Oh, the wrath of stupid people. If you weren't so inadvertently entertaining we'd probably all rise up and stone you to death.
~@TheBloggess
A fiery debate recently swept Indonesian twitter population - a sizable one though nobody seems to know how many exactly. At the center was the confusion in regards to the use and abuse of “RT” in Twitter.
It seems to start in the recent months, just as Television discovered Twitter – along the same lines of CNN and Ashton Kuscher – and they naturally gone religion with ADD sized media.
Indonesian television personalities swept into Twitter in hordes and the ripple effects have become somewhat noticeable. Others call it nuisance. Particularly offended are the more seasoned users of Twitter - experts dubbed this Twitter Rage and blamed the arrogance of the ‘newbies’.
Mr. Roy Suryo, the Official Arbiter of All Things False was nowhere to be found. Anonymous source said Mr. Suryo is “not well equipped to comment on things twopointoh.”
Other twitter analysts suggest that the high number of RT Abuse were conducted by “artists” and “celebrities” - most probably because all artists are daft.
Twitter took off a little while ago in this country of 260 million people and millions and millions of people are now using it. Some of them have only for the first time discovered anything of the sort and naturally confusion erupts.
Such frictions are very common in this country – Indonesia have been known to dispute the validity of Math. Last year, there was a high school kid killed in a gang fight over a Friendster page.
The phenomenal explosion of Twitter and social network in the recent months have been credited to shape foreign policy. The worsening relationship between Indonesia and its neighbor Malayasia, a fellow ASEAN member with a kleptohabit to boot for example, took over Twitter public timeline for many, many days President SBY was rumouredly alerted to the growing unease of the masses at the Malaysian offence and was presented the Twitter Trending Report as proof.
Anyhow, back to RTing. Yes, some people get it, other people don’t. Do we really have to bother? Really?
Twitter officials say they will introduce a ReTweet feature soon and we can put the difference behind us. Okay guys?
pis!
NOTE: IF you really care, here is an EXCELLENT GUIDE TO RETWEETING
Monday, August 31, 2009
Friday, August 28, 2009
on Books I Read in August.
I read a number of great books recently, some probably deserving their own posts but I will need to make notes just so I won’t forget these things. I don’t feel very smart lately.
I stole Ruby’s Lost Diaries of Adrian Mole, Sue Townsend is always great fun. She borders on this almost-absurd world – not quite Will Self or Harry Potter but pseudo-normal mortals. Like Nick Hornby, Tony Parsons or Ben Elton, but funnier. It was the only Adrian Mole book I haven’t read and I finished it in one sitting. Only I didn’t manage to return it before she left. My bad.
I probably won’t ever return it unless she come and get it.
I found a misplaced copy of Snuff, a Chuck Palahniuk book that’s apparently forbidden in some places. It’s a 197 pages long story about an incestuous record breaking gangbang with 600 men and a dead porn star. Palahniuk was in his element and in its dark twisted world, Snuff is hilariously funny. NY Times calls it "onanism of a more dispiriting sort" compared to his other works.
I don’t always enjoy Palahniuk even if always inclined to give them a try. Fight Club was easy once I’ve seen the film. Rant was a little different, too and Snuff isn’t really for everyone – it deals with the most difficult of subjects - but if you can deal with them, then it’s truly a great work.
My late readings, Chuck Palahniuk, Will Self, Neil Gaiman, Neal Stephenson, David Foster Wallace and Douglas Copland often read a lot like the Beatniks, only these younger guys I find funnier.
Only the Beatniks too often show suicidal tendencies and that makes the works slightly less funny, almost lethal. Johnny Depp spent most of the last few days of Hunter S. Thompson in his room, I’d love to hear what he thought of it. Foster Wallace hung himself and he was only 46. That was really spooky. Nick Hornby wrote a book about suicide, which I like very much – but the suicide-candidates in the book were all normal people, not writers. May be they’re just the weird turning pro.
Away from the morbid theme, I picked up a Pablo Neruda copy in Singapore. Full Woman, Fleshly Apple, Hot Moon, a translated collection by Stephen Mitchell. It has the original text on the left and English on the right. Most beautiful lines, ever though the intensity of it is at times overwhelming.
I don’t have any other fiction to read for now so I’m going back to do Holden Caufield. There’s something in it I needed to go back to, I think.
note: this is another note on suicidal writers and depressed pandas. We will revisit the subject at a later time. Promise.
Read More..
I stole Ruby’s Lost Diaries of Adrian Mole, Sue Townsend is always great fun. She borders on this almost-absurd world – not quite Will Self or Harry Potter but pseudo-normal mortals. Like Nick Hornby, Tony Parsons or Ben Elton, but funnier. It was the only Adrian Mole book I haven’t read and I finished it in one sitting. Only I didn’t manage to return it before she left. My bad.
I probably won’t ever return it unless she come and get it.
I found a misplaced copy of Snuff, a Chuck Palahniuk book that’s apparently forbidden in some places. It’s a 197 pages long story about an incestuous record breaking gangbang with 600 men and a dead porn star. Palahniuk was in his element and in its dark twisted world, Snuff is hilariously funny. NY Times calls it "onanism of a more dispiriting sort" compared to his other works.
