Sometimes, I am full of ideas and plans, and I feel like I can do so much to make my life better, to make other people’s lives and / or jobs much better. On mornings like this, I feel my ideas have so much potential.

In reality, my ideas have a lot of potential, but idea theft (more kindly, idea co-option) runs rampant, and in China, no one believes an ethnic Chinese woman could possibly have original ideas and potential, runs on pure motivation, and is doing something to participate and contribute to society, where earning an income is more than welcome, but is not the driving force.

These past several months can be summarised in the two paragraphs above, freshly typed. I would elaborate, but I have a meeting to get to.

Rumour has it Peter Jackson will be directing The Lovely Bones, a novel about a 14-year old who is raped and murdered by her neighbour, and is told from her point of view (in Heaven).

The Herald reports that the director who was supposed to direct it, Lynne Ramsay, either quit the production or was pushed out because Peter Jackson had expressed an interest in the film.

I think The Lovely Bones would benefit from a relatively unknown, but respected arthouse director — it’s that kind of story. It doesn’t need super special effects, just good locations, because it’s a simple story and Susie Salmon’s death and afterlife should be enough to carry the film.

I can practically see it in my head now.

This is not to say Peter Jackson can’t do it, I enjoyed Heavenly Creatures immensely when I first saw it a number of years ago, and I also thought Bad Taste and Brain Dead were hilarious. However, now he’s got backers up the wazoo — what’s to stop him from using all sorts of special effects to create Susie’s heaven?

(Kristen gave me her copy of The Lovely Bones last year, and it’s one of my favourite books.)

Iraq Had Talks on Buying Uranium for Nukes:

Although the European intelligence material suggested a proactive role by the sellers, intelligence officials said that Iraq actively sought supplies, the FT said.

…

Despite evidence that it was supplied to at least two of those countries, it was not clear if talks with Iraq ever led to exports, the report added.

Okay. My reading of this says Iraq had the intent to do nasty things (duh). There doesn’t seem to be any evidence so far of them carrying out that intent. This made (makes?) Saddam Hussein dangerous, but not as dangerous as Bush and Blair (oh, I forgot Howard) led many to think.

(Resurrecting an old thought — not mine — if the Bush administration found assassinations an acceptable way of dealing with dangerous criminals, why not just have Saddam Hussein and his sons taken out way back when, and have the UN step in as peacekeepers? Less blood on their hands.)

And now that they’ve invaded and currently occupy Iraq (two more days till the handover!), they have to suck it up and deal with the attacks, the resistance, and public dissatisfaction over their performance. Way to go promoting Western-style democracy in the Middle East, lads.

(This is a Letter from Iraq, and it’s pretty good. Stops mysteriously in mid-sentence on page 4, though.)

Does Niger get in trouble for selling uranium?

Update: Glenn Reynolds gets on the story one week late. Jon Henke writes:

I plan to spend the rest of this evening enjoying the vindication.

This would be based on the belief that Yes, it’s okay to use forged documents to back up your story, on the off-chance the claim turns out to be true?

Those documents aren’t any less fake now. They should not have been used as evidence, and if Henke feels vindicated, it means he supports using fakes. I propose we forge documents alleging anything we like, and we are allowed to do that now, according to Henke.

• had dinner at Tutto Bene (mmm, homemade pasta)
• had drinks at Tutto Bene, then Havana (then Neil wanted to go elsewhere, but it was too late except for dodgy nightclubs)
• had way too much egg prata at Pattaya (the vermicelli salad is too, too spicy)
• had drinks at The House
• had more drinks at The Londoner
• watched Neil kill people on Vice City
• had dinner at The House (please change the menu)

Serial killer seeks sex change:

Denyer, 32, stabbed and strangled three young women during a seven-week killing frenzy in bayside suburbs in 1993.

What, was he jealous?

Denyer told homicide squad detectives, who interviewed him after his arrest, that since he was 14 he had “always wanted to kill”.

When asked why his victims were women, he said: “Just hate ‘em”.

He sounds like he’d modelled himself after other serial killers. IMHO, he’s nothing more than an attention whore who’ll do anything do go down in history as the Man Who [insert unbelievable activity here].

Yes, I did it again. The white layouts lasted, what, a month?

A British DJ was suspended from his station for playing (Sir!) Cliff Richard songs, only to be reinstated soon after.

I’m going to lose all credibility once I say this, but what’s so bad about playing (three bags full, Sir!) Cliff Richard on the radio? I grew up listening to (we salute the rank, not the man, Sir!) Cliff — my mum is a big fan. Childhood memories include watching (was I a bad girl, Sir!) Cliff Richard music videos (Wired for Sound is actually one of my favourites because of the roller skating) and listening to (crying is for babies, Sir!) Cliff Richard sing Summer Holiday, Living Doll, We Don’t Talk Anymore, Miss You Nights, Daddy’s Home, Theme for a Dream, and many, many, excruciatingly many more tracks on audio tape — I bought my mum a new (Sir, yes Sir!) Cliff Richard CD over Chinese New Year.

The photos on the official (would you like fries with that, Sir!) Cliff Richard site show a man growing old rather ungracefully. What a shame. Also, one of the records pictured on his discography is very… informative.

