on Bullet Post and a Prostitute

I was gonna tell you about the prostitute before, but now I’m not. I was once introduced to a woman with preposterously posed boobs, named Vivian. She turned out to be a prostitute.

I won’t be talking about Vivian. We shall return to the current thematic subject of self depreciation in due time. For now, I need to a do a bullet point post.

Things I could’ve been writing right now:

• My theory as to why Facebook is popular and why it is a fad. (it is absolutely stinking of uselessness).
• My boundless optimism for the Indonesian technology industry and in particular the area of online and online advertising. (coz I’m really smart when I’m analyzing trends).
• Why I think the biggest problem with this country is because nobody here really believes in anything at all. (one mind boggles).
• Why I think they should have sharia laws in wherever it is they’re putting sharia laws these days. (coz I’m not living there).
• Why I think the institution of marriage is somewhat necessary and relevant to modern society and how it fits within a frame of social equalities. (it’s cute).
• Write another piece to annoy the Society of Indonesian Expat Bloggers (eg. On Cricket). (it doesn’t suit the festive mode).
• Why I didn’t have Vivian stay over that night and went home instead to have my head smacked with a wine glass. (read again, the wine glass part).
• The latest episode in this egregious misadventure into the promised land of a prosperous future. (eg. The Chronicles of Pain, Season 2).
• Why I think straight men are idiots (all the smart ones have turned gays)

Things I could’ve been doing right now:

• Sitting by the river in Bukit Lawang with a freakishly big fire, few chickens, good wine and ciggies wondering if the orangutans were watching.
• In a colonial room in the middle of one Java’s oldest coffee plantation, smelling the coffee over cigarette. Preferably with a nice glass of merlot.
• Sitting at home and play scrabble with the dog (he’s getting better).
• Somewhere in quay in Singapore trying to figure out if whether I was the same club that I been before or is it a new mini club stuffed with long legged people.
• Tequila tasting.
• Somewhere in a nice club where they serve good enough drinks and really loud music, probably with Vivian.
• Continue working on my novel and write a sex scene with Vivian.
• Working on that thing I am supposed to be doing and for which I am getting paid to do.

Things I am doing instead:

• Writing a bloated blog with unfunny jokes, sarcasms and too many in jokes.
• Watching the second season of West Wing.
• Composing sentences that makes no sense individually into several different pieces of writing and see if it will form any sort of coherent communication efforts to any person other than myself.
• Trying to teach the dog scrabble.

Things I am wondering about:

• Why is it that we spell “an hysterical” but we do “a history”? That’s just weird.

Things I am positively not doing right now and will not do again in the year 2008:

• Caring for things I couldn’t have possible cared about.

Mr. Brightside and his Magic

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
~A Dream Within A Dream, Edgar Allan Poe

I’m a very busy man. And classy, too. I’m a very busy man with superior taste. Not to mention literate.

You could glance that from my immaculate living room today. The magazines are Vanity Fair, Economist, New Yorker, Fortune, GQ and an FHM. Right next to it, stacked near USB cables and stacks of external hard discs are my books. At the moment, there’s poetry (Tim Burton’s Melancholy Death of Oyster Boy), an oriental literature (Beauty in Disarray, by Harumi Setouchi and translated by Sanford Goldstein), a collection of intellectual essays (Consider the Lobster, David F Wallace), an old classic (Winston Churchill’s History of the English Speaking Peoples), an obscure reference (Websters Dictionary of Word Histories), a cheap crappy airport novel (Crichton’s Next) and some other stuff I haven’t got around to yet.

There are two laptops on the desk (it’s an ancient looking single piece teak, btw). One of which I am using right now to write, the other serves as my music player. Along the back row, resting against the wall are a series of photographs and pictures. A few birthday cards I got from my dearests, a black and white baby Mowgli, a black and white professional montage of adult Mowgli, a vintage 1992 Michael Jordan card, a Buddhist monk from Thailand, a Wolverine card, a picture of the Afghan girl and her penetrating eyes, an album cover of August and Everything After (Counting Crows), an old framed photograph of my ex from her first casting call that she gave me as a present and a close up of an orangutan. There’s a sandalwood sculpture of a fire dragon and a globe of stars. Scented candles, a bowl of wine corks, ancient Chinese coins, pens rolling papers, worthless money from several foreign countries, a Vicks inhaler and other useless knick knacks that serves no purpose other than for pose. On the wall, right on top, is an old map of the Great Britain circa 1600, by George Willdey at the corner of Ludgate St. next to the St. Paul. The rest of the walls have 1200 books in non alphabetical order and a scrabble board.

Four of animals (include the dragon), three of the golden 90s, three art pieces, bits of forgotten memories and no verb. Busy and classy.

On the busy side, my calendar looks awfully impressive. Two dinners at the Dharmawangsa, Four Seasons brunch, a cocktail at some equally snub nosed joint, a movie premiere and parties at the Kama Sutra and Dragonfly. There’s a trip to Singapore to cancel a meeting with the headhunters and another trip to the vet, all for the week.

