Monday, 8 February 2010

I've Moved!

Mood: I-like-to-move-it-move-it
[Toot!] Index: 0.0
Communism Bit: Off
Location: Kampala

Hey, all. I'm back (weep!) and I'm located at
The new blogs is called My Song in the Trench. Well, the English part of it, anyway.
The intro post there is here. (Was that sentence an oxymoron of sorts?)

Meanwhile, since more people read this than other places where I write, I'll also use this here platform to introduce Fat Boy whose blog is called Freethought Kampala.


Friday, 21 August 2009

Because it Had to be Said

Mood: Still-gone mood
[Toot!] Index: 9.2
Communism Bit: Off

Location: Entebbe

Now, I don’t like the fact that Nev’s mug is grinning at me from the bottom-left corner. Emblems that aspire to universalism should be impersonal; did you learn nothing about propaganda from the good Commies of yester-century? :o) Also, it is too American—especially when no irony or puns are intended—to say “I am Ugandan”. I say, in correct grammar, “I am a Ugandan”. But it is a worthy emblem, nonetheless, and I shall put it on me blog. Even on pain of having to break my vow of silence and blog-celibacy. Because it had to be said.

Nev posted it here. Unfortunately, it doesn’t take care of those who, like me, have roundly renounced tribe completely. It only takes care of those who realise that, the past being irreversible, tribe should be secondary to national identity. They retain tribe, but relegate its importance. These, too, are kin, and are equally right (though different from one like myself). One could even say that they are merely of a different tribe.

A post to do full justice to the vestigial status of tribe in the Uganda of today would be too long, and would necessarily require a break from my break.
These politicians, who care more for themselves than for you (especially you!) are going to seize tribe and use it to divide and conquer, to stock up fortune for themselves and their undeserving children, who will eat because you bled, and live because you died. Reject, O my countrymen, all who speak of tribe as excluding one group or the other! Remember that you are all sons and daughters of one Adam and one Eve. Do not allow these categorisations to make you segregate against the children of your grandmother’s favourite siblings! We are one country. Reject the lines being drawn amongst us to pit “us” against “them”! We are them, they are us. Heaven forfend that the most-diverse region on Earth, our interlacustrine region, take tribe seriously! Heaven forfend! Technically, you’re not even your father’s tribe, and not even your mother’s tribe—especially in this region, where tribe (by its sheer profusion) is merely something akin to a street address! Forbid it, Almighty God! Choose division over unity, and you shall be expected to stab your nephews. The blood of our brothers and sisters in Rwanda is not yet dry in the ground!

I’m not back. I’m still gone. I’m still studying the things I promised I’d be studying. (Actually, I’m done with most of them, but I ended up picking new interesting topics. Someone now knows what one of these topics is.) I thought I’d be back sooner than this, and yet it appears that I’ll stay away for much, much longer than I had ever anticipated. The three months I talked about may likely become a year or more. I want to be back to make you hate me and hate yourselves in time for the 2011 elections, to spew bile and rage and make you so angry about the fact that you can’t prove me and my absurdities wrong. Remember, O reader, that Zeno of Elea is my favourite from Antiquity.

And fuck you all for abandoning your blogs in favour of Twitter! Shall we be forced to glean any sense from the 140-character updates in necessarily-poor grammar? Is this what we shall quote when we talk about how you spent your 2009? Shall we forever continue our descent to frequent nonsense, away from rare sense? Is it a price we can pay? Forbid it, Almighty God!
Return, then, to the bosom from which you ran. Come back to your blogs, and stp spkn lyk ths cuz its not a gd replcmnt 4 yo blgs! Fck twtr!
Reject Twitter! Gather substance and post it. (Steven Moffat’s Dr. Who episodes are often twice as long as usual episodes—because they are the best episodes. Often, they have to cut big chunks out in the end. I’m trying to say that good explanations—movies, stories, posts, updates, episodes—cannot be short.)

In the meantime, I’ll make it known to the few of you who are my friends and are on Twitter, that when you send ‘tweetme’ to 2299 (only UTL), you can sign up to be sending Tweets off your phone (and receiving them, when you send ‘twitter’). I did it for the money. :o)
Now I shall return to the studying that I’ve been doing, and to working (of course). Consider the previous post to still be in effect, with the mild modification that the absence will last even longer than I had expected.
Since I’m neither on Facebook nor on Twitter, unlike all you cool people, I am essentially without a way to inform you of things. I am abstaining from all “social networking”. That is good for the World, but not for me. So, when I get a new blog elsewhere, I’ll post the link here.

