I think most people would get more out of life if they practiced forced deprivation.
I realised this upon getting the windows cleaned and marvelling at how beautiful the view of Lion’s Head was from our front room. This wasn’t the ‘forced deprivation’ I’m talking about; the dirty windows didn’t get that way because I was attempting some meditation-free Zen Enlightenment – but coz I’m just fucking lazy.
It also didn’t help that we live three stories up, and the risk to life and limb didn’t seem worth it. Funnily enough, though, I didn’t mind paying someone to place their health on the line to climb out there and do the job.
The point is that this small improvement has brought a lot of enjoyment and – I hesitate to say, but here goes – inspiration.
We’ve all been fed this idea that it’s the rags-to-riches story that has the happy ending. More likely it’s the riches-to-rags one that will end in you finding more beauty in life – when you learn to appreciate the small stuff.
But is the only way to appreciate life through deprivation? Maybe.
It’s a fact that the more you have, the more you take for granted. This is sometimes also true when it comes to relationship dynamics. An odd proverb that is scarily accurate is: Never do your best, or people will expect that from you all the time.
There are few in life that will appreciate your thoughtful acts if these actions are constant. It’s strange that no matter how good the ‘status quo’ is, it’s still just becomes an everyday existence.
But I don’t think it’s wise to become a mean shit so anything nice you do for someone else seems outstanding. Helping your friends when they need it and bringing the one you love brekkie in bed should be a given.
The word ‘unconditional’ should be struck from our vocabularies. All relationships are reciprocal. This is not immoral (or amoral) or self-satisfying; it is the only way to know whether others appreciate your kindnesses.
Those you help should return the favour when it is you who needs help. The people you make feel special should strive to show you how special you are to them. It’s the way it should work… it’s the only way it does work and not eventually inspire bitterness and resentment.
So the trick is not to deprive loved ones of our care, but to change our perception of all good acts needing to be unconditional.
And maybe the trick is not to deprive ourselves of things that bring us joy and inspiration, but to stop saturating ourselves in experiences that bring us fleeting happiness.
Your Favourite Band Sucks!
Along with politics and religion, music is one of those things that one shouldn’t be discussed around the dinner table. Nothing gets people more worked up than telling them their favourite band sucks.
The same way a Testament-thumper will want to drive a stake through your heart if you believe in Evolution, a Rammstein fan will tell you you haven’t lived until Till Lindeman has come all over your face.
In my book, though, there’s not much difference between the screaming tweens chasing after Justin Bieber and the testicle-pierced sulkers worshipping OTT bands like Rammstein; because in both cases, it’s not really about the music.
Bieber fans think he’s sooooo key-oot and adorable, whereas Rammsteiners feel solidarity in hate against society and anything fluffy. And as much as JB’s music is contrived and commercial, Rammstein’s is noisy and soulless.
But then who am I to judge? I actually own a Taylor Swift album, regard meeting the drummer of Iron Maiden as one of my life’s great ‘achievements’, and think Matchbox Twenty is one of the bestest bands, like, ever!
The same way I enjoy a McDonald’s burger but know it’s not stellar cuisine, I sometimes enjoy kak music even though I know it’s not good.
Dissing the music someone likes is an affront on their ‘coolness’ – and nothing is more sacred. That’s why so many people still smoke cigarettes; anyone who tells you they suck on a camel for ‘the taste’ is full of it, smoking is just so damn cool!
Forget the adage ‘sex sells’, there is no currency stronger than ‘cool’.
I think we all unconsciously doubt our musical tastes, and look to people we think are cool to tell us what to listen to. That’s why almost every Facebook status update in Cape Town last week was either someone bragging about going to the U2 concert, or lamenting the fact that they couldn’t be there.
You can’t not like U2 and still be socially adept, and even though there is some stock in the belief that going against the grain holds an element of coolness, with this band it just doesn’t work.
The thing is, aside from U2, nothing is guaranteed eternal cool status. Looking back, styling my hair like Vanilla Ice and wearing my clothes backwards because of the kids from Kriss Kross was a bad idea and proof that music more often than not inspires idiocy.
And what is music, really, but the soundtrack to our life? Songs remind us of past girlfriends and heartache, inspire us, make us feel strong or weak or sometimes both at the same time.
Nostalgia is an old shoebox of dusty mix tapes, that's all.
The same way a Testament-thumper will want to drive a stake through your heart if you believe in Evolution, a Rammstein fan will tell you you haven’t lived until Till Lindeman has come all over your face.
In my book, though, there’s not much difference between the screaming tweens chasing after Justin Bieber and the testicle-pierced sulkers worshipping OTT bands like Rammstein; because in both cases, it’s not really about the music.
Bieber fans think he’s sooooo key-oot and adorable, whereas Rammsteiners feel solidarity in hate against society and anything fluffy. And as much as JB’s music is contrived and commercial, Rammstein’s is noisy and soulless.
But then who am I to judge? I actually own a Taylor Swift album, regard meeting the drummer of Iron Maiden as one of my life’s great ‘achievements’, and think Matchbox Twenty is one of the bestest bands, like, ever!
The same way I enjoy a McDonald’s burger but know it’s not stellar cuisine, I sometimes enjoy kak music even though I know it’s not good.
Dissing the music someone likes is an affront on their ‘coolness’ – and nothing is more sacred. That’s why so many people still smoke cigarettes; anyone who tells you they suck on a camel for ‘the taste’ is full of it, smoking is just so damn cool!
Forget the adage ‘sex sells’, there is no currency stronger than ‘cool’.
I think we all unconsciously doubt our musical tastes, and look to people we think are cool to tell us what to listen to. That’s why almost every Facebook status update in Cape Town last week was either someone bragging about going to the U2 concert, or lamenting the fact that they couldn’t be there.
You can’t not like U2 and still be socially adept, and even though there is some stock in the belief that going against the grain holds an element of coolness, with this band it just doesn’t work.
The thing is, aside from U2, nothing is guaranteed eternal cool status. Looking back, styling my hair like Vanilla Ice and wearing my clothes backwards because of the kids from Kriss Kross was a bad idea and proof that music more often than not inspires idiocy.
And what is music, really, but the soundtrack to our life? Songs remind us of past girlfriends and heartache, inspire us, make us feel strong or weak or sometimes both at the same time.
Nostalgia is an old shoebox of dusty mix tapes, that's all.
Patch Adams for my Prostate Check
Every Monday Zula Bar in Long Street has an open mic comedy show. It’s great because it gives aspiring comedians the opportunity to test their jokes on non-family members and suffer the realities of a pissed, often abusive audience.
Sometimes though, it’s a bit like getting your prostate checked. Not because, when an unfunny guy tanks and you’ve paid thirty bucks at the door, you feel like you’ve been fucked with a fat finger, but because when a nervous twenty-something fails to inspire even a titter, it churns an awkward discomfort in your gut.