Emotionally disconnected, intellectual snob with blessed luck and improbable screw ups. Put the music up (jazz) and all I need is a middle name.

A few people are coming over tonight and hopefully they will be sufficiently impressed. We will be working on a business plan over wine and likely to extend to the wee hours. They probably think I’m a busy man. Impressive, huh?

For reasons passing understanding* the illusion of business, I find comforting. Distracting. Keeps me from thinking of everything but. Perhaps indulge in some of my professional responsibilities. Maybe to finish one of them books so I can start on the next one. Maybe even to work on some code and see if I could make things happen sooner rather than later. Maybe to get this blogpost just right so that I could say everything that I needed to say without using the words and sentences that I needed to use. Ultimately to say everything without having to say anything at all. Maybe to watch the entire seven seasons of West Wing again just so I don’t have to think of anything for the next 156 hours or so.

Illusion can be important at times and I am the magician.

Just not very good at it.


* Not really.

on Pluie

Everybody told me to get a life. I find life terribly overrated. It’s boring when it’s not disappointing.
~Someone from somewhere.


Pluie. It’s a wolf. The fifth episode* in the first season of the West Wing and there’s a wolf in it. Called Pluie. White House staffers get to do the one least important meeting in the year. One of the funnier meetings was about wild reservation that involves a wolf, called Pluie. There’s further interesting tidbits of American history about Andrew Jackson and a big block of cheese in the foyer of the White House.
2 Tons block of cheese.

What does it say about my character, that I spent the immediate hours following a tediously painful exercise with humility and dignity at the expense of myself, I immersed in watching (again) the first season of the West Wing?

I don’t presume it says much at all. For the purpose of this discussion, let’s just assume that it reflects on the better part of me. There are other sides to me, too.
Some I am less proud of and others downright maniacal and not at all pleasant. One of the latter would be this egregious tendency to beat myself over the head when bad shit hit me on the back of my head.

Let’s just say it is unassumingly stupid, not to mention pointless and, hurtful. The point of it eludes me. The point of this, even.

I wish people stop asking me how am I feeling. I truly do. I have not an answer to that question. I feel sick and frustrated. Angry a little bit perhaps, dash of disappointment. Did I say a little painful?

Most times though, I just gaze at lost thoughts, wondering how to spell the weirder words in English, and occasionally German.

I could play scrabble really well right now.

We went to have dinner at Anatolia last night. It was nice and fun and surprisingly relaxing. There was an immaculately dressed belly dancer in beads and whatnot and looking positively available for 49 different positions from here til Sunday. You could book her for two million (or less if you’re fiendishly cunning), but I am yet to defame myself and hire a prostitute. That’s what exes are for.

I am not yet there either.

It’s reassuring when your person is the last person you trust right now.

Will be back later with the next episode in this chronicle. I’m off now to nurture a very expensive hangover in foul weather gear.


* - probably was the sixth, but could’ve been the fourth.

on New Playmate Love

A few weeks ago I fell in love with the senator’s wife from the West Wing.
Today I discovered she’s a playmate. Internet works!
I'm happy.

PS: You're not seriously expecting me to post pictures are you?

on Christmas, 2007

Say it once, say it twice, take a chance and roll the dice. Ride with the moon in the dead of night
~Time Burton's - The Nightmare Before Christmas

I was supposed to do my Christmas edition this weekend. I was supposed to do my own sentiment mongering hours for Christmas, back to you all with a present of words.

Instead the hours were spent uselessly with a great number of other things, none at all had anything to do with Christmas. I didn’t wish anybody at all a Merry Christmas and I had none. I didn’t even have my phone with me all day. I barely met a single human person today.

My ex used to have a word for it, when I go into my shut down mode. Blue screen of death. I wasn’t actually much depressed or anything. More like a forced shut down and restart. You get to that point where you need everything restarted. Memory leaks and spiraling processes, clogged the system down beyond uselessness, everything ceased to function.

Some time, very late at night with a nurtured hang over, I saw Mystic River again. Always like Sean Penn and Mystic River, I think was his best. There’s something about the eyes, I think. The eyes of a man that seen things. There’s another with him and Gary Oldman that I like, but I can’t remember the name of it.

Anyhow, that’s not what I supposed to talk about. I wished I’d my own Mystic River. Bury our sins away. Something about Clint Eastwood films, always very sentimental. Was the wrong film to see in this mood.

I’ve work tomorrow. Something about closing the book and shit. Gotta turn up and tie up my loose ends. Maybe I’ll write more again later. Sorry not to be too merry, but yeah, hope you all had a jolly merry Christmas.

Proof #24 That Darwin Was Wrong

I rode a cab today. The taxi driver didn't know how to drive. Like literally, he didn't know when to shift gears and stalled several times. To expect him to know the way would've been too much.

