… plan to change hosting vendor.

Since before Christmas my blog was suspended, because, according to them, it has exceeded 8 MB quota of bandwith. And they did nicely without warning whatsoever. One morning I still could post a new thread, and two hours later my blog was suspended. My frantic question was answered by typical Indonesian customer service standard.

So the blog was closed for exactly one week and has just reopened again today, January 1st.

I am of course beyond pissed off, and vow to change the hosting vendor pronto. If you could suggest a hosting company which is reliable and does not treat its customer like machine (what’s with “take ticket” to send question like we are queueing at travel agent anyway?), please do suggest one to me.

At least nothing is shocking this year. If last year’s first day started with death (read more about it here), this year’s started with plan to murder my hosting vendor. Great.

Despite this, first day in 2009 starts with much anticipated, exciting, holiday finalisation. After ambitious plan to wander Thailand, Vietnam, Cambodia, in between our 3-weeks holiday in 3 cities in Indonesia, I finally realise we simply do not have much time and must settle with Siem Reap only. Even that, although I perfectly know where Cambodia is, I sometimes forget that when it looks close on the map and it is part of South East Asia too, it is not that near from Indonesia. 5 more hours and we will almost arrive back in UK!

First day in 2009 is also a perfect moment to change my blog theme. The last one that I have had, has been on for almost 6 months. I have been looking for a perfect one since last month and finally found one. Of course lots of modifications must be made, so if you see many blank spaces, please bear with me as the work is under progress.

One of the most respected Indonesian bloggers, Fatih Syuhud, just released his version of Top Ten of Indonesian Bloggers 2008, and I am one of them! I could easily propose at least 10 great bloggers who deserve the same credit, nevertheless I feel honoured to be in the list. It is a sweet thing to start the first day of 2009.

Happy New Year 2009, everybody!

~Ever wondered where the fabled unicorn came from? Or maybe the phoenix? Did hobbits actually exist?~

There are probably more than a hundred TV channels here in UK and we do need to read a TV guide to determine what to watch or what to record every night. I hardly see Sky3 but for some reason I found the title “Myths, Monsters, and Hobbits” intriguing, so I set the box to tape the show.

I thought the documentary will bring me to some fantasy land in England, a secret town where hobbits used to live, where Middle-Earth existed hundreds of years a go, where elves with sharp ears and glimmering heads singing, and gollum hissed behind the greens.

Instead, Dr. Lawrence Blair, the adventurer, explorer and anthropologist, with wild white hair and cool eye patch, took me to a rather familiar place he claimed to be the source of all the myths existed in the world: INDONESIA.

Blair first came to Indonesia more than 30 years a go, and found that, “the environment astounded me, the people fascinated me, and I embarked on a three-decade journey of discovery throughout the islands.  I encountered the extraordinary of plants and animals as well as legends of barely-believable beasts. It dawned on me that many of mythological creatures which have haunted our fairy tales may well have derived from here.” He added that over the years he has seen a lot of strange things in Indonesia and heard even stranger stories, and experienced many phenomena which rattle our preconceptions of how life ought to behave.

So Blair is going on a quest for the real animals which may have inspired the legends of fire-breathing dragons, of fire-dwelling phoenixes, unicorns, goblins and hobbits, our smallest and most mysterious relatives.

What sort of truth might hide behind these legendary creatures?

Goblin

Blair believes that hantu is the mythical ancestor of goblins and elves, and the inspiration of  Yoda of Star Wars, and he sailed to a remote island of Siau, off Manado (North Sulawesi), where there is an American scientist exploring the species.

Apparently, the mysterious goblin, the elf of the forest, was inspired by none other than tarsier, a creature that is closely related to us, but is eaten on a regular basis by the locals. In Kalimantan (Borneo), the animal is referred to as hantu (ghost or ancestral spirit), and the head-hunting tribes consider it as a bad omen to spot one because of its ability to swivel its head round 180 degrees and look directly back at you over its shoulder, implicating that you might be losing your own head. Blair and the team managed to catch the new species of baby tarsier which looked terrified by the giant hands which held it. But even though it is so tiny, the little creature is a carnivore which eats only live flesh like large insects, snakes, lizards, birds, and bats.

Phoenix

Cendrawasih, or the red bird of paradise, is entwined in the phoenix myth. In the 19th century their feathers were such in demand for ladies’ hats in Europe the birds were almost extinguished. I remember my father once went home with the dead bird and put it on display, and for months I admired its smooth feathers and bright colours, before Indonesian government announced its extinction and threatened to fine whoever brought or possessed the bird from Irian Jaya, dead or alive. Several species have fire-like tail feathers and can look like flames streaking through the forest.

There is also maleo bird, the kinds that only live in Sulawesi, which is probably another source of the phoenix myth. As Sulawesi is full of volcanic fumaroles and hot springs, the geothermal energy is used by maleo birds to incubate their giant eggs. They nest between the areas, and the first  European explorers who came there saw the steam and assumed it was smoke; the smoke of the fire which phoenix birds emerged. The bird lays its eggs in deep pits, buried  three feet of steaming earth, and the hatching have to burrow to the surface in full working order, and fly off as if born from fire.

