The Umpteenth Journal Attempt (Version III)

…and I’m already at the office, even though office hours officially start at 9, and I usually get here much, much later (haha). So what am I doing here at this ungodly hour? Not for kicks, I assure you. See, this is the downside of having to conduct phone interviews with someone on the other end of the world, i.e. we here in Indonesia have to adjust to their schedule. In this particular case, I was given a hotel room number to call at 6:45.

There are a number of options when a record label sets up a phone interview for you with one of their artists. They give the artist your number and have the artist’s people call you; they have you go to their office and make the call from there; or you can make the call yourself from wherever is convenient. I was given the third choice, which allows for a certain degree of luxury.

Based on personal experience with these interviews, I eventually opted to calling from the office as opposed to doing it from home or at a wartel. Maybe home wouldn’t be so bad, but I just can’t seem to work there. As for a wartel, I once tried an interview at the wartel across the road from the house. Hassles a-plenty: no speaker phone, which meant I had to hold up my tape recorder (an absolute necessity for me when interviewing) to the receiver - while it was stuck to my ear - and talk into the transceiver at the same time. Hard to concentrate on the interview itself, as you’re trying to make sure everything gets recorded clearly. And after playing back the tape, everything did get recorded. Unfortunately, seeing as the warnet was by a main road, and the phone booth’s walls were paper thin, all I recorded was mostly traffic noises, with some traces of dialogue underneath.

Having learnt my lesson, I did the next phone interview using the nifty speaker phone at the office’s conference room. It’s quiet and the acoustics are awesome, so obviously the recording comes out extra clear. And so on this latest interview, I opted to use it again. Well, actually it was more out of necessity: I’d forgot to write down the contact details sent via e-mail, whereas the internet connection at home is down at the moment.

So what this meant was I had to forego the comforts of home and head to the office at 5:40 in the morning. Usually it’d be unthinkable, considering school and work traffic and that I’m only meant to be at work by 9. But this was special, since school’s out at the moment (I assume), so the roads were pretty much deserted. So I managed to get to the office in just over half an hour, first time I’d ever got there that early, before anyone else. 6:45 arrived, I dialled the number and was told that the phone was in use at the other end. Not a problem, as I’d just try again in a few minutes. But then I got a call from the label, telling me that there’d been a mistake, and that my call was, in fact, scheduled for 11:45.

You don’t say.

So what does one do to pass the time? One takes a long nap.

My name is Hasief Ardiasyah. It’s a nice name; not too common to confuse people who’ve ever been in contact with me into saying "Which Hasief?", and "Hasief" isn’t just something my parents picked out at random because they thought it was funky, as it actually means something. "Endowed with sound judgment," if I recall correctly. And there’s only a one-letter difference between my full name and my brothers’ (older bro Hanief, younger bro Halief), so it’s kinda creative in a minimalist way.

But to be honest, it’s not exactly the easiest name to have. The problem with having an obscure name is that people, on first glance, tend to assume a more well-known variation. Thus, you could say I’m unofficially known as Hafies Ardiansyah. The Ardiasyah part gets screwed up the most, especially in writing. Apparently back in the day, there was this chess whiz from Kalimantan called Ardiansyah, and it ended up being a rather popular name. Ardiasyah, on the other hand, has nothing to do with chess or its whizzes. It’s an acronym of my paternal and maternal grandparents’ names. So naturally, people are more likely to have heard of the former. As a result, I have to take extra measures to make sure they get it right on stuff like my ID card, my driver’s license, my diploma, my press ID, my business cards, you name it. I’ve been known to kick up an almighty fuss if that extra ‘N’ gets thrown in, and why shouldn’t I? It’s my name, dammit.

That’s not to say Hasief is without its fair share of problems, mainly verbal. There’s the frequent mistake of people calling me "Hafies." Then there’s me, who’s not the greatest enunciator in the world. Speaking clearly has never been one of my strengths, so imagine trying to introduce myself in a voice that sounds like a rat crawled inside my mouth and died. The name doesn’t really roll off the tongue under the best of circumstances. Go on, try saying it. Takes some getting used to, doesn’t it? It’s less of a hassle if I’m introducing myself in person - though to be honest, I don’t really care if someone doesn’t get my name the first time, unless it’s someone I have a good chance of meeting and dealing with sometime in the near future - but it’s sheer agony when I’m talking on the phone. Again, my incoherency comes into play, but amplified because the option of lip-reading is eliminated. It usually takes about three tries before they get it right. I’d thought I’d heard all the mistaken variations of my name, but some schmuck on the other end always seems to find a new way of screwing it up again. And you’d think that having similar names with my siblings would make it easier for our parents, but no, it just ends up in a lot of confusion.

