A fuse blew in the flat yesterday. Not a little one in a plug, but a proper one. A housey-type one. As you can gather, I'm not Bob the Builder, but I dont mind DIY at all. I quite enjoy it and have discovered how to do many things over the years by trial and huge error.
However, this one stumped me. I knew I had to get the old fuse out and replace it, but when I removed the cover to the fuse box, all i could see was wires and stuff. It was enough to make me reconsider sticking my screwdriver in any further.
As half the flat was now out of action and we were expecting guests within the hour, I knew oustide assistance was required.
I walked up the street for about 2 minutes, to the nearest little electrical stuff-type shop. It's about the size of a toilet and smells simalar too. Inside I gestured and pointed to what I thought would help him understand my predicament. He did understand but I needed to give him more information before he could sell me a new fuse. After a couple of minutes he said, "I come?"
I thought for about two seconds and said, "Yes."
He followed me to our flat with a carrier bag of tools and fuses. He tested the fuse box, tried a fuse, tested all the sockets in one side of the flat, re-wired one, tried the fuse again, replaced the cover and got us up and running again. As he was saying goodbye, I gave him 100 Dirhams (about 12 pounds) and he beamed like a Cheshire Cat and slipped out, into the night. I think I overpaid him, considering what he would usually expect for simalar work.
Only afterwards did I realise that there wasn't any, "This is gonna cost," or "I can get to you a week on tuesday," or "You're gonna need a whole re-wire job here."
He came, he fixed it, he left. Isn't that kind of how it should be? He didn't try to get extra work out of it or try to fleece me for something else while he was here. He didn't wan't me to pre-book him, or sign up to a loyalty scheme or take out an insurance policy. I signed nothing and he didn't even insist on a cup of tea. He had no ego and didn't want to discuss his wife's failings.
And now, when the next electrical crisis occurs, I will be sprinting up the road for him.
He has the best loyalty scheme of them all.
Monday, June 9, 2008
When George Met Mariah
It was an amazing time. The toys, the music, the logo, the characters. Who would play Han Solo? Who would be Luke? Who gets stuck as Chewie?
Star Wars defined many a child in the late 70's and early 80's. There had truly never been anything like it before. After the cinema releases, the video would be constantly replayed. At Christmas, it was always the big film. No matter how many times you saw it, you were transported back to that galaxy far, far away...
So, now it seems it was a fluke. And the reason I know this? CGI.
Computer Generated Information seems to have become a curse. Where once it was a means to an end, it's now the be all and end all. When George Lucas made the original Star Wars trilogy, he was working with a new dawn of Special Effects. Some things he could do and some things he couldn't. Unfortunately, as we discovered with the second trilogy of Star Wars, he can now do anything. Where you once had Harrison Ford running around the corridors of the Death Star, you now had computer generated animals running around computer generated planets. Even in Star Wars, you needed a smidgen of physical reality.
But Harrison Ford has now become the focus of CGI's greatest downfall and perhaps the watershed for it's future. Indiana Jones and the Curse of CGI (or Indiana Jones and The Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, as it's officially known) has brought home to me that George Lucas probably hindered the original Star Wars and Indiana Jones films from being even better.
Indiana Jones 4 goes great guns for most of it. Harrison slips back into his Hat and Whip easily, Spielberg conjours up a few nice actions sequences, but then you see the parts where George Lucas turned up. You can imagine the sighs from Ford and Spielberg when he waddled onto the set. Like the rich uncle who is paying for this damn party, so you have to do what he says.
"So, you want him to swing through the trees like Tarzan for no reason?"
"Yep," says George.
"You want an car/boat to defy the laws of gravity three times even though that kind of cartoonish action has never appeared in an Indiana Jones movie before?"
"Yep," says George.
"And you want to have a ten minute, dialogue free, Indiana Jones free sequence at the climax of the film, involving a spaceship?"
"Yep," says George.
"Why?"
"Because I can," says George.
George Lucas, it seems, is the cinematic equivalent of Mariah Carey. Why sing a tune and hold a note when you can fit a hundred different notes into a few seconds and show how clever you are?