Unicorn

Tales of the unicorn reached the West via Persia from India and China. Their horn was powerful magic and aphrodisiac. Only the pure heart could tame a unicorn, and it would surrender to a virgin and lay its head into her lap. It has been noted that the 13th century traveller Marco Polo claimed to have seen a unicorn in Java or Sumatera. The source of the myth? None other than Sumateran rhinoceros or Javan Rhinoceros. And I thought unicorn was a horse, before I read about the myth more in wikipedia!

Dragons

Where else you would find the source of the myth if not in Komodo Island with its komodo dragon. Dr Blair has been visiting the island for years, and once was stalked and charged by two of those nasty creatures, treed for five hours until they got bored and cleared off.

The dragon myth probably came to Europe by the Chinese who had been trading in the island for millenia, but only in 1911 these enormous lizards came to the attention of the outside world. Blair, who could speak Indonesian very well, also said that, “In 1926 the young American cameramen called Willies O’Brian arrived in the island. He was so impressed by Komodo’s haunting, prehistoric vibes, and the village that barricaded itself against marauding dragons, that it inspired his set designs for a movie called… King Kong“.

Today’s komodo dragons, which have survived for God knows how long, are probably the mini version of  from a much larger species of Varanus which haunted the island not so along a go. The creatures are nasty carnivore which will be more than happy to hunt and eat deer, horse, pig, or goat, or even man, if they can get one. The villagers carry their animals and pets up the steps into their homes which are built on stilts on the night time, because when the dark comes, the dragons prowl the village. And only in Komodo islands do the villagers seal their graves with slabs of rock and concrete to prevent scavenging dragons from digging up the corpses and eating them.

A 12-ft lizard might not look big to us, but it would have caught the attention of 3-ft hobbits!

Hobbit

Blair went to Flores island to find the source of legend, based on the discovery of the remains of real hobbits, or Homo Floresiensis. From the fossil evidences, it is believed that hobbits shared their world with giant rats, (hunted and ate them, to be precise), and Blair managed to capture one, which with it’s 3-ft long is as big as the legendary hobbit - the comparison is equivalent to modern man facing off against a Sumatran leopard.

And the little elves really existed for at least 30,000 years  in the cave of Liang Bua (cold cave), preyed on by great lizards and phytons, and  probably by larger men, Sapiens. The evidence of 7 individual hobbits were discovered in the cave, and this particular discovery of the skull in 2003 ignited a bombshell of controversy, which “makes a major dent in our assumptions of who we can be.” Based on the brain size (less than a third the size of ours, smaller than a chimpanzee’s), teeth (completely human), tools (meticulously flaked and sharpened), cooking hearths (charred with controlled fire), and hunting habits (required collaborative social behaviour and language), despite its tiny brain size, the skull is definitely a human’s. Most anthropologist are arguing that he was a different parallel species of a man, Homo Floresiensis. Others insist that he was marvellously miniaturised Homo Sapiens.

So Blair went to the remote village in the Flores hill, which is not far from the Liang Bua cave, where he discovered the men are only about 4-ft (1.20 meter) tall, and the gene is only passed down to men only - women are of regular size. Science has yet to discover whether they are descendants of stretched Homo Floresiensis or shrunken Homo Sapiens.

I am surprised that Blair took me back to Indonesia, but then I was sad because it took an outsider, a foreign anthropologist, a tan Keith Richard lookalike with his posh English accent,  to make me understand my own home country better….

Forget limey, orangey, and other fruity scents. Forget tobacco. Forget musk. Men must go back to their nature, and in the modern world, Homer Simpson and Joe the plumber are the hero.

Burger King, an American fast food chain, has made a huge jump by selling men’s fragrance with the scent of meat.

clipped from news.bbc.co.uk

The scent is on sale in New York for $3.99 (£2.65) and through a website that features a variety of romantic images - but no actual burgers.
Its character the Burger King is also seen reclining almost naked in front of a log fire with whipped cream.

What next? The smell of petrol? Beer? Sweat?

I wonder if this perfume sells, and who would buy it. Personally I don’t want my man to smell like burgers.

I just purchased two tickets for Nickeback concert in Glasgow next May, and am very excited since it would be the first live concert that I watch. To say that it was the first as real first isn’t true, because when I was working in Fox Studio complex in Sydney, the Channel [V] often hosted gigs and live interview with artists and I managed to see Nelly Furtado, Craig David, Alient Ant Farm, Shakira, Emma Bunton, and so many others. Britney once came to perform but we were swamped by crazy teenage girls so I couldn’t sneak out to see her. I once accompanied my cousin who was a big fan of AB Three to the studio where they held their live performance (I certainly didn’t dress for the occasion, and just came from my project with my work boots and one of the guys tapped my shoulder and asked which newspaper I worked for). When I finished a project for Esia office, they asked me to come to their grand opening concert. And so I went and saw Slank and other two or three less famous local bands performing in Senayan.

