Bongo-bound

To those who have had the recent misfortune of hearing my incessant crowing about a flight to “outside countries”, I must confess now that the only outside country I was journeying to was Tanzania. Not impressive, I know, for we all consider Tanzania a step down in terms of urban sophistication from Wakirundannimilo Subcounty, Kooki.

The trip itself was horrible, fraught with perils and trials and treacherous hazards including my having to eat a rolex in Port Bell while I waited for a large an chaotic flock of nuns to get their papers in order. Port Bell, the entire place, that is, stinks of rotting leaves. And there is a constant hint of decomposing human in the air.

I shall not go on about the airport food and how exhorbitantly it is priced. I already mentioned that on facebook and for that was labeled a whoremonger.

I said “20k for buffet? This food had better taste like some sex.” Of course I was just suggesting my PG way that for that price, the food should give me an extraordinary amount of pleasure. Unfortunately my facebook buddies never miss a chance to run my self esteem into the ground so they spent the next twenty comments asking me what 20k worth of sex is supposed to taste like and suggesting that I was an experienced customer and therefore should know.

Tut tut.

I shall not belabour the part about how I was stranded at the airport because the organisation that invited me to Tz didn’t pick me up, and how I spent all my money on theiveing taxi drivers and a nice but not nice enough hotel.
I eventually made it to Coral Beach, and decided that, well, Tz is not that bad.

For those of you who have Flash Players (which should be most of you, though I can’t speak for all staff of The Monitor, and that jibe is aimed squarely at Phoenixlulu) fire up your computers and behold the splendour that is Coral Beach Hotel.

Yeah. I was in there somewhere, in one of the luxurious rooms, surfing wireless all night for free and thinking, “I should be mad about not being picked up and all, but this is nayiss.”

Excuse my Ugandan accent, but it gets stronger when I am around other African accents. The lower half of Africa, I noticed from my interactions with my fellow workshop participants, pronounce nearly every vowel as “eh”. It is very distracting. Even the Tanzanian dudes do it.

Tanzanians are a mystery in many ways. How they manage to change presidents without guns is a matter of constant bewilderment to most of the rest of Africa, but this, too, will stymie you.

 

Yes, but what the hell does it do? Is Foma engine grease or toothpaste?

That I hear sevenfifty. Sevenfifty what. That is not a question.

You think I am talking about mobile phones again, don’t you? That’s why you are screwing your face up like that. I mean, it’s sexy in a way, granted, but how do you do that? I mean, it’s like your lower lip has gone inside out. I mean, it’s kind of sexy in a way, but I worry when you do that. You’ll hurt yourself.

That’s why I must insist that you understand that this is not about mobile phone. This is about life. Life, okay? I’m philosophising here.

In previous discussions on this topic, I let on that I had a small infatuation with a new model of cellphone which I leeringly called Zuena. However, because that particular model was so expensive I transferred my lust towards a cheaper model, the Baby Zu, which I also gushed obscenely about.

Well, today, on my way from the barber shop (Why thank you. I do look excellent and fly, now that you mention it.) I passed by a shop that had Nokias on display. And there discovered that Baby Zu was available in Uganda at last.

At how much?  Let’s back up first.

Zuena is retailing at 800,000 hard-earned Uganda shillings. Baby Zu, according to my friend, The Internet, should cost half that, being essentially a stripped down poor man’s edition of the original. But at this shop the woman told me she was going to sell the Baby Zu at me for 750k.

Just 50k less for a phone that is less than half as awesome as the 800k one.

I spat and directed her to kiss all of my ass and stomped out of there in a violent huff, slamming the fucking door and kicking a nearby kitten in the teeth. What an outrage. But the price isn’t the worst thing.

You see a phone on the internet isn’t the same thing as the phone in real life. The Baby Zu has hot pictures on the web, but that is like those Sara no. I can’t go there.

In real life it is not that impressive. In real life it is a measly, pathetic, scrawny, half-hearted attempt at a phone. It is a sad excuse. It’s ridiculous. It’s like Zuena’s runty cousin.

No, it’s like a late-term abortion of a Zuena, that’s how pathetic it looks in real life.

Mbu 750k. Ntsss.

So, the moral of the story (this is supposed to be a parable about life, not a rant about phones, after all) is… well, really what sort of philosophy teacher gives you the answers?

Meanwhile, it gives me all sorts of pleasure to introduce Caramel. It’s beautiful.

Kiss My Arts

I am no expert academic or scholar of fine art, but I think that only makes me even more qualified to tell you about this hideous piece of crap that hangs in the boardroom of the noble corporation for which I work.

It is large and colourful and it occupies a prominent position on the wall behind the conference table where you would think a pleasant decorative item would be more appropriately located. Instead, however, we have this, a thoroughly repugnant painting, as repulsive as it is bewildering.

Now, abstract art does not fool anyone except art scholars and the artists themselves. The rest of us know that it is bullshit. The rest of us recognize that there is a very scanty difference between the painting described as “a vivid exposition of bold strokes and vital figures posed in provocative postures which allude to violent memories while simultaneously evoking spirits of blah blah” and a skidmark in your drawers.

So we really don’t expect a lot of sense from these things and can ignore them. They only really offend us when we hear of how much they cost, then they get really sickening. To think that millions were paid for this spastic, jerking about completely randomly all over canvas throwing colours up and down with no sense or reason? That chafes at the sensitive man’s sense of rightness.

