Who? Me? Extended

I got a complaint! Wisa expressed his “disappointment” after reading my last entry. I’ve told him upon making the piece that I’ll write “something about me”. So he eagerly anticipated to read my self-comment as if waiting for the juicy-sticky-stuff from Bill Clinton’s biography. He expected to find “my eecky-self” to slime all over the place.

Now, reality check, my dear Mas Wisa. I’m no Clinton. I never have a “Monica” giving me a blow job at work or anywhere else for that matter. My cubicle is so small and I share it with two “bapak-bapak” that, let alone hiding someone under my desk and giving me the ride of the day, I can’t even open your full-action-face-pic without first making sure these two God-obedient-descent-older-men are out for praying or eating, which of course, I hardly do. I mean, one of them is as old as my father—who’s coming to town as you are already aware of, and he—God bless his wonderful-soul—never drags me with questions of marriage as you expected he would, unlike my mom who would have and relentlessly try every time I speak to her over the phone. I can’t help but to show my bestest behavior in front of him. I feel the presence of my own father. Conclusion, there’s no eecky-juicy me to spread around.

And, another reality check, with mountainous work I have been doing, and another Everest coming (four books—two in English, a magazine, web content update, some proposal and some translation works, gosh, I’m sleepy already just counting the possibility of my future sleepless nights), my life can never be any more dull! It’s all about work, work, … and some more work. I hardly have time to do any thing else and satisfy your curiosity for gossip, gossip, gossip, you KISS fan you! You see, I just refused Iwan’s offer to see Shrek 2 tonight for crying out loud! I could hardly believe there’d come a time when I, a self-proclaimed movie buff, would turn down an offer to see a movie I haven’t seen! Can’t I sink lower?

Oh, Lord, I’m so ashamed of myself. I have been too “nice” for too long. So, for the moment, Mas, I can proudly scream at the top of my lungs the line belongs to that pre-beautiful-irksomely-noisy Eliza Doolittle when Mrs Pearce dragged her for bath, “I’m a good boy, I am!”

A Fair Gentleman.

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Who? Me?

When I first wrote this blog, I never intend it to be read by people I don’t know about. It’s strictly for friends. I don’t think that what goes on in my life will be of any interest to others than my own friends. So, I made a fuss to those worthy of the address to keep it for themselves.

But how can I even think of keeping it to shorlisted people? Silly me, I missed the bigger picture: my blog is in the internet. Somehow, as I mingle in the tangle of the web jungle, people eventually bumped into this absurd journal. And, these people who need people, hence the luckiest people, started asking people frequent asked questions you’d ask to new acquaintance. Old friends need not ask such question, they know me already, but you dear new friends, you ask about my job, my look, my age, my interests, and blablabla.

In short, you wonder, “Who is the bloke behind the blog?”

Ok, I’m not going to beat around the bush: here’s a bit about me. I’m a confirmed-thirty-something-single-guy who lives in a boarding room somewhere in the middle of the hustle and bustle of Jakarta (I keep changing places for I’m still under ‘witness protection’, *wink*). I’m currently slaving in a supporting office for our government as a publication officer.

I like these things, among others: a cup of coffee, non-sense conversation with old friends over a cup of coffee, a good laugh or cry after watching a movie while drinking coffee, listening to music or reading a book accompanied by a cup of coffee, cardio work out, the face of my nephew running to me asking me to carry him, doing nothing on a Saturday after working like mad the whole week, cuddling with dear ones (my nephew is the best cuddling object ever), and have I mentioned ... errr, coffee?

Now, I’m not going to talk about my personality, so don’t bother asking me those questions. I find it a bit pretentious. You should be able to learn about that if you read my blog and make your own deduction of who I am. You’ll learn, in time, that I can be happy, annoyed, sad, joy, mad, in love, broken hearted, and zillion sorts of feelings I might not yet experience. Just like everyone else.