Why?
Because you can.
I'm sure David Beckham can do that thing with a ball where they flip it up and catch it on the back of their neck. But he won't be doing it the next time England need a vital goal.
I'm sure Lewis Hamilton could drive the whole of the course backwards. But he won't be doing it when it's a championship race.
I'm sure Gordon Ramsey can make a mean beans on toast. But he wont be putting it on the menu at The Savoy Grill.
So why does Mr Lucas feel the need to exercise his fancy computer and ruin my childhood memories?
Probably the same reason Mariah insists on destroying melodies; they are very rich and can do whatever they like. Reminds me of a city I know...
The Car's The Star
Cars, cars, cars.
They could be judged as the centre of the universe here. The cars are huge, blacked out, fast and in abundance.
When I first lived here, I went without a car for about 2 years. I never did anything or saw anything apart from the two major malls and the pubs. Now, with a car I can go and see both the country's' historic attractions when I want.
Driving here is an art form, despite what you may have heard. It doesn't have the chaos of India, nor the order of Germany. It doesn't have the desperation of Egypt or the cruising of America.
It has a life all of it's own. With so many nationalities on the same roads, there's bound to be problems. But, still nothing prepares you for the scourge of the tarmac - The White Land Cruiser.
There seem to be more of them than people in the country. Drive anywhere and there's always one lurking. Like some secret organisation that co-ordinate their distribution so one is always in vision. If only the UK police had a similar tactic, crime would be shrunk drastically.
But, coupled with their unmistakable image, is their familiar characteristic. That is to say that they are, by far and without any shadow of doubt, the worst drivers on Earth.
Irrational, selfish, misjudged, dangerous, unhelpful and rude.
When an accident is reported, the words "Land Cruiser" invariably follow.
Is it this particular make of car that transforms the driver into a twat? Is there some kind of device built into the drivers seat that changes the brain patterns and ability to judge a situation effectively?
Or is it the drivers themselves? There is a strong connection between the drivers. One which I will not fully identify, but one which I am sure you can fathom.
Their vehicular crimes are too many to try and list but they range from driving at full pelt in the hard shoulder to driving with almost 90 percent tint on their windows, at night. In sunglasses. On the phone.
I don't like these drivers very much.
They could be judged as the centre of the universe here. The cars are huge, blacked out, fast and in abundance.
When I first lived here, I went without a car for about 2 years. I never did anything or saw anything apart from the two major malls and the pubs. Now, with a car I can go and see both the country's' historic attractions when I want.
Driving here is an art form, despite what you may have heard. It doesn't have the chaos of India, nor the order of Germany. It doesn't have the desperation of Egypt or the cruising of America.
It has a life all of it's own. With so many nationalities on the same roads, there's bound to be problems. But, still nothing prepares you for the scourge of the tarmac - The White Land Cruiser.
There seem to be more of them than people in the country. Drive anywhere and there's always one lurking. Like some secret organisation that co-ordinate their distribution so one is always in vision. If only the UK police had a similar tactic, crime would be shrunk drastically.
But, coupled with their unmistakable image, is their familiar characteristic. That is to say that they are, by far and without any shadow of doubt, the worst drivers on Earth.
Irrational, selfish, misjudged, dangerous, unhelpful and rude.
When an accident is reported, the words "Land Cruiser" invariably follow.
Is it this particular make of car that transforms the driver into a twat? Is there some kind of device built into the drivers seat that changes the brain patterns and ability to judge a situation effectively?
Or is it the drivers themselves? There is a strong connection between the drivers. One which I will not fully identify, but one which I am sure you can fathom.
Their vehicular crimes are too many to try and list but they range from driving at full pelt in the hard shoulder to driving with almost 90 percent tint on their windows, at night. In sunglasses. On the phone.
I don't like these drivers very much.
Why, Oh Why, Oh Why....
For as long as I can remember, British TV has had a ten minute, once a week, institution. The BBC's Points Of View, was a chance for viewers to write in and have their grievances and opinions on the previous week's TV output, aired to the nation.
