Liquid/LC100

Marwan Is Dead.

2007-06-04T13:57:00.000-07:00

That is all.

This blog will self destruct in 30 days.

Ripped from my Chrysalis

2007-01-08T02:27:00.000-08:00

The long hibernation is drawing to a close.

After seven long, unfulfilling years as first mate, I'm stepping down, quitting the ship that I helped build. Nary a tear in the office as I depart, but sometimes gratitude - however fleeting the sentiment - is too much to expect. No matter. Media degree in hand, I'm stepping out, raw pink, into the job market to offer myself up to the encircling sharks of this, my adopted land.

Writing my CV now - but how does one enscapsulate seven years? Not the slightest bit of media experience which a prospective employer might be interested, but goddamn if I haven't done everything else. It's almost hard to remember it all. Just think of every job that can be done in a trading company, and you'd have my unwritten-CV in a nutshell.

Office boy? Check. Did accounts for two years. Management? Check, ran the business alone on several occasions, and this year I finally achieved my dream of running a stall at GITEX solo. (Which based on my comprehensive reports, turned into a bit of a nightmare but oh well..)
Ran techical support throughout - I can safely say I'm one of the best troubleshooters in Dubai, and peerless when it comes to fixing older systems (which is oh-so-useful these days, one supposes).

Ability to work under pressure? We used to build a hundred systems in Jebel Ali for shipment the next day. Doesn't seem impressive? Let me make that live for you. The previous evening, my team would ship in all the raw components, and arrange them under my assembly line procedures, designating each builder an area of responsibility. The next day, we worked from dawn till dusk, hammering and screwing together computers till our fingers bled (not an exaggeration). But that wasn't the end of it - all the PCs had to be packed, sealed, marked and transported to the warehouse. Which for the two people was often quite the job. And of course, the next day, we had to haul the stuff out of the warehouse and into the hot sweaty container - along with ooh, the six hundred or so other boxes which made up a typical shipment.

All this is in addition to finding the time to go to Melbourne and finishing my degree in Media and Communications.

But how much is relevant to the PR/Advertising/Marketing/Car Magazine that I'd like to join? Precious little, one suspects. They want people who've been in the industry and understand the way that it works, not somebody coming from a totally different background with utterly no experience.

It's a hurdle I have no choice but to overcome.

Ends And Odds+ GITEX aka A Very Special Episode, Day Seven Of Seven.

2006-12-11T14:10:00.000-08:00

By now, I guess most of you have realised that that I put quite literally, no thought into these posts. Despite this painstaking attention to carelessness, occasionally a few things left undone, and such is it with my last couple of posts. To wit:

Re: crabby birthday blues: suffering from bouts of OCD and depression. And I don't use the word 'suffering' as lightly as do some expats; this isn't a disease or an illness where you either conk or one day, the clouds magically part in your hospital window and all is well. This is your own mind methodically constructing a prison using jagged shards of memory and paranoia as cement.

The last day of GITEX, was an absolute, unmitigated tsunami of customers. What I thought were heavy crowds on every day prior, equated to the toilet line on Friday. Jesus, Mary and That Other stoner-looking Dude from Arramatiah, that was some lineup. The aisles became a mosh pit. Conversely, we had so many extra staff on the inside of the stall that I was forced on the out, trying to grab the attention of stray passerbys.

Bottom line, we had really good sales. And then - nothing. Everybody vanished. But no matter, for that brief, halcyon moment, we had sales so tremendous it almost made the shitty thing worthwhile.

After the blitz subsided, I toured the stalls to see if there were any of those famous last minute deals. You betcha. Eager to avoid carting stock to showrooms, many dealers were chopping hundreds off their margin to raise cash. One even went so far as to stage a mock auction for notebooks, although one suspects they had quite a few ringers in the crowd to make sure they didnt lose too much - if at all.

In the central spot between the halls, one bunch was still persisting with 'karaoke' (make air quotes please, that was not singing) while the other hall, filled with teenage salespeople, had become Bluetooth Date Central.

What of God? I don't know - halfway through the evening, she disappeared, never to return. I had found my courage, too late. No matter. I've seen that face for nearly a decade, and I'm pretty sure I'll see it again. But what I have learnt from the whole debacle is that I'm still not anywhere near ready for a relationship with a real, three dimensional human being. A lot of that is maybe because I try to out think women, to predict their next move. to treat their emotions like revs on a tacho, that start in one place and proceed up to a fix. But that ain't how women are, and I need to start to ascribing to them the complexity with which I purport to credit myself.

PS: I had originally planned to publish a gallery of photographs I took during the exhibition, detailing many of the absurdities which accompany something as gonzo as GITEX. After much thought, I decided against it - there are people in those images who were neither aware they were being photographed, nor would they have been likely to consent to such a recording. So, so much for that.

Yay, Another Birthday

2006-12-09T23:55:00.000-08:00

What a wretched day it was, twenty six years ago, the day that I was born.

GITEX Aka What's Love Got To Do, Got To Do With IT? Day Six of Seven.

2006-11-23T15:02:00.000-08:00

La Commedia Finale, as they say (when badly Babelfish translated). Just 24 hours to go and then I'll be done, forever and ever, with this GITEX and the entire friggin IT industry.

An uneven day. Sales were flatline by midday, but suddenly stormed back into contention by evening. By 4pm we had covered, in half a day, all of yesterday's gross. With customers flooding the place, I sent all our guys out for the quickest of lunches so we could be ready for the expected Thursday rush, which every stall had been nattering on about since the beginning.

But ma cherie, it was not to be. Over the next four hours we sold sweet fuck all. Barely a couple of grand even, and despite lots of movement hardly any inquiries. I, for reasons best left unexplained, had less than four hours of sleep last night, so till evening I was woozy as all hell. Every couple of hours I had to sneak out to the van to take some powernaps. Not that they did any good, but it was either that or fall asleep on the counter.

