How to make male virility potion out of a cobra in Kota

To avoid Om’bak becoming something of a feminist coven, I thought we should even out the discussion on sexuality and have a post on the boys.

Well, actually that’s not entirely fair. I suppose I know a few males who would hesitate to associate their sexuality with the practice of drinking snake blood. Whateva. I wanna show you the photos already. From a medicinal warung in Kota, North Jakarta.

Don’t look at this if you’ve got a weak stomach, are particularly sensitive or likely to get ideas.

 See slideshow here. Don’t forget to click ‘show info’ to see the captions.

Check these places out if you have time

I haven’t been able to allocate a time to think and write something that’s a little bit insightful that will be worth your time to read.

But in the last 2-weeks, I have gone to some pretty cool places.

In Random order:

An acute allergy to intimacy

"One's company, two's a crowd and three's a party." - Andy Warhol

This below entry was written 2 weeks ago under the influence of blood-surging anxiety. I am in a calmer state at the moment and I re-read my writing and realized what a neurotic psycho-bitch I am (like I didn’t know pssshft). But for your (and my) amusement, I will still post my 2-week-old ramblings as a reminder of my neurotic psycho-bitch tendencies. Here goes. You might want to take a bathroom break first; this’ll be a while.

Ol’ Dry Town Jakarta

Working at a newspaper, I’ve had to come up with a number of different terms for the “global financial crisis”, and I imagine I’ll have to keep doing so for some time.

But when I’m not at work, there is another crisis affecting my life: the booze crisis.

Strange Stranger Magnet

Conversation with a taxi driver # One hundred and something.

Taxi driver: I am a Mick Jagger specialis

Me: Apa?

TD: ANGIE! ANGIIIIIIE! Wit no lovin’ in our boats, and no money in our souls, you cannnnt say you satisfiiieeeed!

Me: Woohoo! Yeah Pak! Ayo!

TD: Apa lagi?

Me: Errr…

(TD’s handphone rings to dance music tune . Has detailed conversation in Indonesian “yah, dia orang Australi. Yah, sebentar, ya.” Passes the phone to me).

Me: Halo?

Voice on phone: Giggles

Me: Halo! Nama saya Belinda!

TD grabs the phone off me. “Ya! Dia Orang Australi! Betul!”

TD: That my wife, my istri, missus.

Me: Oh ya?

TD: Yah. She hypersex.

The slaughterhouse 12

Kids

Goats started to line the streets in the week leading up to Idul Adha. Tied on short leads to fence posts, and feeble.

The smell of manure mingled with the stench of the city in the heat of the day, as the goats breathed in the spluttered smoke of bajaj, kopajas and other fuel-inefficient vehicles.

The goats disappeared this morning.

Orwell, the original blogger

I have loved George Orwell since my mother handed me a musty-smelling copy of “Animal Farm”, at age 10, and I read what I then thought was a farmyard fairytale about mean pigs.

“1984″ was responsible for a good portion of my nightmares during the year I turned 14, and my general approach to politics from then on.

It wasn’t until my early 20s I discovered, via a former love, Orwell’s “As I Please” opinion pieces originally published in the Tribune newspaper in the early 1940s. The flame fizzled with the boyfriend but George and I were still ooooooon.

Just this year, things got a little stalker-ish. I chanced upon a copy of a biography of Orwell’s — and I began to worry about the delight I gained from reading Orwell’s — who in real life always went by his real name, Eric Arthur Blair — personal diaries in the book. His journals are full of daily entries like “two eggs” (describing the number his chickens had laid for the day, and further evidence that exciting writers often have boring, placid lives). I thought I was the only sad nerd who’d dig this kind of stuff- until I found this — Eric’s diaries, now in blog form.