I don’t always enjoy Palahniuk even if always inclined to give them a try. Fight Club was easy once I’ve seen the film. Rant was a little different, too and Snuff isn’t really for everyone – it deals with the most difficult of subjects - but if you can deal with them, then it’s truly a great work.
My late readings, Chuck Palahniuk, Will Self, Neil Gaiman, Neal Stephenson, David Foster Wallace and Douglas Copland often read a lot like the Beatniks, only these younger guys I find funnier.
Only the Beatniks too often show suicidal tendencies and that makes the works slightly less funny, almost lethal. Johnny Depp spent most of the last few days of Hunter S. Thompson in his room, I’d love to hear what he thought of it. Foster Wallace hung himself and he was only 46. That was really spooky. Nick Hornby wrote a book about suicide, which I like very much – but the suicide-candidates in the book were all normal people, not writers. May be they’re just the weird turning pro.
Away from the morbid theme, I picked up a Pablo Neruda copy in Singapore. Full Woman, Fleshly Apple, Hot Moon, a translated collection by Stephen Mitchell. It has the original text on the left and English on the right. Most beautiful lines, ever though the intensity of it is at times overwhelming.
I don’t have any other fiction to read for now so I’m going back to do Holden Caufield. There’s something in it I needed to go back to, I think.
note: this is another note on suicidal writers and depressed pandas. We will revisit the subject at a later time. Promise.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
on the Morning Shift
Verbal went out the other night. He likes traveling in cars and actually fun to take out. Usually, he sits on the back seat looking out the window like a philosopher of life or he took position in the back compartment lying comfortably down like a spoiled kid.
On this particular night, the dog was proudly contemplating a night urban life when a random police check stopped our journey. The officers waved their glow sticks and I pulled over.
Normally, this wouldn’t be a problem but I didn’t remember where the registration papers were for the Jeep and I was without a valid license. The officer was courteous and persistent. He needed to see the papers.
While I was busied with the effort to locate those priceless laminated documents, the officer predictably inquired why I had a big dog in the car. He seemed reluctant to approach any closer to my window while Verbal was very eager to make friends with the uniformed man outside and stubbornly pushed himself closer to the open window. He’s a pretty large puppy and I was driving a big Jeep, his head stood almost just as tall as the officer.
I told him that the dog was a trained sniffer and that he was expected for a morning shift in Menteng. He expressed some amusement and edged a touch closer to inspect the canine. I added casually that the dog had a military rank but couldn’t recall what it was though I suspected it was First Lieutenant, or second, or something.
This last bit he didn’t seem to digest right away and attempted to look me in the eye. I explained that I wasn’t completely aware of the details but the dog sniffs important things for nobler purpose and was due to do his patriotic duty at some ungodly hour on the other end of town - which was the only plausible reason why a man like myself would be driving a big Jeep in hotel slippers with a big dog without any papers at all.
In my eagerness to contribute to the safety and survival of mankind, I had obviously forgotten the trivial administrative details. We’re all in the same side.
He curiously stepped closer to inspect the dog one final glance before sending me off. The officer told me not to ever do such things again and I duly promised him so.
Verbal looked very disappointed that he didn’t get to make friends with the nice Police officer. We waved goodbyes and drove off.
Read More..
On this particular night, the dog was proudly contemplating a night urban life when a random police check stopped our journey. The officers waved their glow sticks and I pulled over.
Normally, this wouldn’t be a problem but I didn’t remember where the registration papers were for the Jeep and I was without a valid license. The officer was courteous and persistent. He needed to see the papers.
While I was busied with the effort to locate those priceless laminated documents, the officer predictably inquired why I had a big dog in the car. He seemed reluctant to approach any closer to my window while Verbal was very eager to make friends with the uniformed man outside and stubbornly pushed himself closer to the open window. He’s a pretty large puppy and I was driving a big Jeep, his head stood almost just as tall as the officer.
I told him that the dog was a trained sniffer and that he was expected for a morning shift in Menteng. He expressed some amusement and edged a touch closer to inspect the canine. I added casually that the dog had a military rank but couldn’t recall what it was though I suspected it was First Lieutenant, or second, or something.
This last bit he didn’t seem to digest right away and attempted to look me in the eye. I explained that I wasn’t completely aware of the details but the dog sniffs important things for nobler purpose and was due to do his patriotic duty at some ungodly hour on the other end of town - which was the only plausible reason why a man like myself would be driving a big Jeep in hotel slippers with a big dog without any papers at all.
In my eagerness to contribute to the safety and survival of mankind, I had obviously forgotten the trivial administrative details. We’re all in the same side.
He curiously stepped closer to inspect the dog one final glance before sending me off. The officer told me not to ever do such things again and I duly promised him so.
Verbal looked very disappointed that he didn’t get to make friends with the nice Police officer. We waved goodbyes and drove off.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
an Internet Poll: the Malaysian Menace
A Malaysia Primer
Malaysia is the country next door – a dysfunctional quasi democracy with an ethnic segregation policy and a state controlled press, run by a bunch of feudal lords in the ancient tradition of the British Empire, except that they were never an empire. Malaysia was a content colony until the British got bored and clobbered in South East Asia at the end of the war and they hurriedly declared independence. Their current government however, resembles more that of the Taliban.
