Happy (Chinese) New Year

View from the lift in the Pan Pacific Hotel, Singapore. I'm staying on the 15th floor.

House

I've had back-to-back guests since October, which has been both tiring and fantastic.

Tonight I waived good bye to the last of them.

Yes.

Waived.

As in:

Me: "Don't come back"

Nancy: "You couldn't pay me enough ..."

"Well I guess we understand each other then?"

-- "Yes well I guess we do."

"Very well then."

-- "Right you are."

"I take my leave."

-- "Fuck you too."

"No need to be discourteous."

-- "You started it."

"So how about Bali then?"

-- "Sure."

"May?"

-- "April's better. May will be too warm. I'll have a week's leave by April."

"OK. April it is. Fuck off then. Through those gates there."

-- "Hmm."

I'm not sure if I'm a bad host or she's a bad guest. But I tend to think it's her.

Parrots In Helmets

It was sunny.

Very bright.

Sunny I tell you.

Sunny. Bright.

(Right?)

Vietnamese Innov-ATM

This helpful warning. From an ATM in Hoa Binh.

I mean ... of course. As soon as the card started vibrating I would have known it was for my own good.

But it was nice to warn us. Just in case.

For the dummies.

Imagine the meeting they had when had to sign off the ATM design.

This from Dinh, representing Customer Care:

"It's always about the money with you lot, isn't it? What about the customer? Is anyone thinking about the customer here?

"What about the risks to the customer? Doesn't anybody CARE any more?

"I mean ... what's Vietnam coming to? What are we doing here people?

"We used to care about each other. We used to be a contender."

Hien (rolling his eyes):

"Alright Dinh. You've made your point. Vibrate it is."

Chomp Chomp Chomp

I originally stopped because I thought Nancy had pulled over for a snack.

It wasn't Nancy but it was still good to meet others who find Vietnam boring. Others like me.

I wonder if there is a bar we could all go to?

Preferably not in Vietnam.

I forgot to ask him what that barrel was doing around his neck. Perhaps he was waiting for it to snow? He was ready ... ready to rescue some wayward skiers ... alert.

Alert but clearly not alarmed.

Red Black Sheep

There's no Laurel without Hardy.

... this particular road trip ended in tears. By the time the day was over, the little lamb was singing "Ba Ba Red Sheep".

As for me ... well ... I couldn't find any sunscreen in any fucking store in Mai fucking Chau. So I pursued alternatives.

A Poet And A One-Man Band

Even after several hours on the bike, Nancy never lost her sense of ... exhilaration?

Nancy kinda reminds me of Michelle Pfeiffer in this photo. Two names not usually found in the same sentence ... unless they are separated with "has nothing at all in common with".

But see below.

Nancy's Passing

I did but see her passing by ...

... but she took her fucking time.

With all this traffic and the glacial speed at which she travelled, it was becoming harder and harder to find her.

We needed to think of something ...

Dogs ... dogs ...

The first thing that sprung to mind was a dog collar around her neck and a long leash. But. Alas. No. Besides being a little impractical, I wasn't sure whether the other riders would see me in a favourable light as I tugged her along impatiently.

I needed something that would reflect poorly on her, not me, which is the natural order of things.

What about cats?

Cats ... cats ... of course! Cats! How could we be so stupid?

The solution was so close it could have hit me in the face. Which it did.

Dog Gone

When I see chickens wandering around the yard of a Vietnamese house, scavenging for food, I never consider these to be pets. We all know their fate.

It dawned on me today that dogs are probably there for the same reason. You never see them being played with, walked or patted. Just wandering around scavenging for food. Sometimes even hanging out with the chooks.

Carb-free Competitions

Facebook is still officially banned in Vietnam, although all Vietnamese people have found a workaround. It's only the potatoes who are suffering.

Our National Marketing Manager has just launched a photo competition. I think the theme is communication and innovation. It's open to all employees, as well as their friends and family. All you need to do is post your photos via a Facebook group. Yes, you heard me correctly.