Tuesday, 27 January 2009


Mood: Leaving mood
[Toot!] Index: 0.0001
Communism Bit: Off
Location: Entebbe

I’m going away. I won’t be posting on this blog any more. Yes, clapping and ululating is allowed. Enjoy yourselves. Most of my victims don’t—didn’t—outlive me.

The weblogs will have more air, more signal, less noise. And now, you will be able to discuss amongst yourselves without having to watch for that noisy thing that shows up at the party and urinates in your comment boxes, letting the spirits talk through him. Incoherence has lost, verbosity is vanquished.

You should have picked up a signal from the first paragraph of the previous post. And I’ve come to the realisation that these status thingies, like Twitter, came after the weblog, but many bloggers keep a status thingy (be it at Facebook) and a blog. Of course, went my mind, enligtened, It’s because they serve a different purpose! The people who kept asking me for shorter posts wanted a status thingy!

Blog for essays and such, status thingy for the shorter dispatches. If I’ll blog again, it would have to be with that kind of system, but none satisfies me right now, so I should be pointing to a new URL when I return, running my own contraption. It may not be until three months have elapsed, at least.

Plus I have a hard road ahead. I’m reshaping my company and tuning things here and there. I’m dealing with a huge block, and my hand won’t draw. My focus has been almost only on my rent-paying work. That’s detrimental. (Did You Know: Most of me was built for luxury.) Some music here: Bob Marley on Uprising with Coming in From the Cold.

I’ve had fun doing this. Now I’m going to surrender myself to sanity and calmness—where I’m least at home. To learn to acknowledge the Shekinah within all humanity’s breast. To carefully study the workings of apology and pardon and forgiveness. To learn to write it all but much shorter. Stuff like that.
Studying, reading, loving, writing letters by hand, thinking, drawing, et cetera. I’m going away. :o)


Sunday, 18 January 2009


Mood: Thoughtful mood
[Toot!] Index: 6.66666666666666666666666
Communism Bit: On
Location: Entebbe

This week, for the first time in really long, I put pen to paper and drew a picture. I really, really, really hate how the other concerns of life have taken away from other things that are at least as important as having bread on my table. I no longer draw, I no longer write, I no longer stop to take the luxury of thinking about pointless puzzles. On this blog, when was the last time I posted a picture? Ah, this post. And the last time I posted a story for the sake of telling a story? Ah, this one. Strange, considering that this blog was founded on the high principle of mixing expressive art (drawing, writing, philosophy, et cetera) with the Communist Way. I’ve lost the plot. :o( And, to be honest, ranting wasn’t the point of the blog (originally).

But now, to redeem myself, I’ll spend this post thinking legibly.

I spend my life before a computer, and that is why I use the Dvorak keyboard layout. If you spend your life doing something, put time into making it comfortable. So, next on the list is a great chair that supports my lower back well. And lots of other stuff. I’m currently suffering from the results of bad sitting posture. It’s so, so far from funny. I realised I’d have to fashion myself a course in how to work healthily on the computer.

That brings me to another thing. Our educational system tries to make each of us one thing. You know, “You’re a lawyer, and you over there, you’re an agriculturalist.” That’s where it goes totally wrong. For any single 21st-Century person, other skills are absolutely necessary. If you get rich, for example (use your imagination!), you’ll hire one who was labelled Wealth Management Expert. But until you have him, you can’t get rich unless you are your own Wealth Management Expert. In short, you have to have studied more than your university allowed you to, if you’ll survive at all. The insidious thing is that the system teaches you to be taught, rather than to teach yourself. I’m going to do a “course” in healthy computer use. You need to do the same. But you won’t. And your university can’t hear your screams. Gwahahahaha.

