Van der Boot Kamp

What's Your Banjir Story?

2007-02-06T20:52:00.000+07:00

Sure enough for the next couple of days, if not weeks, the term “How are you?” and “How’s your day?” will definitely be replaced with “Was your house okay?”; “Were you trapped somewhere?”; “Were you able to get home that day?”; “How high was the water level?”. Yes, these will become the new greeting methods for many Jakartans on our recent tragic fates.

It was indeed a state of emergency affecting most of the capital. The flood rushed again with revenge in its mind this time. Bigger than 1996, wider spread than the 2002 flood, it seemed that banjir (flooding) is a way of life that we all have to live with and deal with in order to survive in the city. The aftermath was devastating, hundreds of thousands of people had to be evacuated from their homes and thousands of them were (or still are) confined within their own houses. I felt like Katrina had hit Jakarta with the same effect that it did to New Orleans. On rooftops, people were stranded around bodies of waters, in which some even reached the height of 4-6 meters above the street level.

I knew something bad was about to happen. Already, I was stranded from 2 to 3 AM Thursday morning at the entrance of my street waiting for the water to subside. By 10 PM the same day, cablevision and its cable internet was down for a surprisingly long time (and they are still down today). The sky darkened while the storm was brewing. Oh, it was so peculiar, like a warning sign from the heavens.

By Friday morning, some of us were already cut-off. Either we were stuck in traffic or in office buildings. Half the city’s telephone lines were dead (including jammed cellular lines), and a third of the power lines were shut to minimize any short-circuit incidents or electrocutions during the heavy flooding. Company called to inform me (who was supposed to be in a vacation) that the shop had to be closed earlier due to an already controlled small fire that sparked along the lighting systems. Oh great! Then Auntie called to inform that she would no longer be able to join us because she couldn’t enter the flooded Bintaro – Pondok Indah highway. Having canceled our family retreat to a monastery in Puncak (the Peak, West Java) due to the heavy rains, the local church people suddenly gave us a call, asking for assistance in cooking for the refugees. Yet, we were stuck in Tomang - Kebun Jeruk toll road, only to be able free ourselves three hours later. We had nothing to complain about. Later on, thousands of people had to stay overnight in the same strip of road going outward to Karawaci area in Tangerang Town. When we got to the emergency set-up, cook we did, together with neighbors and other volunteers for five thousand servings that day.

Though it was bright and sunny the next day, Saturday morning felt extremely saddening. Refugees camped along the street only meters away from the floods. People are stuffed in trucks, lorries, busses, military units, even car transporters. Male, female, old, young, the sick, the healthy, we were all helpless. Loads of rice sacks from charities around the area had poured-in to be cooked. The numbers of refugees were rising, doubling the servings and efforts all of us had to carry out the previous day. All of these had to happen in the dampened ambiance, it was humid, hot and dark. Power lines had been shut-off for the area. At around two, grandmamma called notifying that the waters in her neighborhood had raised dramatically. We had to somehow get her out of there asap. Other alarms rang almost at the same time: Supplies of safe drinking water and the liquid petroleum gas to cook for the relieve effort had dwindled. Thankfully there were so many of us to ask around for help in this case.

Borrowing the company’s semi-truck, I hopped behind the wheels pretending that I was driving an amphibious vehicle to get to grandmama’s place. Alongside, we saw hundreds of people waited in vain for the water to decline, dead cars strewn across regular streets-cum-muddy brooks. It was so heart wrenching to witness this elderly person who was carried into a wheel cart to be rescued out of his house. When finally reaching her house, I had to be grateful that the street in front of grandmama’s was still dry, thus easier for us to shuffle her to our residence.

While you could get very busy during the tragic days, nighttimes were another story. Boredom killed me to the bones throughout the weekend. I managed to have some office papers done, watched some DVD-s, read some books and magazines, and even wrote some entries for this particular blog. Bored you say? Yeah, I know, at least I was still very lucky that my dwelling was safe and the electricity didn’t pass-out. Erm, but I had no tv and no internet!

When Sunday arrived, some of the victims were able to get home, while in some areas the water level even rose to a never-before-seen frightening rate. By noon, seeing that more people were there to help the relief effort, I decided to disappear for a while. Did it in a very hush-hush manner, I fled. Of course, I didn’t want to be seen to be so pathetically ignorant. Yes, slap me darlings. I went to Senayan City (hey, I need to buy groceries for the home!), and then I was even able to kill some time in the Temple… of Body Worship, a.k.a the gym.

If the New Yorkers had coined the question, “Where were you during the 911 attack?” now, we Jakartans could also boast: “So what’s your 2007 banjir story?”

Monday, 2:10 AM: It should be a full moon somewhere in the night sky. The tide is high. There is little chance of natural water recession out of the city into the bay. And to make matters worse, it’s drizzling again outside. From the bottom of my heart, I am sorry for some of us who were hit by this great flood. Maybe we can all arrange things to help our own pals in needs? Hope y’all be strong. This too, shall pass.

End Note: Picture courtesy of Kompas Publication.

Aku Tahu Rasanya

2007-02-06T20:38:00.000+07:00

“Aku tau rasanya dikhianati oleh kekasih... Aku tau rasanya ditinggal pergi oleh kekasih... Yang kusayangi setengah mati…” Sebenarnya, ini bukan masalah hati saya, tapi rasanya kok cukup mengganggu yah? Dari telinga masuk ke benak perlahan-lahan, kata demi kata. Sepertinya ada sesuatu yang aneh dan kurang pas aja.

Apakah benar bahwa ini adalah masalah dalam penggunaan tata krama berbahasa Indonesia yang baik dan benar? Yang sudah terlalu lama di pandang sebelah mata bahkan oleh urang-awak sendiri? Yang dibiarkan terdegradasi menjadi bahasa harian tanpa pakem dan tanpa pengawasan? Yang pada akhirnya hanya menjadi sebuah: Ya sutralah mau diapain lagi bow? Cape-deh.

Sebenarnya saya tidak mengganggap ada yang salah dalam hal ini. Asalkan bahasa yang informal ataupun yang akrab untuk dilafalkan sehari-hari tersebut dipergunakaan dalam siklus percakapan sewajarnya dari umat ke umat. Tetapi menurut saya, setidaknya pihak media mempunyai sedikit tugas untuk tetap bertanggung jawab sebagai corong pendidik masyarakat. Dalam hal ini untuk menyebarluaskan bahasa Indonesia seperti zaman para proklamator kita itu.

Pada kemana yah, alur-alur kata yang mengalir dengan cantik dan anggun seperti yang dulu-dulu? Zaman itu saya masih ingat bahwa tidak semua orang mampu mencerna halaman depan sebuah surat kabar nasional dengan baik. Apakah mungkin karena kosa katanya yang terlalu berwibawa? Bandingkan dengan tabloid populer yang ber-head-line: “Suami Banyak Utang Stress Lalu Bakar Istri Sendiri Pakai Minyak Tanah Sampai Hangus Ngga Bisa Dikenali Lagi...”

Banyak pihak yang nampaknya tidak sadar akan kekuatan dari tutur kata. Apalagi bila jalinan huruf dan kalimat terus menerus diulangi, disebarluaskan, dan dipopulerkan oleh ratusan stasiun radio, televisi atapun situs-situs internet moderen saat ini. Genre musik pop-pun tanpa disadari turut menjadi tauladan bagaimana generasi ini harus berceloteh dan bercengkrama dalam kesehariannya.

Ambil saja lirik di atas. Kalimat-kalimat yang saya petik tadi berasal dari lagu pembuka dalam album teranyar Pinkan Mambo, yang memang diberi label “Aku Tahu Rasanya”. Kalimat terakhir yang mengganggu saya adalah: “Yang kusayangi setengah mati”. Saya sebetulnya cukup yakin bahwa Mbak Trie Utami sebagai penulis dan pencipta lagu tersebut mampu mencari padanan dari kalimat “setengah mati” yang terlalu sehari-hari itu hingga kemudian menjelmakannya menjadi sesuatu yang lebih elegan.

Dalam bermusik, tentu saja jumlah suku kata sangatlah berpengaruh dalam pilihan katanya. Misalnya, teks “setengah mati” tidak bisa sekenanya diganti dengan kalimat “sangat mendalam” karena akan ada sebuah kata sambung yang hilang bila dibubuhkan dalam potongan irama tersebut. Atau mungkin faktor “terlalu kuno” atau “tidak populer lagi” membuat beberapa kalimat cantik terasa dihindari banyak pencipta lagu belakangan ini?

Masih terngiangkah lagu “Bila Kuingat” -nya Lingua di telinga Anda? Aransemen musik dan lirik yang sangat cantik dan mendayu itu harus ternodai oleh sebuah kata tunggal yang merusak keseluruhan lagu. Sayang sekali rasanya, apalagi nada-nada tersebut harus keluar dari dapur pacu sosok sekaliber Yovie Widianto:

“Bila kuingat janji manismu… Kutunggu sampai malam meninggalkanku. Semoga bukan angan… Yang kelamaan”

Hingga saat ini saya masih tidak sepenuhnya mengerti maksud dari penggunaan kata “kelamaan” dalam lirik lagu itu. Apakah “kelamaan” di sini berarti “takut terlambat” atau malah “sudah terlambat”? Apakah kata “telah” masih bisa disematkan di sana? Misalnya: “Semoga bukan angan… Yang t’lah terlambat…”. Masih cantik bukan untuk mengakhiri lagu tersebut?

Yah, terus terang saja saya tidak terlalu berharap banyak atas grup musik Tangga dengan lagu andalan terbarunya, Cinta Begini. Bahkan judulnya saja, Cinta Begini, sudah terdengar tidak lazim untuk dipergunakan sebagai sebuah judul. Cinta seperti apa sih yang ingin kau jual dalam albummu itu? Sebelum saya lanjutkan, saya harus jujur mengakui bahwa saya telah terlanjur jatuh cinta dengan aransemen dari lagu tersebut. Bahkan dengan komposisi lirik yang terdengar aneh-pun, semuanya dapat saya maafkan.

Pertama, kalimat pembuka:
“Aku bisa terima
Meski harus terluka
Karena ku terlalu mengenal hatimu…”

Kemudian untaian mutiara di atas dihantam oleh bait kedua yang tepat menghadang setelah chorus berlalu:
“Ku tak bisa terima
Bila terus tak setia
Menghianati dia
Menduakan cinta”

Jadi apakah sebenarnya beliau-beliau ini bisa terima atau tidak bisa terima dengan keadaan yang dialaminya? Apakah bait pertama seharusnya dinyanyikan oleh pihak pertama dan bait penghantam tadi dinyanyikan oleh pihak yang “tak tahan untuk kembali ke yayang lainnya”? (Apakah pertanyaan ini terjawab dalam video-klipnya yang belum sempat saya simak hingga saat ini?)

Belum lagi adanya pemaksaan kata dalam segaris alunan:
“Kau takkan bisa lama
Berpaling darinya…”

Potongan melodi yang seharusnya terbagi menjadi enam suku kata kemudian digemukkan menjadi tujuh suku kata dalam “Kau takkan bisa lama”. Pemaksaan di sini terdengar aneh dan sangat mengganggu alunan musik yang seharusnya indah.

Tidak hanya berhenti di sana… Bahkan Andi Rianto yang dengan piawainya berkolaborasi dengan Monty Tiwa-pun tak luput dari penggunaan kata yang redundant, atau “berulang” yang seharusnya dapat dicari padanan kata lainnya:

“Jangan pernah ada pernah…Terucap lagi. Aku benci kata itu. Karena cinta kita bukan pernah… Tapi ada sekarang dan untuk selamanya…”

Melodi yang cantik akhirnya harus terusik dengan redundancy (pengulangan yang terlalu sering) dari kata “pernah” yang seolah dipaksa bekerja rodi dalam penggunaannya hanya karena memang lirik tersebut khusus dipersiapkan untuk lagu yang berjudul “Pernah”.

Jika tak mau “terucap lagi..” di masa yang akan datang, mungkin kata “pernah” yang pertama setidaknya dapat disubstitusikan dengan:

“Jangan akan ada pernah… Terucap lagi…” (dari “Jangan pernah ada pernah...”)

Dan pada akhirnya Mbak Pinkan Mambo sangatlah pantas kita pergunakan sekali lagi untuk menyudahi tulisan ini.

Ingatlah kembali lirik-lirik di atas. Bisa jadi, karena beliau terlalu sering disakiti hatinya oleh pria-pria berhidung belang dengan: “Aku tau rasanya dikhianati oleh kekasih... Aku tau rasanya ditinggal pergi oleh kekasih... Yang kusayangi setengah mati…”

Maka beliau memutuskan untuk membalas dendam dalam kisah asmaranya yang selanjutnya (yang benar-benar diletakkan sebagai lagu bernomor urut dua) dengan lagu “tukang selingkuh” yang bertajuk, “Dirimu Dirinya”:

“Ku tak ingin hidup tanpa rasa bahagia
Bahagiaku bila banyak cinta…

Pernah ku setia namun hidup terasa hambar
Bukannya aku jahanam…
Ku hanya mencari senang…”

Baiklah Mbak Pinkan, bila dengan begini dirimyu tetap tidak merasa sebagai seorang jahanam …

Yang pasti…
Aku Tahu kok…
Rasanya… Thesaurus Bahasa Indonesia bole dicoba tuh.

Ternyata ya, band-band Rock Indonesia sepertinya lebih romantis dan cantik dalam mengemas balada-baladanya. Ga percaya? Hayuh coba dicek dan dibuka iPod-nya masing-masing!

End Note: Thesaurus Bahasa Indonesia is available at your local bookstores. Please use it wisely (and dearly). Terimakasih buat lagu-lagunya yang cantik Mas Yovie, Lingua, Mas Andi dan Monty, Mbak Trie, Mbak Melly dan Mbak Pinkan and all of you guys di Tangga. I still love y’all very much, pengen liat yang lebih baiknya aja di tahun-tahun depan yak!

Getting Personal - Part Deux

2007-02-06T19:46:00.000+07:00

Two weeks had gone by from the first time he offered me his services. My budget angel had won the competition over the devil: I am still personal-trainer-less as of today. Yet, the devil appeared to have his own way of seducing the mere-human in me. There I saw Yutaka again, on the incline bench-press, laying his sexy lumberjack physique. Legs spread wide with his arms gripping the bar ready to push. And then he smiled at me. The same warm smile that he gave me every other day. A perfect Kodak moment.

Darn. I felt smitten by this hot cat of a hunk. I managed to hold my breath steady when he jumped off the bench and greeted me.

“So, what’s your training regime today?”

Skimming nervously at the list,
“Chest on free-weights, I think…”

Surprisingly Michiko had changed my training routines starting that day. Now, how the hell shall I perform these new ones? I’ve never touched any free-weight pressing station previously in my life.

As I loaded the weights at the flat chest-press station, Yutaka approached me again.

“How heavy you need it?”
“Ten kilos on each side…”

“Okay, get in here!” he ordered me to lay on the bench.

He showed me how far my grips were supposed to be prior to almost loosing the balance of the free flying weighted bar. Then of course he quickly came to the rescue just before I immensely enjoyed what happened next.

Spread nicely only inches away as my vista, I can definitely smell his awesome manliness. Oh, I felt like licking his balls from down under if you know what I mean. As I lower the bar closer to my chest, his stance would go lower as well. Really, the thin layer of air was just a centimeter away before my nose would hit his sack of balls. Too bad he was wearing a training-pants not shorts. Shucks.

Keeping the required 12 reps I then rested for a while and at that perfect moment he daringly said, “The bar should fall just above the mid-section of your chest, right about here…”, while deliberately brushing both my protruding nipples with his forefingers.

It was so intense I swear I was drenching cold sweats from my forehead.

But I never knew that moving to the decline chest-press station after the previous 3 sets of flats would be so much fun.

This time he would move forward to help me steady my grips. By the time when lowering the bar was necessary, his perfect ass would linger on my grinning face. Arrghhh…. In my head I was trying so hard to figure out a way for him to literally sit on my face in order for me to give him a rim-job he’d never forget in his entire life!

Did he do that on purpose? Was he even supposed to stand that way to help support me? Why haven’t I seen any other spotting buddies situated himself so erotically-correct like this before anywhere?

Damn you Mister Devil.

After all the trainings were done for the day, he gave me that devilish warm smile again.

“See you Monday!” he said curtly without bringing-up the personal training subject again.

Angel: Oh, he’s good. He’s very good at this. I hate you
Devil: No, trust me, you’ll love me!

My Ojek

2007-02-06T19:22:00.000+07:00

“Dude, you’re getting mad with the way you drive this bike!” I heard myself yelled in fear. “Oh you think so? First, the idiosyncrasy of those city planning gentlemen who forced us to turn-on the head-lights at all hours, then came the extreme left-lane only drive-zone, then they are planning to eliminate us altogether, the motor-bikers, from the entire important boulevards! How do you think we are supposed to feel? Driving madly is the least thing I may just do to ventilate this rage!”

Well, there he verbally imposed it perfectly. Rizky, my regular tukang ojek (motor-cab driver) hottie, does have a lot of reasons to be perfectly angry lately. If the city planners have their way, very soon, Rizky will have to bid adieu to his three-year-long reign, err, livelihood around the Avenue Thamrin-Sudirman.

A couple of weeks back, when the first new motor-law was enforced, I was having a bit of an argument with a friend of mine who actually rode on his ultra-cool Tiger bike everyday from home to work and anywhere in between. I took a stand on agreeing with the city planners about the “lights-on” all day long. Because I sincerely felt that any trace of light bouncing on cars’ and buses’ side view mirrors will alert the drivers to enhance, if not greater ensure the safety of the bikers themselves. He was skeptical on this part. He asked for any research done on decreasing road accidents due to lights-on in any part of the universe, in which of course I couldn’t produce. He was even madder to know that this single act would accelerate the life, or shall I say the death, of the little bulb inside the lampshell casing. “And NO, it’s not cheap buddy!” he persisted. “But your life isn’t either darling…” I retorted.

Then of course I did rejoice the decision on the second new motor-law of having the bikers stay on the very left of the lanes in specific crowded passages. The effect was immediate. I saw orderly conducts and lessen traffic congestions and fewer accidents in the streets (at least in front of me). I was like, yay! Finally Jakarta was able to manage its street-izens. But of course getting their ways around would take longer time and patience had to be well under control on the side of the bikers themselves.

