga

This completely missed the mark. The dead flowers were the least of my worries. So I responded as follows:

Regarding the clothes washing, Before you started working here, Anh told me the Lakeside cleaners would hang out my clothes for me to dry down next to the pool and bring them back and fold them. This is why I was confused at the clothes coming back like this (please see picture attached). I do not expect ironing but I do expect folding. [I do realize how silly this all sounds, even as I am writing it.]

Regarding the dishes. Please be aware that the cleaner started to wash the dishes on Monday but then left them in water for the week..

Regarding the flowers - I am not upset about this. When I returned to find them dead and dropping on the floor then I assumed the cleaners did not do any cleaning at all on Wednesday or Friday?

Until last week the cleaners were helping me with these little things and I appreciated this very much. That is why I was surprised. I was wondering if maybe they are angry at me, thinking that the water fall problem is my fault? [Waterfall was her word and I liked it.]

I think it is useful to give you some photos. [attached 3 photos]

Would it be possible for me to slightly reduce my rent and to organise my own cleaning services? Maybe that is easier for you.

There is not very much cleaning to do. I work very long hours and travel often. I am not in the apartment very often and do not make very much mess or any problems. I travel a lot for work and I live alone with no wife or no children. [Sympathy card … hopefully not taken as a hint.]

Please note - everyone has been very friendly and helpful to me at Lakeside. I am not complaining about the people here. I am just confused about what changed last week.

To which she responded:

Dear Mr Anthony,

Thank you for your feedback!

Thank you and best regards

hang Nga

If I can be of any help, Please feel free to contact to me

Email: hangng91987@yahoo.com

Mobile: 0983513952

hotline: 0904301249

Hang has a hotline? Wow. It’s clearly not her first time at the rodeo. Attached to her email were two word documents - one in English and one in Vietnamese. The English one was as follows:

Firtly, We ensure that our room services had cleaned your apartment on time.

Secondly, As shown in our contract, drying, folding clothes and washing dishes is not our room services’s work. We help only you to do those.

Thirtly, We are awful sorry for ordering flower this week. We promise you that we shall withdraw our experience from this matter. And there will not to have similar this matter in future.

Fouthly, we checked your washing machine. And there are not problem with your washing machine. Last week, we just guested that you spilled water on the floor unfortunately. And now we know that you do not put or spilled water anywhere near this floor. We will check the toilet and pipes or water escape system and fix them in next Monday morning.

We hope you have a pleasant and comfortable stay with us at the Lake Side Garden.

If you have any trouble, Please feedback to us.

To help you learn Vietnamese I want to send an english and vietnamese letter.

 Thank you very much and best regards,

 

That left me very confused as to what this "helping" actually comprised. 

Then about 2 hours later I received another email from Hang Nga, saying she had checked with the owner who said they could do these extra tasks for an additional $100 USD per month. This is exorbitant. Some potatoes pay $50 for the lot, including ironing. I’m only asking for about 2 hours per week, market rates would make it $15 per month. This potato was not going to get peeled..

I fought back via email, suggested (nicely) that they could reduce my own rent by $100 and do no cleaning at all. That I would then arrange myself.

Meanwhile, back at the apartment, I became holier than though . The cleaner was due on Monday so I spent the morning tidying up. I tidied and folded all the things she had not done last week, threw out the dead flowers, upended the vase on the sink to pretend that I’d washed it, left some dishes and cutlery in the sink and put a load in the washing machine. The dishes and clothes were to be my litmus test.

When I returned back to the apartment that night it was immaculate. Washing up was done. Even an extra load had been gathered, washed, dried and beautifully folded (harking back to a happier time when the same proactive approach washed my passport).  So I sent the following note:

Dear Hang Nga

The cleaners today did a fantastic job today.

The apartment looked lovely when I came home and it was a nice feeling to walk through the door in the evening.

Please pass on my thanks to them.

Cheers

Anthony

To which she replied:

Dear Mr Anthony,

One behalf of your cleaner(Ms Hao), Thank you for your praise.

And I shall pass on your thanks to her in tomorrow morning.