A word of advice, beware of what I might write for it might get a bit vicious at times, depend on my mood. Hey, it’s my journal, I’m entitled to be in whatever mood I’d be.

So, buckle up, read on.

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Begadang

Jam 7.30. Gue belom tidur dari kemarin dan pagi ini gue udah melototin komputer lagi. Padahal baru pisah dua jam yang lalu waktu halaman terakhir kerjaan gue selesai di-print dan gue bisa balik ke kos. Betenya, gue susah tidur kalo udah begadang, dan daripada bablas, kebiasaan gue adalah mandi pagi dan terus ‘ngantor lagi. Dan itu juga yang gue kerjain pagi ini. Pulang, mandi, terus berangkat ke kantor. Gue cuman bisa berharap, mudah-mudahan nggak ada deadline yang dipercepat kayak kemarin. Kerjaan satu minggu harus diselesaikan dua hari.

Matee!

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WATCHING: Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban

The movie is by far, just like the book, getting better, especially for its beautiful cinematography. The movie is also more maply true to the book than the previous two. I always imagine Hagrid’s hut is somewhere a bit far from the Hogwarts castle, but the first and second installment of Potter’s adventure wrongfully located the hut so close to the castle. So does, the grumpy-whomping willow. Alfonso Cuaron has put these two significant non-moving characters to its rightful location. A bit far from the castle and closer to the forbidden forest.

I also love the tone of the movie that, unlike the too-grim-first and second—while actually the grim doesn’t appear until the third. It has more laughs and cheerful atmosphere though it can still be haunting at the end. I love Emma Thompson in curly hair and bottle-bottom spectacles. She’s such a funny lady. And I sooooooooo miss Richard Harris’ Dumbledore. The new one, Michael Gambon, was just not what Dumbledore is supposed to be like. A funny, witty, wise, very very old man. Harris’ Dumbledore winks and smiles and strokes his long white beard and fulfill my childhood imagination of an old conventional wizard. That is what the book and Harris has so aptly portrayed and Gambon is unable to match to.

There are also many things I miss in the movie. Had I not read the book, I’d be in the same place as some friends who admitted that they don’t quite follow the story while I, perhaps, as an avid Potter’s books reader, found no difficulty in assembling the missing puzzles to its place. But knowing the story beforehand brings another problem, I miss some moments I know exists in the book that is not translated in the movie.

The biggest nuisance for me about the movie is that I found it lacks drama. I wonder why this happened since it is supposed to be the strength of Cuaron’s. Y Tu Mama Tambien, people? The book provides ample of dramatic events. The quarrel between Ron and Hermione, Harry’s longing for his parents, Hermione’s near nervous breakdown over too much studying and her isolation from her two best friends, Harry’s idle mind, Ron’s anger to Draco for insulting Hermione as mudblood, Hagrid’s sadness over the possibility of Buckbeak's execution, and his escalating differences with Lucius Malfoy. It was Malfoy who insisted and influenced the Hogwart's Board of Governor and Minister of Magic Cornelius Fudge to execute Buckbeak. Hence, Cuaron is supposed to continue Malfoy's white-hair-devil presence to remind us that we need to keep on hating him more so that we can truly hate him in the fourth sequel when he joins Lord Voldemort.

The book is longer than the first two yet the movie is unbelievably shorter. How can screenwriter Steven Kloves do that? But this is a movie, not a book, so I can live with that. So can you. My advice is, read the book first and completes the ride by watching the movie. That way you can have double pleasure, as I did!

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Show me more money!

When I was about to fulfill my weekly prayer quota, I wishfully opened my bank account online. And there it was, my salary, the long-awaited numbers blinking on me and invited me to spend them and shop and … oops, reality check, you’ve got bills to pay you dim head! So, before it’s too late I took a pen and wrote down all the bills and people I have to pay. Citibank, my sister, Iwan, arisan, ok … while I’m on it I transferred them all using my beloved keybca. And afterward, when I check the numbers left on the screen, suddenly I don’t feel like spending anymore.

