Irezumi

So prompted by a friend’s question into Irezumi, I am now pushed to write, and try my best to use my little knowledge of this. Now one has to see that the idea that permanent designs could be scarred on to the skin had occurred to many civilizations in different stages of their development. Notable among them was Japan, with its rich heritage of body art, known as irezumi. Those who know me have seen my two tattoos, a Kanji snake on my shoulder, and Om on my back. Now not as elaborate as irezumi, it represents to me the two halves of who I am.

So, doing some research and going through some old books I owned, here’s my small synopsis of the origin of irezumi.

Irezumi is not just art or design in Japan - it truly is a way of life. The hothouse atmosphere of the country, which for centuries was sealed from foreign influences for many centuries, allowed irezumi to develop in a unique way that seems at once bizarre and fascinating to the outside world. Embarking upon irezumi is a serious business and requires a great deal of planning. The work is executed by trained experts known as horishi. Within Japan today, there are perhaps a hundred recognized practitioners of the art. Horishi is often referred to as Sensei (Master), and indeed, he is master of all the ceremony attending the procedure.

You can't just walk into a horishi's parlor and ask to get yourself tattooed. You have to come through proper channels and seek a `first appointment', during which the master will study you and consider whether you deserve to get irezumi or not. After you have passed the initial examination and the horishi has consented to embellish you with his art. The recipient's opinion on the choice of design is taken into consideration, but the ultimate selection lie in the hands of the horishi, who will decide on one from a collection of books, all hand-drawn by the horishi from traditional sources. A number of sessions follow, depending on the intricacy of the design and how much area has to be covered. Completing an irezumi can take several years, during which the client goes back every week or whenever he has enough money to get a little more of the design done. Over the years, a relationship gradually develops between the horishi and the client, and the latter often comes back to visit and to present their horishi with gifts on special occasions long after their irezumi is finished. It is notable that once the job is completed, there is less of a belief that the client owns the tattoo and more of a presumption that the client has become a piece of the horishi's artwork.

Probably because of this, horishis are careful about who they choose to tattoo.
The earliest record of tattooing in Japan goes back to 500 BC, but the procedure in those days was hardly art. In a country where social ostracism was the worst form of punishment, tattoos were used to mark criminals. People found guilty of their third offence in some parts of northern Kyushu, for example, had the word inu (dog) emblazoned on their foreheads. In southern Kyushu, criminals were tattooed on their left shoulder, in Kyoto, a double bar was scarred into the upper arm and in Nara, and a double line encircled the biceps. It was in the Edo period (1600-1868) that tattooing flourished, along with geisha, puppet theatre, kabuki, pleasure quarters and bathhouses. Criminal tattooing moved to a higher plane and began to take on an artistic overtone during this era. It was no longer associated with crime, and branded criminals were free to camouflage their marks with elaborate artwork surrounding them. The tattoo artists worked on prostitutes, actors, laborers and people from the lower working classes. Prostitutes in the pleasure quarters, and even some geisha, would have themselves tattooed to attract customers or to ingratiate themselves with their highest-paying customers by having their names tattooed on their inner arm. It was fashionable is some areas to have `promise' engravings - erotic or evocative phrases - tattooed into hidden parts of the body, which would be visible only when naked or in the act of lovemaking.

The unadorned body was not considered aesthetically appealing, and customers who came to tattoo artists were mostly people from the `naked' trades - coolies, porters, gardeners, rickshaw-pullers and like - the nature of whose jobs forced them to strip down to near nudity. Palanquin bearers with tattooed backs were far more likely to pick up fares than the ordinary ones. Other members of the hinin (non-people) classes, such as executioners, grave-diggers, slaughterers and tanners also took to tattooing with enthusiasm, in a defiant show of outcaste camaraderie. The vogue for tattoos came to an abrupt halt in the 1850s, when the country opened up, for the time in its history, to the western world. Under foreign scrutiny, Japan became acutely sensitive to the opinions of the European visitors, and wanted to brush under the carpet, any activity they might consider primitive or barbaric. The practice of tattooing had the potential of embarrassing the nation, and police officials began raiding tattoo studios, destroying equipment and scaring away customers.

Foreign reaction, however, was quite contrary to what the administration had anticipated. They sought out colorfully-tattooed individuals to pull their rickshaws and do other menial jobs for them, and embassy people even went to tattoo studios to get their own tattoos to take back as souvenirs from the Orient. The ban was lifted, artists were allowed to re-start their studios and tattooing continued to exist quietly as an underground activity. Irezumi's association with the fringe society continued nonetheless, and mainstream social attitude towards the art has not improved even to this day. Damaging to the art of irezumi has been its association with the yakuza, the Japanese mafia. The yakuza is constituted of some 2,000 criminal organizations with an estimated membership of over a hundred thousand people - roughly 70 per cent of whom adorn themselves with irezumi. Yakuza usually opt for a `body suit', where the entire body is robed in a complicated tattoo. The procedure is long and expensive and the pain suffered after completion is excruciating, despite the lacing of some modern inks with cocaine.

The first session, like a driving license, is looked upon by the mafia as a badge of maturity, and proves an individual is brave enough to enter the criminal world. Most mafia groups have their trademark designs, which work like a member's identity card. (The Japanese police have often used irezumi as a means of identifying corpses of mafia killed in an encounter.) The markings also symbolize the irreversibility of an individual's decision to enter the violent world of yakuza. The body art also brings with it some fringe benefits. Special treatment for yakuza members are assured in beer pubs and hostess bars, once the staff have spied the irezumi peeking out from under T- shirts and coats. Prison wardens go easy on corporal punishment for fear that severe beatings will damage the irezumi on the body of the yakuza prisoner. While an exhibition of body art can guarantee privileged treatment for these criminals, life can be very difficult in Japan for tattooed people with no links to the mafia. Individuals with readily visible tattoos, according to the Daily Yomiuri newspaper, may have difficulty in renting an apartment or even finding a job. Many of Japan's bathhouses, swimming pools and onsens (hot spring resorts) ban people with tattoos, out of fear that they will cause trouble. The irony is of what made this country rich with tradition falls through with the progress of time.

Interview Delight

Sometimes my job just isn't that fun . . .

Zune? Right, enjoy . . .

So a good friend called me this morning, all excited that he had finally gotten himself a Zune, the supposed latest in a string of iPod killers. Now I've never been anti anything, and to be honest, I was actually quite keen when I heard about the concept of it, but sadly; Bill has let many of us down with this . . . It comes in colors, including…umm, just brown. Anyways . . . It also has built in wi-fi, but no browser. You can move songs from one Zune to another, but the songs magically disappear after three days or three plays (leaving a link to buy the song for yourself at Microsoft’s store, woohoo!), whichever comes first. It has a slightly bigger screen and slightly greater battery life than the iPod video. (Note key word here slightly). There’s no iTunes compatibility at all: purchased goods from iTunes will absolutely positively not play on the Zune unless burned and re-ripped. (Awesome for all of us who even actually legally purchased songs!).

