Mood: Unclear
[Toot!] Index: 3.2
Communism Bit: On
Location: Job, of course
My Mama says I am `all heart and no brains'. That I am a fanatic, once I choose something. I think she's right. Back then, Baz told me: `You think you're moderate, but you're an extremist.' Again, that sounds true. And then, the latest, Kenyanchick said (here) `... I doubt that 27th is capable of making a respectful, coherent and logical argument.' Hehehe. Well, again, I agree.
Mostly, I will go off at the beak screaming propaganda for the effect on me and the surrounding. And you know, one of the basics of Newspeak in 1984 was speaking without thinking. Duckspeaking, you know. Doubleplusgood.
Still ... until the Americans stop supporting a certain issue, I will oppose it (from the heart, not the head) as part of the anti-Imperialist struggle. Come, O Great Revolution. If I involve the head, I may side with the 'Mericans. Not good for the Revolution. Still ... I'll try sanity next time.
And if I want to get laid, I better wise up—girls generally don't like a guy who thinks summary executions are sexy. Who supports, for captured spies, a firing squad then a trial. No telling what kinks he may reveal later on ... :o)
Funny that Baz and Kenyanchick echoed exactly what one of my two angels told me. The angel that sits on my right shoulder, called Ange au Droit once told me to `think, think again, then talk'. The angel on the left, called Jude is his younger sister's opposite. He replied, in that same argument, that `Before you're done thinking, the Americans will have brain-washed another potential fighter ... propaganda is all that matters for now.'
You'd think I shouldn't trust Jude, since he leads me to more trouble than smiles, but he feels (to me, anyway) like the voice of reason. He has an abrassive personality, and often crosses over to the right to make his sister cry. I separate them (one of the reasons I always grew big hair was to keep a barrier between Jude and Ange), and Ange complains in sobs, sometimes I pocket Jude, I promise to keep better watch ... and it happens again, when I put Jude back on the left shoulder. (They are the size of a thumb, and weigh nothing.) But besides that, he's practical and pragmatic. Right now, I don't have them both.
Last Wednesday, Jude harassed his sister, so I put him in the pocket to stop the war. Sadly, I forgot to remove him from the jeans today, when I was taking the clothes for washing. I remembered after getting here, and I ran back. Ange was really worried. I ran over to get my jeans, and found them already soaked in detergent. I checked, got him out, and left them both at home, Ange trying to help her bro recover from the shock of cold detergent. I'm sure Jude would have said `No, let's leave her there and see what happens ... experiment, you know.' He's weird like that. But, at least, now he will learn the dangers of disturbing Ange ...
(Also, my argument has been redeemed. Women make better teachers. Why? Because smarter humans make better teachers. It doesn't take a lot of brains to be on top during sex—or to be a war-monger, for that matter. But it takes refined minds to make great teachers. Men are inferior to women.)
Saturday, 25 August 2007
Sunday, 19 August 2007
Yet Another Weird Friend
Mood: Pensive
[Toot!] Index: 0.2
Communism Bit: Off
Location: Job, of course
I'm adding strange, strange people to my collection of weird friends. I mean Down There Where I Come From. It seems my unfortunate fate that I end up with the strangest people. Maybe birds of a feather?
There is a blind man Down There Where I Come From. And he hasn't cut his hair in decades. About twenty years, almost. He has thick dreadlocks the length of an arm. It makes mine look like stubble on a teenager's chin. Like a the fuzz on a baby's cheeks. Even though he is no rastaman, everyone calls him Rasta. And he responds—what can he do?
He has one of them white canes that blind people swing about so you don't drive over them in the road. But it is only white in theory. It is somewhere between beige and brown.
He told me the last time he cut his hair was the same night he last saw anything. So he lets his hair be `the story of my blindness'. This is the story, in short, that his dreadlocks should tell.
In 1986, when Museveni rolled in, Rasta was in the UNLF. The guys who were fighting Museveni. And he deserted the army in those last days. But he kept the gun, mbu `a soldier must have his gun'. Well, he was arrested soon enough. They treated all UNLF guys who hadn't surrendered as enemies, 'cause Museveni was yet to set roots down. And there were many little groups declaring war, et cetera. Anyway, many were given the option of joining the army. He joined, since he had nearly nothing else to do. And he became an NRA guy. Just like that
But shit happens, as they say. One some drunken night, he or one of the people in that bar (he says he remembers nothing about that night) shot a man. They were all taken in, and court-martialled. Found guilty, they were tossed in jail. To serve for life. He thinks he would still be in jail if he hadn't gone blind in his first months. He tells many stories about the insides of the jail, and I'm left wondering how such a small place can have so many stories in it. He says they got some disease in the jail and many people got red, sore eyes, including him. But while all healed, he went blind.
