Taylor Swift released her new album and it is magical. Pop confectionary with a bite.
Seriously. I won't judge.
Monday, October 27, 2014
Monday, September 1, 2014
Grown Ups and Fuck Ups
The thing about a crush.
Digital Crushing
The last time I had such an enduring crush was an age ago. I was in high school, fat and super insecure about how I looked. He was gorgeous. Like absolutely beautiful. Blue eyes, light brown skin and just the most stunning English accent that made me combust into a ball of teenaged lust and angst. We became friends, really great friends in fact, while acting together in a Shakespeare's The Taming of the Shrew. I played Katherine and he played Katherine's father. I still remember how nervous I was when I asked him to come to my 5th form formal with me. He agreed. He brought a rose and the Victor Victoria musical dvd as a gift. Much much excitement. We kind of danced around each other and then when it could not get any worse he kissed a family friend. Fun times. I still see him on my Facebook, gorgeous as ever but my preferences changed, I grew up, lost the weight and the desire to be poor forever with an aspiring actor.
Youths. Urgh.
The thing is that actually interacting with a flesh and blood person allowed me to get over the crush. Seeing him drunkenly kiss my cousin at Matric Vac in a sweaty, stinky beachside club gave me the impetus to just get over him. Not so today. The thing about me is that more likely than not, I fall for a brain. Yes, looks are all good and well, but what gets me going is a smart man who is equal parts culture, smarts, business acumen and a sprinkling of sex. And a beard. And my GOD does twitter not have an abundance of those. Meeting a few of them in real life cured me of that quick fast. From a braying laugh, to some good old misogyny, they were able to disabuse me of the notion of ever shagging them. Thanks guys.
Thanks for the commentary on the appropriate amount of women's pubic hair
But what of the unmet twitter crush? What of the exquisite agony of crushing on an avatar? Do you have any idea how annoying it is to have a crush on someone who for all intents and purposes may not exist?
Fuck you Internet
I found myself clicking on a twitter account more often than usual. Laughing out loud. Smiling as if those tweets were addressed to me. Giggling when I got likes on Instagram. It's like trying to get water out of your ear after swimming for the whole day. You jump around like an idiot and all you hear is WOMP WOMP WOMP. You can't click off twitter or Instagram because LIFE'S BLOOD but they are there ALL THE TIME. BEING SMART AND CUTE. AND BEARDY.
Stop this thing.
Literally unable to can
You're in a permanent state of butterflies but over the digital iteration of someone's personality. To be clear, no one on twitter is their true self. I think honesty stopped being a thing on twitter around 2010 when people realised that they could make money off of catfishing a bunch of brands. I digress.
So I had to ask myself what will it take to get over a crush that has held me in its sweaty little fist for a month?
I decided to webstalk.
NINJA POWERS ENGAGE!
Yes, I trawled Facebook to find pictures from three years ago of the person in blackface, a Borat thong or even a bunch of Super Bru's at one of those paint throwing dub step concerts white people go to while high on methamphetamine. Nope. Nothing. He was basically perfect. Fuck. I texted my friends. I asked my sister for help. I watched some Oprah in the hopes that she would lay her hands upon me and pray away the crush. Two weeks later, I was a little luckier. I found a retweet that my ass crack told me was his girlfriend. Read through her timeline.
BINGO. Drinks required. Luckily, Saturday decided to play ball and I found myself neck deep in straight up margherita's. Eventually I dispensed with the lime, simple syrup and salt. Tequila. It's good.
Much better now.
Now I am semi-cured. I am actively ignoring his twitter and hoping to stumble on to a regular person that I can actually pretend to talk to while we watch Star Wars, drink beer and eat grilled cheese sandwiches which is the natural order of the world.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
New York: Where The Weak Come To Die.
New York, New York.
