They doth protest too much

Tyres. Check. Rocks and boulders large enough to block roads. Check. Stones, assortment of other projectiles. Check. Pissed of attitude mixed with healthy ignorance. Check. Feeling peeved with the powers that be? Check. Got all of the above? Yes? Then you ready to go and spark up your very own 'service delivery' protest. Staging violent protests are South Africa's forte. The country, and more specifically the down-trodden, have perfected the art of throwing stones, burning tyres, committing arson, dancing in circles, singing and demanding things. The great majority of the country has been doing this for decades so why would they be experts in the field of protests. Name it, they'll demand it. Why? Because they often don't have it and they are sick and tired of promises. By 'it', of course, I'm referring to basic services, like running water. If you lived in a shack minus electricty, no water, sharing a toilet with 5 other families, filling a bottle with petrol and striking a match becomes the only voice which you believe will be heard amid suffocating poverty and stifling political arrogance. But let's never, ever forget, where there's a violent demonstration, there's also a politcal party lurking in the shadows, sometimes right out on the front line. No province knows this heady, precarious mix of pathetic politicking and genuine civil grievances better than the Western Cape. It's the land of the DA and the ANC and its pals will do almost anything to destabilise the province at the expense of the proverbial 'people' and their grievances. Take the recent explosion of violence in Grabouw, where a bonafide issue, that of inadequate education, was hijacked and morphed into an all-out race war. Do you think the individuals shown in photographs stoning, kicking and beating people because of their skin colour had an inkling of an idea of the real catalyst of the unrest? I'd bet a whole bunch of money if anyone had the balls to have intervened, to stop those 'protesters' to ask: Do you know what the real problem is in your community? You'd be met with blank stares, the smell of liquor and quite possibly an intolerant klap. I'm not for a second saying other politcal parties aren't capable of fomenting violent protests to further their own myopic means? Where's there's politics, there are always looming problems? However, where there's petty jealousy and resentment among rival parties (the Western Cape and it's DA/ANC rivalry) there's always going to be ambiguities around the cause of protest action? It's not so easy to simply dismiss yet another violent march in an informal settlement as the have- nots yet again venting their anger over still not having anything. Look behind the curtain and there'll more than likely be a 'political leader' instigating uneasiness, playing on communities frustrations in the name of his/her party. Why? It has nothing to do with taking on a cause in the interests of the people. It has everything to do with idiocy and narrow-minded ulterior motives, where genuine issues are lost in the dirty details of politics. Political groupings with think nothing of instigating all out chaos. They trade on the poor and trample on the real issues.

It's All the Rage!