And he started staying in the corner of the communal cell, attempting suicide, et cetera. Then they started letting him stay out of the cell (`blind guy can't escape'). Then he started doing some of the simple duties for the wardens. Then, in 1995, someone tried to burn some cell, and he was the one who woke the sleepy wardens up. And then, in 1997, the chief warden told him he was working on getting him out of jail, since he had `shown a will to reform and become a better member of free society'. He got out in 2001, and has absolutely no contacts outside our slum.
I think he survives on kindness, even though he likes to sound macho. One of his lines: `The life is what matters. Even if you have no arms, and you have no eyes, and even no legs. If you still have life, you are not yet extinguished.'
But the part that breaks me: `I don't ask God that I may see my daughter—I am already blind. All I want is to know that she is alive. Can't God do only that one thing for me, before I die?'
[Toot!] Index: 0.2
Communism Bit: Off
Location: Job, of course
I'm adding strange, strange people to my collection of weird friends. I mean Down There Where I Come From. It seems my unfortunate fate that I end up with the strangest people. Maybe birds of a feather?
There is a blind man Down There Where I Come From. And he hasn't cut his hair in decades. About twenty years, almost. He has thick dreadlocks the length of an arm. It makes mine look like stubble on a teenager's chin. Like a the fuzz on a baby's cheeks. Even though he is no rastaman, everyone calls him Rasta. And he responds—what can he do?
He has one of them white canes that blind people swing about so you don't drive over them in the road. But it is only white in theory. It is somewhere between beige and brown.
He told me the last time he cut his hair was the same night he last saw anything. So he lets his hair be `the story of my blindness'. This is the story, in short, that his dreadlocks should tell.
In 1986, when Museveni rolled in, Rasta was in the UNLF. The guys who were fighting Museveni. And he deserted the army in those last days. But he kept the gun, mbu `a soldier must have his gun'. Well, he was arrested soon enough. They treated all UNLF guys who hadn't surrendered as enemies, 'cause Museveni was yet to set roots down. And there were many little groups declaring war, et cetera. Anyway, many were given the option of joining the army. He joined, since he had nearly nothing else to do. And he became an NRA guy. Just like that
But shit happens, as they say. One some drunken night, he or one of the people in that bar (he says he remembers nothing about that night) shot a man. They were all taken in, and court-martialled. Found guilty, they were tossed in jail. To serve for life. He thinks he would still be in jail if he hadn't gone blind in his first months. He tells many stories about the insides of the jail, and I'm left wondering how such a small place can have so many stories in it. He says they got some disease in the jail and many people got red, sore eyes, including him. But while all healed, he went blind.
And he started staying in the corner of the communal cell, attempting suicide, et cetera. Then they started letting him stay out of the cell (`blind guy can't escape'). Then he started doing some of the simple duties for the wardens. Then, in 1995, someone tried to burn some cell, and he was the one who woke the sleepy wardens up. And then, in 1997, the chief warden told him he was working on getting him out of jail, since he had `shown a will to reform and become a better member of free society'. He got out in 2001, and has absolutely no contacts outside our slum.
I think he survives on kindness, even though he likes to sound macho. One of his lines: `The life is what matters. Even if you have no arms, and you have no eyes, and even no legs. If you still have life, you are not yet extinguished.'
But the part that breaks me: `I don't ask God that I may see my daughter—I am already blind. All I want is to know that she is alive. Can't God do only that one thing for me, before I die?'
Saturday, 11 August 2007
Angry, Angry Medley. Or Leave Africa Alone.
Mood: Angry, Philosophical, Pissed-as-Hell
[Toot!] Index: 9.9
Communism Bit: On
Location: Job, of course
Rant mode, comrades. :o) I talk, angrily, about homosexuality, Americans, the Daily Monitor, Museveni and Besigye, the Constitution, populist empty-headedness, a plan to exact justice from a perceived `untouchable', and other bloggers. It may be long. Continue at reader's own peril. I would strongly recommend ((o:) reading the whole thing, even if in episodes. Or, at least, skim it. This is the angriest post by The 27th Comrade in his memory. It may even be extreme. You've been warned. Three, two, one, read.