It's a place where luck does not exist. Luck is for the weak. For those who have no talent and therefore need some unknown being to do the work for them. Luck is for the lazy, for those who could not muster enough energy to shake themselves out of some self-imposed slumber (indeed, it must be a slumber of the heart, for who ever could sleep their life away, lacks love) and place one foot in front of the other in the belief that today is the day they will succeed and no other. A belief in luck shows that one is lacking in courage, and that alone will ensure this city swallows you whole. What's more, no one will care. No one will wonder about you. They will continue to eat in their quaint patisseries, and studiously ignore you in the subway while you pray for luck to make you something that you were clearly never meant to be. Do not be sad. This is not a rebuke of your talent.
You will remain just as talented as you are for the rest of your life. Nothing about New York will change that. New York will change you. New York will beat you into something shiny, hard and possibly empty. The last 48 hours have been hard for me to witness because I realised that New Yorkers, at least the ones who moved from elsewhere and settled in New York have dulled, wary eyes that move sharply from corner to corner seeking out opportunity. It is that naked ambition and opportunism that kills the light in the eyes. As if the electric billboards of Times Square are run on the life-force of the people of New York.
It may sound depressing. You may think that I hate it. No. I am, as ever, ambivalent. My guard is down, I am vulnerable, I have never really been in a situation where four people know me in a city of twenty million. Johannesburg is a hick town in these parts. I am lonely and anonymous,but by God, I am free. Perhaps in two weeks, I will be different too. Perhaps by then my eyes won't shine as brightly and my heart will be a little wary, but I know when I arrive back home, I will be a lot more me and a lot less Jozi.
Monday, April 4, 2011
Apparently I'm Not Good Enough
I took a long break from blogging, I shouldn't have, I apologise, I'm back.
On to the new stuff. Last week was a rather interesting week. While I was on twitter, my twitter spouse, the fabulous MvelaseP and JoziGoddess labeled me a "bad black" what is a bad black, you may ask? Usually, it's a black person, who is educated well, lives a middle class life and has an opinion. No. Really. If you are a bad black, according to the DA masses, you vote ANC based on some struggle-era nostalgia (oh the good old days of bullets, German Shepherds and tear gas) and therefore do not think for yourself. I "speak so well" and "am just like them" because I went to private school and have wealthy parents, which somehow excludes me from the black masses (not so are the wicked, not so!). This confused me, as I somehow have now lost all legitimacy to say that the DA doesn't look out for my interests as a young, soon-to-be-professional woman. That now, I must forget about BEE because I am "empowered" and give up my privileged position on the BEE pecking order for some white male who "can't get a job in this bloody country" (perhaps that should be one word) and we should all hold hands singing "Kumbaya" around a fire in a group masturbation exercise.
Erm. No. I'm NOT "just like you". In fact, I'm part of a tiny, tiny percentage of black people in this country who live a privileged life. I won't step aside for a kid whose parents and grandparents are Michaelhouse alumni so that he and his family, who have been empowered for the last three hundred years can "get a chance". I'm not afraid of my bad black status, I will use BEE to grow wealth for me and my family so that my children and grandchildren can go to St Anne's and Michaelhouse. In 2004, St Anne's elected its first black head girl. At that time, the school was 127 years old. Should I clap for them? No. Should I clap for your mediocre son and give him a job after he scored all C's in his final matric exams after his parents spent R500 000 on his high school education alone? Or should I give that kid who worked by candle light and got an exemption the chance to better himself and earn a decent living?
You say "It's not fair!" Life's not fair, get over it. Strive to be brilliant so that despite the current status quo, your potential employer will hire you, because you are just that good. Because if you are mediocre, you won't succeed in this country, black or white, eventually your work ethic will make you disposable or indispensable. We have a long way to go in terms of righting economic and sociological inequalities in this country - we're ONE generation into this all. BEE's not going anywhere. Until the DA gets that, blacks, good or bad won't vote for them.
Something that I saw that I found rather hilarious was the DA advert for the current municipal elections. They did a good job. I won't hate, but let's be serious, no one who tasted Apartheid like that old gogo is ever going to vote for the "wall-less toilet" DA.
Be more awesome, all of you.