For all I was concerned about, I thought these new laws were made to help lift the 3-in-1 bans at certain times during the day. Geez, they even made more lanes for cars (though insufficient for speeding due to the narrowness of the new lanes). This psyched me up for I was so ready to embark on the new ERP (or ERM, or whateva) system: A way that the Singapore government use as an auto-debit toll road method to decrease usage of the main thoroughfares. How far are we into this new system? Only God knows.

Finally when we heard rumors that important avenues will no longer support bikers, they just flipped. I didn’t agree on the 3-in-1 systems, and this new future law doesn’t seem to be well thought of either. What will happen to our friendly ojek hotties? What will happen to our reliable couriers? What about fast-food deliveries at times that we’d really really need them? Trust me, Jakarta is not ready for those insanely outrageous bike messengers that you see flying across Manhattan. How many more lives (e.g. bike messengers’) will be mourned getting hit by motorists, crazy bus drivers, metro-minis, and even seemingly possessed bajaj drivers?

If you happened to be on a Jakarta street lately, it seemed that bikers had no longer obey the lights-on rule nor the left-lane only zone for all they’d care. Bikers got even more obnoxious by sticking to their ways, commanding buses and cars to move away from their paths. They felt empowered by the frustrations. It almost felt like another vox-populi had resurged and could be lethal if we just sit still without trying to find a way for a win-win situation. Road rages are frequent again after only less than a month of considerable peace in the streets.

“And you know what hurts us the most?” my cute ojek driver continued. “It’s the feeling that you are treated as a second class citizen. Just because we cannot afford to own cars, that doesn’t mean that we have lesser standings than any other people who are able to enjoy the city’s public streets!” he then lowered his speed and stopped in front of my office building.

Well said Rizky.

“That will be seven and a half thousand Sir…”

For that lingering smile and the thumbs-up pose he gave me, I should give him ten.
But then again I am cheap.

Getting Personal

2007-01-23T01:20:00.000+07:00

“This is how you hold-on to them”, he literally showed me the ropes in front of me. Wow, this is kinda kinky, I told myself. “Now spread your legs just a bit… Yes, that will do”, he corrected my position while grabbing my thighs as he pleased. “Are you ready?” gently he asked me. “Ready when you are…” I said holding my breath. He then enveloped me from behind. I let his fingers resting on my upper arms. Darn, I wish he’d let his head down to relax on my shoulder blades. This is it. “One, two, three, four, five…” he started counting while my arms were pushing the ropes down. Gosh, I could feel his breath on the back of my neck. “Now do this for twenty more reps!”. (Sighed). “Yes, Sir!”

It all started when Michiko, one of the trainers in my gym mentioned that lately she had seen a good development on my physique. I was of course forever skeptical as always: “But I didn’t loose any weight and my waist still bursts out of seams!”. Then Yutaka who’d successfully created an arm-and-shoulder envy amongst other trainers and members alike, suddenly appeared from the horizon. “To expedite your development, why don’t you try having a personal trainer Sir?” he asked.

Wrong timing! I can barely save for my future, let alone spending another chunk on a very vain reason.

“So what’s your program?” I asked politely.

“It’s gonna be a guided 12 days, in which you may spread them in 2 or 3 times/ week”

“Yeah, and how much would that cost me?”

“Two and half”

“As in millions of Rupiah?”

“Correct Sir.”

“Wow, I am not sure if I have that kinda budget right now” I replied frankly.

“Well, why don’t I give you a free training session today for you to get the gist of having a personal trainer?”

Gulping, I stared at his puppy eyes and was drawn immediately to his sensuous lips.

“Sss…Shure…” I nodded.

Of course Yutaka was the most wonderful army-sergeant type of a trainer who pushed me to the limit that day. Sore muscles were at-the-least a price to pay to look buffed and pumped at the end of the session. And furthermore, I got a chance to get very personal with him. In this case I was in total-surrender-mode while letting him hold my back at the gravitron, grab my ass at the hamstring curl, cradle me on a sit-up bench, lock arms and gazes while performing side-way crunches, and best of all I got to feel his basket (yes, with my glutes!) during the triceps-pushdowns.

Darn you Yutaka. Now, I want you to train me so bad.

Angel: Pay bills
Devil: Have fun
Angel: End loans
Devil: Isn’t he hot?
Angel: Yeah, like he’s gonna EVER let you touch him at the end ?
Devil: You’ll never know if you haven’t tried…
Angel: Oh please don’t even start seeing him as a pay-boy that one may just use for one’s mortal pleasure.
Devil: But I will… Be paying him, no?

Now, I am confused. Will the money spent for the pseudo-erotic training sessions with him be a good investment? Am I sure that I will see any hardened muscle group (other than my dick) as the result of the six-week program?

At any case it’s at least worthy to think about. Hmm.

Angel: NO!!
Devil: Oh Shut up bitch…

Mameha and a Stray Puppy

2006-12-30T14:31:00.001+07:00

The way he danced was quite charming actually. Smooth moves, nicely done, nothing erratic, nothing too sassy, just (manly) enough to get my attention. He was pretty cute in the limelight, casually attired in t-shirts and jeans. After more than the half-a-year hiatus for me, nothing better than that would holla: Welcome back to Club Paradis. After all, he seemed to be alone there. Right in the middle of the dance floor. Darn you: a stray puppy in a circuit party!

Not too long ago an old acquaintance of mine, my brondong-jenius, started calling me Mameha for the obvious reasons. I am getting old, having my own place in certain society and before senilities had succeed in overtaking my sanity, I do have lots of tricks to share with younger upcoming geishas.

Last week however, my local grips were shaken (not stirred) by the arrival of another Mameha from the Philippines. Even though she was way older than me, however she was gorgeously smashing - due to her intense body and facial treatments. Her aura was glowing with “My name is Voulez-vous-couchez avec-moi-ce-soir and you are who?” written all over her forehead. You’d never guess that she held a PhD somewhere in her pedigree. Yet she insisted to drag me to this circuit party in town at the lowest point in my life. Yes, hubby just left me two weeks ago in my 32nd week of pregnancy. I felt fat and old and unwanted.

It boy stray-puppy finally looked back in my direction. He gave a warm smile prior to approaching us. Darn, darn, darn it. I thought the printed flowing short dress that Ulli (from Project Runway 3) made for me worked splendidly. “Boleh kenalan?” not surprisingly, he made a gesture to the Filipino Mameha. After several attempts, I finally told it boy: “Darling, he doesn’t speak Indonesian… better use other lingua-franca if you really want to get inside her panties”

We went to a street hawker afterward, translating back and forth, his English was darn awful. All I remember was when Curtsy, the other Mameha asked: “What do you do?”. It boy was answering: “I go to a mall today and I buy some things from supermarket”. Although I was licking my wound, I secretly thank God that I didn’t have to bring it boy home. Crushed but yet helped them secure a deal I did. The next morning both of them expressed their gratitude for my help and how they both enjoyed each other very well.

About a week later for the lack of having a man to hug, I became horny as hell. I thought of it boy immediately, as long as I can make sure that there will not be any conversations involved, I should be fine. So messaged him I did. He replied: “I’m home just listening to music. Wanna chat? Call me at home at this number…”. Surprisingly I managed to have an hour-long conversations about his life (the trick to get an it boy felt adored: just talk about him). We made a deal to have dinner later on.

I felt so sad after talking with him. He just wasted his entire life for nothing. Halfway educated, no career to be proud of, still in a school abroad learning English (while he’s approaching 30 in a couple of years). Too much partying can actually do damage on one’s life. Even in Bahasa Indonesia, we still couldn’t understand each other very well.

Met him later on, I brought my self a bunch of friends in case any conversation should go awry. And it happened. His jokes weren’t funny, he mumbled a lot. So much for the pretty face and nothing between his ears. He was introduced to another group of friends. Someone there were willing to take him home asap.

Gave him my good byes, it was late already. He asked politely, “Are we gonna meet again later tonight somewhere?”. I said no, since I was really tired. Letting him went out with that other hot guy made me feel defeated (again). But then again maybe I didn’t state my case clearer anyway.

Stupidly not only that I felt sorry for him (for people who’d laugh behind his back and only wanted him to be their sex-toy), I kinda felt like taking him under my wings. Yes, I do want to sleep with him as well, let’s not be naïve on that. But furthermore, I dunno why I felt like taking care of him, my own stray puppy.

I’m mellow and pregnant with a dead-beat hubby. Maybe it’s the maternity talking.

Interview with Stray Puppy

2006-12-30T14:26:00.000+07:00

This is a flashback from a single conversation that happened at dinner with Mr. Stray Puppy, in front of a couple friends. From here on please imagine the entire evening.

What is your hobby?
I like playing music with a bunch of friends

Oh cool, what (instrument) do you play?
Alternative

Oh yea? Like what?
Cold play, U2…

That’s rock, not alternative. Nirvana would suit better
We used to play Nirvana and then we changed directions

So what instrument do you play?
I do vocals

Really? Now when did you last sing at an event?
Just today

Really this evening?
Yeah, in the bathroom…

…
(insert cricket sound-effect here)

Haha (sour laugh), what did you sing?
Two songs!

Spill
One was.. “Halo Halo Bandung”… and the other was…
Umm (trying to remember)…. “Ibu Kota Periangan”…

……
(insert a generous amount of cricket sound-effect here)

For the foreign readers, they were actually lyrics from the same song.

Mid Town Check Cashing

2006-12-28T23:15:00.000+07:00

Once upon a time there was this humble country boy who finally received a payment for a task he did about a year ago. ‘Twas of course a surprise for him to receive this compensation after all these months of waiting. The timing was perfect, he was in dire need of some hard currency upon receiving this payment. The problem was simple. He never received a cheque from a foreign bank before. Thus the story began. A journey through the mazes of the Indonesian banking industry (insert orchestrated music here).

Well, of course the country boy didn’t have to be over melodramatic like that. But I guess dramawas one of his middle names anyway. The next day he was so cheerful. First thing in the morning he was already in his local bank. Trying to clear the cheque under his account number, it was so surprising that the bank would not accept it. They'd only accept any cheque issued by the same bank at the time being - due to the proximity to the New Year banking holiday.

He then asked around on how to cash in his hard earned forgotten payment. People would direct him to a local branch of the foreign bank (cheque issuer). To the local branch then he went, even though it was almost at the end of the west side. The parking was awfully cramped. There he got a heated discussion with the security personnel about where and how he should park his carriage. It was extremely maddening. When he reached the customer service clerk, this was what she had to say: “Sorry Sir, we cannot access this account on your cheque since it was issued by our head-office for corporate clients only”. The simpleton then let go a small sigh when he found out that the issuer office had in fact resided in the same building that he works everyday of his recent life. “Don’t forget it’s in the 6th floor!” she added.

Frustrated and furious he tried to go down to the stall where he left his horses and carriage behind. The lift wasn’t as friendly as he hoped though. First he took a lift which didn’t plan to go down to the stall. After that, the other lift went mad by delivering him up and down to different floors that he didn’t intend to step on.

Without further ado he finally reached his own office building and directly he went to the 6th floor as directed. Another security personnel made sure that what he wanted was actually the 15th floor. The trick was, he had to embark at the 8th floor and had an exchange to the fourth lift on the left side prior to continuing his journey to the 15th floor.

Ding. The lift door finally opened to a confusing room. Filled with a confusing system of get-your-waiting-in-line-number buttons and more directions. He pressed a button and a receipt nicely belched out from the little printing machine:

Your Number: 3041

Now Serving: 3039
Please be seated. You will be served shortly.
28.12.2006; 12:37

Yippey. Not too long of a wait he thought. Yeah, that was like 45 minutes before he realized that he “might’ve” just pressed the wrong button since the subsequent numbers were never going to be called. People started to leave the premises, even the new clients behind him already got served. It wasn’t fair he said to himself.

He went back to the machine and pressed a button with the “Cash. One Transaction Only” written on it.

Your Number: 5082

Now Serving: 5079
Please be seated. You will be served shortly.
28.12.2006; 13:28

Ding. Another bell rang for the number 5082 to a teller number 6 shortly after that.

The clerk was a mean-looking I-don’t-need-any-man type of a woman. He just loved her for the fact that she was very efficient. In under 2 minutes, the country boy finally touched his cash. All six hundred thousand of it (in local currency). He thanked the woman and he went out gratefully.

At least he learned something today: Learning by doing is annoying. Not having enough information is frustrating.

What Merry Christmas

2006-12-26T11:41:00.000+07:00

Merry Christmas everyone. May joy, peace and love fill your hearts. Kinda nice isn't it, to fill your message box with hundreds of similar wishes and hopes from the people that cared enough about you. But somehow this Christmas was awfully different from other Christmas that I had endured in recent years.

Then a friend of mine wrote this: “I felt so lonely this Christmas even though I am surrounded by everyone in my family. Just felt so empty deep inside”. I can totally share her pain. That’s exactly how I went through my Christmas.

At least last year I managed to gather my immediate family to go to church together, watching the Christmas Carol performed in grandmama’s house, before going to this fancy family dinner somewhere. Furthermore, the next day, me and a group of friends went to have our own Christmas family dinner. And as the dessert, followed by a trip to Carita Beach to celebrate New Year’s eve together. We planned so much last year for the sake of “togetherness”.

Bad omens kicked-off this year’s Christmas however.

Thursday the 14th: Another broken heart. Another broken relationship. The start of a mudslide.

Friday the 15th: Failed to open a branch office. We had to push it forward to January.

Monday the 18th: Suppliers told us that items might not be shipped on time for the new venue.

Friday the 22nd: Went to Heaven and found out that the the AC was too cold for the lack of people inside! (You suck!) At least some of us managed to snatch a dude from the premises.

Sunday the 24th: It was raining like hell when we got to the church that evening. Went there only with Mom. Dad had some church chores at different mass. Bro was busy entertaining people (in which he didn’t invite any of us in the family). Grandmama was hit by a bad case of flu. Cuzins went outta-town to celebrate elsewhere. After the annual; Christmas carol, we had a quick supper at grandmama’s house. And as the final insult, at around midnight, I gave a mercy-fuck (hey, it was Christmas!) to a one-night-stand who was so far-off my type.

Monday the 25th: Got a group of friends to cruise the cutie pies in SenCity. Very late lunch in Secret Recipe was good. Followed by feasting unashamedly in Hoka-Hoka Bento. Reminiscing with old friends are always good of course.

But other than that, I think the Grinch had successfully stolen my Christmas away.

Credits: Christmas ornament pictured here was provided by Swarovski.

To Flea or Not to Flee

2006-12-19T02:59:00.000+07:00

Secretly I let go a small sigh when we got there. A sigh from a disgruntled heart of mine. Out of all the places in the world, why would he take me to this sort of place. Not only that it was late already, five-ish in the afternoon. But it was also hot, humid, and boy, it was packed with people. The buyers, the sellers, and the wardrobes from all over the universe, not to count the sneaky pick-pockets. Finally, after a decade long of successful attempts in avoiding this place, once more I was there at the flea market.

Even though he still buys gifts in places like normal people would (i.e the fully air-conditioned malls), I managed to travel to some unlikely places with my beau in the city to find one of a kind vintage chintz that he likes to collect. Down to Glodok and Pasar Mayestik. Having a so-so Sate Padang lunch squatting on storefront steps with a dozen other hungry ibu-ibu. Followed by inhalations of the uncomfortable putrid ambiance while enjoying your Sop Ceker Ayam (chicken feet soup which actually tasted pretty good) at the Sarinah pedestrian way across from the infamous Oh-Lala café. I tried as much as possible to always be there with him.

True that this guy humbled me. He showed me that there’s life outside of the comfort zone. Interesting people we’d meet along the way. These were the real people of the real world, he once said. Yeah okay, whatever lah. But even this chameleon/ I-can-be-who-ever-you- want-me-to-be Princess has her own limitations. Now, what are we doing in Pasar Senen? You wanted me to try on some used clothes of undetermined provenance? Yeah right!

I do like vintage stuffs mind you. Especially when the thing was really cute. Like that old poster I got in a flea market on the left side of the Seine, the used t-shirt I got from my office colleague (it was too big for him after he lost some weight), or that gorgeous blue-and-white striped shirt I stole from Jose’s trunk while he was in J-Town.

Busy traditional markets for me would only look good for photo essays, especially the black-and-white prints silver-tinted editions. Those photos that you’d see in magazines and art galleries. But in real, it was pretty scary. So we parked somewhere safe, left the phones and wallets behind. I only took the remaining hundred thou (Rupiah) that I got with me whilst entering the premises.

He was so proud in seeing me, the I-don’t-do-walking-unless- I’m-on-the-treadmills person, amongst thousands of used and cheap clothing items hanged or piled up everywhere. We went in and out of makeshift kiosks (which would later sell cakes, biscuits and traditional delicacies once the sun had set), bargaining hard for items that he was looking for. Thank God he knew the way around. I felt safe having him beside me.

But as you all knew, despite of all the piping-heat, the puzzling-traffic, and the not so friendly atmosphere, my homo-instinct insidiously returned to my suddenly feeling-well being. There were cute guys who’d sit spread eagle on their pile of clothing-stuffs wearing nothing but skimpy jeans and wet singlets. Another dude with a hot bronze bod just dozed off on a bench with his dark patch of armpit bush oozing-off his masculinity. Plastic tents shadowed the intense afternoon rays. However, the limited streaks of lights bouncing on people’s heads and the merchandises were truly worthy of a good photograph or a good painting. Chiaraschuro. See, I finally found the beauty of being there exposed to the environment.

“Honey, come on, hurry pick your stuffs will you! I’m already in my second get-3-for-ten-thousand choices!” I yelled at him while grabbing six used t-shirts, which supposedly came from South Korea. In my mind I was already styling meself: These are for the gym (I’d look like a hot Korean army in these), these would be for sleeping (material were so soft and worn-out), these I would use to go out (now you ladies may get the same look from Zara, Guess, L’Energie and Top Men vintage, while I was having the real-McCoy here).

Damn, I loved it so much I’d left him there and wandered off. Got another lumber-jack style shirt for Rp. 30,000 and a cute show-me-your-arm short sleeved shirt for just Rp. 15,000. And the final deal was: I got a set of 3-for-Rp.15,000,- ties, and I picked an original Giorgio Armani tie (fresh from a laundry that the owner never pick up). And so, here we go, let’s tabulate: I spent Rp. 80,000,- (or 20,000 under budget) and got almost a dozen items in that short period of time! Ahh, who-eva said that a compulsive shopper would stop buying when he’s out of his environment?