Part of the iPod’s appeal is the simplicity of its interface. There’s no fuss, no eye candy, and everything just works with a minimum of visual distraction. Minimalist form follows perfect function. On a Mac, there’s nothing to install for iPod. On Windows, Microsoft requires Zune software to be installed. When the installation fails, you’re presented with a full-screen photo of a girl sprawled out on the ground screaming for her life. Okay . . . (Man, I REALLY want to join this marketing department. It looks like they just cook up some serious drugs and think of the most inept crazy-ass pictures in which to communicate to customers what's going on with their product.)

The copy protection on the Zune is so strict and stupid that it applies to all audio files, regardless of copyright status. Say you make a song in your own cheesy monkeyass band that's played only in your garage and neighbours tupperware party, record it, save it as an MP3, email it to a friend who uses Windows, and the friend puts the song on their Zune. Your buddy thinks the song is so great, he zaps it to other friends with a Zune, but those people to whom he zaps the song using Wi-Fi get three plays or three days. Ironically, if some media is covered by a Creative Commons license, the Zune violates it as it hinders free distribution. Honestly, I wish there was something revolutionary about the Zune. (Besides this new color they seem to think they have invented . . . brown . . .) Competition is good for the consumer and promotes innovation and lowering of prices, it's a natural law of things. But then again the bigwigs at old Microsoft seem to think differently . . . Apple will continue innovating regardless of the Zune and of Vista, that's what gives them the edge. My video iPod is still going strong, and will stand for a long time as one of my best purchases ever.

I also coincidently had this ad sent to me by someone else, and man, this bloody ad is smack you in the face I want to scream on the top of Burj Dubai great. I seriously want to get the drugs that the Zune people have, for whatever it is it brings them to a whole 'nother level in the thought processes that happens in our brains. Nothing says sharing your songs using technology like some multi-eyed creature puking out an eyeball to his buddy’s mouth. Great concept. Of course … once one pukes, one always must have a wicked beer burp directly into the face of said friend, just to prove how manly you are (since sensitivity of this nature is not manly at all, and burps are the main communication method of manly males). What is with the butt clenching? And the overly sexual touching? And before the girls get upset, I really just don’t see these two (aliens? ameobas? slugs?) as being female. There's waaay too much butt clenching, burping and puking going on. Enjoy . . .

Happiness

I'm happy.


Not so-so happy, not I just found 10 dirhams in my jeans pocket happy, or I found out I don't have to work on Sunday happy, but genuinely, God honest (for those of you fearing the Almighty), down to earth happy.


I'm at this happy place that I actually didn't think existed.


James Michener spoke much more eloquently about the “happy place” I’m talking about in this famous quote, though more for an overall balance:


“The master in the art of living makes little distinction between his work and his play, his labor and his leisure, his mind and his body, his information and his recreation, his love and his religion. He hardly knows which is which. He simply pursues his vision of excellence at whatever he does, leaving others to decide whether he is working or playing. To him he is always doing both"

But life is not about stopping to stagnate. It is about evolving and discovering and changing and emulating new things . . . It is like the unending quest for knowledge and the thirst to learn new concepts. This thirst and quest may be intrinsic but the source of knowledge could be intrinsic like the road to self-realization or self-actualization or extrinsic - there is a plethora of un-delved facts in the world - the universe being one whole knowledge-bank and we the tiny children in our own little worlds of home and class-learning, trying to grasp as much as we can in this short life of ours . . . and feeling amazed, in awe, in wonder, as and when we learn new concepts, and apply new principles to our day to day living . . . And we realize that life is too short. There is so much to learn, imbibe, love, and absorb from this world. And even if we become diligent life-learners, learning a new concept everyday, we would still be covering just a fraction of the world-wide knowledge base. One life is just too short for a lifetime of learning . . . I respect that train of thought, as I respect and will much miss Ali, who has departed off to intellectual Ithaca, to further enhance his cranial capacity . . .


What is about the heart though? That search which comes about from within the slow volcano burn that flows through your soul seeking for understanding and trying to find it's corner of warmth and where it can let go and be free. For many of you who me know that the years passed have not been kind to me, and I went through a period of challenge and difficulty. The thing is that I went through such pain and sorrow, all for reasons completely uneeded. What I felt I thought was real, what I felt I thought was love, and true happiness, only through time to come to the terms that it wasn't even close to what the true feeling was. What is love to you? What does it mean to have the feeling of true happiness? Definatelty not what I felt before.

These days though.

I am lifted.

Reborn if one can say.

That spring in the step is not the new cushioning in the new shoes, rather of the heart. The irony of it all is that I am so happy and simply joyful to the point I can't explain it. So for now I want to enjoy this feeling.

I know this sensation is not going to fade or dissapear, and I'm extremely content in that

And thus these days, I'm savoring each moment, each interaction, each second that passes.

And loving every minute of it.

Jeu Blank

Tu es dans toutes mes pensées!

Things Rocking my Tree - July 07

So I was reminded, (and not politely I must add), that I have not placed my list for July. My apologies, (ahem!), and here are the top ten things rocking my tree for this month:

1) People who just don't keep their promises. And not only the big promises, but the little ones count too.
2) Peanut Butter. I have re-found my love for the wonderful creamy substance, and am eating it like it's going to be rationed soon.
3) Watching Transformers and reliving my childhood. The transformation sound was so good I almost cried.
4) Knowing I would go home to see mom and dad.
5) Seeing mom and dad.
6) Being able to celebrate with my dad his 59th birthday.
7) Drinking an icy cold tehbotol the only true Jakarta way, from the glass bottle and a straw.
8) Watching a glorious sunrise at 28,000 feet flying into Singapore, so intense I am simply humbled.
9) The bloody sumer of Dubai that just sticks to your shirt and doesn't let go . . .
10) Realizing that your past is your past, and when the time is right, you're at the right place to move forward.

More Than Meets The Eye (Yes I know it's Cliched)

So before I start I have to say first of all; wow, it was an entertaining movie, and though there were some questiobale and debatable scenes, (as Ali will confer), overall I thoroughly enjoyed it.

Now the back story to lead to the movie.

For about two really kick-ass years, Optimus Prime was the man. I mean, the ultimate hero. He was the star of this half-hour animated series, which bloody cynics called cartoons, where with his Autobots they fought the evil Decepticons led by the very bad-ass Megatron. (Which is pretty much as cold-war influenced as you can get). This combination of Rubik’s cube like changeable ability along with the coolness of K.I.T.T. was everything every boy wanted, and had to have. (I certainly did). One has to also look back at the rivalries of that day and age; I mean you had Andrew Ridgeley and George Michael of Wham!, you had Olivia-Newton John and Jane Fonda, Steve Wozinak and Steve Jobs and of course, Optimus and Megatron. (The fact that they were brothers is only all the more epic in its creation).