M x
On to the new stuff. Last week was a rather interesting week. While I was on twitter, my twitter spouse, the fabulous MvelaseP and JoziGoddess labeled me a "bad black" what is a bad black, you may ask? Usually, it's a black person, who is educated well, lives a middle class life and has an opinion. No. Really. If you are a bad black, according to the DA masses, you vote ANC based on some struggle-era nostalgia (oh the good old days of bullets, German Shepherds and tear gas) and therefore do not think for yourself. I "speak so well" and "am just like them" because I went to private school and have wealthy parents, which somehow excludes me from the black masses (not so are the wicked, not so!). This confused me, as I somehow have now lost all legitimacy to say that the DA doesn't look out for my interests as a young, soon-to-be-professional woman. That now, I must forget about BEE because I am "empowered" and give up my privileged position on the BEE pecking order for some white male who "can't get a job in this bloody country" (perhaps that should be one word) and we should all hold hands singing "Kumbaya" around a fire in a group masturbation exercise.
Erm. No. I'm NOT "just like you". In fact, I'm part of a tiny, tiny percentage of black people in this country who live a privileged life. I won't step aside for a kid whose parents and grandparents are Michaelhouse alumni so that he and his family, who have been empowered for the last three hundred years can "get a chance". I'm not afraid of my bad black status, I will use BEE to grow wealth for me and my family so that my children and grandchildren can go to St Anne's and Michaelhouse. In 2004, St Anne's elected its first black head girl. At that time, the school was 127 years old. Should I clap for them? No. Should I clap for your mediocre son and give him a job after he scored all C's in his final matric exams after his parents spent R500 000 on his high school education alone? Or should I give that kid who worked by candle light and got an exemption the chance to better himself and earn a decent living?
You say "It's not fair!" Life's not fair, get over it. Strive to be brilliant so that despite the current status quo, your potential employer will hire you, because you are just that good. Because if you are mediocre, you won't succeed in this country, black or white, eventually your work ethic will make you disposable or indispensable. We have a long way to go in terms of righting economic and sociological inequalities in this country - we're ONE generation into this all. BEE's not going anywhere. Until the DA gets that, blacks, good or bad won't vote for them.
Something that I saw that I found rather hilarious was the DA advert for the current municipal elections. They did a good job. I won't hate, but let's be serious, no one who tasted Apartheid like that old gogo is ever going to vote for the "wall-less toilet" DA.
Be more awesome, all of you.
M x
Friday, August 6, 2010
Questions: A New South Africa?
Thoughts At JB Rivers
I sat in a cafe smoking and I never thought that I would hear the mutters of discontent and anger billowing forth from the mouths of the rich so openly and unashamedly. Perhaps I'm naive or far too young to understand - my one and twenty years living as an anomaly in this country have sheltered me from the bitterness and dismay of the noblesse oblige, at having "their" country torn from them in such an egregious manner.
I thought I knew "them". I had been going to school with their offspring and indeed had been friends with them until the end of school. A natural drifting occured and in their eagerness to run to the Western Cape - truly, Africa's last "Colony" - we lost contact. I went to Johannesburg, eager to escape the alienation that a Black child feels in the Natal Midland's rarefied atmosphere. I was eager to reclaim my blackness from a situation where being black is both a handicap and a blessing.
In truth, I was tired of defending and explaining the merits of Black Economic Empowerment. Tired of trying to explain away the myth of the White Male In South Africa. The myth that say that a white male has no chance of success in this country, and that is why they all migrate to the UK in the hopes of "GREATER SUCCESS", which, in the current economic situation, has proven hilarious. My reaction to this myth is to laugh - these boys who went to South Africa's most elite and celebrated schools (that cost upwards of R130 000), with the added benefit of a University education and an illustrious Old Boy's Network to fall back on, who cannot fathom living in University residences past first year, resent that they are not the preferred candidate for a job? Really? Even statistically, the White Male Myth is simply not true. But try arguing that in your History classroom.
