The Curious Diary of Mr Jam

by Nury Vittachi

  Here’s a bit of it:

  “For decades, the world has been gripped by a tense stand-off between east and west over a crucial question of geopolitical significance: which side of the world is funnier? If we mean ‘funny ha-ha’ then the west wins hands down. They have lots of internationally appreciated funny people. We don’t. But if we are talking ‘funny-amazing’ or ‘funny-weird’, it’s a different matter. Over the years, a great many high-level international summits have been held on the subject, most of which have been chaired by me at appropriate venues—’dives’—late into the evenings. I batted for the east. Any place where people eat octopus pizza and the most widely recognized person is a cartoon kitten with no mouth has to be the capital of weirdness. But I lost every battle! The western team had MAJOR heavy hitters on the ‘bizarre creature’ index: the Loch Ness Monster, Bigfoot, UFOs, Michael Jackson and so on. And they had evidence: black and white fuzzy pictures of Nessie and UFOs, shaky camcorder shots of Bigfoot and several entire documentaries about Mr. Jackson.

  “Asia actually has its own Loch Ness Monster, but who’s heard of it? It lives in a lake in Xinjiang, China. The one brochure I’ve seen says it juts its head up and snaps at ‘fries and wild duck’. This is possibly a misprint for ‘flies’ but in China you never know. Asia also has the yeti and the orang pendek. The first means ‘Rock Bear’ and the second ‘Short Man’. ‘Come to Asia and see a Short Man’ is not a slogan that will sell will many air tickets.

  “Yet our monsters are fab. You may think the title of ‘Most Bizarre’ should go to the Giant Tentacled Sea Monster from the Maori people. But I think the top prize should go to the Tribe of Secret Wild Grannies from Indonesia. Famous for centuries as Ebu Gogo, which means Granny Flesheater, they creep around in a menacing fashion and toss their matted locks around, exactly like my teenage nephews. Scientists dismissed reports about them as sightings of monkeys.

  “Well, over the last couple of years the west lost its monsters. Sonar searches revealed that the only scary beasts in Loch Ness were drunken Scots who have fallen in. Aerial photos show lots of gigantic creatures camping in US forests, but all are of a common species called ‘American holidaymakers’. UFOs have gone home.

  “But in Asia-Pacific, monsters keep turning up. A massive tentacled sea monster called a Colossal Squid (not to be confused with its puny relative, the Giant Squid) has been caught. On Flores Island in Indonesia, scientists found the bones of semi-human creatures who were hairy, grew to the size of a human child and lurked in forest caves. Yes: the Tribe of Secret Wild Grannies.

  “Henry Gee, editor of top science publication Nature, admitted that sentiment had turned in favor of Asian monsters actually existing. ‘The discovery that Homo floresiensis survived until so very recently, in geological terms, makes it more likely that stories of other mythical human-like creatures such as yetis are founded on grains of truth,’ he said. I sent them a cogently argued letter entitled Nyeh-nyeh, Told You but they have yet to print it. And if people still don’t believe that Asia is a bizarre place containing scary, wild, hairy creatures, I shall bring in a few of the teenagers in my family. Be very afraid.”

  I’m pleased to report that my speech was greeted with uproarious laughter, albeit solely from an audience member at the back of the room who had ear phones on and was watching Blackadder Goes Forth on a tiny portable screen.

  Tuesday, June 3

  Warm rain falls steadily all day, giving the pavements a much-needed wash. The children and I are shopping in a wet market (in this city, only foreigners, idiots and the super-rich buy things in supermarkets) when we notice something odd. One whole row of stalls has no customers except us. Even the stallholders have disappeared. It is the poultry section.

  Next to the market is a small shopping mall where we notice a KFC. My youngest tries to read the name, but I quickly forbid it, pointing out that it is not a nice word. One of the older ones asks if we can go in and buy chicken nuggets. But the shop is closed, despite the fact that it is lunchtime.

