Hiatus

I'm having a little break until the 4th of July. Or so.

This can be blamed on me being busy and tired and stressed and ... well ... ok ... sometimes because of The Evil Milkmaid. Stay tuned.

Please keep voting for the potato, which is now at position 5. By voting one Up for mine, and on Down for the others and it will move twice as fast.

Not Soon Enough

Jacko Memorial Joke 1

Reports of Michael Jackson having a heart attack are incorrect.

He was found in the children’s ward having a stroke.

Jacko Memorial Joke 2

There will be a post-mortem today to determine which was the cause of death:

A) Sunshine

B) Moonlight

C) Good Times

D) Boogie

Jacko Memorial Joke 3

Michael Jackson died of shock after finding out Boyz II Men was a band not a delivery service.

Jacko Memorial Joke 7

When Farrah Fawcett arrived in Heaven, God was such a big fan he decided to grant her one wish. She asked that all the children in the world could be safe. So God killed Michael Jackson.

Jacko Memorial Joke 10

Michael Jackson's legal team announced that he had agreed to be melted down by undertakers to make plastic toys. So, kids can play with him for a change.

The Potato Rises

We've now hit position number 6 on urban dictionary!

Get in there and vote.

Vietnam Idol

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U2dZ3uaFyQw&feature=related

My favourites are at 2:13 (my hump, my hump, my lovely ladle hump) and 8:26 (love potion #9), whose dancing is a massive improvement on the original.

Give that the entire country isso skinny, I'm flummoxed as to why the judges are fat fuks. What's with that? the realistic thing about them is that the chick in the middle is wearing her pj's. It's not uncommon in Hanoi to see people walking around in their jim jams ...

If you make it as far as 9:26, look at what she did to progress through to the next round, even though she fucked up her. Also realistic. It is not uncommon to see large groups of people in a local park exercising to similar routines. I kid you not.

Don't Shoot - Those Drugs Aren't Mine

I have found a new Vietnamese language course on the iPod. It's called the World Nomads [sic] Vietnamese Language Guide and I can only find the one lesson.

The first lesson zips along quite well until, out of the blue, at 11 minutes and 54 seconds, they teach you how to say "Don't shoot - those drugs aren't mine."

I kid you not.

Then for the remaining 2 minutes and 15 seconds they teach you to count to ten.

Shouldn't the police be suspicious if you have rote learnt to deny the drugs before you can say anything else? It would sound wooden, like those terrible child actors they used to use in A Country Practice.

I think I'm starting to like this woman

First this:

http://www.wowowow.com/entertainment/susan-boyles-liverpool-performance-prompts-star-rant-about-cat-pebbles-320245

And then this:

"I've known Susan all her life," said David Stein, the village butcher. "We know what Susan can do verbally; she can be pretty rough on you. When she loses it, she loses it rough style."

Advertising God

Finally - closure

http://www.theonion.com/content/news/investigators_determine_air_france?utm_source=a-section

Demos

Vietnam has very stringent requirements regarding censorship.

I am working with clients(mobile phone companies) who are required to comply with this. My colleague is from India and an enthusiastic expert in this field.

Here is some dialogue from a meeting today:

Client: "Unfortunately you can't prevent people sending pornography between each other ..."

My colleague: "Yes you can! I can give you a demonstration later if you want!"

I was the only one to chuckle. It's sometimes a lonely existence here on Smut Island.

Climbing the Urban Ladder

My definition of potato has now risen to page 2 and position 10 in the Urban Dictionary rankings.

It started in the 40's and is slowly rising, like a potato in the heat.

Please go in and give it a thumbs up.

شيشة and رقص شرقي‎

Apple shisha is a type of flavoured tobacco which is smoked through a water pipe and adored by Generation Y. Although it originates in the middle east, for some reason it is very commonly available in Hanoi bars and good restaurants. The potatoes go nuts over it, probably moreso because smoking in a bar is no longer possible back in their own countries.

This is probably the same reason why so many potatoes ride motorbikes without helmets. It is now law in Vietnam and the locals all wear helmets themselves but the potatoes often don't, which makes them stand out even more. Indeed, the range of helmets in Vietnam is quite incredible including Burberry, Bumble Bee and Vietcong styles. The helmets themselves can even be accessorised, and I'm not talking about a sticker. You can buy these clip-ons which can turn your helmet into a pretty floral summer hat. I pulled up at the traffic lights today next to a girl who—from the helmet up—could have been on her way to a Renoir party. But just imagine how she would feel if it starting hailing during the party? I can see her there now, sitting smugly, hailstones bouncing off her summer hat while lesser mortals scramble for cover.