What do you think President Yudhoyono should do in regards to the ever more menacing Malaysians?
If you’ve a better idea, leave it in the comment box and I will try to present our findings later.
Read More..
Malaysia is the country next door – a dysfunctional quasi democracy with an ethnic segregation policy and a state controlled press, run by a bunch of feudal lords in the ancient tradition of the British Empire, except that they were never an empire. Malaysia was a content colony until the British got bored and clobbered in South East Asia at the end of the war and they hurriedly declared independence. Their current government however, resembles more that of the Taliban.
- Indonesian forestry officials and just about the whole world knows that almost all the missing timbers from the jungles of Kalimantan passed through the porous border into Malaysia. They stole the rainforest.
- Millions of Indonesian workers are mistreated every year. The abuses grow increasingly gruesome and some very sick few showed a troubling pattern of extreme violence. The other word for systematic abuse of illegal workers is human trafficking. It’s vile by any standards of society.
- Warships. Malaysian. Indonesian waters. Enough said.
- They stole Manohara.
- They send back terrorists in batches.
- They stole batik, wayang, songs, singers, food and all sorts of other little items. All the time.
- They speak funny.
- Enough is enough
What do you think President Yudhoyono should do in regards to the ever more menacing Malaysians?
- Send a note of protest to the Malaysian Embassy demanding a return of all things stolen.
- Demand a full investigation on the kidnapping of Manohara. If the Prince is found guilty, issue an international arrest warrant for him. If any Malaysian court wanted Manohara, provided that she’ll be treated fairly and under the scrutiny of Indonesian press, then we’ll be happy to likewise extradite her. (my gut feeling is the country’s had enough of her anyway).
- Demand open hearings on the thousands of abuse cases happening every year involving Indonesian workers.
- Request a joint investigation and open cooperation with the Malaysian officials to look for our stolen timbers. It’s their side of the border.
- Recommend a good GPS vendor for their boats. Print free maps. Put up a sign, trespassers will be shot.
- Nothing, he has more important things to do – like picking a cabinet and figuring out his next government.
- All of the above. Pak Yudhoyono is the President and he can do all of the above.
If you’ve a better idea, leave it in the comment box and I will try to present our findings later.
on Ramadan and Food Economics
There's a fascinating discussion at Spruiked on whether food consumption increase during Ramadan and if this is down to greed of the elitist religious officials or if it is simple market economics. I think it's simple economics but Brett disagrees. You can head there and follow the debate for details.
I'm posting on the other blog my additional notes on Ramadan and what i think it means. Feel free to disagree.
It's always an exciting month and the previous years had always brought about some exciting discussion. Here's a few from the past archive on and around the subject - mostly they're from the years before but some of them still applies.
I'm busy and i will take on Malaysia and the nutters and The War On Terror later. Happy Fasting, all!
Read More..
I'm posting on the other blog my additional notes on Ramadan and what i think it means. Feel free to disagree.
It's always an exciting month and the previous years had always brought about some exciting discussion. Here's a few from the past archive on and around the subject - mostly they're from the years before but some of them still applies.
I'm busy and i will take on Malaysia and the nutters and The War On Terror later. Happy Fasting, all!
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
on Ends on Short Stories
I would not say that the future is necessarily less predictable than the past. I think the past was not predictable when it started.
~Donald Rumsfeld
The two of them looked like an unlikely couple, as in I wasn’t really expecting her to be with him or him to be with her but there they were together, looking the likeliest of couples. The short moments while I was around, these two were inseparable and while I was away where they were left to their own device, I was sure they were worse still.
There was one time when we were out in a pub and them two were at the bar holding hands. It’s so sweet, it made me cringe.
Someone said something about short stories, asked me how it ends. I didn’t quite know the answer to that. I think short stories end like any other stories. The point being in their short ends, I guess. It doesn’t matter how it ends so long as it does.
I think all stories end. Long or short, that’s relative only to your propensity to hold on to memories. The more you remember, the shorter each of them will be. Before I keep blogs, I tried to do one long story. The only one that matters was the one with no ends.
The story that goes on, forever, like they always do in Disney movies and traditional conservative families.
Both of them struggled to keep their pretty smiles and happy grins and neither was very good at it. She was blushing at all times and he kept a psychotic happy glee expression like a bad imitation of Jack Nicholson. Neither was coherent for any meaningful conversation and they whispered to each other as if the words were too precious to share with us common mortals. I told them that it was rude to whisper in the presence of another Jedi but they seemed to care nothing for etiquettes. They were on Kool-aid time - it was cute and sweet most of the time. Psychadelicious. These two were so pathetically smitten with each other, they were really amusing together.
All I have is short stories. Little cute sketches from my random life that I’d care to remember. I write them down here, there and everywhere. Vanity, you say, is the finest sin. Short stories are easier to remember. Perhaps I just want to be remembered. I digress.
I write them down to remember them. Writing things down is how I remember things I need to remember. It’s how my head works. I’ve short term memory problems and an acute partial recollection paralysis. That means, like Disney movies and traditional conservative families, I remember only what I’d like to remember.