In about the 1960’s, G.I. Joe was born. (“A real American Hero!”) It was then when boys could have not dolls, but “action figures”, and was when Joe was this kick ass tough guy loner 12 inches tall who was ready to bust heads open if need be to get the job done. Things were going well, but in the 70s the price of oil was rocketing, and the toys at that time were made of vinyl, a petroleum product. After much deliberation and thought, they relaunched the G.I. Joe line in 1982, where all these new figures, tons of them, were easily poseable, stood about 4 inches tall, and had all this awesome gear that an NSA agent would kill for. It took off like anything, especially with the bad guys, Cobra, which was a vast terrorist conspiracy. In 1984, Hasbro, the parent company bought brand rights from some generic Japanese toys that had one unique thing about them, they transformed from regular vehicles into robots. The rest, as they say, just blew everyone away. I still remember vividly waking up early in Singapore and running to the television to catch that Saturday morning’s episode of Transformers, and imitating that “transforming” sound.

Transformers made such an impact that in early 2001, a National Guardsman in his 30s from Ohio legally transformed his name to Optimus Prime.

Now that, is seriously devoted.

What was also unique about Optimus from many other heroes is that in 1986, he died. He died in the name of righteousness and fight for what was right. That left a big hole in many boys’ hearts. In July 2004, Steven Spielberg announces that there’s going to be a live-action make of the cartoon, which myself definitely included, just blew heads off. Would it be good? Would it be people inside plastic suits? Would it be really cheesy and just suck? After seeing so many of childhood comics and heroes I remember, Daredevil, Catwoman, Ghost Rider, just get destroyed by the ego of the director, I was very, very wary on making my comments on the film. When I heard Michael Bay was directing, there were uproars in message boards and people freaking out all over the place. Now that, I really don’t get. I mean, the guy made Armageddon and The Rock. And those movies were definitely in the high-octane department with just a tad of action thrown in.

Now I understand maybe the concern fans had. I guess in some way growing up with Transformers makes fans (myself included) want to watch not just an action movie or relive simple nostalgia but maybe we’re looking for redemption, as men. We want to watch a kid’s movie to grow up all over again, where not only are they giant robot fights, but our childhood idols treated respectfully.

Now for the movie, I don’t want to give much of the really cool scenes away, as I really feel you have to watch it, and definitely on the big screen, but I have to talk about one which probably sums up for me the movie’s direction. Now down a packed freeway Bumblebee, (Autobot which originally was a VW Beetle), which is now a souped up Camaro, is flying down the road with our human heroes, Shia LaBeouf, (very cool actor you can catch in Disturbia and apparently now also in the Indiana Jones sequel), and generic hottie, Megan Fox. Now Optimus Prime, in semi mode right behind them whilst Bonecrusher, an evil Decepticon minesweeper is following just meters behind. Now there’re all barreling down the road at about 150kms an hour, and here’s really where my brain wishes it could slow things down a bit, Bonecrusher transforms into his bipedal robot form the size of a 4 storey building.

He then proceeds to (without a single pause and seamlessly) start rollerblading (you REALLY need to see it to understand it) through the traffic, smashing through cars like they were matchsticks. Prime morphs too into massive robot mode, and digs his massive blue feet/wheels into the grinding asphalt changing course. They both smash and collide together in this massive impact that shudders jaws, where they tumble down over the concrete head of the overpass to the road below, where Prime smashes a fist the size of a Hummer into Bonecrusher’s jaw. I mean, that scene alone, was worth the admission.

What was interesting that I read was that Industrial Light and Magic’s effects team, used 5,500 rendering processors and almost 280 terabytes of disk storage to full capacity! Madness! Now there’s some slight changes in the movie that is not the same from the cartoon, for example, Megatron is not a gun, and Frenzy, which was that awesome Decepticon that was a cassette tape, is now a boom box; due to physics restrictions. Optimus Prime is also a hog-nosed semi, only due to weight-mass orthodoxy that informed it would have to be of that design for Prime to stand 30 feet tall. And yes, Optimus Prime has lips. No comment.

All in all, the movie is something maybe all the boys inside men need. We waited with anticipation and bated breath for the Prime to return. For when Optimus says “One shall stand, one shall fall”, we believe him. Because without Optimus, we’re stuck with whiney Spider-Boys, Tao sprouting Kung-Fu Christs in designer sunglasses and metrosexual pirates dancing around. Because in 86 he died protecting us and fighting for good, and nothing’s really been the same since. Because these days, maybe the real men left are giant robots, and we need to remember that.

Jalan-Jalan di Kota-Ku

So before I start this blog now of coming home and other news, I know I owe a much delayed update of many matters of my life and of Cape Town, though I do give word that it will come soon, so those proverbial horses have to be held, but not for too long.

So finally last wek, on Wednesday, 11th July at 8:00pm I took off on SQ 491 bound for Singapore, away for approximately 12 days of rest and relaxation. And for all those who know me, it’s been a turmulous year of work, life, and general matters of the heart for me.

I need this break more than the Pope needs his zucchetto.

I’ve always been an advocate of Singapore Airlines, and this trip is no different as I decided to fly with them home. The business class cabin seats a 2-3-2 configuration, so I opted for 14A, a window seat which I wanted near the front of the cabin. This would at least ensure that I only had one person next to me, for I’ve had more than enough flights being sandwiched between people. My “ATR Theory” was proved again, where a gentlemen in his late 50s was sitting in 14B when I arrived on the plane, and with a gruff “Hello”, he established the realm of non-conversation we would be having. I was more then happy with more than enough voices having been in my head for a long time one from a stranger was a voice I didn’t need to hear. For myself I’ve never felt that I’m actually going home until I sit on the plane, and this time was no different. Sipping on a very generous pour of malt, I’m staring out the window of the as the night falls deeper into black and I drift into sleep. A few hours later I am awake, as we near closer to our destination.

Staring out the window it is a fantastic blend of blue and light burgundy, melting together in a sight that reminds me gently again that life is indeed beautiful. Of all the blues in the world, that of the sky is the most remarkable. Sadly, so few notice it: we ignore the familiar. Always there, and not just blue, but blues that take on an infinite variety of shades, changing with elevation and the time of day. If one usually looks high up, away from the Sun, a dark blue, from the mountain top becomes an almost blue-violet, where near the horizon the light blue is one of pretty eyes. You can lie on a sleepy hillside and fill your eyes with nothing but blue, and you can simply lose yourself in it. Near sundown, the blue near the horizon becomes blue-green, an ocean of color matching a sea-washed shore, but deeper, cleaner. Blue, a symbol of purity, of the spirit, of heaven itself. Enhanced by the whiteness of clouds, blue through the broken cover of white becomes intensified. I’ve always found it interesting that when you fly and note the other passengers staring blankly at the seat backs, their magazines, or computers. From 30,000 feet, sunlight passing through higher icy cirrus clouds brings about spectacularly bright halos and sundogs. As your plane passes over a layer of ice-cirrus below, you may see the sun reflected from it, an oval "subsun" that is sometimes so bright you cannot bear to look. It's another celestial analogue to the romantic "setting sun over the ocean" motif.