So we were looking forward to 9 0'clock then. Jesus, colour us surprised then, when the organisers walk up and tell us the show has been extended to midnight by popular demand. An extra three hours. Would it be the straw that broke the camel's back?

Would it, bollocks. From nine to eleven thirty we had barely *four* customers. I'm not proud to admit it, but there you go. What the heck happened? In search of answers, I moseyed down to Hall 1, and discovered a partial explanation. As it turns out, there is no exit from the expo except through Hall 2. However, the customers don't know that, and without knowing that there are two Halls, complete their shopping and try to leave, only to be directed through our butt end of nowhere.

So, all the customers we get have already done all their shopping and just want to leave. Brilliant, Trade Centre. Mind you, what should we expect from them - these guys didn't even announce the extension, so our hall was quiet as a coffin by ten thirty. Not so with Hall one, where customers were still shuffling around, picking up stuff. Gee, I'm not bitter or anything, at all.

Same deal tomorrow, as well: 3pm till midnight. Unfortunately, there's a pretty good chance that it will be a full house all the way tomorrow, so I'd better get some sleep. But not before...

Our GOD update: Well, shit. I finally made with the friendly with one of the stall lackeys. Who confirmed pretty much none of my suspicions. She's just one more hired hand, and a young one at that - 21, for pete's sake. Couldn't find out if she's really married or not, but she was moseying up real friendly like to one of the other stall hands - this real slick, oily haired grease ball. Well, at least that's the way I see him right now, who knows what he's really like.

So maybe all this time I had a shot, and I never took it because I was too tied up in old memories. They say you learn from past failures to avoid future pitfalls, but what the hell happens when all you do is live in the past, paralysed to take any action in fear of failure? What the hell becomes of you then?

Maybe it just means I'm finally growing up, ten years too late. Or that perhaps I should take a sledgehammer to this eggshell I've erected around my ego. Either way, something has to be done.

Because doing nothing is no longer an option.

GITEX Aka The Straight Story: Days Four through Five of Seven

2006-11-22T15:44:00.000-08:00

No, I didn't forget to write yesterday, but not a lot happened really, and I'm trying to avoid repeating myself.

Needless to say, today more than made up for it. Let's get the heavy stuff out of the way first.

First off, I made the huge mistake of abandoning my absolutely awesome parking space *right next to the entrance* in the exhibitor car park to go back to the shop and restock. Bad enough that it took one and half hours to make the round trip, but on my return a car space couldn't be had for love or money.

What incredibly shortsighted planning by the organisers, who have three huge car parks but close one off to VIPs, who never seem to show up, leaving what must be at least thousands of visitors scrounging around for a space. You want to have a cheap laugh, wander around the car park with your remote and hide in a suitable location, then whack the unlock key. Chortle with amusement as the hapless shoppers double up by your car and desperately crane their necks looking for an approaching driver. One doesn't even need to be that covert - just walk around with your keys out and prepare to be everyone's best friend.

But back to my story. Rather than circling near the entrance end of the car park like the everyone else, I decided to go in the hinterland of the other end.
Now, I'll try to relate this as fairly as possible - but pardon me if some anger creeps in.

From the outer circle, I had just turned into one of the empty inner lanes. Dawdling along in my van in second gear, the nose of a Merc appeared from behind a large van. I surged up to him, put my indicator on and waited patiently till he left to park. This is really important to know - I didn't see anyone else around. Job well done, I dismounted my really quite filthy van and turned in the direction of the exhibition center, when a white Infiniti FX35 with a tricksy looking plate and a fat VIP badge hauls up. Cue tinted window dropping, and two locals inside. The driver beckons to me.
Figuring he needs some directions or something, I walk up.
"How you came here?", he asks. Huh? I drove here from the entrance. Nonplussed, he keeps repeating the question, and I keep repeating the answer.
"You cannot come this way." What? How? I had no idea what he was talking about. He insists that I "explain how I got here."
Now, you should know, this was 3:30 in the afternoon and the sun was against me when I turned into this lane. As I turned around to see the way I came, it became obvious that I turned the wrong way down a one way lane.
Ah, Ok, I agreed. Looks like I goofed. I explained I couldn't see the faded arrows on the road in the reddish afternoon light. By this point, I was wondering who this fellow was. Copper? Nah, all of them were on the main road. CID? Here? Policing traffic? He had some sort of exhibitor badge on but I couldn't read what it said.
But he was adamant that I had made a mistake. And what's more - and here's the fucking kicker - he insisted that I remove my car from the slot as penalty. Oooh, but insisting would be a nice way of putting it. What actually happened is that he waved his finger, turned his face away and said - as you would to a dog - 'Remove your car."
Remove your car. He repeats again, in a tone that suggests he is not used to being disobeyed. He adds he was waiting in the lane for a long time - even though I never saw him - and he was saving the spot for a "friend".

Here's where intelligent Marwan and coward Marwan separate. Intelligent Marwan thinks, well, he's not a cop. It's his word against mine that I broke any rules. No witnesses. And even if I did travel the wrong way up a one way street, that hardly entitles him to my hard earned parking spot.

Ah, but coward Marwan squeaks, you have no wasta. That's a lowish plate. If he wants to start trouble, not hard for you to be the loser. And you look like a driver, not the owner of a stall. Not that that should be a crime - I'm out here doing a job like everyone else. But if he wants the spot - give it to him. That's how things work out here.

I honestly don't remember what I said next. I tried reasoning with him but to no avail. To him, I was no more than an insect. So what does one do?