Neruda speaking of the hour of departure, “the hard cold hour, which the night fastens to all the timetables.” The hour when things moved away, leaving only a twisting, tremulous shadow in your hands. Sometimes harsh, often abrupt, frequently brutal and occasionally absurd. Neruda made them beautiful but still, they end.
Writing short stories meaning I don’t have to wait long to see how they end. I know only that they do.
Back to our two lovebirds. I’m guessing they looked that way because they thought they knew how it ends. A survivalist romance with twisted humour. They thought they knew and so into it they did. Except that stories don’t always end the way you thought they would and what you knew then isn’t what you know now. The past was unpredictable when it started, says Rumsfeld. Now, is an understandably very confusing moment for the two masters and being in love, no Jedi mindtrick works with them so I can’t help much.
Really, I don’t know much about stories. They end when they end, I guess. Tomorrow is another day and I simply start another. Sometimes it’s a fresh new line or a freak occurrence but mostly and most likely, I’ll be picking up on the ones from the previous days.
It’s not about how they end, really, short stories is just how I remember things.
Since neither of you write, I recommend you paint.
Take care and have fun.
Monday, August 24, 2009
a Penguin Fart
You know i've nothing to post today, but we haven't had penguin stories for a while so here's a picture for today.
Found here via @chibialfa on twitter.
Read More..
Found here via @chibialfa on twitter.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
on a Flat Week
I was tinkering with my other PC at home (my game rig – the Robot) and due to some misplaced SATA connector and a funky power supply, smoke rose out of it. It almost literally exploded in my face and would’ve made for a funny story but I’ve no time for funny stories today.
My birthday came and went largely uneventful. I never liked it much and I like this last one only a little more than usual. I was really sick and finally spent the better part of the day getting rehydrated at the hospital so I had little time for self improvement ideas. Vi – who shared my birthday – threw a bash and we went out for a bit but things were complex to say the least. I’ve problems comprehending social norms with my head going all over the place.
The fasting month is approaching fast – clubs and other places will be shut for a month and Jakarta will assume a different pace for the next four weeks. Jakarta’s interesting for its quirks and this is one of them.
The election is over and the news cycle is mostly about terrorists and whatnot - plus a cutesy pop star going Britney on YouTube.
Poor girl, I heard she knocked her head too hard when she was little, is that true?
Tommy Soeharto announced his candidacy for Golkar chairmanship. Apparently, even serious people took this seriously, JK – current Veep and Golkar chair quipped that he didn’t know Tommy all that well but took the pain to elaborate the ‘administrative’ requirements for party chairmanship. Frankly, I can’t see it could ever happen but then again, this is Indonesia. Anything can happen.
I’ll get my old drive back up and will try to update you guys on more birthday related events later.Also, I'm again doing some backend mods to this blog, so it'll be slow for a while.
Best wishes, happy fasting, and have a good week, all!
Read More..
My birthday came and went largely uneventful. I never liked it much and I like this last one only a little more than usual. I was really sick and finally spent the better part of the day getting rehydrated at the hospital so I had little time for self improvement ideas. Vi – who shared my birthday – threw a bash and we went out for a bit but things were complex to say the least. I’ve problems comprehending social norms with my head going all over the place.
The fasting month is approaching fast – clubs and other places will be shut for a month and Jakarta will assume a different pace for the next four weeks. Jakarta’s interesting for its quirks and this is one of them.
The election is over and the news cycle is mostly about terrorists and whatnot - plus a cutesy pop star going Britney on YouTube.
Poor girl, I heard she knocked her head too hard when she was little, is that true?
Tommy Soeharto announced his candidacy for Golkar chairmanship. Apparently, even serious people took this seriously, JK – current Veep and Golkar chair quipped that he didn’t know Tommy all that well but took the pain to elaborate the ‘administrative’ requirements for party chairmanship. Frankly, I can’t see it could ever happen but then again, this is Indonesia. Anything can happen.
I’ll get my old drive back up and will try to update you guys on more birthday related events later.Also, I'm again doing some backend mods to this blog, so it'll be slow for a while.
Best wishes, happy fasting, and have a good week, all!
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
on Naming the Terrorists
Recently, the headlines were all about terrorists. Bad guys with scary names in an ever widening national manhunt. The most recent arrest in the middle of nowhere, Central Java, took almost 18 hours from beginning to end in live national broadcast. It involved squads of policemen in special gears, six hundred officers, hundreds of village people, one terrorist and one robot (!).
The terrorist and the robot ended up dead. The robot got stuck on a curtain, the (allegedly) Malaysian villain was thoroughly punked and whacked out in a corner bathroom hailing bullets from all angle and the farmhouse completely in destroyed.
Like all carnages before this one, there was an almost immediate confusion about the identity of the dead people. I have to give it to the Indonesian television for the extended flexibility in its ethical considerations for naming names on national screen.
One channel – I’m pretty sure it’s TVOne but could’ve been Metro TV – went with a caption that said, “the presumably dead terrorist previously thought to be Noor Din M. Top may well be someone else.”
From that sentence above, the person might still be alive and he or she might not be a terrorist (a crazed liberal feminist?). He or she could have any names. That sentence tells the viewers exactly nothing.