First, I can't post comments. That has done a lot to ruin my mood. Neither on my blog nor on others I read a lot. It seems restricted to (and caused by) Blogger.com. And this is a Google service! Just when you thought Google = Technical excellence. A search (on G***le) reveals that everyone out there is suffering. I tried out Wordpress, and I want to tell all of you: it is better. By far. More later.
Now, here is today's Daily Monitor headline: Why Police are not Arresting Homos. And on the following pages, they put: Gay testimonies: We are persecuted.
You know the voice they are using. That deep, haloed baritone of concern, dripping with solidarity with the oppressed. The idiots.
When Museveni got his parliamentary majority to do what a parliamentary majority is supposed to—affect the constitution to further the Party's ideas—he was rebuked by this same newspaper (abusing its principal of neutrality). The Monitor said it chose sides in this war, because it was interested in protecting the constitution, blah-di-blah, and that that meant opposing Museveni. But we all know that he did nothing against the constitution—I dare anybody, even Besigye, to point out what was against the constitution in all that happened. And you know what the Americans say? (Check Museveni's page on Wikipedia, for example). `He abolished term limits ...' Anyway, let's ignore them for now—they think the world is made of dictators, the best of whom keeps innocent people in Guantánamo Bay Concentration Camp. The truth of the matter is that opposing the third term was just a popular thing at the time, even when it had no principal behind it. It was a cheap, sure way to get noticed, get a free drink, and maybe get sex. I used to be antagonistic by saying, to a group of sweaty FDC freaks, `Yeah, he has over-stayed; he should go. Twenty years is too long. And so should God. And my Dad. And my boss. And the janitor. And the teacher. And the Constitution. Dr. Besigye is right—twenty-one years is too long!' Now we have settled that. Many things are supported because they make us look radical and worth giving sex, not because we even bothered to think them through. The average FDC member (all, that is) was too stupid to see that this was Uganda's most constitutional moment in history, and maybe for the next six hundred years—that a sitting leader had to depend on the parliament to do for him what he had fought a war for before (while not president).
The same thing, unfortunately, applies to this sick push for gay rights. The Monitor is only lightly-veiling its support for gay rights. Noble goal? Maybe. But think: it is against the Constitution to be gay. So, the Monitor is abating acts that break the law? You decide. These are the Grand Guards of the Beautiful Constitution. I am waiting for Dr. James Nsaba-Buturo to say `We ... ah, must preserve the Constitution. On this I am resolute. Homosexuals should be hanged in public. We have a Constitution to protect ...' Or, even better, the Monitor should say this, being the Grand Guards of the Beautiful Constitution. Now you see why it is wrong to take sides when, by definition, you shouldn't? There are more lessons to learn in this. That is just one of the million. The other is that ... the `Good People' are going to get a parliamentary majority, maybe even pay it a touch of bribes, and get it to fix the Constitution to allow homosexuality. Will the Monitor oppose that, because it hurts the Constitution? And the Americans will draw horns on the niggers' heads and say they abolished homophobia, those stinky dictators in the Savanah? Or draw a halo on the Brilliant Leaders' heads, for abolishing the clause?
What is the point? The Monitor people are keeping up their populist empty-headedness, which, unfortunately, we all exhibit from time to time. These days, being pro-gay rights is to express modernity and forward-lookingness and `equality among ... um, men. No, pun accidental.' Not that they have a real principal behind their frothing. Sadly, most of us will just go and deify the activists, who are often more-militant than those who hate them, which robs them of the support I'd have given.
In case you have gotten dumb ideas, hear me out: I am completely and totally against the stigmatisation of homosexuals. The only time I will let the oppression of homosexuals pass is when we step up the oppression of lying politicians, evil priests, and the like. I am going to support a homosexual before I support a priest. At least homosexuals aren't Pharisees. I don't see why homosexuals are oppressed more than liars and thieves! If both be crimes, why do we still have ministers who cause the deaths of hundreds, and chase down homosexuals because they have kinks, many of which we surpass (by, say, being violent to our wives/children/students/citizens) even though we are heterosexual? Why is homosexuality worse than being a quasi mass-murderer? Or a wife-beater, or a parent who doesn't provide for the kids? Can't these vices be found among the self-righteous homophobics?