Whether you are one of Mikey Schultz's sparring partners or a nun, every person who has a drivers licence in this country and has commandeered some form of a vehicle is guilty of road rage. It could be a simple, subtle grimace and curling of the top lip at a cyclist taking up an entire lane or a truck driver hurtling down a quiet suburban road, just the smallest of transgressions induce paroxysms of expletives. We've all driven down that ugly road of rage. The assault of a pedestrian at the hands of a taxi driver in Bloemfontein recently was yet another confirmation of why South Africans are among the worst road ragers in the world. Could it be our long-held culture of violence, often repressed under repeated calls for simunye-ness and cliched delusions of us living under a rainbow, which leave us with few forms of cartharsis apart from moering the crap out of a fellow-driver who failed to indicate? Is our underlying hatred of each other, that subconscious racism, xenophobia and misogynism, which fuels our conscious rage? It's a bit of everything. And it's made worse by that good old South African complex of entitlement. We all feel entitled to something, whether it is a job, a house, land; we all feel we deserve these things. On paper we do, no matter who you are, a poephol, rapist or corrupt civil servant or a Salvation Army volunteer and tree-hugger - our basic demand is for any of the above-mentioned things or at the very least a promise. But amid this climate of 'I-deserve-everything-no-mater-what', entitlement now extends to roads. The minute we step into out cars and mini-buses, onto our scooters and bicycles, the road becomes ours, our own personal domain, to be used by no one but ourselves. If you are a Capetonian, there is the double-entitlement of thinking you needn't employ even the most basic road and driving rule because you live 'In the most beautiful city in the world'. Gone is the indicator, sense of direction and basic intelligence. A Capetonian motorist's sense of utilising something mechanised becomes marred by that fucking mountain, a strange accent and the ocean. In Joburg, the exact opposite occurs. The second a Joburger gets behind the wheel it's go, go go, and Jah help you if you get in my way! Aggression is as necessary for Joburg road users as a licence is (although a licence is optional, these days). So, how is it such a violent display of road rage as seen by that now infamous Bloemfontein taxi man occurred in that sleepy, nowhere town, where I should imagine the only signs of true anger come when the Cheetahs lose a match. We all 'own' the roads, technically. It's our taxes which pay for their construction and upkeep (except in the Eastern Cape and Limpopo, where it seems the money is best spent on keeping roads as kak as possible). I fear with the new swear word of 2102, e-tolling, and constant threats of it being implemented beyond Gauteng (that healthy hotbed of road madness) we can expect further road rage on a national scale. I see even pensioners alighting from their Honda Ballades, canes at the ready, poking motorists irritated by their insistence at driving in the 'fast lane' at 20 km/h. They'll be joined by taxi drivers, knobkierries in hand attacking a Sandton priss in her Mini Cooper in rush hour traffic applying make-up while in transit. Expect traffic cops to break the sound barrier at news of Debonairs two-for-one pizza special Wednesdays. Why? Because we all apparently own the roads and this entitles us to ignore most road rules, drive like morons, beat each other up, scream, shout, curse, flip the bird and spit. But fellow-motorists, when strangled by that familair sense of rage when on our roads, stop to think for a second where it stems from, what its origins could be. If you get bored at pontificating on the origins of anger, then alternatively aim your ire at yourself and stop for a second to possibly realise - maybe you are part of the problem. Just like that pedestrian, nudged by the Bloem taxi man and subsequently kicked into virtual uncosciousness because he shouldn't have been jay-walking at such a leisurely pace in the first place. Just like the taxi driver who, no doubt has been the perpetrator of far worse traffic transgressions, he's equally as guilty. Both are the problem, along with millions of other road-users. We're all a little kak behind the wheel, on our motorbikes, bicycles, in our trucks, buses, in our shoes and on horse carts. We are all guilty of bad driving and road rage.

A Miscarriage of Marriage

So here I sit (uncomfortably) staring at my testes bobbing around in a bowl, recently separated from my being as required under that sinister, ever-anachronistic institution of marriage, I wonder - What's it all about? My wife orders...ummm, requests me to to espouse the beauty and amazingness of being married. My nuts, now descending in formaldehyde, seem to have developed a mind! They seem to communicate to me a sense of urgency, even desperation. If I were to translate my severed manhood's 'body' language I'd say they are they are imploring me to free them from their watery enslavement, flush them into the sewers and allow my wife free-rein over the erst of my anatomy. Cynicism aside, the question still stands - Does marriage make sense in the 21st Century? Fuck knows, quite honestly. To pontificate amid a stifling climate of derision on the merits of such unions is futile. It is what it is. But let me illustrate to you my 'journey' from anti-marriage to a semi-tolerance of the institution. As a teenager it made no sense, understandably so. I witnessed my parents fumble and fight their way through those years of their marriage in much the same way I was trying to explore my hormones - awkwardly and painfully. yet most nights my folks could muster up smiles for each other and set aside their differences (for the sake of the kids, of course). Not to say I came from a broken home. far from it. But my nascent understanding of marriage was first rooted in the example my parents set. Times were hard, money was never in abundance, my adolescence and 'funniness' (my mother's description of my teens) often butted heads with my folks' old fashion-ness. Again, there's nothing strange about this. Yet I developed an aversion of militant proportions to marriage, based simply on the usual teenage approach of 'Yuck, who wants to become our parents!' My teens gave way to the 20s, where my anti-nuptial stance persisted and was further galvanised by my growing aggression and deepening sense of futility and rage in the world. I thankfully managed to loose my virginity in my 20s, but this did nothing to force me to re-evaluate my theory on marriage. Once a young man tastes copulation (dirty minds, away with you!) I was hell bent on expanding my sexual horizons. And this had bugger all to do with finding The One. I wanted The Many, of course as my seeds apparently needed to be sowed.