After the boiling in hard detergents and the repeated wash-ups, I was more than pleased in hearing things that people said like: “Gosh I love your shirt, where did you get it?”; “That is a cute t-shirt, where did you get it from?”. My reply was as simple as: the flea market at Pasar Senen. (Ohh, the horrified faces!).

Maybe once, a long long time ago, parents of my grandmamma would park their imaginative 1920-s Maybach Zeppelin in front of the management office. They’d treat them like some hot-shot because Pasar Senen was the it place to shop on Mondays (hence the name Monday Market in English). Things had changed within the last century. True, Pasar Senen had lost its original beauty. I didn’t even know how they covered up the small river that was supposed to be welcoming the guests. But hey, regardless of everything, I bet it wasn’t as much fun (and cheap) as the Pasar Senen we’d see today.

Embarrassing Interview with a One-Night Stand

2006-12-19T00:45:00.000+07:00

I thought it would be fun to have sex with someone and then interviewed the guy and talk about everything you’re not supposed to talk about. I looked around a bit on the Internet but finally picked up this guy in a bar – someone who wasn’t intent on finishing it all off in a back room and who fancied a conversation afterwards. We went back to my place and…

Hold on, don’t put your pants on yet. I thought we had a deal – the interview I told you about, the after-sex interrogation.
Oh shit, really? I thought that was a joke. I tought you were teasing me, steering clear from the usual boring “wanna drink?” chat up. I though that was so sweet about you.

Thanks, but, no. I really want to do the interview. Did you like the sex we just had?
Yeah, it was fine.

Only fine?
It was okay. A little on the soft side maybe, but it was okay with me.

You prefer it rougher?
We didn’t fuck, so that makes it less rough, I’d say. I don’t have anything against vanilla sex, but the sex we just had wasn’t “all the way” if you know what I mean.

That’s weird. I wanted to fuck too but I didn’t pursue it. Why didn’t you ask me while we were at it?
I thought you didn’t want to fuck.

Why? What did I do that made you think I didn’t want to fuck?
You were very actively pleasing me all the time; you were really all over me and all over my body. So I think I was waiting for you to take the initiative. Maybe I didn’t think of it because you didn’t come across as totally focused on my ass either. You know, some guys just don’t give a damn about anything else, all they do is fixate on the anus. You weren’t like that.

I always find it hard to guess if somebody is into fucking or not.
Never mind. It was okay without fucking.

What did you like about me?
What do you mean? How you performed?

No, I mean physically?
Your ass. It’s awesome.

Thanks. Tell me more?
More about you?

No, about what you like about my ass.
It’s very round and firm. It’s a bit hairy and there are these small freckles above your cleavage. And it’s a very white ass.

I really like your toes.
And it showed! I didn’t like the part where you were licking my toes much. It felt uncomefortable. Didn’t I have smelly feet?

No. I like sucking toes. I thought you liked it too ‘cause you were moaning.
Well, it tickled… You suck cock very well. That’s the part that I liked: how you kept on working my shaft up and down without taking my cock in completely, just wetting it until you finally swallowed it. That was nice.

Your cock is funny. When it’s hard it’s really hard. I was surprised you got it up like that, given the fact that we were knackered when we got here.
I always have quite a boner, yeah.

Can I say something about your kissing?
Of course. Did you like it?

You could be a little more subtle with your tongue. You move it around too frantically. The same goes when you give head. It’s kind of a manic tongue.
You think so? I never had that complaint. Maybe I had too much space when I was blowing you. Your cock isn’t really huge.

Well, next to yours, yeah. But it isn’t small either…
Sorry. It’s not small, but just average. And you’re not circumcised. I prefer circumcised cocks. Big and circumcised.

What about my kissing?
You’re a wet kisser. You use too much spit.

Well, it worked well on your cock. And what about nipples? It’s a gay thing, isn’t it, pulling and squeezing nipples?
I don’t know.

I think you should play more with your nails. Not just pinch my nipples hard and long, but twist them softly and use your nails a bit more. And my right nipple isn’t as sensitive as my left one. Just so you know for next time.
Do you think there will be a next time?

Why not?
Well, maybe. We’ll see. Hey, but Sander, I really have to go now. Are we finished?

Not yet. Let me think… What did you think of my finger up your ass?
Oh, fine.

Fine again? It sounds you had the most average sex in years!
No, it was really fine, the finger too. And we both came at the same time, which doesn’t happen on a first date.

Text by: Sander Plug. As seen in Butt Magazine. Issue No.13: Special BAD Issue (Summer 2005). Pictures by: Lilo Raymond from art.com ("Unmade Bed"); SayImSorry from flicker.com ("Buy Butt Magazine")

Miss Money Penny and Her Guilty Pleasures

2006-12-02T00:41:00.000+07:00

“True. Money is not everything. But it’s the only thing!” a close friend of mine said to me half-jokingly more than half a decade ago. Post-college, newly employed, at the bottom of the food chain we all were. Back then he was Mr. Frugal, smarter than everyone, a successful auditor for a top-5 accounting firm in the US, more importantly he was a very wise money manager for himself. One who will not spend on anything unnecessary, he was. Or so we thought.

People do make mistakes. We couldn’t blame him for investing in a seemingly-solid-but-trembling-inside companies, the likes of MCI WorldCom and Enron scandals. After some irrecoverable realized-lost, he became more “economical” than ever. He seemed to lead a perfect lifestyle for someone who should be concerned about any recent financial lost.

Out of curiosity, we (his dear pals) traced his movements now and then. And we didn’t seem to be shocked when we found out about his guilty-pleasures. The things he shouldn’t have done or bought at the times like this. Those were normal things, the things that he enjoyed doing when he was more stable: Playing pools and drinking copious amounts of Bud’s and Heini’s at Jillian’s, flirting with the waitress (that he longed to date but afraid to make a move on), and eating fancy Japanese food once in a while. We tried to understand his stress level by rationalizing that those things were just his guilty-pleasures to take his mind off his troubles lately.

Still in conjunction about the way we spend and save our hard-earned money below (see my blog, Tale of the Hunters and the Gatherers), I did a small survey amongst people around me before finding out silly things that we do or buy just to supply our splurges and mood of the moments, our guilty-pleasures.

There was a friend of mine with a growing 2 years old, who would buy things for her son in order to minimize the guilt of new wardrobe purchases. Another was an advertising exec who is wise enough to save some in order to splurge on travels in holidays. There was also an interesting case of a person who felt guilty all the time because of his constant urge to experience new things (by that I mean new restaurants, new movies, and new items at his favorite boutiques), while he was on a limited budget due to his mortgage on a house somewhere across the island (which he rarely visit anyway).

Topping the list of guilty-pleasures that we buy/ do regularly are:
1. Music CD-s. Especially when they are “originals” only to be converted to mp3-s and stored in a climate-controlled CD-quariums never to see the light of day ever again.

2. Movie DVD-s that you buy because they were pirated and cheap though you never get to watch

3. Novels and books that you never get to read faster than you buy them

4. Clothing items to follow some recent trends. Be it only a belt, shoes, bracelets, in which I am sure we all have enough in our closets.

5. Dining out. Sure, sometimes dining out are cheaper than if we even bother to cook our own meals. But dining out in expensive places? Once a month may be ok for some, but for others once a month should be more than allowed by his/ her budget.

6. Going to the movies. We wouldn’t feel accepted as one of the “in” crowds if we haven’t seen the latest blockbuster movie at the cinema would we?

My ultimate guilty pleasure is having a chocolate cake at midnight, followed by mutton satays and fried rice. But seriously, purchases here and there taken as your little guilty-pleasures may lead into some serious trouble with the cash flow or credit card bills.

In my case: Monthly doses of certain magazine(s) provided by Kinokuniya; Original CDs (just to be burned into my Pod) – I can argue for hours about the sound quality- but still I didn’t have to get that many; DVD-s that didn’t get to touch the player because I never had enough time to watch; Mystery Books that mysteriously disappeared from the shelf because my friends would get them first before I had the time to read; Well, lastly, ok I am a shoe addict! I felt like I never have enough sneakers in my racks.

All of these happened when we still have to pay the rents, the bills, and the loans. Damn.

Maybe I should follow an instruction from a very thrifty friend of mine, who aptly works as a financial advisor:

“I never have any guilty-pleasure. The only thing that would exist afterward will just be the ultimate… pleasure…. hmm….. (pausing for a while). Oops, sorry. Let’s continue this. You know why? Because if I knew that I would feel guilty subsequently, I wouldn’t even bother to buy/ do the god-damn thing in the first place….”

So what’s your guilty-pleasures?

How do we suppose to handle this modern problem of ours?

Tale of the Hunters and the Gatherers

2006-12-02T00:31:00.000+07:00

I couldn’t remember exactly when I fell love with money. Not the money in its physical being, but the notion and the dreams of being rich, extremely rich. I just remembered the freedoms of richer people back in my village –well, okay it was a capital of a province somewhere in Borneo. There they seemed to be able to say, order, and do anything that they wished for. I always wanted to be one of them, even when my background was so far-off from where they were. Anything valuable that could be accumulated in any sustainable growth over time is worth considering as money or assets for me. At the end isn’t it what we are paying for? To have the freedom to choose. To have the key to unlock any door you wish to open.

Further more, crazy enough, I would observe them. How these people talked, walked, and behave in public. Some were appropriately well-mannered, some were just money-whores without class (the type that get your respect only because their worth was in gazillion digits). What I found interesting lately is how people would actually behave not only according to their personality types, but more true to their money personality. On how they are spending their money.

Rita Puspita had accumulated nine types of money personalities in one of her journals in PS Magazine recently:

1. The Achievers: Their best pay-offs are their careers, efforts, and integrity in achieving their wealth. Seldom interested in risky investment schemes.

2. The Entrepreneurs: Love their Money. Balancing their life between works and lifestyle enjoyments. Love the position, power and status that money may buy.

3. The High-rollers: There is no such things as limitations. Not only answering challenges, this type is seeking for them. Extremely competitive, creative and open minded. Get this, money is their vehicle to channel their emotions. Don’t mind the ups and downs, even the friends and foes that they amassed along the way.

4. The Hunters: Well educated. Well informed. Enjoying the modern lifestyle. Very ethical, especially in financial decisions. Do not posses strong enough self esteem. Look at success as a path of destiny or by seniority. Not based on what they can personally produce nor self-worth evaluations.

5. The Money Masters: This wise type may be able to balance financial risks and their safety nets. They believe in trust, consider recommendations and suggestions and do not believe in plain luck.

6. The Perfectionists: So afraid to make any mistake or failure. They only know how to work hard and to work harder. Extremely considerate in making any decision and will find a hard time choosing the perfect investment (since it involves risks) for them.

7. The Producers: High work-ethics but uncreative in finding ways to develop their fortunes. All they may do was just to save, save and save and at the end were forced to spend it all.

8. The Optimists: The no-worry-ers. Very impulsive in spending. Do not like taking risks. May not care enough about finances that would make their head spin or affect their lifestyle.

9. The Safety Players: Average money makers. Everything goes to savings or safety deposits or safer investments. Taking opportunities where chances/ risks are minimal. The employee type that would work forever and will depend on corporations as their bread and butter.

Gosh. Where am I today? Did I make any wise decision in my recent past? Do I save enough? Did I make my savings in the right place? Can my money grow faster?

Back then, I wanted to be served like a king, like one of them -especially when entering a financial institution. Wealth-management for me was more of a status than a necessity. Looking at this today, I felt that if you couldn’t handle your own finances, then let someone capable perform that for you. That is if I have anything left in the bank account to be managed anyway.

Day by day we are getting older (and expenses are piling up like the falling leaves of autumn). Some dreams were successfully achieved; some went into the dustbin. How are you going to get through the rest of your life? How will you maximize what you have today?

At the end of the day, we all know that controlling urges are easier said than done.

Two Year Date

2006-11-30T23:37:00.000+07:00

Shown here wrapped in black rubber for your inner fetish. Rrrrr!

A beauty. It was so pretty in white, with easy to use buttons, especially its reasonably thin dimensions compared to any previous “full-size” iPods in the market. I just had to have one of these. Before long, I was busy downloading my entire music collection to this baby and I even went from chic-to-geek in my methods of searching for images (of the responding album covers) in order to prettify any song that was playing on my new Pod.

After more than a yearlong of drooling obsession in owning an iPod Video, I was “forced” to add this music-bank into my gadget arsenal. For I always dreaded that the day would come that upon synchronizing, I would encounter this tag-line: “Not enough space” in my existing 40 gigs Generation-3 iPod (circa 2002). It was time for a replacement, I said to myself. Especially after the battery would go awry for no apparent reason after a normal charging time.

True that you may debate that I wouldn’t need a replacement for this problem. Since my music collections were safely stored in a home computer already, I may as well just get a smaller (and cheaper) type of music player just to have a playlist-on-the-go (the gym, while driving, any waiting-in-line moments or whenever I felt like having an anti-social day). The thing is that I wouldn’t feel complete without bringing everything with me everyday. Because for me, for everything that happened in my life, be it at the office, the social life, with family, etc, there’s always a perfect song for everything. Just to accord to the spectra of my changing moods.

After some not-too-much deliberation moments of mine, (it was of course, more of a want than a need), they at last issued an Adira Finance credit for me to wed this little machine. Not bad, about $50 a month to be installed six times within the next six months. Thus it wouldn’t hurt my finances that bad in my monthly budgeting. That was the plan.

Plugging the Pod everyday into the car audio-system, I was pleased by its performance until I saw this article in Wired Test magazine recently that vexed me to an almost uncomfortable state of being. Kris Wagner wrote the article, “Built to Fail” that said “Of course no R&D department would ever admit to creating products that are intended to crash and burn. It simply a matter of when –our gadgets- will die. Manufacturers design technology to fail so you’re forced to upgrade regularly”

No wonder the warranty would cover up to two years of usage, since these little babies would literary die (while more expensive to fix than buy a new one) after the ripe age of two had flown away.

With that he added, “Companies that make low end products rarely bother to manufacture spare parts. Meanwhile, companies that make premium gear invest in the replacement parts needed to salvage broken machines.”

Why didn’t this article come across before I made the decision to get one? (And 5 more months to go in the installments!) Well maybe I just had to enjoy my 2-year-date with this Pod to the fullest.

Now don’t complain to the vendors if they make the prices of a Vertu or a Mobiado extremely unreachable to the masses. Why yes. I believe they’d stock some spare-parts in the back-room.

That was the bad news; the good news about obsolescence is actually a joy:
There’s always a reason to shop again.

Apa Kabar?

2006-09-20T02:29:00.000+07:00

Out of instinct in seeing a nicely designed magazine I picked up an issue of the latest Kabar, a magazine dedicated for expats in the country. For its extremely high content of “travel, experience, and taste” –their tag line- I dunno why I hadn’t pick them up earlier than that blessed day at Hero Kemang. It was indeed a blessed day for I could not be even happier to find that tasteful pics of hot men were gracing pages after pages in the name of art.

The topic of the month was Sarong and the City Guy. While traditionally I only found two uses of sarongs for the guys in the city: 1. To guard against bad-night-chills and mosquito-laden pos kamling when you have to help secure your community once in a while. 2. Ritual item to wear during prayers especially in the month of Ramadhan in Indonesia.

I didn’t give too much interest in sarongs except for one of those collectible batik peranakan style which are so goddamn gorgeous in some textile museum. But it all changed after seeing Hengky, Mike, Arie and Paul strutting their stuffs for the photographer. Now, I realized how a sarong would enhance your upper torso that you’ve worked so hard and create a mysterious aura of what lies beneath those sheer fabrics. How gay can you be? I asked. Furthermore, I bet Mr. Samuel Wattimena was having a blast when he had to contribute some of his intricate sarong works while also becoming the stylist for the shoots. Do I have enough reason to hate him now?

Moving on to the hunk with the cap above, he is not just some tourist jerk you’d find around Kuta or Jalan Jaksa. Amazingly, Brandon Hoover, was one of the photo contributor for the magazine for the travel section around Java and Bali. Ah, those arms… Must be the intense clicking of the shutter button to create such massive biceps… Hmm.. Find more on him at www.thejavajive.com . A.s.l: 28, m, Jakarta (since 2002).

Reading onto the sport section, it read: “Jiujitsu Hits Jakarta… with a Brazilian Flavour” Adorned with a cute picture of a Jiujitsu instructor. Yeah… they must’ve taken the pic somewhere just to decorate the page right? Wrong! Niko, the guy in the white kimono (duh!) is actually the instructor that would teach you personally (well, maybe not that personal!), hands-on, mano-a-mano if you’d join his class every Tuesday and Thursday in Pasaraya. Anyone?

For it seemed that this reading material was targetted towards horny ibu-ibu (ladies) expat or their closetted conterparts maybe I should read more of the incoming editions of this publication. Very refreshing, inspiring, and shall I say... perspiring?

Brazilian Flavour Jiujitsu

2006-09-20T02:14:00.000+07:00

I haven’t even began to write about my extra terrestrial encounter with my super hot capoeira mestre when I was invited to preview a class by a friend of mine. After sitting in a semi-lotus position for about an hour (I had to, they only had the floor to land my lazy bum), I made a mental judgement that capoeira shall forever be banned from the face of the earth. And now another (cute) Brazilian thing is swooping J-Town with its mysterious charm.

Sitting at end of the class, those were all I saw, in glory: The butts of about two-dozen guys and girls, prancing around like there were no tomorrow. Bubble butts in white training pants were everywhere. I swear, I felt like waking up in heaven with angels dancing to the rhythm of the samba. For only around $20, I’d get to wake up in heaven eight times a month, every Wednesdays and Sundays, with a chance of increasing speed and agility, getting fit, loosing fat, and creating the ultimate soccer-thighs and bubblicious buns. Capoeira shall be banned! I say. It was as if sex oozes from the native dances and movements. Highly erotic (and erratic in a way) it was as if they were performing some sort ritual on the beach somewhere to pray for a local demi-god in a roda (circle) of people. On top of that, it was always okay to extend your pinkies as it seemed to be a very normal hand gestures while moving back and fro.

However, little that I knew, that in the same building, in the same health club, on Tuesdays and Thursdays now you may find Niko (from the blog “Apa Kabar?”), teaching Synergy Jiujitsu with a promise on promoting self-defense, fitness, character development, and personal achievements. Oh really? Really?

