Jack Selebi is gunning for that ever popular medical parole. I guess criminals are just sick, we shouldn’t hold it against them. I wonder if sick notes worked as well during the formative years of the Democratic Revolution or if this is a new trend. “Comrad Selebi couldn’t make it to the protest as he has a sore throat”.
Very soon Pollsmoor will have an entire wing dedicated to these sickly gravy fed gimps ministering to their tender medical complications.
The crowd was thick with alcohol, anticipation, and opiates as the chill of the Pniel-driven winds coursed through their limbs. For this throng of dusty rockers, it was the epitome, the dénouement, the finale of festivales twenty eleven.
The focus of their fervor darkened as moments later the twang of distorted chords filled the air. It had begun.
Stuck in the middle of this space cadet bum fuck dump of a suburb, I am forced via creative inclination (a meeting with my writing partner) to put up with these ridiculously uninteresting unwashed surfer scum pseudo hiptards. I might just be in a bad mood, but I’ll go out on a limb here and say fuck Muizenberg.
So I’ve been thinking about the Dalai Lama, not all the time and not in any specific way, in case you were wondering if that was my thing. I decided I needed to meditate on the situation, it seems like the correct approach and the word meditate is a refreshing synonym for thinking. I’m all about refreshing synonyms and slightly curious about why our political elite aren’t supporting the repressed. It could just be a developmental tough love approach, probably not though.
Now I’ve been batted hard, but being threatened with jail time by the her majesty’s court seems like some seriously defective game.
Katherine Goldberg, a twenty five year old executive from South Africa, groped an air steward on a London flight in mid air, which apparently isn’t as difficult as it sounds. Breaking news has her barely escaping the shackles. Now I’m all for behaving yourself, it’s important, but this must be the most overt overreaction I’ve encountered in a long time. Well, outside of Jennifer Thorpe’s entire literary career. I would never have even mentioned any of this, had it not found its way on to the front page of my morning paper.
Whenever something makes me really angry or sad I like to write a piece about it: a real-life adolescent screed full of sturm und drang and half-finished thoughts. Then I like to put it away somewhere where I’m absolutely certain no one will ever read it. I’m publishing this on tiltrepublic.com in the same hope. If you choose to read further, let it be on your own head. Selah.
Much has been said and fretted about the Protection of Information Bill that passed a vote in Parliament on Tuesday, but what really works me up into a quivvering frenzy of impotent rage is the abuse of the word. When you take a look at the diction of the ANC throughout the entire process, I see a tendency towards ‘have our cake and eat it too’ newspeak and doubletalk that comes right out of the H.F. Verwoerd textbook. That scares me shitless.
Yes I know my enemies,
they’re the teachers who taught me to fight me
… compromise, conformity, assimilation,
submission, hypocrisy, brutality, the elite.
“Know your enemy” – Rage Against The Machine
I woke to the “gnaaa” “gnaaaa” “gnaaa” of my alarm piercing my head for the umpteenth time. The snooze button had been pressed once too many and at this rate, I was going to be late. In a vain attempt to reign in that metal beast, I threw on the pile of clothes lying on the floor beside my bed, showered the porcelain – I’d showered myself the night before – and “cirque du soleil”-ed my torso deftly into last night’s t-shirt.
Shoving the necessaries into my gym bag, face still wet, my mouth spouting minted morning-breath, I pulled my laptop bag over my shoulder and headed down the stairs.
Monday, I found myself sitting in the K.F.C on Long Street, talking to one of our circuit’s heavy weight surrealists. I met Brenden Murray some time back, a very natural encounter, on which I won’t elaborate on because we didn’t have a prescription. God forbid I paint him as some gonzo-esque drug enthusiast. Ahem.
We spoke of creating material and how he goes about it. Murray writes an idea down and lets it simmer. He then launched into a thunderous monologue on how comedians tend to flog their ideas to pieces.Sardonically identifying and impaling a dangerous neurosis. I sensed a snarling urgency punching the florescent light between us. His mindfulness, though full of expletives and forceful had a distinct tutelar edge to it. Squaring off like a surrealist Mafioso, protecting the familio. A tangible assurance that he cared as much about the creation of comedy as excelling at it himself, and he does both superbly.
There is no justification for this bill in any form. It’s a backward, antiquated pile of smouldering hick logic we dug out of our cesspit of a past and the fact that we’re even considering it means that things are way more fucked than we think.
It’s been nearly two beauteously twisted years since my involvement in the Obs art scene. My weekly show, which started at Obz Cafe, moved to Armchair because of the renovations to the theatre. While there we scaled it down, due to its lounge vibe, scrapped the microphone and the door charge and turned it into a workshop. A workshop with a missing fourth wall. The evolution didn’t sit well at first, but has since turned into a delightful melange that serves the circuit wonderfully. It’s a not so serious yet exceptionally useful testing ground for our new ideas.
The quality of work we’ve encouraged in each other has been astounding. With a sturdy gang of regular performers and locals all gathering around the wondrous tilted flame of alternative comedy. There is something profoundly kief about the ethos of the show. Even though I say so myself, given the fact I produce the thing, I should think so. My background is in education, so that pedagogical edge will always haunt my every project. My fascination with hunting down the place where progression happens cannot be curbed. To look straight into it, to sit and watch the birth and growth of these higher pleasures remains a lasting addiction. I do, of course, mean ideas and not the other process associated with placenta and heart burn. That’s just gross.
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