It’s an embarrassing feeling – like walking out of a public toilet and realising there’s a tiny wet circle on the front of your shorts – and even though it’s not you up there dodging insults and beer bottles, that hole opens up in the pit of your stomach and you wish you could stuff yourself into it and disappear.
You can blame nerves or stage fright for things like this, but the real culprits are the creators of the TV show Friends.
Because Friends had a cast of characters that we could all relate to on some level, and because witty one-liners were fired fast, we all wanted to be like them.
Art imitated life, and improved on it to such an extent that we strived in our lives to imitate what could loosely be called art. And even though Friends is long gone, we still constantly and unconsciously grasp for snappy comebacks.
It’s as though we suddenly only had three options: Joey, Ross or Chandler for boys, and Rachel, Monica or Phoebe for girls. What we didn’t realise was that, in reality, the parts of them we wanted were all the same.
I wonder if our grandparents’ generation suffered something like this; or if people were just funny or not, and didn’t try to be what they weren’t. Without an oversaturation of sitcoms, I suspect they just made do with whatever personality their parents’ genes gave them.
A mate of mine has a quick acid test to tell if you’re hilarious or hopeless. He reckons that if you have to tell other people’s jokes to be funny, you’re not. Maybe if more people reflected on this we wouldn’t have to excuse ourselves to the balcony to avoid getting caught up in a lynching.
Lynchings are common on a Monday night at Zula. The crowd ruthlessly separates the Weet-Bix from the Cornflakes; recognises the comedy of substance and heckles the recycled, stolen jokes.
The regulars take their laughs seriously.
Reality TV has shown us that for anything to have worth, it must be documented on the goggle-box. So after packing in the beers and a couple puffs of spliff, one leaves vowing to write the SABC and demand a Pop Idols-style comedy show.
The idea inebriatedly snowballs down a mental hill: the judges could be the comedic pioneers of our South African age – Marc Lottering, Kurt Schoonrad, and Julius Malema; the money from the phone-in votes could be used to teach jokes to township children; the winner could bring out a Christmas DVD and star in the next Nandos advert; we’d call it Joke Idol and soon it would be syndicated and imitated worldwide!
But the next morning, with an alcoholic’s headache and a stoner’s hangover, you realise that watching lame stand-up isn’t as entertaining as witnessing an atrocious singer’s comeuppance. Your once globe-rocking idea is discarded on the same pile as laminated books for the bath, and ironing board covers with Jacob Zuma’s face on them.
You slouch back a week later to Zula Comedy Night with a pocketful of soft tomatoes, hoping for a rare gem in amongst the mud and donkey shit, wondering if this world has a place for the deluded comic.
Surely their bravery should be rewarded somehow, so they can move on with their head held high to something they’re good at?
Sometimes though, it’s a bit like getting your prostate checked. Not because, when an unfunny guy tanks and you’ve paid thirty bucks at the door, you feel like you’ve been fucked with a fat finger, but because when a nervous twenty-something fails to inspire even a titter, it churns an awkward discomfort in your gut.
It’s an embarrassing feeling – like walking out of a public toilet and realising there’s a tiny wet circle on the front of your shorts – and even though it’s not you up there dodging insults and beer bottles, that hole opens up in the pit of your stomach and you wish you could stuff yourself into it and disappear.
You can blame nerves or stage fright for things like this, but the real culprits are the creators of the TV show Friends.
Because Friends had a cast of characters that we could all relate to on some level, and because witty one-liners were fired fast, we all wanted to be like them.
Art imitated life, and improved on it to such an extent that we strived in our lives to imitate what could loosely be called art. And even though Friends is long gone, we still constantly and unconsciously grasp for snappy comebacks.
It’s as though we suddenly only had three options: Joey, Ross or Chandler for boys, and Rachel, Monica or Phoebe for girls. What we didn’t realise was that, in reality, the parts of them we wanted were all the same.
I wonder if our grandparents’ generation suffered something like this; or if people were just funny or not, and didn’t try to be what they weren’t. Without an oversaturation of sitcoms, I suspect they just made do with whatever personality their parents’ genes gave them.
A mate of mine has a quick acid test to tell if you’re hilarious or hopeless. He reckons that if you have to tell other people’s jokes to be funny, you’re not. Maybe if more people reflected on this we wouldn’t have to excuse ourselves to the balcony to avoid getting caught up in a lynching.
Lynchings are common on a Monday night at Zula. The crowd ruthlessly separates the Weet-Bix from the Cornflakes; recognises the comedy of substance and heckles the recycled, stolen jokes.
The regulars take their laughs seriously.
Reality TV has shown us that for anything to have worth, it must be documented on the goggle-box. So after packing in the beers and a couple puffs of spliff, one leaves vowing to write the SABC and demand a Pop Idols-style comedy show.
The idea inebriatedly snowballs down a mental hill: the judges could be the comedic pioneers of our South African age – Marc Lottering, Kurt Schoonrad, and Julius Malema; the money from the phone-in votes could be used to teach jokes to township children; the winner could bring out a Christmas DVD and star in the next Nandos advert; we’d call it Joke Idol and soon it would be syndicated and imitated worldwide!
But the next morning, with an alcoholic’s headache and a stoner’s hangover, you realise that watching lame stand-up isn’t as entertaining as witnessing an atrocious singer’s comeuppance. Your once globe-rocking idea is discarded on the same pile as laminated books for the bath, and ironing board covers with Jacob Zuma’s face on them.
You slouch back a week later to Zula Comedy Night with a pocketful of soft tomatoes, hoping for a rare gem in amongst the mud and donkey shit, wondering if this world has a place for the deluded comic.
Surely their bravery should be rewarded somehow, so they can move on with their head held high to something they’re good at?
Popular on Facebook
In Real Life I probably have around six or seven friends. Maybe one or two of these guys I see on a regular basis, the rest maybe a few times a year, and it often seems like an Herculean feat to get all of us in the same bar for a boys’ night.
Mark Zuckerberg, founder of Facebook and Time magazine’s Person of the Year 2010, has over three million friends on the social network he co-created with some other guy whose name we can’t remember.
But if you believe the movie he had only one Real Life mate.
In the early stages of my Facebook existence I suffered from ‘friend envy’. Looking at the measly 20 in brackets, I spent hours trawling through other people’s friends lists, frantically searching for anyone I might’ve bumped into at a braai and said more than two words to.
Even guys from school I hadn’t seen in ten years – and didn’t like much then – cracked the virtual nod. And when they accepted, there was never much more than a “how u doing?” and that was it.
Oxford University professor of Evolutionary Anthropology, Robin Dunbar, from his study of social groupings throughout the ages – from cavemen around a fire to desk-jockeys around the water cooler – reckons that our neocortex (the bit of the brain that handles conscious thought and language) can only cope with 150 friends.
