My work colleagues and I do not see eye to eye on many issues - aboriginal affairs, multiculturalism, the war on Iraq, Johnny Depp - you name it and its pretty much cross-generational Gen Y versus Boomer warfare. I try to bamboozle them with words like 'podcasts' and 'nursing home', while they calmly remind me that housing prices are rising faster then my salary and as a result I will be a gypsie tenant for the rest of my life.
But there was one issue that united us all. Regardless of race, creed, generation or colour, we all agree that the American version of Iron Chef is not fit to wipe the saki off its Japanese parent.
The Americans have managed to get rid of everything which made the original Japanese version so much fun - the drag queen host, the funny American voice overs, the Hanjin Scholar food taster who turned food critique into poetry, and those crazy challenge ingredients and receipes (sea urchin ice cream anyone?).
Sure, they have replaced the original Chairman with a very dishy Mark Dacascos, who is quite easy on the eye and makes many a lady want to take on his iron chef, he is just too stylish in his Armani suit to be amusing. Chairman Kaga on the other hand was so daggy he was cool. The outfits for a start - never since Liberace has one man worn ruffles and diamantes with so much virility and manliness. The way he refuses to take a bite out of his food, preferring to shove the whole thing straight into this mouth and slowly masticating it from there was just pure genius. Chairman Kaga was a god.
The other thing about the US series that really bugs me is the lack of weird ingredients. I'm used to seeing chefs do some kinky shit with bitter gourd, sea weed, and a whole manner of other edible stuff that freaks caucasian people out. In Iron Chef America, the caucasians clearly remembered how freaked out they were and got rid of everything a good, god-fearin' American has not heard of. Gone too are the introductions on the best time to eat a particular food, "If memory serves me correctly, a white turnip is best eaten in between full moons and before the mist has lifted on a clear Autumn morning ." Now the competition clearly favours those chefs who are innovative, but not so much so that the tasters will have to try anything they won't find in a restaurant.
Which brings me to my next gripe - the freakin' tasters! They have no personality, and make boring comments that make me long for the soleful musings of the dolled up female actresses and dignified-looking gents who made up the Japanese panel. I really can't see anyone on the US show comparing artichoke to a lotus blossom in full bloom, or compare the skill of the chef to the delicateness of snow flakes falling on the leaves of a willow. They really should have used the Hanjin Scholar guy to make those leggos commercials where that old guy just strings together big words as an attempt to sound intellectual when describing a plate of pasta. I shudder to think what Hanjin Scholar would have said about the fava beans. But now, we have to make do with drivel like "Oh my gaaarrd, this is so not Atkins. My trainer says I can't eat any carbs after 6pm. Can I just like, have a steak or something?" Ok, so I exaggerate just a little, but you know what I mean.
Oh SBS, bring back Iron Chef Japan. Bring back the voice over who says "Flame-ola" everytime a wok toss stirs up the flames in the stove, bring back Iron Chef Chen Kenichi and the 'Chinaman speaking chinglish' American accent they've dupped him with, bring back the weird food, bring back the kitsche and the tackiness, just bring everything back...but keep Mark Dacascos...in my bedroom if need be.
Monday, January 29, 2007
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
SBS it isn't
In a fit of nostalgia, I found myself going through an old box containing bits and pieces collected from previous travels. In among the ticket stubbs, coasters, and things pilfered from beer taverns, I found this delightful gem of a postcard picked up somewhere in Spain.
Spanish 101, Espanol for Dummies, Posing for Gringos - call it what you will, just be grateful that I'm about to make you just that little bit more 'worldly'.
Enjoy, and try to use a phrase in a sentence today.
Spanish 101, Espanol for Dummies, Posing for Gringos - call it what you will, just be grateful that I'm about to make you just that little bit more 'worldly'.
Enjoy, and try to use a phrase in a sentence today.
Tuesday, January 9, 2007
Pole position
If you started reading this post because you thought the word 'pole' hints at some rudie nudie business, you will soon find yourself disappointed. Call me a post tease if you will, but I just don't want to put anything in the window that i ain't gonna sell in the store.