Before I forget, my wee startup company has put up three utility websites. I don’t have Internet Explorer, but I trust some of you bloggers have it. So, check them out and tell me what isn’t working right. Solomon hosts me. He’s taking all my money, but he’s one heck of a cool dude, that Solomon. He went into the startup waters before I did, and it’s even inspiring. I don’t pay unless I need to; and he has made me pay. That’s the goal of my stuff.
  1. 1st In Line has a cool URL and cool utility. I won’t explain the sites here, because they should be able to do that. Check it out. It’s the one that seems to have the Internet Explorer problems.
  2. My Place almost shares a name with a Coldplay song. Check her out.
  3. was the first, and I made the regrettable technical decision to build it in PHP. I don’t know what posessed me, but I won’t re-write it until it pays me to.
I hope my liking for minimalism in interface design shows up. To make them user-friendly, I got help from un-expected quarters. :o) Most people under-estimate how hard it is for geeks to make user-friendly stuff, but maybe they’ve never seen MS Office. Or nearly any software, for that matter. If, as a programmer, you stray from minimalism, you’re creating a monster. I call that The 27th Comrade’s Law.

Next, I saw a lunar eclipse on the night of the 13th of January. But it wasn’t even predicted by the NASA people. Anyway, it was at the exact moment of the rising, and I’ll tell you: I’ve never seen a more-elegant sign in the skies. Wow.

I was at the UBHH, on the 15th. Coolest in a very, very long time. But I was on my best behaviour; ask JF. Except where I noted that the American Declaration of Independence, if translated to Arabic and words like “taxes” turned to things like “oil”, et cetera, it would work well as a dispatch from Al-Qaida, stating the reasons for the fight. Point being that the American founders were called terrorists, just as the Al-Qaida are, because they challenged an empire, just as Al-Qaida does. (For perspective, this Empire kills more innocent people every month than Al-Qaida has killed in its history. Who is your enemy? No, think before you answer.)

We talked and talked and talked. The topics swerved from why Africa’s coup history is a good, beautiful thing (because it shows that these people won’t let you shit on them—they’ll fight you), and that, by extension, fighting and war are beautiful things that cause bad things (it’s really beautiful that animals have enough dignity to exert physical force to prevent you from treating them like trash). From talking about the Aguda (co-incidentally, Rufus Wainright is playing right now) to discussing an interesting loop-hole in the Mosaic Law. And noting that Americans are fucked, because they’ve trusted their presidency with the power to resist any armed rebellion from within. If Bush had treated them like trash, they still wouldn’t be able to revolt. That’s disgusting, you incontinent burger-eating Western cowards! You deserved Bush! (I know, that’s unkind, but I won’t take it back. It’s too cool.)

It seems this Heroines story I wrote is quite popular. It has got me enough face-to-face plaudits. Hmm. Someone even said it’s publishable. But I just read an article that said books are dying. I’d be glad to become a writer, honestly, but better wordsmiths haven’t been published; why should I expect ... Oh, well. The fantasy was actually good while it lasted.

Please read about penicillin allergy. All of you. Turns out I have penicillin allergy, and if I ever receive it, I’ll get a life-threatening condition. In some medical jurisdictions (I made that phrase up, but it works), I’d be required to wear a band on my hand that explicitly states that I’m allergic to penicillin. Here’s an informative video. It mentions swollen lips as a sign. It’s not like I had thin lips, but you should have seen those I had with the allergy!

You know, if I stopped being a programmer, I’d become a writer. I actually dream of that. And also to draw lots of pictures. I’d probably have a blog where the average post looks like this. That’s some fanatasy of mine (second to the seedy one of the army of knife-wielding nuns).
Another thing, related, is that I’m excited about Lulu’s project. I should breathe into a paper bag immediately.

Is this too long already? I hope it is. I’m running out of thoughts.

Do you realise that the honk of a car is actually a language? But the grammar is too context-sensitive, which (I guess) is inevitable since there are only few symbols. All you can do is honk, and maybe vary the length and “tremolo” of the honk. But it is expressive enough to say things as varied as “Get out of the way, you old bastard!” and “Hey, congratulations on the new car!” But I hate honks all the same. In isolation, they don’t carry enough information to communicate politeness.

While we talk about language, I’m fucking tired of fucking saying the fucking F word all the fucking time. Fuck! And yet I can’t seem to fucking stop. But not to worry. I’ll employ my Pauline Philosophy of Dropping Habits Painlessly.

And, believe it or not, there was someone at the UBHH convinced that my hair was ... was fake. Gwahahahaha. That I had extensions in it. How sweet.

Longer! Longer!

You know, George Orwell wrote this column back then. It is interesting, in that you see the ideas of 1984 developing in it. He worried about language and how it loses some meanings, for example. It’s actually a nice chronicle of his ideas’ development. Start here. It has a Wikipedia page. It's rich. On the censorship of “fuck”. (December 6th.)