I really want to understand what the rich and preferred haved lost. By and large, they are the Masters of their Universes - mistakes can be made, subjects failed, drunken driving convictions can disappear with the swipe of a credit card, with only the whiff of scandal floating around the country club and Saturday Rugby matches. I remember taking a friend of mine from London to Hilton vs Michaelhouse earlier this year, and hearing her shock at the idea that Africa has its own Eton vs Harrow, complete with boozy Hooray Henrys, Sloane Rangers and picnic lunches, she felt right at home. Yet Black children of the newly minted are held to a different and much higher set of standards. Every achievement is fought for, every mistake scrutinsed and God help you if your parents are mentioned in the news in a less than savoury light - your very presence at the school is questioned: is your family's wealth the product of fraud, government or irregular tender? Never you mind, while they try to meet their transformation targets, you can appear in their pamphlets and encourage other black children to attend their schools.
Our money, which we view as an equaliser, gave us entry to the club, but never membership. We speak the same, our African idiosyncrasies are subdued ("acting black") our pronunciation corrected - by all standards we are the same. Yet we remain isolated - tiny islands of affluence. We have to be exceptional in all aspects: cultural, academically and on the sports field. However, we are not enough in the face of overwhelming achievement. We are not enough in our eloquence or our deportment. What they see us as is the usurpers of a legacy built on the blood and sweat our ancestors. We stole our own birth right, as if Essau reclaimed his birth right from Jacob in an epic battle.
Perhaps you will view this as the pissing and moaning of an overprivileged child - one who has been handed everything, wants for nothing and believes that the world owes them more. "What more do they want?". I want more. What I want may never be quantified or even be tangible to those who live in poverty and whose greatest struggle is to feed and clothe their children. I can never take away from that struggle, I don't believe that my existential questions lack importance or deserve not be answered because there are poor people in the world. I may look like I have it all, but I am not satisfied. I want more. I just need someone to tell me exactly what I'm looking for.
I sat in a cafe smoking and I never thought that I would hear the mutters of discontent and anger billowing forth from the mouths of the rich so openly and unashamedly. Perhaps I'm naive or far too young to understand - my one and twenty years living as an anomaly in this country have sheltered me from the bitterness and dismay of the noblesse oblige, at having "their" country torn from them in such an egregious manner.
I thought I knew "them". I had been going to school with their offspring and indeed had been friends with them until the end of school. A natural drifting occured and in their eagerness to run to the Western Cape - truly, Africa's last "Colony" - we lost contact. I went to Johannesburg, eager to escape the alienation that a Black child feels in the Natal Midland's rarefied atmosphere. I was eager to reclaim my blackness from a situation where being black is both a handicap and a blessing.
In truth, I was tired of defending and explaining the merits of Black Economic Empowerment. Tired of trying to explain away the myth of the White Male In South Africa. The myth that say that a white male has no chance of success in this country, and that is why they all migrate to the UK in the hopes of "GREATER SUCCESS", which, in the current economic situation, has proven hilarious. My reaction to this myth is to laugh - these boys who went to South Africa's most elite and celebrated schools (that cost upwards of R130 000), with the added benefit of a University education and an illustrious Old Boy's Network to fall back on, who cannot fathom living in University residences past first year, resent that they are not the preferred candidate for a job? Really? Even statistically, the White Male Myth is simply not true. But try arguing that in your History classroom.
I really want to understand what the rich and preferred haved lost. By and large, they are the Masters of their Universes - mistakes can be made, subjects failed, drunken driving convictions can disappear with the swipe of a credit card, with only the whiff of scandal floating around the country club and Saturday Rugby matches. I remember taking a friend of mine from London to Hilton vs Michaelhouse earlier this year, and hearing her shock at the idea that Africa has its own Eton vs Harrow, complete with boozy Hooray Henrys, Sloane Rangers and picnic lunches, she felt right at home. Yet Black children of the newly minted are held to a different and much higher set of standards. Every achievement is fought for, every mistake scrutinsed and God help you if your parents are mentioned in the news in a less than savoury light - your very presence at the school is questioned: is your family's wealth the product of fraud, government or irregular tender? Never you mind, while they try to meet their transformation targets, you can appear in their pamphlets and encourage other black children to attend their schools.