And it is almost heart-breaking to see how oppressed these people are. Read the story of Brenda Kizza. Call this an alliance of two evil people, but I side with him/her. :oD
Clearly, homosexuals are not genetically gay. That's a lie I don't have time to talk about. But the conditions that get them oriented to being gay are as much out of their control as the conditions that got you to have the accent you use when speaking English. I fear heights, because I barely survived a fall, when I was little. They prefer homosexuality, maybe because they had a mean parent, who forever skewed how they see the other sex. I am glad that I don't have to suffer with them, since I love my women. :o) But I don't see why they should be oppressed. I like girls in whom I see my mother, for example. If I had been a girl, with the same mother, I'm very certain I would be a lesbian. (Plus, I really think lesbians rock, when they aren't as militant as the homophobics, but just chilling. They are even a turn-on.)
Still ... I must tell you I have expressed, and still express, some level of distaste for male homosexuals. It borders on murderous hate. But I know that my hate for them is unjustified, and should be punished before homosexuality is punished. :o)
Then: I put a comment at DM's post that generally sums up much of how I think regarding Museveni.
Then here: if you thought I am just a reactionary extremist frothing at the beak, here is Jasmine noticing that the stereotypes of Africa have gone a little too far.
And then the guys designing a laptop for Third World kids ... f*** them and all they stand for. It based on the wrong assumption that kids will take it with them to hunt, or use it in their clay-wall classes. Or that they will need easy translation from English to local languages. They have wasted a whole project by going on the wrong assumptions the American propagandists are peddling about Africa. We speak and write better English than American novelists and their European neighbours. Yes, `neighbours', with a f***in' `u' in it. We don't keep pet lions, for f***'s sake! We don't need a machine that will introduce kids to computers—there are no Ugandan kids who didn't watch the bootlegged Matrix Reloaded two weeks before it was released. Sure, some Americans are going to point at a picture in Time magazine of the kids who go to a very broken school. Well, I'll point at the kids who are shooting their comrades in America, and say kids in America only learn murder in school. To all Americans: stop saying `Africa' when you mean `Those cherry-picked archive photos in Newsweek'.
And keep your friggin' brain-washing laptops. At least until they are going to create a laptop that won't say `neighbour' is spelt wrong. May all you Americentric idiots die a slow, horrifying death, along with your genocidic cultural imperialism. May fire and brimstone rain on you from Heaven. Or the Middle East, whichever gets fed up first.
There is this weblog, dedicated to a concerted effort to arrest the Queen of England when she comes to Uganda for the CHOGM. Okay, I will confess: I am behind it. And I am serious. Arrest the Queen. But, please, don't mention me there. I'll stop it after the CHOGM. Are you ready for CHOGM? I am ready for CHOGM.
[Toot!] Index: 9.9
Communism Bit: On
Location: Job, of course
Rant mode, comrades. :o) I talk, angrily, about homosexuality, Americans, the Daily Monitor, Museveni and Besigye, the Constitution, populist empty-headedness, a plan to exact justice from a perceived `untouchable', and other bloggers. It may be long. Continue at reader's own peril. I would strongly recommend ((o:) reading the whole thing, even if in episodes. Or, at least, skim it. This is the angriest post by The 27th Comrade in his memory. It may even be extreme. You've been warned. Three, two, one, read.
First, I can't post comments. That has done a lot to ruin my mood. Neither on my blog nor on others I read a lot. It seems restricted to (and caused by) Blogger.com. And this is a Google service! Just when you thought Google = Technical excellence. A search (on G***le) reveals that everyone out there is suffering. I tried out Wordpress, and I want to tell all of you: it is better. By far. More later.
Now, here is today's Daily Monitor headline: Why Police are not Arresting Homos. And on the following pages, they put: Gay testimonies: We are persecuted.
You know the voice they are using. That deep, haloed baritone of concern, dripping with solidarity with the oppressed. The idiots.
When Museveni got his parliamentary majority to do what a parliamentary majority is supposed to—affect the constitution to further the Party's ideas—he was rebuked by this same newspaper (abusing its principal of neutrality). The Monitor said it chose sides in this war, because it was interested in protecting the constitution, blah-di-blah, and that that meant opposing Museveni. But we all know that he did nothing against the constitution—I dare anybody, even Besigye, to point out what was against the constitution in all that happened. And you know what the Americans say? (Check Museveni's page on Wikipedia, for example). `He abolished term limits ...' Anyway, let's ignore them for now—they think the world is made of dictators, the best of whom keeps innocent people in Guantánamo Bay Concentration Camp. The truth of the matter is that opposing the third term was just a popular thing at the time, even when it had no principal behind it. It was a cheap, sure way to get noticed, get a free drink, and maybe get sex. I used to be antagonistic by saying, to a group of sweaty FDC freaks, `Yeah, he has over-stayed; he should go. Twenty years is too long. And so should God. And my Dad. And my boss. And the janitor. And the teacher. And the Constitution. Dr. Besigye is right—twenty-one years is too long!' Now we have settled that. Many things are supported because they make us look radical and worth giving sex, not because we even bothered to think them through. The average FDC member (all, that is) was too stupid to see that this was Uganda's most constitutional moment in history, and maybe for the next six hundred years—that a sitting leader had to depend on the parliament to do for him what he had fought a war for before (while not president).
