I just don't want to be polite anymore. It's exhausting and often nonreciprocal anyway, so why bother? If one more person asks me how I am, that complete indifference dripping from every word being uttered, I'm going to punch them, followed by a cheerful reply of 'Much better now, thanks'.
The other day I tested the futility of these empty pleasantries. A cashier at a supermarket check-out dared to enquire about my well being, again, with no real interest in my state of mind (or her job). 'I'm actually not so well at the moment. I just lost my job. My girlfriend is leaving me and I have scabies. Oh, I forgot to mention, my dad is serving a time in jail and I have halitosis. But thanks for asking, love, it means a lot'. A reply like this would/should be met with genuine concern, be it perfunctory. But my new found cashier friend didn't so much as bat an eyelid or even take her enquiry any further (Damn. And here I was thinking we could become firm confidantes). You want to know why? She couldn't give a flying hoot about how I am, just like I couldn't care about her. All I want is to get away from the supermarket, her and the possibilty of others wanting to fake probing into the inner-depths of my life. So why ask? It's an ice-breaker, an opener to thawing out that iceberg between customers and service provider so as to ensure a smooth transaction. That's the only reasoning I can think of.
But this pointless social gesture extends to all human interactions. Work colleagues will ask day after day how you are. I was fine the previous day you asked the very same thing and the thousand weeks before that. They may choose colloquial derivatives to appear as if they are matey with you. Words and phrases are created like hiya, how you doing? Howzit? And my favourite, What's up? or Wazzup? (you can choose how many Z's you want to add depending on how super-cool, awesome you think you are). A recent survey (Oh, how I love surveys) conducted in the UK revealed common conversational pleasantries like 'Thank you' are dying out and being replaced by words like 'Ta' or 'Cheers'. How how I wish 'How are you?' could be substituted with more the more honest 'I don't know you and therefore don't care about how you are. So let's just get on with whatever we intend doing'. Short, sharp, maybe a bit rude, but it gets the day moving on and allows us to avoid the bullsh*t of human dynamics.
Some people do seem to care... briefly. With a seemingly genuine tone of concern they'll employ those three words (How are you? Not, I love you) in conversation thinking they are doing their civil duty and are being good humans (If there is such a thing). The danger here is, the person being addressed could just pounce on this enquiry with a verbal thesis on their lives, thinking you actually give a damn. This should/could be met with your eyes rolling back into your head, a frothing mouth full of foam and terrifying facial tics. That should secure a quick escape from these mind-numbing, unnecessary moments.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
The Colour of Sport
Race, race race, we're obsessed with race (not the of the Comrades marathon persuasion, but more that of skin pigmentation). It's understandable it's a thorny issue which remains at the forefront of many South Africans minds, considering the country's ugly history of racial discrimination. and hatred. But I rarely hear whinging and complaining about racial matters from the mouths of real South Africans. Sure, they could be thinkig it and just not voicing their gripes, for whatever reason. In a rare moment of optimism, I choose to think maybe the great majority of this country's population are simply staying silent so as to promote a quiet reconciliation or subtle nation-building (you choose whatever catchphrase is popular this hour). Maybe we are looking inward to try and find answers to difficult questions regarding race, instead of shooting our mouths off and saying regrettably stupid things.
