Rituals, Ruffs And Ravings
Against the dying of the light
Despite my warnings and sage advice to the contrary, my #2 son is getting married next week. The lovely bride is from a good Chinese-Catholic family, and my son is terrified that I will not conform to social conventions, thus causing him great consternation and, deities forbid, public humiliation.
In order to demonstrate my commitment to being the last thing he needs to worry about, I have denied my basic instincts and defiled every principle I have left to placate him.
I have agreed to wear a real suit (no boots, hat, or bolo tie with hunk of turquoise) and to act somewhat civilized, even conforming to the Roman rituals without engaging the priest in a theological argument about Augustine of Hippo and Thomas Aquinas.
I swore on my beloved Dachshund’s grave that I would behave, though I suspect I will require reconstructive surgery on my tongue in the coming month.
What’s worse than all of the above, I have gone shopping. At a mall no less.
Imagine living in a world where you are fully 50cm taller than the average guy, not to mention having ample old-man girth and a torso that is extended even by my native standards. I am full-blooded Neanderthal, in other words. To say that prêt-à-porter is not an option is a bit like saying you can have any color you want, as long as it’s black.
There are many other issues, such as my ape-like arm length, my penchant for French cuffs, the fact that I like a slight break on the leg pleat, and a craving for shirts with longer tails that don’t come untucked when I sit. There’s also the delicate matter of Asian men being a bit less “filling” in the region of the pelvic confluence, an issue that has been both a blessing and a curse in these parts.
Dropping into male shopping mode, I launched a browser and found a highly rated tailor at a nearby mall. I noted the shop’s location so we could make a beeline for it and avoid wandering aimlessly through the faux marble caverns, which I despise with every fiber of my being.
The shop was tucked well to the rear of the mall, not far from the parking garage entrance, and away from the madding non-existent crowds. I sighed with relief, knowing I could dash in and dash out with minimal environmental contact.
When we entered the shop, I noticed immediately the proprietor writing with his left hand. I knew at once I had found the exact right place.
It was a tiny place, maybe 25 square meters. The walls were stacked floor to ceiling with bolts of fabric of every conceivable material, pattern and color. The effect was like looking at a Pantone color chart. What little floor space remained was crammed with fitting mannequins, a smattering of Asian-sized squat stools, the proprietor behind a make-shift counter with a pencil stuck behind his (left) ear, and a small bald man who looked remarkably like Ben Kingsley playing Gandhi, who had a tape measure looped around his neck and a very meticulous even fussy air about him that contrasted his somewhat dishevelled appearance.
Before I could get a word out, Mrs. FarSide launched into a torrent of descriptions, covering what I needed the suit for, why I couldn’t just buy it at the department store, how I had found the shop, and could we get our purchase at or near cost (Indonesians will negotiate anything).
What ensued was a whirlwind of fabrics, colors and materials with me standing in the eye of the storm. I carefully surveyed the piles, feeling each one, appreciating the textures and lighting effects, as well as the depth and saturation of color. It seemed that every one I touched was “one of our finest” or “one of our best,” or “one of our most popular”. The latter is usually the best way to not sell something to me.
When I had settled on a fine wool blend, and a nice white cotton broadcloth for the shirt, Mrs. FarSide came into her own. Suddenly, there was a cat fight of papers and pencils and sob stories, and hemming and hawing, finally settling on $300 for the lot. The scene was right out of Douglas Adams’ Bistro-Math propulsion system.
When I had agreed to the price, Gandhi went into action. The tape measure whipped off and he began measuring parts of my body only my wife had touched in many years, in fact since the last time I had purchased a bespoke suit and shirt, which would put it sometime in the mid-1980s.
As we were settling the tab, Mrs. FarSide looked at me and said those most dreaded words in all of maledom, “You need shoes, too.” With luck, or probably not, the proprietor overheard and said we should go down to a particular shop in the bowels of the mall. Mention his name and they will “take care” of us. This, of course, is the secret code for go see my cousin Vinny and my name will get you past all the haggling and down to the deal much faster.
By the Grace of God and All That Is Holy, I found the perfect shoe almost instantly, and remarkably they had it in my not-so-common size of 46. It was almost as if someone had called ahead. The entire experience was nearly painless and easily handled by a couple of Advil, until…
Until Mrs. FarSide wanted to browse for a “few other things”. At this point, I checked out and said i would wait at the car. I was beginning to have an allergic reaction to the environment and I had to escape soon or suffer some kind of shock or another.