  Then I remember something I read in the newspaper this morning and realize why. “It’s empty because bird flu germs were found at a market on the other side of town. Bird flu is a killer disease people catch from chickens with bad colds.”

  “Will we die, daddy?”

  “No, dear. Normal people over-react. But not smart people like us. We know germs cannot jump huge distances from a distant food market on the other side of town to our one here.”

  Wednesday, June 4

  Today’s newspaper informs me that bird flu germs have jumped from a distant food market to the one near our house. I stick the kids in the shower and wash them till they squeak. Someone on the radio is bleating about the “second coming” of a killer disease that could well wipe out mankind. Why bother writing Hollywood screenplays? Just film normal life in Asia.

  Hours pass. Rain still falling. I head to the Quite Good anyway, having got into a routine. Logging onto my laptop, I find that an imam has sent me a modern Islamic joke, which I have permission to print after I write back promising not to reveal his name:

  A man walking in New York’s Central Park sees a Rottweiler attacking a little girl. He subdues the dog and saves her life.

  A passing Fox News reporter says: “You’re a hero. Tonight’s TV news bulletin will say: ‘Brave New Yorker Saves Child.”

  The man replies: “I’m a tourist from Saudi Arabia.”

  That night the news on Fox TV says: “Islamic extremist kills New York dog.”

  Amazing news awaits me in a letter from my book agent when I get home, my clothes damp from the rain. A book I wrote several years ago has received uniformly positive reviews in Europe. As a result, I have been invited to appear at the world’s biggest book festival, to be held in Edinburgh, Scotland, in August. Could be fun. A whole new audience on which to experiment with some Asian humor.

  When Eddie hears the news, he calls to urge me to abandon the on-line diary and get back into book-writing. But he advises me to write thrillers instead of the light-hearted novels I’ve done in the past. The market has moved away from “cozy” crime and is focused on hard-edged, ultra-violent sex murders from Sweden, he says.

  I tell him I have no desire to write that stuff. It strikes me that a normal person’s diary is the ultimate thriller. Which do readers identify with more? The standard Tom Clancy-type novel, with spies and missiles and geopolitical maneuvers? Or a real person’s real record of worrying about the things that real people worry about? How to raise your kids, how to find out what you’re good at and arrange for someone to pay you to do it, how to find a partner, how to pay your rent, how to be happy, how to be fulfilled, how to do something good in this world, how to cross Garden Road during weekday rush hour? These are life-or-death questions that every human being has to find the answers to. “Look at Noble House,” I tell him. “That’s a bestselling thriller, and what is it about? A guy in Hong Kong looking for a loan. And that’s 1,100 pages.” Anyway, writers write books they need to write, and the books find the right readers themselves.

  Thursday, June 5

  The humor flow continues. Among the morning’s emails, a Chinese/English joke arrives, sent from Beijing by a UK-educated colleague of Luo Jinglei.

  A Chinese girl, newly arrived at Oxford University, has a long chat with the librarian about a book she is seeking.

  Promising to locate it, he says, “I’ll give you a ring.”

  The girl is stunned. “Wow,” she says, clapping her hands. “You westerners really work fast.”

  Des Mohani has been following my Asian humor campaign and is very excited. “This is a new niche that no one else is looking at. That’s got to be good.” As a contribution, he sends in the following:

  Five reasons why there won’t be a South Asian in the US White House any time soon.

  5. White House not big enough for in-laws.

  4. Western dignitaries find it too hard to eat with fingers at state dinners.

&nbs
p; 3. Agarbattis (incense sticks) will set off smoke alarms.

  2. Visitors such as Queen Elizabeth won’t like having to take off shoes at the door.

  1. White House aides will dislike being addressed as “Peon” and being made to live in huts in the garden.

  Friday, June 6

  Busy today classifying the pieces of eastern humor which are pouring in. They fall into five categories.

  1. Possibly unintentional

  2. Definitely unintentional

  3. Definitely Asian origin

  4. Clearly western origin with a few words changed

  5. Universal

  6. Complicated

  Below is an example of a piece of globalized humor, with elements both eastern and western. I put it in category six, “Complicated”.