Speaking of stupid things, that great proponent of asinine racial comments, Butana Komphela, seems obsesssed with perpetuating racism. While some of his utterances are cringeworthy, they usually only amount to a good laugh at his expense. But what is worrying is the fact he's a relatively prominent (read: media-hungry) politician (more specifically, he's the chairperson of the sports portfolio committee in Parliament). Komphela can't seem to resist injecting racial hints into almost every aspect of sport. I realise sports isn't immune to everday debates on racial matters, but this man can turn anything on it's head to resemble an ugly, at times terrifying, spat regarding skin colouring. In arecent tirade in Parliament Komphela not only drew out his trusty race card (you see, he thinks everyone is playing poker. Little does he know, we're actually playing solitaire) he also added insult to injury by questioning why Leonard Chuene, he of the Caster Semenya gender testing lie fame, was suspended following that saga. The stupidity only started there. As he blustered his way through his verbal attack, he just had to add, 'The whole thing has become a racial issue' and the room went silent. If he's not trying to kill off that piece of living biltong which grazes over the national rugby team's jersey, he's using the dreaded k-word in driving home mindless messages on transformation in sport. Yet we see precious transformation in the mind of Komphela. Komphela sees colour where others see actual issues. He will superimpose race onto just about anything. Nothing is safe from his ignorant analysis. He'd ask if jukskei, that formerly hallowed sport of I believe they were called Boere games, has truly embraced transformation? What would he make of this strange activity made popular during them dark days of Apartheid by a bunch of narrow-minded, sexually repressed Calvinists. This sport is challenged in its absurdity by curling as one of the more, shall we say, pointless sports in recent history. Wherever brooms are involved with ice, this unholy union should be viewed with great suspicion. What would the little sporting watchdog tyrant say of this bizarre 'activity for pleasure' (I got that out of a thesaurus)? He'd probably find issue with the ice being too white and the players too pale. He'd accuse the founders of the game of being colonialist, imperialist, Westerners hell bent on imposing their dominance on an unsuspecting public. He'd find issue with the use of brooms. He'd probably say they are tools of the working class and their use in such a frenetic manner on ice symbolises oppression.... or something. Would he demand a parliamentary debate on the transformation in jukskei? Of course he would! He's been elected to provoke and annoy the public. In other words - needless make headlines, and test our patience. Much like another dimwitted agitator who's names sounds like - Hulius Dalema.
Speaking of stupid things, that great proponent of asinine racial comments, Butana Komphela, seems obsesssed with perpetuating racism. While some of his utterances are cringeworthy, they usually only amount to a good laugh at his expense. But what is worrying is the fact he's a relatively prominent (read: media-hungry) politician (more specifically, he's the chairperson of the sports portfolio committee in Parliament). Komphela can't seem to resist injecting racial hints into almost every aspect of sport. I realise sports isn't immune to everday debates on racial matters, but this man can turn anything on it's head to resemble an ugly, at times terrifying, spat regarding skin colouring. In arecent tirade in Parliament Komphela not only drew out his trusty race card (you see, he thinks everyone is playing poker. Little does he know, we're actually playing solitaire) he also added insult to injury by questioning why Leonard Chuene, he of the Caster Semenya gender testing lie fame, was suspended following that saga. The stupidity only started there. As he blustered his way through his verbal attack, he just had to add, 'The whole thing has become a racial issue' and the room went silent. If he's not trying to kill off that piece of living biltong which grazes over the national rugby team's jersey, he's using the dreaded k-word in driving home mindless messages on transformation in sport. Yet we see precious transformation in the mind of Komphela. Komphela sees colour where others see actual issues. He will superimpose race onto just about anything. Nothing is safe from his ignorant analysis. He'd ask if jukskei, that formerly hallowed sport of I believe they were called Boere games, has truly embraced transformation? What would he make of this strange activity made popular during them dark days of Apartheid by a bunch of narrow-minded, sexually repressed Calvinists. This sport is challenged in its absurdity by curling as one of the more, shall we say, pointless sports in recent history. Wherever brooms are involved with ice, this unholy union should be viewed with great suspicion. What would the little sporting watchdog tyrant say of this bizarre 'activity for pleasure' (I got that out of a thesaurus)? He'd probably find issue with the ice being too white and the players too pale. He'd accuse the founders of the game of being colonialist, imperialist, Westerners hell bent on imposing their dominance on an unsuspecting public. He'd find issue with the use of brooms. He'd probably say they are tools of the working class and their use in such a frenetic manner on ice symbolises oppression.... or something. Would he demand a parliamentary debate on the transformation in jukskei? Of course he would! He's been elected to provoke and annoy the public. In other words - needless make headlines, and test our patience. Much like another dimwitted agitator who's names sounds like - Hulius Dalema.
(Office) workers of the world unite!