Last point. I know, by this time, I’m alone. So I’ll say things I believe. I’ll write for me.
Humans don’t take uniformity to be noteworthy, unless that uniformity is itself a lack of uniformity. A red ball in a heap of blue ones will show up, because it is not uniform. A heap of all-blue will show up in a group of heaps that are otherwise of mixed colours, because it is not uniform. This “showing up” I shall call “spiking”.
Unfortunately, the same humans think that positive spikes (when things break normalcy in the direction of betterment) are expected. It’s how humans are, and that helps them keep improving, et cetera. But negative spikes (when normalcy is broken for the worse) attract attention (because they are spikes) and criticism. “Criticism” can be positive or negative, but the positive end of that word has died, because of what I told you: whenever critics talk, they are complaining, so “criticism” comes to mean “negative criticism”.

This trend can be seen in politics (whenever anybody, for example, talks about Museveni, it is to say “This guy is bad, this is not working out right”). We didn’t talk of the climate until we were saying things are getting bad. The West doesn’t talk of Africa, except to count bodies or to note a battle or war. And that food critic in Ratatouille, Antoine Ego. :o)
It helps keep urging for betterment, but at the cost of truth. Truth is when both sides are told. This negativism, I don’t like. The solution, of course, is to consciously hunt for positive things in everything. Be able to say a good thing for every bad thing you can say, and you can’t go wrong.
I notice that’s the missing element in my raging against the West, for example, but fuck you: you won’t ruin my fun. Objectivity is boring.
I draw the line somewhere, of course. Or I risk becoming a suicidal 70-year-old twelve-time-divorcé who hates his body and hates everything and is incapable of seeing the beauty in anything. Same to you. Think about it. :o)

Monday, 12 January 2009


Mood: outsane mood
[Toot!] Index: 3.2
Communism Bit: On
Location: Entebbe

Girls, here’s something for you. There is this disease, called Grave’s Disease. The chances are low-ish that you’ll get it. But the reason I’m warning here is because I’m yet to hear of a more-deforming disease that is almost exclusively for girls. As in, maybe it’s not as bad as an amputation (at the neck, for example), but it is not easy to detect it, yet it damages in style. Okay, it’s easy to detect, but you’ll not know what you are detecting. You’ll think you’re just tired, yet your eyes are about to pop out of your head and dangle on a string of nerve.

See, if you ever get shaky hands and legs, and they just shake on their own ...
And your thyroid (the thing slightly below your Adam’s Apple—Eve’s, in your case) starts to swell ...
And your sight is not so clear anymore ... Just a little bit dimmer ...
And you feel really, really tired even when you have done no strenuous stuff ...
I’d guess a note about libido belongs here, but I couldn’t know. You see, I’m only giving you the symptoms we noticed on someone. It’s funny that the Wikipedia page on the disease lists opposite pairs of signs as symptoms, but I guess it is either because the disease is very tricky or because that’s Wikipedia.
Anyway, one big deal must be when you press a thumb into, say, your foot (on the upper side, behind the toes), it dips in for a short while (they could be slightly swollen), and then it returns to normal. It’s called oedema, and you likely know it (aka. dropsy) . I think it tends to get extremities (legs, breasts, arms). That’s the clincher.
Oh, and also flushes. If, suddenly, you’re feeling too bloody hot, then it passes and you’re drenched in sweat.

And you’re a girl past puberty (especially around late twenties, thirties, forties, although other age groups are in risk, too).
You could have Grave’s disease, so run to the doctor. I said Run.
The treatment is drawn out, and takes like two years, with heavy monitoring. Why did I say you should run? By the way, tell all the girls you know. Tell them, because ... it deforms you in rude style. The doctor who treated the case I mentioned, he didn’t work on Saturdays. But we made the call on a Friday night, and he was in office on Saturday morning, because—and these are his words—every minute you take causes severe incremental damage. Minute! (It uses previous damage, it seems. So the more-damaged you are, the more-damaged you get, like that.)
So the doc ran into office that morning, when he wasn’t even supposed to be working.