  The President of the US goes to China to see the sports minister. “How come you guys win all the medals?” he asks.

  The Chinese coach replies: “We train all our sports people using Asian philosophy to sharpen their minds. I’ll show you.”

  Basketball player Yao Ming is passing by. The Chinese coach asks him: “He is not your brother, but he is your father’s son. Who is he?”

  Yao Ming thinks for a few seconds. “It’s me.”

  “Correct,” says the coach.

  “Interesting, thanks,” says the US President. He goes back to America and visits footballer David Beckham, who now lives in Los Angeles. “David, here’s a riddle. He is not your brother but he is your father’s son. Who is he?”

  “Wot? I dunno,” says Beckham.

  “It’s Asian philosophical training. Think about it,” says the President.

  Beckham goes to consult Tiger Woods, a sportsman with Asian blood. “He is not your brother but he is your father’s son. Who is he?”

  Tiger Woods thinks about it. “It’s me.”

  David Beckham goes back to see the President. “I know the answer to the riddle.”

  “What is it?” the President asks.

  “It’s Tiger Woods,” says Beckham.

  “What? You don’t get it, do you?” says the President. “It’s not Tiger Woods. It’s Yao Ming.”

  At lunchtime, I receive a cutting from a Filipino newspaper sent in by reader Chato Olivas-Gallo for the “Possibly Unintended” humor department. The headline says: “Crucifixion bad for health”.

  * * *

  Later that day, a Hong Kong civil servant, originally from the UK, steps into the Quite Good to ask me to find out whether Asians really have a genetic inability to be ironic or sarcastic—a key assumption among people who think people from the east lack a sense of humor.

  “On the contrary, we are often ironic,” I respond.

  But I have to admit that the most high-stress love-affair I know is one that runs on and off between a western guy called Jeremy who is unable to say anything that is not sarcastic and an eastern girl called Lai-kuen who seems blind to irony even at point blank range. It was particularly problematic one evening last year. At the back of a room at which a gang of us were eating burgers, she cut to the chase.

  “So, you going to marry me, then?” she asked.

  He rolled his eyes and replied: “Marry YOU? Yeah, right.”

  Now you can see the problem here. To him, “yeah, right” means “no, wrong”. But to her, it meant “yeah, right”.

  She was euphorically happy for the next hour until he asked her why she was looking so giddy.

  “You agreed to marry me,” she explained.

  He objected loudly, exclaiming: “Me? Marry YOU? Yeah, right.”

  Overhearing this exchange, I laughed. But thinking it over, I realized that this was actually quite a serious potential problem. I stepped in and pointed out that had Lai-kuen been a lawyer, she could have sued him in several jurisdictions for crimes such as “breach of promise” or “being a jerk/ cad/ bounder,” etc. (In many Asian countries, acting like a jerk to an unmarried woman is a serious criminal offence, as it should be. In South Korea, men are regularly jailed for jerkishness.)

  Saturday, June 7

  This morning I spend an hour at the local radio station, discussing the news with DJ Phil Whelan. On the way out, I meet another on-air guest, a pediatrician. She is soon telling me how intelligent her child is. I feel like saying to her: Listen, lady. Your friends think the same about their children. I think the same about mine. We can’t all be correct. So think about it. What’s the obvious answer? Yes, I’m right while everyone else is wrong.

  Without any prompting she goes on to say: “Of course, we all think our kids are smart.” She wags her finger. “Perhaps, amazingly enough, we’ve all got it right.”

  She tells me that scientists have discovered IQ scores have been climbing at a steady three points a decade for at least half a century and the rate of increase may be accelerating. Fifteen points would turn George W. Bush (whose IQ is 125) into Hillary Clinton (whose IQ is 140).