(this also proves that Intelligent Design is similarly full of shit).

on Thinking, Tangling Shadows

It collapses, crackling. Fire. Fire.
And my soul dances, seared with curls of fire.
Who calls? What silence peopled with echoes?
Hour of nostalgia, hour of happiness, hour of solitude.
Hour that is mine from among them all!
Megaphone in which the wind passes singing.
Such a passion of weeping tied to my body.
~Pablo Neruda, Thinking, Tangling Shadows


I’m drinking a nice bottle of port right now. You should know that before I go any further. It’s a nice one, too. Fonseca Porto, some collector’s edition that some friend was bothered to get me. I been drinking whole load of shit before that, too. You should also know that, too.

Not that it matters. I won’t really tell you everything anyway. I can’t even tell myself everything. It’s one of them things that you wouldn’t even want to tell yourself for fear that you would have to believe them.

What the fuck am I doing sharing my life with the internet anyway?

The port is good. Better than most. Tho at this point any amount of alcohol would be good. I’m thinking of robbing the shop across the road, only they only stock beer and I don’t drink that sort of shit. Not even when I’m desperate. This desperate.

What can I tell you?

Not much. Not much at all, really.

I wished I could tell you everything. Ever the wonderful world of mirrors, telling the internet what things you might’ve thought happened would’ve probably helped.

I must be out of my fucking mind.

Out of my fucking mind.

It is but cries in the night
for things that are already lost.
Cries for the most beautiful of dreams.
for all that is lost.

Would you ever go in the look for it?
Would you?

on Growing Up

I’m thinking of you.
Yeah, I’m thinking of me, too
~a txt message exchange

The sky outside was bright and Jakarta was uncharacteristically cold. Not cold enough to grab a jumper, but enough that you’d notice. The moon was almost full, all round and bright and silver not at all minding some guy on six o’clock news was about to blame her for the higher than usual rising tide.

Mowgli’s asleep as he always does when I’m home. He moved between couches, taking turns with the cat. I was in a movie-thon. Most recent was The Company – a CBS tv series from a book I read a few years ago. Movies are best to take your mind away. Away in far away places where events taking place bear no or little purpose to your life. Keep you from thinking things you should or should not be thinking. Bad movies are the perfect time waster.

Good movies are less perfect but fit the purpose, regardless.

I checked the clock every few minutes. Every half hour or so. Every hour, or maybe it’s every two hours. I don’t know, I tried not to care. I was just wondering if she would call like she promised. Perhaps, she would and then it just proved I had nothing to worry about. Perhaps, she wouldn’t. Then I’d need to decide if I were to worry about anything.

Someone once said that the signs of adulthood were the moment where you start having regrets. She keeps telling me to grow up. She’s not the only person either.

Life changed a lot in the last few years. Four years, five, six. Things changed a lot since then. From what I remember, a lot of things in the last six years. And the years before that. Do you ever think how much life has changed in the last few years?

Sometimes I wonder if life really had changed at all, or if it’s just me wishing for things to have changed like broken old Guns N Roses songs.

Sometimes I wonder if life really is a twisted humour or am I just a sucker for bad jokes.

on a Poster

The poster's from Huffington. Click to zoom in, and go over there to check the other two posters.

on Frost and Green Day

I'm walking down the line
That divides me somewhere in my mind
On the border line
Of the edge and where I walk alone

Read between the lines
What's fucked up and everything's alright
Check my vital signs
To know I'm still alive and I walk alone
~Boulevard of Broken Dreams, Green Day

One would argue that there's better time spent than discussing Jimi Hendrix's Little Wing with the dog on a holiday. I like the Skid Row version (from their very first album), the dog is indifferent.

I'm just going thematic with Green Day. Any chance they're also a fan of Robert Frost?

Dharmawangsa tonight, then a fancy four course dinner at Le Bistro. I need to go and get dressed now.

Mr. Brightside is Getting Acquainted with the Night

Acquainted with the Night
~Robert Frost

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain --and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height
One luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.

***

You can blame this one post to the traffic. I am still at work, which is sad. Even as tomorrow is a holiday and you’ll be hard pressed to find an excuse not to go out and get sloshed tonight. Well, hard pressed, that is, until you try to flag a cab in Sudirman at 10.30 on a Wednesday.

It is not due to the traffic that I took the elevator down with a roaring head and massively bungled psyche. I swear, I could see fonts and sentences floating around in sans serif fonts. Some of them definitely Frost. Others were most likely Kurt Cobain’s incoherent rumbles, not exactly suicide notes but potentially misconstrued.

Can you hear dreams shattered?

A colleague of mine just broke up with his girlfriend of three years. Both working in the same industry and the same city. They wanted to spend New Year together, except when he learned that his girl had her ticket up for sale. She sold her ticket and apparently that triggered the breakup. I probably missed the details. I know, the devil’s in the details. Hurts like a bitch, too.

He looked devastated. Short of making funny noises, he has all the symptoms.