Our money, which we view as an equaliser, gave us entry to the club, but never membership. We speak the same, our African idiosyncrasies are subdued ("acting black") our pronunciation corrected - by all standards we are the same. Yet we remain isolated - tiny islands of affluence. We have to be exceptional in all aspects: cultural, academically and on the sports field. However, we are not enough in the face of overwhelming achievement. We are not enough in our eloquence or our deportment. What they see us as is the usurpers of a legacy built on the blood and sweat our ancestors. We stole our own birth right, as if Essau reclaimed his birth right from Jacob in an epic battle.
Perhaps you will view this as the pissing and moaning of an overprivileged child - one who has been handed everything, wants for nothing and believes that the world owes them more. "What more do they want?". I want more. What I want may never be quantified or even be tangible to those who live in poverty and whose greatest struggle is to feed and clothe their children. I can never take away from that struggle, I don't believe that my existential questions lack importance or deserve not be answered because there are poor people in the world. I may look like I have it all, but I am not satisfied. I want more. I just need someone to tell me exactly what I'm looking for.
Friday, May 7, 2010
Sometimes I Say Stuff Just To Piss You Off
Yesterday the funniest thing happened. So we received the fabled World Cup Trophy (YAYS!) and everyone is like "All Hail Magical World Cup". Of course Mandela gets to see it first. So far, so South African. What was Loltastic, however was the absolute *sideeye* I got for tweeting the following about Madiba "He's still alive?". My goodness the FLAMES I saw for questioning the mortality of a 92 year old man. Shame on me! What scares me more is how we have deified the Old Man. South Africa needs to let Madiba go, while he is still alive, so we aren't plunged into the hysteria Britain was when Princess Diana died. Mostly because we won't cry and sleep in the streets. We'll fucking go crazy and loot shops and shit. White people will freak out and leave the country en masse (wait.. they're doing that anyway.) and we'll lose all credibility as the sane African country.
I sometimes wonder if there's ever been a person with such power and influence before - someone to whom the most powerful bend at the knee and the rest lie prostrate before their magni-fuckawesomery. It has to be amazing but at the same time shocking, because no one person should be treated like that. I don't care if you found the cure to AIDS. Good on ya, but the cynic in me fears that we place our pseudo-religious adulation on mortals who will disappoint us, who will fall to scandal (and it all comes out after death, believe me) and who in the end are as human and flawed as the rest of us.
Perhaps I'm projecting my own fears of fame on the situation. I fear it - not because of the being well known bit - that is something meinen Father has already taken care of - but the creepy, scary invasion of privacy those in the public eye face. I have even stopped reading tabloids, gossip sites and gossip rags in an effort to cleanse myself of the bad vibes I get from it. This constant grappling, grabbing on to mere mortals needs to stop. They need to live their lives. I know that it is a job - I totes get that, but it's more than allowing people a semblance of normality - it's the sense of danger that the situation presents. Can you imagine what it must be like for people to know where you are at ALL times. Not just your family and management teams, but MILLIONS of people can access your location at the click of a button. The idea of it freaks me the fuck out. So if I ever become a famous author, I will stop blogging. I will delete my facebook and twitter. I will erase every sign of my personality from cyberspace. I will want to protect every shred of evidence that I exist apart from my public persona like a lion. So that I can protect my family, and friends.
I think that's one thing Madiba has managed or rather his P.A. Zelda La Grange. Mandela's private life is private. Whether his children or grandchildren expose themselves to the scorn of the media and general public is really their business - but Madiba knows what he wants: a life.
I sometimes wonder if there's ever been a person with such power and influence before - someone to whom the most powerful bend at the knee and the rest lie prostrate before their magni-fuckawesomery. It has to be amazing but at the same time shocking, because no one person should be treated like that. I don't care if you found the cure to AIDS. Good on ya, but the cynic in me fears that we place our pseudo-religious adulation on mortals who will disappoint us, who will fall to scandal (and it all comes out after death, believe me) and who in the end are as human and flawed as the rest of us.