  I think about this on the bus all the way home. So maybe the real reason adults have to get their kids to sort through the menus on the mobile phone and fix the ring tones, etc., is that they are actually smarter than we are. Already, in my house, the only people who can operate the cable TV box are the children. The only people who can write SMS messages using predictive text are the children. The only people who can get to level nine in Nintendo games are the children. The only people who can disable the “net nanny” filter on the computer to watch uncensored stuff are the children. The only people who can use communications technology to sell index-linked derivative hedge fund junk-grade securities to unsuspecting global banks are the children.

  On my hand, I write down my year of birth and those of my children, then calculate a gain of three IQ points a decade. Stepping into the apartment, I say to my wife: “According to my calculations, the brainpower of each of our three children will exceed mine by the beginning of next year.”

  “Or last year,” she says, thoughtfully.

  Sunday, June 8

  No sunshine today, but no rain either. The sky is just white all over, as if the weather angels forgot to paint it in this morning. I phone the pediatrician to tell me more about child intelligence, so I can write a column or compose a routine on the subject.

  She says: “By the age of three, children have 15,000 synapses, or connections, per neuron. Their brains are twice as active as adult ones.”

  I tell her that when I was young, the poster child for junior intelligence was Kim Ung-yong, a Korean kid who solved differential calculus problems live on TV aged four.

  She says: “Today’s equivalent is Akrit Jaswal, born in India in 1993. He became a practicing surgeon at the age of seven, operating on another child. He’s now at Punjab University in Chandigarh, working on a cure for cancer. It is not inconceivable that our own kids may turn out to be like him.”

  “If any of mine want to try being an under-age practicing surgeon, I will certainly not stand in their way,” I reply. “Indeed, I will stand as far away as I can. I may be an adult, but I’m not stupid.”

  Time for some brain exercise, to make sure that I do not fall too far behind the offspring. In training for my next career as a top Asian philosopher, I sit and compose some Aphorisms of Modern Life. They quickly flow from my fingertips.

  1. Any horizontal surface left long untended enough will grow fliers, an empty cup and some keys.

  2. If you are in a bad mood, all inanimate objects can move just enough to get in your way.

  3. Checks you write hide in the banking system until there is not enough money in your account, and then present themselves with a loud “Ta-da!”

  4. The average person now has more remote controls in his house than there are objects to be remotely controlled.

  5. If you drop some coins on the floor, the tiny worthless ones will stay at your feet, while the valuable ones will roll under a Coke machine.

  Monday, June 9

  As the number of incoming messages from around the world mounts on my website,
I realize that I have to deal with the sarcasm dilemma most days. In these days of texts, instant messages and emails, people send ultra-short letters, so it’s hard to know when they are being ironic. This morning I turn on the computer to find an email from a reader named Lightsabre85 saying: “Regarding today’s column: THANKS A LOT.”

  How to reply? This is tricky. If a first language English speaker says “Thanks a lot” it means you have done something terrible and he /she is furious with you. If a second language English speaker says “Thanks a lot,” it means you have done something fantastic and he / she is happy with you. Should I thank Lightsabre85 for the compliment or apologize? After wrestling with the problem for a minute, I write back to him with a short message: “Yeah, right.” That should do it.

  Then I spend some time thinking about people like Hendrick Mong and Lai-kuen, and it strikes me that some people might have a medical inability to understand sarcasm. Is that possible? I email Dr. Lok of Penang to ask.

  Two hours later, I receive a reply. I am astonished to learn from her that some people ARE physically unable to handle irony. You can only understand it if you have an “irony nodule,” located in the “right parahippocampal gyrus,” she writes. Autistic people often lack this, she says.

  “So do newspaper sub-editors,” I type back.

  That night I meet Jeremy in Lan Kwai Fong and tell him that if he has his right parahippocampal gyrus surgically removed, he may be able to communicate in an irony-free way with Lai-kuen. Unfortunately, his career as his social group’s comedian will be over. I ask if he is willing to take the risk.

  “Have my brain removed? Yeah, right,” he says, meaning no, wrong. Ironically, he then goes on to have his brain completely disabled by non-surgical means—using a heavy dose of a powerful oral sedative called Tsing Tao.