But watching live concert isn’t my cup of tea. After being squashed in Sydney’s Mardi Gras by drunken spectators and almost died (well, not really but it was a terrifying experience because I was sandwiched between so many people and suddenly someone lifted me up and I was floating in the air, motionless and moved wherever the crowd moved), I always feel claustrophobic if there are too many people in a room, and avoid to voluntarily turn myself into such situation. However it’s such a shame to give in to my phobia because there are many concerts held in UK and mister hubbie always talks about having been to this or that concert and how fantastic this or that band. So I think why not try it at least once, and it’s better now or never.

But since it would be much better to go with others, I have to sync my taste with my friends. Dear hubbie would love to see Foo Fighter but to me it would be two hours headache, unless they play acoustic. I don’t mind the Killer but when the website for ticket sale opened at 10.00 AM, all were gone in 5 minutes. He’d rather die to go with me watching Bon Jovi, which came to UK early this year. And no, he wouldn’t go and see Chris Brown, Kanye West, or Justine Timberlake. Pussycat Dolls has come into town and even with the prospect of girls in skimpy suit and provocative dance, he still says no. He has already bought another ticket to watch The Specials with his friend next year (yeah, exactly my reaction… the who??). My girlfriends of course have different ideas as well. One is estatic when she found out Lionel Ritchie is coming to town. The other one thinks Glastonbury Festival is heaven and she is planning to come over to UK next year to watch Coldplay. Never mind the long traffic jam, muddy field, and half-milion crowd.

So I am glad we finally settle in Nickelback.

Then, on the same night we saw Take That’s Coming To Town Concert on TV and it was fantastic. They set up the stage like a circuit arena with people dangling, jumping, dancing, folding and God knows what else. Britney Spears was criticised by the media when she did a lip-sync during her performance in X-Factor, but Take That did their own vocals, live.

You see, I am known as the rock chick. When my friends in high school were crazy about Tommy Page and Jason Donovan, I was into G n’ R or at least Bon Jovi. When boy bands invaded the music industry with New Kids on The Block, I was into Van Halen. Boyzone or Westlife’s songs stuck in my head but I’m not a fan. I have grown to like Take That because their songs are terrific and easy to sing. And yeah, rolling over on the beach with next to nothing also helped.

But I never openly admit I like them, and I know most of my male friends would rather die than being seen sing along with Take That’s songs.

Until today I found this article.

clipped from www.thesun.co.uk

I challenge anyone who still thinks Take That are a boy band to compare Barlow’s songwriting with the likes of Gary Lightbody from Snow Patrol or Tom Chaplin from Keane.

There’s not a great difference between the three. Yet, for some reason, there is still a stigma attached to loving Take That, particularly for blokes.

But that, thankfully, is changing.

I’ve always loved Take That. I went to see them at the MEN Arena in Manchester when I was 15 and it was a great night.

I’ve enjoyed all sorts of music from loads of different genres but there will always be a place for Take That.

I’ve always been out of the closet with my love for them. It’s never been a problem for me to hold my hand up and proudly say, ‘I am a Take That fan’.

I’m glad it’s becoming easier to confess to being a fan, though, and the more guys who put their prejudice aside and say they are into it, the better.

The band are incredibly likeable, they don’t pretend they’re anything they’re not. They are just a bunch of wholesome guys and great role models for anyone who looks up to them.

For those who still refuse to accept they are a great band who write great songs, then I say it’s time to get over the fact they are Take That.

I’m on the judging panel for the Brits next year and, in the Best British Album category they are in there with The Streets, Snow Patrol, Razorlight and Coldplay.

And they are as deserving, if not more so, than any of those others. Why shouldn’t they win? They are, after all, the full package.

They sing live, they write their own stuff, they look fantastic and they never stray too much from who they really are. That old adage about a good bottle of wine also applies to Take That.

They just keep getting better and better with age.

According to The Sun, Take That phenomenon is “one of the great comebacks in pop history. After 432,000 first-week sales of their new album, Take That rank alongside giants Oasis and Coldplay. And now anyone from girls to trendy blokes can like them”.

So after Nickelback, I might go to Take That concert. I just need to find out how to trick mr. hubbie to go along with me….

Cazbar is celebrating its anniversary, and I am proud to announce to the world, that the bar, which name was formed during a weekend away at one of the shareholders’ house through some quiz (the one who came up with the name that would be used for the bar will get free beer and {updated Nov 21} the stool with his/her name),  is already 3 years old, and they will share the joy and happiness by throwing a fab party with free beer and entertainment for the whole night.

I like Caz not because I have to, but because the place is friendly for female patron who comes alone. The staffs are friendly and call you by your name, and the place provides free wi-fi too. I feel secure there and could hang around for hours with my macbook and glasses of wine or cappuccino without being interrupted or disturbed by sleazy old men like in most bars. I spent many times having work lunch at Caz since my L’Oreal office was only stones away, mostly with Tamara or Rocky. I occasionally took my staffs for afternoon coffee (disguised as ‘meetings’), and spent Saturday mornings with late breakfast and The Guardian papers. Friday lunches were sometimes with GG and he would be having fun guessing what I would have for the day. Most of the times he was right as I often went for lamb chop (still do), although apparently my choice of meal was criticised by an Indonesian blogger — who thought I trespass the international luncheon code of ethics because lamb chop should only be served as dinner — which is funny since the said blogger a) definitely isn’t a chef, has a zero knowledge of how to build up a menu for international guests or how to run a restaurant or pub; b) has never set foot at Cazbar, let alone tasted its food, yet found a liberty to criticise its menu. Rocky the chef would be delighted; c) as an Indonesian, should be familiar with full meal breakfast concept like fried rice, satay, or soto and even can have them at 2AM off of street stalls and yet thought that having red meat at lunch time is wrong and d) urged me to stick with vegetable instead, which is the most bizarre advice I have ever got in my life, especially since the said blogger isn’t my dietitian, personal trainer, doctor, spouse, even friend.