Within a fortnight over 700 people have joined up which can only mean one thing: cash prizes.

Gazillions of photos are being posted daily which can only mean one thing: a predominance of revolting family photos.

If only I could post a photo of myself trying to access Facebook. I strongly believe this competition was launched in a manner which ensures that a potato can't win.

Oops indeed.

No More Lonely Nights

I'm still in Jakarta this lonely Friday night and stressed about waking up in time for my 6am flight - which is the only route back to Hanoi.

Ordering 2 or 3 glasses of wine while sitting at a bar is normal. Dining alone in a restaurant and nodding at the suggestion of a second glass is just plain polite. But when it's room service it feels naughty. Lacking in willpower. Or friends. It makes me feel like wrapping the glasses in brown paper bags and heading to the lobby to beg.

Nevertheless, for the second night in a row I have asked room service to bring 2 glasses of red wine with my meal.

Last night was awkward. He wheeled in the trolley, flipped it up into a round table and started to set up 2 dinner places: one for each drinker. He promptly realised that there was only one alcoholic in residence this evening (sir) and discretely unset the second place before filling two adjacent glasses.

I have a different plan for tonight. When I hear the knock on the door I'm going to duck into the bathroom and turn the shower on. The room service waiter will think there someone is there (justifying the 2 glasses) and set up a second place for my imaginary dining companion. I'm also going to steal the extra fork, knife and napkin. Lying is a slippery slope.

Epilogue

The shower trick didn't work at all. He was the same waiter as last night ... so just laid out the one place. As I saw him out I yelled "food's here" through the bathroom door to my imaginary friend. He wasn't fooled. I'm sure I detected a smirk as he bon appetited me.

EpiEpilogue

I just looked in the mirror. To my horror, the moisturiser I applied a couple of hours ago has not soaked in. I must have greeted my waiter in a white, caking face bask. This - not my shower ruse - may explain his smirk.

Favourite Phrase Of The Day

“Anthony we don’t have corruption here in Indonesia any more ... we have 'donations'."

The Australian Open seems to be more exciting for some ...

This from the SMH today, reporting on events in the Australian Open.

In other offbeat news from the Open, the match between Belgian Christophe Rochus and American Donald Young was stopped for 40 minutes after a ball boy wet his pants on court 10.

"The ball kid peed on himself. It was unfortunate," Young said.

"It took a while to replace him. Then they had to put the sawdust down, or whatever you put down when somebody throws up.

"Then they had to use the blower (to dry the court) but the blower had no gas in it, so that took even more time."

It's schadenfreude, sure. But this is good schadenfreude, right?

Ball boys for these events are nearly always aspiring tennis champions. They are recruited from tennis camps or expensive coaches and are typically stalked at all times by at least one parent. Go to any high level junior tennis match and you can spot the stalkers - they sitting in the stands close to the net, squinting and whispering to themselves.

Actually I feel a bit bad for the boy; but worse for the parents. I imagine them briefing him before the match: "Now make sure you drink lots of water before going out there. It's very hot and you will need to keep up your fluids in case the match goes for a long time and you get thirsty."

Perhaps a rival ball boy even slipped him a Diet Coke - a beverage which is often found lurking in the background of such accidents. Not mentioning any names. (Cheesel.)

Either way, the parents would have been sitting there in the stands enjoying the match but keeping a proud eye on their boy. Look how he runs. Look how he fetches. Look how he obeys commands. Look how he marks his territory.

Still, it takes a lot of piss to make a puddle. I can only imagine how long the parents had to sit there, mouths agape as the endured their boy slowly but surely "give it up to God".

I hope this kid becomes a highly successful tennis player, if for the wrong reasons. Imagine seeing this grainy footage replayed alongside a Wimbledon victory speech.

Happy New Chipmunk

It's been a long time between drinks on the blog.

Or put another way, a long time drinking between blogs.

You say potato. I say potahto.