It was one of those rare moments in life that we’re just spellbound of how small we are in this world, and on this occasion made me think of someone.

I landed in Singapore at approximately 7:30am, and met up with Dheeraj for a small breakfast, after having cabbed it into the city for a quick shower to freshen up. It’s been a year since we met, but one of the things I cherish about our friendship is our inherent understanding of each other and ability to pick up where we left off. After a good chat I jumped on a 10:45am AdamAir shuttle to Jakarta, which was delayed by (lovely, lovely, lovely) rain. I was very happy during the 30 minute wait, sitting in the plane watching the rain fall . . . it’s funny how sometimes the simple things are really all we need. Mom & Dad were there to get me from the airport, and heading home it was so good to see them and hug them again. Family really is the backbone of our lives, and I can’t believe how much I’ve missed them. After a truly, truly fantastic lunch of fried chicken, tahu, tempe, kangkung and fresh sambal (you just CANNOT beat home cooked food), I took a much deserved nap. Now for those who know me know I don’t nap, I just do it. Not in my lifestyle, but I actually enjoyed this little slumber with a cool afternoon breeze teasing the curtains. Mind you, I am however a big advocate of the mini power-nap at work, a small 15 minute breather which refreshes the mind and snaps you back into clarity.

We also have a new kitten to add to our family, named Happy, that my dad rescued drowning from a ditch near our house. He's 5 months old now, and it quite content at this new home and love and affection that he recieves. He's remeniscent of a cat we had that passed out, but I particulary like his eyes. He's very cool still being young, and t's a blast to watch attack the evil falling leaves that slowly drop to the ground from the chilli tree. Friday was a relaxed day of shopping, Kelapa Gading Mall, stopping at Carrefour, and general day to day activities with the parents. It’s funny though, that even the most mundane events are fun when you’re with people who mean a lot to you. I loved anyways being in Carrefour, and sadly didn’t have my phone or camera on me to snap up pics of some very bizarre items. I did enjoy though perusing through the isles picking up all the things I wanted to cook and have cooked over the next few days.

Now, before this argument gets too deep, I must place a statement in here. The only one TRUE Hainan Chicken Rice place was Swee Kee, near Bugis/Seah Street, which so sadly closed down quite some time ago. This was the original and only true establishment worthy of true adoration.
Now, in all likelihood, I've ruined enjoying chicken rice anywhere outside of Singapore for myself. The only chicken rice I've had outside of Singapore that could be said as good would be the one from the Grand Café inside Hong Kong's Grand Hyatt. As Singapore's de facto national dish, Hainanese chicken rice (or, as the locals call it, simply "chicken rice") can be enjoyed from literally hundreds of places—from dedicated chicken rice hawkers to fancy restaurants, and everything in between.

So on this lovely Friday afternoon after shopping we stopped at Singapore Hainan Chicken Rice, (which oddly enough), was owned by an Indian. Anyways. Mom and Dad said they ate there once and it was quite good, and I trust the careful palate of my parents, they would not mess around with food, especially on things I really like. Now I have to say, their chicken rice is transcendentally good. I almost wept as I ate it. Oh, such tenderness. No chicken breast has any right to be this tender and juicy and so unbelievably full of flavor. The hint of sesame oil in the sauce they drizzle over the chicken gave it just the right flavor contrast to elevate it to another level. Unlike so many other rip-off try-hard places that try to emulate and pretend they have any sense of authenticity, (yes I point at you Shangri-La Dubai), the chicken was so incredibly delicious on its own that I didn't want to "mar" any of it with chili sauce. If we didn’t have to meet my uncle for drinks, I would have gotten another order (or three). And thinking back, as I write this, I regret not just stuffing myself silly right then and there. Who knows when I'll be back in Kelapa Gading again and if this chef is still there making this chicken rice then?

Writing this, I’ve been thinking comparable transcendental eating experiences (where a lucky confluence of mood, setting, and of course, the food create an unforgettable memory) and not many came to mind. There was that plate of grilled Barramundi with thick wedges of lemon and a brash rucola salad in a small café in Northbridge, Western Australia. Or this box of Onigiri, soft riceballs tenderly wrapped in nori with a warm, fresh salmon filling from Tsujiki in Osaka. Perhaps the rich and fragrant Leberknodel, (liver ball soup) in it’s clear beef bouillon, in Mainz, Germany whilst overlooking a stormy flurry of snow fall outside. Mmmmm . . ..

Saturday afternoon I caught up with my cousin Arun, and sitting over at this lakeside café restaurant, we chilled back with some very icy Bintang, (when in Rome . . .), and just caught up. For those who don't know, Bintang means ’star’ in Indonesian, but the origins of Bier Bintang are in Holland. Indonesia as we all know (or you bloody should), used to be a Dutch colony, with the focus of attention being Java. Here’s what the official wbsite says: “The history of PT Multi Bintang Indonesia Tbk. (MBI) dates back to 1929 when the company was founded under the name of NV Nederlandsch Indische Bierbrouwerijen. The first brand of the company was Java Bier. In 1936 Heineken became the major shareholder and the company name changed into Heineken Nederlandsch-Indische Brouwerij Maatschappij. In 1937 the company introduced Heineken beer for the first time on the Indonesian market. During the Second World-war the company ceased the production of Heineken beer. In 1947 Heineken was introduced on the Indonesian market for the 2nd time. During the years of Indonesia’s Guided Democracy (1957-1965), Heineken stopped being technical advisor and prohibited the use of the Heineken brand-name. Heineken beer was changed in Bir Bintang and the company-name changed into Perusahaan Bir Bintang. The label changed step by step from Heineken to Bintang. In 1967 Heineken resumed the activities in Indonesia and – thanks to the renewed technical assistance of the Heineken company – the quality of the beer was again brought up to the international standards. Bir Bintang was relaunched under the name Bintang Baru." So there! It’s odd, the lake is in the area where I live, Sunter, and though it’s very peaceful and chill to sit there, I would never for the life of me enter the water for fear of my skin melting off from god-knows what chemicals preside in the water. I’ve actually seen people water skiing (!) there, though I reaaaally don’t want to know what happens when they fall . . .

