On Signage

Like the Swedish power rockers (Ace of Base), I also enjoy being able to say that I saw the sign. (And yes, Snowman – life is demanding without understanding.)

Today I was treated to two fantastic signs.

The first was posted to a fridge in the kitchen at Puzzle Palace.

Covering the better part of 8½” x 11”, it was a prodigious tirade –addressed to the unknown felon that thoughtlessly and cruelly chucked out the author’s leftover lunch. I greatly appreciated the grave warning to the rest of us on the fleeting chances of survival of food stored in the fridge.

However this signage encounter was surpassed when later in the day, and to my delight, posted to the door of the cubicle in dunny was this hand-written note: “Out of Order - Please Use Floor Below.” It was one of the few times that I can honestly say that I took great delight in following instructions.

It’s almost too easy enjoying the signage on The Island.


Recently a colleague was sent to the larger island further north and shared that the gym was literally littered with fantastic signs. The first was a bit intimidating for a hillbilly (“You are not allowed to use the gym if you have tattoos”), but it was all comedy gold after that:

“Please contact nurse or trainer if you become unpleasant while exercising”

“Please do not use the Oxygen Capsule if you can’t pull your ear out.”

“A person who is pregnant and has a pacemaker should not use Oxygen Capsule.”

And so to now draw a very thin bow between Signage and Fitness, it is only fair to finish by sharing some of the latest recruitment signage for the national service on The Island. Enjoy these posters.

On Portable Technology

Watching the Jack Black look-a-like listening to his portable LP player in one of the Hyundai ad’s during this year’s Super Bowl, it brought back memories.

Good memories … like saving up all of the paper route money for that first Walkman® tape player back in the Reagan era. And let me tell you, with the literacy rate back in the Holler, it was looking like the Bush 2.0 era before I would save up enough money. And thanks to wonderful folk at Sony, the old portable casette player is still being sold today … so I can still play those treasured Kenny Rogers and Juice Newton tapes.

In fact, once I ended the romantic relationship with the female GPS in the Nissan Syphilis (it’s another story), I discovered the vehicle has a cassette player! I sure wish I could write to the junior executive in Yokohama that kept that accessory on the list:
- Keyless remote? (Hai.)
- Leather interior? (Hai.)
- GPS? (Hai!)
- Reversing camera (Hai!)
- Folding wing mirrors? (Hai!)
- 12 stack CD player, 6 speaker sound system? (Hai!)
- 37 drink holders? (lie ... 40!)
- Cassette player? (ano … Hai?)
- Eight track cassette player? (… nani?)

Although Kenny, Dolly and Juice bang out of 6 speakers well (it is a matter of opinion, She Who Must Be Obeyed would use another adjective), the Police cassettes are not holding up so great. When I put my Reggatta de Blanc tape in, I think Sting is singing some Satanic verse to my kids about offering up the first born hamster to the Lord of the Forest.

And I am a little disappointed that they left out the 8-track player … no matter how fast I wind my Molly Hatchet cassette, I cannot get any Gator Huntin’ or Disaster Flirtin.

But Jack-Black-porta-phonagraph-man also invokes the Bad Memories.

Like that time on the train coming home from Puzzle Palace the other week. You see it’s truly come full circle … because thanks to Sony, now I’ve got this phone that is also a Walkman®. I can’t even picture the 1982 version of that device … but it would have a lot more wires. And curly cords. And I’ve also got these great (Sony) noise cancelling earbud head phones. Well as I’m bumping and jostling the Aunties to get on the train, something gets knocked and I lose all the music. In fact with the noise cancellers on … it was like a Sci Fi movie in which all 200 people packed into a small cylindrical tube suddenly went silent while their mouths are still moving. To be fair, travelling on trains in Asia is pretty much like that anyway. I can’t imagine the folks back home putting their phones in silent mode to get on to public transport.

So I’m trying to get the sound back by pushing buttons on the tiny phone/Walkman®/movie player/Internet/game portable thing-a-ma-jig. No sound. It’s only after 5 train stops that I realize the headphones have come loose.

I realize this, because I take out the noise cancellers from my ears and hear music blaring out into our carriage. So I learn than my Walkman® phone has the wonderful feature of swapping to speaker when the headphones unplugged.

