On the Small Room.

And well done to those that had good money on me taking 15 posts to resort to toilet humor. For those that are easily offended or do not appreciate the refreshing sound of honesty, it may be time a great time to go and check out the latest post in the Grey Area.

The Loo.
The Can.
The Bog.
The John.
The Dunny.
The Latrine.
The Library.
The Quiet Room.
The Thunder Box.
The Outhouse.
The Porcelain Castle.
The Powder Room.
The Bathroom.
The Lavatory.
The Restroom.
The Washroom.
The Mens Room/The Ladies Room.
The Public Conveniences.
… and of course: The Head.

To be fair, I wanted to round out a top twenty by slipping in a few of the more salacious terms. And you know that slipping the phrase “Turd Aquarium” into a blog is a bit of fun, but doesn’t seem all that appropriate. And that seems like the right time to slip in a quick “Hi Mom!” which should let her know that she done dragged me up real good.

So, on The Island, I think they should this room the Shower Room. And it does get hot here. But I’m not sure that warrants having a full shower in the hand basin of The Small Room.

Serious relief is when you go to “drop the kids off at the pool” and as you walk into The Facilities, the mirror is drenched in spots of water. That was close!

But the flip side is that you cop serious collateral damage when you mistakenly walk into The Pisser while an overheated islander is performing a fully clothed wet-dog-shake in the hand basin.

Now, moving seamlessly from dogs to cats, I am a fan of habit. You find a stall that is clean, generally has paper and you’ve got yourself a few quiet minutes of effective reading time. And you like to go back to that stall. Preferably at the same time each day. But there must be 50 or 60 people on my floor at work. In the office Lav there are only two Cans (these are Latrines for you military personnel, or you northern hemisphere folk). Needless to say, after lunchtime it can be busier than a one-legged cat trying to bury a turd on a frozen pond. And when duty calls … well let’s just say that the other day I’ve had to select my non-preferred stall.

And so I have discovered The Squatter.

Unfortunately, this is not another colloquialism. As I walk into the stall it looks as if a Wookie has sat on The Crapper and squashed it into the ground.

Now, as a feller who has only really experienced the post 1596 era of flushing toilets, I am also unfortunately handicapped by being part of the post 1900’s era of the invention of paper Bog Roll. I have to confess to being little lost when I’m on level thirty-something of a modern office complex, and I’m confronted with “Honey I Shrunk the Pisser”. And a hose.

So there are no directions on the walls of the stalls (not even any graffiti to tell me to “Fart if I love the Lord”). No guide in the pocket on the back of the door. No instructions in the back of the seat in front like on airplanes. No signs to indicate how to begin. And although I could probably have worked it out, I have to admit conceding to a careful and deliberate walk down a few flights of stairs to Level 26.

And, Mom, the good news that I’m just about out of toilet jokes.

On Fiscal Control

The photographic film companies must be ruing the day some enlightened spark figured out how to store camera images on hard disks. I mean floppy disks. Removable disks. Thumb drives? Whatever.

A truly stunning number of people with an even more astonishing array of cameras are constantly capturing digital images to memorable sticks every minute on The Island.

Why you would want to preserve a picture of Kitty eating a hoagie at the Subway, or capture (in eight megapixel clarity) a shot of Shuva sitting on the bench next to a bin at a bus stop is all a bit beyond me.

And while the locals are snapping shots from their digital cameras, phone cameras, and Dick Tracey watches, there are thousands of CCTs quietly humming, tracking and generally recording all the movements of the inhabitants and tourists milling about. Which Orwellian person is viewing the footage beamed from all the security cameras is a mystery. But if he’s a native of The Island, then I will wager that he is not a Big brother.

However it is not the electric eyes that keep the natives, tourists and one Hillbilly in check. You see, this is a cloudy but fine locale. (A bit like a Coopers, but a lot warmer.) Well, not that type of fine. Not fine like a "fine Coopers", or fine like "Demi Moore is fine".

No, these are the big fines. Fines like $500 for eating (or drinking) at a train station. Or $1,000 for smoking in an air-conditioned venue. Or $5,000 for pressing the dirty great big red call button on the train when it is not an emergency.

So knowing the amount of mischievous imp that’s packed into The Boy, I’m fairly certain that I will be parting with at least 20 Large across the next 2 years. Ah yes, the great love versus money debate. I think it was Lord Tennyson that said: “Tis better to have loved and lost, than paid for it and not liked it”. And a big Cheerio to my 10th grade English Lit teacher in West Virginia.

On Malnourished Spectres

Unfortunately, “no” my follicle-challenged former neighbour, this is not an update on the incarcerated enigmatic producer from the 60’s.

A funny thing happened on the way to work (and stop me if you’ve heard this one before), over the past few weeks. There are all sorts of cakes, fancy drinks with burnt sticks in them on the sidewalks. This is very noticeable in the City of Finery. Well, city of fines, anyway.

Adhering to my law of not letting the truth get in the way of a great story, I won’t profess to fully understanding it. And rather than do my research I will string together my understanding from a few disjointed conversations in coffee shops and pubs.

So it turns out that this is Singapore’s version of Halloween. Without the Jack-O-Lanterns or corn candy. Somewhere around about seven months into some calendar that has a whole lot to do with the moon, someone nutbag opens up the doorway to the underworld and lets a whole lot of famished ethereal folk into the land of the warm bodies. The devout and spiritual warm bodies are on their game – they leave offerings to mollify these wraiths that have the munchies.

All pretty harmless stuff.

Except for the burning bit. You see there also seems to be a belief that burning some paper cash will appease the angry apparitions, and bring prosperity to the merchant … at least until the feller with the short memory opens up the gates of hell again, around seven moon months into next year.

Those tortured souls that read my earlier treatise on just how much wind there is on The Island (there is none) will be connecting the dots about now. You see when the majority of the population starts burning incense, lighting up real money, torching fake money and - in some cases – setting alight to whatever you can stuff into a 10 gallon drum, on a Island with no wind … well you get the picture. Speaking of stuffing whatever you can into a 10G drum, a big Cheerio to my favorite Irish ship painter (your 10G drum story beats my 10G drum story by a wide margin).

So I’m going to bring myself some good luck and put the left over pizza and what’s left of the Coopers Stout out on the side walk for the hungry hillbilly ghost. And I’ll burn a few bob (from The Maid’s purse, of course) on a stick.

Or you can bring good fortune upon yourself like my boy did last weekend (in a moment when he wasn’t channeling Stink Fly or Kevin Leven), and you can just reach up to the display that is perched above the ‘do not touch’ sign, and take the money from the mouth of the jade tiger.