The letters ranged from witty to outraged. Watching it, you often wondered who these people were that felt so emotional about a TV show that they had to write to someone to tell them?
I love a bit of telly, but writing to the makers is something I would fall short of.
Is it that important that you need to chastise the BBC for showing a left breast before midnight? Or that Phil Mitchell's grunting aggression is not suitable for 7.30pm?
The fact is, in the UK, complaining is in the blood. It's in our DNA and we are very good at it. We can adapt a complaint to fit any situation, no matter how trivial.
Trawl through the letters page in any national newspaper in the UK and you will find many inches of moaning, whining and bitching on the most irrational and unimportant matters.
And I love it.
Earlier today, I was having a coffee and reading the (only decent) english language paper here in the UAE. Turning to the letters page is always an out-of-body experience for me here. Almost all the letters are positive. Glowing tributes to the government and leaders. Thank yous from grateful people who seem as though they are having the time of their life. People write to the paper merely to say they like something! No other reason. No sarcasm involved, just sickening niceness.
I suspect there is a lot of fear involved. But, this is hardly a hand-chopping country. In fact, in many ways we are more free here than most nations in the world. (I include Britain in that).
I can only suggest two possibilities: One, they somehow feel scared of criticising the government and leaders and are brown-nosing to hopefully get noticed. Two, they actually don't have anything to complain about.
Now, I ask you - what kind of human is always happy?
The letters ranged from witty to outraged. Watching it, you often wondered who these people were that felt so emotional about a TV show that they had to write to someone to tell them?
I love a bit of telly, but writing to the makers is something I would fall short of.
Is it that important that you need to chastise the BBC for showing a left breast before midnight? Or that Phil Mitchell's grunting aggression is not suitable for 7.30pm?
The fact is, in the UK, complaining is in the blood. It's in our DNA and we are very good at it. We can adapt a complaint to fit any situation, no matter how trivial.
Trawl through the letters page in any national newspaper in the UK and you will find many inches of moaning, whining and bitching on the most irrational and unimportant matters.
And I love it.
Earlier today, I was having a coffee and reading the (only decent) english language paper here in the UAE. Turning to the letters page is always an out-of-body experience for me here. Almost all the letters are positive. Glowing tributes to the government and leaders. Thank yous from grateful people who seem as though they are having the time of their life. People write to the paper merely to say they like something! No other reason. No sarcasm involved, just sickening niceness.
I suspect there is a lot of fear involved. But, this is hardly a hand-chopping country. In fact, in many ways we are more free here than most nations in the world. (I include Britain in that).
I can only suggest two possibilities: One, they somehow feel scared of criticising the government and leaders and are brown-nosing to hopefully get noticed. Two, they actually don't have anything to complain about.
Now, I ask you - what kind of human is always happy?
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Breathing In Soup
"How hot is it out there?"
It's a basic question, I know. You'd think there would be a simple answer. But, I find myself having to extend the answer so that they fully grasp my meaning of "hot."
It's hot out here. It's June and the temperature is usually in the 40's. Often nudging 50. But, that still doesnt explain it to the uninitiated. The heat here bares little relation to the heat on the Costa del Beer. There's a phrase in this part of the world that is commonly used but is never fully understood until experienced;
"It's the humidity that gets you."
It's like breathing in soup. Imagine climbing into a microwave on high. Wrapping your face in an electric blanket. There's is no escape in the shade, either. It makes little difference to the condition of your lungs. In the direct sunlight, you will burn in a matter of seconds, but that really pales into insignificance when you feel like you are currently breathing your last gasp on this planet.
I remember when I first arrived in Abu Dhabi. Fresh off the plane, through the airport terminal with its dramatic ceiling and bustling crowds. I had my passport stamped, collected my luggage and headed through customs. Wide-eyed and eager to see this land, I met the hotel employee that was there to greet me and take me to my new home. We spoke briefly about the fact that the A4 notice he had been holding aloft to identify himself to me, bore little resemblance to the actual spelling of my name.
Then we turned and headed to the glass doors, where his minivan awaited us. The glass door slid open and I took my first gasp. It was midnight. It was August. I nearly cried.