Sexual 'exploits' never became my modus operandi. I blame my father's healthy respect fro women and an aunt's quasi-feminist teachings for this. In the end my young adulthood was only consummated by 10 sexual conquests, more than half of which were characterised by either flacidness, complements of an attack of nerves, or pure fear of female genitalia (seriously, they are scary up close, much like penises). None of these conquests ever changed my views on matrimony. Sure, once or twice the topic would come up for discussion, followed by rashes, coughing fits and temporary blindness. But never once was I ever convinced the woman who at that time in my history who was brave enough to allow me into their bed was The One. One partners insisted I convert to Catholicism, to which I responded by packing my bags and showing her the bird. Another became virtually infatuated with me (!!!!!!!!!!!!???????????????) after just two days together (and that was before sex was put on offer). I quietly extricated myself from that fatal attraction with only perfunctory, indirect talk of marriage. From these 10 partners I learned only one thing about marriage - Waiting for The One makes about as much sense as ANC government policies. It's pointless.

4 years ago I met a woman who, like me, had expelled all thoughts, theories and beliefs on marriage from her being. We collided amid existentialism, cynicism, apathy and aggression, inadvertently merging our twisted views on the matter of nuptials into one word - Negotiable. Although, I must emphasise, we never spoke of marriage in reference to us. We never felt the need to. We were blissful in our exploration of each other. We never allowed the bull shit that comes with the misguided search for The One. Everything was left to chance and, to be honest, an almost child-like sense of wonder and adventure. We managed to mouth the words 'I love you' to each after much time together. That was followed by the dreaded meeting of the parents, again only after we'd spent a sufficient period of time together. Never did we rush. The natural course of things proceeded free of that niggling sense of urgency and desperation of settling down, making kids and finding a health appreciation of gardening.

Several months ago the idea then struck me. What if I did marry her? What would happen? What would change? We bought property together, based firmly on the need to invest and grow our financial standing. was that the death-knell of my and her freedom? Fuck know, comrades! I was the beginning of the beginning. My contorted view on a permanent, legal union started blossoming into an acceptable form of commitment. As the seed grew, I insisted the move to marriage would be our own invention. Forget religion and it's bastardisation of marrying, complete with subservience and misogyny (don't even try to argue!). My wife and I cut out the bull shit. Away with delusions of grandiosity where vacuous venues, dozens of pointless strangers and relatives, over-priced cakes, snooty wedding planners and out-of-work photographers. It was all on our own terms, free of pretence, over-inflated egos and prices and the trappings of societal demands.

My wife and I are 6 days into our 'knot'. Early days, sure, but having dictated the terms of relationship from day one 4 years ago and at having not been confronted for a second my cold feet and doubt, I can safely say 6 days will became 6 weeks, which will grow into 6 months and form there... hell, I have no problem thinking 6 years and even 60 into the future with my wife.