Back to the bong.

R has become addicted. He has started frequenting a particular bar called Fusion where the shisha is supposedly second to none (all in the coals, apparently: you need to change them caringly and often). He's there every night and twice on weekends and I am NOT exaggerating.

This is also the bar where they call me Hitler, so I'm obviously not feeling left out at all.

Anyway, R started making a daily trip there on the basis that "their wifi is very good", that "it's just much easier to focus" when he has to work at night and and and ... I mean, meh. So I lifted up my chin, took a deep breath, filled my lungs with second-hand smoke and announced that he was experiencing an addiction to tobacco. (One doesn't suffer an addiction as fantastic as smoking.)

R was very adamant that while the smoking was pleasurable, the environment was the lure. And boy oh boy did he desperately cling to this flimsy Ambience Defence. But I saw some cracks in the dam wall so kept tapping away until he was in the office last weekend and contacted me on Skype.

R:OMG. I just heard that A made a huge fuck-up on the software development without telling anybody

Me: huh? what does that mean?

R: A has just pushed all these errors under the rug without telling anyone and now it's becoming a deadline issue.

R: Edwina discovered it

R: She licked all the skin off her lips as she told me

Me: why did he cover it up though?

Me: were the errors spotted by anyone else before now?

Me: did she REALLY lick her lips alot when telling you?

R: his reasons were that the errors were 'just how we work'

R: YES

R: it was horrible

R: she was so proud of herself

Me: anyway please don't get involved in this. It will just suck up your time and is not your problem.

R: I know.

R: i feel like working at fusion

Me: go and do it then.

Me: what would it matter where you are working?

R: it would be far more comfortable

Me: agreed. then go.

R: it doesn't really matter, you're right.

R: testing looks like it is in hand

Me: it's probably more valuable for you to leave than to stay.

Me: you can focus better

Me: i really think you should go to now

R: cool

Me: take the oppty while the people are out at lunch.

Me: it's important to focus.

R: ok

Me: you've got a lot to do

R: thanks boss

Me: and there is a risk of getting distracted there in the office

Me: seriously - it's a much better environment to churn through your work.

R: then my boss said - "go to fusion and smoke sheesha" and i said - sure boss

R: it isn't distracting at all there

Me: you know what's so funny though?

R: what?

Me: how happy you are that you think i really believe all that shit i just said

Me: how you think i'm finally convinced about all your crap about going to fusion for the work

R: huh?

Me: so convinced by your stirring logic that i'm now sprouting my own lines of support …

R: fuck you

Me: what rubbish.

R: are you taking the piss?

Me: you were lapping it up because you wanted to believe it!!!

Me: read back our dialogue

R: whatever

R: you are an egg

Me: what I wrote is my idea of what YOU would want me to think, but not what I think at all

R: i hate you

Me: i don't blame you for wanting to believe it

Me: did you read back?

R: yes

Me: are you going red?

R: YES

Me: haha

R: i thought it was a bit unusual

Me: yes but you WANTED to believe it didn't you?

R: yes.......

Me: your head was overwhelmed by your heart

Me: the endorphins that my words were releasing ... the pleasure ...

R: you fucked with me

R: hahaha

Me: ... all finally seemed rigiht with the world

R: the birds were chirping

Me: it all seemed so right.

R: you were right though. i should go

Me: well of course you have my full support as you know

Me: i've really enjoyed this chat.

R: i'm glad you got something out of it

Me: so did you.

Me: ... for just a brief while ...

R: emotional peaks and troughs

R: a bit of tension. resolution.

R: not a bad thing

Me: ... you got to experience a perfect moment

Me: hold on to that part.

R: you are so proud of yourself

Me: no R

Me: i'm proud of you.

R: whatever

R: go away

Me: good answer tough guy

R: gotta run. I need a smoke.

Me: derrr

Since then he's come out as a nicotine addict.

Tate-ology

Tater Tots

A Tater Tot is the young child of a potato. This toddler is under five years old and lives in a large house by the river with two parents, a maid, a nanny and no discipline. The TT usually has a dirty face, stringy blonde hair and demeaning clothing. A female TT will nearly always be wearing an ugly dress; threadbare gingham is not uncommon.