The same thing, unfortunately, applies to this sick push for gay rights. The Monitor is only lightly-veiling its support for gay rights. Noble goal? Maybe. But think: it is against the Constitution to be gay. So, the Monitor is abating acts that break the law? You decide. These are the Grand Guards of the Beautiful Constitution. I am waiting for Dr. James Nsaba-Buturo to say `We ... ah, must preserve the Constitution. On this I am resolute. Homosexuals should be hanged in public. We have a Constitution to protect ...' Or, even better, the Monitor should say this, being the Grand Guards of the Beautiful Constitution. Now you see why it is wrong to take sides when, by definition, you shouldn't? There are more lessons to learn in this. That is just one of the million. The other is that ... the `Good People' are going to get a parliamentary majority, maybe even pay it a touch of bribes, and get it to fix the Constitution to allow homosexuality. Will the Monitor oppose that, because it hurts the Constitution? And the Americans will draw horns on the niggers' heads and say they abolished homophobia, those stinky dictators in the Savanah? Or draw a halo on the Brilliant Leaders' heads, for abolishing the clause?
What is the point? The Monitor people are keeping up their populist empty-headedness, which, unfortunately, we all exhibit from time to time. These days, being pro-gay rights is to express modernity and forward-lookingness and `equality among ... um, men. No, pun accidental.' Not that they have a real principal behind their frothing. Sadly, most of us will just go and deify the activists, who are often more-militant than those who hate them, which robs them of the support I'd have given.
In case you have gotten dumb ideas, hear me out: I am completely and totally against the stigmatisation of homosexuals. The only time I will let the oppression of homosexuals pass is when we step up the oppression of lying politicians, evil priests, and the like. I am going to support a homosexual before I support a priest. At least homosexuals aren't Pharisees. I don't see why homosexuals are oppressed more than liars and thieves! If both be crimes, why do we still have ministers who cause the deaths of hundreds, and chase down homosexuals because they have kinks, many of which we surpass (by, say, being violent to our wives/children/students/citizens) even though we are heterosexual? Why is homosexuality worse than being a quasi mass-murderer? Or a wife-beater, or a parent who doesn't provide for the kids? Can't these vices be found among the self-righteous homophobics?
And it is almost heart-breaking to see how oppressed these people are. Read the story of Brenda Kizza. Call this an alliance of two evil people, but I side with him/her. :oD
Clearly, homosexuals are not genetically gay. That's a lie I don't have time to talk about. But the conditions that get them oriented to being gay are as much out of their control as the conditions that got you to have the accent you use when speaking English. I fear heights, because I barely survived a fall, when I was little. They prefer homosexuality, maybe because they had a mean parent, who forever skewed how they see the other sex. I am glad that I don't have to suffer with them, since I love my women. :o) But I don't see why they should be oppressed. I like girls in whom I see my mother, for example. If I had been a girl, with the same mother, I'm very certain I would be a lesbian. (Plus, I really think lesbians rock, when they aren't as militant as the homophobics, but just chilling. They are even a turn-on.)
Still ... I must tell you I have expressed, and still express, some level of distaste for male homosexuals. It borders on murderous hate. But I know that my hate for them is unjustified, and should be punished before homosexuality is punished. :o)
Then: I put a comment at DM's post that generally sums up much of how I think regarding Museveni.
Then here: if you thought I am just a reactionary extremist frothing at the beak, here is Jasmine noticing that the stereotypes of Africa have gone a little too far.