And the funny part? My parents didn’t plan to give me that name. They didn’t even plan to have me - in a sense. Flash back to September 1979: my parents had come up with a list of potential names, from which they’d eventually choose the one that would be most befitting for their newly born daughter. Yup - they were expecting a girl. Maybe early gender detection technology wasn’t widely available back then, or maybe they wanted to be surprised. Either way, they’d already had one son three years ago, so it’d be nice to have a daughter this time around. Don’t all parents feel that way about variety?

But fate/divine intervention/genetics intervened, and so they ended up with a screaming baby boy, which threw them for a loop because it was unexpected. But a boy it was, and being the good people that they were, they greeted him into the world with open arms, even though he was a bit on the loud, whiny side (and still is). The problem was, they hadn’t thought of a name for him yet. So they scanned through their books of Muslim baby names and eventually came up with Hasief. I’m not sure they deliberately set out to find a name similar to my older brother’s in the first place, but but as they flipped through the pages and landed on ‘H’, I can imagine them warming up to the idea. Heck, I’d probably do the same if I were in their shoes.

So Hasief it was. They wanted to keep that acronym tribute to their parents, so I got the Ardiasyah as well. The experience with me made them better prepared for when Halief came around; they had prepared boy and girl names. Again they were hoping for a girl; again they ended up with a boy. But they loved their kids regardless, even though there was still a yearning for a daughter. Some things just aren’t meant to be.

Fast forward some 20-plus years later. Their kids are all adults, though you could argue one of them remains perpetually stuck in mental childhood (oh wait, that’s me). One of them has even started a family of his own, but in what seems to be our family’s grand old tradition, once again the latest addition to the lineage is a boy. But no worries; we’re all still relatively young, so between the three of us there’s bound to a girl or two somewhere down the line, fertility permitting.

In fact, I occasionally think about what I’d name my daughter, and a few candidates have popped up (no, I’m not going to mention them here). Still working on names for boys. Since I don’t have any children on the way at present, I have the luxury of taking my time, which is probably why I haven’t made up my mind yet. But it certainly is something that warrants a lot of thought, because it’s something they’ll carry around for life, and you wouldn’t want them changing their name because the one you gave them was incredibly dorky. And though my own name sometimes causes minor hassle, I’m proud of it and thankful my parents didn’t give me some run-of-the-mill moniker. One needs all the help one can get to stand out from the crowd, preferably in a good way. Hopefully I can do the same for my kids. Ideally it’ll be something good, meaningful and doesn’t take more than ten seconds to sink in for whoever hears them mention it, but whatever I end up giving them, I hope they’ll be good kids. Shame and a heart attack aren’t high on Daddy’s wishlist.

Heard a story the other day about a guy whose long-term girlfriend cheated on him, and now the guy’s had a breakdown and is bordering on suicidal. Sounds rather extreme, but…it’s not entirely unheard of. Though it does make you wonder what could drive someone to despair that deep, the intensity of feeling that suddenly gets turned upside down. In short, he must’ve loved her very much. Probably too much.

But then again, if you’re in a serious relationship, aren’t you supposed to love someone as much as is imaginably possible? Otherwise, why bother being in one? I might add this is all theoretical for me, as I can only imagine how I would act were I in a serious relationship myself. It’s easy to say that I would have feelings as deep, and that I wouldn’t allow heartbreak and grief to drive me to the brink of insanity, but it’s still in the realm of possibility that I could be breaking out the razor blades after having my feelings mercilessly trampled on.

I don’t really want that; I don’t think anyone wants that, either for themselves or others (well, duh). So prevention is the key. I want a relationship with someone I’d go mad over, and who’d be mad over me, without the actual going mad part. So how does one do that? Beats me; maybe when I’m actually in a relationship I’ll have a better idea, apart from the obvious, namely reducing as many reasons as possible for dumping each other. Hopefully I’ll figure it out when I get around to it, though in the meantime it might be a good idea to get the razor blades stashed away.

(The following post is by special request by someone who actually reads this blog. Other than me, of course. But then again I don’t really read my own blog, I just vent and type.)

So England are going to the World Cup in Germany next year after all. Well, they were already going since last Saturday, but last night they made qualification sweeter by beating Poland to top their group and hopefully improve their seeding when the tournament groups and fixtures are drawn. Better seeding means you get to avoid the big teams for as long as possible in the early stages, so barring any major disasters, they should be able to get through to the quarter-finals.

Well, whoopee. That gives me some added incentive to watch the World Cup, because frankly if England aren’t in it, my interest level decreases by about 85 percent and the only purpose I have of keeping tabs on things is just to know what’s what. Besides, it’s the most televised and publicised sports event in the world, so I’m bound to find out about what happens one way or another. So even if I try to tune out everything after England get dumped out, it’ll still be all over the papers and TV.

Hopefully England will be good enough so I won’t have to endure that possibility. Wishful thinking, I know. But if Greece proved anything during Euro 2004, it’s that even mediocre teams can grab the gold. And as crappy as England play on occasion, they’re not as mediocre as Greece, who didn’t even qualify for Germany. In fact, it’s a widely-held opinion that this group of players is the best England have had in ages, so it’s quite frustrating that they don’t do better against crappier teams. Apparently their performance improves when the heat is on, so there ought to be no more Northern Ireland-type foul-ups.