Unlike its western counterparts, the TT tends to be very well behaved in public, although good parenting plays no part in this. The excessive heat and humidity in South East Asia becomes a most effective babysitter, by stripping the TT of all its energy and playfulness. As a result, the TT will sport a bored look on its face even when the occasion providers for proximity to other TTs, or sugar.

Potato Chips

Potato Chips are typically aged between 5 and 12. During this period, the chip develops a sense of superiority to mirror that its parents ... the chip never falls far from the bag. Typical behaviour includes rude commands to waiters, eye rolling at taxi drivers and refusals to ever attempt the local language (even for a "thank you:).

Tater Teens

I will use this term until I think of something better.

Sage Potato

This potato has access to information that is normally kept from other potatoes, eg the real price for mangoes, or when the police are due to arrive at the pub, or who is getting the sack tomorrow for rejecting her boss's sexual advances (an actual example).

Sage potatoes usually store a raincoat under the seat of their motorbike, know exactly how to use it and exactly when to pull it out. They handle street names and historical facts with equal aplomb.

The Sage Potato is never on an Atkins Diet ... it must be surrounded by other potatoes in order to demonstrate superior local knowledge in great detail. No nauseatingly smug stone is left unturned.

Exaggeration is not uncommon, eg adding casualties to an otherwise normal motorbike accident observed on the way to work.

A male sage potato is normally found playing soccer on Saturday afternoon with a local team. Female sage potatoes are typically found volunteering at hospitals.

Tate Modern

A yuppie potato who supports the local contemporary art scene.

The Tate Modern is quite partial to suffering: works by artists who are missing a limb or a spouse receive high praise indeed.

Caps Lock Voice

This is when a normally calm person raises their voice and attempts to use an authoritative tone.

"Sara tried to give me some attitude yesterday and I had to turn on my CAPS LOCK voice and put her in her place."

"Chris was being over-run at work, so Jason told him it was time to turn on his CAPS LOCK voice."

Coward's Way

A couple of disparate events from yesterday:

1. Recovery, not rescue

Yesterday I took a coward's approach to chasing up my abandoned shirt and tie: I sent an sms to the number I was given weeks ago for the boss, "Matt".

I accidentally sent him the sms before finishing it, so all it said was: "Amici's?" Such brevity is usually more indicative of a drunken booty call; or perhaps an impromptu dinner invitation to someone who is busier and more popular than you.

Nevertheless, "Matt" returned said sms by saying he worked for a company which manages the Amici's coffee franchisee on my street. So I sent him another message asking for information on how to escalate a "major" complaint.

I how realise how unlikely it is that my little hostages will ever be released. Indeed, they may have already been terminated. I can see them now, being filmed while kneeling in front of hooded baristas and reading their "confession".

I haven't heard back from Matt yet but I feel it's going to be quite embarrassing when I finally detail the nature of my complaint and my subsequent actions and concerns. It is going to be a very difficult tale to re-tell to Matt with any degree of dignity.

So what did I do? I begged R to call Matt directly and pretend to be me. If it was someone else's indignity I would have no problem making this call myself but when I am directly involved it seems easier to outsource.

Be that as it may, I do realise that there is little hope my shirt or tie will ever be worn again. This search is fruitless. I know (exactly) what it must feel like to be in the Brazilian airforce at the moment.

2. No one wants to play with Hitler (any more)

In Vietnam, when little kids decide to pick on another kid or generally exclude, they point their pinky at them and call them Hitler. Basically, this sounds like "Hit Lair"

When I learned this on the weekend I took much delight in this fact because it's now become my new nickname at a local bar here. When I walked in this evening, the waiter smiled, pointed his little finger at me and said "Chau Antoni! Hit Lair!". To rub it in further, he switched to R and put his thumb up, said "Hi R - friend! Come and play!" and then turned back at me, switched back to pinky and said "Hit Lair".

It was actually a lot sweeter than it sounds here in playback.

So I guess that's it. Hitler. Oh well ... there's quite a ring to it isn't there? I see no reason why not to embrace my new nickname.

The Edwina Monologues (Part Time)

On average, Edwina likes keeps herself about 15 seconds behind the rest of the room. Last Monday we were talking about Vietnamese food and someone didn’t understand my pronunciation of the word “fish”.

It was just one of those things that happens sometimes with a word … this person’s English is excellent. So I repeated it. “Fish”. Then she nodded “Oh, fiiiish!”. So we continued with our conversation. Except for Edwina. 