Cazbar was also a choice of venue to meet other bloggers offline. I met Therry there for the first time, and then met Therry, Elyani and Ecky there too. If I didn’t have to have Sunday brunch at 4 Seasons, I would have met Toni and Elyani at Cazbar too! One of Caz’s best thing (apart from lamb chop, obviously) is their Caswell coffee. It tastes much better than coffee from other franchise stalls, and although a cup of cappuccino can contain hundreds of calories, I keep ordering it after meal (now that is something that actually the said blogger should criticise, as Italians only have cappuccino in the morning and never have it after meal and have espresso instead).

This Saturday, I would be dancing at St. Andrew’s Ball, 12 thousand km away, but in my heart I am dancing for Cazbar.

Happy anniversary, Caz!

A fan of online virtual reality game “Second Life” is being divorced after his wife caught his cyber character having sex with a two-dimensional prostitue (The Sun, Nov 14).

clipped from www.thesun.co.uk

David Pollard’s shocked missus walked out on him in tears over the fling between his randy computer “self” and the other player’s busty two-dimensional hooker.

Last night she accused the 40-year-old of being so besotted in real life that he had asked her love rival’s creator — whom he has never seen — to become his second WIFE.

Amy’s divorce cites the fictional flings as “unreasonable behaviour”.

She told how she and 20st David — who is jobless — met in a Yahoo chatroom in May 2003.

After six months of emails and phone calls she quit London and moved into his flat in Newquay, Cornwall. They would both play Second Life — and in the game their humble register office wedding in July 2005 was turned into a Beckham-style extravaganza.

But before long, Amy — who named her character Laura Skye — grew to fear that her husband’s, called David Barmy, was up to no good. She said: “He never did anything in real life. But I had my suspicions about what he was doing in Second Life.”

She caught the character having sex with the hooker in February — and hired an online DETECTIVE to investigate.

Amy said: “I went mad — I was so hurt. It’s cheating as far as I’m concerned. We made up after he promised never to cheat on me again.

“But two months later I caught him cuddling a woman on a sofa in the game. I ended up going off to his mum and dad’s in floods of tears. He confessed he’d been talking to this woman player in America — then said our marriage was over.”

The couple have already “divorced” in Second Life.

For those Facebook fans, you might want this for your Christmas!

clipped from www.guardian.co.uk

INQ1 - 3’s ‘Facebook phone’

Mobile phone company 3 is hoping to capitalise on the success of Facebook with the release of a new handset in time for Christmas that integrates the social networking site with all the traditional functions of a mobile phone, such as contacts book and message inbox.

The INQ1 - pronounced “ink one” - is likely to be dubbed “the Facebook phone” as it puts users in touch with their social networking circle at the touch of a button. The phone, unveiled today and available in the UK, Australia and Hong Kong from next month, is aimed squarely at users who find “smartphones” such as the iPhone, Blackberry Storm and G1 too expensive, but still want to use social networking, e-mail and instant messaging as well as surf the mobile web.

It’s been pretty quiet since London girls’ trip. The taste of purple martini at the Purple Bar still lingers (too expensive, that is. One glass cost me £17.00 (Rp 350,000). It’s good, but I find it hard to justify the price), and there’s a talk about repeating it in Dubai or Ascot. Maybe Ascot, I want to wear one of those silly hats (click here for funny hats images) and drink champagne and pretend to be slightly interested in horse racing.

Glasgow will be the next destination for this weekend trip with another group of ladies. There will be no trip until - hopefully - next month. The possibility of seeing dad and meeting a blogbuddy somewhere in Europe is exciting but a friend just informed me that she just applied for a Schengen visa through Amsterdam consular and they told her it will take 6 weeks (!) to process the visa, because she holds an Indonesian passport, and Indonesia is considered as a ‘risky’ country. I don’t know how long it takes to process my visa, I’ll find out when I send the application next week.

November 5th was Guy Fawkes Night and it was celebrated around the country, including Aberdeen. Fireworks burst over city and bonfires were lit by crowds. Sometimes the celebration involve destroying effigies of historic figures, including Guy Fawkes.

St. Andrew’s day is celebrated by Scots around the world in end of November. That means lots of invitation to St. Andrew’s balls and lots of opportunities to wear pretty dresses rather than jumper-and-jeans. Also, to eat good haggis.