I hope that we will be able to make your stay a pleasant one.

Thank you very much!

If I can be of any help, Please contact to me!

Have a nice evening!

Thanks you and best regards,

Hang nga

I finally feel like we understand each other. This can't possibly go wrong. Right?

"How much?"

Potato Peeler

A Potato Peeler is any street vendor, taxi driver, store owner or other service provider who charges a higher price to potatoes. As in: "I think I might just peel a bit more off this potato."

On average, an additional 10% to 25% is usually peeled out of the unsuspecting potato, although figures as high as 300% have been recorded.

Strictly speaking, the "peeling" refers to that moment when the potato hands over his money.

Products which commonly involve peeling include t-shirts, baseball caps, souvenirs, taxi fares, mangoes and shoeshines; however, prescription drugs and grocery items are becoming increasingly prevalent.

Calculating the peel amount is very complicated and takes years of training. It requires the PP to quickly evaluate many aspects of the potato including mood, language skills, facial expressions, posture, clothing and wallet (if visible). The highest amounts are usually linked to situations where the potato has been overly friendly, bewildered or nervous. (The fresher the potato, the bigger the peel.)

PP must be very careful during the assessment because once a potato has been peeled several times he can become increasingly hostile. 

The range of items which can be used by a PP can be enormous. Even where prices are clearly marked on an item ... a highly skilled Potato Peelers do not view this as a barrier.

Examples:

 “You paid what for your noodles? I only pay 15,000. It must be the potato price”

-- “Hmm. I guess I got peeled.”

“Excuse me driver! What just happened to the meter when you touched it? Why is it moving so quickly?”

-- “Umm. I think we’re getting peeled.”

As with any other vegetable, the peeled potato is left feeling a little raw and exposed.

The alternative use of “peeling” as a verb is often mistakenly associated to the above definition due to its relationship with payment and potatoes, but is not related. For example:

“After the potato spent ahot day baking in the sun, he peeled himself off the banana chair and joined his friends at the bar."

“The potato looked a little shocked and ashamed as he slowly peeled notes out of his wallet.

Run, Potato Run

Potato Run

A Potato Run is a special route used by cab drivers to take a potato to his or her destination. It is an alternative to the most direct route and includes a number side streets, at least one traffic jam and the occasional long run on a highway.

The Potato Run becomes evident about15 minutes into the journey, when the passenger realises that it is unlikely all these side streets and turns are a shortcut. 

Usages include:

"Where the fuck are we going?"

-- "I think we're on a potato run."

"U turn! U turn! This isn't a potato run, driver!"

Is also used to refer to those times when a potato asks for directions and is sent on a long journey to nowhere. Again, it will usually take 15 minutes to become apparent.

Usages include:

[Old lady thinks to herself]

"Should I tell him the way to the temple or send him on a potato run?"

[Two potatoes walking along the road with bum bags and dirty faces.]

"We're not even on the map any more. Where are we going"

-- "I think we're on a potato run."

Font

I need a change. 

Something to mix things up a bit and challenge the status quo.

I'm seriously thinking of moving my work life into Times New Roman. Is that too radical? Is it possible to produce beautiful work in an ugly font?

One of those days

Some days it's gruelling to be working across so many work cultures and personalities in Asia. Those are the times when I really do wonder how anything gets done and struggle to vive la différence. 

Today my glass was not just half empty ... it felt like its contents were being slowly tipped out.

This evening I walked into the apartment, closed the door and put my bag against it. I went into the bedroom, fell backwards onto the bed and stared at the ceiling for Idontknowhowlong . This isn't the sort of thing I would normally do. But sometimes when I am overwhelmed the feeling is quite out of body. And this was one of those times.

As I lay there, it was like I was falling backwards in very slow motion ... occasionally bumping into things with an arm or a leg ... each bump slightly contorting my body for a few seconds before it unfurled itself back onto course. 

It wasn't freedom though - it was too unsupported. It wasn't adventurous, either. In fact it felt incredibly ordinary. Ordinary and alone and with no safety net. Oddly enough it reminded me of this scene from Immortal Beloved. 

