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.
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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