Indonesian’s St. Andrew’s ball will be held in November 29 this year. You don’t have to be a Scot to join the event. But you might want to have your dress checked just to make sure you don’t break the law, since the pornography bill is passed despite its controversy. Ironically, a district leader was caught with a woman in bed although he claimed she was his wife.

A very unique event will be held in November 22: Pesta Blogger 2008. The biggest Indonesian blogger gathering in Indonesia expects to attract 1,000 people and is held in several cities, supported by Ministry of. Communication and Information,  several government organisations, media, big companies like Microsoft, and - guess what - Department of State USA (!). I am not sure whether “expat bloggers” now can join the party, after last year’s protest from several of them for not being allowed to participate, but since bloggers from Malaysia and Singapore  confirm to join the gathering, I believe the committee has changed their conditions. Hopefully in the future this event can include Indonesians who live abroad.

Now if you excuse me, I have got packing to do…

Bartele Santema is in his element. I can imagine him sitting down in a dressing room, powdered-face, maybe a little bit of lip gloss and mascara to enhance his features, a stack of stroopwafels on the table, a glass of beer in one hand, practicing his lines, trying to remember all of his six bars he has to name in front of the interviewer from Al-Jazeera, CNN and all other newspapers desperately trying to write something different about Barack Obama.

I dare to say that Bartele Santema is a friend. Well, he must be. He announced that Stuart and I were getting married in Bugil’s newsletter even before I told my boss about it (and in his usual manner, managed to take credit from it). He was not just invited to our small wedding party last August in Bali, Bugil’s Bali had its first job that Saturday. And he has constantly been seen in many of my pictures (like the one on the right, circa 2006, when everybody was skinnier, healthier, and much younger). The last picture probably was Sunday Brunch at 4 Seasons Hotel a few days before we left back to Aberdeen. It was the day after our friends’ wedding, and the first time I met Elyani and Toni for coffee.

About 3 PM, when we were finished our brunch, I moved to Elyani and Toni’s table for coffee. But my Sunday Brunch group wasn’t happy because Bart had escaped from ‘jumping into the pool’ thing the night before (during the wedding, most people jumped into the pool and sang along with the band on AC/DC and Rolling Stones’ songs, and Bart quietly sneaked out) and planned to throw Bart into 4 Seasons’ swimming pool. Poor Elyani and Toni, who just got to know me, were crowded by about 15 people who suddenly went to our table and demanded me to introduce each of them to my blogbuddies. Both Elyani and Toni quickly learned that it was just a plot to get out of the dining room, to get to near the pool, and throw Bart into it. We pretended to take a group picture by the pool. Toni was kind enough to do it for us (he must be thinking what a bunch of noisy childish people!). Bart certainly was suspicious about the whole thing and hid behind everybody. When the camera clicked, everybody turned to Bart and tried to grab him. Almost 15 men against 1 and we did not succeed. He walked away. Dry and safe.

That’s the kind of man Bart is. His instinct to pick up on suspicious thing. And his radar to smell where the money blows. Bart is the sort of man who is sitting next to you at the bar and shooting hundreds of ideas non-stop, you need a whole notepad just to keep up. But he also shoots them half-heartedly, his eyes keep checking on the bar staffs and patrons, and his hands are busy lifting the beer glass and typing at the same time, you don’t know whether he’s taking the piss or being serious. By eleven we’d hear him playing guitar and sing “Josephine”. By two in the morning it’s usually B52 time for everybody, and we’d forget most of his brilliant ideas.

He started the hunt of Obama’s former residence in Menteng Jakarta when Obama was racing against Hillary Clinton. Most of you might have known that Obama spent his childhood in Jakarta when his mother married to an Indonesian. And most of you probably know that Indonesians are so delighted that a presidential nominee in the 2008 United States presidential election has a teeny tiny sentimental connection with Indonesia. People think Bart was just having fun, that it’s just another silly idea. Nobody took it seriously when he wrote about “Sweet Home Obama” back in February. But he has been persistently following every possible trace (just like he managed to visit a village in East Java and proved its link to Scotland). Moreover, he has been persistently pestering the owner of Obama’s former residence. And now, with the prospect of having Obama to make a significant mark in American political history, everybody wants a piece of Bart, just like the headline of Bugil’s Newsletter: Bar Owner Makes Headline Worldwide; CNN, The Wallstreet Journal, some Dutch newspapers and Indonesian Newspapers, all mentioned his name. Not bad for a Frisian barman, eh?

His idea is to rent the smaller pavilion of the small colonial-style house Barack Obama lived in as a child to open the “Sweet Home Obama Bar” -  a cafe that would feature an “Obama-blend coffee,” a mix of beans from Kenya and Java. Bart also would serve stroopwafels, the home-made caramel waffles that are also sold in Starbucks Indonesia (yes, those are Bart’s), Cazbar, Eastern Promise, and the other bars.

Bart just announced that he has just purchased an original Obama sofa. I don’t know what he means by “Obama sofa”, but I suspect it’s the sofa that Obama family owned once back in the seventies (I wouldn’t want to image the condition of it, hopefully the current owner takes good care of it, otherwise imagine all the dust, the smell and the living creatures inside it). I would imagine he will make the sofa as the centerpiece of the bar, probably with the sign “Obama sat here”.