So. (Are you a man or a mouse, Sir!) Cliff Richard. Erm. Yes. Radio stations should be allowed to play his records.

I’m done now.

Do you think they’re trying to be ironic?

There once was a bush. This bush grew leaves that people would pluck, dry, and steep in hot water to taste its peculiar aroma. They called it tea. So this bush was a tea bush. This bush didn’t want to be a tea bush, however. It wanted to grow something much more than boring old tea. It had heard its neighbours, also, curiously, bushes growing tea much like itself, talking about other plants.

Now, this bush had never seen another plant before. It had always been where it was.

It heard a whispered tale of a place called an orchard, and this orchard had things called apple trees. These apple trees grew much taller than a tea bush could, and they made these things called fruit – brightly coloured bundles of joy, the bush thought.

The bush wanted to be an apple tree. It felt trapped in a tea bush body. It listened to as many tales about apple trees as possible, then began to try. It tried to grow an apple. It worked very hard every day, and it forgot to spend time on its leaves as it willed the end of one, just one, stalk to grow a fruit.

Its new leaves were smaller, its old leaves were plucked long ago.

And then one day, something miraculous happened. A little bud sprouted. It kind of looked like an apple! The bush was so happy. It was well on its way to changing its life and moving to a beautiful orchard and becoming an apple tree, as it should be.

There was movement along the bushes. Some of those beings that came by to look and pluck at leaves now and then were walking along. They stopped in front of the bush.

“Look! What’s that?”

The bush felt a thrill of anticipation at being shipped off to a new home, to be in its rightful place.

“I don’t know. Could be a parasite of some sort. We’d better get rid of it now, in case it infects the plantation.”

The other night, I spent some time with a couple of people I’d never really hung out with before. My boyfriend’s started a new job, and there was an informal client dinner at one of Xiamen’s most popular Western restaurants.

I’d previously met C, who is the long-time girlfriend of the company’s number two. When the main course was being served, the boss’ wife, Q, arrived from a wedding she’d attended that evening. When Q was first sitting next to her husband, he got annoyed when she tried to chat with C across the table. He kind of waved her over to where C and I were. There were only three females at dinner — we were to sit together, it seemed.

It was all very friendly. Xiamen being a small city for expatriates, we were all mixing in very similar circles, but this was the first time I’d spent an evening with Q and C. We talked about Q’s kids, C’s work, usual conversation topics, I suppose. I was also grilled lightly on what I do, what I’d like to do, how long I’d been in Xiamen, and so on. Fairly typical stuff.

Here’s one thing about Xiamen: the expatriate community is very small. Everyone seems to know everyone, or knows someone who does. Daily life, naturally, involves mixing with all sorts, mostly Chinese, of course. At the end of the week, many flock to expatriate hangouts for what has been termed a ‘sanity check’. See, Caucasians remain a curiosity — people stare, people talk about them, Caucasians are made to feel very different in every way. Whether this is taken in a good or bad way depends on the individual, but if the expatriate is here on their own, it becomes very easy to start to feel ‘special’, and regularly meeting up with other expatriates, perhaps, delivers that needed dose of reality that no one is more special than anyone else.

(Personal note: I don’t get made to feel special, since I’m ethnic Chinese. I do get made to feel inadequate for not being foreign enough — no blonde hair and light eyes — nor Chinese enough.)

Naturally, with all groups, cliques within the community have formed. One of these cliques appears to be the foreign employees of [company name] — where my boyfriend works. They hang out, I think, mainly because the boss is very gregarious and enjoys dining with and throwing parties for his partners and staff.

But back to the story. This was also the evening of a big birthday party, two friends were throwing one at Havana, another restaurant and bar. All dressed up with somewhere to go, the entire group headed there after a long and indulgent meal.

Upon our arrival and the requisite Hello’s, hugs, air kisses, presents presented, we found ourselves clutching drinks. I spent pockets of time chatting with C. It turns out we’re about the same age, we’re both overseas Chinese women, now living in our ‘ancestral home’. Both our boyfriends work in the same company and spend lots of time together.

C professed a close friendship with Q. She said it was great to meet people like Q, she’s seen a lot, especially the great changes in Xiamen over the last several years. Q has three children, is a lovely lady, and is the quinessential boss’ wife – charming, hospitable, generous, eloquent. I felt as though I was being taken under older and wiser wings (both Q and C are now metaphorical birds), being introduced to the right people and shown the ropes. It was like being inducted into a Family.

The company is run by Italians and Americans of Italian extraction. Cue the theme music from The Sopranos.

Bush’s Accurate Case for War:

“But here is the ultimate truth that so many of my un-American, unpatriotic critics overlook: You won’t care. You’ll still like me and support me, no matter how badly things turn out. That’s because you have short memories, and you’ll believe just about anything I tell you, even if it contradicts what I’ve told you before.”

Y’know, maybe we’re all actually fish in a tank, swimming around, schooling, with no real sense of purpose, no idea what we’re doing or where we’re going, because our brains retain only a few seconds of memory. In the greater scheme of things. Beings bigger than us keep us as pets.