From plush offices they dish out orders via e-mail (so as to avoid moving their fat arses), on occasion they'll verbalise their instructions in a new-found language I have the honour (maybe more like the dishonour) of coining a phrase for - Corporatish. It's the starting point for a new ideology and dogma. 'Tyranny begins with the abuse of language' George Orwell once remarked. The language is made up of heady mix of pop psychology and quasi-intellectual corporate-speak, designed to confuse and contradict around every cubicle partition. Those powers-that-be are paid to disseminate this puzzling lexicon, enforce it and obviously tow the line. The bottom feeders (that's pretty much anyone who hasn't got an office, parking place or personalised coffee mug) are paid to swallow the spoon fed Corporatish and then, in the words of one prominent 'business consultant' mould it into action. WTF? The last time I moulded anything was a freshly picked booger. I was 3 at the time. Anyway, whether or not you can in fact 'mould' the garbage so liberally espoused by these 'consultants' is irrelevant to the boss. As long as you follow the orders, smile politely, scribble down notes during 'workshops' ask questions and appear as if you really care, the bottom line is - you have to just nod and smile, or at least pretend to do so.
This flimsy language is often dreamt up by the above mentioned 'business consultants'. Let's unpack the meaning of this job description. Indeed such individuals do consult in businesses. But consult can also translate into regurgitate or lecture (a word plagued by patronising connotations). They swoop in, upon the request of managers, they shuffle off into offices in gaggles to strategetise, plan, brainstorm, their followers never missing a beat as they clamour over each other to impress this new demigod, this individual who will make everything alright again. Consultants are usually brought in at times of crisis. But that's not necessarily a prerequisite for their insidious presence. Sometimes companies just have spare cash floating around and want to blow it on seemingly important things, which appear shiny and professional on the outside, but are actually staid and cliched. From the desks of the meagre office workers they are watched with suspicion druing these meetings. What do they talk about? Their Apple Macs and Blackberries are at the ready, fingers hovering over keyboards, eyes scouring the roof for ideas. Rarely smiles appear on their poker faces. This is serious stuff. But for all we know they're deciding on lunch. 'Sushi or a power shake? I simply can't decide.' Once the lunch code is cracked it's on to more important matters, like what colour whiteboard pen to use to jot down those all crucial ideas. It's corporate conspiring, I tell you. Theories of every kind are formulated to ' increase profits (of the managers) improve on productivity (to increase the profits for the managers), expand the business (make their offices larger). Like I said, all crucial matters.
Then comes the workshops. Those never-ending sessions of pain and boredom. Please note, they're usually held on weekends, when those trusty consultants can probably charge some good overtime. there you sit, amid the waffling on psycho-social-workplace habits, where they attempt to analyse your very being. The pop-psychology is belched out. 'Are you a magician, a hero, a scholar or a warrior?' Asks the this corporate Deity at 8-30 on a Saturday morning at yet another workshop. Those of us awake manage to murmur something (usually curses). His stentorian voice aims to stimulate and motivate. All we want to do is escape or maim this person for using such big words. Can you say 'brainwashing'?
E-mails have become the carries of orders, instructions, decrees and warnings. Bosses, schooled in the new office language, careful construct their messages to motivate. "we have it within us to raise the bar and be better' they cheer. During dark times they threaten, 'It's come to my attention that we have not been functioning optimally'. Yes master. Whatever you say master. The e-mails can become sad attempts by the managers at becoming buddies with their now firmly alienated workforce. Such occasions call for more informal language, 'Hey guys! You've all worked so hard, let's have some fun this weekend and go play some miniature golf (insert smiley face).' Awesome, can't wait boss! Yippee.
Electronic dissemination of company propaganda is sometimes put to the side and substitute for the good old-fashioned poster. Hectares of trees are felled in the name of glossy wastes of paper. Corporatish is glossed up, with the use of out-of-work models smiling at desks, with motivational slogans splashed all of them. 'We can make a difference' or 'Come on, you can do it!' scream these posters. Even while in the bathroom, that last bastion of solitude, the posters are stuck up behind toilet doors where you are reminded, while doing you most personal business, of the company's motivational efforts.
Once a year employees are subjected to what's called appraisals or assessments. Face-to-face with you boss you're expected to 'open up' or 'speak up'. Instead these chats turn into quasi-interrogations, where these minions of the proverbial 'Man' try to extract subversive thoughts via convoluted languages (see 'Corporatish'). 'What are you able to bring to the company?' they ask. It's now your turn to huddle in an office, an Apple Mac poised to take notes on what you say. Your eyes scan the roof for ans wesr which you hope won't offend. 'I'm punctual' you blurt out, the silence becoming far too oppressive, much like the expectation from your interrogator for a favourable response. What you wish you could say is, 'I'd like to bring a high-powered automatic rifle to work one day...' you get where that sentence is going.