With a click of a button, there I surfed their website to find what is it all about. If you knew me better, as in viewing Friendster pages, you’d know that I’d go straight for the pictures first prior to read any information given by its owner.

Upon clicking the instructor’s profile, my heart sank.

“It’s not fair!” I screamed.

Inside the website, I just found out that they’d only utilized Niko, the cute Brazillian model, ups, sorry, instructor to be the teaser of what’s coming next. See below.

Frankly, I don’t really wanna walk with Niko Han on my left and Deddy Wigraha, the other instructor on my rightside, around Blok-M Mall/ Melawai at night. I am pretty sure, the pretty three of us would be the first mugging target. We’re gonna look so cute together! The only difference is that those bad guys would get a harder time in snatching our vintage baguette bags from our hands than a dozen of golden bracelets from tante-tante India next door.

Inside the gallery, I thought I was in another straight-jocks-do-suck website waiting for them to loose their clothing items one by one and wrestle in the glistening vegetable oil on a steamy mattress. Oh, sorry my mind wandered-off to far.

Shall we? At least we could get a group rate on Brazilian wax afterwards.

Synergy Brazilian Jiujitsu
Tuesdays and Thursdays: 8-10 PM
e. niko@synergyjiujitsu.com
w. http://www.synergyjiujitsu.com

Body Life Fitness Center
Pasaraya Grande
Jl. Iskandarsyah II No. 2
Jakarta Selatan

Nice Tattoos You Have There

2006-09-19T03:24:00.000+07:00

A ball of fire lively burning with dazzles of yellow, orange and red hues before a Sanskrit word Ohm inked in black on the lower nape of his neck. While he was changing his pants I got a sneak of another tattoo on his right calf. The magic number was three he said: The number of tattoos on his body. With that I only have to use my detective skills to unearth the hidden one sooner or later.

It was a rather warm night when we were having a nasi goreng tektek dinner somewhere near his residence when he asked me, “Do you mind if I plan to have another tattoo across my chest? It’s gonna be a tribal one”. “Go ahead, I never mind anyone with tattoos” afraid he’d get big-headed, I said without divulging an important kink that I have for dudes with tatts.
“You should get one… You’d look good with a tattoo or two” he continued.

I know I would. At that moment I started imagining myself having a tiger crouching on my right upper back. But then again, how does one suppose to fuck himself? Cuz I’d definitely fuck myself I were a tattoo dude. Secondly, the idea of permanency scared the hell out of me. With Martha, you could always rearrange your living room, but to erase or exchange a tattoo? It’s a lifetime commitment in which I don’t think I am giving in yet. Lastly of course, I wasn’t about to hurt myself with any sharp objects piercing onto the surface of my skin. Ask me again if the object happened to be blunt, inviting, and oozing with hmmm. I’ll stop here to leave a space for your imagination.

Getting back to the person, I don’t even know why I chose to date this person. He didn’t seem right, didn’t even look right for my type for he was rather skinny. It must be his tattoos. I am well known as the ultimate sucker for tattoo dudes. One of my favorite ever TV shows is Miami Inked. Gorgeous everlasting paintings that would utilize your skin as the display medium. And even the hot tattoo “artists” in the show were my ultimate eye-candies. Don’t ask me the reason why I like this subject very much. Maybe I am stuck with one of those “two goodie-shoes princess who only dates bad boys” stigmas. The thing is, I don’t exactly look like a princess with this ever-going army look of mine. And I prefer sneakers any day to any stilettos made of glass, even if the venerable Datuk Jimmy Choo would ever market them.

If one could ever associate the primal behaviors of a pack of wild dogs with their human counterparts: I would say that as an alpha-bitch, I would need to date a top-dog. Just insuring that I’d get the crème-de-la-crème for my future offspring (physically and socially).

But however, I won’t be calling this latest tattoo dude in my collection a top-dog either. (As if! I wish I had a collection of this type anyway). With insecurity as his latest fashion, even moi, this bitch, is even more masculine than him. I felt like a butch dating a fem lesbian. And the reason why I rarely date brondong (younger guys) was that I don’t need another financial burden in the life of crazy ol’e me. As long as you can support and supply yourself with whatever you may want or need in your life then I am fine. And as long as you don’t ask these extremely delicate matters from me I’d be fine. But as you guessed it, not trying to corner him, I just wished that he’d manage his life better than today. But most of all, to be a top-dog, at least you’d have to be a top. Isn’t it?

So when friends asked me where was I in these couple of weeks, “busy with work or with date” usually were my replies.

When one of them asked, “Oh my God this guy must be so gorgeous…”
Another friend retorted, “No…”

“He must be so hunky…”
“No…” this annoying friend replied again.

“Is he nice to hang around with? To have decent conversations?”
“No…” he kept on replying.

“Extremely rich?”
“Money can’t buy me love... And besides as a career woman, I’d get my own Valextra tote (in white) in due time when I feel like it…” this time I replied.

“Maybe he’s good in bed?”
“Dunno, haven’t test-driven him”

“For this long you haven’t tested his engines?”
“Yes.. Is that supposed to be a problem?” I asked.

“So what is it that you see in him then?”
“I dunno…” said I squeezing a civilized answer.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk. Ooh, must be the tattoos then…” they all converged in harmony.

Well well, for beauty, umm… I mean, tattoos, are only skin deep.
I am a really really shallow person then.

At least I recently managed revealing the third drawing on his body.
Tehehehehehe...

Angel Sings

2006-09-19T02:07:00.000+07:00

Hussein knew he shouldn’t. But he did anyway. He kissed one of his former lovers. Right. He didn’t even have any justification for doing so. But he did anyway. He didn’t have time to think about any incoming predicament later after the kiss. But kissed him, he did anyway.

Hussein would see joy glittered in his eyes. As if instant happiness struck this person. He never knew that his former lover still wanted him in his life. Smiling and watching Hussein with a loving gaze he said: “Why do you have to be so adorable?”

This was what Hussein replied:
“You know, last night I got a premonition from God Himself. He said, “Njel… Njel… (Indonesian version short from the word Angel). The world had gone mad these days. People killing other people without any remorse. People plundering the wealth of the earth without having any plan for their children’s sake in the future. Everybody seemed to be so unhappy with their lives, burdened by their problems. Financial, social, family problems that they have to deal with in daily basis. People just seemed to forget that I still exist. With this I sent you to the world to open people’s eyes that help is on the way, as long as they seek for one. With this I sent you to the world to cheer people up with your smiles and open arms”. So if you had to ask me, I am just doing what I was supposed to do…”

The other person’s smile grew wider. He seemed to be genuinely pleased.

Only to be altered with a heart wrenching sob a couple of days later when Hussein had to be honest to him.

“How do you define my being lately?”
“You’re a great person to talk to, to have intelligent conversations, and to argue about as well! In short you’re like one of my best friends”, replied Hussein.
“Is that all?”
“Mmm. I am afraid that’s all I can give you. I don’t want to make any promise in which I may not be able to keep later on”.

Without further consideration (again), about a week later, Hussein succumbed to this person’s demand for a very late night munches at a hawker somewhere in midtown. Clearly the former lover looked so pleased in meeting him. Hussein felt the same way actually. Never been happier to see this person due to many bad-date experiences lately. Conversations and banters they'd exchange. Smiles were courtly returned.

Deep inside a guilt devoured Hussein’s stomach.
“Why do I enjoy having this person so much around me whilst unsure of wanting him in my arms again…”

Unknowingly, once again he asked Hussein rhetorically,
“Why do you have to be so adorable?”

Nevertheless he replied,
“It’s my job darling. It’s my job.”

A Nidji song was playing in the background:
“Angel walks…
Angel talks…
Angel sings…”

525,600 minutes

2006-09-16T00:20:00.000+07:00

“Five hundrend twenty five thousand, six hundred minutes.
Five hundrend twenty five thousand moments so dear.
Five hundrend twenty five thousand, six hundred minutes.
How do you measure, measure a year?”

By going to a karaoke house of course. Happy Puppy was the venue, one Mr. Fantabulous’ birthday celebration was the event. I felt like using this special event as a milestone for the life of our little club, Gang Gempal for I simply can’t believe that another year had gone by.

Having just seen Rent, the musical recently -hence the intro above- I should be grateful that none of us in the clique of friends are diagnosed with any life-threatening illness that we should be concerned about. A year had gone by since the last time I’ve seen this many friends gathered together in any occasions. The thing that I just realized was just how miss you guys, especially your individual insanity inside every single one of you.

A lot had happened within a year. While some had managed their relationships, some others are still in search for their own Mister Right. Career-wise, congrats for you who had earned your new positions at your new offices. And for you who are in between jobs hopefully in patience there will be a golden bucket at the end of the rainbow. New friends, new gangs formed and crushed day by day. Old friends however somehow are always there when you need them.

With this I’m just gonna let you guys know. That no matter how hectic schedules are, I am just gonna try my best to be there for you guys.

With this I’m just gonna say, from the bottom of my heart I am sorry for any wrong doings, any unspeakable horror that I might create, any harm, and for any reckless behavior performed that might offend any of you.

How do we indeed measure our past year together?

“In daylight? Sunsets? In midnights?
In cups of coffee? In inches? In miles?
In laughter? In strive?

Its time now to sing out
though the story never ends
lets celebrate remember a year

in the life of friends”

Miss y’all. Once again, Happy Birthday Mr. Fantabulous!

What Killed Terranosaurus Rex?

2006-09-02T03:56:00.000+07:00

“The extreme cool air up in the mountains, the blazing coastal heat, the treacherous steep hills, the impossible off-roads, the uneven city streets: nothing is impossible for Terrano. This tough guy is in need of a constant new challenge. Fully powered and more rugged, furnished with new amenities, now Terrano is ready to accompany you to a whole new terrain, a more challenging journey ahead.

Nature inspired, Nissan Terrano, reflected your active, driven and confident personality. The strong performance will enhance your image in any situation. Impressions will last on any spectator.

No boundaries. Nothing stopped this monster. Now with a more affordable price range”.

Whoever wrote that line for Nissan was a genius. A drop of flattery here, a boost of ego there, fill-in a guy with what he wanted to hear and you got a perfect client. That was three years ago. When the floods were our eminent enemy, everybody wanted a tough vehicle that would walk on water pretending that he was Jesus. On top of that, this baby was so my type: Strong and rugged. Nothing sweet about it. No nice curves or cute bells and whistles. “And with more affordable price range!” Don’t you just love it? Just me and my Terrano. My pick-all-up truck, my security-blanket tank, my masculinity enhancer and my personal penis extension.

Those were the days when SUVs were the “it” boys of the Indonesian automotive industry. I remembered those glossy covers with reports from the lower end test drives such as Isuzu (Panther) and Toyota (Kijang), to the never-ending head to head battle of utility trucks between Opel/ Chevy/ GM (Blazer), Honda (CRV), Nissan (Terrano and X-Trail), and Ford (Escape). The market was ready even for the softer side of them with the luxury touches from BMW (X5 and X3), Range Rover (Vogue and Disco), Porsche (Cayenne), VW (Touareg), and those ultra smooth Lincoln (Navigator, insert hip-hop music here), Lexus (Lx), and Toyota (Landcruiser). Even Mercedes-Benz didn’t feel like they need to change anything on the face of their G class for almost three decades.

Then shit happened. As if the earth was hit by an astronomical size meteor, the sweet life is now officially over. Once these giants walked the surface of this planet and now their days are numbered.

Even trying to sell one of these sweet machines to the used-car market will break your heart even further. Today's prices are dropping lower and lower day by day:
1. Oil prices are extremely high today. People want a vehicle with a very cost efficient kilometer/ liter oil consumption ratio.
2. Street conditions are getting more packed with cars. They wanna have something smaller and easier to maneuver with in the tightest spaces available (esp. to park on).
3. Bank loans on auto ownerships are more available and forgiving now with attractive rates. Suddenly installing new cars in your garage became hipper than purchasing (quality) second hands.
4. Starting in early 2007, a new tax-raise will be applicable on anything that runs on a 2.0 liter and above engines. Yikes.
5. Finally people realize that image alone won’t keep your rice bowls warm on rainy days.

The above factors killed my expectation on a better price for the dark-blue devil. I will be extremely lucky if still manage to get half the price of what I spent to take this thing home that day. If this can happen to me, it will definitely kill the SUV segment soon. Yes, those gas-guzzling monsters.

With age, I hope I grew up more mature and wiser (and graceful!). Hikes on salary are very incompatible with hikes on standards of living. Ask anyone from Hanoi, KL or Manila. They’ll totally agree that living in Jakarta is already more expensive than in their hometowns. Bear with me: Spending $10 a day on gas is insane. Driving through daily traffic jams in stick-shift (manual drive) is also insane. Perceived to be someone-you-are-not behind these wheels is even worse.

Fuck image. Better break my heart now to part with this dearly beloved ogre, than to break my bank account later on.

And for the epilogue, for once I will try to blend-in with the more wiser fuel-economy conscious group. Maybe something affordable, low to maintain, low in gas consumption, but still cute to sit on. Remember to save me some for, of course, shopping and café hopping with a clique of friends. Teteupp.

Unrealistic Expectation

2006-08-17T03:17:00.000+07:00

“Expectation” by Gustav Klimt, Stoclet Frieze on a Vase

It was late at night. I was tired physically (another big bash family birthday) and mentally (second day of being single again). Not long after that, Mac Flurry was with me again, online again, checking emails again, checking Friendster again. And then I saw a bulbo (bulletin board) written by a long time acquaintance whom I didn’t really had a chance to know better previously. This he wrote…

Message:
Apparently, I am told, my expectations of PLU are unrealistic.

What do you think?Comments welcome.

Here are my basic expectations of a new friend:
1. Intelligence
2. Sense of humour
3. Sensitivity to other people's feelings
4. Ability to hold a conversation on topics other than penis size and sexual role

---

Oh finally! A bulbo with a real message. Not just some news board or unimportant fill-it-your-way type of bulbo. I just had to reply:

Dear Linguist,

Actually yours are pretty basic I think. It was as if almost all human being should be embedded with such characteristics (at the minimum).

However, my list would go on and on as you may see below:
1-4. Same as the above
5. Active life style
6. Easy to get along with most people (sunshine of the day type)
7. Say what you mean... I don't read minds and I do not leave holes for miss-interpretations
8. Foreign language is a definite plus (with English being the minimum req.)
9. Top inclined person with bottom/ sweet face (this one is hard to fine)
10. Or on the contrary, he shan't have ego as high as the Kilimanjaro
11. Spending time together is of course lovely, cute and all, but the world is not ours alone. I am a very social person as well.
12. I love my family, if he is not close to his, that's not my problem and don't make me stray from family duties.
13. Mind if I smoke?
14. Supportive of my career, because I will definitely support your career.
15. Positive-thinker and a high achiever. To fail/ err/ make mistake is being human. Will you remember the famous men? Who had to fall to rise again? So take a deep breath... Pick yourself up... Dust yourself off, and start all over again (quoted from some old tunes).
16. Into classic jazz, playing any instrument is HOT, as well as ability to sing.

Now that's what i call... unrealistic expectations, no? And I haven't even gone physical yet!

Finally, I then realize that the world may be better without a checklist. I am just going to enjoy the next guy to the max. Why? Cuz he may be able to even produce other qualities not mentioned above that would sweep my feet away.

Cheerios!
Ambi.

---

Instant Reply:

Message:
God Ambi, now I don't know whether to be encouraged or even more abysmally depressed. I cannot even find my four. How would any of us find your 16? It is just a losing battle. Your point on checklists is taken, but I didn't intend it to be one, just I numbered them so it looks like one, or something, I dunno, it's after midnight and I didn't sleep for a single minute last night so I am pretty much BLUR.

I think I give up. I am becoming a lesbian.

Show Off at the Upper Room

2006-08-15T02:20:00.000+07:00

While some had six, some had even more, still counting, seven, eight: The number of packs visible on their naked abs. Personally, I haven’t gone any closer than this in my life before to any abdomen this superlicious that showcased those hot-stacks of hard muscles. Maybe just a little glance in the locker rooms back at the gym, but these babies were for real and for show!

I was deliberately waiting for Fa’s response on the event of last Wednesday’s Ubernacht, the 5th anniversary of Men’s Health Magazine – Indonesian version. You were right Fa! Muscle-worship-congs were like everywhere no? And cutie pies too. (Tried yelling at you but you didn’t hear). It was an equivalent of going to a church. The Church of Perfection, lead by Minister Yudha, the editor of the Indonesian version, who’s kinda cute but needs to be more “representative” (i.e use the tips in your mags and go to the nearest gym).

The event itself was kinda lame from my point of view, for a magazine this caliber to create such mundane event. tsk tsk tsk… (sigh). The spotlights specifically glared onto the wrong directions, visually blocking the stage with floods of whiteness while hurting sights. The silent pauses between acts were horrible. Indra Herlambang, the MC, was funny though. Got to give him credit for that. But the worst was the choice of music: They hired this grunge band that’d replicate 90-s rock hits, a bit too hardcore and maybe intolerable for the majority of their subscribers who are actually women and gay men, said some inner-circle informant. Especially when the theme of the day was Ubersexuality, a notch higher than what we’ve known about metrosexuality with deep-attention towards humanity-and-the-environments added to the mix.

Oh yes, one more thing. Maybe this is just a form of muscle-envy from my side, But next time, please train your coverboys better. Gym bunnies don’t necessary know how to pose for the photo sessions. Even if they are good enough, they don’t necessary know how to walk the runway. But hell, they can walk into my room at any given time. (Slap me).

Now, let’s get real. To top the event, there was the crowning of the “Be Our Cover” (BoC) Model Search 2006. Do you ever think that any of the contender –who doesn’t have anything better to do but a 24 hour gym-session to create such perfections- would actually care about humanity… about the environment? Please… Even for the so called uber-“role model”, that they actually chose were Brad Pitt and George Clooney. For metrosexual icons yes. But for ubersexual? Get another dude, guys. If I were to award the prize, it’d probably go to a Mr. Richard Gere. Still sexy yet into actively solving social problems as well. Bill Gates and Michael Dell are very generous as well. But Mike wasn’t that fashionable and Bill’s even too far from sexy. Sorry Bill! Just like any other philanthropist, to become an Uber-person it took years of hard work and fine-tuning to master this. And these young hotties on the showcase are far too young to receive such acknowledgements.

