Mood: Caffeinated
[Toot!] Index: 1.2
Communism Bit: Off
Location: Nakulabye
Let's see what a mildly-caffeinated head can come up with. (Coffee at five o'clock in the afternoon. I'm aging. When it becomes coke at 0600h, I'm Americanised. Americanized. I mean, Diet Cocaine? Eh-meh-RRReek-an-uh-zd.)
First, my previous post. I edited it to put the link to the war song I was referring to. I had got the title wrong, at first. That's what you get for not being Jacob Zuma and still writing about Umshini Wami.
I saw this cartoon in a Babylon paper, recently, where some lawyer is telling a client "Sorry, I added extra zeros to the phone number—habit of a lifetime, you see."
Next: heartbreak! :o) Honestly, this must be for lack of stuff to write about.
A man rushes like a rocket towards the finish line, and is happy to win the hundred-metre dash—another success for his army division in these prestigious Army Games. As he is doing the victory lap, he is awoken by the nurse giving him his lunch soup. (Food sucks, even in the army hospital.) He sits up, pushing himself up with his left leg. His right is just a bandaged stump, a mere extension of his hip, kicking about obsecenely in short, quick arcs.
The amputee who wins the hundred-metre dash in his dreams: that is what heartbreak is like, for me.
Or the guy with a missing right arm seated next to you, to your left, in the taxi. Keeps grunting and groaning, and you start to get pissed. He understands, and turns to explain: You see, I feel some irritating itch on my arm; around the wrist, he says, pointing far beyond where his upper-arm stump sits flapping. I want to scratch it, you see, but ... but it isn't there!
That's what heartbreak is like, for me.
Okay, dwelling on missing limbs can get seriously morbid. Let's see. Like the gentle stream, the brook of water. Nice picture, eh? Well, they've dragged the kicking, wailing mother away, and her son has already been pulled out of the water, his belly punctured to let out the water so the load may lose some weight, wrapped, and taken away, as the priest chants ancient words. And in the water, from between the rocks, a steady thread of crimson blood seeps relentlessly, as though a body is still trapped there. The dead boy has been pulled out, but the blood is still staining the water, freshly.
This is what heartbreak is like, for me.
Enough of that shit. But still. With this love shit, I've been called a "bitch". That I let it matter too much. But what to do, if you are the emotional kind? I wish I wasn't, too. But no choice was given. :o(
Strange, considering my foremothers were a race of warrior women. Mercenaries who prowled these plains and were feared. Not the picture of emotional dolls—silent night-time raiders with body paint and dealdly javelins. And also very beautiful, to add the edge to it all.
Might be a nice thing, as I'm starting a company this month.
Tech companies, on average, are failures. I started one, back then, that no longer exists. But now I'm older and wiser. I can hope for better, expect better.
So, what point did I make? None, really. I'm having a pretty good time. My kittens all got new homes, so I'm just chilling here. Space got the hormone jab, too. No more kids. Now, I'm getting ready to enter geurilla mode and sleep on floors (literally), as this company goes out into the rain.
Wednesday, 23 July 2008
Thursday, 17 July 2008
Warriors and Musicians
Mood: Bored
[Toot!] Index: 0.2
Communism Bit: On
Location: Job, of course
[This is my 102nd post. Dedicated to all the girls I've fallen in love with, those I told and those I was too shy to tell, and one of them in particular, who I won't hint at further for fear of making her uncomfortable. Also dedicated to all people who fit in any of the categories of fighters and musicians mentioned below.]
Late eighties, in Uganda. Our hair still smells of gunpowder. You open your windows in the morning, and gun smoke comes rushing in. On occassion there is the salvo of machine gun fire, and mothers rush to herd the young ones under beds, and the men turn the lights down and stroke their clubs and rosaries. This country is covered in bullet wounds, and the hoarding instinct upsets economic advancement. Late eighties, in Uganda. I was there, kids. We had it tough, kids.
We had much of the shit. The Congolese, on the other hand (the hand facing west, for those of you who don't see me), had nearly no shit. Comparatively, I mean. That is a land of tenacious People, the Congo. Did you know that these Western Imperialists halved the population of the Congo by massacre alone? Cut the population in half, literally. Because if your arms are cut off by them Europeans, half you has been cut off.