This flimsy language is often dreamt up by the above mentioned 'business consultants'. Let's unpack the meaning of this job description. Indeed such individuals do consult in businesses. But consult can also translate into regurgitate or lecture (a word plagued by patronising connotations). They swoop in, upon the request of managers, they shuffle off into offices in gaggles to strategetise, plan, brainstorm, their followers never missing a beat as they clamour over each other to impress this new demigod, this individual who will make everything alright again. Consultants are usually brought in at times of crisis. But that's not necessarily a prerequisite for their insidious presence. Sometimes companies just have spare cash floating around and want to blow it on seemingly important things, which appear shiny and professional on the outside, but are actually staid and cliched. From the desks of the meagre office workers they are watched with suspicion druing these meetings. What do they talk about? Their Apple Macs and Blackberries are at the ready, fingers hovering over keyboards, eyes scouring the roof for ideas. Rarely smiles appear on their poker faces. This is serious stuff. But for all we know they're deciding on lunch. 'Sushi or a power shake? I simply can't decide.' Once the lunch code is cracked it's on to more important matters, like what colour whiteboard pen to use to jot down those all crucial ideas. It's corporate conspiring, I tell you. Theories of every kind are formulated to ' increase profits (of the managers) improve on productivity (to increase the profits for the managers), expand the business (make their offices larger). Like I said, all crucial matters.
Then comes the workshops. Those never-ending sessions of pain and boredom. Please note, they're usually held on weekends, when those trusty consultants can probably charge some good overtime. there you sit, amid the waffling on psycho-social-workplace habits, where they attempt to analyse your very being. The pop-psychology is belched out. 'Are you a magician, a hero, a scholar or a warrior?' Asks the this corporate Deity at 8-30 on a Saturday morning at yet another workshop. Those of us awake manage to murmur something (usually curses). His stentorian voice aims to stimulate and motivate. All we want to do is escape or maim this person for using such big words. Can you say 'brainwashing'?
E-mails have become the carries of orders, instructions, decrees and warnings. Bosses, schooled in the new office language, careful construct their messages to motivate. "we have it within us to raise the bar and be better' they cheer. During dark times they threaten, 'It's come to my attention that we have not been functioning optimally'. Yes master. Whatever you say master. The e-mails can become sad attempts by the managers at becoming buddies with their now firmly alienated workforce. Such occasions call for more informal language, 'Hey guys! You've all worked so hard, let's have some fun this weekend and go play some miniature golf (insert smiley face).' Awesome, can't wait boss! Yippee.
Electronic dissemination of company propaganda is sometimes put to the side and substitute for the good old-fashioned poster. Hectares of trees are felled in the name of glossy wastes of paper. Corporatish is glossed up, with the use of out-of-work models smiling at desks, with motivational slogans splashed all of them. 'We can make a difference' or 'Come on, you can do it!' scream these posters. Even while in the bathroom, that last bastion of solitude, the posters are stuck up behind toilet doors where you are reminded, while doing you most personal business, of the company's motivational efforts.
Once a year employees are subjected to what's called appraisals or assessments. Face-to-face with you boss you're expected to 'open up' or 'speak up'. Instead these chats turn into quasi-interrogations, where these minions of the proverbial 'Man' try to extract subversive thoughts via convoluted languages (see 'Corporatish'). 'What are you able to bring to the company?' they ask. It's now your turn to huddle in an office, an Apple Mac poised to take notes on what you say. Your eyes scan the roof for ans wesr which you hope won't offend. 'I'm punctual' you blurt out, the silence becoming far too oppressive, much like the expectation from your interrogator for a favourable response. What you wish you could say is, 'I'd like to bring a high-powered automatic rifle to work one day...' you get where that sentence is going.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Stop, in the name of the law
The South African Police Service (or is it, force? I can never tell these days) seems to have warmly and enthusiastically embraced it's boss, Bheki Cele's rather hard line approach to law enforcement. Cele, never one to shy away from shooting his mouth off, has brought back that old macho approach to policing, which was taken to all kinds of lows and extremes during Apartheid. If officers aren't beating people to death, they're shooting anything that moves. In their spare time they... well, they assault and shoot. To a degree I support the new aggressive policing we are seeing. It's not an easy job being a cop. You're often derided and criticised. You are an easy target for liberals, criminals and whingers alike. You get paid a pittance for working long hours, under dangerous conditions. But that's what you sign up for. Without getting tangled up in the debate over cops abusing their shoot-to-kill dogma, so often preached by Cele, I'd like to steer my criticism onto how this gung-ho-ness appears to have been transplanted into almost every aspect Of SAPS's new 'ideology' of law enforcement.