I gave it to him. I pulled out and drove off. Because that's the way things work out here. Because the colour of my skin does not entitle me to a rejoinder. Maybe I don't even blame him - bullies are used to being listened to, and I capitulated like a right fairy. I think I am ashamed of myself more than anything else - ashamed of not standing up for my rights as a person, ashamed of the colour of my skin, ashamed of the way things work out here.

You know what, fuck it, there ain't anything else left to say about today. It was that shitty a day.

* GOD Updates: Christ, can I get away from this woman? Look, I'm honestly doing my best to avoid her. For the love of pete, her booth is on the opposite side of the stall from mine. And I'm usually looking the other way anyhoo. But heavens to Murgatroyd, everytime I turn my head there she is. Either she's parked at the back of her stall looking in my direction, or she's taking a break and walking past my area.

Goddamn my nerd genes. What's more, I've just realised something. Whenever she looks in my direction, I instinctively jerk my head away so there can't be any eye contact. Ok, I know why I do that, but way to go Marwan - that doesn't look suspicious or pervy at all! Aack. Fuckity Fuck Fuck. I feel like I am in a rapidly contracting Iron Maiden of my own creation. I know nothing at all about this girl, who she is, what she does, or if she even notices my bald ass at all and yet I find myself trying to hide from her at every oppurtunity.

Which wouldn't be that hard, you'd think, in a freaking EXHIBITION HALL. But nope. It's like crush zen radar - everywhere I look my eyes seem to find her. I go to my van to get stock, there she is parked on the curb talking to her friend from ShDG. Walk out of the stall to look for laptops, turn around, and she's fucking right behind me. No jokes, my heart musta moved a couple of centimeters out of place.

You're a fucking idiot, Marwan, and you're too old for this adolescent shit. If you could deal - or at the very least, communicate - with all those girlfriends before, then what is so fucking hard about this one anonymous girl? Is it that I'm just intimidated by how beautiful she is? In five days, I've never even been close enough to hear her speak.

For fucks sake, says my tired cynical half, do something or shut up already. Yeah, what, Trigger, says suddenly-sarcastic sappy romantic remainder. Open lips and let tongue do the walking, says cynic.
But what if it's the wrong thing? worries Cyrano De Marwan.

It's never the right thing. All you can be is yourself.

But what if myself isn't what good enough?

Well, then maybe it wasn't supposed to work out. But you gotta take a risk.

But she's married!

You don't know that for sure. Where's the husband? No phone calls. No overt signs of an other.

Left Freaking Hand, Genius! Hard to fuck up that analysis.

Heyyy...aren't I supposed to be the mean bastard?

Uhh, oh yeah. Anyhoo, what do I do?

T-A-L-K to her.

Easy for you to say.

Loser. Confidence is for winners.

Yeah and based on today's parking special episode, I've got real podium potential, don't I?

There you go again with the negativity.

Fuck it, nigger. Romance is dead.

GITEX aka I Wanna Be Sedated: Day Three of Seven

2006-11-20T12:29:00.000-08:00

Marwan has a splitting fucking headache today from being exposed to 11 ELEVEN - hours of bass from the JVC car stereo truck. Not to mention everyone else who wanted to show off their fart cannon subwoofers. So there will be no update today, besides the following:

The pressure is ramping up quickly- and we were caught understaffed. Unrelenting waves of customers from 11AM to closing time are starting to take their toll.
Saw a young girl (pre adolescent) in a 'Sexy - Hot - Available' T-shirt. Sigh. The decline of humanity is surely underway.
Locals still leading the pack as educated consumers. Indian expats are conspicuous in their absence. I can only assume it's because money is tight.
Watching people play Guitar Hero isn't as fun as one might think. It's like being lightly paddled on the soles of your feet.
Speaking of basic torture, no God updates. I think my imagination is starting to play up, because I almost swore I saw her looking at me.

Man, I really need to get over that girl.

GITEX: Aka Nigger, We Just Getting Started Up In Here, Day Two of Seven.

2006-11-19T14:05:00.000-08:00

A day of highs and lows.

The morning was so utterly dull I was considering packing in the whole enterprise. From 11AM to 4PM, there wasn't a person walking around who wasn't dangling an exhibitor badge from their lapel. It's only to be expected, I guess. Today is a working day, after all. But goddamnit, aren't there supposed to be overseas visitors?

Words simply can't express how dire things were. Nearly five hours of standing around without a single sale can wear down a soul mighty quick. Sure enough, most of my guys were soon either entrenched at the cafeteria or wandering around in search of things to do.

It did afford me time for more of my Patented Marwan Scrutiny (PMS for all you acronym fans):

Exhibitors will do just about anything to stave off boredom. Newspapers, menus, address books - everything and anything makes good reading matter.
How do these kids do it? I'm fagged out and haggard after a mere two days, but these tousled Archies and Veronics turn up every day looking like they swished off a fashion ramp. It's not just the morning either - evening arrives and they're still putting the Energizer bunny to shame while I'm slumped over my printers looking for all the world like the lost piece from Cluedo.
Not much time to look at GOD today, thankfully. Fuck me, I need to find some goldarn closure soon or I'm going to be saddled with this for all eternity. Although heaven knows what this poor girl is thinking with me staring away at her all day.

Which brings me neatly to post 4PM and the start of the evening rush. Who should turn up to sample Guitar Hero at the neighbouring stall but a white lass from i-Mate, with unseasonably good legs and a reasonable bum to boot. Pity her face wasn't anything to write home about.

For some reason, though, the fact that a white girl was playing Guitar Hero seemed to draw a crowd. Of mostly Arab and Indian Expats. I struggle to think of a time when I have been less impressed with my fellow man. Are we so shallow that we will stare at anything in a skirt? Being uber-geek that I am, I was more interested in the killer scores she was racking up in GH. Probably the only one though.