I admire his persistence. His crazy idea. And his way of finding to turn his crazy idea into a real business. I mean, if this is the guy who baked his first batch of stroopwafels in our apartment’s microwave (and had us as testers - thank God we’re still alive to tell this story) and now could sell them to Starbucks all over Indonesia, even if Obama doesn’t win, the Sweet Home Obama could be a potential money maker. Just like Kopi Annan….

The new fireplace was just installed and I’ve been playing with the fire since. The flame is bright orange inside the stainless steel frame, makes the room warm and cozy. It’s wild outside, the trees are dancing and the leaves are struggling to glue themselves to the branches. It is only 13 degrees but everybody is grumpy and feeling cold and longing for the sun. The clock will change this weekend and the darkness will fall sooner and longer.

Winter is coming.

But I’m still brave enough to wear my open-toes sandals. Anja looked at my feet today and asked if I wasn’t feeling cold. She’s Dutch and sensible. I am stupid and would sacrifice my toes in the name of fashion.

It’s my last day meeting my girlfriends because I have to catch an early flight tomorrow for a weekend with the other ladies, parties, gossiping, shopping, talking about boobs, and stuff. Tree would have liked it (he starts the new trend, now everybody blogs about boobs now).

I can’t remember if the pornography laws bans us from talking, writing or even thinking about boobs. I just had a glass of white wine and am not caring about anything but my new fireplace and frozen toes. Rob has a nice picture of Davina in bikini whilst talking about pornography laws and got lots of comments consequently. I wonder if I would get the same buzz if I put the picture of half naked George Clooney up.

Everywhere I turn, most people don’t agree with the law. So I was surprised to receive an email asking for participation to support it. It even asked me and the other readers to sign the petition. And told us that all along we are too stupid to understand the reason behind it, and gave a lengthy explanation about what it means. I cannot resist the temptation to send a reply and change the title from ’support’ to ‘reject’ and gave a link to The Jakarta Post. I sat back and waited for the kettle to whistle for another cup of coffee. Soon enough a new email came, saying that - more or less - “everything that we fight for will be judged by God Almighty; should there be any perplexity we shall surrender the matter back to God through prayer, and the truth is inside our heart”.

Booby hell.

I don’t see the connection between God and the pornography laws. Except those who are smart enough to produce such bills are those who are playing God and most likely the ones who, morally, need to be examined. See the problem is, those who sit in the parliament are such dirty bastards they think everybody is like them, making amateur sex video or asking for female companies on every transaction (I have heard so many stories about this and it becomes a common practice everywhere up to the sickening degree). There are many more urgent and serious matters to be taken care of. But talking about bikinis and fondling boobies of course are much more interesting and sexy rather than thinking how to adjust the oil price.

I might have to burn all my bikinis. Can’t wear them in London. Can’t wear them in Bali next January. Maybe we’d just stop in Singapore as you can turn up with hot pants or ball gown and no one cares. I don’t know if Oji still sells knock-off porn DVDs at Menteng, he’s disappeared when they refurbished the area a while a go.

In the mean time, my frozen toes needs some attention. I need them intact because I’d proudly display them with my jeweled sandals this weekend, even though the weather forecast states it would be 3-8 degrees, and raining, in London.

I’d be back next Tuesday. Hopefully my toes are still with me.

It is supposed to be a birthday present for Mister Husband, who has requested it 2 weeks in advanced. We went to the game shop and bought it, and left it at the spare bedroom. He wasn’t to touch it until his birthday. For two weeks, he kept talking about it, counting the days to his birthday.

When the day came, we were in Carnoustie for the weekend, and he was so anxious to go back home to try it on. We arrived in the afternoon, and he went straight to the spare bedroom, grabbed the box, tore the package open, and started installing it. He ignored the tea I made for him. But there was a technical problem, the appearance was in black and white. After spending the whole night trying to fix it, he gave in.

He came back from work the next day, knowing what to do, since he had consulted the problem to several colleagues who have purchased the same thing. He didn’t bother to change his work clothes, and spent almost 30 minutes behind the TV, playing around with the plugs and cables. Then, voila! It worked!

It’s wii time!

Wii (pronounced as the English pronoun we, IPA: /wi?/) is a home video game console released by Nintendo. A distinguishing feature of the console is its wireless controller, the Wii Remote, which can be used as a handheld pointing device and detect movement in three dimensions. It’s much more cooler than Xbox360 (which dear hubby also has) or Playstation3, since we have to practically move according to the game we play.

He tried tennis first. After played the game for 15 minutes he was covered in sweat. He asked me to try it on. I refused. He thought because I wasn’t interested in it, but I told him I am easily addicted to any game, and I have to be careful. I and my housemates used to have an old communal playstation when we lived in Sydney, and sometimes I skipped classes because I couldn’t stop playing! After a while I finally tried it too, and got my a** kicked by him. Of course he was delighted, he’s as competitive as me.

His friends came round to test the console last Thursday and everybody was instantly hooked. Craig lent us his Guitar Hero and everybody had their Slash’s moment. The boys also spent a lot of time creating their ID in wii, choosing the best eyes, hair, nose, even dress colour features. I didn’t realise they took it seriously, and they could be that vain.