Robert Frost has a cool name. Or had? I don’t understand the English grammar. Too many rules.

Cocked up and fucked up. Destructive tendencies and slightly homicidal. Need for speed and alcohol prone. Bad fucking hangover would’ve been a good idea.

I came back upstairs to do the Heroes trivia on Facebook. Just finished the second season last night. What a load of crap. Nobody could die.

The Haitian would come in handy at this point. Big black man waved his fingers and he stole your memories away. I need one of them supernatural powers. A ninja with lesbian girlfriends.

The man had a photo of his girl with someone else. Thank fuck for the internet. I told him already, you can find anything out there. Anything. Everything. The picture looked like two persons kissing. He asked her of it and she was unwilling to say anything. He badgered and bludgeoned and by the end of the day he was becoming obsessively persistent. In the end, she told him only that she couldn’t remember exactly what it was. Then she sold her ticket to her friend and he’s now all set to the beach with a stranger.

It started out with a kiss
How did it end up like this
It was only a kiss, it was only a kiss
Now I’m falling asleep
And she’s calling a cab
While he’s having a smoke
And she’s taking a drag
Now they’re going to bed
And my stomach is sick
And it’s all in my head
But she’s touching his—chest
Now, he takes off her dress
Now, let me go...


I sang him a song. Like thru Winamp, i played him a song. What a cock up. I think I need to make my colleague feel better. I should've bought him a fish instead. Maybe I’ll bring mine. Only they keep dying. My fish keep dying.

The Bennets address in Odessa, TX is 9 Juniper Lane. It is absolutely silly that I actually know that.

on Rambo: He's Back

I can't wait to see the new Rambo next month. The trailer's out there on the net (here's a Yahoo Video stream). Is that really strange?

on the Happy Stuff

I got home and the dog was very happy, so I guess that counts for something. He looked happy.

My best friend is getting engaged. That also makes me very happy. She looked great and happy and great and I gave her big hugs. She hugged me too. We spent the night hugging, it seemed. It was a good night.

I don’t have that many friends and those that are, I treasure. She is one.

Tonight was a good night, I guess. By most measures, it would’ve been a good night. Nova had her film premiere and we got together earlier in the evening just before it opened with some wine and sushi. She looked pretty with a new hair and all. And nervous. In the back corner of the pub, we killed our dead fish. Fashionably late, we’ve all the main characters, director and the producers around on the table and every one was looking edgy. The only people not associated with the film was the soon-to-be engaged couple and they were in their own world. And me, of course. Considering that I just been having a real shitty week, the night was actually exciting.

Upstairs, everybody looked awesome. Except for me, of course. I look like shit like I always do. Work was taxing. I’ve no time for make up. We talked of the film that nobody had seen and parties that nobody had attended. We chose the wine and picked the champagne. They leaked seating arrangements and I was supposed to give toast. Everybody looked pretty and they all had pop corn.

She came for two minutes, prettier than I ever remembered and we exchanged civilized smiles. I ordered ice cream and there were three hundred cameras trained as we worked through our moccas and caramels. I won’t say that it was the best circumstance.

Two sentences or probably more. The substance was lost.

The announcers broke our tired old shit and we sat through the whole 93 minutes of it. Seats were all over the place, we had thoughts and opinions but we kept them to ourselves.

Then we get sloshed. Everyone walked out and within their own tiny little world, everyone need a drink. I glanced and the girls seemed to have all three hundred cameras onto themselves just as we walked out. The boys were solid on the drink. We needed the drink for our own reasons. I’d advise you not to ask me mine. French wine is a good enough excuse.

The night went on past midnight and once again, we’ve our own. We all each have our own, I guess. I can’t say much more.

I won’t.

In hindsight, some two years from now, I might have some good stories to tell.

Tonight, I’m just happy about them all.

And I wish them all the best of luck.

on Penguin Art

Crazy busy today, no time for pointless pondering. here's from the Save the Penguins movement, courtesy of Dilli.

on Phony Relationships

Ferocious female nagging is the price men pay for our much lamented prerogatives, the power and the mobility and the penis.
~Ben Turnbull from Toward the End of Time, Updike


I never told anybody what happened since those who knew know too much and those who didn’t never really needed to. Sometimes, ugly stories do make a good story, told in hindsight. It might even makes you smile.

Most men are too dumb to know. It’s not like they don’t know, more like they don’t want to. The masochist tendencies, probably, is inherent.

She left her phone in the handbag. Once and twice and three times.
Then the damn phone ran out of batteries and chargers were lost and fancy clubs lost coverage. Occasionally, she picked random signals in the bathroom and you heard the toilet flush.

She always calls once she gets home. Wishes you good night and all that. Sweet nothings that makes lonely nights less cold. It’s nice and it was a routine. Makes you sleep better. Except that sometimes she was too tired or too drunk or well, the phone was low on battery again.