You have no idea how annoying it is that you can't bring your own food in. The sole cafeteria, as I've mentioned earlier, is ridiculously overpriced and mightily limited in seating. Ah, you say, but why not pop out for a bite?

That brings me neatly to my next point - Airport Expo has shit all for parking. Oh sure, morning is fine when the exhibitors rock up, but by nightfall it's a mess of practically Global Village proportions. Get on it, DWTC - it does nothing for your image when traffic cops are forced to direct the frustrated shoppers.

Speaking of frustrations, it burns that all the good, frontal space is taken by the big boys. They've used so much real estate for useless displays, most of which have little to no connection with the computing world. While here we are with honest-to-goodness compy goodness and nobody knows where the hell we are, situated so expertly as we are next to the toilets. Kentia Hall, your Middle Eastern twin is East Hall, Airport Expo.

That's all she wrote for today. Things are looking grim, boys and girls. We started off salespeople - but now we're just plain old hustlers. Pretty soon we'll be down to grifting.

GITEX: Aka Purgatory. Day One Of Seven.

2006-11-18T13:07:00.000-08:00

Will do my best to keep this current, but you gotta know, running a stall is tricky y'all.

Debated whether to put up pictures from the show, but am erring on the side of caution. People turn up in the shot wherever you look.

10AM: Exhibitors milling about. Most stalls still unfinished. We're finishing up ours up; now it's a process of weeding out all the little things we forgotten. Pens, big shortage. Same goes for pricing sheets. Sent driver back to get these, plus miscellaneous stock.

11AM: Show starts! And...nothing. No noise, nothing at all to signify GITEX is underway. Early crowds are disappointing, to say the least. No sales yet.

11:15AM: Whoops, spoke too soon. GITEX organisers buy a printer off us. But they won't pay for it till evening. Doh!

12PM: Customers still thin on the ground, but getting lots of enquiries now. Funnily enough, locals seem the most knowledgeable about their purchases; it's the expats who bombard you with pointless interrogation and wear you out.

1PM: Three hours on my feet and blisters are starting to make their entrance. But no chance of a reprieve - there's just two stools in our stall. One's used by the accountant and the other must be shared among five people. I let the helper take it, he's running around like a blue arsed fly.

2PM: Shortages! Everyone seems to want the same product at the same time, so now we're out of portable HDDs. Big ticket stuff like LCDs are absolutely stuck, but little crap like speakers and mid range VGA cards are shifting well.
I'm really tired by now. Breakfast was a single Spinneys cookie. We're right next to the sole cafe, but everything is really, really overpriced - 5Dhs for a undersized can of Miranda!
Necessity being the mother of invention and all that, I send the staff out to eat lunch in our van at staggered intervals. It's crappy restaurant fare - rice and God knows what for curry - but it'll have to do. I save myself for last because I have to handle the till while the accountant dude goes for his lunch.

3PM: Accountant still not back from lunch. My ankles are on fire, but I get no respite from the customers. My expensive items are still selling crappily, but overall sales are up. That little nugget keeps me going ever so slightly.
Personal note sidetrack: The stall opposite sells videogames. Without giving too much away - think 'KG' upside down.
Anyway, the demo guy is banging away at Guitar Hero. One wonders how bright an idea this was - put FIFA '07 on display and I guarantee boffo sales from locals, but how many expats do you know here who want to RAAWWWK? Don't really see a lot of locals doing the karaoke shuffle to Nazareth and Black Sabbath. Doesn't stop me instantly wanting a PS2 and Guitar Hero though...
But the chick. Oh lordy lord, the chick. She's selling PSPs on the other side, and she is the spitting fuckin' image of the first girl I ever fell in love with. Now, let's pause for reflection here. Here I am, busting my ass trying to move boxes. And right opposite is the figurative, literal, living breathing girl of my dreams. And she'll be there for one whole week.

Jesus H Christ.

Concentrate, Laddy. And hope she bops over to the other side, out of sight, or I'll be so addled I'll be giving shit away for free.

4PM: WHERE THE FUCK IS MY ACCOUNTANT? I haven't eaten a damn thing, and the feet are jonesying for an impeachment. Haven't even had a chance to walk around, such is the general rush. At least Girl Of Dreams (GOD) isn't on my side anymore, going back to her area on the opposite side. Not that I haven't been making plans.
Man, I'm rusty at this shit. What do I say? Do I pretend to be making inquiries? Or should I be bold and ask her out for a cup of coffee? Crap, getting turned down would be bad because it's only like the first frikking day. And does it in any way constitute sexual harassment?

5PM: Dad turns up with Free Mind in tow. The rush is dying off a bit, but now I'm no longer hungry. Neither is my accountant, the garrulous sod. So I decide to tough it out for a bit longer.
Some general notes: We are one of literally a handful of shops. Virtually all the space is taken up by the giant chains like Plugins or Jumbo. The trouble is, they all seem to be selling the same consumer level pap, so they are cannabalizing each other's sales. So we, who sell only computer stuff - which, you know used to be the point - are carving out a little niche. Only a teeny one mind you, but it's there. It helps that we know our products well enough to be able to explain them, which is more than I can say for the big chains and their hordes of untrained, rushed-in-service sales staff.
Speaking of sales staff, a great deal appear to be college age youngsters. You can easily spot the go getters from the dullards - they're the ones who aren't afraid to run up to people and talk to them. But man, where are these kids coming from? I haven't seen so much youth since, since - well, since I was in college nearly ten years ago.
GOD update: Sent Free Mind on a perilous mission to find out what her name tag says. He returns with cloudy tidings: 'Sales Executive'. Hmm. Unimaginative parents, what.