Sez he: “The interesting thing is that you can have 1,500 friends [on Facebook], but when you actually look at traffic on sites you see people maintain the same inner circle of around 150 people that we observe in the real world.”
That’s a stretch as far as I’m concerned, and an obscure blurring of the definitions of ‘friend’ and ‘associate’.
So who should we request to be our mate on FB? Those we see on a regular basis? A bit pointless when you think about it. The most you should type would be: Let’s get out of the house/office and meet for a beer.
Or maybe it’s people we like that have flown across the sea for a better life in greener-grass country? Makes sense; easier than a postcard and more fun than email. Nice in theory, but not like we’re going to check up and message them every day.
And only a couple of status updates and pics to peruse – boring!
But there are those who swear blind they are so popular they’ve got two thousand close confidantes – those hippies and addicts munching mushrooms at trance parties – and they care about every one of them.
Jimmy Kimmel, host of Jimmy Kimmel Live! on ABC, has a good way of separating true friends from people who’re just using you to boost their stats: "Let's say on Friday, post a status update that says, 'I'm moving this weekend and I need help.' The people who respond, those are your friends. Everyone else isn't."
I don’t think I’m brave enough for that.
Mark Zuckerberg, founder of Facebook and Time magazine’s Person of the Year 2010, has over three million friends on the social network he co-created with some other guy whose name we can’t remember.
But if you believe the movie he had only one Real Life mate.
In the early stages of my Facebook existence I suffered from ‘friend envy’. Looking at the measly 20 in brackets, I spent hours trawling through other people’s friends lists, frantically searching for anyone I might’ve bumped into at a braai and said more than two words to.
Even guys from school I hadn’t seen in ten years – and didn’t like much then – cracked the virtual nod. And when they accepted, there was never much more than a “how u doing?” and that was it.
Oxford University professor of Evolutionary Anthropology, Robin Dunbar, from his study of social groupings throughout the ages – from cavemen around a fire to desk-jockeys around the water cooler – reckons that our neocortex (the bit of the brain that handles conscious thought and language) can only cope with 150 friends.
Sez he: “The interesting thing is that you can have 1,500 friends [on Facebook], but when you actually look at traffic on sites you see people maintain the same inner circle of around 150 people that we observe in the real world.”
That’s a stretch as far as I’m concerned, and an obscure blurring of the definitions of ‘friend’ and ‘associate’.
So who should we request to be our mate on FB? Those we see on a regular basis? A bit pointless when you think about it. The most you should type would be: Let’s get out of the house/office and meet for a beer.
Or maybe it’s people we like that have flown across the sea for a better life in greener-grass country? Makes sense; easier than a postcard and more fun than email. Nice in theory, but not like we’re going to check up and message them every day.
And only a couple of status updates and pics to peruse – boring!
But there are those who swear blind they are so popular they’ve got two thousand close confidantes – those hippies and addicts munching mushrooms at trance parties – and they care about every one of them.
Jimmy Kimmel, host of Jimmy Kimmel Live! on ABC, has a good way of separating true friends from people who’re just using you to boost their stats: "Let's say on Friday, post a status update that says, 'I'm moving this weekend and I need help.' The people who respond, those are your friends. Everyone else isn't."
I don’t think I’m brave enough for that.
Does this Zimmer Frame come with Cup Holders?
Mike Gayle writes in his novel Turning Thirty that hitting your thirties means never going down the pub unless you know there’s somewhere to sit.
It’s the decade when you begin to rethink your ideas about Clint Eastwood being the icon to emulate, and start to browse the section in Clicks with male moisturiser and L’Oreal eye-wrinkle cream. You tell yourself the receding hair at your temples isn’t that bad, and hang on to the hope in that Nicolas Cage is still cool in spite of it.
Men drew the long end of the stick in this regard. We are often told that we get better looking or at least appear more distinguished as we get older. I can only thank the patriarchal, sexist Illuminati for organising this facet of our social psyche.
The thirties aren’t all bad, and I guess it’s got a lot to do with perspective.
Gone is the immature insecurity of one’s twenties. We’ve learned enough about the opposite sex to stop being such bumbling retards in their presence, replaced feigned confidence with acceptance or actual aplomb, and know enough about life to understand that wisdom is not measured by our successes but by the number of mistakes we’ve made.
You stop arguing with your parents about what you should be doing with your life, and realise that the only thing you should be doing is something that brings you some sense of purpose. As you edge closer to middle-age and eventually death, the fact that money and status are ridiculous endeavours is knowledge secreted from your soul.
But it’s not all shits and giggles. You start to make ‘that noise’ when you bend down to pick something off the floor, and it often takes more than one try to get off the couch. The years of beer culminate around your protesting belly, and the comfort of Crocs causes one to reconsider their trendiness.
Also, in the early stages of thirtyhood, a crushing despair of “what have I done with my life?” can set in.
All others fears are put on the back burner, and the terror of growing old alone starts to scratch at the door. It is the age when men discard the idea of being a player and strive to settle down.
As you hack your way through the years like a lost explorer in a confounding, ever-changing jungle, the direction of your life more often than not changes. This is scary and many will urge you to stay on course.
This biting, clawing feeling can be early onset mid-life crisis, or a reaction to a spiritual emptiness one might feel upon the realisation that so much of what they thought they knew turned out to be bollocks.
So just when you’ve thrown out so many childish insecurities, a set of nicely wrapped new ones is opened.
… now where’d I put that facial scrub.
It’s the decade when you begin to rethink your ideas about Clint Eastwood being the icon to emulate, and start to browse the section in Clicks with male moisturiser and L’Oreal eye-wrinkle cream. You tell yourself the receding hair at your temples isn’t that bad, and hang on to the hope in that Nicolas Cage is still cool in spite of it.
Men drew the long end of the stick in this regard. We are often told that we get better looking or at least appear more distinguished as we get older. I can only thank the patriarchal, sexist Illuminati for organising this facet of our social psyche.
The thirties aren’t all bad, and I guess it’s got a lot to do with perspective.
Gone is the immature insecurity of one’s twenties. We’ve learned enough about the opposite sex to stop being such bumbling retards in their presence, replaced feigned confidence with acceptance or actual aplomb, and know enough about life to understand that wisdom is not measured by our successes but by the number of mistakes we’ve made.
You stop arguing with your parents about what you should be doing with your life, and realise that the only thing you should be doing is something that brings you some sense of purpose. As you edge closer to middle-age and eventually death, the fact that money and status are ridiculous endeavours is knowledge secreted from your soul.
But it’s not all shits and giggles. You start to make ‘that noise’ when you bend down to pick something off the floor, and it often takes more than one try to get off the couch. The years of beer culminate around your protesting belly, and the comfort of Crocs causes one to reconsider their trendiness.
Also, in the early stages of thirtyhood, a crushing despair of “what have I done with my life?” can set in.
