[Toot!] Index: 0.2
Communism Bit: Off
Eh, I want to dance. I don't really dance, me. I'm nimble on my feet, but I reserve that for other cases, not dancing. But right now, I crave the sensation of just rocking slowly on my feet, next to a girl. A drink in the hand that presses her against me, dangerous promises dripping off my lips in the heat of the moment, binding suicidal oaths, such as promises of undying love. I want that. I want the other hand to run up her neck as we swap positions and now I see what she was seeing before we twirled. Maybe now it's her turn to look at the fire and see the flames hopping about, and now my turn to face the table and see the perspiring bottle of wine, and feel her glass touch back as she gathers me closer to her in this dance. And I don't know what expression she has on her face. As if that matters. Eh, I want to dance. You hear me? :o(
All this John Mayer, Michael Bublé, George Benson, Ringo Madlingozi, all this Tuku Music, all this teary-eyed jazz and guitarwork, it is for sharing. My headphones are a blasphemy. It is for playing from concealed speakers, at a sweet low volume that is loud when two people in love get in each other's hold and dance. None of that sweaty stuff. I was always the slow-rocking type. Nice and slow. Mostly. ;o) I want to dance; God knows I want to dance.
Hello, readers. I'm the 27th Comrade. Thank you for joining us for this blog post. And now, the main prolix.
My cat is fine.
The vet took her to a place in Kireka. I'm supposed to trust it to be safe there, but you know how it is. Can't be sure anybody else understands just how to take care of Space. But she's a tough wee tigress; she'll manage. A hug to all who cared. Now you know why I am lovin' all y'all.
I'm tired of hearing "[...] it comes from the Latin for [some word]". Or "[...], which, of course, comes from the Greek for [some word]". I think it is such an elitist line, really. What sounds better than that, for collecting elitist karma? I'm not against that. Do it, if you like. I'm against the Eurocentricism. I am more into negritude and Afrocentricism. So, you know Nimrod? The dude in the Bible, who was the first World emperor? (It was a small world, yes, so he outdid Genghis Khan without ever riding a horse.) I mean this selfsame Nimrod to whom some Nigerian peoples claim to trace their origin. Nimrod was a Cushite. As in, Black. That doesn't matter. (You see, I'm not Black, me, so I don't give a fuck for colours. Nobody seems to mention my colour—chocolate.) This Nimrod; what matters is that he was an African. And he ran the show at the Babel Tower, yeah? Mama of all them languages. So, any time I want elitist points, I'll just go all like "[...], and it comes from the Babel Tower language for [...]". Me, nobody mess with I.
After noticing the comment trend on my invective-laden posts, this comic makes so much sense. And it is the formula to my immortality. Many columnists use that. Like Timothy Kalyegira, for example. Like Onyango-Obbo, whose logic (for the times I can bear his well-written silliness) only manages to prove its absence—if even that. No reason I shouldn't use it, myself. Hmm. "Shit on a biscuit!" :o)
And if I don't comment back to you, dear reader, it is because I'm away from the computer, bound against a pole by a dagger-wielding dominatrix. :o)
But one rule, I've learnt: do not insult people, unless you include yourself in one way or another.
Next: if you ever have to fill in a field—on the internet or on paper—that asks for a postal code, and you put "256", and I catch you. I'll beat you so hard, your entire family tree will be covered in bruises.
I was filling some form, and the lady at the counter told me to fill "256" into the "postal code" field. In a fucking bank. "256", people, is the international phone code, not the postal code. Uganda has no postal codes. Just refuse to fill that field, when asked for it. It's the only way to heal the world of this silly cultural assumption. Not every country is an unwieldily-huge hunk of dirt that requires postal codes. When I meet a field on the Net that requires a zip code of a Ugandan address I fill it with an expletive. Just Say No.
In the video of Usiende Mbali, Juliana is seen, in some shot, reading a Jackie Collins novel. Hahahaha. FAIL.
In a related development: my recent stories (the ones that don't come to this blog) are often very, very steamy erotica, because of the girl I give them to. She likes them. I've just finished one some two hours ago. By the way, see the time I'm writing this: Thu Aug 7 05:25:55 EAT 2008
Explains the incoherence, eh?
Now, more music stuff. At the last Happy Hour, Antipop and Dee said they only done heard Viva La Vida and Violet Hill off the new Coldplay album. Sad. Because, to me, these are the two least-artistic songs on the album. It contains two hidden tracks, Life in Technicolor (comes after Death And All His Friends), and another that comes after Yes. The same brilliant lyricism that made the band give us earlier greats. The best part about this album is that it will put to death this stupid idea that Coldplay is a rock band. Coldplay is not a rock band, if we are willing to invent a new category. There is more of bagpipes and violins in this album than electric guitars.
Strawberry Swing should top charts. Has an Eastern-leaning theme that may be bagpipes or flutes. I hear the album was recorded in Latin America and Iberia, and took the mystical inspirations. It is evident, the loose Catholicism, in the album. Some songs have audible studio sounds (someone counting down from three, at the start of Strawberry Swing, and a chuckle reminiscent of Twisted Logic from back then at the beginning of Reign of Love). Basically, the work of a band that has proven itself, and is now comfortable with experimentation. Lost! is very rich, but not exactly team-work. Chris Martin sits at the piano and makes it bleed. Nice song that deliberately feels underproduced. Cemeteries of London, with lyrics that are as macabre as they are beautiful. Think a gothic artist like Marilyn Manson singing with a jazz band. That's close.
And the last observation is the unashamed nostalgia on the record. Lovers in Japan feels like an '80s song that took a wrong turn—and feels beautiful while at it. The album is great. I love it. Chris, Jonny Boy, Champion, and Guy have given us nice stuff. So, Dee and Antipop, there. :o)