You got up in the morning and you checked inboxes for lost messages. She sends her text the earliest, drowsy and lousy, and you learn of stories and welcome Sundays as always.

Except that work days were tough and she needs to sleep in, too. Just like you. Occasionally, she slept over, too, and missed her charger at home. She would call you soon as she arrived home, fresh from the shower. Good riddance of Fridays.

By Wednesday, you were told not to call at night since mornings came early. You were probably suggested, but the difference here was trivia. Even better, you were further suggested, was to text first before you call.

After a while, the phone got old and lost its juice. Much it is to be desired from today’s battery technology. They just died. You never know what you don’t know. NASA’s been working it for many long years.

Incoherent stories and flawed memories. Things got lost in translation. They always do. In the end they were all theories. Out there to be proven wrong. What can you say, we’re not all scientists.

Heroes and morons brave thru all that at least once in their miserable lives. Perhaps they want to really know or maybe it’s the masochistic tendencies in all of us. X files was a cult at some point. Mormons, too. Or was it scientology?

No matter.

Nobody would ever do it twice. It’s just not worth the effort.

PS: this serves as a non-explanation and not at all meant to make sense.

the Idiot on Sunday

I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.
I will not be stupid again.

That's it. That's a 100.

Happy Birthday - and the Police in Singapore

Have a Very Happy Birthday! Wish you all the best. All the best.



Flash News: The Police - in Singapore, Feb 4, 2008. National Stadium or something. I'm getting tix booked, but i could also be in Macau then - supposedly they're doing another concert there. Won't see them again this lifetime, i'm pretty sure.

On the sidenote, Kompas today has a 3 (Hutchinson) quarter page ad, promoting U2 - Joshua Tree 20th anniversary edition. Do they actually pay U2 or is it just the record company? (the ad shows Joshua Tree album cover with all four members right on top of the 3 logo).

The Ultimate Guide to Indonesian* Blogs

*the ‘Indonesian’ in the title refers to one convoluted message and thus this post specifically applies to those (only) as prescribed below:

• All Indonesian-born individuals who keep and maintain blog(s) – aka. “bloggers”.
• All foreign born Indonesian bloggers.
• All foreign born Indonesian bloggers with mixed parents, regardless of his/her current country of domicile.
• All bloggers of Indonesian decent, regardless of his/her current country of domicile.
• All bloggers of Indonesian decent, second generation or farther, with one or more mixed ancestors, regardless of his/her current country of domicile.
• All bloggers who took the oath of allegiance to the beloved Republic of Indonesia through various legally-recognized citizenship conversion process, provided that this was done in a friendly sovereign nation
• All bloggers who might’ve aspired to take such an oath of allegiance but insofar had been prevented from doing so due to the lack of access to a suitable jurisdiction, or laziness.
• All bloggers who might have chosen to keep a dual citizenship status, one of which is Indonesian (note that Indonesia does not at the moment recognize dual citizenship status and thus a potentially legally grey area).
• All bloggers whose posts contain certain flavors of Indonesianism (note that a number of previously positively Indonesian cultural characteristics have recently been brutally absorbed by our neighbour, Malaysia. Bloggers take notice).
• All bloggers whose posts were addressed, primarily to the Indonesian public.
• All bloggers whose posts might’ve been potentially considered to be interesting to the Indonesian public.
• All bloggers whose blog utilizes the Indonesian language.
• All bloggers, currently citizen of a friendly sovereign nation, currently residing in Indonesia in certain temporary, period-limited arrangements (eg. US Marine guards at the embassy, post/pre Iraq).
• All bloggers, currently citizen of a friendly sovereign nation, currently residing in Indonesia for a longer term, but legally limited period of time (eg. Non-definitive overseas placement in Balikpapan for poor old Oz coal miners with no family dog).
• All bloggers, currently citizen of a friendly sovereign nation, currently residing in Indonesia for an indefinite period of time. Legally (eg. The young sweet thing in MyBar seduced me twenty years ago and now I’m stuck but I’m loving it anyway).
• All bloggers belonging in the immigration limbo, but currently firmly, physically placed on Indonesian soil (eg. Boat people in detention centers with internet access).
• All bloggers, currently citizen of a friendly soverign nation, currently residing in a foreign land but have certifiably visited Indonesia (or near and immediate intention of visiting Indonesian soil) for any purpose other than invasion/re-colonization/communist re-intervention.
• All bloggers whose express posted opinions reflect favorable attitudes towards Indonesian values.
• All bloggers whose express thoughts and concerns are deemed relevant by a large majority of Indonesian population/other Indonesian bloggers.
• All bloggers whose express thoughts and concerns lie within the geo-political borders of the nation of the Republic of Indonesia (note, disputed island-rocks in the Malayan straits are presently going through international arbitration process).
• All bloggers whose express thoughts and concerns could conceivably be within the geo-political borders of the nation of the Republic of Indonesia.
• All bloggers whose express thoughts and concerns and written opinions were presented contrary to the interest of our Malaysian neighbour. (the enemy of my enemy is my friend).
• All bloggers whose readers/commenters/buddy lists include a significant number of Indonesian bloggers.
• All bloggers recognized by at least one of the any number of the authoritative Indonesian blog rankings (aka. Recent Indomatters ranking). Blogs in listed in the top ten are considered authoritative to consider and determine the Indonesian-ness of other blogs. That include yours truly, indeed.
• All Indonesian bloggers currently in hiding.
• All bloggers who blog in the English language but whose subjects might conceivable be identified as Indonesian thru (one of) the mechanics as described above.
• All bloggers who blog in any other language than English and Indonesian, but whose subject and express opinions (as might’ve been observed and contained in a significant number of recently posted posts), reflects an interests in all things considered Indonesian, thru (one of) the mechanics as described above.
• All bloggers who blog in Finnish (or Danish), presumably belonging to any other of the previously described categories (thus a legitimate claim to his/her Indonesian-ness), they are required to present at least one bilingual witness to testify to the authenticity of its Indonesian-ness. (Babelfish translations not acceptable).
• All female bloggers with suitably large breasts and undying fetish for Indonesian males and blog about it. (preferably with pictures).
• Co-authors of any such blogs as listed above.