Hiks .…

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Gajian?

Gue nggak pernah segini ngarep-nya terima duit selama gue kerja. Ketika lo terima uang tiap bulan pada waktu yang tertentu sebagai upah kerja lo—alias gajian, maka lo akan cenderung cuek dan nggak menganggap hal yang aneh kalo tahu-tahu uang di tabungan nambah. Tapi kalo lo ngerasain yang gue rasain, kerja dua setengah bulan dan belom sekalipun gajian, lo pastinya bakal ngarep berat.

Dan hari ini gue ngarep seperti dulu waktu gue ngarep dapet salam tempel dari oom, tante, dan tetangga gue kalo gue ngider lebaran. Gue masih sembilan tahun.Dan sekarang, gue kembali seperti anak sembilan tahun yang berharap dapat uang karena telah berhasil puasa sebulan penuh.

So, show me the money!

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Cari uang ternyata berat ya

Senin kemarin gue untuk pertama kalinya bolos dengan alasan sakit di kantor setelah dua setengah bulan jadi karyawan teladan, masuk jam setengah delapan pagi pulang paling cepat dua belas jam kemudian. Istirahat makan siang setengah jam, dan minimal seminggu dua kali pulang di atas jam 10, dan dua minggu sekali kerja di hari Sabtu. Tiga kali menginap di kantor dan yang paling parah waktu gue terpaksa bergadang di kantor awal Juni kemarin, sendirian di malam Minggu (yikes). Gue rasa kehidupan sosial gue berada pada titik terendah saat itu karena gue harus menghabiskan waktu akhir pekan selama 24 jam di kantor buat memenuhi deadline hari Senin!

Gue bolos karena gue harus menyelesaikan side job terjemahan gue yang mesti selesai Rabu. Di kamar kos gue berusaha kerja tanpa banyak hasil. Seharian kerja kemajuannya lambat banget. Gue nggak bisa konsentrasi. Gue emang paling benci disuruh menerjemahkan karena buat gue, itu kerjaan yang membosankan. Tapi, gue terima kerjaan ini di tengah kerjaan kantor yang nggak pernah habis karena, apa lagi, gue butuh uangnya.

Bagaimana nggak BU berat, sampai sekarang gue masih belum terima gaji satu rupiahpun sejak mulai bekerja 1 April. Gila kan? Gue nggak pernah berpikir bakal mengalami hal ini dalam soal uang, seboros-borosnya hidup gue. Tapi Tuhan Maha Humoris, Dia tahu gue memang bebal dan harus merasa susah dulu baru mau berpikir. Ini memang pelajaran buat mengurangi gaya hidup belalang gue yang kelewat boros. Ok, Big Guy, gue ‘ngerti. I’ll save up for rainy days.

Dan, ya, gue belajar untuk lebih menghargai uang. Buktinya, gue nggak naik taksi ke kantor hari ini, hehe …. Dengan demikian, gue jadi bisa menyelamatkan delapan ribu rupiah dari tabungan gue yang jumlahnya sekarang lebih kecil daripada uang yang ada di tabungan keponakan gue. Duh, alasan yang mengenaskan.

Jam tiga pagi.Kerjaan masih jauh dari selesai. Damn, I’m not gonna make the deadline. Sambil minum kopi entah cangkir ke berapa, suara Des’ree menemani gue kerja.

Life, oh, life.

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First come, and not served

This morning was so cold and cloudy. I stood by the streetwalk in front of Setia Budi Building counting all the money I got left. I still haven’t got my paycheck and I am so broke. Twenty thousand, thirty … hmm … Enough for a cab.

So, I smugly ignored all the P20s passing by and decided to hail the first cab coming. Voila, a Blue Bird. Feeling as if I were a hot-shot young yuppie on his way to make millions, while actually I only had 35,000 rupiah in my wallet, I got inside and ordered the driver to take me to my office in Menara Kebon Sirih. It was usually an 8,000 rupiah ride.