The Juju Hangover: Part... I've lost count

I think I might need to find religion or some inkling of faith to get me through my latest hangover. This time it has nothing... no wait, it has very little to do with an excessive intake of alcohol (I actually needed to steal a quick, yet healthy swig from my hip flask to get through this blog). A hangover is defined as "The unpleasant physical effects following the heavy use of alcohol". Although my current physical malaise is better defined along this explanation: A letdown, as after a period of excitement".
So, there I was, readying myself in front of my radio this past Saturday, awaiting an ANC press conference where the fate of one Julius Malema and his merry bunch of morons was going to be announced. In case you've been living in a cave (which I would perfectly understand considering the the potentially nauseating affect this constant overload of Malema can have), here's a very brief summary. Last November Jules and some of his league management were hauled over the coals... no wait, punished, mmmm, okay, they were given a stern talking to and stripped of their illusions of grandeur following some misguided comments on Botswana and barging in on a meeting of the ANC's top brass. While the illusions became delusions, complete with toddler-esque petulance and adolescent-type hormonal rebellion, Malema and Co. appealed their suspensions, which at that stage already seemed nothing more than window-dressing. The doughy- torsoed one held his breath and insisted, " The gloves have now come off." He pointed out he's still the head tender bender, commander-in-chief(s) and head comrade at the ANC kindergarten, while his appeal process is underway. And so as journalists we were left debating and brain-storming the correct title for Malema when writing news stories related to him, he apparently carried on with his duties (whatever these may be) as league prez. Was it suspended Youth Leauge president? Was he still the official leader, despite his 5-year suspension? If you cared enough, this type of bull twang bothered you, especially in newsrooms. We had little choice but to care, just a bit, sometimes purely because he was newsmaker in 2011. Love him or hate him, the public's affections and dislike, in equal proportions, ensured he secured as many as possible headlines last year. Unfortunately, nothing has changed in 2012.
Okay, so now we can fast-forward to the 4th of February 2012. A delightfully distinguished Cyril Ramaphosa, effortlessly filling the shoes of a president-like figure, announced to the country (as it turned out many of us actually do still give a damn!) that Malema and his collective of idiots had failed (he delightfully used adjectives such as 'ridiculous' and 'absurd' to emphasise the degrees of failure) in their appeals. If that moment had been out of a cornball movie, some twit in the enthused and sweaty hack pack of journalists at Luthuli house would've started a slow clap. One sentence after the other must've seemed like a salvo of canings meted out by a sadistic teacher to a once-bolshy school boy, as Ramaphosa quite literally read out the riot act. A muted cheer exploded over much of the country (why muted, you'll ask me, read on).
I let out a breath of relief. Finally, we can move on from this man and his ego. Finally, we can start focusing on real issues, real news. I silently rejoiced and even commended the ANC's seniors for delivering what seemed to be a decisive bitch-slap to Jules and his power-intoxicated delusions. Boy, was I wrong! The Monday after the outcome of the appeals process was made public, headlines reading, 'Malema ANCYL leader - for now' greeted the country. Good thing, I was met by this news in the early hours of that Monday morning, always the appropriate time for a hangover to attack. The nausea soon settled in. My head started spinning. My brain contracted and ached, my bowels flipped and rolled. Of course the ANC's disciplinary code and constitution conveniently allowed for the the mitigation of Juju's sanctions, almost an escape clause. ANC national spin doctor, Jackson Mthembu, explained it like this, "You will know that the NDCA [national disciplinary committee of appeal] said that they have a chance to go and mitigate so until such mitigation has taken place the sanctions will not kick in." As I dry heave over the toilet, let me try to understand this. Malema was then always ANCYL leader, even though he was suspended last November, despite an earlier suspension for another 'offence' dating back to... I can't even remember, and even though his appeal was unsuccessful, meaning his punishment should stand, it won't, at least in its original form, because now he can fight (and boy, will he fight seeing as though his gloves have been removed along with his muzzle) for a lesser sanction! Is anyone feeling dizzy, light-headed, sick and freakin' tired of this permanent hangover called Julius Malema?!
Choose any scene out of the movie, The Hangover, and you could adequately apply it to the reality many of us Malema-fatigued have been abiding for months. Maybe you can relate to that scene in the film where Bradley Cooper, Ed Helms and Zach Galifianakis awake from their night of abject debauchery. The scenes of chaos and madness around them are the only reminders of their booze-fulled behaviour from the previous night. People of South Africa, I hate to remind you, we've been suffering from similar hangovers, brought on by months of being force-fed a noxious cocktail of head-tearing, gut-blasting news relating to Malema, his arrogance, the endless tales of his blatant power-debauchery, the ear-numbing sound bytes of him 'declaring' war on his daddy, Jacob Zuma, 'Shooting the Boer', espousing nationalisation and showing sympathy for the likes of Robert Mugabe and Muammar Gaddafi. And as the distinct taste of carrots (I don't remember eating carrots) enters my mouth, the forerunner to Juju-induced vomiting, I scowl and curse at the thought and dread of this hangover never abating, much like Malema.