I think it’s time for all of us to make peace.

PS: By the authority granted in me by the honorable administrators and algorithm producers of techorati developers, as well as the general gullibility of my fellow Indonesian bloggers, I declare that this list will, from now on further, be used as the definitive guide to correctly and accurately identify the exact Indonesian-ness of any wrongly accused bloggers in disputes, within the Indonesian bloggosphere. (read previous post)


PSS: If you’re feeling left out, do drop me a mail. I might be able to find a loop hole.

Save the Penguin, Save the World

The Idiot on You: Save the Penguins, Save the World

His sins, if there are such things as sins, are borrowed. He becomes an echo of some one else's music, an actor of a part that has not been written for him.
~the Picture of Dorian Gray, Oscar Wilde


In a politically correct, environmentally aware, morally superior and ultimately Darwinian world, what do you think would eventually happen to idiots?

I expect they will be declared an endangered species.
We’d all fight to keep them on the brink of extinction. If anything at all, probably just so that the standard for us common men shouldn’t be set too high.
Or women, of course.

You could argue that it is, indeed, an existential question.
I’ve forgotten most of my philosophy stuff, but those of you who remember would know what I’m talking about.

It is hard to read these pages sometimes. Especially since the rules are unclear and the subjects left intentionally vague.

It is potentially ruinous to contemplate that when I write to you, I was probably not talking about you. That when the words were articulated and the arguments were passionately presented, I wasn’t actually talking about you.

It is admittedly embarrassing, to suggest that when challenges were announced and I was being pointedly intellectually insulting, you were definitively, and positively not the subject.

Is it even possible that the words written here by yours truly, were not meant for you?

Rambles of nonsense and futile exercise in second languages. Broken grammar and inappropriate suggestions. Misdirected misgivings and audacious finger pointing. How lewd.

Not that I do not understand the ramification of all this. It is understood that you could potentially be utterly, positively, thoroughly insulted, of course.

The unforgivable act of public humiliation and oh all the shame in the world upon you. The very definition of bloggy defamation, spelled out past midnight in alcohol induced tantrums, you (naturally) feel like an idiot. You are oh so utterly crushed and ashamed. And acceptably angered.

Virtual fingers and delusional grandeur of a you-centered euphemism. Common symptoms in all. Vanity, is a deadly sin, if there’s such things as deadly sins.

You think the words were yours. You expect as much. You earn as much. You’ve statistics to prove and ranks to boot.

Nothing I could do.

I could, however, politely suggest that perhaps, in this wonderfully PC world of ours, environmentally apocalyptic and scientifically evolved – Mssr. Darwin had done the wonderful work of having it taken care a while ago: you’re most probably not the only idiot left out there.

I’m going back to my reading, it’s my bed time already.

Yours Truly,

Violence Against Bloggers: Save the Penguins, Save the World.

Somehow work has been funny busy. Like, everything pile up during the last week and i had to do two million things all at once.

I've we'll visit a whole load of stuff next week, promise: broken hearts, internet scene in Indonesia, online advertising, blogging for idiots and of course, a full round of the latest crap happening around in Jakarta.

Just for the fun of it, I might just add that a few crappy clubs are opening around town: I didn't go, they're too crappy (Amor in Kemang and the Rich in Permata Hijau, both are passionately lacking of any taste.)

The new Cafe in Hotel Mulia is fabulous. Yes, fabulous. Isn't that a wonderful word? Lots of glitter and certainly much more accommodating to whatever B-listers that pick Mulia to flirt with their fave MPs. The food is good, the interior is dandy and the price is equally glamorous.
I didn't meet any flirtatious MPs.

I spend too much time in those hotels these days.