Back to the Model Search award, I always voted for the nice-caring- understanding-puppy face look as you may see above, as seen on Sigit and Amrin. But the reader’s choice award went to Felix, who was hot, active, and has the naughty-boy-I’m-all-that look. He also does inline street hockey (at least he did on the stage). And if, just wait, if he speaks with an American accent, he’d be the perfect ABC for me. Thank God he lost the BOC award to Ghaniy, another puppy face whose picture here just didn’t do him justice. In real life he’s much much, I say, much cuter with a killer smile that would melt anyone’s heart. However guys, my Abs Definition Award would probably still go to Felix though. Maybe Ghaniy won a mile by brain and personality. At least I hope so.

Ah, so many men. I even met people that I’ve been wanting to meet and greet from a long time ago by Friendster. Not surprisingly, the friendster photos might fool some of us: Ya oloh, itu si Mr. A dan Mr B. gahar-gahar di FS kok ternyata ngondek yah? Found an acquaintance without his bf (and hid who he was with). Found two former false hopes of my friends. Found a former client who’s all so yummy by now. And who is that guy in the orange polo who was supposed to represent My Body or Celebrity? Yes. Hotties were abundantly everywhere.

“Your eyes are free to roam tonite. You may look but you may not touch”, noted hunny beside me.

Aww. Shucks. I was just about to say hello to the percussionist with some extra large biceps and a very broad shoulder. Maybe he... should be your cover instead!

New Toy

2006-08-11T13:32:00.000+07:00

This was the reason why I love photography. Beautiful vivid imageries and in contrast, deeply saturated monochromatic feel in BW. Ah, for some time I almost forgot how I enjoyed composing the scene and pressing the shutter release button. I never dreamt of owning one of those huge SLRs. Didn’t like the price, didn’t like the complication of using one, and mostly I didn’t feel like lugging those heavy and expensive items around town, where most likely you’ll be the next mugging target at the street hawking eateries and the traditional markets (my favorite objects).

Amateur photographers, you may relax now. The new toy, Ricoh GR-Digital, that I am holding dear to my heart today is small enough, a little longer than your cigarette pack, extremely fast and responsive, and best of all it is very easy to get creative with.

The camera may look ugly for some people. But for me it is a retro-classic item. All black with leather like rubber grip on the side. Pardon me for being technical here. But these details are all the reasons for me to have one. In Manual Mode, your aperture selection ring is placed at the front of the camera, the shutter speed selection ring is placed exactly at where your right thumb would rest. Furthermore, ISO and white balance settings are only a click away with the adjustment button. If I can give one credit for Ricoh on this toy: the seven GR lens worked beautifully in Macro mode to give you catalog looking professional blurred background shots. While most digicams are set with an equivalent of an approx. 38 - 114 mm equivalent to 35 mm film camera, this baby is packed with 28-70 mm lens (eq. to 35 mm film camera). It also shoots in RAW and fine mode (8 Mega!). And get this, you only need 1.5 cm distance to get an extreme close-up of your object! For expandability you may even get a lens adaptor to set up lens filters and yes, a 21 mm wide angle conversion lens sold separately by Ricoh. I only wish that they'd produce any 17 or 18 mm wide angle soon in the future.

No wonder Davy Linggar just got one as well.

Finally, I could rest my fingers at ease. Who needs Photoshop anymore?
People take me everywhere!
Let’s roll babe.

Below you may find some sample shots that I took.

Special Note: Older version of Safari for Mac may not be able to view the scrolling pictures above. Please click this link to view a larger version of the images from my album at photobucket.com.

Arab Dreams

2006-08-11T02:01:00.000+07:00

Gosh it sounded like a title of a porn movie. But anyway, Thank God that I could act. Not in the porn, but I just had to. For the amount of cash that he was asking for a mere 1.8 by 2.3 m rug that I was sweetly fondling in my delicate hands, I could easily purchase the latest all-in 17” MacBook Pro right away. I had to act like I was somebody. Like it was no biggie for someone to spend an obscure amount of hard-earned-cash to then just throw it on the floor and nonchalantly step on it. Instead of looking shocked and amazed, I of course said, “Do you have other similar patterns? Yes, I see… It’s very lovely…”

Prior to this, I knew that I had this “thing” for sun-tanned Mediterranean jocks, but I never knew that the fixations would extend to even floor-coverings as well: Oh the intricate patterns and the brilliant colors. They were God sent! Extremely and gorgeously beautiful. It was as if the world had stopped and even the most beautiful man would never satisfy my needs any longer. So there they were, laid seductively spread-eagled for my own viewing pleasure. The carpets, not the Mediterranean men, mind you! Very traditional Arabic (motifs) they were or shall I say (precisely), Iranian? And when the Pakistani shop owner made a 180-degree rotation of the carpet, I then saw the same pattern in another color-hue of the same exact rug. It almost felt like I would even sell my soul for this. To produce this wonderful effect, the carpet, he said, incorporated a dual-dimension weaving technique. I was sold. At the moment, all I ever wanted to say was, “Do you take Master or Visa ?”.

Hunny I Blew Up Myself

2006-07-20T02:23:00.000+07:00

Dear Ti Rak,

My meetings today lasted longer than I expected. I was already late when I stepped into the assessment room to get my physical examinations done. At the beginning, everything seemed to look strangely smooth and normal about me. Nothing was to worry about.

It started with the blood pressure exam which was found to be normal. Though it was a bit towards the maximum normal limit since I was hastening to this place. Secondly, my oxygen intake after the tread-mill fit test seemed to be even better than average people. The caliper however almost showed no mercy. A bit of fat on the back and a lot (I mean a lot!) of bulge at the waistline. The only good news was that minimum fatty compound could be observed from my biceps and triceps. Yay!

Further into the exam, the flexibility test produced another alerting warning. The consultant said that my flexibility level was next to a log. She recommended me to tune into more yoga classes after this. But how do you suppose to bring your spirit to yoga dreamland when not too long ago someone just successfully re-christened you with the nick, Mr. Stiff Log?

Moving on to the scales was like forcing myself to watch Jelangkung (local horror flick) all over again. The well-expected result was frighteningly high at 39.8% body fat content. You know that’s almost 30 kg of fat hanging onto my voluptuous physique on a day-to-day basis?

Went here and there on several gym equipments afterward, she measured my maximum lifts at this starting point. When the assessment was done thirty minutes later, she helped me design a personalized training program. This she said, should take about 10% off that fat storage of mine into better use in a three month interval. If, I follow the instructions dutifully. And that was of course a very big If. You know me and my midnight cravings lah.

I then killed another hour by doing some routines on my regimens. Relaxing a bit after that. Took a shower cheerily before a fashion tragedy finally occurred: I was packing this nice shirt in which I hadn’t worn in about a year or so. To my horror, the shirt, the only clean thing that I had at the moment, didn’t fit me very well. It was way too small for me to wear in my current size. I was so agitated by the embarrassments that followed. On the way out, it seemed that everyone was just looking at how tight my shirt was. Of course I do realize that I have a nice set of deltoids and a trapezium shoulder to watch for. But my waistline was bulging at the seams and the buttons almost burst from their rightful places. Facing more embarrassments, I then ran to the nearest mall. I then got meself a new shirt that fit (nicely) and more importantly, I regained my self-confident from the ultimate fashion disaster. Thank God that the fashion police himself, Roberto Verdi wasn’t there to give me any ticket for dressing unlawfully.

So darling, I know how you love me just the way I am. How you felt cuddly in my warm hugs. How my one-big-pack (of belly) excites you even better. But today’s experience was pretty scary for me. The not so impressive results of the test and the public humiliations might prove to be too much for me. Let me do a right thing for once.

For my sake, for my health. I need to do some more hard-core training.

I know you’d understand Yang.
Missed you in my bed last night…

Can’t wait to see you soon babe!

Love,
Your Kuma.

Brunch of Provenance

2006-07-19T03:05:00.000+07:00

Did you ever forget about your roots once and again? Living in the city can sometimes lose you into this pulsing and vibrating over-drive that made the city of Jakarta alive and well-oiled. Not only that it was the norm but also it was almost seemingly mandatory to take part of the available lifestyle to feel belong to the city. It was either you are in or you are out: Sometimes people will do anything to belong somewhere.

People change their hair-do-s, their outfits, their addresses, their behaviors, and even their friends in search of a place to belong. Last weekend however, I found it rather cute tracing back my root only to find a very comfortable zone that was long forgotten.

The place was called Angke, the restaurant. Nestled in a shop-house jungle in Ketapang Street near Gajah Mada, for ages it was known as one of the places to celebrate anything significant. Be it birthdays, weddings, anniversaries, anything that worth celebrating back in the days when Gajah Mada Plaza* was the only cool place to go.

Thirty past eleven we took two of the round tables (of course with the helpful lazy-Susan in the middle) and commenced my grandma’s birthday brunch. Of course it wasn’t my idea to hold the event over there, where traffic congested the narrow streets and parking was next to impossible. My uncle, or her son-in-law to be precise, had this great imagination to dine in the perfect place for such celebration.

The elders gathered themselves at the table next to us, while we -the kids- sat together to mingle with long-lost cousins. It was kinda cute to see them all together with the shy girlfriends and do-I-have-to-be-here looking boyfriends to barter our how-do-you-do-s across the table. At that moment, I really wish that I could bring my boyfriend and introduced him to my relatives. Secretly hoping that they all would be okay with this.

Food however was abundant, the types I haven’t seen in a long time. The types in which supposed to be hailed as some luxury treat for your tongue. The true special party-mix which you should not consume as everyday food. I couldn’t even spell the rightful dish names even if I wanted to. To my eyes they were a shark-fin look-alike soup, the birthday fried noodles, sweet and sour pork, somekinda drunken fried prawn, sautéed water crest and topped with unagi-like crispy fried eels on a bed of green vegetables.

For somebody who can actually cook, I wonder why did people flock to the establishment? The food was so so, nothing special. Furthermore, the MSG show of force even gave me instant muscle-knots on my shoulder blades and a manageable diarrhea later on. And for the final bill that my uncle had to pick up, he could certainly go to a more modern Chinese establishment with a lot more interesting culinary offerings in a glitzier part of the town.

Bored with the conversations, I started to observe the place and wrote this onto my brother’s PDA phone: Everyone seemed to put on his or her Sunday dresses and outfits. Since it was a Sunday, maybe they just came from their places of worships with their families. Affluent looking ladies with big hairs and European handbags (not sure if they were real though, the hair and the bag!); gentlemen wearing polo shirts that would suit the putting greens very well; obviously westernized teenagers who were tuning into their iPods or speaking in English than whatever mother-tongue lingua-franca available in the region; Hot looking engkoh-engkoh (nick for older brother or older male) with their trophy girlfriends. “Why are these people here?”, I asked myself. If they can afford the hefty price tag at the Angke, they can have brunch of their choice absolutely anywhere. Maybe the exact question may even seem absurd to them. Where else would they celebrate family togetherness in Jakarta?

If I feel that the place I should belong is in the South (part of Jakarta), I certainly forgot that I came from the West. Because originally the West is where Chinese people work, shop, eat, and relax. And at the end of the week, this is where people got enjoy their family too. This is the place to see and be seen, where some people show that they had finally made it.

All around the Angke smiles, laughter, and great conversations filled the atmosphere.

Happy Birthday Oma.

Even with the gastronomic misadventure,
it still felt good to be home.

*) In the 1980-s, do you remember your first chocolate chip cookies at Famous Amous, your first bite of rubbery mozzarella from Pizza Hut, your first wiener schnitzel at Glossis, the little shop that sold latex Smurf figurines, the pet shop that you’d spend hours hoping that your parents would get you some? The heyday of Gajah Mada Plaza.

Celestial Workout

2006-07-16T14:53:00.000+07:00

I don’t know why I am complaining so much about this particular subject. If you like hot looking guys so much. You shouldn’t complain if you’re surrounded by thousands of them. Seducing and gazing like some lions on a meekly gazelle prancing on the African savannah (that would be me!), they were all ready for some action. Hmm, sweaty bodies everywhere. Showing off to get appreciations from passers-by. Wow, it should feel like you’re in heaven where seemingly the entire homo-binan-sis species seemed to flock around a single watering-hole day by day. It should if you’re in Babylon or One-oh-Seven!

Again, it might just be me or I felt like the world had gone mad. I was talking about nothing else but my gym. Smack bang boom in the exact center of the city, lately it had became a sort of pseudo-paradise for men watching, men gathering, men hook-ups, men pick-ups, and even yes, men to men actions. Anyone should fit any market there. There are the cutie pies from the next-door university, yuppies who have excellent taste in shoes, clothing and carry-ons, businesspersons who have to flaunt three or four cell-phones. Slim ones, fat ones, beefy ones, gargantuan muscled ones, pretty ones, ugly ones, manly ones, sissified ones, you name it. They were all there for your enjoyment.

In marketing terms I would be categorized as the first-trial-suckers. Any company who’d launch a new glitzy campaign would love me because I have a minimum loyalty in a brand and would try any new product instantly as long as it fit my needs (or wants) in any way imaginable. Back then, the trend in the earlier part of the millennium was to join a gym inside a mall. Not only that it was trendy and socially acceptable, it was also a kind of a status recognition for many yuppies who couldn’t afford the country clubs or the higher-end health clubs at five-star hotels yet. Not unpredictably, so many Batavians in the middle-up strata were attracted to this. The true reunion melting pot it was, I met so many of my old friends from highschool and college there. Even my entire extended family were seen there on and off with their friends and colleagues. I felt suffocated. Practically everyone I knew was there. And they choked me even further when I learned that it was so complicated and costly to discontinue the membership there. Biatch!

Moving to another gym (still yet in a another shopping-mall), I found this place to be more relaxing, less patronized by stuck-up aristocraties or socialites, and thankfully less family members! It was also pretty exclusive with the tag-price that they invented; yet it felt more cool, more airy and less pretentious. As a noted first-trial-sucker, I was a member even before the place was inaugurated. Results were good: I lost about 10 kgs in the first quarter, and better, some of my close friends even decided to join me there as well. It was a three-storey complex with hundreds of quality equipments that worked well. Life was sweet.

However, yet another year later the suffocation came along once more. The place was so packed with people even in odd hours such as lunch time and happy hours. More and more people joined this altar of (body) worship. The managements were more than happy to sign on hundreds of new customers each month and started to think less of the operation itself. Many repairs were done untimely on the equipments. You would see molds on the ceramic walls and the ceilings of the shower area. I didn’t even want to imagine what germs and std-s that would creep beneath the seats of the steam and sauna chambers.

Finding a new haven, the local gays started to be more and more bold. Totally naked bodies catwalking and going to and fro in the locker area. The days of “Hey; How are you?; May I get to know you better?” were long gone and replaced with the dropping-off towels in front of you. Lisping voices on the phones with a dash of high notes hit the ambiance. Locking their gazes, smirking in predatory instinct, phone numbers were being exchanged so copiously. It was and still is a cotton-candy land for some people, all were sweet and satisfying. The notorious sauna would bear as a silent witness of many public lewd acts and carnal behavior at certain times of the day. It was so notorious, its sauna paradiso recently was named as one of the most recommended making-out places in public in one of those homo-binan-sis mailing lists.

I thought that was all too much for me. Engga banget deh! So lazy to even enter the premises, I then frequented the gym less and less and culminated another extra 5 kgs around my waist recently. The final point of no return was when I heard a horrific story from the gym’s former marketer. He said, “Did you know, that every marketer has to produce no less then 40 new members each month going into the gym? Imagine if you have 15 marketers?”. I let out a gasp and replied, “Oh… My… God! That would be approximately around 600 new members per-month? No wonder the place got so packed!”. And he continued, “But that’s not all, the membership fee had became less and less lately, you could even get a corporate rate for around US $17/ month”.

That’s where I lost my temper. Resign I did from that horrible money-sucking mega complex. When you are selling the concept of exclusivity, what would be a major draw-back for a client who paid well (above the mentioned figure) for that? Of course the notion of easy access to accommodate just about anyone to hop on board will churn his/ her stomach upside down.

Now my training days reside in a more beautiful place, outside from the mall (though of course not too far away, I still need the comfort zone). It was smaller yet sparingly decorated in modern-minimalist style. Serenity and guaranteed limited membership are like beautiful chants to my delicate ears. It also doesn’t hurt when the trainer ratio per member is about 4:1. Especially when they were all hand-picked by queer-eyes for the err, straight holistic makeover. Yes dahlengs, they all look like models, beefy ones of course, not the skinny types for the fashion shoots. If the same class would host 40 people in the old gym, now imagine having a private one-on-one yoga class with a very cute, flexible (and bendable!) instructor. Hmm. Suddenly I felt thirsty.

All good things come in due time.
Losing weight again, gaining mass again, reshaping again.
This is what I call my celestial workout.

The Addams Family

2006-07-16T01:37:00.000+07:00

If you could pinpoint a very extraordinarily eccentric person in your extended family, you should consider yourself lucky there. In my case, (counting here), I have at least three of them. That’s not even counting crazy-old me. But if I have to push it further, better yet, the three of them actually reside under one roof. Yes, they are my Uncle Gomez, my Aunt Morticia, and my explosive cousin, Wednesday… (You may insert creepy soundtrack here).

It all began when Uncle Gomez and Aunt Morticia met each other at my mum n dad’s wedding party. Innocently enough they fell madly in love with each other and decided to get married in another year. She was a playgirl, my aunt, before she then decided her mind on the very hardworking Uncle Gomez. At the beginning, they were all cute and cuddly. Oh yes, that was until my aunt -bored enough with her house chores- came to a decision to move an air-conditioner unit (window-hanging type) by herself. I did fail to mention that she was 8 months in her pregnancy when that happened, didn’t I? As you predicted they had a miscarriage of a boy, who would dotingly be called Pugsley Addams. Tried and tried again they did to conceive another heir. Alas, she –who’d never satisfied with any maid’s work, thus had to perform the housechores herself- had another miscarriage the next year.

She was stricken by anger and desperations that when she actually conceived Wednesday my cousin, she thought she was carrying a baby boy. So when finally Wednesday arrived in this cruel-cruel world, Aunt Morticia flipped and decided to raise her like a boy. Uncle Gomez didn’t do anything about this, he was so happy teaching Wednesday the art of playing toy-cars and toy-soldiers, consequently the word Barbie had never crossed Wednesday’s mind when she was a youngster. A total tomboy she became.