But in the late eighties, they were riding the orgasmic peak of Mobutu's Authenticité program. Their women, therefore, were round wonders of jiggling beauty, wrapped in their loudly-coloured African clothes. Kuku wa za Banga's corpulent hens. They had it good, the Congolese. They had it good, kids.
So, in the troubled days that were the late eighties, brightness gushed into our country (or just seeped, whatever) from the Congo. As music. It's why I've never understood the relationship between the Congo and Uganda. We love their music and their women. Our generals also love their trees and minerals. But we never hug, ever. Why? "What's wrong with loving one another," Bob Marley asks. "What'swrong with you, my brother?"
Ah, but we played that Congolese music. We played it. Didn't Madilu System serenade our women? Didn't Tshala Mwana arouse our men? Didn't we wail together with M'Bilia Belle? Didn't our Army Band steal Congolese hits and remix them with blood-pumping patriotism? Didn't our guitars go a note higher, too? Didn't we learn Lingala? At least didn't we know that bolingo means "love"?
Kids, love the Congoman. He helped us through them days. The late eighties.
But the early nineties came, as they were meant to. And the school kids had to present something about HIV/AIDS everytime there was a guest to the school. Because the pretense had stopped, you see. We had stood by and watched entire families wave at us and enter the earth, never to return. The Insect was eating up whole towns. Grown men, big and strong, were cut down in midstep. You start a sentence, and before you're done with it you have been eaten by the Insect without eve
It is said that the government was particularly concerned, because the soldiers of its revolution were hit particularly hard. Kids, we started our little attempt to fight The Insect. With nobody to learn from, for we were the first, we marched on. Congoman's music playing behing us, we tried. Philly Lutaya, one of our own musical geniuses, becomes one of the first people in the world to be a HIV/AIDS campaigner. Maybe the very first. He is still the Honorary General of the Fight Against HIV/AIDS, and will always be. So saith I.
Our war had now turned to The Insect. And, down South, our brothers were fighting another war. Against Apartheid. The time had come for all out war, revolution, to restore sanity in South Africa. But the frontline states had become too perilous, too compromised, for the gallant warriors of Umkhonto we Sizwe to base there. So they looked for a brother country farther north, and found us willing and able to host them, fight along with them, and, if it comes to it, die alongside them. And so, they came in. Carrying a gun in one hand and a cassette tape in the other. In the nights, by boat, by car through Tanzania, by plane sometimes, the South Africans came. Their war was won shortly—Amandla!—and some went back. But they left the music and its effect behind. We had heard the songs of South Africa. The songs of those geniuses of harmony. Even the sweaty war songs, like this Umshini Wami (Bring Me My Machine Gun), still refused to let go of the beautiful harmony.
Didn't Lucky Dube spur us on? Didn't Yvonne Chaka Chaka teach us how to dance? Didn't we learn about the more-electronic styles from the South Africans? Didn't Miria Makeba teach us how to find the beauty in the pain?
Shortly, the economy came to life. And music dripped in from the Caribbean islands. And our younger ones learnt how to dance while hopping about like posessed shamans. The beats were solid and a little monotonous. It was called ragga or the like. Our young ones also started singing it. First they played it, then mimed it, then put their own lyrics in, then went ahead to create it entirely from scratch. It is from that music that these boys of today sprung. You kids don't know the history of your country's musical tastes. But that is a good thing. It shows how much distance we've put between us and Those Days. New challenges, new music. I conjecture that from African musical genres alone, one can compose all other musical genres in the World. (For freaks: African music is Turing-complete for music, and maybe for computation itself.)
I hope these big-name artistes jetting in and out of our country are going to have as long-lasting and positive an impact on our music.
(I had to finish this, you see.)
[Toot!] Index: 0.2
Communism Bit: On
Location: Job, of course
[This is my 102nd post. Dedicated to all the girls I've fallen in love with, those I told and those I was too shy to tell, and one of them in particular, who I won't hint at further for fear of making her uncomfortable. Also dedicated to all people who fit in any of the categories of fighters and musicians mentioned below.]
Late eighties, in Uganda. Our hair still smells of gunpowder. You open your windows in the morning, and gun smoke comes rushing in. On occassion there is the salvo of machine gun fire, and mothers rush to herd the young ones under beds, and the men turn the lights down and stroke their clubs and rosaries. This country is covered in bullet wounds, and the hoarding instinct upsets economic advancement. Late eighties, in Uganda. I was there, kids. We had it tough, kids.