This whole speculation with names and naming things brought about an immediate crisis of integrity of the investigation. I believe the Police had always known the exact identity of this person since they had been following him for several days, weeks even. This fact is well known to the general public – Tempo reported it and I’m sure a detik search would result in something to the effect. The police never released the name(s) but they indicated they had been following the suspect all the way to Central Java from Jakarta in the last 24 hours.
Stupid as you think Indonesian police is, I don’t think they really would summon a robot and storm a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere for an unknown village person. They knew what they were doing and were timing it with the other arrests.
Except that, for some obscure reasons, Indonesian televisions panicked with not having the sensational pictures in Central Java and nobody bothered to once stop to read ACTUAL news. The ones with facts and not homicidal journalistic innuendos. It was insane.
They needed to call the person inside the house something – so a few hours into the live relay – they started calling him, The Terrorist Most Likely To Be Noor Din M. Top. (seriously, his mother named him that!).
By doing this whole thing, Television forced the Police to identify the dead person – the question was no longer “who” but really, “Is he Mr. Top?”
The Indonesian Police – the National Chief took the lead in the media briefing with a very badly written text but admirably answered direct questions from reporters - was asked the question in the live session and responded with a wait for DNA confirmation. A few days later, the official word came that the dead person was not actually, Mr. Top (still on the loose). The dead person was someone else who was apparently a florist working at the hotel. The Ritz Carlton, which is fully back in business and just rechristened their new restaurant Asia, mentions it the other day in a press quip that they now employ different florists.
The whole naming thing got completely out of line after Al Jazeera got in the thick of it: the local news channels started reporting that the dead dude was Mr. Top, according to Al Jazeera, which quoted ‘local television channels’, in their report naming Mr. Top as the dead guy. It was hilarious and terribly pathetic in terms of quality of reporting as a whole.
Some of these villainy terrorists are notoriously hard to track – they wed multiple wives under multiple names in an island full of 80 million people with only first names. DNA tests are critical but not always possible – you can’t match DNA to sons of a wanted fugitive as DNA test requires a match and an actual person to identify and affirm to his known name. In the case of the body in Temanggung, the Police knew exactly which sample to match with the dead body. They knew it was him, because they had been following him. I thought it was all rather obvious.
Except television got confused and lead everybody down with their sensational exuberance for a manhunt. Half the villagers of Beiji, Temanggung, Central Java got the gripping attention of the country for each of their 15 minutes of television. The owner of the house wanted reparation for damages and the Police said they would consider it.
It was just ugly television.
As for the names, well, I hope terrorist organization would from now on consider issuing official membership cards/tags/tattoo of some sort. I knew a guy in the army with a tattoo of his blood type on his neck – with names, it’ll be better.
Just an idea.
Read More..
The terrorist and the robot ended up dead. The robot got stuck on a curtain, the (allegedly) Malaysian villain was thoroughly punked and whacked out in a corner bathroom hailing bullets from all angle and the farmhouse completely in destroyed.
Like all carnages before this one, there was an almost immediate confusion about the identity of the dead people. I have to give it to the Indonesian television for the extended flexibility in its ethical considerations for naming names on national screen.
One channel – I’m pretty sure it’s TVOne but could’ve been Metro TV – went with a caption that said, “the presumably dead terrorist previously thought to be Noor Din M. Top may well be someone else.”
From that sentence above, the person might still be alive and he or she might not be a terrorist (a crazed liberal feminist?). He or she could have any names. That sentence tells the viewers exactly nothing.
This whole speculation with names and naming things brought about an immediate crisis of integrity of the investigation. I believe the Police had always known the exact identity of this person since they had been following him for several days, weeks even. This fact is well known to the general public – Tempo reported it and I’m sure a detik search would result in something to the effect. The police never released the name(s) but they indicated they had been following the suspect all the way to Central Java from Jakarta in the last 24 hours.
Stupid as you think Indonesian police is, I don’t think they really would summon a robot and storm a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere for an unknown village person. They knew what they were doing and were timing it with the other arrests.
Except that, for some obscure reasons, Indonesian televisions panicked with not having the sensational pictures in Central Java and nobody bothered to once stop to read ACTUAL news. The ones with facts and not homicidal journalistic innuendos. It was insane.
They needed to call the person inside the house something – so a few hours into the live relay – they started calling him, The Terrorist Most Likely To Be Noor Din M. Top. (seriously, his mother named him that!).
By doing this whole thing, Television forced the Police to identify the dead person – the question was no longer “who” but really, “Is he Mr. Top?”
The Indonesian Police – the National Chief took the lead in the media briefing with a very badly written text but admirably answered direct questions from reporters - was asked the question in the live session and responded with a wait for DNA confirmation. A few days later, the official word came that the dead person was not actually, Mr. Top (still on the loose). The dead person was someone else who was apparently a florist working at the hotel. The Ritz Carlton, which is fully back in business and just rechristened their new restaurant Asia, mentions it the other day in a press quip that they now employ different florists.
The whole naming thing got completely out of line after Al Jazeera got in the thick of it: the local news channels started reporting that the dead dude was Mr. Top, according to Al Jazeera, which quoted ‘local television channels’, in their report naming Mr. Top as the dead guy. It was hilarious and terribly pathetic in terms of quality of reporting as a whole.