And I learned this lesson well, because from the looks of all of The Islanders on that carriage, they had never heard Taylor Swift before.

On Bunnies

No, my ex-Playboy working neighbor, not the UK band from the early 80’s that will forever be remembered for their Killing Moon contribution to alternative pop music. By the way ... who leaves a gig at Playboy? Anyway, I refer to the New Year. Lunar new year to be a little more accurate.

So, there are these signs popping up all over The Island: “Gong Xi Fa Cai”.

Now just so you understand, it is hard for a feller that was learned on simple words like “12 gauge”, “Ford”, “truck”, “pick up”, “still”, and “quick now son – take the dynamite out of the pick up truck and blow up the Still – that siren’s the Sherriff comin’ down Dustywamp Trail an’ he’s gonna be here faster than a fart in a wind storm.”

Making up words to country music songs for 30 years does not in anyway assist with pronunciation of Mandarin phrases. And I’ve been told the correct pronunciation is not “Going She Fat Cow”. And apparently also not “Gong She F*ck You”. It is something closer to Gong Si Far Cry.

So, as opposed to the western holiday season, which is sponsored by Toys-R-Us, in which where we celebrate the birth of a carpenter-turned-magician that lived a couple thousand years ago ... and then we proceed to consume extraordinary amounts of liquor followed by trying to blow up the neighbor's fence with a roman candle to usher in the new day on the Gregorian calendar, the Chinese New Year seems to be sponsored by a Safeway or Woolworths.

The giving, offering, and sharing of food seems to be a big part of Gong Hey Fat Choy celebration. (Yes, I’m learning Cantonese as well ... they don’t seem to have a word for “pick up truck” or “whiskey still”).

Plenty of food being kindly offered on The Island at the minute.

I’ve plenty of culturing still to go though. I’m still not able to accept the generous offer of a slice of spicy Indonesian rubber cake at 7:45 in the morning. I’ve got a bagel. Thanks anyway.

So it seems fitting, given all the food preparations and offerings, that 2011 will be the year of the Rabbit. (Stew anyone?) That’s right, step aside Tiger, and sit tight for 12 months Dragon – it’s the year of the Bunny.

I should be just fine.

And so should the good folk of Artesina (apparently near Italy). That’s right – zoom in ... and it is what you suspect it is.

Mind you, I don’t think the year of Cottontail is going to be prosperous for everyone. Take the folks over at the redneck version of Facebook for instance:


They may be able to survive the year exploiting other talents though. I noted in the Huntin’ Swap section that Max from Michigan shared that one of his Beagles took out 7th in the UKC Eliminator. Now, I couldn't actually find Max's Beagle in the competition results, but a drag racing beagle is surely a path to prosperity.

Even more impressive is Eddie from Kentucky who is (optimistically) Offering Up: Beagles. In Exchange For: Land. Now, I wish I could find out how that played out. Not sure much land 3 beagles affords a feller in Kentucky … but I’m now looking for beagles on eBay, because I reckon’ I could trade 3 or 4 of them for a good chunk of The Island.

In The Library

In a fit of madness my Senior sent me as cultural attaché from The Island to the Larger Island up north. (I was duped - I thought it was to share my Dwight Yoakam and Johnny Cash collection with the Japanese ... but it turned out to be for a work project).

There are so many sights and sounds to share from the land of the rising sum, er sun. But I’ll have to set aside those areas on which I’m really not entitled to comment:
- Fashion (Ugg Boots and Short Shorts anyone?)
- Music (J-Pop anyone? How about “Bump of Chicken” or “Chatmonkey”?)
- Food (I spent the entire time in an Irish pub, occasionally venturing out to McDonald’s)

So moving on to topics on which I feel I’m licensed sufficiently to comment ... let’s talk about Size.

In the trailer park where I grew up (Hey Jeb!), we spent our time making everything as big as possible: guitar noise, meals, trucks, houses and of course – hooters. But clearly on the Larger Island miniaturization of all things mechanical is the strong suit of their culture. Heck they can make a work van that looks smaller than the stroller we had for our kid.

Of course we less-cultured Westerners have tried our hands at the shrinky thing. And to give you an idea of how good we are at it, well you just have to watch that tremendous Top Gear segment on the Peel P50.

We’d better stick to making stuff big.