This potahto has certainly been fattening himself up with booze and burgers during the festive season. My how he's grown.

The New Year has also heralded many changes for me at work. We are working toward our inflated 2010 targets. Our company has been restructured worldwide. My job title disappeared in the new structure. No one has told me my job doesn't exist. I'm still getting paid (I think). There are a lot more flowers and police in the street. There is a link between the flowers and the police; strange as that sounds.

Besides this puzzle of paid unemployment (which I am in no hurry to solve), the main change in my work life is that Q, my colleague in the next cubicle, has a new ring. I'm not talking about marriage. Or a fisting accident. Or a work. I'm talking about Nokia.

Mobile phones are like Tiffany. Most people choose their ring very carefully. For some, it is an attempt to add another dimension to their external personality. For others, it speaks to the unchartered corners of their Id.

In an IT company such as mine, a person's ring tone selection can be quite disarming. There are 2 things that an IT nerd never quite manages to fit properly: his clothes and his ring tone. Nerds select the oddest songs. See a thin, pale, greasy-haired graduate and don't be surprised if you suddenly hear the shreak of "mutha fucka mutha fucka" emanating from his iPhone before he picks it up, swipes it sidesways and gingerly guides it to his ear before whisperng "hello?".

I'm not sure if Q realises her phone is mobile, because while she is rarely at her desk and the phone never leaves with her. It keeps her desk company. But Q is either very popular or in a lot of debt because she gets a lot of calls. This means that I get to hear her new ring, frequently, throughout the day, and nearly always to the end.

You see, Q has selected a cover version of "Skip to my Lou" for her phone. This version seems to be sung by a former member of Chipmunk Punk. It's cheery, while at the same time freakishly eerie ... the telltale signs of a seasoned chipmunk.

Most people would be driven crazy by this. Especially someone like me, who is not blessed with the gift of tolerance. Here's my dirty little secret though. The more I hear a ring tone, the more I like it. I don't know why. It must be some modern day Stockholm Syndrome. Like most people, I will immediately hate it. Then after a time I start to get desensitised. Hear it enough and I enjoying it. Before long I am humming it without prompts. I have considered calling this my Hear Ring Disorder but people would think I invented the illness to go with the pun.

Q's ring tone kicks in half way through the song. Wikipedia defines it thus:

Cows in the cornfield, What'll I do?

Cows in the cornfield, What'll I do?

Cows in the cornfield, What'll I do?

Skip to my Lou, my darlin'.

Skip, skip, skip to my Lou,

Skip, skip, skip to my Lou,

Skip, skip, skip to my Lou,

Skip to my Lou, my darlin'.

Oh no - her phone has just gone off again while writing this! Let me listen and get back to you.

Q was away from her desk of course so I got to hear the lyrics and took notes. It seems that these are no ordinary chipmunks. These chipmunks are fucking with my head because their lyrics are as follows

Coo dinna con fen, What are I do?

Coo dinna con fen, What are I do?

Coo dinna con fen, What are I do?

Skip tin a loo my darling.

This is poor piracy indeed. I would return a dvd if it was subtitled like that. It's like they put it through the dictionary to get the Chinese lyrics, then back again to English. Possibly they just ran the original songthrough a voice recognition programme to extract the lyrics, before briefing the chipmunks.

Oddly enough, "my darling" is pronounced perfectly. Just what are these chipmunks up to? I've even tried reading this backwards. And nothing.

The most interesting thing about all this is the origin of the song itself. I can imagine the chipmunks sitting and watching it from the rafters, biding their time. Fuck knows what they would do with Rock-a-bye Baby ... as if the baby hasn't been through enough.

As per usual, though, Q's ring has found its way into my Id and into my life. During the past week I have been enjoying this chirpy cheesey Chinese Chipmunk cover version of a classic. My involuntary toe tapping has already moved up to include some head bobbing. Come evening, I expect to be humming it in the cab on the way home.

I've even considered skipping to the toilet. At least a subtle hop.

