Eulenspiegel

Sorry everyone, I’ve been in a cesspool of work which I have yet to clamber out of, and the weekend after Kuching flew by with judging debates, watching plays written by friends, and doing household chores. I hardly even got a chance to go to Baybeats, though what I did manage to hear of it (A Vacant Affair, Bittersweet, Panda No Panda) was really boring.

While I’m treading water in shit, you could do worse than enjoy Hammer & tickle, a rather delightful article about Communist jokes. Apart from a number of rather funny jokes (Q: Why is Czechoslovakia the most neutral country in the world? A: Because it doesn’t even interfere in its own internal affairs.) the article tells of Eulenspiegel, the East German state’s official satirical magazine. Singaporeans especially may enjoy the following quotes, though of course for no other reason than that Singaporeans have a great sense of humour.

Eulenspiegel was founded in 1954 as the state’s official organ of humour. There were no censorship laws, as the East Germans were so proud of telling the west. Instead the editors had to guess what kind of jokes were permissible. Every week the magazine carried three or four pages of anti-imperialist humour, in which capitalists in top hats counted their money, GIs enslaved Africans and doves sat atop hammers and sickles. Eulenspiegel could also print anodyne comic critiques of daily life in East Germany, as long as they didn’t incriminate the politburo. Ernst Röhl was able to write things like this: Man doesn’t live from bread and ham alone. He needs something green. And green things have been in short supply for a long time. Cabbage has been more the subject of discussion than digestion. And the Adam’s apple is the closest one gets to fruit at the dinner table. But this year Mother Nature has been particularly green. Cucumbers are no longer the shoemaker’s bribe. Onions no longer raise laughs in cabaret sketches…

People like Röhl saw themselves, rather self-indulgently, as fifth columnists, eating away at the regime from the inside. But there were limits to permissible satire. Once the cover featured “young pioneers” with long hair—a decadent western fashion. The politburo was livid, but the magazine had already been sent out, so the police reclaimed all the copies they could from newsagents and post offices. Eulenspiegel once tried to make common cause with Pardon, its West German left-wing counterpart. After all, Pardon also attacked Adenauer and American imperialism. But the editors of Eulenspiegel were stung when Pardon rebuffed their advances, on the grounds that the communist satirists should criticise their own leader, Walter Ulbricht, the same way the capitalist ones went for theirs. The editors of Euelenspiegel printed a rebuttal entitled “How do we write about Walter Ulbricht?” in 1963: “We know from various reliable sources that President Ulbricht has a terrific sense of humour… [but] the transparency and virtue of our state makes it not only difficult but simply impossible to write a satire about its representatives. Where there is nothing to uncover, the satirist will find no material. So how do we satirists write about Walter Ulbricht?… We send our greetings and best wishes to the first secretary of the central committee. We wish comrade Ulbricht health, stamina and a long life.”

This article could have been satirical, but wasn’t. Rather, it occupies the strange socialist space where the serious and the humorous are identical. Eulenspiegel was the only place where serious criticism of the state could be published. Readers wrote in with complaints about their leaking prefab apartments and so on, and there was a column called Erledigt (Dealt With) which celebrated the grievances that the Eulenspiegel had managed to redress, and often came with printed apologies from factory managers and landlords. Nothing illustrates better the inverted reality of communism: real problems could only be presented in a context of laughter, presumably so that one could always claim one was only joking. In this realm, where humour turns out to be a complex social dance, the idea of the joke as simply subversive breaks down.

Pool Progress

Before the Germany / Argentina match on Friday night, we managed to get an hour or so on a larger 9 foot table, since there was one free. As to be expected, since Alec is still very much the better player, he beat me 2 games to 1. Although I wasn’t quite as adept on the larger table as he was, I did manage to win the 3rd game with a shot he described as the best he’d ever seen me do and didn’t think he’d ever managed himself:

  • White and black at opposite ends of the table length, with black against the cushion
  • I designate the hole about a foot away from the white as where I’m attempting the pot
  • White travels the entire length of the table, hits black, black travels back the entire length of the table, enters designated hole
  • I win. WOOT!

Pool Pipe Dream

Forget the Argentina vs Mexico match, the match of the weekend was my 3-0 victory aqainst Alec at pool.

I won the first game only by default – he potted the white in the process of potting the black – but the other 2 were won entirely on my own steam, including one which involved potting the black with a nifty ricochet. Not since my China Jump triumph of 2004 have I had such sweet victories at pool because basically, I’ve rarely had any victories. I’ve only had very occasional games here and there with Alec and Jacob, and I always lose.

But on a Friday night about 3 weeks ago I decided, for no reason in particular, that I felt like some pool. Alec then proceeded to wipe the floor with me for the next hour, but instead of accepting this philosophically as usual, this time I vowed something had to change.

The next Saturday, in between World Cup matches, I managed to pwn David before Alec pwned us both.

And this weekend, this glorious weekend, I pwned Alec 3-0.

Things are going rather well. I hope to put in more practice, move onto snooker (which I fully realize will pwn me for ages before I’m even vaguely decent), eventually become a hustler for big bucks, buy myself out of my scholarship bond and start a new life as Johnny Depp’s masseuse.

IT COULD HAPPEN.

Nuggets Of Love

During some mid-workday emailing, Alec and I are discussing some friends of ours who are migrating to New Zealand and opening a restaurant. We both agree it’s a damn cool thing to do, but Alec mentions that it’s a risky move without prior experience in the restaurant industry.

He continues:

“But then I’m very unromantic about business. I quite like the idea of starting my own business but I’d focus on low cost, high turnover food where start up costs are lower and potential profits are far higher. When I’m manager of McDonald’s Pasir Ris I’ll bring you back french fries every night. I’ll fill a bath tub with their mother fucking chilli sauce.”