As my cab approaching the lobby, a security guard stood at his usual post to open the door of every stopping car to drop their passengers. My office building has well-trained satpams who would greet you ‘good morning’ as they kindly open the door of your car, well in my case, my cab-of-the-day. Every time I got the luxury of taking a cab to office, they never fail to start my day feeling respected.

So, I unawarely expected the same thing as I was about to step out of the cab after paying Tjut Nyak Dhien bill to the driver. But alas, the door remained unopen. So I clicked the handle myself, stepped out and looked around to find the satpam. I found him opening the door of a car, a mercedes, behind my cab.

“Hey, I got here first!” I felt like yelling at the guy. I deserve to have my door opened before that mercedes guy! He was the one who supposed to open his own-1-billion-car’s-door! Where is your sense of customer service ethics, Mr. Satpam, Sir? You know, the ‘first come, first served’ jargon? Damn!

So, as the middle-aged-Indian guy coming out of the mercedes jubilantly stepped into the building carrying his 1-million-rupiah (or more?)-Samsonite-bag, a 30 something yo guy followed carrying his old backpack.

A prince and a pauper.

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A long-delayed laugh

I finally give in to the blog bug’s bite. How can I not? Blog is just another form of journal, or diary, I’ve been trying to write for the past couple of, errr…, decades? It’s simply more exhibitionistic than the old-paper-and-pen – and in my case, an extra freaking lock – way.

So, let me take you back in time, some twenty years ago (gosh, the number is so scary) when I first bought my diary. I was in the fourth grade of elementary school and I stood in front of a variety of diaries in Gunung Agung Book Store, Kwitang, the hottest book store in town. Yes, young Luke, there was a time when Gramedia was not the name of a book store and just a publisher. I made up my mind and bought a dark blue cover diary with a little lock on it to keep those unworthy trying to dig in the dark secret of my 10 years of existence.

Now, why did I ever buy a diary in the first place? I owed every thing to …, well, I warn you, don’t you laugh, don’t you dare laugh. Anyway, my inspiration is, brace yourself, Laura Ingalls Wilder. (You’re laughing, I’ve told you not to, yet you did. I hate you.) But, helloooo…, I grew up watching and reading – I still have some of those books on my bookshelves – ‘Little House on the Prairie’. How can I be immune from its influence? Of course I was affected. I have always felt like I am a part of the Ingalls family, as I feel like I am one of the guys in ‘Friends’. I laughed every time that curly-barbie-like Nelly Oleson cried after being teased by Laura. I cried when Mary lost her sight. I cheered when Pa Ingals won a fight against, well, whoever tried to abuse his right as a pioneer in the wild west of America.

So here I was, two decades later, in my old room that I have never slept on for more than a year, digging my old coackroachful cupboard in effort to clean it, there it was lying at the bottom, my precious, a somewhat bluish book that held details of the age of my innocence. It was a funny feeling when I first found it. How could I ever forget it? I remembered how I tried to keep it away from other people to reading the the book, yet I let it lay there, forgotten.

I sneezed as I tried to open the yellowish and fragile paper and read what I wrote then. And boy, how I was embarassed reading what I wrote. On one entry, I wrote that I was mad at my mom because she took side with my sister over housework. I didn’t like to mop the floor but my mom made me with a gender-bias reason: I am a boy, and mopping needs harder effort. So, the lesson was mopping was meant for young boys while sweeping was for little girls (my sister is only one year older). And I wrote about how unfair my mom was, about my lazy and spoilt sister, about how neglected I felt. Gosh, I was ten and I sounded like I already needed a shrink back then, when going to shrink meant totally-nut-case-only.

Nevertheless, I had a good laugh reading my old diary. As I kept on reading, I couldn’t stop smiling and laughing and I thought, wow, there was a time when life was so simple and all I ever fussed about was who would mop the floor. So, I guess, here it is, my main reason to write a blog: I want to save a good laugh. A good-hearty-healthy-laugh some decades later.

My precious.

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