All others fears are put on the back burner, and the terror of growing old alone starts to scratch at the door. It is the age when men discard the idea of being a player and strive to settle down.
As you hack your way through the years like a lost explorer in a confounding, ever-changing jungle, the direction of your life more often than not changes. This is scary and many will urge you to stay on course.
This biting, clawing feeling can be early onset mid-life crisis, or a reaction to a spiritual emptiness one might feel upon the realisation that so much of what they thought they knew turned out to be bollocks.
So just when you’ve thrown out so many childish insecurities, a set of nicely wrapped new ones is opened.
… now where’d I put that facial scrub.
Cardboard Cliches for an Insignificant Other
Two weeks ago he sighed in relief and settled snuggly in my back pocket. Some of his crinkly friends were back, and he gladly evicted the till slips, ATM receipts and McDonald’s napkins scribbled with story ideas to make room for them.
And slowly they marched in; an elephant, a couple of buffalo, even a lion found its way inside. He longed for a cheetah, but knew it was dangerous to get one’s hopes up.
But he was happy, and foolishly he settled into a false sense of security.
Then, on an uneventful afternoon, not silently sneaking but with a kind of brazen disregard for all he holds dear, the poachers came once more.
Not so long ago it was Father Christmas. Slashing and dragging the animals out; his red suit splattered with darker spots of crimson that dripped onto his black boots. The jolly fat man killed his poor friends with a ho-ho-ho, and as my old friend gazed deep into their glazed eyes he knew he could do nothing but fold himself back over and question the Universe.
And now, just when things were looking up, another man has come once more to complete this eternal cycle of suffering. He calls himself a saint, and a childlike cherub wielding a crossbow travels with him. They smile through razor teeth and begin their annual slaughter.
He tries to stop the mayhem. Screaming up at me with his black leathery lips he implores, “Stop them! It’s a trick. A ploy. Don’t let them take my friends away.”
I remember how good he’s been to me – carrying my silver and bronze, protecting the dangerous plastic cards that travel through time to retrieve money I haven’t earned yet. I pause for a moment, just to hear what he has to say:
Forget the grumbles about it being a commercial, money-making gimmick, Valentine’s Day is a day contrived to let men without a romantic bone in their bodies off the hook.
Their significant others go an entire year without flowers, chocolates, candlelit dinners or picnics in the sunshine. They are never served sausages and hashbrowns in bed, let alone taken on a sunset cruise with champagne and hors d’oeuvers.
But on Valentine’s Day it all changes. Not because society expects it and wrestles their will into submission, but because these men know that if they perform even the most menial of romantic gestures on this day, all their past unromantic actions will be ignored.
Their only penance for this inconsiderate, insensitive behaviour is a bit of extra dosh on the daisies and maybe the hassle of having to make a restaurant reservation in advance. They slouch off to the CNA and pick from a plethora of recycled sentiments, neatly packaged in plasticky paper.
The Valentine’s Day Big Spender, for the next 364 days, will be the man who insists on Saw 3D over Shakespeare in Love, chooses beers with his mates over cuddles on the couch, and – the most unforgiveable of relationship sins – leaves the toilet seat up.
But this is not all the Y chromosome’s fault. Women are just as much to blame for allowing men to become so pathetically apathetic. If they insisted on something more from the boorish oafs they spent all their time getting dolled up for, things might be different.
On bended knees my wallet begs me to be more than one of these men; to make a stand against society and, in a grand statement, turn every other day into one of thoughtfulness and surprise.
“Make romance the rule, not the exception,” my wallet rails, “and I won’t mind sacrificing my furry friends for the Greater Good.”
And slowly they marched in; an elephant, a couple of buffalo, even a lion found its way inside. He longed for a cheetah, but knew it was dangerous to get one’s hopes up.
But he was happy, and foolishly he settled into a false sense of security.
Then, on an uneventful afternoon, not silently sneaking but with a kind of brazen disregard for all he holds dear, the poachers came once more.
Not so long ago it was Father Christmas. Slashing and dragging the animals out; his red suit splattered with darker spots of crimson that dripped onto his black boots. The jolly fat man killed his poor friends with a ho-ho-ho, and as my old friend gazed deep into their glazed eyes he knew he could do nothing but fold himself back over and question the Universe.
And now, just when things were looking up, another man has come once more to complete this eternal cycle of suffering. He calls himself a saint, and a childlike cherub wielding a crossbow travels with him. They smile through razor teeth and begin their annual slaughter.
He tries to stop the mayhem. Screaming up at me with his black leathery lips he implores, “Stop them! It’s a trick. A ploy. Don’t let them take my friends away.”
I remember how good he’s been to me – carrying my silver and bronze, protecting the dangerous plastic cards that travel through time to retrieve money I haven’t earned yet. I pause for a moment, just to hear what he has to say:
Forget the grumbles about it being a commercial, money-making gimmick, Valentine’s Day is a day contrived to let men without a romantic bone in their bodies off the hook.
Their significant others go an entire year without flowers, chocolates, candlelit dinners or picnics in the sunshine. They are never served sausages and hashbrowns in bed, let alone taken on a sunset cruise with champagne and hors d’oeuvers.
But on Valentine’s Day it all changes. Not because society expects it and wrestles their will into submission, but because these men know that if they perform even the most menial of romantic gestures on this day, all their past unromantic actions will be ignored.
Their only penance for this inconsiderate, insensitive behaviour is a bit of extra dosh on the daisies and maybe the hassle of having to make a restaurant reservation in advance. They slouch off to the CNA and pick from a plethora of recycled sentiments, neatly packaged in plasticky paper.
The Valentine’s Day Big Spender, for the next 364 days, will be the man who insists on Saw 3D over Shakespeare in Love, chooses beers with his mates over cuddles on the couch, and – the most unforgiveable of relationship sins – leaves the toilet seat up.
But this is not all the Y chromosome’s fault. Women are just as much to blame for allowing men to become so pathetically apathetic. If they insisted on something more from the boorish oafs they spent all their time getting dolled up for, things might be different.
On bended knees my wallet begs me to be more than one of these men; to make a stand against society and, in a grand statement, turn every other day into one of thoughtfulness and surprise.
“Make romance the rule, not the exception,” my wallet rails, “and I won’t mind sacrificing my furry friends for the Greater Good.”
I Wanna be an Albino Buddha
After dozing off on the couch last night, towards the end of an old eighties movie called Flatliners, I woke up this morning thinking about death.
I was a happy child, but every now and again I’d stand in the kitchen with a knife in my hand and consider stabbing it into my guts. In those moments, I felt as though I was on the precipice of an amazing discovery.
Death is only scary because it is the Unknown. In school we were taught Divinity and Religious Education – something I’m glad to hear has been struck from the curriculum these days – so my generation was bombarded with images of Hell and told it was the final destination for sinners.