This is merely the story of me, a packed tram, two scheming Nordic backpackers, and the scent of Eau de poorly digested curry. Anyone who has ever travelled on an extremely packed tram knows how vital it is to find yourself something to hold onto quick smart, otherwise you might find yourself lurching towards the nearest stranger, invariably grabbing their privates in order to steady yourself, apologising profusely afterwards, and then spending the rest of the journey wondering whether you should offer to take said stranger to dinner and promise to call them tomorrow.
So there I was this morning, having found myself a nice little niche on the tram where I have a firm hold of a pole, no one's armpits are in my face, and I don't have a briefcase bruising my shins. I thought I had it made. Then before I knew it, my world came crashing down - my pole position was taken by stealth.
Events unfolded like a Shakespearian tragedy. Me as the hapless Duncan, Nordic backpackers as the Macbeths - the usurpers of my throne, and a mysterious gassy passenger as the three witches brewing their cauldron full of bad vindaloo. At first the usurpers stood behind me, and one tanned arm came around my head towards the pole in front me.
"gokkgoolglkookgnk" a female voice said.
Shoulder slowing follows tanned arm.
"gooodygoodygookkkygooggy" she said again.
Tall Nordic male body with backpack follows shoulders and tanned arms, effectively shifting me out of the circle of arms holding onto the pole. Macbeth slowly shifts so that I had no other option but to let go of the pole, allowing Lady Macbeth to triumphantly occupy freed up space and grab onto the pole space that was rightfully mine. So there I was, a mournful and vanquished Duncan, looking into the stony faces of my fellow passengers for signs of mutual outrage, but finding nothing more than bits of dried toothpaste around their mouths.
In hindsight, I should have gone viking on their ass, but it's never too late for karma to do its thing. Afterall, there is nothing quite like a good rectal probe by customs to add a happy ending to your holiday. Just make sure you ask for Neville.
This is merely the story of me, a packed tram, two scheming Nordic backpackers, and the scent of Eau de poorly digested curry. Anyone who has ever travelled on an extremely packed tram knows how vital it is to find yourself something to hold onto quick smart, otherwise you might find yourself lurching towards the nearest stranger, invariably grabbing their privates in order to steady yourself, apologising profusely afterwards, and then spending the rest of the journey wondering whether you should offer to take said stranger to dinner and promise to call them tomorrow.
So there I was this morning, having found myself a nice little niche on the tram where I have a firm hold of a pole, no one's armpits are in my face, and I don't have a briefcase bruising my shins. I thought I had it made. Then before I knew it, my world came crashing down - my pole position was taken by stealth.
Events unfolded like a Shakespearian tragedy. Me as the hapless Duncan, Nordic backpackers as the Macbeths - the usurpers of my throne, and a mysterious gassy passenger as the three witches brewing their cauldron full of bad vindaloo. At first the usurpers stood behind me, and one tanned arm came around my head towards the pole in front me.
"gokkgoolglkookgnk" a female voice said.
Shoulder slowing follows tanned arm.
"gooodygoodygookkkygooggy" she said again.
Tall Nordic male body with backpack follows shoulders and tanned arms, effectively shifting me out of the circle of arms holding onto the pole. Macbeth slowly shifts so that I had no other option but to let go of the pole, allowing Lady Macbeth to triumphantly occupy freed up space and grab onto the pole space that was rightfully mine. So there I was, a mournful and vanquished Duncan, looking into the stony faces of my fellow passengers for signs of mutual outrage, but finding nothing more than bits of dried toothpaste around their mouths.
In hindsight, I should have gone viking on their ass, but it's never too late for karma to do its thing. Afterall, there is nothing quite like a good rectal probe by customs to add a happy ending to your holiday. Just make sure you ask for Neville.
Thursday, January 4, 2007
The chairman, the dragon lady, and me
I often wondered about the sort of responsible, productive life I could have led had I not befriended people with vivid imaginations. Truly they have ruined me with their whimsy and their talk of fairies and ‘taters and hobbit warrens. Had my friends been the sort to talk in terms of five year plans and future interest rates, I might have amounted to something, but instead I while away my time having funny and wonderful conversations about the most absurd things in the universe.
I still chuckle every time I recall one conversation - it took me away from the confines of my ordinary suburban life, and made me the lovechild of Chairman Mao and Lucy Liu.