Saturday was also dad’s birthday, and I was really stoked that this year and last I’ve been able to be home to celebrate his birthday with him. Sadly I haven’t shared my birthday with my parents in over 12 years, and am just happy that on his 59th this year, I could be there. We went for a fantastic Japanese meal at Shima, with close family friend and ex Nobu chef Akashi-san. A very lovely man, he made some of the most succulent food I have had in a loooong time. A fantastic dish of tiger prawn with pan-fried Foie Gras on a bed of sauteed spinach in rice vinegar and soya. Words really will fail as well my pathetic attempt at a photo to capture the pure subtlety of flavors and nuances of every bite. Neededless to say, it was divine. Here is grilled mussel with crocotte of Halibut with steamed pepper, also absolutely fantastic, with a great use of the combination of textures and raw flavors bursting through. Coupled with a few bottles of extremely good DaiGinjo, it was truly a great evening.

In addition to adding to my waistline, I’ve only been soaking up things I’ve simply missed by stressing too much and putting waaay too much emphasis on other nuances of my life. There’s something very comforting about simply sitting in our garden and breathing, or even just lying on the grass and listening to your heart beat. And no no, I haven’t gone quite off the deep end, maybe sometimes we just need to find out way back onto the path, and remember where we were going in the first place. For me, I look forward to another week of simply immersing myself into everything and nothing.

Resistance

I'm stressed.


I'm drained.


I'm running on empty.


But like all tortured souls, I'll persevere.

Sixteen Randoms Thoughts while Jogging

1. Never, under any circumstances, take a sleeping pill and a laxative on the same night.
2. If you had to identify, in one word, the reason why the human race has not achieved, and never will achieve, its full potential, that word would be "meetings."
3. There is a very fine line between "hobby" and "psychotic mental illness." Similair to the line between "having a crush on someone" and "stalker from Cape Fear".
4. People who want to share their religious views with you almost never want you to share yours with them.
5. You should not confuse your career with your life. Ever.
6. Nobody cares if you can't dance well. Just get up and dance. And if a girl asks you, it's cause she like you muppet so dance. (I learned that the hard way).
7. Never lick a steak knife. No matter how good the gravy is.
8. You will also NEVER be skilled enough to do the knife between fingers trick that Bishop does in Alien. (Sorry Paul)
9. The most destructive force in the universe is jealously.
10. You will never find anybody who can give you a clear and compelling reason why we observe daylight savings time.
11. You should never say anything to a woman that even remotely suggests that you think she's pregnant unless you can see an actual baby emerging from her at that moment.
12. People expect that there comes a time when you should stop expecting other people to make a big deal about your birthday. That time is never. It's your birthday. Enjoy it.
13. The one thing that unites all human beings, regardless of age, gender, religion, economic status or ethnic background, is that, deep down inside, we ALL believe that we have some special skills that makes us unique. (Shooting milk through your nose does not count).
14. A person who is nice to you, but rude to the waiter, taxi driver, or cashier is not a nice person. (This is very important. Pay attention. It never fails. Ever.)
15. Life ain’t a box of chocolates. Life sucks sometimes, really, really bad. It whacks you in the mouth and when you’re getting up it kicks you in the side. Other times you feel like every element of this universe forms towards you, and fills you with a high you never though existed. It’s a balance, deal with it.
16. Diplomacy is remembering a woman's birthday, but never her age.

復活 - Rebirth

I am willing to trust. I know I can have whatever I am ready and willing to receive. Individual receptivity is everything. Without it, nothing changes. With it, all things are possible. I no longer insist upon my choice.

I know that the only thing I lose when I let go of something I am afraid to live without is the fear itself. I am stronger than anything that frightens me, as scary as that may sound.

I let go of the past, and I am free to think clearly and positively in the present. I am not my past.
Letting go is the natural release which always follows the realization that holding on is an energy drain and it hurts. Letting go happens effortlessly when there is no other choice. Letting go does not mean giving up.

Letting go is a journey that never ends. Never. It only begins -- over and over again -- each time I can glimpse something higher than my own painful certainty over who I think I am. There is always something higher; a life beyond the limits of my present sight.

To see what is farther I must be willing to lift my eyes from their present point of focus. Release always follows revelation and real revelation is always a glimpse of something that was only just out of sight.

I know that stress in previous relationships existed because I insisted it should. What I resist; persists. I am tied to whatever I avoid.

It is a mistaken belief that I must push my relationships in the direction I choose that keeps me in a strained and unhappy relationship with it. Reality has its own effortless course, and I can either embrace its way or struggle endlessly with mine.

I do not need power to flow.

I let go of that part of myself that is certain it is better to suffer and feel like someone than it is to just let go and quietly be no one. I give birth to a new me that never has to hold on to anything because it is already everything.

I dare to walk away from all of the familiar but useless mental and emotional relationships that give me a temporary but unsatisfactory sense of self. My true identity is calling me and to hear it I must be willing to endure, for as long as necessary, the fear of self-uncertainty.

This form of seeming self-abandonment eventually turns into my greatest pleasure as it becomes increasingly evident that the only thing certain about fear is that it will always compromise me.

When it comes to who I really am, there is no compromise and should never be.

Let go of the past. The past is yesterday. It is irretrievable. When you relate to the past, you relate to no one or any thing. You are literally talking to yourself. No one else is listening. You have already heard all you have to say about that, so, let go.

I heard once that "You cannot really not let go what has already gone. It must be, therefore, that you are maintaining the illusion that it has not gone because you think it serves some purpose that you want fulfilled."

It is certifiable insanity to conjure up your own reality based on the past and relate to it, rather than to relate to the present which is the only reality.

I say goodbye to the past and hello to the present.

I am enthusiastic about who I am becoming. I know that no one sincerely asks for a new life until they are thoroughly dissatisfied with the old one. I am and I let go. When I allow myself to let go of what is old, I stay true to what is new.

I believe that as with all insight, higher understanding itself contains not only the instructions I must follow, but the strength I will need to carry them out.

Starting life over again is the key to a new me. I see the beauty and significance of starting over - over and over and over. Every present moment is always new and new is always right now! The new dies to the ever-new in an endless cycle.

I live in the present. I never let the past dictate the direction of the present moment. I give my best to my endeavors.

What lies ahead for me can only be good.

True peace and understanding are a part of who I am.

I have come to the realization that what is possible for me to become only truly changes when I am willing to see what is impossible for me to continue being.

My true nature is already fully independent and flying freely. I have found my wings. This is what it means to fly without them.

I let go.

And so it is.

