The Curious Diary of Mr Jam

by Nury Vittachi

  Tuesday, July 15

  Back at my desk at the Quite Good, I turn to the internet to research the subject of slogans, a likely subject for a column and a routine if ever I saw one. Google tells me that there are various lists of the best US presidential slogans ever. The popular ones are short, memorable and easy to understand, such as “I Like Ike”. I search online for the equivalents on my side of the planet. In China, the most famous presidential slogan is: “The three represents.” And before you ask, let me tell you that I have no idea what the three represents. None of the bumpf tells you.

  India’s recent political slogans have been rather dull: “Congress is with the common man.” In Bangladesh, we had “Wake up Bangladesh”— more than a little insulting. In Indonesia, the president’s reelection slogan was “Continue!” which sounds like a school master announcing that the math test will extend past the playtime bell.

  At lunch, I meet Jeremy, who studied political science at university, and ask whether there are any political slogans anywhere which incorporate irony.

  “None in Asia, but several in the west,” he replies. The wittiest slogans come from activists. The Anarchists’ slogan was: “Bigger cages! Longer chains!” But he said he’d give the top prize to the protestors trying to influence the World Trade Organization, who marched through Seattle in 1999 shouting: “Three word chant! Three word chant!”

  But Asians DO use irony in slogans sometimes, I told him. Your humble narrator once met a Malaysian guy designing “Vote for me” posters for his college election. Everyone thought he was really boring. I redesigned his poster to be mildly ironic: “Vote for the other guy. (Only joking!!!)” He still got no votes, which kind of spoils my anecdote, but never mind.

  Wednesday, July 16

  At home, my neighbors tell me they reckon my children’s bikes weren’t stolen, but simply eroded into unrecognizable shapes before being binned by estate managers who were actually trying to be helpful. Whatever. I decide to check the price of new bicycles on the Internet.

  Aiyeeaah! They cost almost the same as cars! I desperately need an alternative solution. Anyone know a natural history museum with really, really poor security?

  A newspaper reader emails me to comment on the discussion about slogans, pointing out that “Yes We Can” is the present one being used by a dark-skinned gentleman named Barack Obama in his current bid to be US president. Compare that to the one which has been issued in China for the celebration of the 60th anniversary of the communist takeover: “Hold high the great banner of socialism with Chinese characteristics, unswervingly adhere to the socialist road with Chinese characteristics, unswervingly adhere to the theoretical system of socialism with Chinese characteristics, unswervingly.” Yes, THREE unswervinglies. That’s not a misprint. You’d think that one person out of the 1.3 billion in China would have had the courage to stand up and say to the Premier, “Er, Your Excellency, I think the people will have got the message by the second ‘unswervingly’.” But no.

  Thursday, July 17

  Wow. I can’t believe this. I am now getting huge numbers of letters (almost FIVE today, ie, four) from all over the world about my campaign to find Asian humor. Some contain jokes, while others point to unusual sources of laughs.

  A comedy show has been discovered in North Korea, says one correspondent, enclosing a clipping and some comments. Yes, even in the least funny part of Asia, serious attempts are being made to generate laughs. The show is called “It’s So Funny”. Here’s some of the dialogue.

  MALE SOLDIER: “I feel better and look more handsome because I have been taking medicine made from beans. If we soldiers see beans, we become happy. Ha ha ha.”

  FEMALE SOLDIER: “If we farm in the way the General tells us, we will become happy. Ha ha ha.”

  Ah-Fat and I are setting at the Quite Good Noodle Shop. He grabs the newspaper article to read it more closely. “There’s something missing.”

  “What?”

  “Humor. There’s no actual humor involved.”

  I read the dialogue again and realize he is correct. “That’s true. But give them time. It’s not easy. They’ve only been working on it for a couple of decades.”

  Ah-Fat expresses suspicion that the curious lack of humor in the skit reveals its grim true purpose: to deliver the bad news that there is nothing to eat except beans.

  “You may be right,” I say, snatching it back. Further down in the article, which is by a foreign correspondent, there’s a comment by a North Korean defector named Kim Yong. He says he heard all the same bean “jokes” before he defected 20 years ago.

  I tell Ah-Fat that he should be more charitable about the North Korean comedy team. “If there was an award for comedians who manage to steer clear of clichés, the ‘It’s So Funny’ gang would come top. They’ve been joking about eating beans for 20 years, and I’ll bet they have never made a single reference to flatulence. Western comedians would be hard pressed to manage 20 seconds.”

  Friday, July 18

  Canadian journalist Jennifer Weiss calls me again, this time to ask what Asians think of Sarah Palin, who is currently standing for vice president of the United States.

  “Just a minute,” I say. “I’ll ask them.” I put Jennifer on hold, have a slurp of noodles, and then get back on the line. “They like him. But they think he should make more episodes of Monty Python.”

  There is a pause. I hear her brain cell click into place. “That’s not Sarah Palin,” she says. “That’s Michael Palin.”

  “Well, Asians would like her to tell her husband to make more episodes of Monty Python.”

  “Actually, I don’t think Michael Palin is her husband.”