I think if we’d been taught about reincarnation and karma instead, growing old wouldn’t seem as terrifying.
I find the idea that my lot in this life has everything to do with how I behaved in my last life quite comforting; and the notion that the more selflessly I act in this life will determine how the next turns out encourages more good behaviour than the belief in a Father Christmas figure up in the clouds.
I think the worst thing to come back as would be an albino – sounds mean, I know, but let me explain.
Life for albinos is a lot more shitty than, say, having no legs or Down ’s syndrome. At least society has some measure of sympathy and compassion for those with disabilities, and it would be cruel to call albinism a disability – you can still run, hold a job, think laterally; your eyesight’s fucked and you have a high risk of contracting skin cancer, but that’s the least of your problems.
Aside from being hunted in places like Tanzania for muti, albinos must put up with insults, discrimination, and ostracism. And this behaviour, just like our attitudes regarding death, stems from fear.
In Africa it is widely believed that albinos are otherworldly, magical beings. Fishermen on Lake Victoria weave albino hair into their nets for bigger catches. Miners in the Mbeya coal fields splash albino blood on the ground in the hopes that rare gems will be drawn to it. And sangomas pay big bucks for albino body parts.
Andrew Malone of the Daily Mail reports that having sex with an albino is believed to cure diseases, which results in “countless rapes… leaving [the victim] HIV positive”.
If I was so backwardly superstitious, I reckon I’d be more concerned with pissing off such ‘magical beings’ in case they unleash ancestors-know-what on my arse – but on such a violent continent, the ‘let’s kill them’ mentality prevails.
And wouldn’t it be interesting to have a mate with some connection to this Harry Potter-esque world, with all its mystery and cool shit?
I think if we are reincarnated, it is to learn something about the universe, humanity, and how to live our lives. Maybe the worse off our situation, the more we learn – you can’t grow in a comfort zone.
And if life is all about spiritual education and knowledge, I can safely say I’d rather come back as an African albino than a Swedish porn star.
In a nice ironic twist, those sangomas and misguided rapists would get the same treatment.
I was a happy child, but every now and again I’d stand in the kitchen with a knife in my hand and consider stabbing it into my guts. In those moments, I felt as though I was on the precipice of an amazing discovery.
Death is only scary because it is the Unknown. In school we were taught Divinity and Religious Education – something I’m glad to hear has been struck from the curriculum these days – so my generation was bombarded with images of Hell and told it was the final destination for sinners.
I think if we’d been taught about reincarnation and karma instead, growing old wouldn’t seem as terrifying.
I find the idea that my lot in this life has everything to do with how I behaved in my last life quite comforting; and the notion that the more selflessly I act in this life will determine how the next turns out encourages more good behaviour than the belief in a Father Christmas figure up in the clouds.
I think the worst thing to come back as would be an albino – sounds mean, I know, but let me explain.
Life for albinos is a lot more shitty than, say, having no legs or Down ’s syndrome. At least society has some measure of sympathy and compassion for those with disabilities, and it would be cruel to call albinism a disability – you can still run, hold a job, think laterally; your eyesight’s fucked and you have a high risk of contracting skin cancer, but that’s the least of your problems.
Aside from being hunted in places like Tanzania for muti, albinos must put up with insults, discrimination, and ostracism. And this behaviour, just like our attitudes regarding death, stems from fear.
In Africa it is widely believed that albinos are otherworldly, magical beings. Fishermen on Lake Victoria weave albino hair into their nets for bigger catches. Miners in the Mbeya coal fields splash albino blood on the ground in the hopes that rare gems will be drawn to it. And sangomas pay big bucks for albino body parts.
Andrew Malone of the Daily Mail reports that having sex with an albino is believed to cure diseases, which results in “countless rapes… leaving [the victim] HIV positive”.
If I was so backwardly superstitious, I reckon I’d be more concerned with pissing off such ‘magical beings’ in case they unleash ancestors-know-what on my arse – but on such a violent continent, the ‘let’s kill them’ mentality prevails.
And wouldn’t it be interesting to have a mate with some connection to this Harry Potter-esque world, with all its mystery and cool shit?
I think if we are reincarnated, it is to learn something about the universe, humanity, and how to live our lives. Maybe the worse off our situation, the more we learn – you can’t grow in a comfort zone.
And if life is all about spiritual education and knowledge, I can safely say I’d rather come back as an African albino than a Swedish porn star.
In a nice ironic twist, those sangomas and misguided rapists would get the same treatment.
Me & Helen in Hell
Finally! A way to get away with occasionally forgetting to feed the hamsters and watching all that porn!
Dirty hands washed clean, and all it takes is a vote for the ANC!
According to our fornicating, DA-hating prez, Jacob Zuma, “When you carry an ANC membership card you are blessed. When you have an ANC card, you will be let through to go to Heaven.”
He goes on to say that a vote for Helen Zille's Democratic Alliance or any other party is a one-way ticket to hellfire, brimstone, and no Johnny Walker Blue.
Understandably, this has upset holy-Joes nationwide, most notably African Christian Democratic Party paragon, Kenneth Meshoe, who railed about how “disappointed and shocked” he was with how Zuma could “mislead and deceive” dumb South Africans into believing they would be ‘saved’ if they just voted the right way.
And damn straight he should be pissed off, blessings from the Big Man (JC, not JZ) is all the ACDP has got going for them – it’s their sole platform… the soul platform, if I may.
If Meshoe had had a heads-up, he could have been sitting pretty long ago. Alas, that gravy train has left the station.
The problem I have with politicos punting piety is the same problem I have with pairing contradictory terms like ‘instant classic’, ‘military intelligence’, or ‘SABC news’. – it just doesn’t make sense.
The Christians next door wake me up at an ungodly hour (get it?) every Sunday morning with church bells and exhaust fume smells. Their cars parked willy-nilly, blocking up the street; the happy hooting as they leave, joyous in having staved off penance for the week’s sins.
Fucking inconsiderate, if you ask me! But not a far cry from clogging up half of Cape Town, inconveniencing lowly taxpayers with an Oscars-style red carpet ride when government ministers come back to work after the Christmas holidays.
With a bit more thought though, I reckon maybe the ANC isn’t as idiotic is we all might think.
Their main support base consists of the uneducated, rural masses – walking kilometres every day to get water, sending their sons off to the City in the hope of some cash to send home.
The possibility that God might look upon them more fondly if they pencil an X next to Zuma’s humpy head couldn’t hurt. No matter who’s in power, it’s not going to affect their lot in the foreseeable future so tata ma chance and all that.
But implying that the ANC is God’s party and that a vote the wrong way will get you to Hell is in line with saying that all whities are devils… which is a showerhead’s throw away from hate speech, surely.
Devils are evil. And evil should be vanquished. So let’s drive all the evil devils into the sea and take their nice things.