Just as we all started continuing with our conversation she ran up to the whiteboard and drew a picture of a fish. It was like one of the christian fishes. “See? Fish? Fish! This is a fish!.” She was so pleased with herself that she nearly licked all the skin off her lips.

We all sat there like stunned mullets.

Edwina Monologues Part X

R: Hey Edwina - who was that you were just talking to?

Edwina: Dunno. They all look the same.

The Edwina Monologues (Part L)

Loose Lips

When Edwina is pleased with herself she licks her lips. This usually happens mid monologue, while she is working up to an important point. She often does it between the words “and” and “then I”. Out comes the tongue for a quick whip around the lips before it is sent back inside. 

There is no sign of any lipstick (or other makeup) that could get in the way. The effect is quite creepy … more reptile creepy than paedophile creepy.

SUMS

Spudupmanship

The process by which a potato tries to demonstrate his superiority over other potatoes. This can be manifested in many different ways such as: daring food choices; overt use of language skills; motorbike prowess; knowledge of history; or interesting stories based on direct experiences with locals.

This term was coined this morning, while I was being overtaken by a potato on the way to work. This guy was weaving in and out of cars so daringly that he must have been overcompensating for a weak chin that must be constantly getting in the way of him looking cool. I'm sure he saw me up ahead and that having a potato in his sights provided extra motivation to be extra daring. At least ... that's what I would do ... I'm that petty.

Other Worked Example

R and I demonstrated some spudupmanship yesterday when we invited another potato to breakfast and she ate cornflakes beforehand because she can't stomach chili and noodles for breakfast. She demonstrated spudupmanship on arrival to by parking her motorbike expertly in a tight spot while we floundered for larger spaces. We fought back by taking a backstreet on the way to work. She fought back by bringing in cookies that her cook had baked the previous day. On so on and so forth.

Other Worked Example

Those fucking people who tell you about interesting facts they learnt at obscure museums in small towns. Of course I think I want to be them, but the fact that I'm not makes me hate them all the more.

Tourists generally don't attempt spudupmanship with the same vigour as an ex-pat. This is because the expat is used to being shoved down the social ladder that he will do anything to scramble up off the last rung, even though the only things available (that far down) to use as leverage are other dull-witted spuds. This must be what it's like at the bottom of the ocean, with all these odd looking creatures fighting it out for the penultimate rank.

Superboob

This today, from a walk on the Skype side.

A: i need to tell you about something quite disgusting.

R: what?

A: when i left the meeting just now i went back to the fifth floor to my desk and realised i'd forgotten my badge.

A: so i waited for someone to let me in. so guess who came out?

R: michael?

A: edwina.

A: firstly she asked me where i had been the last couple of weeks ... then chuckled as she asked whether i was hiding from her ... hahaha ... where had i been “hiding out” etc. she made the inverted commas, not me. anyway so i just made a joke about being busy and working for competitors.

R: and?

A: then i said to her "could you please let me in? i've forgotten my badge."

A: ... and she replied "alright".

A: ... and then ...

R: yes?

A: ... and then ...

R: what? what?

A: ... drum roll ...

R: oh come on.

A: then she leant over to the door, pressed her right breast against the touch pad, then i heard a click as she reached over and opened the door with her left hand.

A: she keeps her building access card pass in her bra ...

A: ... and uses her breast to open the door.

R: eeewwwwww

A: i gets worse.

R: it couldn’t.

A: it did.

R: go on.

A: as she opened the door, she licked her lips and said "super boob" as i walked past her. 

R: you're not serious?

R: she didn't!!

A: did.

A: i didn’t know what to say. so i told her (with eyes downcast) that the word for "tits" in vietnamese is “vu” and ... that it’s the surname of a colleague and ... scampered away bookishly.

Wikipedia has Gone Atkins!

It's gone, innit?

Just like that.

I will damn Wikipedia to hell in a hand basket, whatever that means.

They've pulled the spud.

We only get 15 minutes of fame and has mine been already used up on a now-defunct Wikipedia entry? Susan Boyle used hers on Oprah. My fame has been squandered on a deleted—sorry, removed—Wikipedia page.

What to do? I blame SuBo, actually. Her beady eyes have made the world a meaner place. I will probably deface her Wikipedia entry. Give her a past. ("It is rumoured that Susan Boyle once had a brief lesbian relationship with Linda McCartney.")

This is worse than grief. At least if you lose a relative you get to have a funeral then gradually start forgetting about them. (No offence Cheesel but you can't argue with the logic.)

Goodbye, sweet potato.

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"