  I take a sharp intake of breath. “They are not legally married? That’s something that Asians definitely do not approve of.”

  “No, no, no, she’s married to someone else, not Michael Palin.”

  “That makes it worse.”

  There are few things in life more pleasurable than tormenting western journalists. The only problem is that it is so easy. They pretend to be interested in Asia, but are only really interested in themselves. They are absolutely convinced that the rest of the world watches every detail of what happens in the west, especially the US and London, as if the lives of people in the west were some sort of wacky global sitcom designed to entertain the rest of the planet. Actually, that IS more or less the case. But I still like teasing them. “Does Palin come from Palin?” I ask.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You do know there’s a place in Asia called Palin?”

  Silence.

  “It’s 400 kilometres north of Yangon. You do know where Yangon is, don’t you?”

  “Ahhhh, sure, but are Asians concerned that someone with no practical understanding of Asia could one day be in a position of global leadership?”

  “What’s Ms. Palin’s position on Jammu and Kashmir? How does she see Taiwan? For late-night takeaways, does she prefer Indian or Chinese?”

  Jennifer tells me that Ms. Palin has expressed no opinions on those subjects, as far as she knows.

  “I think most Asians would prefer Obama.”

  “Because he has lived in Asia?”

  “Because his favorite food is chilli. He says his heart is all-American, but his bowels are definitely Asian.”

  * * *

  That night, my son comes home from school with a puzzle. He has been asked to come to school the following day in his National Costume. Tricky. I tell him: “You can be south Asian if you take your father’s background, Chinese if you take your birth-mother’s background, or western if you take your mom’s background.” It occurs to me that this is an issue that my children will have to deal with for many years.

  We sit down and made a list of pros and cons.

  Good Reasons to be South Asian.

  1) You can claim to have invented the world’s favorite food, curry.

  2) No one will be surprised if you wear a 1970s moustache your whole life.
/>
  3) You can answer questions by diagonally tilting your head, thus postponing actual decisions for ever:

  “Will you marry me?”

  Headwobble.

  “Are you aware of the speed limit, sir?”

  Headwobble.

  “Does this make me look fat?”

  Headwobble.

  4) You can be a fat guy with hamster cheeks and still be a movie star.

  5) Guys can act like complete sexist prats; indeed, no less is expected of us.

  6) Guys can prance around like girls and claim we’re doing Bollywood dances.

  On the downside, South Asian males are way down at the bottom of the popularity chart with girls in every place I’ve ever lived, including, scarily, South Asia. (If I ever write a book about being South Asian, I will probably call it “Nobody Likes Us”.)

  Is it better to be Chinese?

  Good Reasons to be Chinese.

  1) Everyone thinks you’re brilliant at math so you always get put in charge of the money.

  2) No one is surprised if you have weird stuff like a dried cow penis in your medicine cabinet.

  3) You can make any kind of gibberish noises and tell people, “I’m speaking one of the 3,000 obscure minority dialects of rural China.”

  4). Women like you because they reckon that instead of watching football on TV you’ll busy yourself exercising your innate skills in making money.

  On the downside, you rarely see western girls dating Chinese guys, so that limits one’s options.

  Good Reasons for being Western.

  1) You can invent games that no one else can understand, like baseball and cricket.

  2) You don’t have to learn foreign languages because you can just assume that everyone else should learn English.

  3) You can have loads of nuclear weapons while telling the rest of the world that they can’t have any.

  4) If you live in the US and look even vaguely mammalian, you can have your own gun.

  5) Girls like you because they assume you will grow taller than other guys.

  6) Your traumas (Titanic sinks, 1,500 die) are taken way more seriously than the traumas of easterners (Dona Paz sinks, 4,000 die), which are quickly forgotten.

  “In theory, if you are physically or socially multicultural, you could have all the advantages,” I tell my boy. Then a thought strikes me: Or all the disadvantages. You could be a short, puny guy with no ability to earn money and no luck with women. Suddenly my past starts to flash before my eyes. I quickly change the subject and start singing loudly to drown out my thoughts.

  Saturday, July 19

  Today I am working at a friend’s office, as the Quite Good is closed for fumigation. Normally, there are 12,000 people in this complex. But I’m writing this alone in the building.

  It’s a Saturday and everyone else is off work. But not me. No, sir: how could the world cope without essential services such as medical care, air traffic control, law enforcement, and the provision of my humorous blog? (Don’t answer that.)

  To save money on this low-traffic day, the building managers have taped a sign to the elevator: “Please consider using the stairs. You can Save Energy and Get Exercise.” Just in case I am not deeply moved by their use of the word “please,” they have thoughtfully turned the lift off to help me with my decision.

  After puffing up the stairs to the office, I discover the air-conditioning has also been turned off and the room resembles the core of the sun, only 432 degrees hotter. Actually, I don’t mind this. Sri Lankans are only happy when they are too hot. I slave away on various columns until noon, and then go foraging for food. Uh-oh. I quickly discover that every restaurant in the vicinity is closed. This is bad news. It means I have to get lunch from a 7-Eleven convenience store. Convenience stores, for readers fortunate enough to be unfamiliar with them, are brightly lit hellholes selling food-like items at exorbitant prices to the terminally desperate.

