The Curious Diary of Mr Jam
Page 18
You get an anger management course, absolutely free.
You get to vicariously experience all your “firsts” again: your first ice cream, your first plane ride, your first sight of an elephant.
You get to be God, controlling the environment and shaping people’s lives.
You get an ultra-cute walking, talking doll that you can dress any way you like.
You get an apoplectically enthusiastic greeting every time you come home from work.
You get an excuse to buy a video camera.
You get so much love that it fills your entire body and floods your eyes.
You get a three hugs a day, which is 1,095 a year.
You get to be “title sponsor” with naming rights.
You get a broken heart when they leave, but it’s worth it.
Amazing. Asian readers had just written an entire column for me at no cost. This is the kind of teamwork I could learn to appreciate.
Friday, July 25
This morning, while collecting my ration of hugs from my kids, reality intrudes. A letter from the landlord announces that there will be a rent review in four months.
Meanwhile, the newspaper carries an article about the extraordinary resistance of the Hong Kong property rental market to the economic slump taking place in most other places on the planet. I calculate that within two years, the annual cost of my apartment will rise from the GDP of a small African country to the GDP of a medium-sized European nation.
On the overseas news pages, I learn that the value of the house that Granny wants us to buy from her in London has fallen from “utterly impossible” to simply “impossible”. Technically, that’s positive.
* * *
It’s boiling hot today and rainy too. The government issues a “hot weather warning” and predicts a severe thunderstorm within the next 24 hours. It seems everyone’s in a bad mood, the weather angels included.
We’re in the bar. In walks Woot. Harold is smiling, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that the day has turned nice. The most likely interpretation is that there was a car crash outside, or he was watching the news and some innocent nation was swallowed up by an earthquake. The moneyman nods greetings to several people as he strolls through the bar, but everyone just looks puzzled, as if they are not sure who the chubby man in a suit is.
“Hello, Mr. Jam,” he oozes. “Laughing your way to the bank yet?” His southern US drawl is even drawlier and I wonder if he has been to another source of drinks on the way to this one.
“Actually, I have a little project running, to collect Asian humor, which is doing very nicely, thank you.”
He’s not interested, and quickly focuses on his favorite subject, himself, and is soon regaling the rest of us with even more outrageous versions of what he does. “I’m a conman. That’s all I am. A conman.” He’s drunk.
I raise my eyebrows and look at Benny. The two of us have the following conversation entirely by eyebrow communication.
ME: Well.
BENNY: You can say that again.
ME: Well. He’s an obnoxious investment banker but at least he’s an HONEST obnoxious investment banker today.
BENNY: Yep.
Woot gathers an audience of three or four people who have the misfortune to be sitting near him and starts explaining as usual how to make money. “Forget art and culture,” he says. “It’s all crap.” He points vaguely to me, to indicate that I represent art, culture, crap or most likely all three. “This is how you make money in three simple steps. Step one, you start a fund. People give you a billion dollars, maybe two. Most of it is the pension funds of little people. Step two, you get two per cent of it as a management fee. That’s 20 to 40 million A YEAR just for sitting on people’s money. That’s before you’ve done anything. If the money goes up by the end of the year, you get 20 per cent of the profits, on top of your 20 to 40 mill. If it goes down, you lose nothing. The pension fund has to eat it. You can’t lose. You just can’t lose.”
I’m thinking: but you can lose friends, Harold, and you can lose your humanity, and you can lose YOUR SOUL.
One of the people listening turns out to be an amateur economist of Australian origin. The discussion moves to the curious buoyancy of the local property market and he starts sharing his thoughts about real estate in Hong Kong. “It’s not the actual cost of a property which counts,” he says. “It’s the position of the property market on the affordability index.”
Before I can think of a reply, Benny jumps in. “In Hong Kong, no intelligent person would ever put the word ‘affordable’ and ‘property’ in the same utterance. You can be jailed under the Disseminating False News ordinance.”
The Australian shuts up and looks around nervously.
IV.
AUTUMN, SEASON OF TWISTS
Chapter Eight
JOURNEY TO THE WEST
In which an epigrammatist visits the land of the sporran and reflects on the art of speaking for a living
Friday, August 1
Panic! With a deadline approaching, I am typing so fast that my fingers are distorting the space-time continuum and causing a small black hole to suck paperclips off my desk.
Then the phone rings. I snatch it up, expecting to have to tell my boss, a magazine editor, that I will be finished in a matter of seconds.
But it’s not the boss. Out of the phone comes an unearthly wail. “Daaaaaad,” says my daughter’s voice. “My pink thing broke. The pink thing with the red things on.”
I have to ask: “What pink thing?”
“THE ONE WITH THE RED THINGS ON,” she screams. I hear her collapsing with the phone onto the floor, in need of a MAJOR remote comforting session. All hope of meeting my deadline vanishes.
Dear Diary, weep for us fathers of girls. What a burden we carry! Men, let’s be honest, find women to be strange, unpredictable creatures. We ALSO find children to be frightening, irrational beings. So when we find ourselves raising female children, it’s what westerners call “a double whammy” (I’m not sure what a whammy is, but, like broken legs and US presidents named Bush, two are more nerve-wracking than one).