As a closeted queen in the family, of course she was an equivalent to a thorn poking on my eyes: A baby cousin who I couldn’t dress-up as princess and play castles with she was. Almost like having another younger brother at the end of the day. The situation worsened when Grandmama Addams thought that other little girls were just pesky little nuisances. Wednesday was stuck with us, was one of us, we forgot that inside she was still a little girl. Then she received her first period and her bosoms had grown regally like the trademarks of the other Addams women. She wasn’t allowed to go into the kitchen. She wasn’t allowed to date boys. She wasn’t allowed to touch makeups,

Fast-forwarding about a decade or so later, today Wednesday is around 26, looks and acts like 15, bad at socializing, doesn’t have any local friend –all the people she acquainted live in Hogwarts, her alma-mater-. By the way, did you know that she quitted her jobs faster than any computer graphic designer could in masking the obvious-bulges of Brandon Routh’s red undies in Superman Returns? No boss could tolerate her non-existent anger management program at any rate.

One day, Uncle Gomez and Aunt Morticia was worried about her future. So they decided to ask me help them in building her a grave-digging company, an activity she seemed to enjoy very much. Just invest a little that’s all, said Uncle Gomez. It so happened that they actually picked up customers faster than I thought it would. Glad that I had my little ownership there. But with her personality, one by one, her staffs left Wednesday because they couldn’t work under her. A monstrous personality with a decidedly unpredictable time-bomb upshot waiting to explode, they said. All was created and intensified by living under the Addams’ roof: an uber obsessive-compulsive mother who would conjure ugly-lies about her in-laws matched with a lack of control father. Heck, for all I care, Wednesday could or should already be a lesbian by now. (Hmm).

When Uncle Gomez and Aunt Morticia kept on fighting-hard at home, Wednesday opted to stay overnight at her office ever so frequently. And blasted the office the next day she always did for no apparent reason. Last week I called her upon a meeting to discuss her erratic behaviors and their effects towards the company. She became more frigid and agitated afterwards, not as I usually predicted.

Aunt Morticia then had to push her further by leaving notes at her windshield wiper. You know, regular love letters from a mom to a daughter such as: “If my presence is so unwelcome by you, I will leave your sight so far away”. Until one day, Wednesday called me in panic, this was what Aunt Mortie sent her in the form of an sms: “Goodbye darling, I am leaving you for good”.

With that note I sped up to their residence up on the hills leaving all my works and meetings behind. Panting only to find out that not only she was doing fine, she was also doing her hairs with curling irons while waiting for her nail polish to dry. I should kill her there. For being the drama-queen that she was. What if Wednesday -another drama-princess in the making- decided to slam her carriage into the highway separator because she was sick of everything around her? Did Aunt Morticia ever regret anything? I’m sorry, I didn’t think she was capable of doing that. The next day, Wednesday blasted the entire office again with a vengeance.

Yesterday, when Cousin Itt got fed up with Wednesday, he resigned immediately. When I got the call to fix the problems (again), I decided not to side with anyone. Let Itt had his way if he wanted to. This time I was tired of fixing problems. I went to Wall Street instead. With all my might I called my broker and bought all her shares in the listed company. And today, this I said to her: “Goodbye Cousin Wednesday, you’re fired! And I don’t give a damn anymore about you and your little pathetic life you have here. I am so fuckin’ tired already…”

Open for Pubic

2006-06-16T03:45:00.000+07:00

Puffing and huffing my cig, I was just happy unloading myself in the nearest convenient toilet while flipping through the nearest convenient reading material available. It was the latest edition of a local closeted queer mag called a+ (yeah it’s supposed to be, aha, unisex fashion reviews!). Suddenly page number 33 struck me like a lightning bolt.

The article was simply titled Dolce & Gabbana and its 24th birthday of the brand. What struck me was the little print ad insert in page 33 -which you see here- that would get a hard time in finding any print media to launch the campaign back then in Indonesia.

The campaign itself might be –oh-so-last-year- but it was just interesting how public display of nudity always grabbed your attention faster than anything else that mattered. It was as if they were trying to rival the 2004 G-spot campaign launched by Gucci in its Japanese-inspired collection. As if then the female version found its male (oh, I mean Gay) counterpart in being open for the public.

Did they ever do any market studies on the sales figures after both campaigns were launched? Did they actually boost the new collections? I mean, how on earth did you expect people to wear such skimpy jeans that would practically fall-off your butts (in case you haven’t work that flat-ass of yours)? Are pubes back in style?

Well, ogling these ads wouldn’t hurt us, but to think of 'em: Are we such stupid market? So stupid that we’d buy fashion -done with such provocative campaigns- to make us feel glorious or glamorous or simply sexy just like one of those models? The answer is Yes. But don’t we care about the materials, the styling, the cuttings, and the way those jeans would make our assets (more) well presented? Are you crazy? Who do you think we are? Of course the answer is Yes.

The question then became: to trim or not to trim?

Note:
Don’t forget to visit www.commercialcloset.org for the series of ultra hot D&G ads and many more!

Ouch!

2006-06-16T03:09:00.000+07:00

Guys. Imagine that the above picture is representing… you're right, your balls! Ouch. What the hell just happened to male sexuality lately? First it was metro-sexuality and its pack of uber-suave-looking-too-preppy-and-almost-sissified males. And now this? Hold yourself. Or shall I say hold on to your balls? Hot on the topic of “to trim or not to trim”, while doing some research on the subject, below was what I found on the net.

Introducing: Philips-Norelco Bodygroom
(code BG 2020, in stores April 2006).

The company promised these on their specs:
You can shave or trim everywhere (chest, abs, underarms, legs, groin area, back and shoulders) safely. It has different sizes of guide combs to measure the length of the furs you’d want to save. Ultra safe and easy to maintain stainless-steel blades. Included in the box is a cute docking system to charge your dependable new friend here. And hear this… they even come with a “special hanging cord: to hang the Bodygroom in the shower!” Yay.

In hearing this announcement from the company, I wasn’t sure if I shall rejoice or weep as hard as I could. It was just a big turn-off for a minority group of people (such as myself) who’d appreciate their men au-naturale, or at the least, looking manly as MEN as what God intended them to be.

Let’s face it. With the exception of some ghastly back hairs or wild bushy beards (or ingrown ear and nose hairs, eww), do women really care about other furry spots that sprout along our body? Somewhere, they even wrote about the good responses men should get from their spouses and girlfriends.

Frankly, I was really suspicious that Bodygroom was made for gay men of the universe. For you to enjoy those massive pecs without the shadings from your beau’s chest-hairs. For you to lick those naked armpits (or those baby smooth backsides) without the risk of having anything stuck in your teeth. For you who would not be satisfied with anything less than a perfect V-shaped well manicured pubes. I bet some queens were on top of the production chain in creating the product. Even the ads were somewhat made in queer-attention-grabber mode. Prepare to laugh your ass off, to strip the seemingly harmless dude in the terry cloth, just click on the pic below.

So how many of you are on their side? Do we still have any fan of the au-natural men in the house? Shall we just be thankful or dare to trust a product that prints “It can even make your d*&^ looks bigger!” on the cover of the box?

Eulogium Twilight Zone

2006-06-13T11:01:00.000+07:00

The last time I went out with her was on Saturday. Last Saturday. To Pasar Baru we went in search of upholstery fabric in one of those Indo-Indian atelier -which was already in operation before the Japanese even stepped on our land pre-WW II. I was looking for some type of imitation cocoa/ oak-brown leather to fit on my refurnished smoking chair. She then ordered some for my mom’s office, and with me she looked through a pile of curtains and beddings in thoughts for her son’s upcoming wedding gifts.

Before leaving the shop, I told her – my mom’s secretary-, “Mrs. M, I don’t think I’ll be around on Tuesday, will you be able to receive the stuffs that I ordered and just keep it in your office and I’ll pick it up later along with the bill?”. Sure she said.

A couple of days later our interior dude asked me about the upholstery materials, which frankly I almost forgot. Then I made the call for Mrs. M’s office. Her assistant, Annick, then answered politely, “Sorry Sir, I think she went to the hospital…”

“Gosh, is somebody ill? Was it Mrs. M’s husband? Or maybe her other family member? Is she okay?” I went on frantically.

Annick continued, “I am not sure at this moment Sir. Because the last news I’ve heard was just that she went home to Semarang to see her hubby and kids to make some final arrangements for the son’s wedding. And supposedly, she is still in Semarang”.

“Okay then, lemme ask Mum, whether or not Mrs. M is okay.”

I let it hang there. Meetings to catch up, supervisions to perform. Guess the same went with Mommy Dearest, the busy woman she is. By Wednesday, I got the fabrics and made some measures to be sent to the interior dude.

Came Thursday, I called another office manager, Mr. W for a totally different matter.

“I’m in the hospital,” said he. “Mrs. M has been rushed to the ICU”

“What? What happened? Is she still unconscious? She’s been there for at least the last two days no?” I asked.

“Sir, she has just been admitted in a couple of hours. Her plane just landed here at 5 PM from Semarang. She was already on the queue taking off from the plane when suddenly she had a seizure and fainted in the aisle.”

“Shit, I hope she’ll be okay soon. Do they have good doctors there?”

How come she’s just been admitted? For I was sure that she was already in the hospital. I asked my self.
Twilight Zone.

-

“Hello, may I speak with Annick?” I called her office again.

“Annick already left for home Sir, can I help you with anything?” said Diandre, Annick’s colleague.

“How come she told me yesterday that Mrs. M was in the hospital when today was the day she just got admitted there?”

“Are you sure Sir?” Diandre asked. “Annick was with me yesterday and today, the entire day for our exhibition in the convention hall!”

“What?”

Twilight Zone.
-

Annick called me almost midnight. “Sir, we spoke on the phone on Tuesday, not Wednesday, but I never told you that Mrs. M was in the hospital”

So who told me?

Twilight Zone.
-

Before I even have the chance to see Mrs. M, mom called me this morning.

“Sorry to inform you son, but Mrs. M passed away this morning at 7.20 AM. COD was heightened glucose level in her blood system causing arterial-blockage to and from her brain”

I was too busy to heed for the warning. Could anything be done even if I did? Still unsure how to answer the very question: How may one go about in acknowledging a warning that came from the Twilight Zone?

Thank you Mrs. M for everything you’ve done to us. Your presence will be dearly missed. May your loved ones and all of us here be given strength to carry on what you’ve left us with and continue with our lives with a new appreciation for life.

Dear Mum Number 2, may your soul rest in peace.

The Model and the Call Gurl

2006-06-07T09:03:00.002+07:00

“Nia, fill your eyes… More.. more… okay that’s good!”
Shutter clicks.
Flash. Flash.

“Now, look at that direction. Feel the softness of the fabric.
Perfect… Hold it… Steady…”
Shutter clicks.
Flash. Flash.

Justin Timberlake’s Senorita was blasting at the background.
“I don’t know what I’m thinkin’ about… ”

Watching them at the end of the lounge where the session was held, I almost couldn’t help myself to lend my hands to the artistic team. The make-up was too much, she was pretty already, didn’t need much to cover or emphasize anything. The worst was the color schemes that they put on her. They were the wrong tones to highlight the pretty clothes she was modeling. Arrghh. And the snoots didn’t do any justice on her complexion as well. Oh, I felt like firing the lighting assistant for that.

Oops I forgot. They just rented our space here in City Tang for the session. And it wasn’t for Harper’s Bazaar or Vogue. A major dept. store here needed a backdrop for their upcoming catalog. The price was right, hence the three-hour photo-session.

Came the break. The model started to answer her phone in English (though she might need some fine tuning on her accent here and there). And while she talked, she withdrew her PDA,
“Yes, yes, you may book me for the 17th… Mister, you want the whole week-end? That’s gonna cost you extra lho…”

In a split second I couldn’t help but wonder if there is any other type of booking that she would also handle? Looking at her stature, the clothes that she was wearing after the shoot, the gadgets she was dealing with, I was pretty sure that the word cheap doesn’t rhyme with her name.

What if she was just another fashion model waiting for another photo shoot or runway trick? And what if I was a lustful professional call-girl? What would I do to distinguish my services from the other girls?

1. Regular visits to the gym, the sanite per acqua-s, beauty clinics, cosmetic counters and hair salons are my initial major investments. I’d have to be physically flawless (especially when you’re loose already!)

2. While anonymity rated high in my industry, a discreet database is a must, therefore I might need a reliable PDA/ database system just like hers. “Hmm, sales are down 14% from week-34 compared to last year’s figures…”

3. I would offer member cards for my returning clienteles, “Since this is the fourth time you’ve been with me, would you like to have the “use-me-as-you-wish” membership card? I would put you on top priority in reservations, and as an incentive I would give special discounts or rates on your birthday and religious holidays! Can’t beat that eh?”

4. In the service menu, everything started from US $X,XXX and upward starting from a hand-job, oral fixations, the front or the back service or the all-in-one package, “Of course, kinks will cost you more, depending on the toys and the event”.

5. If anything below $XX,XXX mark in the bank meant that cash is tight, thanks to my dependable PDA, I’d use push marketing strategy such as calling long-time-no see clients in rainy days like this, “Hey according to my database, the last time you’ve used me was about 3 months ago. What are you doing tonite? Wanna have some fun? I’d lit your fantasy on fire… What? You want backdoor action? No prob. Okay… I’ll try to get another girl as well…”

6. On the other end, a pull strategy such as website and Friendster page is a must to get the buzz going. You may even book me for any worldly destination, as long as all my expenses plus the calendar-blocking surcharge (for a minimum of a full-week booking) are paid. And if cash is really really tight, "Congratulation Sir, you are one lucky bastard! After a two-week eBay display, You Sir, happened to be the highest bidder of this bitch!" Oh yes, and there’s a disclosure contract to be signed incase you’re trying to be funny with me

Wait I have a call.

“Vienna? Oh you’re one of the Hapsburgs?… Now Duke, let me see my calendar for the 15th. Oh you old bird, of course I didn’t put my service fees in the website… that would be too tacky dahleng”.

A New Home for an Ungrateful Bastard

2006-06-02T03:18:00.000+07:00

Dontcha wish your mansion is HOT like dis? Yeah me too... Hehe...

A part of me still lingered in the old house. It was home to me even if I was only there for three years. Another part of me however, rejoiced the change that all of us had anxiously wait for the last 24 months. Just like an overdue delivery of a baby elephant, finally mon petit chateau was done -though not totally completed internally- and there mi famiglia moved exactly in the middle of May, of course according to the calculations of our dependable Feng-Shui consultant.

The second quarter of this year maybe one of the most hectic seasons that I’d encounter in my life. The detail works on finishing a project, all the final touches -that would leave my personal marks here and there- are apparently exhausting and time consuming to the extreme. No dates, manhunt, holiday, or even any resting period was evident in any of my recent schedules. Imagine that, times three of different projects running at the same time. Oh yea, I forgot, on top of that, don’t I still have to work and wiggle my ass for the future vault of ingots and bullions I would like to build one day?

There was the move and the reopening of an office-branch that I had to handle in City Tang (a.k.a Tangerang). You’d expect problems would arrive complete with en suit fiascos in full swing right there. Life was just great I guess, and I was being cynical. Yet we did it, thanks to our wonderful team in City Tang, we had a chance to reopen (with an all white and pale green Christening event) in late April.

And then came the never-ending completion of le petit chateau. Orders of parts and big pieces of furniture that hadn’t arrived yet, miscalculations of fabrics and window dressings, switches that didn’t turn on, faulty faucets, water leaks here and there, wrong cable installations, and so on. I wonder where is Martha Stewart when I need her the most. Altogether, juggling and being accountable for so many little details almost got the best of me –i.e. declared insanity-. At this point even assistance from Katie Brown is acceptable lah.

While packing only took me one day and one night to crate and box my personal belongings (due to 10% busy schedule, 20% lack of will, and 70% plain laziness), unpacking will be another story. Half of my belongings are now fitted beautifully in their right places, and the other half are still waiting for their right places to arrive from the workshop.

Almost three weeks now. No personalities are showing yet. No photos, decorative items or paintings yet to be hung. Even with all the glam-rock that le petit chateau could offer, I miss the ugly old rented-house. As a final insult, one of my dogs successfully strayed only to be found squirming haplessly two days later in the corner garden of the old house.

What’s wrong with me? Everything seems to be in order, and more so, according to how I wanted them to be. Hope I didn’t make any major mistake as my entire credibility could hang in an inquest by the entire family. For now I can rest a little, except for Rico, the “you were lost and now found again” pet –dog of mine (ahh tres bon, so Amazing Grace, non?), the rest of the gang seemed to be content with everything.

Can one ask, how long did it take for a bluebird to settle and wholly accept the imperfections of his nest?

I didn’t have to wait for long. The next morning, the bluebird chirped on the balcony railings, “Shouldn’t matter as long as you’re with your loving family”.

While perfection is an acquired taste -and it could take some more Cararra marbles, Austrian crystals, Venetian tiles, wallcoverings from Scalamandre, also a huge amount of time, plus a degree of self-assurance and arrogance to develop- humility on the other hand, only required a certain amount of maturity in a new level of holistic gratitude.

Therefore, I would like to use this opportunity to thank You personally for everything.

And this time I really meant it.

Growing Pains - Living Strong

2006-05-10T01:51:00.000+07:00

Some kids who turned out to be gay today, might share horrible stories about their childhood as portrayed by Hollywood and also in some indie flicks. Some had sexual abuse, overpowering parents, or on the flip side, no-show parents. Some got bullied and tormented for being different. Some received horrible dehumanizing call names such as sissy, banci, bencong, etc. You there. Either you pretended to be on their side or you were one of the victims

Growing up pretty nice, I was just happy being gay I think. Back then I didn’t know better if I was even different. I enjoyed men at some very early age. Older, younger, didn’t matter for this seducer. For past-timers, playing bekel, congklak, jumping rubber ropes and stuffed animals with my gals were fun enough (note: no dolls and barbies here!). I think the in-the-shades-games were better than inserting myself in some outdoor fields to play basketball, soccer, or tennis. Even if I learned just a little bit of tennis, squash and golf, it was simply because it was posh to do so. However, I did not find basking under the glare of Mother Ultra-Violeta that much interesting (changed when it became trendy to sport suntan glow), being gorgeous of course wasn’t easy.