Anyway, i'm thinking about mobilizing bloggers everywhere for a campaign for Violence Against Bloggers: Save the Penguins, Save the World.

You know what i'm talking about. I think.

Let's get back there tomorrow. It's late, i need to sleep.

on the Couch

When in doubt, do the right thing. The rest of the time, get away with whatever you can get away with.
~Someone from somewhere

The last few days have been awful. Work’s a little fucknut and I go slightly more moronic every 15 minutes. At this rate, I’ll be playing scrabble with the cat at 2 am. I won’t win either. I don’t have anyone to play scrabble with these days, of course. So I’m doing re runs of the West Wing. I can’t decide whether to have a hard on for Mrs. Santos or for Jane Braun. The later is a Republican and I think they’re hot.

Very few people appreciate it. Nobody probably would. But I have been working a lot the last few days. More than most days, definitely. More than most people could possibly have done in my position, I’m sure. I’m not even sure why I do that. I just think I should give it my best, I guess. I’m better on this job than most people. I’d like to believe I can do a lot of good. I think I’m doing a lot of good.

True, sometimes, I’m not even sure what I’m doing. Feels a whole lotta good when I do tho. What do you know, I’m a masochist sometimes.

I get home, mostly it’ll be around midnight or so. The lights will be off, except for my reading lights. The mood light in the living room. The dog barks at first, until he recognizes my key rings in the door. Then he makes that crying sound, just like he’s been doing for the last 8 years.

When I walk in, he follows me with his tail wagging. Big bum swinging like Beyonce after a bad diet and grey fur coat. I drop the laptop and went to the bedroom to change. He goes on the bed, two big puppy eyes staring at me. Changed into shorts, I went to the bed, switch aircon on and my bedside light. He keeps and wag his tail harder and I pat him on the head.

The remote. Most nights it’s 99.9 and they play jazz with good taste. Occasionally, I play Arctic Monkeys and Pink Floyd and Pearl Jam. It depends.

I take my seat by the couch with mosquitoes and drifting thoughts about a beautiful girl in different time zones. Mowgli knows it’s his time and he sits beside me. He sits on the couch and falls asleep. These days, the dog snores. He sleeps really well and I swear he looks like he dreams of sheep. Morphed into well done chops. With gravy.

He doesn’t usually sleeps that well. He kicks into alert every time I move and jumps out every time there’s noise outside. Great guard dog, he wants to find the bad people of the night.

These days he just wants to sleep. And back rubs. Lots of back rubs.

He waits for me til I got sick of mossies or laptop runs out of batteries, then he chases me down to the bedroom and took his post on the bed. Sometimes he takes entire side of the bed these days.

He sleeps on my bed even when I’m not home and the maids make sure that Mowgli has the aircon on.

You think I spoil him too much? I probably do. I don’t have that many other to love.

I’m turning in now. Good night people.

on Bloggy Freaks

Bloggy world used to be a happy world. There’re always the occasional freaks and sociopaths, but generally, it’s safer than churches in Colorado these days.

Lately tho, it’s getting weirder and weirder. It’s not getting happier.

Lots of people poking each other with weirder shit, and I know a few people who took their blogs down due to some weird occurrences.

Latest, there was again, a mini spat over the Indomatter top 100 list. I was ranked 8 (on the English speaking one). I thought that was pretty respectable, albeit not very accurate.

Deep inside me, I know I deserve better.

1. I get laid on regular basis. Other bloggers don’t. Which is why they’re all such a miserable lot. That is not to say that I am happy all the time, I do get miserable quite often. Only I am miserable not because I don’t get laid regularly.
2. I have lots of fans and stalkers and friends and more fans. Treespotter merchandise is in demand and by 2012, I will have my own perfume line.
3. I do lots of socially acceptable soft porn. Internet people love this: it doesn’t alienate them the way www.asianhardcoreparties.com do, but at the same time, Treespotting satisfies their funny internet fetishes (see point 1)
4. I have a dog. Like a great dog. Happy dog. None of the other bloggers have dogs. If they do have a dog, then they have miserable dog.

Ok… I won’t list anymore. It seems like a good idea to write this 10 minutes ago. But it’s not now. I’m running out of ideas and I’ve to run for my last meeting in the day. I think people need to chill the fuck down. Jakartaass and Unspun should get on a YouTube debate. IndCoup needs to return, girl bloggers should voice UP! (boy bloggers comparing sizes, we need a female voice to bring some dignity to the table, you get the point).
And Brandon should take group photos for all of us (nothing explicit. just friendly group photos)

You guys need to chill out. Comparing blog ranks is just, well, sad.

Like, really, really sad. Go home and read books.

on Climate Change

Overheard in the pub last night. This whole climate change thing. The whole 10,000 people who were in Bali last night, do you wonder what were their carbon emission to attend the conference?

i think climate change is a hoax.

on the New C Class

You seen the new C-Class? I tried a brand new (32km on the clock), Brabus C. For the first time ever, I might go for a Merc over a Beemer. Go have a look for pictures online, I’m not sure when you will start seeing one of these babies on the street. It now makes sense why Mercedez gave Blue Birds steep discount to get rid of their old inventory.