6-7PM: Another rush. Don't need food, need a fucking foot bath, stat!
I've got ten minutes off. Should I go to GOD and try to strike up a conversation? People, I'm a geek, not a lothario. This shit don't come easy to me. Aw, hell, had to make a go.
Sidle up to the stand. Nearly there. Jesus, she's taller than me. That's fine by me - no short ones please! But no opening. I'm just about to ask her for a PSP price, but am intercepted by her compadre. Godamnit - now I have to make small talk with him instead. Five fruitless minutes later, I return to my stand and my own personal hell.

7-8PM: Steady flow of customers now. At least none of that usual last minute crap, which is really wearing at the end of a long day, lemme tell ya. After the initial uncertainty, my stand is now operating like a well oiled er, um, thingy, I guess. Calling it a machine would still be a sizeable insult to any mechanised device.
GOD, GOD, what to do? Thinking about her has, I admit, alleviated some of the tedium of standing in the same spot for hours on end spitting out the same prices. But I can't do that for seven days! Need to come up with a plan....
Just as one isn't coming together, Free Mind's eagle eyes spot the bad news: she's got The Rock. Ouch, ouchy ouchy. Heart breaks in a million razor edged fragments, etc.
I think I need to sit down.

9:45: For fuck's sake, this was supposed to end at 9! GOD and her crew are covering up but we're still getting a few stragglers. I'm tempted to call it a day anyway.

10:15: Done and done. Day 1 is done, y'all! Next one won't be so long, because frankly, I don't anticipate anything significant. After all, what can top meeting GOD and losing her in the space of a single day?

Well, nothing I hope. Gotta drop Free Mind and the staff, go back to the office and do the accounts, find some darn food - I've still only had a cookie all day - and write this stupid entry.

Leaving on a Jet Plane

2006-11-09T04:51:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow, I leave Australia for good. Arriving back in Dubai to do another long stretch of three to four years. Gotta get a proper job, and other things.

Strange, to not have any feelings about leaving Oz. What an empty place, at least by my reckoning.

More when I get in.

Car Insurance claims from around the world

2006-11-08T09:51:00.000-08:00

Courtesy Top Gear Magazine.

Ireland:
In Tipperary one driver made claims on Dec 20 for a record eight years in a row. Explanations included, 'a duck', 'miscounted corners', 'another duck', 'a young lady who without braking I was attempting to photograph (see enclosed)'.

UK:
'Being told my mother-in-law would be staying another night caused me to brake violently.'
'I pulled away from the side of the road, glanced at my mother-in-law and headed over the embankment.'
One man claimed half a biro, which he'd used to take notes after an accident. The payout? A meagre 18p.

Germany:
A Dusseldorf man said 10 prostitutes set upon his car with fists and stilettos but could not say why.

Australia (the best ones):
'A Koala bear had entered the car and taken the brake off.'
'A bogong moth plague swooped down on the Mitsy (Mitsubishi) so I was doing figure of eights'.
'A pygmy possum in the glovebox caused my wife to scream and the noise gave me a stroke.'
'We gave a fairy penguin a lift and it became aggressive.'
'I was driving along when I saw two kangaroos copulating in the road, causing me to crash. I then evacuated through the sunroof.'

Quotations, by Marwan

2006-11-06T21:46:00.000-08:00

This post will be a a thought clearing house, like a blog pensieve.

Everyone wants to lead, if only someone would follow.
Failure is a prostitute on her knees before you - and she always swallows.

Choice Selections

2006-10-31T20:16:00.000-08:00

From the wikipedia entry on South Africa in the apartheid era:

"Sex and marriage between the races was prohibited. "

"Eligibility for a passport had, in any case, been difficult. A passport was a privilege, not a right, and the government saw fit not to grant many applications by blacks."

"...lack of opportunities for the races to mix in a social setting entrenched social distance between people."

"Proponents of apartheid argued that once apartheid had been implemented, blacks would no longer be citizens of South Africa; rather, they would become citizens of the independent "homelands". In terms of this model, blacks became (foreign) "guest labourers" who merely worked in South Africa as the holders of temporary work permits."

"While other countries were dismantling discriminatory legislation and becoming more liberal on issues of race, South Africa was continuing to construct a labyrinth of racial legislation."

"During the 1960s, 1970s and early 1980s, the government implemented a policy of 'resettlement', to force people to move to their designated 'group areas'."

"Chinese South Africans who were descendents of migrant workers who came to work in the gold mines around Johannesburg in the late 19th century, were usually classified as 'Indian' and hence 'non-white', whereas immigrants from Taiwan and Japan, with which South Africa maintained diplomatic relations, were considered 'honorary white', and thus granted the same privileges as whites. It should be noted that "Non-Whites" including Blacks were sometimes granted an 'honorary white' status as well, based on the government's belief that they were "civilised" and possessed western values."

" Punt Janson, the Deputy Minister of Bantu Education, was quoted as saying: "I have not consulted the African people on the language issue and I'm not going to. An African might find that 'the big boss' spoke only Afrikaans or spoke only English. It would be to his advantage to know both languages.""

My Silent Friends

2006-10-28T20:49:00.000-07:00

Aka, the people who visit this blog. I installed SiteMeter on a lark, but it's proved surprisingly interesting to discover who reads my occasional ramblings. The vast majority are from Dubai, of course, but let's have a lookie at some of the others:

Sydney, Australia - I know who that is!
Sunnybank, Queensland - population, 7325. Wow, that's kinda cool that a small town like that reads about stuff in Dubai, even if it was only for 41 seconds.
New York! Awesome. One day I will live there.
Billingham, Stockton-on-Tees. Birthplace of Tony Scott, when it's not bullying Sunnybank with its 80k+ residents.
Rishon LeZiyyon, Israel. Are Israelis allowed to visit UAE blogs?
Albertslund, Denmark. My masterminding of the cartoon riots from my secret Scandinavian fortress is revealed at last.
Birmingham, Alabama. Home of the funniest fictional paedophile male rapist sociopath ever.
Surbiton, Slough. Why can't I can't get away from Ricky Gervais?