And on the only other topic on which I feel sufficiently licensed to comment, I can’t help noticing that one of the few items that is not miniaturized in Nippon: the facilities in The Library (for those not familiar with the terminology refer to the reference material that I prepared earlier).

Make no mistake, they have certainly added technology and otherwise made it incredibly complicated. I’ve never seen a Dunny with more buttons than my remote control (all five of them). And that button with the fountain symbol next to it just seems to compel your index finger ... well, I won’t spoil it for those yet to experience Nipponese Toilet Tech.

The Can in my hotel had a detachable remote.

I’m still puzzled. (I mean there have been times when I’ve wished I could be outside the Small Room as I flushed ... but that’s another Latrine story for another time.)

Mind you, I was a little disappointed that my Lav didn't come with a hostie.


But there was one Loo (in a restaurant in Chinatown of all places) that has truly embraced the iTart technology of today – it had a touch screen. As I was rather lit from a couple (few) Asahi and Sapporo beverages, I was eagerly testing all of the cute applets and images on the screen to see what would happen at the porcelain side ... until my inner O.C.D. Clean Freak swam past the Nagano hops and politely tapped on the front of my consciousness: Bathroom. Toilet. Touch screen. Blech.

On Reverence to Higher Beings

For those that have been around a while, (Hey Neighbor – have the Aliens dropped in, or are they still doing fly bys?), well I understand the phrase I'm looking for is something like "Cleanliness of body was ever esteemed to proceed from a due reverence to God."

Or for those not out and about during the 17th century, something about they who keep ‘em selves clean are somehow closer to their Invisible Friend.

Now let me first say that I ain’t implying that my fellow cube dwellers at Puzzle Palace are necessarily filthy swine.

Nor do I have any desire to convert them to obsessive compulsive, country music listening, beer drinking, football loving critters ... though I have oft contemplated starting that Cult. The whole bit about swapping the Coopers for the spiked cordial on that final day of Honky Tonk Ascension never quite played out right.

Mind you, if the colorful globules of protein and nasal contents left sticking to the Puzzle Palace basins are anything to go by, a reassessment may be required of the porcine element within the cubist population.

What has me stumped (and slightly panicked) is that there seems to be a partiality to avoid washing hands with soap after "dropping the kids off at the pool". In fact, some don’t even bother with a rinse or even a dry wipe with a paper towel.

Now, I understand these people haven’t exactly been cuddling rats, or fondling lice covered monkeys … but they are pretty much going from handling food, to fiddling with bits of the nether region – with the odd caress of the germ clad porcelain – and then straight out the door back to their desk. Well “desk” is a loosely used term, as they have less surface area than an airline tray ... but that is a story for another time. Or maybe not their desk – maybe straight from the small room to the coffee room (or "pantry" as it is know on The Island). Or maybe to straight out shake someone’s hand. Maybe my hand ... (!)

And I mean it’s not like the amenities in the pisser are poorly appointed. There’s no cake of soap that has been stewing in its own juices on the side of a basin – it’s fresh, hygienic liquid soap.

In Puzzle Palace “Hey, more for Me” is usually a win. Not so with the ever near-full 2 gallon bottle of soap that smiles malevolently at me as I plod toward it and the washbasins.

Now where and when I grew up, we was learned that to win ya got to keep escalating the battle. So tomorrow I take one for the neat freaks. I’m leaving my OCD in its tidy little carefully arranged square suitcase at home. And I’m packing mud cakes & dung beetles for lunch, and after hugging a warthog I’ll leave a loaded diaper on the basin in the lav.

On a Changing

Fear not Jethro and Mary Sue Mae Ellen, I ain't a changin'.

But the bit about the old road is a rapidly changin’ … it sure be true here on The Island.

Now, I’d best clear something up first, ‘cause the last time I quoted Dylan, one of my most perspicacious critics (Hi Mom!) swiftly pointed out that I misspelled Dylan and misconstrued the true revolutionary meaning of the lyrics. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I was quoting that clown that was doing the Jack Kerouac impressions in Beverley Hills 90210.

So having acknowledged the feedback from the critics, back to changing … and change is a constant here on The Island. And it’s been amusing to write about that.

And it’s a little disconcerting when the road you drove on last Friday suddenly has an extra lane and a new s-bend the following Monday.