We had much of the shit. The Congolese, on the other hand (the hand facing west, for those of you who don't see me), had nearly no shit. Comparatively, I mean. That is a land of tenacious People, the Congo. Did you know that these Western Imperialists halved the population of the Congo by massacre alone? Cut the population in half, literally. Because if your arms are cut off by them Europeans, half you has been cut off.
But in the late eighties, they were riding the orgasmic peak of Mobutu's Authenticité program. Their women, therefore, were round wonders of jiggling beauty, wrapped in their loudly-coloured African clothes. Kuku wa za Banga's corpulent hens. They had it good, the Congolese. They had it good, kids.
So, in the troubled days that were the late eighties, brightness gushed into our country (or just seeped, whatever) from the Congo. As music. It's why I've never understood the relationship between the Congo and Uganda. We love their music and their women. Our generals also love their trees and minerals. But we never hug, ever. Why? "What's wrong with loving one another," Bob Marley asks. "What'swrong with you, my brother?"
Ah, but we played that Congolese music. We played it. Didn't Madilu System serenade our women? Didn't Tshala Mwana arouse our men? Didn't we wail together with M'Bilia Belle? Didn't our Army Band steal Congolese hits and remix them with blood-pumping patriotism? Didn't our guitars go a note higher, too? Didn't we learn Lingala? At least didn't we know that bolingo means "love"?
Kids, love the Congoman. He helped us through them days. The late eighties.
But the early nineties came, as they were meant to. And the school kids had to present something about HIV/AIDS everytime there was a guest to the school. Because the pretense had stopped, you see. We had stood by and watched entire families wave at us and enter the earth, never to return. The Insect was eating up whole towns. Grown men, big and strong, were cut down in midstep. You start a sentence, and before you're done with it you have been eaten by the Insect without eve
It is said that the government was particularly concerned, because the soldiers of its revolution were hit particularly hard. Kids, we started our little attempt to fight The Insect. With nobody to learn from, for we were the first, we marched on. Congoman's music playing behing us, we tried. Philly Lutaya, one of our own musical geniuses, becomes one of the first people in the world to be a HIV/AIDS campaigner. Maybe the very first. He is still the Honorary General of the Fight Against HIV/AIDS, and will always be. So saith I.
Our war had now turned to The Insect. And, down South, our brothers were fighting another war. Against Apartheid. The time had come for all out war, revolution, to restore sanity in South Africa. But the frontline states had become too perilous, too compromised, for the gallant warriors of Umkhonto we Sizwe to base there. So they looked for a brother country farther north, and found us willing and able to host them, fight along with them, and, if it comes to it, die alongside them. And so, they came in. Carrying a gun in one hand and a cassette tape in the other. In the nights, by boat, by car through Tanzania, by plane sometimes, the South Africans came. Their war was won shortly—Amandla!—and some went back. But they left the music and its effect behind. We had heard the songs of South Africa. The songs of those geniuses of harmony. Even the sweaty war songs, like this Umshini Wami (Bring Me My Machine Gun), still refused to let go of the beautiful harmony.
Didn't Lucky Dube spur us on? Didn't Yvonne Chaka Chaka teach us how to dance? Didn't we learn about the more-electronic styles from the South Africans? Didn't Miria Makeba teach us how to find the beauty in the pain?
Shortly, the economy came to life. And music dripped in from the Caribbean islands. And our younger ones learnt how to dance while hopping about like posessed shamans. The beats were solid and a little monotonous. It was called ragga or the like. Our young ones also started singing it. First they played it, then mimed it, then put their own lyrics in, then went ahead to create it entirely from scratch. It is from that music that these boys of today sprung. You kids don't know the history of your country's musical tastes. But that is a good thing. It shows how much distance we've put between us and Those Days. New challenges, new music. I conjecture that from African musical genres alone, one can compose all other musical genres in the World. (For freaks: African music is Turing-complete for music, and maybe for computation itself.)
I hope these big-name artistes jetting in and out of our country are going to have as long-lasting and positive an impact on our music.
(I had to finish this, you see.)