Canon IXUS 75

So it’s been almost 3 years since I last bought a new camera, my last being the (at that time) awesomely cool Kodak 3.1 megapixel Easyshare camera, which to be honest I had most interest in the photo dock that allowed me to print immediately photos which I though was the bomb. Sadly I never printed many photos over the years, and since the last year have been looking for a camera I felt comfortable with in sense of size and functionality. Having wanted to take up photography for a while too, I wanted something that had some degree of functionality and adjustment capability, and not something too generic. After much research and testing over and over (annoying countless salespersons), I decided upon the Canon IXUS 75. I would have ideally liked something a little bit smaller, and comparing it to the Casio Exilim EX-S600 that I was originally looking at it is a bit thicker, but I’m very happy with the quality so far. In their IXUS line of compact cameras, Canon consistently provides wonderful point and shoot devices that appeal to a wide variety of people. While not doing anything particularly special, from what I’ve seen they usually combine stylish design with small form factor and great pictures to create a very attractive consumer package. The Digital IXUS 75 continues this trend and is one of the better buys on the market if size is a primary concern.

As usual with Canon's products, image quality is fairly good, and sporting a 7.1 megapixel sensor and Canon's awesome Digic III processor, I was looking forward to some extremely sharp, detailed pictures. Unfortunately, while most of my shots were crisp for the most part, there was some noticeable fringing and haloing in some areas. This wasn't problematic at smaller print sizes, and thus won't impact upon the majority of people I think, but at larger magnifications it may be an issue. In speed it was pretty good, exhibiting a .06 second shutter lag, 1.6 seconds between shots and 1.4 seconds of power up time. The power up time and shutter lag in particular mean you can be up and running in no time with this model, and are great selling points for those who want to quickly capture that perfect moment and move on, where like me most times random things occur that you just have to photograph.

All the standard Canon features are packed into this unit, including the brilliant face detect focus mode. This absolutely kicks ass. This picks out human faces in the picture and makes them the focus point. It operates exceptionally well and is wicked as you can actually see the crosshair following faces as you move the camera around. Other features include manual and preset white balance modes, ISO sensitivities up to 1600, exposure compensation, ten scene modes and a 2.5 frame per second burst mode. There is more than enough here to keep the novice user (like myself) busy and allow a little flexibility with how you take your shots.

The design is also noteworthy from my aesthetic desiring eyes. Departing from the rather traditional plain silver motif seen on past models, Canon has this time decide to go for a more eye catching design, combining silver and gloss black metal, to create one of the most stylish compact cameras on the market. This is well complimented by the enormous 3in screen. Wearing glasses already guides me towards gadgets that are easy to use and read, with this being no exception. A great feature that will be appreciated by a lot of people, is that the screen is not only huge but of great quality, and makes framing shots so much easier. The controls are laid out in a similar way to the previous IXUS models form what I have noticed. There is a five-way navigational pad, kind of a poor man’s iPod scroll wheel, and buttons run in a line from top to bottom around it. They are a little smaller on this model, but everything is still easy to navigate and new users shouldn't have any trouble navigating the interface. Despite having a big screen, the IXUS 75 is a tiny camera. Measuring just 91.6mm x 19.6mm x 56.8mm and weighing 130g, it is the ideal device to throw in your bag or pocket and take out with you. For those of you looking for something small and funky, but with a solid reputation for photo taking, I recommend you pick one of these bad boys up.

Doha and All That Jazz

So this bloody blog was delayed many many times, and since coming back from Doha I fell into this stupid ass flu and have not been able to sit properly for longer than 15 minutes on the computer without my tears tearing. Not the ideal way to write away. So bear with me as we switch back and forth, present and past, now and oh whatever, you get the picture.

So I write now sitting at Doha airport drinking a tepid cup of Chamomile tea whilst an angry child screams to high heaven as the surrounding passenger try to ignore the quiet mother who politely tries to steer away from the truth that she’s forgetting her son and focusing on watching the mute but still scenes of Oprah’s latest tirade. So as I sit here contemplating whether I should simply; move, stick bubblegum (watermelon flavor) in my ear, or simply dive headfirst through the window onto the tarmac, I am greeted with a sight that simultaneously amuses me and also makes me cringe at the human race. A man strolls into the lounge, wearing a white suit with orange stripes, a red baseball hat proudly stating Panasonic, and a white t-shirt with what seems to be ketchup and mustard stains but still displaying the words “I love Jetskis”. After rustling in, imagine John Wayne with a hernia, standing and looking around like the trumpets should have played upon his entrance, he steps two feet and trips on the carpet flat on his face.

It’s been a long time since I laughed so hard, and one of the few times I laughed so hard I actually fell out of my chair. Needless to say, he did not appreciate my take on this incident, and glared at me before rustling on away.

And it's been so long since I've written, mea culpa. Things have been so busy that finding time to sit and let my thoughts settle has been a chore. So of all places sitting in my robe in room #1916 of the Movenpick Suites Doha last night I let my thoughts unfold only to find that the internet connection was not working. A quick call to the reception informed me that QTel, the local telecoms provider here in Qatar had some issues. So this update on the world of Keshi Ko comes a few days delayed, but none diluted.

So the week so far started off well, Saturday brought about a coffee and walk with a very nice Australian individual, where it’s been a long time since meeting someone has brought forth natural and comfortable conversation. Where does it go from here? Let’s see upon return to Dubai if a good meal and conversation is next to follow! She’s beautiful, honest, traveled and it’s been so long I’ve realized how much I miss the Auzzie sense of humor and take on life. Let’s see if this trend continues.

So Tuesday early morning I took the wonderful 8:30am Emirates flight to Doha, (and of course I LOVE waking up so early), so already it was a bad morning for things to go wrong. The flight had a LOT of turbulence, and flying in a metal tube where it shakes violently freaks the hell out of me. Not really my preferred choice morning activities. Now part of flying is the mystique one gets of being anonymous, and having the chance to mingle amongst the anonymous and bizarre people you don’t know. Even though you know nothing of name or origin, you share some strange kinship, akin to the ones smokers have when they meet in the smoking area, like different cattle of different herds grazing on a pasture they’ve happened to find at the same time. I’ve always wondered, and come up with this theory, which for now I shall call the “A2R Theory”. Now, when going to a boarding gate at the airport, inevitably you will see an attractive man/woman, traveling alone. You look at them and think, wow, there’re quite the eyeful. You think to yourself that maybe the hands of fate and almighty powers will send this person to sit next to you, where you find out when you start talking they share the same love and compassion for things you do; i.e. reading, long walks on beach, listening to Edith Pilaf while on lithium, learning sign language while bungee jumping, etc . . . and by this chance encounter you get of the plane together and as fate delays both your ongoing flights and coffee turns into dinner turns into dancing turns into 40 years of marriage and the best damn original love story since Gone with the Wind which almost never got made as Cary Grant was still smarting from the failure of his last costume drama, "Parnell" in 1937, but that my friends, is a tale for another time.