Special thanks to the one guy who was directed here by Google after using the search terms - I shit you not - "She stripped for me, Moulin Rouge". Possibly the single least fulfilling click in search engine history.

Thanks to all who've turned up here/taken a wrong turn and read my spastic emissions in the last year and two months. A further special thanks to everyone who took the time to comment, regardless of content. You all made this a little worthwhile.

Even though there's only like five of you. Two of which are my friends. One of whom asked me to leave the UAE. And the other two probably looking for naked pictures of Satine.

Pathways to Adventure

2006-10-27T20:43:00.000-07:00

A reminder to all those Mirdiff-tractor owners out there that cars can do more than take you on expeditions to the mall.

Another Little Tick On Life's Checklist

2006-10-27T02:33:00.000-07:00

Finally, something worthwhile about living in Australia.

The Perils of Photography

2006-10-25T10:44:00.000-07:00

Or, good from far, but far from good.

To whit: in 2003, I was first smitten with Anna Umemiya. I don't quite know why, but it's a picture that stayed with me. Although one doesn't have to look too hard for more, ahem, extensive (and NSFW) photography involving the lovely Anna.

I'll settle for the pic above. Simple, honest, and yet somehow sexy.

But now.....

Gone. Everything is gone. Sob.
All it took was one closeup to turn her into a tranny.

Ramadan and the Free Zones

2006-10-22T17:33:00.000-07:00

My father runs a (very) small shipping company in Jebel Ali. The shipments we process are meant to only have a brief stopover in Dubai before being disseminated through the CIS. Timing is crucial; delayed shipments mean furious customers, delayed payments and reduced orders.

Unfortunately, Ramadan has thrown a hefty spanner into the mix.

Coming on the back of a dry summer, for 30 days we've had to contend with customs officers who seem barely able to lift their stamps. Their painful sloth has held up every shipment we've done, causing delays of not hours but weeks. Not just us: anyone who does anything with cargo has to get that damn stamp, and Customs randomly packs up during the day to go have a kip somewhere, it leaves all of us (who are fasting as well) with nothing to do but wait for them to come back.

My solution? Either put into place overtime incentives, or employs customs in shifts, so that fresh staff continously arrive. Shipping is a round the clock, round the year job.

It leads to my other point - the impact of Ramadan on businesses. Sure, it's nice to say we can all get a month off, but from the point of view of an employer it's utterly disastrous for productivity. Listless workers who do jack shit in the morning and are too stuffed post iftar to do more than waddle to the loo occasionally. Rinse and repeat for thirty days.

The problem is, the world doesn't fast. If you deal exclusively with the local market, it doesn't affect you in the least, but we have to process orders from all over the globe and they dont give a rats ass if you've eaten or not. Our commitment to global trade ensures we pay a double penalty for adhering to local custom.

This is, in any case, the worst time of year. With GITEX winging its way in and global demand starting to pick up, we're going to fall behind even further. Is Ramadan incompatible with the modern business world? Quite possibly.

Utterly Brilliant Toyota Commercial

2006-10-21T04:25:00.000-07:00

Toyotas are generally considered the apex of 'white-goods' cars, automobiles without the slightest hint of passion outside of utility. Well, here's an ad, entitled simply 'Human Touch' that will perhaps change that perception. It may even make you smile a little.

Major props to the boys at Glassworks who designed and conceived it.

Innovations

2006-10-06T03:22:00.000-07:00

So VW has come up with a self driving GTI. Those zany Germans have even named it the '53+1' - in homage to that other famous self-motivated German.

The concept is quite straightforward: the steering, brakes and DSG gearbox are linked to a central electronic brain, while sensors on the outer edge 'read' the surroundings and look for obstacles (kerbs, road markings, etc.). It can't exactly zip out onto the highway and start chasing down bad guys ala Knight Industries' finest: presently, the car can only work on predefined routes without other traffic to bother it.

It really is quite a sight to see: the car first 'sniffs' out the road, travelling at very low speeds studying the course. Once it's figured out where it's going - all hell breaks loose. The onboard system can then implement the fastest line around the track while wringing the bejesus out of the potent 150mph Golf. It's probably faster than most human drivers can manage: while we have insides to keep from venturing out for a looksee, the cold blooded automaton can drive on its doorhandles, pulling absurdly high gs.

Here's where Dubai comes in. When you mention 'traffic accident' here, most people's eyes glaze over, haunted by that matt black Range hanging an inch off their bumper trying to give them a proctology exam. In reality, most of the day-to-day accidents are of the non fatal variety, caused by tired and/or distracted drivers failing to provide that last second of attention before the almighty shunt. These are the accidents which cause innumerable traffic snarlups and waste the time of millions, while keeping our doctors happy dispensing blood pressure pills.

Now doesn't the Golf seem a good idea? Before the enthusiasts start decrying Big Brother - let's think about it rationally for a second. Who really enjoys driving on the highways? Or the cities, for that matter? Wouldn't it be great if all the cars were able to communicate with each other, traffic flowing along in perfect lock-step? Want to change a lane, dip your indicator: the adjacent car would slow down right smartly and let you in, because a computer doesn't have ego. Tap your destination into your sat nav, kick back with your Buddha Bar CD and chat on your cellphone to your heart's content: everything's being taken care of.

Of course, the big part about owning a car is the personal freedom it affords you. Most people will grumble about being denied the liberty to choose the best possible route, or the simple joy of driving. I'm an enthusiast, but most people simply aren't interesting in driving ecstasy - they want to get from A to B, where sometimes A & B aren't reachable by public transport. So this solution would work for most people - get in - engage drive - get there - get out. If you live for the fiddly joy of piloting your cruise missile, have a killswitch which returns control, or designate certain roads human driver only. Somehow, I have a feeling there won't be that much demand for the latter.