And then the guys designing a laptop for Third World kids ... f*** them and all they stand for. It based on the wrong assumption that kids will take it with them to hunt, or use it in their clay-wall classes. Or that they will need easy translation from English to local languages. They have wasted a whole project by going on the wrong assumptions the American propagandists are peddling about Africa. We speak and write better English than American novelists and their European neighbours. Yes, `neighbours', with a f***in' `u' in it. We don't keep pet lions, for f***'s sake! We don't need a machine that will introduce kids to computers—there are no Ugandan kids who didn't watch the bootlegged Matrix Reloaded two weeks before it was released. Sure, some Americans are going to point at a picture in Time magazine of the kids who go to a very broken school. Well, I'll point at the kids who are shooting their comrades in America, and say kids in America only learn murder in school. To all Americans: stop saying `Africa' when you mean `Those cherry-picked archive photos in Newsweek'.
And keep your friggin' brain-washing laptops. At least until they are going to create a laptop that won't say `neighbour' is spelt wrong. May all you Americentric idiots die a slow, horrifying death, along with your genocidic cultural imperialism. May fire and brimstone rain on you from Heaven. Or the Middle East, whichever gets fed up first.
Slave driver,
The table is turned,
Catch a fire,
You gonna get burned.
— Bob Marley (Slave Driver)
There is this weblog, dedicated to a concerted effort to arrest the Queen of England when she comes to Uganda for the CHOGM. Okay, I will confess: I am behind it. And I am serious. Arrest the Queen. But, please, don't mention me there. I'll stop it after the CHOGM. Are you ready for CHOGM? I am ready for CHOGM.
Wednesday, 8 August 2007
The Linking Park (RT 2.1)
Mood: Linkin'
[Toot!] Index: 9.0
Communism Bit: Off
Location: Job, of course
The 2.1st rantdom thurogitts installment. I am having problems with Blogger - even commenting on my own blog! :-o Leave alove your other blogs. :o( It's awful. I think I have had enough with Blogger. But I'll stick in for a while. Try to work things out. She was always understanding. We can make it past this patch.
I can guarantee I follow more Ugandan blogs than anybody out there. Sure, Ivan is going to overtake me some time soon (pray, pray, pray), but until then ...
And, as it is, I have come to learn to tell what a certain blogger is most probably going to write about next, et cetera.
The girls seem more-interested in the weekend parties, love/heart-break, and the like. Some guys are like comedians on drugs, others have poetic outbursts every now and then. And there are others, both guys and girls, who mix both ends. Others aren't anywhere—they are reporters, or tech-oriented or the like. Others are plotting a revolution. :o)
I can also tell an American blogger when I read one—they are different in a way that neither makes me laugh or angered. See this entry, for example. Well, maybe some aren't that American, but the Americans—most expats, anyway—tend to lean towards that. To them, Uganda is little more than an experiment in hard living. *Shakes head*.
Then there is this British couple. Read through the latest posts, for example (they are short posts).
Honourable mention: this and this, both from Kelly.
Then, a round-up of the action I have been having out there:
[Toot!] Index: 9.0
Communism Bit: Off
Location: Job, of course
The 2.1st rantdom thurogitts installment. I am having problems with Blogger - even commenting on my own blog! :-o Leave alove your other blogs. :o( It's awful. I think I have had enough with Blogger. But I'll stick in for a while. Try to work things out. She was always understanding. We can make it past this patch.
I can guarantee I follow more Ugandan blogs than anybody out there. Sure, Ivan is going to overtake me some time soon (pray, pray, pray), but until then ...
And, as it is, I have come to learn to tell what a certain blogger is most probably going to write about next, et cetera.
The girls seem more-interested in the weekend parties, love/heart-break, and the like. Some guys are like comedians on drugs, others have poetic outbursts every now and then. And there are others, both guys and girls, who mix both ends. Others aren't anywhere—they are reporters, or tech-oriented or the like. Others are plotting a revolution. :o)
I can also tell an American blogger when I read one—they are different in a way that neither makes me laugh or angered. See this entry, for example. Well, maybe some aren't that American, but the Americans—most expats, anyway—tend to lean towards that. To them, Uganda is little more than an experiment in hard living. *Shakes head*.
Then there is this British couple. Read through the latest posts, for example (they are short posts).
Honourable mention: this and this, both from Kelly.
Then, a round-up of the action I have been having out there:
- On Magoo's blog, I hijacked the post and blogged there. :o) My profuse apologies.
- At the Scarlett Lion's den, I went off the beak with a rubbishing of the Americans, yet again. Thankfully, she was on my side.