When Hawks officials start bull dozing their ways into newsrooms, arresting journalists, there s most certainly cause for concern. I'm, of course, referring to the arrest of Sunday Time's scribe, Mzilikazi wa Afrika. Police spin doctors offered up the explanation that he was arrested in his capacity as a private citizen, not as a journalist. If wa Afrika did do something wrong, then the Hawks were doing their job. We can only wait and see what details emerge from this saga to determine if the Hawks were simply being what Cele expects them to be - uncompromising and firm - or if they took their mandate too far. But is it a coincidence the arrest came as media bosses debate press freedom and new legislation being mooted to 'regulate' (read: muzzle)journalists? On top of this, wa Afrika's arrest is apparently linked to stories he did on Mpumalanga Premier David Mabuza, who was quick to react to the debacle. In other words, is this a knew jerk reaction to protect senior ANC officials as has become a hallmark of the ruling party. This stinks to high heaven.
Cele, in his small way in comparison to this whole debate, and his motormouth, coupled with his macho posturing (he's never scared to have pictures taken of him posing with automatic assault rifles and loves fashioning his wardrobe on that of Al Capone and Glen Agliotti) has given the green light for his minions to do as they please or as he eloquentlyAt the same time, he's dragged law enforcement back to circa 1960, 1976, 1985, 3-years which stand out in Apartheid history due to how they were characterised by the brutality of the police and other security agencies of the time.
As I watched footage of wa Africa' being taken into custody, surrounded by burly men-in-black, hands reaching to cover cameras amid heated arguments and threats, I had to pinch myself. Is this really South Africa 2010? Am I really watching security agents, apparently drunk on power, virtually storm the offices of a prominent media house to affect an arrest?
I'm pinching myself really hard as I write this and I'm not dreaming. This has happened and I fear will repeat itself. If this is how our men and women in blue are now doing their jobs, can we then expect people, such as journalists, to start 'jumping' from the 10-floor of John Voster Square... oops, my bad, I mean Johannesburg Central police station during interrogation? detention without trial, even? farfethced, you'll ask. So Is a state-run media tribunal .
When Hawks officials start bull dozing their ways into newsrooms, arresting journalists, there s most certainly cause for concern. I'm, of course, referring to the arrest of Sunday Time's scribe, Mzilikazi wa Afrika. Police spin doctors offered up the explanation that he was arrested in his capacity as a private citizen, not as a journalist. If wa Afrika did do something wrong, then the Hawks were doing their job. We can only wait and see what details emerge from this saga to determine if the Hawks were simply being what Cele expects them to be - uncompromising and firm - or if they took their mandate too far. But is it a coincidence the arrest came as media bosses debate press freedom and new legislation being mooted to 'regulate' (read: muzzle)journalists? On top of this, wa Afrika's arrest is apparently linked to stories he did on Mpumalanga Premier David Mabuza, who was quick to react to the debacle. In other words, is this a knew jerk reaction to protect senior ANC officials as has become a hallmark of the ruling party. This stinks to high heaven.
Cele, in his small way in comparison to this whole debate, and his motormouth, coupled with his macho posturing (he's never scared to have pictures taken of him posing with automatic assault rifles and loves fashioning his wardrobe on that of Al Capone and Glen Agliotti) has given the green light for his minions to do as they please or as he eloquentlyAt the same time, he's dragged law enforcement back to circa 1960, 1976, 1985, 3-years which stand out in Apartheid history due to how they were characterised by the brutality of the police and other security agencies of the time.