Xinhua news tells me that Liv Tyler is pregnant. She’s due later this year.

My e-mail tells me that my cousin Melissa is also pregnant, due on Christmas Eve. Melissa and the husband, Steve, have already been congratulated heartily (as heartily as one can in plain text format).

So here it is again in HTML:

I’ve already got a wee two-year old niece in Scotland looking for me to show her the next door neighbour’s messy backyard (and drawing for her, and playing with her food). I wonder if I can also corrupt this other rugrat when it’s old enough.

Here’s the New Age way to shop for jewellery: Star Gems, by Solitaire, ‘Asia Pacific’s Jewellery and Watch Magazine’.

AQUARIUS 20 January – 18 February
You may need to think more about how you present yourself to your beloved. It may sound shallow, but it couldn’t hurt to focus on the surface at times. Also, you have been living too much in your head and it is time to jump out into the world. Impress people with your sense of humour. Kindnesses performed at this time will return to bless you a hundred times over in the years to come. Jasper expresses the divinity that is close to you at this time. For an energy pick-up, choose the Sodalite.

What a load of crock. Not the advice, but how it professes to be specific to a star sign — nothing could be more generic.

More information:

• “Jasper is an opaque, impure Chalcedony, traditionally thought of as red. It also comes in pinks,yellows, greens, browns, and grayish blues. Association with other minerals give jasper nice bands and patterns. In the ancient world Jasper was a favorite gem. We can find the name jasper in accent Hebrew, Assyrian, Greek, and Latin. Jasper is usually named according to its pattern. picture jasper, ribbon jasper, orbicular jasper, abraciated and etc. Jasper is found worldwide.”
• Sodalite works on your fifth chakra, apparently.

From the SF Gate: Stroke My Giant Hairy Armpit.

And our chick, she really wants this armpit, is hot for this armpit, is caressing it and tickling it and wrapping her silky smooth arms and legs around it, stroking it, craving it, clearly about to let out a mad yelp at any moment and tear off her skimpy outfit and throw the giant hairy armpit to the floor and mount it and scream out sweet Jesus’s name.

I’ve never thought of armpits as objects for sexual gratification before. However, it appears that I am woefully behind the times! (Warning: none of the sites on this list are safe for work, unless you work at Penthouse or BizArre or something.)

• Gaysitez (there’s a bloke licking his own armpit!)
• Aroma Therapy (‘squeeze those pitties’)

Two links are enough; I can’t look at any more armpits asking me for money while I browse fetish sites. They’re so cheesy (not the armpits, the sites) – look at this sexy armpit while we thoughtfully also include an erect penis or a pair of silicone-enhanced breasts, not that full frontal nudity makes any difference to your looking at the armpit, oh no. Thank the benevolent, merciful Deities I haven’t seen any sites that involve she-male armpit fetishes. That would be something else completely.

AXE is a brand of deodorant, known as Lynx in Singapore. Since I’ve never seen the ads, I can’t say if they’re sexist, but their website is definitely tongue-in-pitcheek.

My favourite deodorant in all the world is Lynx Accelerate.

Thank Terry for the news link, who prefaced it with, “I was able to pull myself up off the floor laughing to send this along.” I bet you didn’t expect me to do this much additional research into the issue of armpit-lovin’, did you?

This forum topic comes from the China Daily website: when will china have direct elections?

I shit you not.

The tone is very civil, and some realities home in on page four.

People who have lived all life in guanxi and archaic “wide family” structures are centures behind your understanding of democracy /accountability/ use of power (and how to crack on [sic] its abuse) and what is the biggest handicap – and understanding what law is and how to use it in proper way.

The discussion is fairly free, although it appears that posters must not use the words ‘democracy’, ‘Taiwan’, and ‘Falungong’ spelled as they are. Forum rules state that if you stray off-topic and are “abusive, obscene, vulgar, hateful, slanderous, threatening, or which are otherwise in violation of any laws”, you will be ‘banished’.

I’ve just discovered the original Sarong Party Girl weblog! Wahey! I looked up her archives and she has her own Mr. Big. No prizes for guessing where she got that nickname from.

As with everything on the Internet, I wonder if she’s for real. If she really likes being called an SPG. If she really is so open about her sexuality. If she’s a she.

If she’s for real, kudos for being honest about what she wants, who she wants, and why she’s not so keen on Asian men. If she isn’t, she has a great imagination (but isn’t such a great speller – ask anyone, I’m the world’s greatest pedant sometimes).

(Is Bar None really such a great place? I’ve never liked it too much. Too crowded, the band is cheesy, too pretentious. An expat hangout like Carnage is much more laid back and crass – which I find more entertaining, but only when I’m drunk.)

Her tagline, by the way, is

Size does matter. I’ve never seen a 4.5 inch dildo.

There’s nothing wrong with Asian men. They’ve just got a chip on their shoulder about being Asian, because they take such great offence at having to compete with men of other ethnicities for the favour of women. You wouldn’t feel threatened if you believed the other party was no better than you, eh?

(Note: for clarity, when I said ‘Asian men’, I meant Singaporean Asian men. They have a serious bug up their arses about ‘Westerners’ dating Singaporean women.)