This is Automotive Enlightenment, and it's coming faster than we think. The sooner drivers get on board and start intelligently engaging the issues which trap us in hours of traffic daily, the sooner we'll all have less to complain about.

Short Cuts - Wings Hauser Edition

2006-10-05T21:32:00.000-07:00

Superman Returns: If there's one thing Bryan Singer knows, it's how to nail those iconic shots, those poses and camera angles when Superman rises beyond his 4-colour origins and assumes almost-mythical proportions. The rising score envelopes you in a tide of warmth, you join the fictional public in the film in laying tribute to what is a truly a God among men.
And for whom, unfortunately, feet of clay come standard. Cripes, could this have been any longer? And what's with Emo Super Jesus? Either he's hovering over earth, in his ready-crucifix mode, or he's moping around stalking Lois (the new, impossibly young edition). For a film ostensibly about the mother of all heroes, everybody sure seems depressed.
Let's not talk about Kevin 'Gene Hackman wasn't campy enough, but let me add this pinch of sadism' Spacey. Or the fact that 'Super'man's almighty power seems to consist of nothing more than lifting progressively heavier objects.

Crank: My head hurts after watching this film. Amy Smart, call me.

My Super Ex Girlfriend: Uma, call me first. Clingy sounds good.

Grosse Point Blank: Nostalgia never sounded so good. Weary, cynical listless GenXers, recognise John Cusack is your messiah.

The Infuriator, Issue 1:
Exhibit #1:
Looks like any hotel in Europe, right, with the local richboys parking their whips outside? Wrong. This is a collection of college-age UAE guys who spend every summer touring through Europe, taking their Dubai cars with them. And as you can see, they're a far cry from rentals.

I can't even begin to imagine how rich these people are. Nor can I imagine what a colossal waste of money this is. I know travel's supposed to be about the journey, but this....this is beyond ludicrous. While there'll always be people who say rich folks are free to do whatever with their money, the fact is there's no way in hell these kids earned the right to do any of this. While they sashay through Europe without a care in the world (and probably a thought in their heads) we're all in Dubai working our digits to the bone to pay for these brats to live the way they do.

It isn't fate, it isn't luck. It's us, foolishly accepting the way things are and refusing to do anything about it.

An ode to Bjorn

2006-09-27T19:38:00.000-07:00

August, 1994. My family had completed our latest move from Abu Dhabi to Dubai (we ping ponged back and forth since 1980). To be honest, I was not sad to leave AD; it was a quiet, sleepy place, good for growing up in a Wonder Years kind of way. But the powerboat blitzkrieg of adolescence was fast approaching, dumping unceremoniously the sweet haze of childhood in its wake.

And Dubai seemed to be the perfect place. It was alive in motion, restless with possibility. Unfortunately, we didn't move to Dubai; instead we lived in Sharjah and did the commute. I honestly don't know if that was better or worse. After a 2 hour trip in no A/C school buses, Sharjah was a great place to come home and rest. You'd better like rest though, because there was absolutely nothing else to do. Going out to Dubai was just as impossible then as it is now, endless traffic et al. So in lieu of any other avenue for socialising, school naturally became the center of my universe.

But what a school. My old one was Islamia English in AD; the guys in terrorist training camps in Afghanistan probably have it better. It's definitely a full post in itself. The new one - St. Mary's Catholic - was loads better. Honestly, it was like Neo waking up in the cocoon and seeing the world as it was really was. Loads of new people, proper teachers, and a laid back atmosphere. It wasn't school, it was a holiday camp.

So many new faces, so many new cultures. There didn't seem to be enough hours in the day to meet people. Unlike the kids today who have all their cells and IM contacts, most of that generation has scattered all over the globe, out of reach. I do remember this one kid, though. Bjorn, his name was.

Why do I remember him? I don't rightly know. I don't even know his last name. Met him some time after I entered St.Mary's; he was one of the few Christians in our class, a Catholic. His colour suggested Indian, the facial features otherwise. Average build, average height. Average guy. Stunningly average. On occasion, I talked to him. A nice bloke, shy, inoffensive. We had the sort of conversations about nothing that occupied hours on the playground, but I'd be lying if I say I considered him a close friend. Or even an acquainance. Truthfully, I still don't know anything about the guy, except that he seemed a good chap. Boring even, but nice.

So why is he important? He isn't. None of the classmates I've run into have ever asked about him. He didn't seem to have any close friends. Just another nice guy in a sea of nice guys. About the only noteworthy thing I can remember him doing was in that same year, during one of our maths classes. We were listening to the teacher drone on about graph thingies when out of the blue, a nokia ringtone started belting out. The teacher was frozen in shock. You have to remember, it was '94. Most of the our dads didn't own mobiles yet and most of us hadn't seen one either.

Of course, it was Bjorn's. He seemed stunned, but picked up anyway. The teacher got over her surprise and marched over to this table. By this point, the class was cloaked in all enveloping silence as we waited to see what would become of him. But Bjorn just kept talking away, while the teacher waited next to his desk, steam flooding her ears. The call was from his mother, one of those 'are you okay' things. Nothing life and death. He politely finished his call and turned to face the beast.

And then the levees broke. We winced as we listened to the tirade spewing. Bjorn seemed oddly reticent, unwilling or unable to explain himself. Without fuss, he was dispatched to the Principal's office. And that was that.

A minor incident in a minor day. He was a celebrity for all of ten minutes and then life carried on. I was midly curious about why the need for a phone, but he said his mother worried about him, and this was easier than sneaking out to a payphone. His mother's a bit odd, I thought, but none of my business.