Saturday, August 2
Yesterday’s thoughts are reinforced this evening as I survey the scene at a “Dads and Daughters Dance” at the Hong Kong Countryside Club. Men in identical dark gray suits sit having identical conversations over identical drinks. Their girls, undeniably a different species, flit around in enough trimmings to embarrass a Christmas tree.
A reporter who is present to write an article for a parenting magazine asks me whether raising a girl differs from raising a boy. “It’s like comparing apples and chalk,” I reply. “And you can quote me on that.”
My daughter and her friends run off to play cute games (“tripping up the waiters”) while the reporter, who looks about 12, waits with poised pen to hear my pearls of wisdom. “There’s a widespread belief that dads are not as good as moms at the whole baby-bonding thing,” I tell him. “This is an outrageous lie. We can do it. We just take 15 to 20 years longer.”
According to family legend, my father gazed at me when I was born and said to my mother: “Hey. You said the baby would look like me, but it’s bald and fat and wrinkly and does nothing but sleep and drink and fart. Wait. Never mind.”
For my part, the first inkling I had that some sort of dad-baby bonding thing could happen came when my first child, a boy, was two years old, and could understand important sentences, such as: “Go fetch my drink.”
But I have to admit to the interviewer that a gap between mom-skills and dad-skills remains in place for several years. The two sexes have different parenting styles, often for the first decade of the children’s lives. Here are some examples, from my long experience as a Mr. Mom:
Moms: Know the right questions to ask at parent-teacher meetings.
Dads: Ask the teacher for a discount on school fees.
Moms: Will play Snap and let the child win.
Dads: Will challenge the kid to poker an
d beat the pants off him.
Moms: Know the names and nicknames of all the children in the building.
Dads: Occasionally refer to “the fat one,” “the one with the ears” and “the ugly one”.
Moms: Will buy healthy fresh food at the market every day.
Dads: Will only go shopping when there’s nothing left in the fridge except half a jar of chilli sauce, and then will go buy more chilli sauce.
I tell the reporter: “A deeper level of bonding with kids takes dads a decade and a half. That’s when we know all the really important stuff about our children, such as the size of their mobile phone bills, the length of time they hog the bathroom, and the approximate amount of money we need to set aside for cute teenage hobbies such as writing off the car, getting arrested, etc.”
As I sit there, it occurs to me that there is one men-only parenting skill that works very well with female children. It’s an important Guy Trait that rarely gets appreciated. Women are always telling men that we never grow up. The previous Saturday morning, I visited a mainland Chinese woman with whom I once worked. She had been arguing with her eight-year-old daughter for four hours. The little girl was lying on the floor, hammering her feet and fists on the parquet. The woman was giving her long lectures about Behavior and Respect. Nothing she said could stop the tantrum.
I sat down beside the child and said: “I’m going to throw a watermelon off the roof to see what happens. It’s going to explode EVERYWHERE. Then I’m going to pick up the bits and eat them.”
The child stopped crying immediately and turned to face me.
“Eww,” she said. “That’s disgusting. Can I watch?”
“Sure.”
She sprang to her feet, tantrum immediately forgotten, and followed me out of the room.
“How did you come up with that?” her mother asked. “What a brilliant way to capture a child’s attention.”
I wondered whether to tell her the truth. I didn’t come up with that idea to distract her daughter. I really had been planning to throw a watermelon off the roof. I thought it would make a good video clip for my blog. I kept my mouth shut.
Monday, August 4
This morning I reflect on my good fortune. It’s the height of summer, when everything in the business world tends to go quiet, but I’m still getting invitations, some of which come via Fanny Sun, and others which come through the newspapers or my website. My calendar informs me that I have speaking engagements tomorrow and the following day.
“The speaking fees should help keep your landlord happy,” says Ah-Fat.
I nod enthusiastically. “Yep. Should cover several minutes’ rent. Maybe an hour.”
But, Dear Diary, you know what? I’ve noticed something, now that I am becoming a regular speaker. Wherever I appear, I have a more than 50 per cent chance of being introduced by a human with a brain the approximate weight and size of a sesame seed. Minutes before I give talks, introducers inevitably rush up to me and say: “I need to check your details.” What this means is: “So, who are you? I’m supposed to have done some research but I never got round to it.” What to reply? Should one tell the truth? “I am a devastatingly brilliant speaker who has been invited to speak because of my humor, intelligence, charm and wit.” I find this hard to say, because of my admirably high level of personal humility.
* * *
Just one week to go before I fly to Scotland to face the western world, and learn how creative people there make a living. The writers’ festival is being held in J.K. Rowling’s home town, apparently. Maybe she’ll give me some personal advice.
Tuesday, August 5
It’s been hot all day, but with the sort of gusty winds that presage storms. Exhausted by the heat, I wear a real suit and a fake smile at a charity dinner. Forty-eight seconds before I am due to speak, the introducer races up to me and says the usual thing: “Er, hi, I need to check your details, make sure I’ve got everything right, ha ha.” But there are no notes in her hand to “check”. The question is no surprise, but I am caught on the hop by the timing: I have an entire jacket potato in my mouth. I swallow fast and then opt for self-deprecation: “Oh, I’m a complete nobody really. Don’t worry—I won’t talk for long, ha ha ha.”