For Xmas, Not For Life

If R had stayed, I would have certainly rented him a girlfriend for Xmas.

http://english.vietnamnet.vn/reports/200912/I’m-buying-myself-a-girlfriend-for-Christmas-886045/

I expect that this company's next peak trading period will be during Tet, when people travel back home and do lots of family things. Vietnamese Lunar New Year is called "Tet" and is the most important celebration of the year (in terms of both holidays and gifts).

This year, Tet is toward the end of February and I will still be living in Vietnam at this time. The article had me wondering whether I could also get R back here for Tet. He's the only person I could think of who would find this type of gift a both a compliment and an opportunity.

I think I can line up some work for him. I'll make the poor thing think we couldn't manage without him. And I guess I can't, given that my supply of fall guys has now dried up. This plan cannot fail.

Gets me thinking though ... what if Tet swings around and my secretary still has (vocal) concerns over my girlfriend status? What if she and the other secretaries (the ones who like me) decided to chip in and rent me a girlfriend for Tet? Anywhere else, the thought would seem ridiculous but in Vietnam I would give it high 80's in probability.

I think I'm going to have to invent a girlfriend in January. They already think my divorce was based on a real marriage ... and some speculate that a dead child was involved ... a leukaemic tragedy. So how hard can it be?

Stay tuned.

Two Wheels Of Cheese

Old ladies do love a trip into town. Yes they do.

They usually do their hair and run a bit of lippy around their mouth a few times. My Nana used to say that she was putting on her face.

Sometimes a splash of rouge as well. Sometimes lipstick can double up as rouge. But don't do this in a rush: the effect can be clown-like.

Whatever you call it, to some people it's always important to "look good" "in town".

Of course, to certain other people, "looking good" can be an obstacle to "getting there as quickly as possible". My passenger makes this claim and chooses the latter.

She claims that there's never enough time to do both. Rather than look appropriate, she is happy to run the risk that a child will run up and attempt to put a pingpong ball in her mouth.

That said, there is always time to hunt down a pack of cigarettes and a lighter on the way out. Go figure.

But one thing is universal: once the fat lady sings, it's over.

I wish people would stop calling me a fat lady.

Boxing Day

We just came back from a couple of days in Ha Long bay.

I couldn't find my camera before we left, so we have no evidence of all the joy and laziness. Our recollections will remain subjective and alterable.

The weather was misty and the scenery was grey. It was quite beautiful so I made one last desperate hunt for the camera: through my bag and my pockets and Cheesel's bag and Cheesel's pockets. Just in case. But nothing.

Thankfully the old girl's memory is quite shot. I didn't tell her we had no camera and she didn't ask about it. So in a few days I will be convincing her that photos from my previous trip are her memories. Snap!

"Remember this? Remember when we sailed past this?"

-- "Oh yeah ... hmm ..."

"This was just magnificent wasn't it?"

-- "Yes ... [long drag of the cigarette] Yes it was. [nodding] Absolutely magnificent."

We got back to Hanoi on Xmas Eve and I had a thorough look through the apartment for the camera. I don't know where it could have gone, but I couldn't find it.

I decided to blame the maid. It's always the butler maid. This assumtpion never turns out to be true, but it wraps things up neatly and is more efficient than scrambling through the sock drawer.

So rather than waste any more elbow grease, I quickly got used to the idea of losing the camera. I didn't like this contraption anyway because it (yes it) takes shithouse photos. I still wanted to capture some Xmas memories but somehow, without the camera it didn't seem worthwhile doing anything interesting. So we ended up having a boring day that didn't miss a camera.

Then this afternoon I saw something so horrific, so disgusting, that I moved mountains (and vases) to capture evidence of it. Ha Long could go without evidence but this could not. The public has a right to know the truth about what's going on here.

So I went on a desperate scramble for the camera. Even at the outset, I knew that I would find it. I had to. There was no longer an option.

"I know I can, I know I can" kept running through my head as my pulse quickened and my fingers were a blur.