Die Antwoord to Censorship

Die Antwoord blasted, cursed, cussed and moered their way onto the South African music scene's radar in such a way, the Yanks couldn't even resist dipping their toes into the group's own formula of bad, yet entertaining taste. When front man, Ninja, wasn't shaking his tackle in awkward Pink Floyd sleeping shorts, his side-kick, Yo-Landi was barking insults at naaiers, all the while skating on super-thin ice with a flagrant and thrillingly dangerous disregard for conservative sensibilities. Is it a long, drawn out dare to censors? Is it gratuitous? Is it meant to be ironic? I couldn't really care less. Intellectualizing the band's approach is futile. But many of can't resist even a superficial dissection of Die Antwoord's answer to all things boring and banal.
Their mass media exploitation was perhaps needed amid a stifling slew of grossly unoriginal acts, compliments of the likes of the Parlotones and Prime Circle. At first, critics were quick to dismiss Die Antwoord as blog-hopping, genre-contorting meme who wouldn't make it past YouTube. Eet julle woorde mense.
Die Antwoord is in many ways an experiment in boundaries, which in itself is an irony, as the band doesn't seem to know any limits or even give a flying toss about what anyone thinks of them.
Just when you thought it was okay to de-mute your satellite TV decoders and stop ordering the kids to leave the room at the very sight of Ninja's awfully retro hair cut and the sound of Yo-Landi's chipmunk, splenetic fury, they are back to torment censors in 2012. And boy oh boy, does the religious right and its self-righteous ilk have their work cut out for them. Almost two years to the day of the group's twisted birth, will Die Antwoord unleash the next chapter of their lunacy. Their latest offering, Ten$ion, will drop next month, much like an atom bomb. Judging from the video to the first single, 'I fink you freeky', commercial success and a macabre interest from international audiences has gone straight to the duo's head. The diminutive yet scary Yo-Landi, in full demonic glory, develops a taste for Ninja's heart. That's all that needs to be said about the video. Trying to describe it's shock and awe in words simply doesn't do the video any justice. What I can say is it will no doubt test the patience of censors in South Africa. Hell, myopic, still-living-with-mom, failed librarians, in stiff suits, armed with red tape, curse-blocking bleepers, Bibles and Q'rans beyond our borders could even spill their decaffeinated lattes after even a curt viewing of the video.
I wait in anxious, giddy joy to see how far or close the video gets to our TV screens here. It's controversy fodder at its best, which will become the target and subject of many. Quite frankly, it's needed early in a new year, which is already being dominated by hangovers from 2011's bullshit. For a brief moment, we can divert our attention away from navel-gazing about the world's economic woes, the failure of capitalism, the Arab Spring, Julius Malema's ever-growing ego, Helen Zille's constant criticism of everything and anything the ANC government does. For a fleeting moment we have some gratuitous, open-jaw-inducing respite (or nightmares, depending on the degree of your tolerance).

Royal Pains

Did you know South Africa has it's very own royal family? No! Wait! Make that families! That trusty online encyclopedia, Wikipedia, informs me we have no less than 14 royal groupings of relations, that's excluding Queen Elizabeth and her kin and extended inbreeds. There's the more publicised (usually for all the wrong reasons) Zulu monarchy. His Royal Highness, the Wearer of Dead Animals and the Regent Waster of Money, King Goodwill Zwelithini, is probably better known in Kwazulu-Natal than the Windsors. To the rest of the country his and his family's reputation is characterised by their opulent and flagrant squandering of money. I guffawed at a recent news story where a spokesperson of the Royal Zulu family, Prince Something or other, referred to his boss as 'His Majesty'. I suppose if we speaking royalese he's sticking to the rules. But should the rest of us follow suit and even give a crap that there's this pointless family, perpetually intoxicated by an anachronistic insistence by government to entertain and kow-tow to these so called regal buffoons and their planet-sized egos? Should we then start dishing out state funds to the Mahlangu dynasty or the Bafokeng monarchs and every tiny Khoisan clan with delusions of grandeur.
What about the MaKhwinde Dynasty or the AmaDlomo and amaHala Dynasties? I once worked with a woman who insisted she was a real life traditional Xhosa princess. Apart from her penchant for expensive cars, an irritatingly over-inflated ego and neck which she seemed to have been trained so as to guiding her eyes down on all whom she spoke to. I could never quite understand her verbose explanations at how she was of the blue blood type. For all I know she was exploiting my white tendencies and ignorance. Let's not forget how, like the royal families of Europe, regal bloodlines across the length and breadth of time, are s deeply entrenched in inbreeding, incest, blood lust, war, greed, corruption and arrogance, they've lost touch with reality. When some jump to protect the Royal Zulus of South Africa, they conveniently forget, these are the same people who don't find anything wrong with selling off teenage girls, under the guise of arranged marriages (a concept so far removed from modern thinking it belongs along side state-sanctioned public executions). It's these royals who don't seem to understand the concept of working for a living. They're quite happy to live off state-sponsored budgets set aside for them, while millions starve and rot amid unemployment and poverty.

