Monday, August 11, 2014


"A tremendous sense of value..."

If the barometer by which one measures "African-ness" is how long one has been an African, and considering I was born here, then I was more "African" than the vast majority of patrons at Mzoli's this weekend. I was the "No Kwaito White Ou" that didn't participate in the serious sessions of "tekkie squeak". But I did experience first hand, and far too often for my liking, what it must be like to be in a rap video. A great array of enormous bottoms found their way backed up into my knees and thighs. Some of them didn't even bother removing the wrecking balls. The delighted squeals of their 8 Miley support systems served only to further add to the party atmosphere of a large tent brimming with gyrating jean pants under the most heinous distress. And meat sauce. Apparently the art of dance has been reduced to merely bending over and combating constipation.

It was a truly awesome atmosphere, ever escalating volume being pumped out of the budget Sakyno speakers, it was what I imagine Babylon would have been if it was a Braai. A whole group of us adventurous touristy types pulled in with our cooler boxes brimming with beer (for the bravado) and salad (for the side dishes). After paying the parking guy a whopping R20 for the right to park in front of his driveway and the use of his mom's house's pristine facilities, we proceeded to order, pay for, and devour the biggest platter of expertly braaied chops, wors and chicken known to man. I felt like an extra in that Castle advert, except I had Black Label. In the sun. Always a great idea. And I can't pronounce "Nxaaaaaa-ba!"

Anyway, after an afternoon of endless entertainment, it was time to head on home to the cake. Yes folks, I baked. I baked a cake for the Hot Girlfriend. It came out looking and tasting just like a cake. I am ever extending my merge into Martha. The unveiling was met with the appropriate squeals and "Aaawwww"s.
I done good. So after the cake and booze fest that continued in my lounge, it was eventually decided that we would all go down to ROAR for more of the same. Booze. Not cake. And am I ever glad we did... It's not often I'm pleasantly surprised or blown away to such an extent. Particularly when it's a band to whom I suppose I should have been paying a bit more attention. But to the lads of Black Moscow, all I can say is "Holy shit! That was fucking awesome!" It's a dense, dark pastiche of intelligently crafted, almost introverted reflection and explosive, yet capably controlled, expression. Bravo indeed! More of that please! Much more!

Also, I made the mistake of checking out the news today. Fuck. I have no idea why I continue to torment myself so. The things that happen in this world, the things that people are capable of doing to each other, the depths to which we have sunk, and particularly the manner in which this information is regurgitated to us, is a source of shame and disgust that causes me physical pain. Fuck you, World! Don't get me wrong, I'm not about to develop a liking for tweenage angst Emo music or sellotape multicoloured poultry to my head, but I'm starting to see the wisdom of choosing to abstain from procreating. Not that I will, mind you. The compulsion to stand at the side of the football pitch and yell obscenities at my progeny far outweighs any loathing I have for humankind or the world in which this child will find itself. I'll just move to the suburbs and try and avoid TV. Perhaps a more proactive approach to making the world a better place is in order. Commence Operation "Farting Against Thunder".

NGDG: Lack of power. Lack of strength. In a world of sheep, the mangiest of wolves will rule.

Spread The Love. Let Them Eat Cake.

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