If you don’t get treated, you turn into a shivering wreck. Your colour changes (into some dark hue that approaches inky black), and your eyes hang nearly out of the sockets, and you have a goitre the size of a Fresian cow’s udder dancing before your neck. If you don’t die, the disease may go away on its own. But you never forget it, and neither does your body. Or anyone, for that matter.

It’s unknown what exactly causes it, but if you get some wound and it gets septic, that could trigger it. (You can’t know which wound; you may not have taken good notice, anyway. A pimple seems to fill the shoes quite well, I think.) And the wound may refuse to heal, as was the case here. Just run to the doctor. As Madea says, Run like ‘ell.
The person of whom I speak, she’s mostly healed now, with no damages. But that was mostly luck. (Trying to gossip on phone, she told her symptoms to someone who knew another case that was no so lucky, maybe for not being a gossip. The other end of the phone line screamed and told her to run to the doctor right away.) As for you, thank your deities that you read my otherwise-useless blog.
That’s all.

But this was too sane. Too out of character with the usual CS&B stuff. Let’s rock dis joint!

I’ve been talking here, that the way the political system of the World is designed doesn’t follow some good principles. As in, when you design something, there is this thing called The Principle of Recursive Design, which says that the parts of the whole must be of the same qualities as the whole.
So, a strong car, if well designed, must have a strong axle, strong nuts, strong body, strong engine. Well-designed trucks look like Doctor Who’s Cybermen.
A water-proof pen must have a water-proof nib and water-proof casing. If it is poor quality (Made in Switzerland, for example), the ink tube will not be water-proof. If it is good quality, the kind that you pay good money for (Made in Uganda, for example), it will have even the ink tube water-proof. Someday, when it goes open while you’re under the sea, you notice that the ink didn’t spill, and you praise Made in Uganda products on your blog, and they become known all over the World.

But let’s not digress. So, the World political system was obviously made in Switzerland. It encourages popular control of the decision making process on the inside of countries, but encourages dictatorship in the relationships between countries. What happened in the dictatorial times is that someone saw what he felt was right, and he imposed it on the lower mortals. The only lower mortals who didn’t bow and thank the dictator for whatever they received were rebels. Rebels don’t obey the dictator, and those who don’t obey become rebels. This we understand very well. The rebels were attacked by the dictator’s military in a bid to over-power them and make them obey. The obedient ones were told that they were good, and that they would not taste the wrath that is handed out to the rebels. They were made to face the rebels and denounce them and shout at them “rebel!”

We overthrew this order, and the world agreed with us. I’m lying. We didn’t, and it didn’t. What happened was that we all knew that there was better. That we could have a real democracy, one where we influenced the decisions that were made over us. Ultimately, we’d choose what happened to us. So we threw the dictator out. This was inside the countries. The dictators we threw out were in many colours, but mostly White. We said we had had enough of Brits going to London and drafting what we should believe in Nairobi and Kampala. We fought. We rebelled. We wanted to own our land. We wanted to eat what came from the sweat that made our earth soggy beneath our feet. If we got any support from the White dictators such as America, it was because they thought If we aren’t the Master there, nobody will be. Other dictators we threw out were like Idi Amin, who was chosen and installed onto the throne by the ones we had fought earlier. (You see, therefore, that the history of unpopular dictatorship in Africa is a creature of the people who invented it, of course, the ones who say we are steeped in a dictatorial culture, the ones who killed us in our thousands when we wanted our land back.)

We didn’t overthrow dictatorship, because it tarries yet. You know what happens when your government writes a budget according to its decisions, right or wrong, if they differ with what the Westerners think is right? The Westerners say No! Silly Native subservients know nothing! Maybe the Native mind is too weak to grasp European wisdom? Is Plato and Keynes and Washington that difficult for the Native economist? Don’t they know that this way that we point is The Way? What’s with this Native and wanting to make independent Decisions, yet not having the Mind for it? We’ve said it before, and we’ll say it again: Thinking for the European, Obeying for the Native. We don’t teach the Greek Ancients in your Universities for Nothing.
I mean, I don’t care if we fuck up our economy with our decisions. Let’s do it. The worm, when expelled in faeces, will die, because it has no legs, no eyes, no arms. It has been carried around, made to be a parasite, that it has had no use for independent action. When the dependence ends—not if, but when—the worm can’t survive. That’s what the Native is being made. By what?