Well, lo and behold, that is exactly what she tells everyone from the stage: “Okay, hello, could everyone just listen up for a second? Sorry to interrupt the fun, but it’s time for the speaker. He’s the first to admit that he’s not exactly famous, but he’s promised to be quick, so we can get on to the really important part of the evening, dessert and THE RAFFLE! Yay!”
With a groan of dismay, half the audience sneaks out to chat in the corridor.
Wednesday, August 6
Another night, another charity ball. Typhoon winds are hitting Hong Kong today, but the organizer decides to go ahead with his party.
To try to forestall the usual horrible introduction, I give the master of ceremonies a hurriedly composed list of glowing tributes to myself, hastily scrawled on the back of the menu. Each bit of self-praise is carefully balanced by a line of self-effacing humor. I’m quite proud of this. It says: “He is the top-selling author in his hometown—but also the only author in his hometown! He gets more letters than any journalist in Asia—but unfortunately half of them are lawsuits! He is worshipped by women—but only those in his own household, who have no choice! He is considered a gorgeous hunk—but only by his friends at the Institute for the Blind!”
I hand it to her. “You can just read this out as an introduction. It’s meant to be funny.”
Ten minutes later, she clambers onto the stage. She peers at the piece of paper—and reads out the first half of each sentence. “Our speaker claims to be the best-selling author in this city. He says he gets more mail than any other journalist in Asia. He reckons he is worshipped by women. He is convinced he is, I quote, a gorgeous hunk.” She finishes this poisonous introduction by ad-libbing one line: “Don’t blame me, he wrote this himself.”
At this point, the audience decides that I am not just a jerk but such a raving egomaniac that I am dangerous to share a room with. As one, they race onto the balcony to smoke, drink and chat instead. Heading to the microphone in a rapidly emptying room, I realize that it is only a matter of time before I kill an introducer live on stage with my bare hands. Now THAT will be fun to watch.
Thursday, August 7
It’s a pleasure to have an evening at home after the past two over-long work days. And it’s important to spend time with the family—first thing next week I will be heading off to Edinburgh, Scotland. The publishing industry in the west intrigues me. There’s got to be money in it. Ms. Rowling is richer than the Queen, Wikipedia tells me.
Tonight my attention is on the kids. My eldest daughter needs help with her math. Something on the page has stumped her. Super-Dad to the rescue. “Move over, sweetheart. I’ll show you how it’s done,” I say, butting her out of her seat.
Her homework turns out to be an equation with a question below it: “In the above polynomial, what can x be equal to in the set of positive irrational numbers?”
Huh? It makes no sense. I read it again. It still makes no sense. I would have thought a “polynomial” would be a resident of the Pacific islands. And everyone knows that numbers cannot be “irrational” (a Latin word meaning “female”). Has mathematics become harder? Or have I become stupider? (Don’t answer that.)
Yikes, as they say in the Beano comics I used to read as a child. I pretend to remember a pressing engagement. Making excuses, I flee, advising her to look up the answer on the internet.
Thirty minutes later, I stand at the bar and ponder on the dramatic way math teaching methods have changed over the years. Here are my notes:
1930s Math Teaching Style in Asia:
Complete the following list of arithmetic tables:
12 x 12 = 144.
12 x 13 = 156.
12 x 14 = 168.
12 x 15 = 180.
12 x 16 = 192.
12 x 18 = 216.
Now memorize them by copying them out 100 times.
1940s Math Teaching style in Asia:
Mrs A has 13 mangos. She gives six mangos to her husband and six to her son. She shares her last mango between her six daughters. Is she being deferential enough to the men in her family?
1950s Math Teaching style in Asia:
Mrs Fong has 13 mangos. She gives 12 to her local Party work unit because property is theft. Should they shoot her for keeping one?
1960s Math Teaching style in Asia:
Amy has 10 apples. Should she eat them, smoke them or puree them so they can be ingested intravenously? Justify your answer using lyrics from Beatles songs.
Teaching style in Asia in the 1970s:
Amy has 10 apples. We can think of her as set A, and her apples as the subset (A/a = 10). If Amy gives five apples to her friend Melanie (set M), who already has three apples (M/a = 3), what does the word “subset” mean anyway?
1980s Math Teaching style in Asia:
Ming Ming has a cassette recorder and a shack on the roadside. Jaya has a cassette recorder and an Abba cassette. How long will it take them to make a fortune in pirated cassettes?
1990s Math Teaching style in Asia:
Ming Ming has ten shares of Apple Computers Inc. She wants to retire by the time she is 40. Should she (a) work hard and save money? Or (b) make a career writing viruses that attack Microsoft software?
Post-2000 Math Teaching style in Asia:
Ming Ming is starting a secondary market in selling unused hydrocarbon credits to offset global warming. She can achieve a profit ratio of 3.5 per cent net after costs of 81 per cent where x = 100 – 73/81. In the above polynomial, what can x be equal to in the set of positive irrational, or female, numbers?