Mao, for the uninitiated, was the dude who led the Communist party to power in China in 1949. He was a paunchy man with a receding hairline, and his closes friends lamented at his poor personal hygiene. Also he caused the deaths of nearly 40 million people. Lucy Liu on the other hand is the female equivalent to Hugh Grant – I don’t know whether she trawls Sunset Boulevard looking for hookers, but her hair does most of the acting for her. So I wasn’t exactly thrilled to be accused of carrying their combined DNA. Since the accusation wasn’t based on looks (I resemble neither Mao nor Lucy), it can only be concluded that my friends see me as a despotic kung-fu hussy with unusually animated hair.
A little after that conversation, and during a quiet moment at work, I actually thought about what life would be like as the child of Mao and Lucy. An ordinary day might go something like this:
“Dad can I get a lift to school?”
“No, you bourgeois capitalist roader, you can get yourself to school the proletariat way”
“But Dad, we live nearly 150kms from school, I can’t walk”
“Back in my day we walked 10,000kms through enemy territory, with bad shoes and hardly any food. Kids these days! Don’t you walk away when I’m talking to you, you revisionist little ingrat…”
“Mum, can I get some money for the bus?”
“Honey don’t bother me now, I’m waiting on a very important call from my agent. He thinks he can get me an audition for a role as a cancer patient undergoing chemo who discovers that she was Elvis’s lovechild”
“But Mum, you would probably have to shave you head for that role”
“What! Don’t be ridiculous, I’m sure we could say that the character is undergoing a special type of chemo, one where you won’t lose your hair and you always look fresh and kissable”
“Whatever. By the way, people from “Where are they now” called, they want to do a special on your hair”
Yep, not a well adjusted child make. It certainly made me appreciate my real folks a bit more. It used to mortify me how Dad gives friends and visitors to their house Chinese triad names just cause its funny, and how mum misinterprets nearly every song she hears so that regardless of whether its hip hop, rock or country, she’ll sing it like its an aria. But compared to Mao and Lucy, they are not so bad.
I still chuckle every time I recall one conversation - it took me away from the confines of my ordinary suburban life, and made me the lovechild of Chairman Mao and Lucy Liu.
Mao, for the uninitiated, was the dude who led the Communist party to power in China in 1949. He was a paunchy man with a receding hairline, and his closes friends lamented at his poor personal hygiene. Also he caused the deaths of nearly 40 million people. Lucy Liu on the other hand is the female equivalent to Hugh Grant – I don’t know whether she trawls Sunset Boulevard looking for hookers, but her hair does most of the acting for her. So I wasn’t exactly thrilled to be accused of carrying their combined DNA. Since the accusation wasn’t based on looks (I resemble neither Mao nor Lucy), it can only be concluded that my friends see me as a despotic kung-fu hussy with unusually animated hair.
A little after that conversation, and during a quiet moment at work, I actually thought about what life would be like as the child of Mao and Lucy. An ordinary day might go something like this:
“Dad can I get a lift to school?”
“No, you bourgeois capitalist roader, you can get yourself to school the proletariat way”
“But Dad, we live nearly 150kms from school, I can’t walk”
“Back in my day we walked 10,000kms through enemy territory, with bad shoes and hardly any food. Kids these days! Don’t you walk away when I’m talking to you, you revisionist little ingrat…”
“Mum, can I get some money for the bus?”
“Honey don’t bother me now, I’m waiting on a very important call from my agent. He thinks he can get me an audition for a role as a cancer patient undergoing chemo who discovers that she was Elvis’s lovechild”
“But Mum, you would probably have to shave you head for that role”
“What! Don’t be ridiculous, I’m sure we could say that the character is undergoing a special type of chemo, one where you won’t lose your hair and you always look fresh and kissable”
“Whatever. By the way, people from “Where are they now” called, they want to do a special on your hair”
Yep, not a well adjusted child make. It certainly made me appreciate my real folks a bit more. It used to mortify me how Dad gives friends and visitors to their house Chinese triad names just cause its funny, and how mum misinterprets nearly every song she hears so that regardless of whether its hip hop, rock or country, she’ll sing it like its an aria. But compared to Mao and Lucy, they are not so bad.
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