I can sense the danger, but I’m helpless. And when last Saturday dear husband said he had to meet a friend for a beer, I deliberately chose to stay home. He set it up for me and left. Five hours later he came back and found me still playing. He gently took the control away from me and urged me to stop.

That was last Saturday, and after three days my right arm still hurts like hell and my neck and shoulders are stiff after playing tennis. My triceps are sore after playing bowling. I haven’t even tried baseball and golf. I am coming down with the flu now, probably because the weather has been weird too.

He came back with Chinese food and Wii Fit, which is always out of stock everywhere and cannot be pre-ordered (the Wii Fit, not the Chinese, I mean). We had been looking for it since we bought the wii package the first time, and he got lucky when he stopped by at the Blockbuster and they had only 1 on display. We did the balance test and BMI test (mine is good but after a month back from Indonesia and stuff myself with chocolate and chips during meal times, I have gained 2 kilos!). I tried yoga and he tried muscle training.

Now I’m hooked. I even had a dream last night, playing tennis against the computer.

Oh no!!

Every year in Indonesia, we see something unique during the Islamic holy month, Ramadan, for about 30 days. It is the month of fasting, in which participating Muslims do not eat or drink anything from dawn until sunset, and must avoid obscene and irreligious sights, sounds, and evil thoughts.

In order to complete this task, since Indonesia is the world’s most populous Muslim majority nation - although it is not an Islamic state - it is easy to ban anything that is considered disturbing the act of fasting, rather than having the people facing and testing themselves against those obstacles. Therefore places like bars, clubs and massage places, must be closed from one day before until one day after Ramadan (Kompas.com, 25 August 2008). That’s more than 30 days. Imagine how much money they lose and how they pay their employees?

They won’t be able to close for a whole month. How would workers make a living? Ninety percent of workers in such establishments are Muslim. They, too, need money so they can celebrate Idul Fitri and perform their religious duties during Ramadhan. This is a very sensitive issue because it involves the interests of different parties,” said Soeryo.

Those who run restaurant business, change their business hour accordingly, open before sunset until pre-dawn and close during the day. Some are open with their curtains closed or half-open. Some only take orders for takeaways. Alcohol is served in tea cups. Those who still insist to open during the day usually get a hard time from Islamic community as well as the government.

This is something I personally can’t understand, and maybe it is because I grew up in a small town (well, 1.2-million-people city is considered small in Indonesia), where Islam is the dominant faith in the region, but I went to a Catholic school, where I learned about tolerance and sympathy. When Ramadan came and I was fasting, my schoolmates respected it and tried not to eat or drink in front of me. But who wanted to be left alone during a break? So rather than sitting alone in the classroom looking vaguely at the black board, I usually went along to the canteen, and when they were drinking, eating, and smoking, I just spent time to chat with them. At first they felt awkward doing so in front of me, but I felt the world should not stop revolving just because I did something different that day. From a simple motive of not wanting to be left out by friends, I grew up understanding that fasting is not about telling people to not to do things in front of us, but how we handle all temptations before us.

But outside the school, it was different. People were afraid to eat and drink in the street in case others will yell at them and accuse them for being intolerance. I remember I was wondering why did we ask them to tolerate us? Why not the other way around? I felt that we forced others to understand our situation, and we didn’t give others a chance to have a different way of living. In short: if I can’t eat, nor can you. If I can’t have fun, you shouldn’t either.

There are people who are not fasting and they have every right to eat or drink or do whatever they like, and as we can ask them to show some tolerance for those who are fasting, we certainly could understand that they still need to eat and drink whenever they want, that they don’t have to suppress whatever urge they feel. Why should we stop them having a happy ending or drinking alcohol if they are not even practicing Islam? It is unfair to expect them to suffer just because we are.

The act of fasting is to let Muslims to practice self-discipline, sacrifice, and sympathy to those who are less fortunate. We should refrain ourselves from all the world’s temptations - not removing them from our sight. If we just practice it as it is, and let all the disturbance and obstacles right in front of us; if we can preserve the purity of our thoughts and actions, regardless what’s in front of us; it must feel great when we sip our tea when maghrib comes.

Sometimes I am so gullible and oblivious. I thought every blogger is just like me, who writes about IT, or making money online, or writes about their daft, boring daily activities, or about cooking, or kids, or fashion. Or politics. I didn’t realise there are bloggers who write about sex.

That until last night I watched a program called Sex in The Noughties: The Sex Blog Girls. The program was aired in 2007 but was re-aired again. I watched it when it was about to finish, but I picked up one blogger who blogs about - what else - sex, anonymously. The blog, Girl With A One-Track Mind, is written by a girl under a pseudonym, Abby Lee, who worked in the film industry, lived in London and got laid a hell of a lot. It  started at the beginning of 2004, where there were only 20 million bloggers around the world (compares to now, which is 112 millions). After 6 months, people were googling for it at a rate that was measurable by the minute. The blog get 250,000 readers a month, won Best British or Irish Blog at the 2006 Bloggies, was published as a book with the same title, Girl With A One-Track Mind.