So arriving at gate 34, I saw her. Tall but not too tall, about 5 foot 11, long dark hair just down to her shoulders, leaned against the glass wall tapping her feet while reading a book. Back jeans, white shirt and brown jacket, and casual sneakers. A woman who takes priority in comfort over style has high points in my book. With a beautiful smile and fiercely deep eyes, and chewing on her hair looking at me as I walked past (almost into a couple pushing a trolley of what must be all the duty-free booze in the airport) with a delightful smirk of a grin, it seemed it would be a good flight.

So what happens after you board is that you sit in your seat, nonchalant, your iPod and book, (at this point I must mention the “Smart Book Theory”, which was presented to me by an old college friend, Jerome Davis. He believed you proportionally increased your chances of meeting people in places of transit, i.e. planes, trains or even train stations, buses and their stations, coffee shops, etc., if you held in your hands a novella that was unique due to its title, color, binding, or other individual facet that attracted the other person to you and your “unique” taste. Of course I argued that when meeting you the other person would start the conversation about that said book, but sadly that point was lost on Jerome. Looking at the alumni website now, Jerome still works at the travel agency in downtown Northbridge in Perth, and I believe his success rate is still a paltry 0.1%. A girl once approached him but mistook him for someone else.), minding your own business when walking down the aisle comes this said individual, when lo and behold, they sit next to you. You try and play cool, have an element of the Fonz with you and think of a witty way to start conversation with this person (who always smells just like they stepped out of the shower whilst you are already sweating from running through the terminal or catching your 4th flight in a row), when all of a sudden some goliath of a person, usually the opposite of your gender stands at your row and starts discussing something with your adjacent angel. Who is this person? And how dare they interrupt the flow of conversation that was waiting to be born and start flowing? It turns out that they are sadly the practical form of reality, here to tell the person sitting next to you that they are in the wrong seat and should actually be sitting 5 rows down. The attractive man/woman (who could in all forms of parallel universe realities be the love of your life) smiles at you politely, in the kindest smile one can muster having had a 2 minute relationship with no dialogue, and walks away. I don’t think I need to explain who takes their seat. Now one could argue here that you could get up, walk over to where that person was seating now, and start up a conversation with them. I unfortunately, lack that element of soul called courage, at least in these matters, and am relegated to disappointment and turning up the music as loud as possible in drowning up the regret singing in my mind. So such was the flight into Doha.

So straight into the office I dove right into the presentations I was there to go through, and 7 hours later I left to go check in. Now with the Four Seasons full (which I must mention has the best rain showers outside of the ones at the Bali Hyatt), I was put up at the Movenpick Suite Tower. I was very impressed with the room, especially with the amount of upgrading Movenpick has been going through the last four years, in a strategic move to redefine the brand as people know it to a more upscale hotel chain. This my friends, is definitely a step in the right direction. The rooms remind me of a very modern and clean look, something I remember seeing at Park Hyatts back in the day. The room had a nice 32inch Samsung LCD, and though not a fan of the brand it’s always nice to get an aesthetically pleasing piece of equipment in the room. The colors are warm and welcoming, and interesting enough similar to that I have in my bedroom back room, which I don’t know was funny or just freaky.

The view from the 19th floor was quite nice, though the towers of the Four Seasons Hotels blocked some of it, it was still a good view of the harbor surrounding Doha. Now what I loved here, was the pillows. Pay close attention people, and pay VERY close attention hoteliers and motel owners. This is what hotel pillows should look like. Fluffly. Inviting. Soft. Incredibly oversized. These were pillows that when you sunk your head into them you just wanted to sleep and sleep and sleep. I absolutely loved them, and have to say I have two of the best nights sleep that I’ve had in a long time thanks to those pillows.

After some rest and a nice hot shower, (rain shower was there but nothing special), I decided to go the City Center mall to take a look around and pick up some things from the supermarket. I usually hate sitting in the hotel room and always prefer to travel around in the city I’m in. So while I’m there I decide to stop in Carrefour, the ubiquitous stop for buying mass random stuff. After some wanderings, and failed attempt to locate a Nintendo DS, (they only had pink ones), I came across the chips section. Now I’ve been a Pringles fan for many years now, though I’ve tried to eat healthy now since quitting smoking it’s been a while since I’ve seen the smiling mustache man. Who is this man anyways? Why does he have only a mustache and eyebrows? Why am I the only one concerned with these questions? So I came across this flavor that I’ve never seen before. Light Aromas Paprika with a touch of Olive Extract. What the HELL is that? What happened to good old Original? To Salt & Vinegar? To even Sour Cream & Onion? Nevertheless, I bought one to try. I also picked up some Poppa Dums, from some random generic brand I never heard of. Hey, if they can fit poppadums in a can, who am I to complain? If it up to me, I would eat poppadums or parper with every meal I had. So trying the Pringles, one word comes to mind as I taste the sprinking of paprika with a touch of olive extract. Crap. If people wanted the taste of Pringles transformed into this pseudo healthy Mediterranean like version of plastic, they would ask for it. And I’m pretty sure they didn’t. Verdict 2 out of 10. The poppadums didn’t fare to well either. With such boasts on the bottom such as no cholesterol, no yeast, no preservatives, they should have also added no taste. Now as much as it’s probably good that it’s not deep fried as the original is, so much of the oily aftertaste along with that crisp aroma is lost. As a slight memento to remind of me of my nani’s cooking, maybe, but as a confident companion to Indian food, sadly the verdict 4 out of 10. After going to the gym to kill myself on the rowing machine for a while, and a quick dinner later, I started plugging away on the laptop finishing up adjustments to some presentations.

Now I’m a big fan of comfort food and giving in to your cravings, and at around 1:30am I had this intense craving for a banana split. Now what I’ve always loved, (and to be honest, who doesn’t?), is Room Service. A 20 second phone call later, through which I asked the chef on duty to make the mother of all banana splits, this arrived. Now THAT is a banana split, and something to make calorie watcher split their pants. Literally. Hey what the hell, you only live once right?

The next day after long meetings I decided to walk along the Corniche, which was quite full around 6:30pm when I set out. Unfortunately Dubai doesn’t have one, whilst Abu Dhabi has a great cornice one can walk around. Here I took the chance to take some shots again, experimenting with my camera. It’s a beautiful area to walk, and I regretted not coming with my running shoes and relegated only to walking. The weather was still cool and breezy, allowing for a multitude of people going about their daily activities, lovers hand in hand, local Qatari woman covered from head to toe in Nikes and Reeboks exercising, muscle bound spandex wearing runners flying past that never ending finish line, and simple me, walking without rhyme or reason.

Here are some pics of the random walk of the corniche.

Look at what he's wearing as he's "not" swimming:

And one of the greatest things I've seen in a long time:

What a beautiful, varied world we live in.

Clarté

Joyeux anniversaire mon lapin bête!

Block My Tongue

What I absolutely love.

Having spent the last hour trying to fix the language translation option on the blog.