Unfortunately, I don't think I will be using this experience to write another Beethoven's Ninth. I will probably use it to create a PowerPoint presentation for a bank.

After a while I pulled myself together and went to the internet for a diagnosis. Seems like I've got multiple sclerosis. Bloody MS.

(Sandy if you're reading this ... I do remember the scene where you flashed your undies at Beethoven's father ... but were you the chick in this one as well?)

God Help the Tater That Comes Between Me and My Tater Hater

Tater Hater

A Tater Hater is someone who clearly does not like potatoes in their country and makes no effort to pretend otherwise.

Pity the potato who tries too hard with the TH.

On encountering a TH, most potatoes initially react by overcompensatory techniques such as smiling too much. Other reactions include overuse of polite words in the local language, or attempts overtipping, or stooping too low when asking for something, or even trying to keep the table tidy. At all thse attempts, the TH remains completely unmoved.

Tater Haters usually work in restaurants or cafes. They are typically over 50, short, very slim and have black teeth. Attire often includes a faded floral print (women) or very high pants (men). When raining it is not unusual for a pot-hater to afix a plastic bag over their head, particularly when working in a street food stalls.

Within at their workplace, the TH will be extremely friendly to all customers until confronted with a potato. In this situation, they will respond to all questions or actions in the same way: by becoming completely expressionless and staring right through the potato.

The TH will nearly always take a very long time to hear you ask for the bill, but then return your change to you as quickly as possible so that you can leave ... they nearly always prefer a quick departure to a good tip.

Here Today, Gone Potato.

All that passport stuff means I can go to Brisbane for the weekend. Phew.

My Deepest Consulate Shuns

I went to the Australian Embassy today to finally lodge my passport application.

Stewart was on 3 weeks leave. This is the same Stewart who has taken me under his wing. Stewart, who has been gently and kindly misadvising me to an early grave. Stewart who talked me into a temporary passport ($100 later this turned out to be inadequate). Stewart who advised me to get my birth extract Fedex'd over ($50 later this turned out to be incorrect). Stewart who hen advised me to get my original birth certificate faxed directly to him from some Births Deaths and Marriages slapper in Sydney. Stewart who told me I could get a non-Australian to endorse my photos.

Stewart wasn't there to tell me my photos needed to endorsed by someone who fits the criteria from some other form that was now being produced.

So I escalated. Here is a sample, to the Vietnamese person working the counter:

"I appreciate that when I go back out there [points to the window] I have no rights. But I am a tax paying citizen of this country and you are supposed to help me when I come in here. I am not leaving this building with any more new rules."

So I escalated again. Here is a sample, to the Parramatta Perm working the counter:

"I have visited this consulate too many times for such a straightforward request.  I have even kept my own written notes here on the laptop to record my recent conversations with Stewart. Each time I come back here I'm given another piece of information that was hitherto not revealed, even when I asked if there was anything else. You have told me to prove my identity. I've done that. You have told me to prove my citizenship. I've done that. The last time I came in here I spoke to Stewart again and he promised me that the only remaining step was the one I have just completed today and he even emailed me to say that my document had arrived and I have changed travel and paid money and taken time from many busy work days and kept coming back here so much so that your security guards on the front watchtower thingo even recognise me now. And you think you can just flap another form in my face and inform me there's yet another hurdle to jump over? This is completely unacceptable. I am not going to accept you blithely waving your hand and telling me to go back to my exercise wheel as if I'm a mouse tring to earn another block of cheese."

-- "It's an Embassy."

"What?"

-- "It's an Embassy."

"You're kidding, right?"

-- "No. You said Consulate.  We're the Embassy."

So then I escalated. Here's a sample, to the Middle Aged Mullet:

"I do not object to the process per se. I object to your complete lack of transparency and all the time and money I am wasting as a result of it." 

[I actually used my tie as a prop during this particular rant. Raised it pointedly like a cheap placard in a teacher's strike.]

So then I escalated. Here's a sample:

"So you're the Ambassador, are you?"

Application accepted.