After that nothing. Three years passed and I don't think I ever spoke to him again, although I saw him around, of course. We graduated and the unity of school and social life was sundered, to be replaced with endless college application forms. I certainly wasn't thinking about Bjorn.

In 2000, I got another call from my buddy, Free Mind who went to India right after St. Mary's. All the usual pleasantries. Ten minutes of catching up. Then he asks about me about Bjorn. Do you know, he asks. Know what? Bjorn who, I reply. Bjorn, that quiet guy from school. He died last year.

Bjorn died in 1999 of liver failure. He had been having problems all through his life, which is why his mother gave him a cell phone in case he needed to call an ambulance. The doctors could do no more. When Free Mind (who didn't know him any better than me)called his mother up, she told him, through the tears, that he was the only person who called. Didn't he have any friends, she asked. Did other boys not like him? Were you a good friend of his?

Of course, replied Free Mind. I'm sure loads of people will call, they just haven't heard about it. I'll spread the news, he offered. But no one else called, and Bjorn went into the ground in August that year, in a service attended by only his mother.

Who was Bjorn? I wish i knew. I wish I knew more - anything really - about him. Knew what man he might have become. I wish I had talked to him a little more, tried to get him to open up. Anyone can be fascinating if you find the right combination of words to unlock their personality, but I'm just as guilty as the rest of my class of not trying and being caught up in our precious adolescent world. I didn't call his mother either. What would I have said? Should have at least offered my condolences, but I was scared that his mother might ask if I was his friend. And what would I say then? Could I lie, like Free mind, to soothe a grieving mother?

There are millions of Bjorns out there. People who live and walk like shadows in this world, fading in and out of the ether. While most people are obsessed with how other people perceive them, and eventually, what their legacy will be, what becomes of people like Bjorn, who were real life invisible men? People who we ignore, call nobodies, are too busy to return calls to, bump into and never apologise. People like me remember them as wisps of memory, but that does little justice to what was once a real, living human being.

I think Bjorn must have been an atheist. No loving God would put a person on Earth to be alone.

La paille finale?

2006-09-26T22:44:00.001-07:00

If the buzz on UAE Community is to believed, they've gone and blocked my beloved Torrentspy. The source of literally all my entertainment, my gateway to a world of film and TV beyond Dubai's pathetic Virgin Megastore-sized offerings.

And now it's gone.

Sigh. It's not like I have any other vices to fill my time - I don't smoke, drink, or party. Books are nice but a tad wearing after a long day at the office, so to my everlasting shame I don't read much anymore. Heck, the last book I really sat down and read is the last Harry Potter. My formerly voracious appetite is largely satisfied by the Internet now.

Films, my abiding passion, are kept in check by Dubai's rotten release quality (I'm looking at you, VideoScope, purveyors of badly photoshopped posters and guilty of quoting 'Scene Selection' as a feature on the back) and my inability to afford to continuously import from overseas.

And in any case, quite a few of the films I watch don't show up on places like Amazon so looking for a torrent of a Region 3 release is sometimes my only avenue. How else would I watched something like Brokeback Mountain, which will likely never be released here? Or worse yet, something which gets a release but is sashimeed to smithereens by our thoughtful censors.

Plus, it must be noted, TV has really caught up these days. Good shows like Prison Break and House (er, sorry Lost...you're wearing a wee bit thin) need to be watched as soon as they come out to avoid that forbidden fruit of online spoilers. While I understand people who like to wait for season boxsets, it means that you have to wait six to seven months for it. I'm sorry, I'm from the culture of instant gratification. I don't want my MTV, but I sure want my TV.

Wait till it comes out on satellite? More waiting. Nice. Plus, we don't get to see it in widescreen and I'm an OAR whore. To crown it, all these so-called 'entertainment channels' want to do is show off J.Timberlake's new cylon love song or 'direct from the US!' American idol. Not to mention Nancy. Freakin. Ajram. All. The. Time.

What a corker of a homecoming gift from Etisalat. So either I: a) find a great job that takes up all my time b) find some friends (fat chance) or c) find a straight razor and an open vein.

Ah, Irony, you Rascal

2006-09-22T01:16:00.000-07:00

Walking down the street today. At the chinatown crosswalk, waiting for the lights to change. Lights go green. First car out the gate is a real larrikin aussie, crawling up past in a beatup VL Commodore. I could smell his sweat - and the beer on his breath - from three meters away.

Next up, a burly bloke, the traditional white van driver, with a huge ladder mounted on his roof rack. Must be making more money than my entire company.

Uni girl in a beat-to-shit old Corolla. Books, CDs, Kit Kat wrappers, and er - hot pink 'Extra Large Durex' packet in the back seat. That must be, umm, nice.

And finally, two chinese kids zoom in a brand new BMW 5-series. P-plates (which mean they're under 21). The car costs at least $120k (Dh333k). Neither one speaks a word in English. They look at the three Australiasns with an identical mixture of contempt and utter, snivelling disgust that speaks volumes. Then the passenger remark in Chinese (which my friend translates) that the Australians can't afford even a little bit of water to bathe and that even their maid drives a better car. Fat, uneducated, cultureless slobs, the driver agrees.

Fucking immigrants, I say. How dare they come into this country and then have the arrogance to try and tell the locals how to behave. If they had it so good where they came from, why did they leave? They couldn't afford to drive this car back in wherever-the-fuck-they-came-from, where the import tax would something like 150%. Anyway, their parents are the ones who spoilt them with such toys. In any case, their modern culture - unlike their ancient one - hasn't produced anything worthwhile, I conclude. Fucking immigrants.

Then I stop and think for a second. And slap myself loudly and conclusively on the forehead.

Priorities

2006-09-21T06:20:00.000-07:00

And right now, there are none. Absolutely nothing at all. Nothing in the world that matters more than the life of this man hanging in the balanc e.

Don't quit on us, Hamster.