Sunday, 13 July 2008
Jazz, Geekery, and Sex
Mood: Medley
[Toot!] Index: 1.2
Communism Bit: Off
Location: Ghetto
There is something your mother didn't tell you. I mean, you're likely one of us. One of the people who say "My Mama always told me [...]". One of the people with embarrasingly-intelligent mothers. But even if you are one of us, there is something your mother didn't tell you: watch the patterns in your music, and you can predict your near future.
Say, like, if you always listen to Kenyan Genge music when you're broke, be careful with your money when iTunes starts leaping at Genge when on random—you're going to get broke.
Me, jazz for love and heartbreak. Reggae for a creative burst. Rock for geographical changes.
As it were, I'm playing lots of rock, and I'm shifting soon. The rock came first. I'm playing much reggae—and I'm having rebelliously-creative moments. The reggae was here before.
And now there is this time my player let fly with twelve—I kid you not, twelve—jazz songs, back-to-back, on random. And George Benson is a particularly-bad omen. Love and heartbreak. Behold, I stand ready, armed. Gimme some lov'.
Now, for some geekery. I'm rather insulated from people, of late. It sucks—I lived my childhood a lot like that. (And the result was that I couldn't understand facial expressions and indirect meanings, until Ma taught me. Some fuck pronounced me a "borderline autistic child".) I'm going to let you into the horrible world I'm alone and cold in. Share the load.
Here, below, is seven lines of code. It's written in Common Lisp. It's a complete implementation of an evaluator for the SKI combinator calculus.
Fuck. Blogger has garbled my code. X^(
It's strict-evaluating, so some things, like the recursion comibinators, will diverge. My favourite diverging expression is
I did it while trying to derive my account number in SKI calculus (using double digits for sanity's sake). The expression that results in my account number is
Enough geekery! Next, the sex.
Now, I was on the French Wikipedia, sometime. I saw an article that had a beautiful-sounding name. By the way, don't do what I did, if you aren't into having sexually-explicit stuff on your monitor. So, I was saying I saw an article with a beautiful name: tribadisme. Wow. I clicked.
And that may be one of the sweetest clicks I made in recent years. :o) I learnt what tribadism was. I went to the English version for stuff I could understand. It is where, um, lesbians kind of like ... Can't really explain this. You'll have to look for a picture. I've always known lesbians are elevated humans, elevated above us mere mortals. Der übermensch. Some things make me wish to God I was a girl.
So, anyway, I went to Google, and searched for "tribadism". I went to images, and changed my preferences to remove any regulation of content. And I found some sites where tribadism was being discussed. I found a clip—hottest, kinkiest two minutes of nude girls, ever—and some pictures. I opened a directory for my smut. :o) So, my little collection, at the moment, has eight files. One is that clip, and the others are pictures. One of the pictures is an animated GIF. Very interesting and arousing. I'm writing this offline, so I can't link reliably.
I wonder why this never occured to me before. If you know any sites that are as, um, engrossing, put the link in the comments. Oh, I'm talking to prudes. :o) Suckers. You can do an anonymous drop, alright. I'll grow my little collection, and you'll envy me.
But seriously, give me links. Just not any of that painful shit. Keep it lesbian, if you can. Generally, more women, less guys, okay? Although you can let my discernment work, if you're unsure. Clips and pics.
[Toot!] Index: 1.2
Communism Bit: Off
Location: Ghetto
There is something your mother didn't tell you. I mean, you're likely one of us. One of the people who say "My Mama always told me [...]". One of the people with embarrasingly-intelligent mothers. But even if you are one of us, there is something your mother didn't tell you: watch the patterns in your music, and you can predict your near future.
Say, like, if you always listen to Kenyan Genge music when you're broke, be careful with your money when iTunes starts leaping at Genge when on random—you're going to get broke.
Me, jazz for love and heartbreak. Reggae for a creative burst. Rock for geographical changes.
As it were, I'm playing lots of rock, and I'm shifting soon. The rock came first. I'm playing much reggae—and I'm having rebelliously-creative moments. The reggae was here before.
And now there is this time my player let fly with twelve—I kid you not, twelve—jazz songs, back-to-back, on random. And George Benson is a particularly-bad omen. Love and heartbreak. Behold, I stand ready, armed. Gimme some lov'.
Now, for some geekery. I'm rather insulated from people, of late. It sucks—I lived my childhood a lot like that. (And the result was that I couldn't understand facial expressions and indirect meanings, until Ma taught me. Some fuck pronounced me a "borderline autistic child".) I'm going to let you into the horrible world I'm alone and cold in. Share the load.