And sure it’s a little annoying that renting a place into a quieter low rise part of The Island was a great idea (until the park on the corner turned into a construction site for a 20 storey condo).

And I can even get over choosing a place that is a handy few blocks from a small mall (it only has 5 levels) that has a large supermarket … which 10 months later was completely flattened to build a new and improved mall (10 floors – coming soon! Invest now!).

No biggie.

But on the way home last week, the whole change thing has hit a whole new level.

You see the line it is drawn.
The curse it is cast.

My local (for those new to this diatribe of tripe please look up “Claypot Frog”, circa July 2009 A.D.), it has been a closin’. Well it has a been closed.

It’s one thing to lose a local park (to be honest, I’d rather skirt around a 20 storey condo than risk stepping in a Chihuahua’s dookie). And it’s another thing to have to go to the city for eggs and milk. But it’s a whole new thing for me not to be sure whether I have a Local.

To be fair, there are hawker joints that serve enormous pitchers of Tiger beers (on the sidewalk) all over the place. But I’m not certain this constitutes a “Local”. So I need hit the books:

“Lo•cal” British Informal. A neighborhood pub.

(Neighborhood is way too many syllables, let’s look up one of the smaller words … )

“Pub” Formal: Public House. A building in Britain where alcoholic drinks can be bought and drunk and where food is often available.

(I think this is getting warmer, except I’m sure it is meant to read “where alcoholic drinks can be bought and you get drunk, and it is a bonus if you can get a countery”)

Clearly this bookish stuff ain’t working.

So we develop a new one. Crusty’s Law (#94): to qualify as a “local”, said venue must have in its name (or tagline) one or more of the following: alehouse, bar, barroom, beer garden, beer joint, bistro, boozer, brew house, brewery, cabana, cocktail lounge, Coopers, distillery, drinkery, establishment of drinking, hotel, inn, lounge, moonshine, pool room, public house, roadhouse, saloon, taproom, tavern, or watering hole.

And while I hunt for my new Local, I leave you to ponder the extraordinarily profound lyrics from Bob Dylan McKay, ah heck, I can’t remember which of them covered it – go get yourself the Clancy Brothers version:

I'm a rambler, I'm a gambler.
I'm a long way from home.
And if you don't like me,
Well, leave me alone.
I'll eat when I'm hungry,
I'll drink when I'm dry.
And if moonshine don't kill me,
I'll live till I die.

On Pockets

So on the way to Puzzle Palace the other day we’re following one of those commercial vehicles, complete with 27 laborers wedged in the rear tray.

Three of them have been upgraded to business class (they were sharing a sheet of plastic to keep the rain off). One of the other fellers was probably looking pretty clever when they had first set off – as he’d planned ahead well enough to have an umbrella.

His strategy resembled something more like one of Baldric’s cunning plans once they hit the expressway (not only does an inverted, bright orange 7-Eleven umbrella fail to keep the rain off, it also appears to become an uncontrollable weapon of destruction to the 26 colleagues wedged in next to you on the tray of the Nissan Cabstar).

And then I notice the stenciled tag line on the rear of the truck:

“We specialize in building envelope technology.”

Now this really got me thinking. Decorating an envelope I can understand (imagine being the guy who paints those red and blue marks around the edge of those air mail envelopes).

Envelope technology?

Well, sure, those envelopes with the little plastic windows would be pretty tricky to build. And maybe those yeller ones with the string ties that we use to send hate mail to the finance department would require a bit of extra thought.

Surely there is more technology in stamps?

I mean the gummy bit on the back of the stamp tastes way better than envelopes for starters. To be fair, my research on that stopped when I discovered toads.

And stamps have those cute little moon shaped perforations. My 4 year old can build an envelope. He was pretty crap at cutting out those little perforations when I asked him to build a page of stamps – and don’t even get me started on his shoddy effort at making the picture look the same on all 100 stamps. Lucky the Minister of Fun & Finance is a therapist in her spare time ... she should be able to get the boy right again by the time he starts college.

Look, I’m no marketer. But I’m willing to suggest that the envelope building market is under serious threat from those crazy electronic letters used by the young kids of today.

Mind you I’d like to see those young kids send the house key back to the old lady in an email.