To make a long story that much longer, I am now the proud owner of a bespoke suit that fits perfectly in all the places it should, and drapes artistically where such things are aesthetically pleasing. It has just the right lustre to draw the eye, without being ostentatious or gaudy.
What’s more, I can now message the proprietor with my specifications and have a perfectly fitted shirt delivered in a week. No more hazmat suits and trips to life-threatening environments. Hallelujah!
I immediately sent scans of all the receipts to #2 son, with the admonition to care for me in my feeble years, for having gone through so much pain and suffering on his behalf. I also mentioned that I would be attending grace school to ensure that I sashayed up the aisle just right, and renewing my baptismal vows at the Jakarta cathedral.
I did notice something unusual during my travails. Jakarta is a city built of malls. Instead of a formal “downtown,” there are instead mini-cities of office towers and apartment buildings surrounding a central mall. One can practically cross the city without ever leaving a mall.
Before the Black Death, they were horrific experiences. If you weren’t careful, your feet would never touch the floor and you’d be carried hither and yon entirely against your will. If I timed it right, I could drop into the scattered empty spaces between the mobs and enjoy a modicum of serenity.
Now, however, the malls are empty. I counted more employees than shoppers. The A/C was turned down from the former Blue Norther to just Wine Cellar. The sales staff milled about at the shop entrances, looking bored and dejected, only coming to life if a customer appeared to be heading their way.
The old American Grill, on whose legendary cheap salad bar I subsisted for several years, was gone…boarded up. Even the Sizzler next door was a hollow space haunted by ghosts of economies past. The only ice skating rink in the entire city, once wall-to-wall with Indonesians trying to stay upright on ice, had a single skater, rehearsing for Cool Runnings 2, no doubt.
This scene can be found throughout the city — evenings, weekends, holidays. The trouble and expense of going to the mall has lost its sheen. Folks can get most of it delivered (cheaper), or they prefer to spend their shrinking disposable incomes elsewhere — perhaps at the neighborhood kaki lima (food carts) buying a $1 bowl of meatball soup and some noodles.
The city’s epic traffic jams have not abated, though it is more confined to rush hours, and no longer just an eternal and ubiquitous phenomenon. Vacation plans include less international travel, and focus more on staycations at one of the city’s thousands of empty hotels offering desperate weekend get-away packages.
Part of the ghosting is due to the outgoing administration’s nationalistic bent and insane excise taxes (more than 100% on some items), and part is due to their mindless capitulation to a global emergency that didn’t exist, and for which not one politician has apologized, even as folks are still dropping dead from mandated Frankenvaxxx. The currency has gone from 8,000 rupiah to the US dollar, to 16,000-to-1.
The endemic corruption at every level, and the byzantine and dysfunctional regulatory and judicial environment have chased away all but the bravest foreign investment. There’s even a ban on new hotels in Bali, due to a glut of unused capacity.
Don’t even get me started on the utterly insane “green” initiatives.
It’s a sad state of affairs, the blame for which can be laid entirely at the feet of government malfeasance at the behest of corporate overlords.
It’s time to stuff those anti-human genies back in their bottles, and seal them for all eternity.
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Keeping it light and on topic, today’s suggested flick is My Big Fat Greek Wedding (2002). I’m not big on romcoms, but this one is hysterical, and plays up the clash of cultures and the fun of blending oil and water. It is written by and stars Nia Vardalos, and it has a real sense of being genuine and coming from experience. Well worth a view.
Hunting for hazmats on the Far Side:
E-book: Paper Golem: Corporate Personhood & the Legal Fiction
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Delightful reading. Thank you.
Fantastic article Mr. Farside. Made me laugh.
I remember many years ago stopping by Jakarta on the way home from working a project in Kalimantan. An Indonesian colleague based in Jakarta persuaded me to stop over for three days, and he'd show me around. When I got there, he'd scarpered, leaving me without a tour-guide. I did do a little sight-seeing on my own the first day, then hid in my hotel room (just around the corner from Jalan Jaksa) for the next two until my flight out was due. OK, I do admit I am not the adventurous type, but the place felt plain dangerous to me.