Here, below, is seven lines of code. It's written in Common Lisp. It's a complete implementation of an evaluator for the SKI combinator calculus.
(defun ski (se)
(case (car se)
('i (if (null (cdr se)) se (ski `(,(cadr se)))))
('k (if (< (length se) 3) se (ski `(,(cadr se)))))
('s (if (< (length se) 4) se (ski `(,@(ski `(,(cadr se) ,(cadddr se)))
,(ski `(,(caddr se) ,(cadddr se)))))))
(otherwise (if (listp (car se))
(ski `(,(ski (car se)) ,@(cdr se))) se))))Fuck. Blogger has garbled my code. X^(
It's strict-evaluating, so some things, like the recursion comibinators, will diverge. My favourite diverging expression is
(SII(SII)). You can run it by LOADing it into your Lisp system, and then doing something like(ski '(s i i comrade))comrade applied to the self-application expression, and result in (comrade)(comrade). Both the S, K and I work as expected. Kiss that. :o)I did it while trying to derive my account number in SKI calculus (using double digits for sanity's sake). The expression that results in my account number is
(SI 00 58)((S(K(SI))K) 52 70). I didn't think up the second part. Ripped it off Wikipedia. Too fucking difficult. :o) But it results in 5800587052.Enough geekery! Next, the sex.
Now, I was on the French Wikipedia, sometime. I saw an article that had a beautiful-sounding name. By the way, don't do what I did, if you aren't into having sexually-explicit stuff on your monitor. So, I was saying I saw an article with a beautiful name: tribadisme. Wow. I clicked.
And that may be one of the sweetest clicks I made in recent years. :o) I learnt what tribadism was. I went to the English version for stuff I could understand. It is where, um, lesbians kind of like ... Can't really explain this. You'll have to look for a picture. I've always known lesbians are elevated humans, elevated above us mere mortals. Der übermensch. Some things make me wish to God I was a girl.
So, anyway, I went to Google, and searched for "tribadism". I went to images, and changed my preferences to remove any regulation of content. And I found some sites where tribadism was being discussed. I found a clip—hottest, kinkiest two minutes of nude girls, ever—and some pictures. I opened a directory for my smut. :o) So, my little collection, at the moment, has eight files. One is that clip, and the others are pictures. One of the pictures is an animated GIF. Very interesting and arousing. I'm writing this offline, so I can't link reliably.
I wonder why this never occured to me before. If you know any sites that are as, um, engrossing, put the link in the comments. Oh, I'm talking to prudes. :o) Suckers. You can do an anonymous drop, alright. I'll grow my little collection, and you'll envy me.
But seriously, give me links. Just not any of that painful shit. Keep it lesbian, if you can. Generally, more women, less guys, okay? Although you can let my discernment work, if you're unsure. Clips and pics.
Friday, 11 July 2008
Minus One, Plus One
Mood: Bored
[Toot!] Index: 0.2
Communism Bit: Off
Location: Job, of course
Gingko is back. The albino kitten, he is back. Y'all can grab him. I saw, Sybella, your comment. And, because I got Gingko back, that leaves me with two kittens to give away (Khalid being gone with Dusk, that Jazz and Spice girl). Check your mail for my number. My emissary sent it in the mail.
Also, Minty, I'm sorry about misplacing the credits for the word. I'm not as smart as you are, so you'll have to have pity. :o)
So, if you prefer a pure-white cat, you can have this one. Mainly because the one I don't mind having to kill is, you know, Shaka. >:o)
Blame the diabolical mood on something very close to heartbreak that I'm having right now. Very related.
[Toot!] Index: 0.2
Communism Bit: Off
Location: Job, of course
Gingko is back. The albino kitten, he is back. Y'all can grab him. I saw, Sybella, your comment. And, because I got Gingko back, that leaves me with two kittens to give away (Khalid being gone with Dusk, that Jazz and Spice girl). Check your mail for my number. My emissary sent it in the mail.
Also, Minty, I'm sorry about misplacing the credits for the word. I'm not as smart as you are, so you'll have to have pity. :o)
So, if you prefer a pure-white cat, you can have this one. Mainly because the one I don't mind having to kill is, you know, Shaka. >:o)
Blame the diabolical mood on something very close to heartbreak that I'm having right now. Very related.