Re-reading through HTML (from what I remember) and scouring the web for forums and samples.

Trying to repost, test, repost, test, again and again.

Trying every bloody possible service from Google to Alta Vista.

Then finding out that Etisalat blocks translation sites and the translated site can't be accessed.

Right . . .

And you're then brought to the page here that all of as in UAE know oh so well . . .

WHY? How does this offend any religious, cultural, political or moral values here??

Am I missing something here??

First of all, as some of you may know, Etisalat, the Emirates' chief telecom and Internet provider, and don't be a smart-ass and even bring up Du, (Ask Ali, he'll tell ya alla about it) blocked Skype and other Internet phone providers, on the completely logical argument that they had no license to sell phone service. Etisalat's profits have been sky rocketing since then. Like other Voice over Internet Protocol systems, Skype breaks sounds into data packets just like e-mail and Web traffic and reassembles them at the recipient's end. What happens then is that the VOIP calls are much cheaper because they travel over the open Internet and don't tie up dedicated circuits like regular phone calls.

"People don't understand the harm of a provider that has no obligations to this country," said Mohammed Ghuaith, director of technology for the Emirates Telecommunication Regulatory Authority. "Are the conversations secure? Are they being recorded? Will they steal information? Will they sell it? These are the things we need to look at.'

What I don't get at all, why really use the word obligation? Obligation to what? Security? Are you serious? What about the Internet overall, regular and cell phone lines? What about that security? Skype is the ultimate threat in Dubai?? Shouldn't there be an alert status raised? It's so bloody ridiculous I can't even begin to explain the frustrations I share with many people here. There are so many people here who (throwing in a 'new' word here) globally use this Estonian-based VoIP and shouldn't have to be controlled and regulated by monopoly telecoms!

This pisses me because people don't only use Skype for the low prices, but also for the conference/messaging medium which has contributed to successful meetings and synchronization of business operations. I fell in love with it when I first started, and it's idiotic one can't use it at work or home.

So for now . . . if your engrish no gud, my apologies, until I find a way around. Sometimes living here is like a George Orwell fantasy . . .

Bond versus Twins of Plastic

So this afternoon trying to take a break from the madness at work, reading the paper, I see some very disturbing news.

VERY DISTURBING.

Pay attention here.

Olsen Twins considered for new Bond Girls

WHAT? Has Barbara Broccoli lost her mind?? Now granted, I was a bit hesitant when they announced Daniel Craig for the 21st Bond movie, and a actually glad I ignored the fray that was flying around up till the movie's release. I was very impressed, and really enjoyed his foray into the world of 007. He really brought back like into a sadly dying franchise that's been exploding on with bigger stunts (Surfing a giant wave in Die Another Day? Which if you didn't know, Laird Hamilton was the stunt double), and retarded gadgets (The invisible Aston in again, Die Another Day), to disguise the fact that it's run out of fresh ideas. What I did enjoy is that he acts with an actor's skill, an athlete's grace and that dangerous edge that slams in your face that Bond, James Bond, is back and not messing around. Definitely more brutal and classic action scenes. For a more laid-back look, he was also in the multiple Oscar winning Lara Croft: Tomb Raider, where he plays Alex West, an American archaeologist with the worst possible accent ever. Flicking through that movie the other day again made me think he didn't even make a ripple, scary in a movie of that extreme caliber . . . Now that he's redeemed himself, in a related nice surprise, when I bought my PS3 there was an offer to get a free Blu-Ray of Casino Royale which was very cool. Need to do a review of my Blu-Ray discs soon too!

One of the things I really dug was Eva Green as Vesper Lynd, the sultry British treasury operative sent to stake Bond at the poker tables, who lifts her role to a solid performance. I would marry this woman in a heartbeat. The train scene in which Bond and Vesper attempt to guess each other's past balances the fine sense of humor with romantic honesty. She was fantastic in Bertolucci's "The Dreamers", and though not as good was also in "Kingdom of Heaven". Rather odd I don't seem to meet women like this in my life . . . is it location? Maybe I must spend more time in Monaco, Montpelier, or some random classical place.

Did I mention how amazing Eva Green is?

Anyways, the yet to be named 22nd 007 film will feature again Daniel Craig, while apparently they're looking at the 20-year old twins, Mary-Kate and Ashley. Hollywood executives (code for blood-sucking leeches) are said to be in talks with producers to co-star in the latest 007 installment. WHAT? What part of any of their history makes people think they can act? Let alone be part of the Bond legacy? Was it their 'make you want to pluck your eyes out' classic "New York Minute"? Or the equally 'I would rather stick my face in the microwave' intriguing "To Grandma's House Here we Go"? And please, there's a lot more . . . Apparently in order to seal the deal, the super-intelligent producers have offered the super-duper twins a contract clause which states no nudity or sex scenes will be required from the pair. Apparently their role in the film will solely be to help Bond with the mission. (They're 20. In what universe can they help him? Make funky rainbow coloured charm bracelets to give to the kids of the bad guys he kills?)

There's word now that Carice van Houten and Abbie Cornish are rumored to play Bonds possible sexual interests in the film. Did some research, Carice is some random Dutch actress I sure as hell have never heard of. She recently acted in a movie called "Black Book", directed by none other than Paul Verhoeven. He's a guy I never really understood. He makes the following awesome movies; "Robocop", "Total Recall", "Basic Instinct", and then showed up with "Showgirls" (WTF??) and then the cult classic "Starship Troopers". I don't even want to talk about "Hollow Man". Anyways, so he says about her in a television interview: "Never in my life I have worked with an actress this talented," and when asked to compare her with Sharon Stone he says: "Carice can really act".The international press is also enthusiastic about her role in Black Book as some random schmuck Dick Schümer writes in his review of the film in the Frankfurter Allgemeine that Carice van Houten is " . . .not only more beautiful, but also a better actress than Scarlett Johansson". Okay . . .

Did I talk about how stunning Eva Green is? Did I hint at that? Slightly?

As for Abbie Cornish, it's first of all an odd name. Besides that, she's some other Auzzie actress, but was in "The Golden Age" that just came out, and "A Good Year" with good old Russell 'Throw ma phone at you mate' Crowe.Completely random. I'm all for finding new talent and propelling them to semi-stardom but please, for the love of all that is holy and right, no Olsen twins ok? Besides, do they really need all the publicity and money? Forget all your pubescent fantasies, (now they're not teenagers anymore), they're not even that pretty, (I don't even come close to liking bimbo blonds), and sure as schinola can't act. Maybe in a plot twist that would please many viewers Bond can tie them to their millions of DVDs, perfumes, clothes, pencils, nuclear power plants, CDs, books, and other 'we're cute and innocent propaganda' stuff and let them sink to the bottom of the Atlantic.

Now THAT I would wait in line to see.

And by the way, Eva Green rocks.