  Unwisely, I purchase a food-like item and find there is no cooking time printed on it. Instead, it says: “Place in store microwave and press button eight.” This is because people idiotic enough to consume convenience store food are assumed, probably correctly, to lack the brainpower to be able to understand complex concepts such as the fact that “two minutes” means two of those minute things.

  After a while, the oven beeps. I open the door and note that a blob of radioactive orange sauce has bubbled out from the container. I grab a tissue to try to mop it up. This is a mistake because the orange liquid is 4,000 degrees Celcius. I end up screaming and leaping around the store with my fingers in my mouth, mumbling, “It’s all right, it’s all right,” a phrase which embarrassed, well-brought-up middle-class people say when things are not all right.

  Shop staff, experienced at dealing with emergencies involving hazardous chemicals, wave me aside and don nuclear radiation gloves to deal with the spill. The leaky microwaved food-like item is placed in a series of gamma-ray-proof bags and handed to me. I take it back to my office/ sauna, where it raises the temperature of the room from that of the sun to that of an exploding supernova. I strip to my boxer shorts to avoid heatstroke. At this point, the patrolling security guard peers through my office window and grabs his walkie-talkie to summon reinforcements. Monday I am going back to work at the Quite Good.

  Monday, July 21

  Back at table three of my noodle shop, I am happy again—although my breakfast noodles taste different. Ah-Fat reckons it’s probably because of all the insecticide. Logging on to the internet, I discover that I have been discovered by a reader in London. “You’ve been saying that western culture flows east, but eastern culture flows west too,” writes Flo-Flo Thomasin from London. She says judges in London gave an Indian spiritual healer the right to have his body set alight on a bonfire after his death. It would be the only way to have “a good death,” argued the 71-year-old immigrant.

  Some UK people opposed the application. “Even burning dry leaves in your garden is not allowed in some parts of the country,” Flo-Flo said. “There’s no way we would allow you to chuck grandpa on the bonfire.” But in a surprise decision, judges okayed the request.

  It occurs to me that this could be the answer to the shortage of cemetery space in Asia. When one of your relatives drops dead in the supermarket car park, you just sprinkle them with paraffin, take out your cigarette lighter, and—whooomf!—they become a pile of ashes which can be neatly swept up and put into a jar. Of course, you’d have to have rules. If someone dies in an airplane, for example, you’d probably have to delay the cremation until after the meal service. And if any of my children are reading this, PUT THE MATCHES AWAY. I am probably just having a deep sleep.

  Wednesday, July 23

  Benny, still worrying about paying school fees for his kids, tells me that it now costs the same to raise a child in any particular city as it does to buy a nice three-bedroom family home in the same place. He read it on a website somewhere.

  Could it be so much? I thought about it: school fees, uniforms, books, shoes, bus fees, music lessons, teacher bribes, new set of keys when junior flushes yours down the toilet, new suit when junior vomits over your good one, new house when junior burns it down, etc. Could be.

  Benny tells me he will email me the link tomorrow morning. “You’ll be stunned at how much each child costs.”

  I sigh. “Don’t tell me. It’s better I don’t know these things.”

  Thursday, July 24

  The on-going financial crash does not seem to have made life cheaper, according to the fascinating article Benny forwarded. Boffins reckon raising a yuppie kid is the same as buying a three-bedroom middle-class dwelling: HK$7 million in Hong Kong, 450,000 pounds in London, and about US$800,000 in New York.

  The difference is that when you spend that much on a property, you know about it. When you spend the same amount on the kids, it disappears invisibly on an unimaginably long list of Hello Kitty erasers and the like. Some parents argue that it’s cheaper to have lots of
kids, but I tried this argument at my kids’ school, and staff just laughed. There’s no discount for bulk. (Nor does it work at McDonald’s.)

  “So why do we have children?” Ah-Fat asked, as he read over my shoulder.

  To answer that question, I worked out exactly how much a child costs from birth to university. It came to about three US dollars an hour. I spend some time scribbling notes before calling Ah-Fat over.

  “A kid costs $3 an hour,” I tell him. “I’m putting it on the internet and asking people what they think they get for their three bucks.”

  By the end of the day, a list had appeared, sentence by sentence, reader by reader. Yes it was sentimental, but it still was oddly moving. Here are the best lines:

  You get an excuse to build sandcastles on the beach.

  You get someone to hold your hand every time you go out.

  You get the most beautifully decorated fridge in the world.

  You get an excuse to watch The Jungle Book and The Lion King, and to read The Chronicles of Narnia.

  You get a reason to go to Disneyland.

  You get the world’s funniest comedian in residence at your home, on call 24 hours a day.

  You get a way to recapture the magic of Christmas and similar holidays.

  Dad gets to be the strongest, bravest, cleverest man in the world, a guy who can fix anything.

  Mom gets unimaginably large amounts of worship and adoration (just like her husband used to give her).