Nevermind the Bollocks... where's the bravery?

With musical culture showing little sign of rejuvenation in 2012, the alternatively-starved cast their microscopes deeper into the crevices of an emaciated 'movement'. Yup, I said it, movement. It's time we got up off the daisies of hippie folk festivals, out of the drying ponds of desperately (un)cool music festivals, creep out of the rave/trance/house dance floors and find our alternative tentacles again.
A recent viewing of laudable documentary 'Punk in Africa' left me in two minds. How is it the sub-culture of safety pins, torn skinnies, skuffed Chuck Taylors, spray painted quasi-anarchism of the late '70s and '80s when South Africa thrive against a backdrop of bloody conservatism. Originality and freedom was being choked to death by humourless, God-terrified, myopic old Afrikaans. Yet life lines were emerging everywhere in those days. Secondly, where have all the punks gone? That generation of musos have long greyed, yes, but surely the inspiration they created must be lurking somewhere? The likes of National Wake, Dog Detachment, Wild Youth and James Phillips framed the madness of the time perfectly, punctuating it with much-needed aggression, cynicism and rebellion. What do we have in the 21st Century. The Parlotones, Zebra and Giraffe and Bobby Jordaan. Even Arno Carstens, who once started a unique, promising fire with the Springbok Nude Girls, has settled comfortably into 5FM and KFM's play lists. Sold out. Bellville for a while was our Seattle and London. Fokofpolisiekar gave voice to the newly disenchanted. They were no longer angry black youths, but middle-class, frustrated Afrikaners. In 2012 Fokof still thrive and the various members have done well in expanding their horizons. I say, screw the English scene. Don't turn away from the Crunchies. Fokof gave birth to Van Coke Kartel, Die Heuwels Fantasties and aKing. They paved a road, which made it possible for even us die-hard alternatives to partly accept hip-hop in the form of Jack Parow, who himself paints pictures of Afrikaans/White disillusionment. He's joined in this at-times dubious genre by Die Antwoord, who, well, present the other lob sided view of the continuum - a world where mal, peeved Boere/honkies have lost their minds amid kwaito, R 'n B, Julius Malema and Steve Hofmeyer.
Let's not forget Blk Jks and 90's funk-punkers Nine who remind us rock is actually black, complete with dreadlocks and a comfortable marriage of skinny jeans and black skins.
I see little sign in 2012 (okay, so it's only January, but I'm an impatient person) of this crunchified, pale-faced, easily-sunburnt, pissed off, brave wave reaching another crest this year. The ANC government, in a sense, with the Protection of State Information Bill reminds us conservatism, paranoia and distrust are alive and swelling at a rate of knots in South Africa. Hell, many in our country can't even stomach a few porno channels on TV, where the mere suggestion that sex is something else apart from holding hands and coy kisses between separating-sheets.
Screw carefully crafted hair cuts. Fuck One Small Seed-reading/Kloof Street- parading, Tweeting twats. Damn the Khanyi Mbau/Kyknet-obsessed set. Bury the Bible and Q'ran for a few days and open up Rolling Stone SA. Look, instead to MK, the dark corners of forgotten neighbourhoods in Micthell's Plain and garages hidden in Kimberley. Take a few tips from a small set of very courageous Muslims in the US who have grown mohawks, torn their jeans, picked up guitars to learnt 3 chords to make up a burgeoning sub-culture, labelled Taqwacore. Let's search for and try to create our own 'punk' in 2012.