You know that scene at the beginning of Total Recall, where Arnie dreams he is suffocating on Mars after breaking the glass on his helmet?
I quickly jumped into the van, thinking that it must be a freak night in Abu Dhabi. The next morning, I decided to walk the streets, look at my new home and find some exciting places to hang out in the future.
My walk lasted around 35 seconds until I staggered through the nearest shop doorway, clutching my throat, sweat dripping from every pore and trying to work out how quickly I could get back to my room.
How can you spot a Westerner who lives in the Middle East? They are paler than normal. Going outside during the summer just aint what it's cracked up to be.
It's a basic question, I know. You'd think there would be a simple answer. But, I find myself having to extend the answer so that they fully grasp my meaning of "hot."
It's hot out here. It's June and the temperature is usually in the 40's. Often nudging 50. But, that still doesnt explain it to the uninitiated. The heat here bares little relation to the heat on the Costa del Beer. There's a phrase in this part of the world that is commonly used but is never fully understood until experienced;
"It's the humidity that gets you."
It's like breathing in soup. Imagine climbing into a microwave on high. Wrapping your face in an electric blanket. There's is no escape in the shade, either. It makes little difference to the condition of your lungs. In the direct sunlight, you will burn in a matter of seconds, but that really pales into insignificance when you feel like you are currently breathing your last gasp on this planet.
I remember when I first arrived in Abu Dhabi. Fresh off the plane, through the airport terminal with its dramatic ceiling and bustling crowds. I had my passport stamped, collected my luggage and headed through customs. Wide-eyed and eager to see this land, I met the hotel employee that was there to greet me and take me to my new home. We spoke briefly about the fact that the A4 notice he had been holding aloft to identify himself to me, bore little resemblance to the actual spelling of my name.
Then we turned and headed to the glass doors, where his minivan awaited us. The glass door slid open and I took my first gasp. It was midnight. It was August. I nearly cried.
You know that scene at the beginning of Total Recall, where Arnie dreams he is suffocating on Mars after breaking the glass on his helmet?
I quickly jumped into the van, thinking that it must be a freak night in Abu Dhabi. The next morning, I decided to walk the streets, look at my new home and find some exciting places to hang out in the future.
My walk lasted around 35 seconds until I staggered through the nearest shop doorway, clutching my throat, sweat dripping from every pore and trying to work out how quickly I could get back to my room.
How can you spot a Westerner who lives in the Middle East? They are paler than normal. Going outside during the summer just aint what it's cracked up to be.
Number One
Does the first post have to be amusing and deep? Does it have to encompass everything about my mind and soul to attract a loyal following of likeminded readers? Or should it merely be used to "see if this thing works"?
"Why Blog?"
That would be the natural question I would be asking me, if I hadn't already. The answer is two-fold. One, because I live in a thriving, cosmopolitan, rich, diverse and complicated city in the middle of the most unsettled and confused area of the planet. Two, because my mate does it.
The blogs shouldn't follow any coherent pattern, nor should they always strive to be insightful and deep. The blogs should be random thoughts and observations. Many will be gripes, as the authors' personality will shine through. Maybe some of the blogs will be useful to those considering uprooting themselves to this part of the world.
Perhaps, and this is the most likely, I will be read by no-one and this will merely serve as a free outlet for my thoughts and musings.
Oh, and one more thing. What does Blog mean?
"Why Blog?"
That would be the natural question I would be asking me, if I hadn't already. The answer is two-fold. One, because I live in a thriving, cosmopolitan, rich, diverse and complicated city in the middle of the most unsettled and confused area of the planet. Two, because my mate does it.
The blogs shouldn't follow any coherent pattern, nor should they always strive to be insightful and deep. The blogs should be random thoughts and observations. Many will be gripes, as the authors' personality will shine through. Maybe some of the blogs will be useful to those considering uprooting themselves to this part of the world.
Perhaps, and this is the most likely, I will be read by no-one and this will merely serve as a free outlet for my thoughts and musings.
Oh, and one more thing. What does Blog mean?
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