Sunday, 5 August 2007
Angels Sleep in Hell, It's True
Mood: Plotting
[Toot!] Index: 3.2
Communism Bit: On
Location: Job, of course
Sade is pounding magical notes through the sides of my head. Kiss of Life. Smooth music. Fine accompaniment for a head that is empty but wants to write something ... Who knows, Bob Marley may jump into the play-list sequence (it's on random) and cancel out the mellow feeling with a suitingly-rebellious chant.
A tale from the slums, while I wait for Bob.
One of them days, some guy drove into our slums with a Mercedes Benz SLK Kompressor 1234 OMG 7th Edition PLUS 0TH3R TH1NGS 1V3 4G0TT3N. It even seemed to float disdainfully over our cholera-harbouring mud. Clearly, the guy had done well for himself. And people like that tend to avoid our half of the world. And for good reason - neither would we be living there, if we had a choice.
Anyway, my initial reaction to this blasphemy - someone driving a Mercedes into the Revolution's base - was staggering on the very edge between `stab that bugger' and `execute him in public as an example'.
And Ibra (fellow slummer) told me he was here for a girl. Some slum girl had, as it turned out, caught the guy's eye and simply refused to relax the grip. I changed my attitude.
You see, while we hate the rich idiots, we reserve a soft spot - even a throne, if you wish - for the rich guy who chooses one of our lowly women. Our chics down there are subdued by lack, scarred by need, and wounded by debt, before the lack of hope comes in, to poison them. But when they survive and turn out beautiful, their beauty is addictive, angry, disrespectful, fiery, gleaming, harsh, refined, resistant, solid, surviving, unkind, unreserved, untamed, wild beauty. And the stories abound of poor, unprivileged girls who princes sacrifice life and throne for. This Cinderella stuff is, in fact, real and happening every day. Although I have never seen this particular chic, I must believe she is cute, to make the rich slide into our sewers to take her out on a Saturday.
So, guess what. The Revolution has half the stuff it needs already! We could just get the Revolutionary Beauty Brigade to work its way into the old money, and then, on a pre-agreed day, all the beautiful women and mistresses of the rich and privileged will, at the stroke of midnight, declare - `No, don't put your grubby hands on me! Pledge financial support for the Revolution or I'm out of here!'
The blogger girls would make a nice preliminary dispatch, but none of them is from the slums, in spite of being of the same evil, tormenting beauty. :o(
Oh, frig this. Bob's Misty Morning has come a little too late.
[Toot!] Index: 3.2
Communism Bit: On
Location: Job, of course
Sade is pounding magical notes through the sides of my head. Kiss of Life. Smooth music. Fine accompaniment for a head that is empty but wants to write something ... Who knows, Bob Marley may jump into the play-list sequence (it's on random) and cancel out the mellow feeling with a suitingly-rebellious chant.
A tale from the slums, while I wait for Bob.
One of them days, some guy drove into our slums with a Mercedes Benz SLK Kompressor 1234 OMG 7th Edition PLUS 0TH3R TH1NGS 1V3 4G0TT3N. It even seemed to float disdainfully over our cholera-harbouring mud. Clearly, the guy had done well for himself. And people like that tend to avoid our half of the world. And for good reason - neither would we be living there, if we had a choice.
Anyway, my initial reaction to this blasphemy - someone driving a Mercedes into the Revolution's base - was staggering on the very edge between `stab that bugger' and `execute him in public as an example'.
And Ibra (fellow slummer) told me he was here for a girl. Some slum girl had, as it turned out, caught the guy's eye and simply refused to relax the grip. I changed my attitude.
You see, while we hate the rich idiots, we reserve a soft spot - even a throne, if you wish - for the rich guy who chooses one of our lowly women. Our chics down there are subdued by lack, scarred by need, and wounded by debt, before the lack of hope comes in, to poison them. But when they survive and turn out beautiful, their beauty is addictive, angry, disrespectful, fiery, gleaming, harsh, refined, resistant, solid, surviving, unkind, unreserved, untamed, wild beauty. And the stories abound of poor, unprivileged girls who princes sacrifice life and throne for. This Cinderella stuff is, in fact, real and happening every day. Although I have never seen this particular chic, I must believe she is cute, to make the rich slide into our sewers to take her out on a Saturday.
So, guess what. The Revolution has half the stuff it needs already! We could just get the Revolutionary Beauty Brigade to work its way into the old money, and then, on a pre-agreed day, all the beautiful women and mistresses of the rich and privileged will, at the stroke of midnight, declare - `No, don't put your grubby hands on me! Pledge financial support for the Revolution or I'm out of here!'