The only upswing I can see is that if Heaven is not only going to be full of self-righteous Christians, but incompetent ANC officials as well, then in Hell the conversation won’t only be better, but the place will be run a lot more efficiently to boot.
In that case, a blessing would have to come with horns, a pointy tail, and a pitchfork.
Dirty hands washed clean, and all it takes is a vote for the ANC!
According to our fornicating, DA-hating prez, Jacob Zuma, “When you carry an ANC membership card you are blessed. When you have an ANC card, you will be let through to go to Heaven.”
He goes on to say that a vote for Helen Zille's Democratic Alliance or any other party is a one-way ticket to hellfire, brimstone, and no Johnny Walker Blue.
Understandably, this has upset holy-Joes nationwide, most notably African Christian Democratic Party paragon, Kenneth Meshoe, who railed about how “disappointed and shocked” he was with how Zuma could “mislead and deceive” dumb South Africans into believing they would be ‘saved’ if they just voted the right way.
And damn straight he should be pissed off, blessings from the Big Man (JC, not JZ) is all the ACDP has got going for them – it’s their sole platform… the soul platform, if I may.
If Meshoe had had a heads-up, he could have been sitting pretty long ago. Alas, that gravy train has left the station.
The problem I have with politicos punting piety is the same problem I have with pairing contradictory terms like ‘instant classic’, ‘military intelligence’, or ‘SABC news’. – it just doesn’t make sense.
The Christians next door wake me up at an ungodly hour (get it?) every Sunday morning with church bells and exhaust fume smells. Their cars parked willy-nilly, blocking up the street; the happy hooting as they leave, joyous in having staved off penance for the week’s sins.
Fucking inconsiderate, if you ask me! But not a far cry from clogging up half of Cape Town, inconveniencing lowly taxpayers with an Oscars-style red carpet ride when government ministers come back to work after the Christmas holidays.
With a bit more thought though, I reckon maybe the ANC isn’t as idiotic is we all might think.
Their main support base consists of the uneducated, rural masses – walking kilometres every day to get water, sending their sons off to the City in the hope of some cash to send home.
The possibility that God might look upon them more fondly if they pencil an X next to Zuma’s humpy head couldn’t hurt. No matter who’s in power, it’s not going to affect their lot in the foreseeable future so tata ma chance and all that.
But implying that the ANC is God’s party and that a vote the wrong way will get you to Hell is in line with saying that all whities are devils… which is a showerhead’s throw away from hate speech, surely.
Devils are evil. And evil should be vanquished. So let’s drive all the evil devils into the sea and take their nice things.
The only upswing I can see is that if Heaven is not only going to be full of self-righteous Christians, but incompetent ANC officials as well, then in Hell the conversation won’t only be better, but the place will be run a lot more efficiently to boot.
In that case, a blessing would have to come with horns, a pointy tail, and a pitchfork.
Don't turn your child into a Musical Retard!
I place the blame for my bad taste in music squarely on the shoulders of my parents.
On the long, seven hour road trips to our grandparents’ farm in Beaufort West, my mom and dad would play only two tapes. This was before the Walkman was invented – showing my age, but there you go.
One of these was a mix of their favourite Abba tunes. At such a young age you don’t know any better, and Greg and I would sing along happily from Cape Town to Worcester – Mamma Mia, Dancing Queen, Super Trooper, we knew them all.
It’s a wonder the pair of us grew up liking girls. I’m sure that in more progressive countries at the time, inflicting Abba upon such tender and innocent ears would have been considered child abuse.
The other tape was the greatest hits of Julio Iglesius.
For those that don’t know, that was Enrique’s curly-haired dad – a great womaniser in his day, who I’m sure was actually Ron Jeremy in disguise.
It is this reason that on my CV I list Spanish as one of the languages I know. If there’s any doubt, I just sing the chorus of ‘one-tunna-mera’.
One would think that after the Walkman came out things would’ve changed, but the damage had already been done. After that we consciously chose to fill our ears with Cyndi Lauper, Yazoo, and – I’m man enough to admit – Rick Astley.
In the Nineties, when I hit puberty, things changed a bit. We rebelled by listening to AC-DC, Motorhead, and Ozzy. My bedroom wall was plastered with posters of Iron Maiden’s Eddie murdering Margaret Thatcher and attacking the Devil with an axe.
But I still secretly had an appreciation for MC Hammer, Vanilla Ice, and 2 Unlimited. The bad taste from those formative years had been imbedded in my genetic code.
Today I’m conscious of this ingrained flaw and try and steer clear of anything too poppy or commercial. But every now and again I get a Beyonce track looping in my head… and in a perverse, masochistic way I kind of like it.
So I’ve vowed not to put my kids through the same pain and embarrassment. These are my rules for a child’s musical upbringing:
1) Only expose them to music played with actual instruments.
Drums and guitars are the nuts and bolts of good music. I don’t care how cool you think DJ Duvet is – he is not a musician. Your children need to appreciate this fact.
2) Make sure they know the pioneers.
Your record collection should resemble a mini-Louvre – Rolling Stones, U2, Bob Dylan, Dire Straits, Public Enemy, etc. You wouldn’t expect them to tackle quantum physics if they hadn’t studied Newton and Einstein, don’t let them make musical choices before they’ve appreciated the trailblazers.
3) Only very rarely is a cover-version okay, and remixes are out of the question. No despicable Madonna version of ‘American Pie’ or remixed Bryan Adams riddled with rap.
Respect the originals and accept no substitutes.
4) Remember how you were beaten up by the metalheads at school when you wore that Roxette t-shirt on civvies day? I sure do.
Don’t let your kids wear any dorky music-related clothing – pretty much anything that doesn’t have skulls, Satan, or sacrificial virgins emblazoned across the chest. Vintage clothing of the greats is also acceptable, but current-day bad boy rappers are a big no-no as they are almost always lame in future retrospect.
5) And most importantly, make sure they know that any artistic pursuit is a labour of love; the work should be its own reward.
They should regard bands punting Kentucky Fried Chicken and Sprite as the money-grubbing, attention-seeking, ungodly sell-outs that they are, and with the contempt they deserve.
So hopefully by following these simple rules and with a bit of luck I’ll be able to sleep at night knowing my little dear won’t be keeping me awake with the next Spice Girls or Locnville ear-bleeder.
Of course, she could be influenced by unenlightened schoolmates into boyband worship; or possibly, in those rebellious teen years, play polka or (God forbid) techno full-blast in her bedroom – but I’ll just have to turn the hearing-aid down or buy her an iPod.
As for me, I’ll just have to struggle along, worrying that one day my mom and dad will be standing in front of the God of Rock and will have to answer for their sins.
On the long, seven hour road trips to our grandparents’ farm in Beaufort West, my mom and dad would play only two tapes. This was before the Walkman was invented – showing my age, but there you go.