Several weeks a go I found out that the show Secret Diary of A Call Girl series, a British TV drama starring Billie Piper, aired by ITV2, is actually based on the blog called Belle De Jour: Diary of London Call Girl. I hardly watch British TV shows, so even though the show has been aired for quite sometime now, I wasn’t paying attention too much. The blog itself started in 2003, and is meant to be a diary of a high-class prostitute living and working in London. Soon it was being mentioned by others on the web and it came to the attention of the print media. In December 2003 a newspaper [The Guardian] awarded Belle the first prize in its annual competition for the best-written blog.

Abby Lee enjoyed her anonymity before The Sunday Times revealed her true identity 2 years a go, just 3 days after the publication of her book. Now everbody knows her real name, and as she said:

It might have been more than two years since I lost my anonymity but I still get a little thrown when someone I’ve never met before greets me by saying, “Oh I know who you are, I’ve been reading your blog from the early days,” and then mentions a memorable post from way back that they particularly enjoyed reading. Knowing the exact post they reference, I then blush and mumble and revert to a default position of shyness whilst attempting to change the subject onto something that doesn’t involve me, someone else’s fingers, or my very wet knickers.

On the interview Abby said that she thought she could have her blog published and maintain her anonymity at the same time.

I guess I was lulled into a false sense of security regarding my anonymity because I knew that Belle de Jour was hounded by the press, and still managed to keep her identity private. Whilst I may have a high-traffic blog, and a book detailing my sexual adventures in the shops, I’m not a prostitute like her, so why, I figured, would anyone really be interested in whom I am?

But life is not that bad for Abby Lee. After her book deal (rumoured to be six-figures), she is now busy attending conferences and being interviewed by media.

Belle, on the other hand, has sparked speculation in the media as to her real identity. Whether Belle really was a call girl, and whether her diary entries are based on fact or are entirely fictitious. Times Online has published at least 5 articles about Belle and her somewhat ‘true’ identity. Belle, however maintains that she is who she is. Now she is a regular columnist in The Sunday Telegraph, maintaining her anonymity (I wonder how it works, though, even though she could keep a distance with the newspaper by communicating everything online, she still has to get her cheque under her real name, right?). With that TV show under her belt now, she must be the queen of sex blogger.

Another blogger mentioned by the Sex in The Noughties: The Sex Blog Girls show was Bitchy Jones, who maintains a blog called Bitchy Jones’s Diary. She is, as she said in her blog, is a sexually dominant, and want to be a boss in bed. She, however, doesn’t do dominatrix for money. She talked about the interview and her choice to be anonymous in one of her posts:

I’m anonymous because it’s easier for me to be real that way. It easier to tell the truth in the dark. But I’d hate to think I was fooling anyone or making them think I was ashamed of what I am. And some days I think it’s political. That anonymous female sex blogging challenges ideas about women and sex and media on a quite basic level. That a woman – normally – is not allowed to have opinions about sex without revealing her body. Without making her body commercially available. (Like Abby Lee - quite clearly - was forced by the media to be a body.) It’s challenging all on it’s own to be a bodiless sexual mind rather than a mindless sexual body.

Just like what I posted here and here, I said that I don’t really care whether the blogger is anonymous or not. Being a responsible one is more important. I don’t respect vicious attacks without justification that seem aimed at shredding a person’s reputation. It doesn’t matter whether we write about IT, or making money online, or write about daft, boring daily activities, or about cooking, or kids, or fashion. Or politics. Or sex…

PS: do you notice that the image in ITV2’s Secret Diary of A Call Girl website is similar to my blog header?

Post Script Friday 5 Sept 08: According to my statistic, yesterday alone I have got almost 500 visitors after I posted this article. Maybe because Olav was so popular? Or maybe they thought there was something kinky about penguin? I don’t know. Nevertheless, I’m beyond thrilled! It was once in a life time experience, having 500 people reading my ramblings. Thanks, guys!
clipped from en.wikipedia.org

Sir Nils Olav is a King Penguin living in Edinburgh Zoo, Scotland. He is the mascot and Colonel-in-Chief of the Norwegian King’s Guard. Nils was visited by the Norwegian King’s Guard on the 15 August 2008 and awarded a knighthood. The honour was approved by the king of Norway, King Harald V. During the ceremony a crowd of several hundred people joined the 130 guardsmen at the zoo to hear a citation from King Harald the Fifth of Norway read out, which described Nils as a penguin “in every way qualified to receive the honour and dignity of knighthood”.^[1]

Nils Olav has been an honorary member and mascot of the Norwegian King’s Guard since 1972, when a member of the Norwegian King’s Guard adopted the lucky penguin after visiting Edinburgh Zoo. The proud penguin was on his best behaviour throughout most of the ceremony, but shortly before the ritual was concluded and possibly suffering a bout of nerves he was seen to deposit a discreet white puddle on the ground. Next time I visit Edinburgh Zoo, I’d make sure to visit Olav. I wonder if Olav will be invited to royal family event? You know, like wedding and stuff. What does he have to wear? A penguin suit? But he’s already a penguin!