Unromantic my foot. Now I’m all choked up.

Breathe And Stop

I found myself thrust upon the horns of a dilemma on the bus home after dinner the other night. The bus stank of sweaty teenage boys and BO that had triumphed despite Lynx’s most valiant efforts. On the other hand, after a meal at the Garlic Restaurant, my breath presumably stank too.

And so a challenging question of civic consciousness arose – should I breathe through my mouth or nose? The former would spare me the olfactory assault of Eau de Adolescence, but the latter would spare my surrounding passengers the feeling of sizzling in a wok while awaiting the addition of pak choy and oyster sauce.

I eventually decided in favour of the former. We were all just ingredients in an armpit stew anyway.

Anyone Up For A Ruck?

An event news snippet from the latest Wire:

“London’s Institute of Contemporary Arts (ICA) has awarded £10,000 to artist Jo Mitchell to stage a reenactment of a notorious 1984 ICA performance involving members of Einstürzende Neubauten and Fad Gadget’s Frank Tovey, among others. Called Concerto for Voice and Machine, the event was legendarily chaotic, with members of the group attacking the wooden stage with pneumatic drills, purportedly in order to reach secret tunnels rumoured to run between government departments and Buckingham Palace underneath The Mall, and the audience joining in by tossing glasses into a cement mixer. It ended when ICA staff turned the power off. The reenactment is scheduled to take place in February 2007. www.ica.org.uk”

It’s not that I’m particularly enamoured of wanton destruction (unless it’s of Coldplay, in which case it ain’t wanton) but I’m impressed and quite charmed by the idea of the ICA sponsoring the reenactment of an event that, 12 years ago, involved destruction of its own property and plunging its staff into panic. Regardless of whether I’d personally classify this as “art”, I like the idea of living in a place where there are people who would. How far I have come. How far in the wrong direction.

White Meat Diet

Alec, ranting: Every day, I eat the same ta pao¹ local food as everyone else in the office, or I walk out to somewhere like Lau Pa Sat and eat whatever takes my fancy there. But then there’s ONE day, where I just HAPPEN to be eating McDonald’s in the office pantry, and everyone who comes in says “Oh, you don’t like local food?”

Me: But I thought you talk quite a lot about local food with them?

Alec: I do! But it’s like they refuse to believe! We went for a buffet and I didn’t eat wasabi with my sashimi and everyone’s first remark was “Oh, you can’t take spicy food?” GRAAARGH!

Me: Well, why don’t you explain that your girlfriend is local and you eat everything she eats?

Alec: Oh, that’ll be no use. They probably think you’re some SPG anyway.

Me: Haha, they’ll be all like “Oh, you eat cock?”

¹ Takeaway

Ellen, My…Er…Bellen

Ellen Allien’s set at Zouk last night was cruelly short, ending just before 4, and before I’d got the chance to storm the DJ console and ask her to marry me.

Her set didn’t feature as much fembot voiceovers as I would have liked but it was still intensely, braincrushingly good for the most part. And when, during a beer break, I finally heard that wondrous disembodied voice proclaim “You…make…me…go MAAAAAAAAGMA!” I shoved my beer into Alec’s hands, raced back to the dancefloor, and went apeshit. I think anyone who drinks beer in Singapore will understand that sacrificing the first five minutes in which beer is actually cold and not nauseatingly warm should be ample proof of my love. O Ellen! How many more warm beers I would have drunk just to explore unknown trrrashsssscapes with you a little longer!

Still, in almost all respects it was a better night out than DJ T and M.A.N.D.Y. had been the previous night, except that I’d like to suggest to the dude in the striped cap that 1) it would be good to find a dance style that doesn’t involve elbowing people in the boobs and not apologizing, 2) your goatee looks like pubic hair, and 3) wearing the SAME CAP to two sweaty smoky club nights in a row is kinda gross.

Since the night ended earlier than we’d expected, we channelled our mutual lust for Ellen into supper at Arab Street. Cheese-coated chillies and almond spice smoothies are great at any time of day but when consumed while reclining on the cushioned floor of Ambrosia at 5.30 a.m., they approach divinity.

Overheard On Orchard Road

[A quick note for non-Singaporean readers: On Orchard Road, our main shopping strip, banks often set up big tents on the pavements and attempt to lure people into them to sign up for credit cards. Such tents also often feature greatly amplified music and obnoxious commentary by the various promoters present, with which it is presumably hoped that innocent passers-by will be bludgeoned into submission.]

“…and that was a really great song by Suzanne Vega! Luka, a song about child abuse! You’re here with us outside Wisma Atria shopping centre this Saturday afternoon, and we’re offering a waiver of annual fees for…”

Birthday Presence

So there I was, up to my ears in the details of an oil pipeline contract, and then I heard a voice outside the door of my office, asking for Michelle.

My first thought: Wah lau that bloody ________! Always barging into my office without calling first, just assuming I’m free to drop everything and attend to him. Too much!

My second thought: Hang on, that sounded like Alec. Wha??!

Next thing I knew, Alec was in my office with a bunch of lilies. :)

He couldn’t stay long because he had to rush off to work. I walked him down to the taxi point, and we had this conversation while waiting. Sorry if it grosses anyone out, but I thought it might amuse fans of the long-running Alec/Russ war.

Me: Aww, thanks for doing this. It was really sweet of you to bring the flowers yourself.
Alec: My pleasure. Anyway, I totally had to one-up Russ.
Me: Ha! I bet next year Russ will COME FROM ENGLAND to hand-deliver the flowers to me!
Alec: Well then the year after that I’ll FLY TO ENGLAND, BUY THE FLOWERS THERE, AND BRING THEM BACK!
Me: Aw. Okay, there’s your taxi. Bye dear.
Alec: See you later, dear. Happy birthday.