Some of these villainy terrorists are notoriously hard to track – they wed multiple wives under multiple names in an island full of 80 million people with only first names. DNA tests are critical but not always possible – you can’t match DNA to sons of a wanted fugitive as DNA test requires a match and an actual person to identify and affirm to his known name. In the case of the body in Temanggung, the Police knew exactly which sample to match with the dead body. They knew it was him, because they had been following him. I thought it was all rather obvious.
Except television got confused and lead everybody down with their sensational exuberance for a manhunt. Half the villagers of Beiji, Temanggung, Central Java got the gripping attention of the country for each of their 15 minutes of television. The owner of the house wanted reparation for damages and the Police said they would consider it.
It was just ugly television.
As for the names, well, I hope terrorist organization would from now on consider issuing official membership cards/tags/tattoo of some sort. I knew a guy in the army with a tattoo of his blood type on his neck – with names, it’ll be better.
Just an idea.
Friday, August 14, 2009
What Is A Hurricane Of Fish?
In a conversation earlier today, I ran into someone and during a courteous and amicable conversation, the sober gentleman used the expression "a hurricane of fish". Given that I was at a social event and was busily staring at the plebs, I didn't pay enough attention to his previous line and his original meaning completely lost.
I thought it's a nice kinda expression and I'm curious if anyone know what it means. Some ancient Greek village punished by an angry Poseidon? Aphrodite in the kitchen?
I'm asking around on twitter and will update here if and when I know more. At the moment, a Google search of the term "hurricane of fish" have three hits, the last one took me to the picture below, a Hurricane of Catfish, from Tulamben - that's in Bali for the geographically challenged.
Please drop a comment if you've heard this expression before. If you are the gentleman from last night, I beg you sir, to summon all kindness in you to pardon me in both my ignorance and me ignoring you last night. Would you please explain exactly what you meant by "a hurricane of fish descending from above in different shades of void"?
I thought that was an excellent phrase, but slightly disturbing. Perhaps some biblical reference? Maybe dead fish? A hurricane of dead fish? Horrid thing.
Read More..
I thought it's a nice kinda expression and I'm curious if anyone know what it means. Some ancient Greek village punished by an angry Poseidon? Aphrodite in the kitchen?
I'm asking around on twitter and will update here if and when I know more. At the moment, a Google search of the term "hurricane of fish" have three hits, the last one took me to the picture below, a Hurricane of Catfish, from Tulamben - that's in Bali for the geographically challenged.
Please drop a comment if you've heard this expression before. If you are the gentleman from last night, I beg you sir, to summon all kindness in you to pardon me in both my ignorance and me ignoring you last night. Would you please explain exactly what you meant by "a hurricane of fish descending from above in different shades of void"?
I thought that was an excellent phrase, but slightly disturbing. Perhaps some biblical reference? Maybe dead fish? A hurricane of dead fish? Horrid thing.
Wednesday, August 05, 2009
on Working Wednesday
Master Chris today suggested we look for a new office space. Not having bombs exploding next door sounds like a reasonable argument. Frankly, the ever worsening traffic is getting on my nerve and it’s not like I needed a large office space. Maybe we look for a house so I can take the dog to work.
My flu is only marginally better and I still feel funny. I’ve tons of stories to tell: Samantha was recently here in Jakarta and so was Lita* - a trust fund baby/lesbian ex girlfriend. Master Artsy is getting tangled in an ever more intense romance involving a lot of funny music and unfamiliar sensations. The Girl Previously Known As The ATM Girl is, however momentarily, back and disturbed the balance of things in my backyard. The Freaks are having a good time and I increasingly spend more time in the zoo with them and their web of intrigues. Vivian, well, she’s being her and probably deserves a few posts just on her recent shenanigans.
My writing is not going anywhere but I am reading quite a lot these days. A Paulo Coelho book was very disappointing. The Strain by Guillermo del Toro was an interesting contemporary vampire literature – if Twilight and Tru Blood aren’t enough. There’s a rant in ACLU vs America that occupies shelf in the loo time, somewhat amusing and interesting to hear what the rabid right has to say. Samantha bought me an Alan Ginsberg collection of letters that I haven’t finished but liking a lot. My favourite at the moment must be Death, A Life by George Pendle – a memoir available from Aksara nowadays.
My flu is not going anywhere. Not sure what it is anymore but it’s really annoying. Maybe I’m just growing older. It’s my birthday soon and I expect presents!
* the naming convention in this blog is intentionally confusing, all names are randomly assigned and even I'm having trouble keeping track of them.
Read More..
My flu is only marginally better and I still feel funny. I’ve tons of stories to tell: Samantha was recently here in Jakarta and so was Lita* - a trust fund baby/lesbian ex girlfriend. Master Artsy is getting tangled in an ever more intense romance involving a lot of funny music and unfamiliar sensations. The Girl Previously Known As The ATM Girl is, however momentarily, back and disturbed the balance of things in my backyard. The Freaks are having a good time and I increasingly spend more time in the zoo with them and their web of intrigues. Vivian, well, she’s being her and probably deserves a few posts just on her recent shenanigans.