As I watched footage of wa Africa' being taken into custody, surrounded by burly men-in-black, hands reaching to cover cameras amid heated arguments and threats, I had to pinch myself. Is this really South Africa 2010? Am I really watching security agents, apparently drunk on power, virtually storm the offices of a prominent media house to affect an arrest?
I'm pinching myself really hard as I write this and I'm not dreaming. This has happened and I fear will repeat itself. If this is how our men and women in blue are now doing their jobs, can we then expect people, such as journalists, to start 'jumping' from the 10-floor of John Voster Square... oops, my bad, I mean Johannesburg Central police station during interrogation? detention without trial, even? farfethced, you'll ask. So Is a state-run media tribunal .
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
What now?
There’s nothing like an event such as the World Cup to rip open a country’s potential, breathe some life into it and see visible results. The tournament has come and gone. That could just be the post-World Cup depression. I attribute this, in part, to how well it went. It was almost flawless, save for a few hundred crimes, some peeved fans who couldn’t attend that now infamous Durban game and of course the never-ending ticket scam sagas. I shrugged off my cynicism for a change, replacing it with, shall we call it, momentary patriotism (which, in my defence, never extended to buying rearview window socks) and I backed South Africa’s ability to actually pull off the event. And in a rare show of unity and competence, the country did exactly that, against many odds. Well done, pat on the back, whoo hoo. But what it also proved was that with enough pressure, attention and, of course money, the powers-that-be are able to set egos aside, stop bickering, relegate party-politics and shift into gear to do something. How could they not? The world was expecting failure.
So why can’t the government keep this up with day-to-day service delivery? They’ve built a host of a multi-billion rand white elephant (you may know them as stadiums) and got public transport, such as Cape Town’s IRT system on the right track (although it could become an exercise in futility). Impressive indeed. But now I’m referring to working taps, flushing, fully-enclosed toilets, a few more homes and maybe even a school here- -and-there, can they fuel up delivery in these crucial areas? Sure, the spin doctors and their wizards-of-words will explain there are such programmes, initiatives, projects (or whatever the latest government catchphrase is of the moment) in place. So maybe the likes of the N2 gateway project is providing homes or the extended public works programme is seeing things like new roads being laid (where? I’m not to sure). But they’ve only been able to churn up a trickle of promised end-products over a number of years. And they’ve been plagued by needless controversies. Why can’t this delivery-on-steroids be transplanted into government’s chest, a functioning, heart, with peoples’ needs prioritized and not those of MPs and their lust for mansions, luxury cars, World Cup tickets and designer attire? I have some answers to this, but can’t find it in myself to verbalise or write them in a civil, non-violent way. Maybe we should just brace ourselves for the same lame government spin, excuses and futile debates on the snail-pace service delivery which all too many South Africans have become accustomed to from those in charge.
So why can’t the government keep this up with day-to-day service delivery? They’ve built a host of a multi-billion rand white elephant (you may know them as stadiums) and got public transport, such as Cape Town’s IRT system on the right track (although it could become an exercise in futility). Impressive indeed. But now I’m referring to working taps, flushing, fully-enclosed toilets, a few more homes and maybe even a school here- -and-there, can they fuel up delivery in these crucial areas? Sure, the spin doctors and their wizards-of-words will explain there are such programmes, initiatives, projects (or whatever the latest government catchphrase is of the moment) in place. So maybe the likes of the N2 gateway project is providing homes or the extended public works programme is seeing things like new roads being laid (where? I’m not to sure). But they’ve only been able to churn up a trickle of promised end-products over a number of years. And they’ve been plagued by needless controversies. Why can’t this delivery-on-steroids be transplanted into government’s chest, a functioning, heart, with peoples’ needs prioritized and not those of MPs and their lust for mansions, luxury cars, World Cup tickets and designer attire? I have some answers to this, but can’t find it in myself to verbalise or write them in a civil, non-violent way. Maybe we should just brace ourselves for the same lame government spin, excuses and futile debates on the snail-pace service delivery which all too many South Africans have become accustomed to from those in charge.