The blogger girls would make a nice preliminary dispatch, but none of them is from the slums, in spite of being of the same evil, tormenting beauty. :o(
Oh, frig this. Bob's Misty Morning has come a little too late.
Wednesday, 1 August 2007
He Didn't Even Know The Name of the War
Mood: Shuddering
[Toot!] Index: 0.0
Communism Bit: On
Location: Job, of course
It rained kittens and puppies, yesterday. I need not point out that it should be the dry season, already. And we aren't having no El Niño. That is not the point.
The point is, the slums are usually located in the places that drown in any fairly-heavy rain. And as I slushed and waded my way through the lakes that had formed ... first, on the lakes. I won't be shocked if I find a whole new fishing industry down there, when I go back home. The rivers and lakes look pretty healthy. Some clever entrepreneur will have built a power dam in that ditch around the bend. Prosperity for all!
But the grim part, now. I walked home, under the pelts of rain, because the roads were clogged, and I hate being stuck in a traffic jam more than I hate to get wet in the rain. So I walked all the way to my shack. (It is elevated, I am luckier than many other slummers.)
On the way, I saw a madman. He was squatting by the roadside, in a puddle of mud, where the light barely reached him. You could see hisshivers shudders, his shakes. He was wet and cold. And, of course, hungry. Not thirsty, because he isn't too discerning in what he drinks, and it had just rained.
He had a big grin on his face, as though this was all normal for him. Like all who saw him, I am guilty of having thought He is a madman—they are hardened to this stuff. I guess it is a normal state for him, anyway.
But we should remember that madmen almost never take off their layers of coat, even in the burning sun, because they are more-terrified of the cold than of the heat. Anyway, so I passed him, hearing his absent-minded giggles. That grin on his face, though, seemed to be a paining one.
I skipped the shower, ate hot food, drank old Coca-Cola, grinned at Jah, and slept my way into a dream where I could fly.
Morning, and I walk to the taxi, jump in, and head Kla-ward. The driver stopped, half in respect, half in curiosity. We all looked out to the right.
There, lying in a tight coil—to guard angrily, furiously, the last warmth in his body—the madman had died in gallant battle, in the line of duty, in the war to stay alive against the elements, against the cold. No medals for that, sorry. Half his body had been over-run by cold mud. The grin was still on his face, even in death.
They are mad. With minds of beasts and souls of men. They are still human, though. For the love of God, can we please show them some love?
Consider, also, Cheri's pitch in a similar frame.
[Toot!] Index: 0.0
Communism Bit: On
Location: Job, of course
It rained kittens and puppies, yesterday. I need not point out that it should be the dry season, already. And we aren't having no El Niño. That is not the point.
The point is, the slums are usually located in the places that drown in any fairly-heavy rain. And as I slushed and waded my way through the lakes that had formed ... first, on the lakes. I won't be shocked if I find a whole new fishing industry down there, when I go back home. The rivers and lakes look pretty healthy. Some clever entrepreneur will have built a power dam in that ditch around the bend. Prosperity for all!
But the grim part, now. I walked home, under the pelts of rain, because the roads were clogged, and I hate being stuck in a traffic jam more than I hate to get wet in the rain. So I walked all the way to my shack. (It is elevated, I am luckier than many other slummers.)
On the way, I saw a madman. He was squatting by the roadside, in a puddle of mud, where the light barely reached him. You could see his
He had a big grin on his face, as though this was all normal for him. Like all who saw him, I am guilty of having thought He is a madman—they are hardened to this stuff. I guess it is a normal state for him, anyway.
But we should remember that madmen almost never take off their layers of coat, even in the burning sun, because they are more-terrified of the cold than of the heat. Anyway, so I passed him, hearing his absent-minded giggles. That grin on his face, though, seemed to be a paining one.
I skipped the shower, ate hot food, drank old Coca-Cola, grinned at Jah, and slept my way into a dream where I could fly.
Morning, and I walk to the taxi, jump in, and head Kla-ward. The driver stopped, half in respect, half in curiosity. We all looked out to the right.
There, lying in a tight coil—to guard angrily, furiously, the last warmth in his body—the madman had died in gallant battle, in the line of duty, in the war to stay alive against the elements, against the cold. No medals for that, sorry. Half his body had been over-run by cold mud. The grin was still on his face, even in death.
They are mad. With minds of beasts and souls of men. They are still human, though. For the love of God, can we please show them some love?
Consider, also, Cheri's pitch in a similar frame.
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