My writing is not going anywhere but I am reading quite a lot these days. A Paulo Coelho book was very disappointing. The Strain by Guillermo del Toro was an interesting contemporary vampire literature – if Twilight and Tru Blood aren’t enough. There’s a rant in ACLU vs America that occupies shelf in the loo time, somewhat amusing and interesting to hear what the rabid right has to say. Samantha bought me an Alan Ginsberg collection of letters that I haven’t finished but liking a lot. My favourite at the moment must be Death, A Life by George Pendle – a memoir available from Aksara nowadays.
My flu is not going anywhere. Not sure what it is anymore but it’s really annoying. Maybe I’m just growing older. It’s my birthday soon and I expect presents!
* the naming convention in this blog is intentionally confusing, all names are randomly assigned and even I'm having trouble keeping track of them.
Saturday, August 01, 2009
on Dead People
Someone I knew died. A friend of a friend, who staffed the studio for a while. Some three years ago we heard he was treated in a hospital for some bizarre tumor in the head. Some brain thing – it was all very vague. The other week, he went back to the hospital and ended up dead.
At some random times in the past he hung around after his shift and sat with us, learning guitar and asking a lot about Pink Floyd and psychedelic culture. I showed him the Alan Ginsberg book and he took a crack at it. He kept the log book when they’re busy or just played guitar when they’re not. More often than not he was just around. He kept a blog or a myspace or something. I never checked. It's hard writing an obituary for someone nobody will remember.
I’ve always suspected there’s something very wrong with my own head, some little thing with a mini switch that occasionally blinked me out every once in a bad while – Samantha diagnosed it as acute aberration of intellectual arrogance - harmless but extremely annoying.
This guy was in a hospital because the thing in his head was responding unkindly to him being annoying. I heard Master Chubby explained alcohol addiction the other night and it sounded very messy. I refuse to believe in things that don’t make sense. Except that the world often don’t make sense.
He got out okay and the Freaks took him for a few gigs when the usual sound engineer quit. The Freaks play music because they think they were destined to and occasionally they believe in the greater good. The kid needed to pay his hospital bill or something. They had a good time by the look of it and returning from the trip, he learned the riff of on Boulevard of Broken Dreams pretty well. He was back at the zoo more often and he was reading Russian poets. He has a certain naïvete about him. A certain quality about him that shows an immense, almost absurd desire to hope for better things. Sincere look like those in children faces. I guess there’s a charm in his gullibility – like Forrest Gump and the Rain Man. Princes liked him and she was always nice to him. I somehow noticed that, too. Idiots tend to be better looking.
I knew he died only because he lived not too far away from where I live. He was on the less affluent side of the street but still a walking distance. I came home one day and the guard told me about him so I walked over there to see his family. My neighborhood is not completely sterile of sentiments. It’s across the road and down the alley and into the darkness. They didn’t have street lights down there.
Most of the guys were already there, the Freaks along with everyone else from the zoo. There were actually people arriving in trucks – effective carpooling system. Most of them were very young. Like my age young. Like we’re not supposed-to-die-yet young.
He left a wife and a two year old daughter. The funeral was earlier in the evening and so the guys were mostly just arriving from work. Chubby couldn’t find his dealer so he was seen asking around for a joint of hope. The First Mistress was there – she is better dressed these days. Most of the women wore veil but there were a few dissenters in tank tops.
There’s a guy who run gangs and thugs from the neighborhood and he wore a funny hat. They predictably took the center stage with some preposterous anecdotes and villainy laughs. He had a posse and one asked if I knew where to get firearms. I suggested Ace Hardware or the local Al Qaeda affiliates. Deeper in the discussion, I offered the service of my dog but they all thought he’d be useless in a gang fight. Shasha is here for a few days was with me at the time. The Trust Fund Baby advised them to hire bodyguards instead. I thought the exchange was hilarious for funeral talk.
Someone had the official explanation of his death, something about a thing in his head, been there for years, his mother had given up hope. We pooled money for this some weeks ago apparently. The hospital bill got horrendously large and they pulled the plug before we managed to do second round. It was all the symptoms of an awkward subject made worse by an interjection of a heckler, saying that one of the guy wounded in the Ritz bomb made $300 a month. At that income bracket, you literally paid arms and legs for health care in this country. If you speak out loud against it, you can even go to prison for it. It felt like a conversation that would really got nowhere until you let the poor people speak. I agree that the people – poor or otherwise – will need to learn to articulate themselves better.
Somebody attempted an election conversation and it likewise went everywhere. Shasha thought Socrates had issues with authority. I said voters are like dogs, they hold onto what they already have because they don’t think they deserve anything better. A Science Master thought democracy was about numbers – except that they use different math in social studies. I asked if they it’s the same math as the economists as theirs certainly makes less sense. We mocked people for a while with an ever decreasing social sensitivity and had a little fun. All out of a legitimate desire to feel good about ourselves, out of respect to a dead guy.
I’m running out of names to name the people I name in these stupid stories. When someone died, the records will be so completely misguided, his mother wouldn’t recognize it. It's hard writing an obituary for someone nobody will remember.