Damn the machine
It’s officially a stand off. I’m staring it in the ‘eyes’, man to… umm, machine, ready for battle. Then suddenly, the monitor shuts off. As easy as that the damned machine scuttles away into the techno-ether. I’d like to think it’s fearful of my humanly wrath (I’m reaching for a heavy object, ready to start reducing this damned device to a pile of chips, screws, glass and plastic). But it’s only hiding to further hone plot against me. I hate you computer, I hate your very existence in my life. You shut down when you please, no fair warning or explanation is given (one that a moron like me can understand at least). With a brief flash of a ’window’ explaining the data from my thing-majg can’t load onto my doo hicky and so the file can’t attach to a proxy-something-or-another and the whachamacallit is dysfunctional due to a virus, imported via the, blah, blah, etc, yawn, snore. That’s my lay person (some would say idiot) interpretation of this satanic machine and its legions of devilish binary brothers language.
I curse my PC and it’s minefield of a playground, the Internet, on a daily basis. The two are comfortable bed fellows or should I say, an axis of evil. But in this comfort comes an unseen malificence, brewed up in the bowels of their elaborate mechanisms. They were created for a myriad of reasons (both positive and negative). But with all their technological brilliance, they also bring with them scourges of every kind, designed to endlessly frustrated, befuddle and demean humankind. The PC whirs in anger at my indignance. Note to self: type quieter. So I’m a technophobe, there, I said it, so what?! It still doesn’t change the fact my PC still takes 10 minutes to start up (so much for the breakneck speed of technological progress).
Let’s start with the most basic of a computers accessories. Printing is not so much a headache as it is a tumour. No matter how many times technicians and IT ‘experts’ come into to ‘fix’ the printer, it develops its own brain, printing anything it wants in whatever font or size its deem necessary to upset my day.
To the machine’s playground – the Internet. Even just the name leaves humans in awe. The Internet comes with a few billion users (abusers?) who use this damned thing to sell, preach, lecture, guide, harass, monitor, stalk, teach abuse… like I said, malificence.
And they can detect the hatred and frustration. They sense it via some obtuse, sinister means, shared only among machines for the purposes of plotting some kind of revenge on the human race. Here I was thinking this relationship between humankind and technology was a one-sided affair, with us humanly thingies fully in charge. I fear this could be the start of a Terminator-like, Space Oddyssey: 2001-esque machine-takeover. I foresee a terrifying future for our unhealthy reliance on the Net (Technophobe’s log, star date 2043: I think my computer can understand this human tongue language of ours. The monitor just went off for no reason. Note to self: maybe use less coarse language in the presence of the damned… I mean, awesomely impressive machine).
But this contraption’s never-ending trouble-making is surpassed by the innumerable techno-cliques of criminals, geeks and salespeople, to name but a few, who employ this unholy alliance to further their misguided agendas.
If you not trying avoid falling victim to a Nigerian called Walter, who promises to let you in on a multi-trillion dollar deal he’s about to clinch, granted you pay one beeelllliiiooon dollars into his bank account (usually offshore, mostly Swiss and never above board).
Salespeople are themselves corporate criminals, only, they have a better (only marginally so) grasp of the English language”. Click here and your penis will instantly inflate to, not twice, not thrice, but four times its normal size” screams one advertisement as it pops up out of the binary ether. It then never goes away (the ad, that is. If you were dumb enough to buy the penis enlargement machine made in Kazakhstan, then you deserve the pain which accompanies dubious lenis enlargement).
E-mail, while necessary in this day and age if you wish to avoid hermit-dom and wish stay in reluctant contact with the world and your mother is a minefield. Opening your e-mail is like defusing an I.E.D. The scamsters, sales rapists and pointless company newsletters pounce on you begging, demanding, ordering, and convincing their way to your stomach, where the gurgling of intolerance simmers. One of the best examples of time-wasting and tempter-testing are those “Pass this e-mail on and you’ll get 7 wishes” messages. Ummmm, am I 7? Do they think I’m mentally-challenged and so will believe in wishes, unicorns and non-melting ice cream? Spam is the devils work, a construct from the hell.
Look, don’t get me wrong. I have my moments of admiration for computers and their I.T. entourage. A click of a rodent (get it? A mouse. Hahahahaha) Voila! A universe of information pops up. That’s just one of many examples of it’s brilliance (usually offered up by the multi-billion dollar I.T. industry in the way of infinite marketing).It’s a necessary good, which often transmogrifies itself into evil (especially to techno-morons such as myself). I hate to love the Internet and computers. I love to hate those who have so embraced cyber-world. Of all the functions these amazing inventions of our time have to offer, it’s the delete button on my keyboard I adore the most and the hammer I keep next to my PC’s hard drive – a not-so-subtle warning of it’s fate and who really controls it.
