There’s this documentary I’m co-producing about South African comedy and it has left me with an ideological hard on for our comedy industry and metaphorical hard ons, like I’m sure you know, are difficult to come by.
I’ve interviewed some of our country’s top comedians over the last few months, Nik Rabinowitz, Mel Miller, Kurt Schoonraad, Joe Parker, Marc Lottering, Ndumiso Lindi, John Vlismas, Paul Snodgrass, Martin Davis, Kagiso Lediga, Tracy Klaas, Brent Palmer and we’re about to interview Mark Sampson, all have offered up there insights and memories about the S.A comedy circuit.
Looking at people; their behaviour, has always satisfied me to some or other extent. A rad meeting point for the ever popular human interest angle blended with my favourite past time of pseudo intellectual posturing.
Yesterday’s featured Wikipedia article has to do with the buildings of Nuffield College. I could come up with a grandiose reason for writing a piece on this but the only reason I can think of is an overt desire to fling some random ink.
Something bizarre has sprawled itself all over my news feed. New Zealanders are running out of Marmite. Yes, this has made it to the home page of the Mail and Guardian.
There’s one factory in the misty expat haven and it has sadly been forced to close. The Christchurch organization was destroyed during those earthquakes and now Kiwiland is forced to face the ghastly prospects of what has been entitled a Marmageddon. For fuck’s sake.
Right getting on with this torturous life lesson that is existence is no easy feat. I’m in receipt of a strange feeling that hinges on a kind of moral insecurity, and largely perpetrated by these strange modern ways we have adopted. The worst of which is having to get out of bed when we don’t want to. That we have somehow, collectively, missed the point and that it might be too late to figure it all out is beginning to make me a little anxious. To unfuck something as incrementally kak as the average, modern routine is nearly impossible.
The novel experience here, ahem, is about being able to connect with anarchy and chaos experientially. Often assumed to be the same thing, they’re not.
There is a very important, but not terribly serious, idea that I feel like fondling. Every now and then I’ll solicit opinions using facebook and twitter, fitting into my deeply affectionate disrespect for the tenets of social marketing. As much as I care about what people are doing, I prefer to know what they’re thinking.
Something very different happens almost every few years, intrinsic shifts. Music, literature, whatever… we are in a state of constant progression, evolution, mutation. The fact that we are self aware, meta conscious beings, makes room for a little too much inauthenticity at times, especially when it comes to making art.
One of my favourite things is to scratch around my old note books, I came across this scribble tonight. I remember writing it quite some time back, fucked up on coke, squatting in a dead artist’s house.
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