One of these was a mix of their favourite Abba tunes. At such a young age you don’t know any better, and Greg and I would sing along happily from Cape Town to Worcester – Mamma Mia, Dancing Queen, Super Trooper, we knew them all.
It’s a wonder the pair of us grew up liking girls. I’m sure that in more progressive countries at the time, inflicting Abba upon such tender and innocent ears would have been considered child abuse.
The other tape was the greatest hits of Julio Iglesius.
For those that don’t know, that was Enrique’s curly-haired dad – a great womaniser in his day, who I’m sure was actually Ron Jeremy in disguise.
It is this reason that on my CV I list Spanish as one of the languages I know. If there’s any doubt, I just sing the chorus of ‘one-tunna-mera’.
One would think that after the Walkman came out things would’ve changed, but the damage had already been done. After that we consciously chose to fill our ears with Cyndi Lauper, Yazoo, and – I’m man enough to admit – Rick Astley.
In the Nineties, when I hit puberty, things changed a bit. We rebelled by listening to AC-DC, Motorhead, and Ozzy. My bedroom wall was plastered with posters of Iron Maiden’s Eddie murdering Margaret Thatcher and attacking the Devil with an axe.
But I still secretly had an appreciation for MC Hammer, Vanilla Ice, and 2 Unlimited. The bad taste from those formative years had been imbedded in my genetic code.
Today I’m conscious of this ingrained flaw and try and steer clear of anything too poppy or commercial. But every now and again I get a Beyonce track looping in my head… and in a perverse, masochistic way I kind of like it.
So I’ve vowed not to put my kids through the same pain and embarrassment. These are my rules for a child’s musical upbringing:
1) Only expose them to music played with actual instruments.
Drums and guitars are the nuts and bolts of good music. I don’t care how cool you think DJ Duvet is – he is not a musician. Your children need to appreciate this fact.
2) Make sure they know the pioneers.
Your record collection should resemble a mini-Louvre – Rolling Stones, U2, Bob Dylan, Dire Straits, Public Enemy, etc. You wouldn’t expect them to tackle quantum physics if they hadn’t studied Newton and Einstein, don’t let them make musical choices before they’ve appreciated the trailblazers.
3) Only very rarely is a cover-version okay, and remixes are out of the question. No despicable Madonna version of ‘American Pie’ or remixed Bryan Adams riddled with rap.
Respect the originals and accept no substitutes.
4) Remember how you were beaten up by the metalheads at school when you wore that Roxette t-shirt on civvies day? I sure do.
Don’t let your kids wear any dorky music-related clothing – pretty much anything that doesn’t have skulls, Satan, or sacrificial virgins emblazoned across the chest. Vintage clothing of the greats is also acceptable, but current-day bad boy rappers are a big no-no as they are almost always lame in future retrospect.
5) And most importantly, make sure they know that any artistic pursuit is a labour of love; the work should be its own reward.
They should regard bands punting Kentucky Fried Chicken and Sprite as the money-grubbing, attention-seeking, ungodly sell-outs that they are, and with the contempt they deserve.
So hopefully by following these simple rules and with a bit of luck I’ll be able to sleep at night knowing my little dear won’t be keeping me awake with the next Spice Girls or Locnville ear-bleeder.
Of course, she could be influenced by unenlightened schoolmates into boyband worship; or possibly, in those rebellious teen years, play polka or (God forbid) techno full-blast in her bedroom – but I’ll just have to turn the hearing-aid down or buy her an iPod.
As for me, I’ll just have to struggle along, worrying that one day my mom and dad will be standing in front of the God of Rock and will have to answer for their sins.
Where can I study Juju-gese?
If South Africa were a sane country, I’d say Juju Malema’s days were numbered.
The leader of the ANC Youth League said a while back that young people had “a responsibility to party” - a sentiment I’m sure he wasn’t too sure of the next morning with his head down the toilet, vomiting up sushi, Johnny Walker, and a nipple cap.
Oh well, we must all suffer for the revolution.
Most recently, at the opening of ex-con Kenny Kunene’s ZAR nightclub in Cape Town, our pudgy leader of the upstarts told the press that DA leader Helen Zille (PBUH) “will not close ZAR at 2am, like she does to other clubs in Cape Town. The ANC owns ZAR and we will party until the morning."
A political party raising capital selling liquor from the bar and condoms from the toilet vending machine seems strange; but this is Africa, after all – we do things a little differently around these parts.
As usual Floyd Shivambu – ANCYL blackboard monitor – lost sleep translating into English a language that could only be called Juju-gese, “The ANCYL president said that the freedom and right for black people to own a club in a predominantly white territory is a freedom and right that came because of the ANC."
Wow! I bet those stuffy old archaeologists had an easier time deciphering Egyptian hieroglyphics.
I’m not sure what is more embarrassing to the ruling party – Julius’ ridiculous statements or Shivambu’s laughable translations.
The thought that such a drunken buffoon would have his public office rug pulled out from underneath him is quaint, but looking at the ANC’s internal politics I’m sure this man will one day become our country's president.
Hopefully he would have sobered up by then, but I doubt it.
The leader of the ANC Youth League said a while back that young people had “a responsibility to party” - a sentiment I’m sure he wasn’t too sure of the next morning with his head down the toilet, vomiting up sushi, Johnny Walker, and a nipple cap.
Oh well, we must all suffer for the revolution.
Most recently, at the opening of ex-con Kenny Kunene’s ZAR nightclub in Cape Town, our pudgy leader of the upstarts told the press that DA leader Helen Zille (PBUH) “will not close ZAR at 2am, like she does to other clubs in Cape Town. The ANC owns ZAR and we will party until the morning."
A political party raising capital selling liquor from the bar and condoms from the toilet vending machine seems strange; but this is Africa, after all – we do things a little differently around these parts.
As usual Floyd Shivambu – ANCYL blackboard monitor – lost sleep translating into English a language that could only be called Juju-gese, “The ANCYL president said that the freedom and right for black people to own a club in a predominantly white territory is a freedom and right that came because of the ANC."
Wow! I bet those stuffy old archaeologists had an easier time deciphering Egyptian hieroglyphics.
I’m not sure what is more embarrassing to the ruling party – Julius’ ridiculous statements or Shivambu’s laughable translations.
The thought that such a drunken buffoon would have his public office rug pulled out from underneath him is quaint, but looking at the ANC’s internal politics I’m sure this man will one day become our country's president.
Hopefully he would have sobered up by then, but I doubt it.
George Orwell is the Boogeyman!
Two stories my mom likes to tell: How I could fall asleep anywhere; and how when I was breastfeeding and she had company I would bite her nipples.
Luckily I’ve grown out of both breastfeeding and nipple-munching – which was the reaction to some kind of fearful anxiety about being stolen away from my mother, I suppose. When I'm afraid, I bite!