I curse my PC and it’s minefield of a playground, the Internet, on a daily basis. The two are comfortable bed fellows or should I say, an axis of evil. But in this comfort comes an unseen malificence, brewed up in the bowels of their elaborate mechanisms. They were created for a myriad of reasons (both positive and negative). But with all their technological brilliance, they also bring with them scourges of every kind, designed to endlessly frustrated, befuddle and demean humankind. The PC whirs in anger at my indignance. Note to self: type quieter. So I’m a technophobe, there, I said it, so what?! It still doesn’t change the fact my PC still takes 10 minutes to start up (so much for the breakneck speed of technological progress).
Let’s start with the most basic of a computers accessories. Printing is not so much a headache as it is a tumour. No matter how many times technicians and IT ‘experts’ come into to ‘fix’ the printer, it develops its own brain, printing anything it wants in whatever font or size its deem necessary to upset my day.
To the machine’s playground – the Internet. Even just the name leaves humans in awe. The Internet comes with a few billion users (abusers?) who use this damned thing to sell, preach, lecture, guide, harass, monitor, stalk, teach abuse… like I said, malificence.
And they can detect the hatred and frustration. They sense it via some obtuse, sinister means, shared only among machines for the purposes of plotting some kind of revenge on the human race. Here I was thinking this relationship between humankind and technology was a one-sided affair, with us humanly thingies fully in charge. I fear this could be the start of a Terminator-like, Space Oddyssey: 2001-esque machine-takeover. I foresee a terrifying future for our unhealthy reliance on the Net (Technophobe’s log, star date 2043: I think my computer can understand this human tongue language of ours. The monitor just went off for no reason. Note to self: maybe use less coarse language in the presence of the damned… I mean, awesomely impressive machine).
But this contraption’s never-ending trouble-making is surpassed by the innumerable techno-cliques of criminals, geeks and salespeople, to name but a few, who employ this unholy alliance to further their misguided agendas.
If you not trying avoid falling victim to a Nigerian called Walter, who promises to let you in on a multi-trillion dollar deal he’s about to clinch, granted you pay one beeelllliiiooon dollars into his bank account (usually offshore, mostly Swiss and never above board).
Salespeople are themselves corporate criminals, only, they have a better (only marginally so) grasp of the English language”. Click here and your penis will instantly inflate to, not twice, not thrice, but four times its normal size” screams one advertisement as it pops up out of the binary ether. It then never goes away (the ad, that is. If you were dumb enough to buy the penis enlargement machine made in Kazakhstan, then you deserve the pain which accompanies dubious lenis enlargement).
E-mail, while necessary in this day and age if you wish to avoid hermit-dom and wish stay in reluctant contact with the world and your mother is a minefield. Opening your e-mail is like defusing an I.E.D. The scamsters, sales rapists and pointless company newsletters pounce on you begging, demanding, ordering, and convincing their way to your stomach, where the gurgling of intolerance simmers. One of the best examples of time-wasting and tempter-testing are those “Pass this e-mail on and you’ll get 7 wishes” messages. Ummmm, am I 7? Do they think I’m mentally-challenged and so will believe in wishes, unicorns and non-melting ice cream? Spam is the devils work, a construct from the hell.
Look, don’t get me wrong. I have my moments of admiration for computers and their I.T. entourage. A click of a rodent (get it? A mouse. Hahahahaha) Voila! A universe of information pops up. That’s just one of many examples of it’s brilliance (usually offered up by the multi-billion dollar I.T. industry in the way of infinite marketing).It’s a necessary good, which often transmogrifies itself into evil (especially to techno-morons such as myself). I hate to love the Internet and computers. I love to hate those who have so embraced cyber-world. Of all the functions these amazing inventions of our time have to offer, it’s the delete button on my keyboard I adore the most and the hammer I keep next to my PC’s hard drive – a not-so-subtle warning of it’s fate and who really controls it.
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