At the very least, Sven Goran Eriksson should have found out for sure what his best formation is (4-4-2, Beckham on the right, Gerrard behind Lampard in the middle), and hopefully he’ll spend the upcoming months and friendlies to figure out who the rest of his players will be. The first team seems to be settled on, so all that needs to be sorted out is the squad players. The constant inclusion of Jermaine Jenas has been puzzling. I still don’t know what the hell it is he does, be it for club or country, other than make sure there are 11 players of his team on the pitch. Bring on Danny Murphy - he might not actually get a game, but if he does I’m sure he’ll contribute way more than Useless Jenas. Anyway, whoever is in the squad come June, I’ll be watching with avid interest. Until they get eliminated, of course.

No one a rat’s ass really gives.

No one really gives a rat’s ass.

Drive around town, watch TV or flip through a mag, and sooner or later you’re going to come across one in the latest series of A Mild’s advertisements. You’ve might’ve seen them already, basically they’re just a bunch of blurbs that take aim at weighty issues such as the high cost of education or the energy crisis. Which is all very good and thought-provoking…but what the hell does it have to do with selling cigarettes? I’m no smoker, but even if I were, I sure wouldn’t need biting social commentary to make me light up. "Whoa, the government is screwing us over. Power to the people! Hand me a fag!" Actually I don’t think advertising gets any smoker to consume more than they already do, and may not even be the reason they got into it in the first place - I’d attribute that to peers or older people who are too retarded to know better than to set kids on the road to lung cancer.

But regardless of my views on smoking, cigarette manufacturers have a product to push, so fair enough. And given anti-tobacco laws prevent them from actually depicting cigarettes and smoking in their ads (except in some circumstances), well obviously it’s a pain in the arse trying to sell your product if you can’t actually show your product or what it does, or even fake it in a logical way, like you can fake the effects of detergent or diet pills. As a result, tobacco companies have to advertise in as interesting a way as possible the abstract concept of enjoyment to be derived from their product.

The most common result of this futile endeavour is one or a bunch of young, good-looking upper class jet-setters having the time of their lives and/or trying to look cool and brooding. But hang on a moment - I think I’ve cracked A Mild’s code! The purpose of their ad campaign is to make them stand out from all the other cigarette ads! "Let’s push social consciousness instead of hedonism, to make us look different! Our consumers will feel unique and individual!"  Of course, given that everywhere you go someone’s got an A Mild in their mouth, so much for individuality. But then again, tobacco companies (and anyone selling something, for that matter) could care less about individuality as long as people keep buying…

A recent chat (thanks, Avie) has led me to clarify my earlier statements regarding sahur time local TV viewing. Yes, Quraish Shihab isn’t a laugh riot, but then again he isn’t supposed to be. Unlike the freak shows on the other channels, who’re trying to be funny, but just end up being loud and annoying. Though maybe that’s the entire point - perhaps they’re supposed to be loud and annoying in order to shake viewers out of their sleep-induced stupor, using prize-winning quizzes with moronic, simple questions as added incentive.

Yes, I have a choice not watch those loud, annoying shows, and I exercise that choice as much as possible. So why am I bitching about them? Well, because I have a right to exercise my choice to bitch, so there.

That is all.

Ramadhan is here again. This year brings a different twist personally, being a full-time office drone and all. Though work hours have been shortened, theoretically I should be able to get out of here in time to break fast at home, but like I mentioned in the last post, the workload at the moment (gotta get two issues done in a month - ack) means that that isn’t really feasible. Then again, traffic is usually insane at around 4:30 pm, so why go through that torture?

Speaking of torture, I still have sahur at home (of course). Ever since I worked full-time family meals have been few and far between, so at the very least I can have every sahur at the dinner table. Nothing wrong with that - there’d be something wrong with me if I found something wrong with that. No, what really gets me riled up is all those shit comedians and "personalities" on every bloody Indonesian channel. Every. Bloody. Channel. I’m not much of a morning person at 3:30 am. Heck, I’m not much of a morning person at any time of the day. But being forced awake at an ungodly hour and being subjected to the loud unfunniness from those collective morons on the screen…how sad is it that the most tolerable and enjoyable thing to watch at that hour is Quraish Shihab’s sermons on Metro TV? Luckily, that’s what’s usually on, and that’s what I’d prefer even if the remote weren’t in Dad’s hands and the only choices I had were local channels. I can watch cable TV on my own time.

Other than that (and afternoon traffic), I don’t have any problems, and even those problems can be circumvented if you know how. Not eating and drinking? Oh, please. I’ve been doing this for about 18 years non-stop (fasting during Ramadhan, that is, not starving myself for 18 years straight). Another year’s not going to kill me, nor do I expect it ever will.