Tuesday, 8 July 2008
The Moment of the Parting
Mood: Cold, playing.
[Toot!] Index: 5.7
Communism Bit: Off
Location: Job, of course
Hi, everybody.
I read your comments on my previous posts. Thank you. I'm still not on the Net. Like I said, I'm in the ghettos inventing your future. You have a stake in giving me my peace, quiet and solitude. It's for your own, selfish good. :o)
Sybella, I didn't see your thing about Gingko the albino kitten. Sorry. And, right now, I'm sad because Gingko is about to be picked up in some minutes. I have some small misgivings about where he's going. I wish I had seen your request before I had promised him to somebody else. But I got four kittens ... ;o) Seriously, there are some others that don't have homes yet. More anon.
And Scotchie, ah. "Oxymoron" is the word, I guess. Except I thought oxymorons shouldn't make sense. My thingies (for lack of a name) do make sense (or just try). But I guess "oxymoron" is the word. Scotchie is never wrong. :o)
I'm playing In My Place, by Coldplay. I have a big Coldplay thing going in my life right now. And this may be so last thirty minutes, but Viva La Vida is a great album. I don't use the word "great" lightly. Next thing you know, I'll be calling the band "mighty". Not yet, but nearly. "Mighty" means "a band that could do a collabo with Bob Marley and The Wailers and be heard above the reggae riddim."
I have that song on repeat, because my kittens are going away. This is the part I had put off for so long, and the lyrics are crying into my chest. "If you go, if you go, and leave me down here on my own, then I'll wait for you." :o(
These are the times I wish I had the magic effects of the opportinity to look at a lover asleep some metres away. Looking at sleeping people, particularly women, preferably a lover, has a sedative effect on me. Even sleeping animals try, but right now I need the strongest dose out there.
Comrades, friends, brethren, amigos, kin, blogren. I'm shifting from the slums soon. Since I'm going to be self-employed, I want to return to the City That Gave Me Birth. Kampala even arouses my dust allergies, anyway. I gave Gingko to my neighbour, thinking I'll be here to watch over the delicate thing, but now I'm moving and leaving him behind. On Friday, or thereabouts, I'll get Space sterilised (we agreed, and it will be the gentle two-course needle jab, not some invasive cutting procedure). Since it stops up her hormones, she'll not be able to breastfeed after that. And the hormonal change may even induce, I believe, a bit of apathy/hostility to the kittens. So they should all be gone by Friday.
Sun-Tzu is going to Peggy, Slim's friend. Dee has met her. Gingko to my neigbour. I'm yet to get homes for Khalid and Shaka. (Shaka once loved chilling out in my boots. Inside. Thought Puss in Boots was a hero epic.)
If nobody takes Shaka and Khalid by Monday, I may have to have them put down. Save these kitties. Shaka, Shaka I hate. Almost. Too adult for a kitten. Khalid, the runt, I love the most. Cutest felid on this side of the Nile. We bonded, because he was the smallest of the litter. I was the smallest in lower school. We are brothers, Khalid and I. You want a kitten, get one. You know someone who wants one, get one for him/her. My moving schedule dictates that I have all this sorted out by Monday.
Sybella, you could avenge yourself on me by taking cute Khalid out of me hands. ;o) Shaka and Khalid:
Now, in closing, I know some of you are laughing, saying that The 27th Comrade done got attached to his kitties. No ways. I'm too gangsta for that shit. Between bitches and ho's, I go shoot 'em muhfuckers, ridin' in my sixty-four, smoking Cohibas and sippin' on this Couvoissiere. I drive foreign features, bouncin' on ma 24's, nigga. We live so fly, nigga. These teardrops is for real, nigga. We make money and stack it like books. That's why my leather so soft. I'm on a paper chase, nigga. The money gon' come, or else I'm gon' get it. I love Entebbe like I love women. Lakeside 'til we die, muhfuckers. Kampala kids don't grow. We'll bomb on you muhfuckers. Niggas with a muhfucking attitude.
I'm too muhfucking gangsta for kitten love and shit, nigga.
Update: Gingko's depart box is here. :o( No! Nooo! I'm not gangsta! I love my kitties! :'{ I remember laughing at a woman who couldn't get rid of her many cats on Oprah, and calling it Western stupidity. God, have thee no sense of humour?