He died too young with too little to show for it. Most people will. Like most stories, his will be forgotten in the annals of real time media. People die all the time and it will be mad to try to keep track with all of them. Particularly so in this country – I think Indonesia has a serious problem with short term memory loss. Not quite Dory yet but worth keeping an eye on. Shasha didn’t like dead people and she was leaving in two days so we didn’t stay very long. She wanted to check a new hip hop club in Citiwalk and we went speeding in the car while having light conversations. She asked if anyone truly forgets. She wondered if it was really people forget or they just now remember better.
We left that for the morning conversation.
Good night, kids.
Read More..
At some random times in the past he hung around after his shift and sat with us, learning guitar and asking a lot about Pink Floyd and psychedelic culture. I showed him the Alan Ginsberg book and he took a crack at it. He kept the log book when they’re busy or just played guitar when they’re not. More often than not he was just around. He kept a blog or a myspace or something. I never checked. It's hard writing an obituary for someone nobody will remember.
I’ve always suspected there’s something very wrong with my own head, some little thing with a mini switch that occasionally blinked me out every once in a bad while – Samantha diagnosed it as acute aberration of intellectual arrogance - harmless but extremely annoying.
This guy was in a hospital because the thing in his head was responding unkindly to him being annoying. I heard Master Chubby explained alcohol addiction the other night and it sounded very messy. I refuse to believe in things that don’t make sense. Except that the world often don’t make sense.
He got out okay and the Freaks took him for a few gigs when the usual sound engineer quit. The Freaks play music because they think they were destined to and occasionally they believe in the greater good. The kid needed to pay his hospital bill or something. They had a good time by the look of it and returning from the trip, he learned the riff of on Boulevard of Broken Dreams pretty well. He was back at the zoo more often and he was reading Russian poets. He has a certain naïvete about him. A certain quality about him that shows an immense, almost absurd desire to hope for better things. Sincere look like those in children faces. I guess there’s a charm in his gullibility – like Forrest Gump and the Rain Man. Princes liked him and she was always nice to him. I somehow noticed that, too. Idiots tend to be better looking.
I knew he died only because he lived not too far away from where I live. He was on the less affluent side of the street but still a walking distance. I came home one day and the guard told me about him so I walked over there to see his family. My neighborhood is not completely sterile of sentiments. It’s across the road and down the alley and into the darkness. They didn’t have street lights down there.
Most of the guys were already there, the Freaks along with everyone else from the zoo. There were actually people arriving in trucks – effective carpooling system. Most of them were very young. Like my age young. Like we’re not supposed-to-die-yet young.
He left a wife and a two year old daughter. The funeral was earlier in the evening and so the guys were mostly just arriving from work. Chubby couldn’t find his dealer so he was seen asking around for a joint of hope. The First Mistress was there – she is better dressed these days. Most of the women wore veil but there were a few dissenters in tank tops.
There’s a guy who run gangs and thugs from the neighborhood and he wore a funny hat. They predictably took the center stage with some preposterous anecdotes and villainy laughs. He had a posse and one asked if I knew where to get firearms. I suggested Ace Hardware or the local Al Qaeda affiliates. Deeper in the discussion, I offered the service of my dog but they all thought he’d be useless in a gang fight. Shasha is here for a few days was with me at the time. The Trust Fund Baby advised them to hire bodyguards instead. I thought the exchange was hilarious for funeral talk.
Someone had the official explanation of his death, something about a thing in his head, been there for years, his mother had given up hope. We pooled money for this some weeks ago apparently. The hospital bill got horrendously large and they pulled the plug before we managed to do second round. It was all the symptoms of an awkward subject made worse by an interjection of a heckler, saying that one of the guy wounded in the Ritz bomb made $300 a month. At that income bracket, you literally paid arms and legs for health care in this country. If you speak out loud against it, you can even go to prison for it. It felt like a conversation that would really got nowhere until you let the poor people speak. I agree that the people – poor or otherwise – will need to learn to articulate themselves better.
Somebody attempted an election conversation and it likewise went everywhere. Shasha thought Socrates had issues with authority. I said voters are like dogs, they hold onto what they already have because they don’t think they deserve anything better. A Science Master thought democracy was about numbers – except that they use different math in social studies. I asked if they it’s the same math as the economists as theirs certainly makes less sense. We mocked people for a while with an ever decreasing social sensitivity and had a little fun. All out of a legitimate desire to feel good about ourselves, out of respect to a dead guy.
I’m running out of names to name the people I name in these stupid stories. When someone died, the records will be so completely misguided, his mother wouldn’t recognize it. It's hard writing an obituary for someone nobody will remember.
He died too young with too little to show for it. Most people will. Like most stories, his will be forgotten in the annals of real time media. People die all the time and it will be mad to try to keep track with all of them. Particularly so in this country – I think Indonesia has a serious problem with short term memory loss. Not quite Dory yet but worth keeping an eye on. Shasha didn’t like dead people and she was leaving in two days so we didn’t stay very long. She wanted to check a new hip hop club in Citiwalk and we went speeding in the car while having light conversations. She asked if anyone truly forgets. She wondered if it was really people forget or they just now remember better.
We left that for the morning conversation.
Good night, kids.
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