The falling asleep thing is still a trait I possess.
I’m notorious for dozing off in the cinema – usually when the movie’s a bit boring – and often I’m woken up by the person next to me when I start to snore.
Even though I fell asleep in Paranormal Activity, I still gave the sequel a look-in.
And it was good! Not like the first that, as my good friend Mark commented, wasn’t bad until they found the big chicken footprints all over the house – like Foghorn Leghorn broke in and made off with the stereo.
It’s so hard to find a decent scary movie these days – you’ve got to look for your jollies somewhere else. Personally, there’s not much that scares me more than a George Orwell novel.
Anyone who’s read 1984 will know just how terrifying the man’s mind was – makes the latest Stephen King read like a Hardy Boys.
The most recent that made me hug my teddy and check the front door was properly locked is Keep the Aspidistra Flying about a writer who falls into poverty when quits his ‘good’ job to pursue a career as a poet.
Go figure.
The protagonist “loathes dull, middle-class respectability and worship of money” and consistently bangs on about the ‘money-god’ that is the only deity people seem to follow.
Makes sense; money has much in common with the mythical Master of the Universe – it’s eternal, omnipotent, and everyone loves it.
I think governments know this and that’s why they put the president’s face on bank notes. They’re feisty, governments.
The face-on-the-money bit is the way a despot tells the world, “I’ve arrived!”
That’s why in America the big man can get away with just about anything. They know that money = god = our beloved leaders. Maybe not the current guy, it’s more of a general respect of the Cheese.
Of course, in SA we’ve got the Big 5 on our cash; which made me wonder whether that showed the importance of certain species.
Cheetah and lion – good.
Elephant and rhino– eh.
But then I thought, hold on, we’ve got Madiba’s face on the five Rand coin! Surely Nelson Mandela is more important to our identity as South Africans than the wildlife?
So my theory, like a punctured party balloon, made a lot of noise but eventually lay pathetic and flat on the floor.
Or maybe it’s not the usual nonsense. Maybe it’s because we’ve got game on our notes that the militant left wing always complain that whites care more about endangered animals than poor people.
Wealth is still divided unfairly in the favour of us pale natives, and coins are mostly used not to buy anything of value, but to tip the car guard or donate towards a bergie’s booze fund.
Could this be sending us a subliminal understanding? Is it the reason rich people don’t care about other people, only themselves, their money, and getting to the Kruger national park for the holidays?
Or is it because of some traditional, African tribal worship of animals?
Did you know that if you fold a fifty Rand note a certain way it looks like Eugene Terreblanche’s face?
It’s interesting to note that the Vatican City issues its own Euro with the Pope’s mug on it, not the hippy profile of Jesus.
Putting the faces of lower-level gods (presidents, animals) on the body of our actual god (money) scares me because it hints at the possibility that Church and State aren’t as separate as I hoped!
The rationale is surely that being associated with that-which-is-most-holy makes one holy by association (Welcome to the Department of Redundancy Department). Kind of like name-dropping in a way:
“I was hanging out with George Clooney the other night.”
“Big deal, my face is on the new eighteen Rand note.”
Although I like to believe differently, I know I’m not smart enough to dodge marketing manipulation and bureaucratic bullshit all the time. To think of how often my thought processes and ideas are steered by another’s agenda is terrifying.
It scares me so much I think I might bite the next nipple that passes by.
Luckily I’ve grown out of both breastfeeding and nipple-munching – which was the reaction to some kind of fearful anxiety about being stolen away from my mother, I suppose. When I'm afraid, I bite!
The falling asleep thing is still a trait I possess.
I’m notorious for dozing off in the cinema – usually when the movie’s a bit boring – and often I’m woken up by the person next to me when I start to snore.
Even though I fell asleep in Paranormal Activity, I still gave the sequel a look-in.
And it was good! Not like the first that, as my good friend Mark commented, wasn’t bad until they found the big chicken footprints all over the house – like Foghorn Leghorn broke in and made off with the stereo.
It’s so hard to find a decent scary movie these days – you’ve got to look for your jollies somewhere else. Personally, there’s not much that scares me more than a George Orwell novel.
Anyone who’s read 1984 will know just how terrifying the man’s mind was – makes the latest Stephen King read like a Hardy Boys.
The most recent that made me hug my teddy and check the front door was properly locked is Keep the Aspidistra Flying about a writer who falls into poverty when quits his ‘good’ job to pursue a career as a poet.
Go figure.
The protagonist “loathes dull, middle-class respectability and worship of money” and consistently bangs on about the ‘money-god’ that is the only deity people seem to follow.
Makes sense; money has much in common with the mythical Master of the Universe – it’s eternal, omnipotent, and everyone loves it.
I think governments know this and that’s why they put the president’s face on bank notes. They’re feisty, governments.
The face-on-the-money bit is the way a despot tells the world, “I’ve arrived!”
That’s why in America the big man can get away with just about anything. They know that money = god = our beloved leaders. Maybe not the current guy, it’s more of a general respect of the Cheese.
Of course, in SA we’ve got the Big 5 on our cash; which made me wonder whether that showed the importance of certain species.
Cheetah and lion – good.
Elephant and rhino– eh.
But then I thought, hold on, we’ve got Madiba’s face on the five Rand coin! Surely Nelson Mandela is more important to our identity as South Africans than the wildlife?
So my theory, like a punctured party balloon, made a lot of noise but eventually lay pathetic and flat on the floor.
Or maybe it’s not the usual nonsense. Maybe it’s because we’ve got game on our notes that the militant left wing always complain that whites care more about endangered animals than poor people.
Wealth is still divided unfairly in the favour of us pale natives, and coins are mostly used not to buy anything of value, but to tip the car guard or donate towards a bergie’s booze fund.
Could this be sending us a subliminal understanding? Is it the reason rich people don’t care about other people, only themselves, their money, and getting to the Kruger national park for the holidays?
Or is it because of some traditional, African tribal worship of animals?
Did you know that if you fold a fifty Rand note a certain way it looks like Eugene Terreblanche’s face?
It’s interesting to note that the Vatican City issues its own Euro with the Pope’s mug on it, not the hippy profile of Jesus.
Putting the faces of lower-level gods (presidents, animals) on the body of our actual god (money) scares me because it hints at the possibility that Church and State aren’t as separate as I hoped!
The rationale is surely that being associated with that-which-is-most-holy makes one holy by association (Welcome to the Department of Redundancy Department). Kind of like name-dropping in a way:
“I was hanging out with George Clooney the other night.”
“Big deal, my face is on the new eighteen Rand note.”
Although I like to believe differently, I know I’m not smart enough to dodge marketing manipulation and bureaucratic bullshit all the time. To think of how often my thought processes and ideas are steered by another’s agenda is terrifying.
It scares me so much I think I might bite the next nipple that passes by.
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