Perhaps I'm projecting my own fears of fame on the situation. I fear it - not because of the being well known bit - that is something meinen Father has already taken care of - but the creepy, scary invasion of privacy those in the public eye face. I have even stopped reading tabloids, gossip sites and gossip rags in an effort to cleanse myself of the bad vibes I get from it. This constant grappling, grabbing on to mere mortals needs to stop. They need to live their lives. I know that it is a job - I totes get that, but it's more than allowing people a semblance of normality - it's the sense of danger that the situation presents. Can you imagine what it must be like for people to know where you are at ALL times. Not just your family and management teams, but MILLIONS of people can access your location at the click of a button. The idea of it freaks me the fuck out. So if I ever become a famous author, I will stop blogging. I will delete my facebook and twitter. I will erase every sign of my personality from cyberspace. I will want to protect every shred of evidence that I exist apart from my public persona like a lion. So that I can protect my family, and friends.
I think that's one thing Madiba has managed or rather his P.A. Zelda La Grange. Mandela's private life is private. Whether his children or grandchildren expose themselves to the scorn of the media and general public is really their business - but Madiba knows what he wants: a life.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Have Mercy On Me, A Sinner: A Catholic Mea Culpa
My Catholicism is something that people find shocking. I'm sure my lassiere-faire approach to life has something to do with it. But I am an honest to blog, practicing Catholic. I go to confession once a month, I make sure I'm at mass everyday if possible and I spend a lot of time actually studying my faith. The last couple of months have been difficult. Not in the sense of the actual reception of sacraments, but the shitstorm of these paedophilia and abuse cases. Simply put, my heart is sore.
This 2000 year old church has been brought to its knees by negligence and ignorance. I cannot fathom the pain and the absolute terror that the abuse victims felt when they went through this ordeal, nor can I imagine the kind of fear the priests responsible for causing it must feel. What I can empathise with is the fear of failure that our Bishops must be experiencing. It is not often that a Bishop is called to book over failures that occurred over 30-40 years ago, where what might have been seen as a good spanking then is a brutal beating now. More than anything I am angry. The successors of the apostles have failed to keep their shepherds in line. Have failed in their God-given duty to chastise, to form and to lead, no matter how uncomfortable, or how badly it reflects on the diocese they are called upon to lead.
The cock has crowed three times. We have failed to heed the warning. We have denied Christ by denying his children. So I, as a faithful Catholic apologise to you, the public ad extra. I say sorry for priests and bishops who failed to show you Christ's light. Who have almost extinguished his light in the world and may have broken your faith in the Church that wishes to be a moral compass in a world that is spinning out of control. I apologise to each and every person who has been adversely affected by this scandal.
I pray this every time I go to confession. It is called an Act Of Contrition. I pray it for me and for the church in this time.
I know this brings little comfort to you. But I hope that it means something to the world at large.
This 2000 year old church has been brought to its knees by negligence and ignorance. I cannot fathom the pain and the absolute terror that the abuse victims felt when they went through this ordeal, nor can I imagine the kind of fear the priests responsible for causing it must feel. What I can empathise with is the fear of failure that our Bishops must be experiencing. It is not often that a Bishop is called to book over failures that occurred over 30-40 years ago, where what might have been seen as a good spanking then is a brutal beating now. More than anything I am angry. The successors of the apostles have failed to keep their shepherds in line. Have failed in their God-given duty to chastise, to form and to lead, no matter how uncomfortable, or how badly it reflects on the diocese they are called upon to lead.
The cock has crowed three times. We have failed to heed the warning. We have denied Christ by denying his children. So I, as a faithful Catholic apologise to you, the public ad extra. I say sorry for priests and bishops who failed to show you Christ's light. Who have almost extinguished his light in the world and may have broken your faith in the Church that wishes to be a moral compass in a world that is spinning out of control. I apologise to each and every person who has been adversely affected by this scandal.
I pray this every time I go to confession. It is called an Act Of Contrition. I pray it for me and for the church in this time.
"O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins, because I dread the loss of Heaven, and the pains of Hell; but most of all because I love Thee, my God, Who art all good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve, with the help of Thy grace, to confess my sins, to do penance, and to amend my life. Amen."
I know this brings little comfort to you. But I hope that it means something to the world at large.
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