And I did. Found it, that is. Under a black folder.

And just in time.

In time to capture this.

Capture this horror:

On the balcony, sucking up the fresh air and the view.

I told her not to wear that hat out in public. I now see some loopholes in my instructions; and regret them.

Non Plussed

Day 1 in Hanoi.

I picked her up from the airport in a cab but had to leave straight to work. There was no time to easing her into the bike so I had to put the old stick straight on the back, nervous wobbles and all.

I can't understand how a purse, a magazine, some crocheting and a pack of cigarettes warrants such a trolley bag.

I dropped her off at the Little Hanoi, a famous landmark cafe which is easy for both of us to find. We had some lunch and she was happily left to her own devices for the day.

The Little Hanoi was also the pick-up point that evening. As I pulled up, this is what was waiting for me. It was standing there with 2 locals who were attempting to form meaningful, mercantile relationships with her. She said "these are my friends!" as I tried to yank the "non" (which is what the pointy hat is called) off her head.

At the time, I was in too much shock to take a photo - hurrying as I was to flee the scene - so I waited till we got home.

She didn't see me pull up. I should have just driven away. Called her mobile saying that the traffic was bad and she should get a cab. But this would mean her arriving home in this state. And this is something I don't need the Jones's to see.

"You just wore this to embarrass me when I picked you up, didn't you?"

-- "No no. Not at all."

"I don't believe you. It's not possible."

-- "I bought it hours ago. I've been wearing it all day.

"You - wha - are you serious? For how long?"

-- "I dunno. Hours. It's been great."

"Where did you even get it?"

-- "From my friend here."

I tried to ignore her new friend, who was now smiling at me and trying to sell me a lighter. Or postcards. Or heroin.

"Just get the fucking thing off and get on the bike."

-- "No I won't! I'm wearing it home."

"Good luck trying to get the helmet on it."

-- "Oh. I didn't think of that."

"I promise if you keep that thing on your head, I'm going to deliberately crash. I'm not sure whether the goal is to kill myself or you but either way this has to end."

-- "Alright alright I'll take it off!"

For the rest of the trip, the Non was wedged between us on the bike, spiking me in the back:

"Did you see any other tourists wearing one of these hats?"

-- "I don't care. I liked it. It was my goal for Day 1."

"Well from now on, I will be vetting the daily goals."

--- "You will not!"

"Oh really? How are you enjoying this traffic? Care for a little crash?"

--- "Alright alright."

I asked a few other questions about the Non. Apparently, it's difficult to see street signs while wearing it so she was constantly getting lost. I hoped that this also meant people couldn't see her. I soon realised that this brim was no guarantee of anonymity. People here are very short and most could have still seen her grinning face.

"Brother can you spare me a dime?"

There has since been a stern lecture about the Non and it won't be making its way out in public again.

Headline of the Day

"Christmas carols turn ugly: officer punched, teen zapped with stun gun."

I think it's missing a semicolon.

Last Night's Concert

Yosuke Yamashita played Gershwin with the Vietnamese Symphony Orchestra last night. It was at the Hanoi Opera House, which is a tired yet cosy little venue.

We were seated to the right of the stage, but when Yosuke arrived I moved around to the left and stood beside a column. I always need a view of the hands.

One of the violinists was wearing a strange sleeveless fluffy pink mohair top; oversized with a black belt around it. I think I spotted black jodhpurs when she stood up. A bold choice for someone on a stage, surrounded by ball gowns.

Some of Yosuke's earlier installations are also quite remarkable. This one below, from the 70's, is called 'Ecstasy of the Angels'. It seems to start with a hidden (oversized) vibrator, closely followed by an axe, then wraps up via a tribute to some kind of Japanese Patty Hearst.

Back to the concert.

Look closely at the applause at the end. Vietnamese people don't really stand up to applause but there is a lonely old girl in the distance, on her feet.

It was so fantastic that we want to go again. It's sold out so we are going try to sneak in tonight during intermission, brandishing last night's programs.