Now, the taekwondo in Bulungan and the roller-skating in Monas were different… I did actually like the crowd. They were abundant around, cute kids about my age and our cute instructors. Sessions with those massive legs in a joggy terry-ultra shorts were too hot to miss in the skating arena. It was like an orgy of different people mixed together in one big cultural pot. On the contrary, gym, swimming, jogging and other personal non-competitive sports were done only for the sole purpose of keeping oneself healthy, beautiful and supposedly happy.

You are different from the rest of us!

Never in any case you’d find an older kid bullied me because I was big to begin with. That alone ought to gain me some respect. I could crush any enemy with ease, even if I wasn’t that masculine (Yes, I worked hard for the army-look you see today you know!). Not that I would blatantly punch someone on his face. Some of the reasons were, not only I was a supporter of peaceful negotiations since I was in the 6th grade, I was also afraid that it would break my nails and leave any permanent damage onto my skin or knuckles. As you guessed it, never did make any enemy, always good in school, active in the church choir. A total momma’s boy to be proud of.

Ms. Cimahi, Ms. Bangkok, Ms. Panama City and Ms. Bintaro came along. But then again I was afraid to have any physical engagements with them, if you know what I mean. Found out that men are more pleasing and attractive. On another side, my career was okay, a bit bumpy at the beginning, but always thankful for what the Above has given me everyday.

Fortunately, if I wanted something that bad, or worked hard enough for it, I always get what I wanted at the end (except maybe in the love department). Problems may arrive; we sorted things out, consulted, thought of, and solved them one at a time. Deep shit, shallow shit, little happiness, extreme euphoria, roller coaster ride, sometimes life is just like a sinetron. That’s how I grew up. Even with everything that happened, life was and is just beautiful and meaningful.

Hover and click your mouse on the animation above and wait for the clip to download in another window. There, Wilfred Brimo, a great animator tried to picture the growing pains of a boy who never cease to be optimistic in finding his true love. Brimo and the French Gov’t incorporated the classic 1974 tune, Sugar Baby Love by the Rubettes to send this very sweet message to promote AIDS and other viral transmission awareness.

Always play safe and may the f*%! force be with you.

| Live strong | Enjoy Life | Keep on being optimistic |

Ultimate Mellow Playlist

2006-05-10T01:38:00.000+07:00

Why is it that sometimes, every little thing would remind us of our past relationships? Even if they were just some summer flings a little while ago? The taste buds, the scents, the movies or even the songs that we listened together could trigger some memory lapse into our own history bin.

Listening to those songs yet again always created some pangs in your heart or could even open old-healing-wounds. For example, remember the songs on the brink of breaking-up with former lovers or the songs prior to sudden interruption with former flings? They were also known as my Mellow-Playlist in my iPod that I hereby present to you (and stupidly play over and over again). I wonder why most, if not all of them are cheesy Indonesian pop songs. Is this a way to feel the pain better?

Hurt me then! Nah, I am not even gonna be mad or feel sorry about those so-called experiences. They happened in the past already for God sake, tomorrow is a beautiful day I always hope. True, those shitty things are bound to happen, but nice things are around as well as long as you know where to look.

But anyhoo, without further ado, here are some of them in my Ultimate Mellow Playlist in the short romances of the life of me:

Break-Up Songs*
Ratu – Salahkah Bila Diriku Terlalu Mencintaimu
Glenn Fredly – Sekali Ini Saja
Ello – Terbaik
Tangga – Terbaik Untukmu
Agnes Monica - Jera
Samsons – Naluri Lelaki (T’was his fave at the time)
*) Please note that some dudes deserved more than one song!

False Hopes Songs
Ada Band – Masih (Sahabatku, Kekasihku) -> Yikes, he turned out to be totally straight
Maliq d’Essentials – Terdiam
Ratu – Teman Tapi Mesra
Rio Febrian – Lebih Baik Darinya
Marcell - Semusim
Dea Mirella – Takkan Terganti

And for the latest no/ slow responding new-comer in my life, I think it would be suffice to scrape you off my list while adding another one of those false hope songs right here, right now:

Kenangan Terindah **
- Samsons -

aku yang lemah tanpamu
aku yang rentan karena
cinta yang tlah hilang darimu
yang mampu menyanjungku

selama mata terbuka
sampai jantung tak berdetak
selama itu pun
aku mampu tuk mengenangmu

darimu kutemukan hidupku
bagiku kau lah cinta sejati

bila yang tertulis untukku
adalah yang terbaik untukmu
kan kujadikan kau kenangan
yang terindah dalam hidupku
namun takkan mudah bagiku
meninggalkan jejak hidupku
yang tlah terukir abadi
sebagai kenangan yang terindah

**) No attempt was made from my part to translate the above for some of my non-bahasa friends since the lyrics were just extremely cheesy anyway.

Ouch. Dontcha worry, I wasn’t too hopeful kok. Kenangan Terindah was just playing on the radio when we decided to sing it together. Nevertheless, moving on again here. Constantly I keep reminding meself: How blessed my life is; How great I feel about everything; Don’t me worry bout a thing, another fling will find me soon!

I can just feel it. I knew it. The next encounter will make me hum a happy song. Yay!

THE END

PS. So guys, now is your turn. Just for old time sake, what was your ultimate break-up/ false hope song?

Yellow Submarine

2006-05-10T01:27:00.000+07:00

No. I wasn’t referring to a cute song done by the Beatles a while ago. Since I was little, I never was a big fan of the color yellow, especially the tacky shades of yellow. I always voted for the color blue, white, ecru and grey, just like any normal dude would. But today, I have a formal reason for not choosing yellow, ever again. It began in simple lazy morning while I was busy –ehm- browsing pages on friendster when all of a sudden I saw the picture below (again)!

I remembered how ghastly they were when I first saw them a couple of years ago somewhere in the web of dunia maya. Now, if they weren’t even the real pictures of the friendster account owner, why would he display the gaudy images from never-land below? What was he thinking (that is if he was equipped with a brain to begin with)?

You think someone would get away wearing anything remotely close to that on the beach? Alas for public display? I immediately foresee a warning sign similar to the ones they were forced to print on your cigarette boxes.

[ GOVERNMENT WARNING ]

STRAPPING ONE’S BALLS TOO TIGHT TO ONE’S SHOULDERS MIGHT CAUSE GREAT PAIN AND FURTHER DISCOMFORTING COMPLICATIONS. PROBLEMS SUCH AS SHOOTING BLANKS AND ERECTILE DYSFUNCTIONS MAY OCCUR. UNSUITABLE FOR ANY AUDIENCE, ESP. PREGNANT WOMEN.
VIEWING WILL CAUSE NAUSEA, VOMITING AND
A MANDATORY LEGAL PROSECUTION FOR GENERATING PUBLIC HORRIFICATION.

Run Lola Run. Yes, stupid you with the polka-dots! You shouldn’t need a tsunami for a reason to scurry from the ocean front.

B. is for Bandrek!

2006-05-06T03:37:00.000+07:00

Bogor Presidential Palace enclaving the Botanical Garden.

Can’t remember the last time I went to Bogor. I still remember the old colonial buildings, the greens, the rains, the humongous trees, the beautiful vista. Sure, it was work related when I had to travel back and forth a couple of years ago. Last time I stepped into the city I think there was a friend’s wedding in one of those cute colonial show-houses.

Even though I just felt better from a pre-flu syndrome, I was so determined that I would go visit someone in the city of Bogor (formerly known as Buitenzorg in its heyday). A mutual friend of mine introduced us earlier, we spoke on the phone, but haven’t gone vis-à-vis as of yet. There I finished our morning and midday meetings, grabbed a quick lunch, and on the road I was, speeding on the Jakarta-Bogor highway.

Driving alone out of town was never fun for me, unless there was of course a catch at the end of the rainbow.

Had I known this information, I would have gone to this city of angkot-way way earlier. Cool, calm and calculated was my first impression. Almost two hours we were at de koffie pot café, smoking and sipping our cuppa coffees. We conversed like regular adults. We then made jokes and we laughed. The place was insanely cool and sassy with minimum objects but the bare necessities. You can always count on white walls and hardened concrete floors to exude a zen-ified ambiance.

Latte at de-koffie-pot, two thumbs up!

Next on our list were:

Gifts for staffs’ upcoming birthdays and mom’s going-to-the-market bag from Tajur:
Rp. 300,000,-

Molto delizioso Ngohiang-Bogor take away from the shop next to de Paris Bakery:
Rp, 30,000,-

Hot Bansus (Bandrek-Susu/ Ginger Tea with Milk) and the delectable accompanying fried fritters in Air Mancur marketplace for two:
Rp. 6,500,-

The afterglow subsequent to sitting too close to someone in particular in a crowded Bandrek warung for another hour in waiting for the rain to subside:
Priceless

For everything else, there’s Kartu Debit BCA*.

For everything else that mattered lately, I wish He’d grant me another Bogor trip soon.

Amen.

(*When in Bogor, do what the Bogorians do, they like debit-card BCA and cash better!)

Smitten by Pop Star?

2006-05-04T03:59:00.000+07:00

Wow, gembar-gembor tukarguling saham di Anteve dan StarTV akhirnya jadi kenyataan. Ada rasa bangga karena pasar tv nasional Indonesia dianggap menarik oleh Mr. Murdoch. Tapi ada rasa kecewa karena dominasi internasional makin menggigit dan merambah di segala bidang di perekonomian Indonesia. Even Astro, salah satu perusahaan tv kabel terbesar di Asia aja, udah mulai melakukan pemasaran dengan demo super nge-jreng di MTA beberapa bulan yang lalu. Aduh. Mau jadi apa kita?

Tidak hanya tayangan graphic-design yang dipercantik dengan kolaborasi Star-AnTV, beberapa program-pun mereka reshuffle and perbanyak. Dan gue ga berani nebak gimana nantinya reaksi pasar baik di level publik maupun di BEJ, tentang ada angin apa ini sehingga “Arisan” the movie… akan diproduksi (with orginal cast members) menjadi “Arisan” the series di Star-AnTV. Gue cuman berdoa semoga penayangan secara khalayak ramai tentang depiksi kehidupan segelintir binan Indonesia ini tidak mencorengkan nama atau bahkan membuat opini negatif terhadap eksistensi para homogenics di Tanah Air (teteupp).

Ok, puas dengan sedikit concern bernuansa politis. Akhirnya gue coba tune in tuh ke the all new Star-Antv combo. Kira-kira jam 8 malem, ada satu film Indonesia yang di tayangkan salam tajuk iSinema (mungkin skadar gaya-gayaan mendompleng iPod atau iDrive, atau even short for IndoSinema).

Film dimulai dengan cuplikan-cuplikan landmark-landmark Ibukota yang diambil dari kendaraan yang berkeliling seputar Jakarta in show-off the city mode. Very normal dan banyak di temui di opening scenes film-film Indonesia lainnya lately. Kemudian sang judul muncul, kalo ndak salah Namamu Arjuna.

Dari depan gue udah misuh-misuh, aduh ini mbak-mbak aktingnya biasa aja deh… kurang greget, kurang natural, bla-bla… Walaupun cinematography-nya boleh gue kasih rating “kinda cute” dan kudos buat Mbak Sara Silaban sebagai pengarah musiknya. Terus tiba-tiba masuk seorang mahluk yang bernama Mario Lawalata di film itu. Gue instantly memaafkan segala kestandard-an plot, ketidakmenarikan pembuatan dialog, bad acting skills, etc., etc… just because ada Mario! Somebody slap Me!

Apakah guenya yang kampungan dan baru turun gunung seperti katanya Bang Kar? Mosok ya selama ini gue ndak pernah liat sosok (aduh terbuat dari apa) mahluk satu ini yang bernama Mario? Of course I’ve heard that the supreme Oscar had a hot model bro called Mario, tapi sumpe gue yang ga pernah nonton sinetron atau baca-baca infotainment ini baru sadar how cute Mario actually is! I was smitten on the spot.

Coba ya… ga mungkin jugak kale, gue bela-belain nonton film yang oh-so-predictable ini selama 1.5 jam kalo engga cuman mau mantengin doi aja? Haha… Don’t care about his bad acting karena setiap kali dia senyum di layar kacaku, gue juga ikutan senyum sampai merinding. Hatiku jatuh berceceran di lantai dengan setiap tatapan matanya.

Aduh, kalo harus gue jelaskan seperti apa tipe gue itu… Mario would be the epitome of those “turn-ons” column yang harus kita isi di profil-profil dunia maya: Ga usah tinggi-tinggi amat, sekel, army look (look at those dog-tags), sweet face, sideburns, five o’clock shadows and those big arms and big shoulder concept. Hmm… Aneh untuk seorang gue, yang ga pernah starstruck dan brasa celebrity is just another human being (only with more coverage)… He is definitely my favorite strawberry shortcake.

Well, at least secara fisik.

But then again reality bites. Aduh emang gue sapa anyway hehe… Masyaolo…urusin dulu tuh those extra fat yang ampir jadi permanent storage di sekitar pinggang elo! Urusin dulu tuh extra blackheads yang timbul setelah kebanyakan enganging dengan Miss Long Island Ice Tea during the weekends! Urusin dulu tuh pundak elo yang beranjak dari pundak Chris Daughtry ke arah punuk Hunchback of Notredame skarang!

Well, at least secara fisik.

Mr. Big Sale and Mr. Refreshment

2006-05-04T03:47:00.000+07:00

If Monday was a very lazy day, it was only right for me to expect that Tuesday wouldn’t be a regular day. It was like having an extra long weekend that I didn’t have to go to the Jakarta office on Monday, thanks to the Labor Day demonstrations.

Came Tuesday. I didn’t realize that the special something that was happening in the building would create such a havoc in finding a parking spot, in which I never had any problem previously. The elevators were jammed with people, mostly I haven’t seen before around the buildings. People started to use the emergency stairs to incredibly climb 6 flights of stairs to lay their hands on one of the ultimate sales of the year.

While some of us were panting and gasping for air to land our feet on the place, some people were descending the same staircase with big smiles and big red “on-sale” plastic bags, there was an incredibly large printing of Guess on top of it. Finally, our group of strangers behaving erratically triumphed in getting into the 9th floor. Wow, what an achievement. I wonder why none of us had fainted or collapsed in the fight to reach the sale floor. Maybe it was the spirit of togetherness or the born-to-shop determination or maybe it was our predatory instinct to out-fashion other bargain hunters.

I could only remember two annual sales in Batavian history that would even come close to this madness: the Mango and of course the annual Zara sales. But then again, this event was of course one of PT. GAP’s strongest brands on sale: Guess and Raoul (did I see M&S too? Can’t remember clearly).

Clothing, shoes, jeans, watches, belts, even bags and accessories! 30-70% off!! Lemme, tell ya… I felt like I was dead and awoken in some exotic paradise called the bargain heaven. Piles of clothing items were being scattered on tables as if it wouldn’t have any fashion/ price value (Yes, even post-discounts, some items were still unbelievably expensive).

How would this mass-hysteria happen during office hours? How many people cheated their bosses just to come to the first day sale (they think it’s the best stocked day), only to find their bosses were there as well to beckon them in returning to their works. It was like a white-collared version of sweet revenge on the previous day of blue-collar demonstrations through out the city.

The best part was of course the crowd. Oh, you’d have to be there to see the first day. Cute people were everywhere, as if it was mandatory to dress up for the bargain. Yuppies, students, in between jobs, friends and foes (“Why didn’t you tell me there was this sale? But you’re already here anyway!”), or the same people you’d see strutting the lanes of place de l’existance (or EX, per-Mr. Bantal’s word). The moral of the story is: Discounts are always sweet, even if you can afford the full price.

Some were fighting for the same shoes, some didn’t even realize that they’d lost their kids, some went into delirium, some maxed out their credits. Even the queue at the purchase lane was an equivalent of getting into Puri Misteri in Dunia Fantasi.

As I checked out, the cashier asked me,
“Is that all Sir? Didn’t find many interesting stuffs?”
“Yeah, you guys didn’t have my size”
“Pshhhsst… (she then leaned forward as if she was dropping a DaVinci scale secret)… Come again tomorrow… we will refresh most of the items… even the ones you haven’t seen today…”

“Now, we’re talking!” I sang in my brain.
My pupils were suddenly dilated. Not because of the news that she had to pass on to me, it was this guy who just walked behind her, one of the staffs or the managers. He who looked so hot in his black t-shirt, and a tight pair of jeans in which showed the structure of his bublicious gluteus maximus. Ah, his sideburns and youthful vigor. I melted right there.

I think I will definitely visit the big sale again before it went out on Friday, maybe just to see him for the last time (ah, the unfolding drama!).

It was my turn then to lean toward the cashier,
“Mbak sini deh… You think I can refresh that guy instead?” I pointed casually towards him.

She gave me a very deep and understanding smile, and unexpectedly she again leaned forward to my direction.

“…..”

“Thanks banget Mbak”

I left with a big grin on my face.

Wake Up Call

2006-05-04T03:37:00.000+07:00

Gak seperti biasa-biasanya, gue sendiri berasa kalo ada yang aneh yang terjadi pada diri gue. Mungkin ya ada beberapa faktor yang berpengaruh dalam keanehan ini. Volume kerjaan yang semakin meningkat, jadwal supervisi ke sana-sini yang semakin padat. Intinya sudah sebulan ini gue meninggalkan shift-siang standard gue di gym.

Even the calling sirens of those brondong-brondong lucu atau pengusaha-pengusaha muda yang biasa nongkrong di shift-siang ndak berhasil menarik gue kembali ke gym. Padahal gue sedang single! That’s the keyword, my friends. Biasanya neh, kalo gue lagi single justru gue memfokuskan diri sejadi-jadinya untuk mempercantik diri mau perawatan kek, mau gym kek. Biasanya gue niat banget. Untuk dapetin apa yang gue mau gue kudu berusaha kuat. No pain, no gain. Apakah akhir-akhir ini, gue udah mulai cuek dengan penampilan? Apakah gue percaya bahwa my knight in shining armor akan datang begitu saja dan menerima gue apa adanya (berlemak maupun tidak)?

Sampe ndak berani nimbang, setiap hari gue cuek aja. Dengan alasan sibuk banget jadi takut sakit, I ate like regular people (well, I tried to eat sparingly like those models before!). Peduli amat ama itungan carbo-intake, setiap hari meneguk Nu-Green Tea (dengan honey yang sumpe-loe enak banget), malem-malem visiting my tukang Ayam Malaya di Menteng, atau mid-nite bites of the lovely strawberry-shortcake dari Bakerzin. Hmmm. Yumster!

