The Daily Whine

It’s been a really bad start to the week at work, and I’ve pretty much slid into an increasing but as-yet restrained depression. Selective amnesia, perhaps, but it seems to have been eons since the last piece of good news.

Frustration grows, anger builds, a simmering fire threatening to blow the lid. I know I am fast approaching a brick wall, that I will slam into it without possibility of swerving away, the only uncertainty is how bad the wreckage.

That’s the nasty bit.

In the middle of trying to see past these problems in the office, a couple of long lost friends forced their way into my mind, entirely unexpectedly. One moment I was trying to plot a contingency plan for a photoshoot, the next I found myself asking "what is the average number of kisses a man must leave the world"?

And that made me smile, because it was so familiar. I knew it was wrong (the correct line is "what is the proper number of kisses for a man to leave the world") but it was also so beautiful, this sudden impulse to recall words that I once knew well. It took me ten minutes and a few tries, but I finally Googled the poem — Max Garland’s Apparition. Yup, a long lost friend from the preface of a travel novel on Vietnam (can’t reall the title), and a poem that I really loved.

Finding this unexpected reappearance cheered me up a lot, I Googled "Derek Walcott" "Midsummer" in search of that poem that had the Assyrian in it (I believe the line began "There was a Syrian in my village, or Assyrian") and though I couldn’t locate it specifically, I found references to "Another Life" which I used to adore back in college. And that was really uplifting, for whatever reason.

I think it’s this. I inhibit a world far removed from those idyllic days when I had an Ice Mocha at the push-cart of the MSE (our college library) every afternoon while leafing through tomes of poetry or lit crit or history or whatever. Those were times when knowledge was fascinating to me for the sheer fact that it was meaningful. Every new poem that I read, for example, represented someone’s imagination and creativity. Every time I learned about a new historical event, it deepened my understanding of how I got here. Each new piece of literature I digested gave me insight to someone else’s world. It was all beautiful for the ways knowledge tugged at the seams of my understanding.

That was then. My life today revolves around knowledge still, but it is all rather less meaningful to me (more meaningful to someone else, surely, especially when it translates into shareholder value). Reading an email about some problem with logistics doesn’t give me the same high as learning about the history behind the Reformation. Getting confirmation on a purchasing order isn’t quite as invigorating as trying to figure out how a Marxist would interprete the poco struggle. And reading a spreadsheet full of numbers doesn’t inspire me as much as lines of lovingly crafted Shakespearen verse (or Hemmingwayan prose).

That’s the void in my life right now. I like what I do, and I’m rather good at doing it, but I know I used to be more excited about the knowledge I was gathering. It’s also why, when I chance upon little triggers of flashback, I’m always glad to see old friends, and always a little sad that they don’t visit more often.

Okay, I’ll be the first to admit, the only reason I watched Naked Weapon was to catch some action on DVD. And I don’t mean Jackie Chan Jet Li John Woo action. We’re talking about booty call here. Hot chicks duking it out with one another in mortal combat, with a little girl on girl choreography. The cover has got two hotties hugging each other’s naked (albeit digitally camoflaged) bodies. Anybody who says he’s watching the movie because its got an interesting plot is just begging to have his credibility questioned.

So no surprises there, Naked Weapon is nothing more than a thinly veiled attempt to parade the fine-looking bodies of its lead actresses in as many ridiculous set-ups as possible. (It says on the back of the DVD: "In this sequel to Naked Killer, Anya and Maggie Q star as Charlene and Katt, the two newest recruits of Madame M, an assasin who kidnaps girls off the streets and trains them to become killers.")

Naturally, I expect the plot to be full of holes, lines to be cheesier than Dutch Edam, and the acting to be cringe-worthy. That’s alright, since I’m obviously not interested in all these in the first place. Just show me a little skin, and I’ll be happy to overlook the nauseating dialogue.

The problem is, after an hour of in-my-face soft porn, I find I’m more excited by my kettle whistling than anything on screen. Clearly, the movie has not delivered on any count.

Just to be sure, I pay a visit to my favourite websites to see if there’s something wrong with me. 20 minutes later, I’ve determined there isn’t.

Anyway, this is my long-and-winded appeal to anyone out there who’s reading and knows: please, I implore you, where in Jakarta can you find legitimate XXX DVDs??! Tell me! I beg you!!!

In a city where you can obtain Deuce Bigelow 2 on DVD for one dollar weeks before the Internet gets wind of its release; where Microsoft Office is available at one-hundredth of its retail price; and where a driving license can be issued for a nominal fee (even if you can’t actually drive, as seems to be the case with lots of drivers out here), how is it that nobody knows where to find pornography?