For the record, the last C Class is the worst luxury car I’ve ever known (I’ve driven quite a few since it was first out), not a single one deserve a Mercedez reputation. The build was crap, the interior was ugly, the plastics break everywhere. Then you call to complain and they send you this ridiculous bill for ‘em.

I’ll keep you guys posted on this new one. For now though, I’m loving it. (i'm also stealing it, but hey...)

I need to get out. Get out there with speed. I haven’t done that for a while. No fast cars, no empty stretch of roads anywhere.

Virginal rubber. I love the smell.

There must be better things to do rather than mutely speculating on the American presidential campaign. Oprah Winfrey ran a rally the other day. Debates run on YouTube. Funny republicans and Persian fetish. Cleavage. You gotta love it.

Instead I’m doing a rerun of the West Wing, 7th Season. Right up the election. Santos-Vinnick is more fun to watch than Obama-Clinton.

I will have something for you guys in a bit, I think.

I Hate Monday

Did i say the same thing last week?

Well, Monday is crap. That's not even news.

PS: I got my firefox back. That's my news.

on Top Blogs and Jessica Simpson

FMail in facebook – it retrieves your gmail from within facebook. Great stuff, most useful application so far. That way, I have all my inboxes in one browser. I’m yet to find any value in all the other facebook applications, but I’m sure there are others.

Why does Indonesia drive on the left? Wiki thinks it’s because of the brief visit by the Brits. I think so, too but the evidence isn’t conclusive. We spent a good part of the night at the Dharmawangsa the other night on this matter (still my favourite hotel in town). We were working. Anyone knows better, drop me a line.

Kabar magazine launched a blog. Jan who runs the magazine is lovely and she dared me to write. I am waiting for my moments of brilliance to shine thru.

I’m also wondering if she’s serious. Brandon’s also a regular contributor and they’re doing some great funky stuff over there. Go check.

Indomatters put up the definitive top 100 Indonesian bloggers. No special mentions of penguins nor mice. Yours truly is ranked in the top half of the list, my equivalent in the FHM list would be Jessica Simpson. how’s that for an achievement? (notes to self: shave legs).

Now, I have to get back to work.

on Death (from NYT)

Too busy to blog now, but this is a nice article from the NY Times.

on Current Events

A mortal who makes love to a goddess is doomed
~Salman Rushdie, Fury

Singapore was good. It was good to see her, though I was knackered. I was tired, the week’s been awful with work and shit and even though Singapore was for fun, it’s still not a proper rest. Let’s just say the whole Singapore thing isn’t working out. It’s costing me hell of a lot more than I thought and it’s just too damn tiring to go thru it every time. We spent the entire time we had planning for the next time we will have together.

Endy Bayuni – from Jakarta Post – asked recently on his facebook, if long distance relationship would ever work. The answer was an equivocal no. If you think it does, then you’re in denial.

Or else, you’re just in for one big surprise. And it ain’t the happy kind of surprises.

I went straight from the airport to a client meeting. The head was spinning and Garuda did it best screwing up by delaying the plane for a good half hour. Vintage Jakarta welcoming committee lined up for me along Sudirman and I was well into menopause by the time I got to the meeting room. Plus the coffee was crap.

Best Friend is getting married. That was all that we talked about. She was nervous and did her best to cover it, and not very well. She was nervous. Diamonds, flowers, menus, hotels, travel plans. Parents, plans, parents and plans. Bad pitch. I wished Candi was here so she could help deal with it, I am not very good with girls and their pre-marital breakdowns.

Work is okay. The pressure is on with the end of year numbers and all, but I think it’s looking good. I’m just not very happy with it. We give it a try by candi doing her stuff in Singapore and me working things out here but it’s not working out for me. I need her to be here, or me there. I could list you reasons why that is so, but I think you get the point. We need to work it out.

We’ll need to work something out. I might even move to Singapore.

I know, sucks.

I’m working on a few clients at the moment. Great stuff, exciting stuff. I’m good at what I do and I know few people could’ve done it better. Ground breaking stuff, pioneering and taking things to a whole new level. Things nobody had ever done before. At least not in this country. I’d hate not to see it done, but somehow, things must be done, so big decisions ahead. I might stick around just to see things thru. Otherwise, it’s time to start getting on the phone with headhunters in Singapore.

I’ve no deep and profound shit to share at the moment. Things are pretty dead. I’m numbed. I need to get the blog traffic up and so I will probably share you some smut in the near future. Juicy details and all. What is it with the internet and porn? You all want porn, go find it elsewhere. I’m not into that shit at the moment. Deep, profound stuff. Insights. Live life.

That’s what I need to know now. I need to know how to live life.