By dictatorship. We didn’t overthrow dictatorship, because rules are made in Europe and handed down as decrees. (You shall permit homosexual relationships henceforth. Going against this goes against the Human Rights we taught you about. Don’t mind that the very first clause ever written against homosexuality in Africa was written in Europe by Europeans for Africans to obey.)
Spot the dictator. And, as I said before, the only people who don’t obey the dictators are rebels. If you don’t obey, you’re a rebel, and if you’re a rebel, you don’t obey.
So the dictatorship unleashes might against the rebels. All sorts of decrees that haven’t been obeyed have uncovered rebels. From Pyongyang (being besieged, even as we speak, by the Western dictatorship, but ready to strike with Songun Might under the Brilliant Guidance of the Wise Dear Leader to Defend the Juche Revolution) to La Habana. To Caracas. To Harare, as well. I’ll deal with this in another post, just stay calm for now! :-o Sit down.

When your country doesn’t obey (becomes a rebel, in other words), it is attacked. Budgets, trade sanctions, arms embargoes, et cetera. Spot the dictator. Obey Protestant/Catholic-inspired laws! No, now obey Hedonist pseudo-liberal laws! Je suis le monde, et le monde est moi! What I say, you do! Obey! Maybe we wouldn’t rebel if we had a say in making the choice, but no; it’s by decree. You people aren’t fighting, because you don’t know that next they are going to say the law is that you be their unquestioning shamba slaves. You’ll remember my words, when you grow all the food that the West eats, but survive by licking the sweat of your palms. Freedom’s importance is that only free people can defend freedom. You let them be your masters while you watch their movies and turn into over-painted mimicry clowns and think it makes you cool to know who their entertainers are fucking, trading your freedom for the label of “Good Carbon Copy”, learning to do as they do, as they tell you to do, not knowing that, when situations compel them to, they will tell you to die on their front-lines, because their obese children can’t do this hard work for the empire.

A big war is coming, and empires always use the Natives for this dirty business. Have you learnt nothing? How many more Natives shall be shot in the face, and be brought home unlabelled, only to be told apart by the Western-style partings in their Afros? And we couldn’t have refused to fight, because we didn’t have the freedom to not do as “our country” (Britain! We were Brits! How cool!) wanted us to. “Our flag”, the Union Jack, was at war. Only the free can defend their freedom. It’s this fight you now laugh at, as you read this. Your grandfathers sold their freedom for the opportunity to be deemed Brits. Complete with pinstripe suits and partings in the hair and bowler hats. You remember the King’s African Rifles? The (real) Brits don’t. Your grandfathers died in vain, for that dictatorial Master, while thinking that, at least, they were British. Now, you. You have sold your birthright for bean soup. So you can be called “progressive” and “democratic” and such. In the next war, you’ll want so badly to have the label of “League of the Free” against your country, and “Defenders of Democratic Civilization” (note the z in civilisation). Your city will host a base that belongs to the dictator, and the dictator’s enemy (who you’ve been taught to hate and denounce and call “terrorist” or “communist” or just “non-democratic”—the new terms for the old one, “rebel”) will fire retaliatory nuclear bombs at you, and you will have children who are deformed, with noses on their chins. But at least you’ll be “democratic, free, civilised”.

We can’t have democracy inside the countries, if we do, and not amongst the countries, if we do. This handing down of what should be done, that is dictatorship. The Americans do this, sans batting an eyelid. And then they want to lecture us about democracy. This is not sustainable, and, like all dictatorships, will fall. And when it does, Frantz Fanon will be called “an idealistic romantic poet”. What I mean is that the survivors of that war will be chocking on the bullets that slip into their stew from the cooking body parts of enemy soldiers.

Tuesday, 6 January 2009

Rantdom Thuroggits

Mood: Yarrow mood
[Toot!] Index: 3.2
Communism Bit: Off
Location: Entebbe

Terrible, terrible things have been happening in my world. For example, you know your guitar skills are terrifying when you have to chase your audience. Not just that: I was shouting “Only one verse! Just the first one! Okay, okay, only the opening lick. I’ve practiced since last time, I swear!” Now, I know I lost a string, but still.
Anyway, problem is that when you hold the guitar, people want to hear a Jimi Hendrix. At least I know Hendrix didn’t play the adungu. Gon’ practice.

Before I forget, go to Lulu's crib and vote already.