Tapi hari ini gue sangat terpukul. Sepertinya yang di Atas memberi gue ganjaran atas ketidakperhatian gue terhadap kebugaran gue sendiri: Abis nyemil 2 (dua!) bungkus Mami (versi millennium-nya Mimi pas kita masih SD), yang tentunia membuat gue rada2 kekenyangan dan mengantuk di kantor, abis itu sembari gue bahas masalah kerjaan sama temen kantor gue si Harry, gue semena-mena ngulet (stretching) di depan Harry sampai kursi kantor gue ampir aja terjungkal ke belakang.

Another stretch and the worse happened. Gubrak (sorry to use this “so last year” word).
Dan gue terjatuh di lantai kantor supersempit itu. Tawa masyarakat berkumandang hingga memekikkan gendang telinga. Dua (I repeat, dua) kaki dari kursi kantor gue (yang supposedly ngga murah-murah amat), terbelah patah hingga melontarkan 2 rodanya beberapa meter away dari TKP.

Aduh apa kabarnya dengan kesuksesan gue yg berhasil menanggalkan15 kilo lemak jenuh gue pada tahun lalu?

This was a wake up call. I am getting fat (again). Tomorrow I will definitely have to hit the gym.

Niatnya.

Darn Them Bisexuals

2006-04-30T15:57:00.000+07:00

Sure, you look like a nice man. A straight-acting normal looking dude. With anyluck, if you’re that cute, we’d be fighting with flocks of women to get your attention. Most of us had been there before. Some of us could and did pass as straights. And then we were straight-but-curious. Moving on as bisexuals. Then we were in denial. Some then went as the homo-newbies. Some continued to be undercover. As some got married, some were brave enough to acknowledge who they are to themselves. Some even went further to live their lives to the fullest and glorified themselves as homosexuals.

Thanks to the speedy-growth of the internet era, youngsters these days could bloom faster than ever. If they choose to that is. Back then in the pre-condom era, they were communal for men public toilets, movie theaters, and seedy parks at night. Then the chatrooms sprawled like fresh bean sprouts. Dating services, online profiles boomed. You’ve been there done that: GIM, gay.com, boyzforum, faceparty, gaydar, friendster, fridae, etc., etc., and finally the localized version of the later called gayasmara.

If language could ever be any barrier for some of us, since the other sites were made abroad, then gayasmara simply removed the obstacle. Suddenly every Indonesian men who were curious, bisexual, gay, transgendered and anything in between were caught up in the storm and established their own account in gayasmara. Easily accessible to create and roam around, gayasmara then became one of the most popular meat-market engines for the entire archipelago.

Half a year after the first launch, most of us then complained of how lame, uncool and unshophisticated gayasmara became lately (a.k.a engga banget!). And that’s not even accounting the no pics, fake pics, fake infos, the ever-too-hopeful, the wannabees, the afraid but curious, the judgementals, the psychopaths, the plain scary, and the list goes on and on. But even post the never-ending complaints, we still regularly check out our kisses, our message boxes, and our new-friend-requests. Everyday. Just for the sake of checking and the you’ll-never-know factor, they said. What happened to "Oh I am so going to close down my account in GA..."?

There they came in abundant: The hordes of bisexuals, formerly undercover or entirely new to the world of men-to-men engagements. I found it to be so beguiling that every single one of them (bisexuals) posed themselves as top people. Later I found out that this group of people then had overly abuse the word top itself.

Claiming one self to be bisexual doesn’t automatically make you a top person. Even if you think that you are a top person, there are of course: the bad, the good, and ultimately the oh-so mesmerizing top dudes. Not surprisingly though, usually these nuveau-bisexuals fell into the first category (bad, bad, bad, you are just the worst, sorry).

Okay let’s check it out yah: you don’t suck, you don’t rim (and even dared to doe-eyed-ly ask “what is dat?”), you don’t kiss, you don’t grope, you don’t lick and caress, and you don’t perform any attempt to arouse your partner. What is it do you actually do then? Oh, so you just wanna fuck? Even that, you don’t even do anything! You guys just laid there like a plank of wood and expected the rest of the world to do your job for you? Hello!

Well, the case could be different if you are an ultimate hottie. As we’d do anything just to be with them. You know, a Brad Pitt look-alike, Olivier Martinez look-alike, a Lenny Kravitz look-alike, an Arie Wibowo look-alike, or the new ever so-yummy Ricky Martin look-alike. Oh yes, we’d serve you so-attentively in your bed like Florence Nightingale would. Only in one case: If you were one of them. But if you’re not and you don’t belong in the A-List of the circuit-hotties? Please… Get a life or something (actually you could get a book: “Making Love to Another Man – for Dummies”).

Guys, tsk tsk tsk! Never again hide behind the mask of being a bisexual, or a top to justify yourselves. Cuz you know how I would justify your being there and do nothing-ness? Lazy boy! Plain ol’e Lazy boy.

If there’s a God above and if we can only make one request, please have Bonnie adjust some new settings in Gayasmara. Remember the menu box of roles in which you’d have to choose? Either you are: top, bottom and versatile? Have him add at least: Top-Lazy Boy and Bottom-Lazy Boy at the end. Oh wait, some of them might fall into this one: Totally Lame Ass-Lazy Boy.

Serve your man right, and he’ll be coming back for more.

Triumphant Return

2006-04-29T01:23:00.000+07:00

This is the story of a certain duchess. We may call her Duchess of Yolk for she was married to the supreme ruler of Yolk county. Her happiness was suddenly interrupted by the death of her beloved husband from a simple case of chicken-pox. She cried and mourned with her people for days until she no longer had any tear to drop. On the hundredth day, she decided to stop mourning and planned to continue with her life.

A good amount of fresh air would do, she thought before stepping out. Into a maze of formal gardens she went at the back of her lavish mansion. Before long, she was lost in a labyrinth of manicured trails of boxwoods. She was afraid for the first time in her loneliness. She then panicked and screamed her lungs out. Running frantically she drained her energy and her hopes until someone came to her rescue.

“Milady, are you all right?”

“I suppose I was lost…” she replied.

“Let me help you get out of here Maam…”

The gardener was strong and handsome. His hair was dark-colored, with added sideburns to enhance his masculinity. And on the faithful day, he had to wear nothing but an old suede working pants which was wrapped tightly onto his hardened legs and back muscles. Soft lines of furs blazed along his well-formed chest. Her eyes flipped incessantly with awe and lust.

She was a lady, she reminded herself. There was no way she should entertain garish ideas and infatuations with this gardener.

All of the sudden, the rain fell from the heavens above. His body was drawn to her in order to protect her with little that he could offer. His masculine musk entered her in very seductive way. She couldn’t hold it any longer. She remembered her old days, when she was just no more than a prostitute working in a hunger-stricken district of filthy London. Then one particular duke saved her from her wretched destiny. She sometimes missed the anonymities, she missed all the wild passionate encounters. There she was in heat again. And there she was with this person, only a commoner, a gardener, a very handsome one nevertheless.

Her seduction was still at work. It didn’t take much time for her to invoke the young gardener. And when she succeeded, he withdrew.

“Why, young man? Why?”

“I can’t Milady… you let go a sigh of pain when I strived to enter your heavenly gate. I am afraid I might hurt Milady…”

“No, trust me I am fine…”

“I can’t Milady, I am sorry…” Then he went flaccid on her.

For he who failed to plant any peck on her cheeks, on her full-lips, on her voluptuous flesh. For he who failed to seduce her in her own heat. For he who did nothing to prepare her for the voyage beyond, sorry was a good choice of word indeed. How could he half-expected she would open her pleasure garden if one forgot to knock gently on the gate?

That same night she couldn’t sleep and she could not stop thinking. How could a person who used to enjoy men in insatiable lust in her past life could not cope with the gardener’s ordinary tool of work? Was she getting old? Did she need to be in love to enjoy intimacy? Couldn’t she take pleasure of nameless faces like the old days? What was wrong with her? Had she loose it? Had she loose her sense of pleasure?

And then she remembered her past companion whenever she was struck by loneliness. There she searched for a special leather crafted box, in which she called her magic-box. Within laid a certain wooden-apparatus in the shape of a male genitalia. Her trusted friend, and her always available companion in need, in which she christened as Dill.

A warning appeared in her head for her friends always discourage her to never exercise Dill other than in any emergency situation. Today she was disappointed by herself of her incapability to satisfy a man of her choice. Then emergency it was, she decided.

She was so enraged by the uneventful encounter with the gardener that she seduced herself while laying in position for the preparation for another lovely night with the long-time-forgotten Dill.

Ever so gently she pushed and she pulled. Her heartbeats were rising high. With every pull she inserted Dill into herself with a more powerful thrust. She flipped and she twisted. She yelled and she screamed. She then came with vengeance.

She was surprised how an un-seemingly important Dill could ever change her life when she needed a moral-boost.

At her wake the next day, she felt like she was born as a new person, as a new lady.

A lady who was still passionate about her sensual being.
A lady who was ensured that her charm hadn’t fade away
A lady who was no longer afraid of anything
A lady who could still take over the world

A lady who was still in charge and in control.

As she put on her luxurious gown and strolled along the courts, she steadied her head and walked in triumphant return:
“Tomorrow is another day, another mountain to climb and conquer”.

Old Shoes

2006-04-29T01:22:00.000+07:00

A couple of weeks ago, a friend of mine pronounced a very disturbing revelation.

In his own term, he still had issues with a pair of old shoes said he. For he who seemed to be content with most things in his life would have such issues with old shoes? For he who has everything and could buy out a closet of new shoes with ease would have such issues with old shoes?

He couldn’t get rid of someone.

Someone from his past. Not that he is still in love with the person mind you. But it wasn’t easy to get rid of the person for what they had together in the past. All those little kindness and memorable moments, unfortunately also the mega-roller-coaster ride that he had to bear within and post the relationship. It was hard enough for him to try to forgive the person. It became more intense since the person was never away or gone to begin with. They hang out within the same circle.

This was what he mentioned earlier,
“Remember 1999? There was this hot black paten-leather Prada loafer that everybody longed for? Now, he was like that sumptuous loafer to me. Even now, when the shoes are old, musty, cracked, and un-wearable… I still keep them for the mementos sake. The same case with him, I couldn’t let go of him because he was expensive and hard to get. Especially when I finally got him despite numerous competitors that I had to eliminate from the contest. Back then though, I finally gave up because so many people want to and actually used those shoes. They were like everywhere! For those who longed to be different, that was just so unfashionable. And besides, I love my shoes too much to share mine with other people.

But come to think of it, dontcha think everyone has his own old shoes issue? Then, for me he is my old shoes that I can’t get rid of”.

Someone was stuck, damned and condemned.

Another friend of mine finally gave his 2 cents,

“Look at your past relationships after him? Anything good came afloat? From what I see, you will never, I repeat, NEVER enjoy anyone new to the fullest because you still let him roam and you do not give enough space for the new person to even start dwelling in your heart. Throw away old shoes and mementos, heck you can burn them for all I care”

Some one was slapped on his face.

Fantasia

2006-04-29T00:33:00.000+07:00

FALSE BELIEF

Once I believed in angels, and fairy tales, and Disney characters, and the existence of Santa Claus. Then I grew more logical. After what happened in the past with this very person, I believed that I got over him. I moved on with my life, even on to another person. We were never together anyway. No more emails, phone calls and text messages. I practically forgot about him. I should. It was more than half a year ago. And then suddenly both of us are available again.

Yes he changed in the last six months. We then became the so-called friends. Just friends. We made a deal. It wasn’t very hard. We didn’t exactly click in ideas, conversations and thoughts to begin with.
I thought that I’d never need him in my life ever again.

Friends and foes alike were convinced that I want nothing more than friendship with that person. But sometimes… the hardest thing to convince is not your friends, not even yourself.
It’s your heart.

Fantasia (Part 2)

2006-04-29T00:32:00.000+07:00

VISION

He had a vision. One fine day, unless God forbids, he could be together again with the love of his life. Distance separated them oceans and nations apart. His wish was partially granted. They met again recently for a vacation. Somewhere along the Andaman Sea, said he.
Romance blossomed for a full week. Butterflies were flying in the sweet scent of the cilantro and lemongrass-laden air. And then once more, they were abruptly separated.

DELUSION

We agreed to go out that night with some other friends. Went dinner. Then the party continued. After the second cocktail and his fifth bottle of beer, I noticed changes in him. He began to look… somewhat delusional.
Instantly I knew, he was thinking of another person. In another far faraway land. I felt like I am morphing slowly in his mind with every sip from his bottle. I began to be perceived as if I was another person. In his delusion, I became the personification of the love of his life, the grounded physical and tangible being.
We danced the night away.
Sweet things started to flow in soft whispers to my ears.
Of course I knew I was mistaken.
His tongue traveled in another language.
The caresses, the dirty dancing, the pecks, the bites, the terms of endearments, were not meant for me.

Someone was delusional.
And it wasn’t me.
Or was I?

Fantasia (Part 3)

2006-04-29T00:26:00.000+07:00

MIRAGE

I was lonely and in a bad state of needing somebody.
In my own fata morgana, a small part of me wanted those to happen.
A small part of me wanted to be desirable, needed, longed for.
Even if I knew that it wasn’t true.
Queasy feeling hit me. I knew I wasn’t suppose to enjoy the mirage.
But enjoyed them all, I did.
Stupidly too much maybe.

HALLUCINATION

When fantasies and delusions were mixed together, they created this entire new level of hallucination in my mind.
The way we moved on the floor.
The way we shared the beers.
The way we shared the cigs.
The way he looked at me.
The way he smiled at me.
I hallucinated that I would one day find my own someone-special to reenact those moments again.

WISHFUL

Oh how I wish we were in a secluded room.
Behind him I gently placed my head on his shoulder.
Looking into a mirror reflection of ourselves with loving gazes.
Even if I knew that he’s not even my type
Even if I knew that I no longer care for him
I still wish that then, Dave Matthew would sing.
“Tonight Let’s be Lovers”.
Delivered him safe and sound at his doorstep.
On the way out there was a peck on my cheek.
Apparently, someone was still in his delusion.
And apparently, someone else was also still in his fantasy.
But then again in a figment of my imagination,
I already asked some boyband to perform
“Quit Playing Games with my Heart”.
And quit I did. Wisely. Even if it was a little too late.
Silently however, I thanked him for the experience.
It was nice to be able to feel again.
It was nice to be able to fall again.
Here I am,
On the road again.
At least now I know.

That my heart isn’t made of stone.

Smoking and the City

2006-04-29T00:00:00.000+07:00

Hey, why did they forget to give me any invite to the ceremony when the City was given the prestigious award of being number three on the list of most polluted cities in the world (after Mexico City and Bangkok)?

What?

No party-time? Not getting any closer to any clean air policy. No government bill to push on any cleaner content of the gas we are using everyday. No underway technical-detail on private vehicle emission and roadworthy checkpoints. Nothing adequate was done on those hazardous “oplosan” smokes coming out of the thousands of uncared-of public transports, especially the metro minis, angkots and bajajs, in which I think are some of the major contributors of our air problems. No new greenway and park are being built to help combat the carcinogens.

Of course those big issues to tackle were just indeed too big to handle eh? Instead of spending some time to think and do research on all of the above, the City commenced from somewhere easier to confront: It is us, the smokers.

Was it even true that two-thirds of lung patients are even the second-hand-smokers? Or was it just another conspiracy to kill us the smokers? I do care about the thousands of people who work for the industry. But I could care less about the overly flamboyant cigarette companies. Those who can afford a downtown lot of a very important historical landmark and its surroundings in the heart of the City. Those who had a line-up of Bentleys, Rolls, Hummers, and Mercs in their HQ’s garage. I don’t even give a damn.

Gone are the days when smoking was cool and enjoyable or even a social cult to perform in the City.

While Bangkok was already a health-freak LA to begin with (the smoking bans), the City was like New York or Paris where everybody smoked in joyful communions.

After two hours of riding in the usual macet street, you’d expect to rest, drink a cuppa coffee, enjoy your pastry and smoke a cig at a local coffee shop. Try that in Blok M Plaza. You’d be confined to a little “foggy” smoking-room, one on the third floor and and the other at the food court level. The chamber was so frustratingly clouded that I personally refused to enter in fear of getting any immediate “lung-cancer” by all those puffs.

After a really boring day, especially when you are single and “hunting”, you’d expect to browse those cutie-pies or beefcakes (depending on your taste) while sitting and chatting with good friends at the patios of the café promenades. Try that in Citos. Even cute high-school girls with their “Bawang Putih-Bawang Merah wanna-be look” squatted with mall employees, security guards, strange-looking men, and even their own chauffeurs on the floor inside a small little box called the smooking-room.

In what little dignity that we smokers have today, some of the powerful even dared to try to push a new bill to make all smoking crevices in the City to use a single brand of air-purifying system. Restaurateurs already spent a gazillion amount of money to create their own little smoking rooms, to glass-wall smoking sections, to install new exhausts and air-purifiers. And guess what guys? Anything installed previously must go in order to be replaced with that still hush-hush brand in the making.

Another money scheme to make.
Another very scary consequences.
Yet it is… the cost of living in the City.

Oh yes, it got even worse.

Again when you are single and hunting, by today’s standards it is considered non-attractive if you also smoke. (And here I thought only dick sizes that mattered before). New people that I met lately are mostly non-smokers. Those who don’t smoke but didn’t mind that I smoke. Those who don’t smoke and detested my smoking. Those who pretend to smoke socially while they were not a smoker to begin with.

Still the award went to those: Who don’t smoke and don’t care about my craving for midnite nicotine injection yet still dare to invoke with the phrase: “Well you can smoke my dick instead!”.

Ew, even the ugly phrase was so nineteen eighty-something. Hellooo…

But before we end this for today boys, do you know what I miss the most from everything?

The freedom to enjoy killing ourselves slowly. The sound of the smoldering mix of paper and tobacco when the amber hit. Those wonderful feelings after the insidious inhalation of nicotine and tar right through our lung and blood system. The buzz. The contentment. The satisfaction.

We had a choice, then we had none.
Death by smoking should be our own risk to take.

PS. A vehicle problem occured the other night and a non-smoker had to stay overnight in my own personal smoking rumpuss bedroom. Another guess what? You were so right when I had to "respect" the non-smoker la. Heheh...