[Toot!] Index: 5.7
Communism Bit: Off
Location: Job, of course
Hi, everybody.
I read your comments on my previous posts. Thank you. I'm still not on the Net. Like I said, I'm in the ghettos inventing your future. You have a stake in giving me my peace, quiet and solitude. It's for your own, selfish good. :o)
Sybella, I didn't see your thing about Gingko the albino kitten. Sorry. And, right now, I'm sad because Gingko is about to be picked up in some minutes. I have some small misgivings about where he's going. I wish I had seen your request before I had promised him to somebody else. But I got four kittens ... ;o) Seriously, there are some others that don't have homes yet. More anon.
And Scotchie, ah. "Oxymoron" is the word, I guess. Except I thought oxymorons shouldn't make sense. My thingies (for lack of a name) do make sense (or just try). But I guess "oxymoron" is the word. Scotchie is never wrong. :o)
I'm playing In My Place, by Coldplay. I have a big Coldplay thing going in my life right now. And this may be so last thirty minutes, but Viva La Vida is a great album. I don't use the word "great" lightly. Next thing you know, I'll be calling the band "mighty". Not yet, but nearly. "Mighty" means "a band that could do a collabo with Bob Marley and The Wailers and be heard above the reggae riddim."
I have that song on repeat, because my kittens are going away. This is the part I had put off for so long, and the lyrics are crying into my chest. "If you go, if you go, and leave me down here on my own, then I'll wait for you." :o(
These are the times I wish I had the magic effects of the opportinity to look at a lover asleep some metres away. Looking at sleeping people, particularly women, preferably a lover, has a sedative effect on me. Even sleeping animals try, but right now I need the strongest dose out there.
Comrades, friends, brethren, amigos, kin, blogren. I'm shifting from the slums soon. Since I'm going to be self-employed, I want to return to the City That Gave Me Birth. Kampala even arouses my dust allergies, anyway. I gave Gingko to my neighbour, thinking I'll be here to watch over the delicate thing, but now I'm moving and leaving him behind. On Friday, or thereabouts, I'll get Space sterilised (we agreed, and it will be the gentle two-course needle jab, not some invasive cutting procedure). Since it stops up her hormones, she'll not be able to breastfeed after that. And the hormonal change may even induce, I believe, a bit of apathy/hostility to the kittens. So they should all be gone by Friday.
Sun-Tzu is going to Peggy, Slim's friend. Dee has met her. Gingko to my neigbour. I'm yet to get homes for Khalid and Shaka. (Shaka once loved chilling out in my boots. Inside. Thought Puss in Boots was a hero epic.)
If nobody takes Shaka and Khalid by Monday, I may have to have them put down. Save these kitties. Shaka, Shaka I hate. Almost. Too adult for a kitten. Khalid, the runt, I love the most. Cutest felid on this side of the Nile. We bonded, because he was the smallest of the litter. I was the smallest in lower school. We are brothers, Khalid and I. You want a kitten, get one. You know someone who wants one, get one for him/her. My moving schedule dictates that I have all this sorted out by Monday.
Sybella, you could avenge yourself on me by taking cute Khalid out of me hands. ;o) Shaka and Khalid:
Now, in closing, I know some of you are laughing, saying that The 27th Comrade done got attached to his kitties. No ways. I'm too gangsta for that shit. Between bitches and ho's, I go shoot 'em muhfuckers, ridin' in my sixty-four, smoking Cohibas and sippin' on this Couvoissiere. I drive foreign features, bouncin' on ma 24's, nigga. We live so fly, nigga. These teardrops is for real, nigga. We make money and stack it like books. That's why my leather so soft. I'm on a paper chase, nigga. The money gon' come, or else I'm gon' get it. I love Entebbe like I love women. Lakeside 'til we die, muhfuckers. Kampala kids don't grow. We'll bomb on you muhfuckers. Niggas with a muhfucking attitude.
I'm too muhfucking gangsta for kitten love and shit, nigga.
Update: Gingko's depart box is here. :o( No! Nooo! I'm not gangsta! I love my kitties! :'{ I remember laughing at a woman who couldn't get rid of her many cats on Oprah, and calling it Western stupidity. God, have thee no sense of humour?
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