Next random observation: buy land or a house today. If you can afford it, you lucky bastard, buy it. See, Uganda’s population is young. 50% is under fifteen years of age. So, whatever property costs now, it will cost twice as much in about fifteen years (due to increased demand). That’s the conservative estimate. If you factor in increasing wealth (aka. increasing demand), you can increase that estimate. See, with land, supply is fixed; only demand changes, in that historic linear equation. There’s no chance that someone will flood the market with more land. It could, in reality, be anything from five to ten times. So, if you get it now, your investment will lie there making money while you club. 10 million becomes 50 or 100 million. Don’t joke. In any case, buy it now, or you’ll be the one buying at them prices, rather than selling. (A house in the USA goes for about Ushs. 1 billion these days. Be for the future.)

But the value of land will hit the blessed zero, when the Revolution nationalises its use. Vote for me! Vote for the Revolution! Guns and votes! Guns are Votes! Bullets are Ballots! The Popular War, yay!
Man, that poster of Sendero Luminoso still shines brightly in my head, pointing to a path (though maybe not the path).

Next random thing? ’90s pop music was ... God will get whoever sang any of that shit. Leave revenge to God, they say.

I had malaria. This is the next random thing. One Artenam dose fixed me, but Christ Jesus the Promised Nazarene! It was not extremely nice to suffer that shit. :o(

Next: I don’t have my computer right now, and I think I may have lost it for good. The laptop, yes. :o( I’ve said this before, and I’ll say it again. If you don’t back up your data, go cry in the other room. The rest of us won’t waste sympathy. Back up! Daily! Don’t come crying when—not if, but when—when you lose your disk. Please, please, please: back your data up. (Hint: mail yourself some precious documents, so Gmail or Yahoo! can keep a copy safe for you. Encrypt them, if they are private.)

Next: Life, in her infinite kindness, never lets me forget that I have no reason to believe in myself. You can’t imagine the freedom that gives one.

Monday, 22 December 2008

Mallards, Et Cetera

Mood: Mersenne-twister mood
[Toot!] Index: 0.5
Communism Bit: Off
Location: Entebbe

  1. The water-friendly birds of Europe started arriving recently. As always, the clearest signal is with the mallard ducks. I think migratory birds are an inspirational symbol, and if I had to pick one thing that most-embodies hope, I’d choose the migratory bird. It would also be my symbol for luxury: if it gets cold Up There, head Down There.
    Unfortunately, the humans Up There also figured out how to fly to Down Here when it gets cold Up There. As a result, there is a band of chain-smoking Greeks who are taking over my spot at the lake. Damn it. I own that place! The Greeks, they won’t leave anything alone, not even the markers I’m using to denote these points. On to βετα, then.

  2. How to deal with the urge to get a pet monkey? Seriously.

  3. The party was off the hook, on Saturday. I’d link to a blog post that says more, but (unfortunately) it has pictures of me. Cameras are a little too honest with me, I think.

  4. Jude says the definition of an idealist is this:
    idealist, n: One who is yet to try it out.

    (Note: adjective forms of this word appear in American literature. Correct them with a red marker wherever you find them.)

  5. I thought this was one chance when the World would get to see that violence can be defeated by good ol' trust and forgiveness. But the guns are screaming again. Shit. And this guy, sure that Kony will be grabbed this time, sent the sonny to get the honours prize. Hahaha.

  6. Christmas Carols suck, and those who don’t admit it have either not heard that limited selection of unimaginatively-repetitive chants as frequently as I have or they aren’t being honest. Man, who’s composing new carols? Why no new ones? It may be a watch-worthy sign that, for those to whom this would be an issue, Christmas (and probably Christianity) have become artifacts, remnants, museum items, that can no longer be modified or participated in, just watched from a distance—Please Do NOT Touch the Items on Display. Thank You - Management.

  7. Sticking with the theme, I’ve come to realise that John Calvin is better known, contemporarily, at least, for his sub-par theocracy than for the Calvinist take on Christianity. Shit.

  8. In closing, Boney M. Since I mentioned Christmas carols, you see. I hate the Boney M carols. I hate some Boney M music. But the world is yet to see another song like their Rasputin. Russia’s Greatest Sex Machine ... you should see the video. And El Lute, which is quite inspirational, even tear-jerking. And Sad Movies; at least I liked it as a kid.
    Unfortunately, we never let them forget that they made the error of the Christmas carols. Not caring about their other better songs. Stop already. Full stop.