But this painting? This painting is so horrible that if I were to find out what it costs it would not just hurt my spirit, it would stab hard into my soul and drain out all my faith and from that day on I will be dead inside, just a walking shell as incapable of love as of hate. Just an empty shell.

Here is the painting.

I am no expert academic or scholar of fine art, but I think that only makes me even more qualified to tell you about this hideous piece of crap that hangs in the boardroom of the noble corporation for which I work.

It is large and colourful and it occupies a prominent position on the wall behind the conference table where you would think a pleasant decorative item would be more appropriately located. Instead, however, we have this, a thoroughly repugnant painting, as repulsive as it is bewildering.

Now, abstract art does not fool anyone except art scholars and the artists themselves. The rest of us know that it is bullshit. The rest of us recognize that there is a very scanty difference between the painting described as “a vivid exposition of bold strokes and vital figures posed in provocative postures which allude to violent memories while simultaneously evoking spirits of blah blah” and a skidmark in your drawers.

So we really don’t expect a lot of sense from these things and can ignore them. They only really offend us when we hear of how much they cost, then they get really sickening. To think that millions were paid for this spastic, jerking about completely randomly all over canvas throwing colours up and down with no sense or reason? That chafes at the sensitive man’s sense of rightness.

But this painting? This painting is so horrible that if I were to find out what it costs it would not just hurt my spirit, it would stab hard into my soul and drain out all my faith and from that day on I will be dead inside, just a walking shell as incapable of love as of hate. Just an empty shell.

Here is the painting.

I mean, what the fuck, right?

It makes no sense. Okay, when I grab at the corners of my head and squeeze hard and try try try to find some way of figuring out what is going on, the most I can come up with is that somebody dropped a bitano coin and everyone is trying to find it but they can’t because the floor is covered in spaghetti.

But that is not the only reason they can’t. Apparently before the coin was dropped, somebody else, probably Dr Doom, came along with a transmogrifier ray that changes human flesh into plasticene and now the people, because they have no muscles, can no longer effect real human postures. They just flail and flap around unnaturally, stretching and bending and curving like bits of hollow tubing. The guy on the left in yellow looks like he was poised to spank the ass of the woman in blue before she changed and now the only reason we can’t see the expression of shock and disappointment that has taken over his face is that the face itself has been transmogrified into a raisin.

I don’t need to go into further detail. You get the point. I think this painting is stupid.

I’m not one of those people who dismiss everything they don’t understand as stupid. Usually, I can appreaciate that just because I don’t get the joke, that doesn’t mean the joke is not funny. Just because I don’t get the point that doesn’t mean no point exists. But usually, I need to at least see that some effort went into creating the thing I don’t understand. Mozart and Beethoven have as much impact on me as windy rain, but I can appreciate that you have to be pretty clever to be able to make this music that bores me so much.

However, look at this shit. The guy can’t even draw. The legs on that guy look like ears. What about.

Hiatus post

Mbu nti now you go on facebook.

You find someone called Jesus, like Jesus Gonzalez or Jesus Cruz.

You send him a message like, “Lord, please accept me as your friend.”

And “Lord, I have a test this weekend and I really need to pass. I promise next time I will study harder.”

Or “Forgive me, Lord, for I have sinned. Me and Harry were using our mobile phones to take dirty pictures of IDP chicks while pretending we were going to get them sponsorships.”

Etc.

I don’t think he will find the joke funny. But if his names is Jesus, he should learn to forgive.

Now, ensonga: Back in the old days we used to have a pretend celebrity endorsement. But after Darlkom, Petesmama AND Princess have all, in reality, used the b-word to describe Lloyd’s writing, why wheel out an imaginary Charlize Theron?A dose of words to the head is here.  B-word is “beautiful” not bitch, by the way.

I have nothing to say, but I have something that you should hear

It’s fairly obvious that I don’t have things to blog about these days. I would say that I am thinking of going on hiatus except that, well, that’s kind of like Nemo saying he’s thinking of taking a dip.

I’m having a crisis of confidence, banange. And it’s serious. Don’t laugh at me. Ashy, stop laughing at me. You are hurting my furleengs etc.

But I still have something for you to read.

Kakati, my motto in life has always been very direct: Either you are kawa or you’re an asshole. Do not be an asshole.

In spite of all the subtleties and nuances and greyshadings and blurry edges that go with discussions about good and evil, right and wrong, moral and sinful, what we should do and what we shouldn’t do, this simple fist of words still manages to hold onto the general idea pretty tightly. Do not be an asshole.

This doesn’t mean be apathetic. I believe that the default setting for human character is actually benevolent. We are wired to help one another.

I say that to introduce this:

The idea of paying it forward is something that we can do in our daily lives. It is simply doing the things that may mean little to us but mean the world to others, like helping a stranger change a flat tyre or holding the door open for the mailman. The idea is simply to be truly kinder.

Hit the site on blogger or on wordpress and leave a comment, contribute to the discussion.

The equivalent of drunk-dialing. Semi-somnabulistic blogging

I went to sleep at 10:30pm last night, and was awake again at 12:30. I wasn’t able to sleep again until four am. I was half an hour late for my nine o’clock meeting this morning.

I have been semi-catatonic all morning. It’s one-oh-five now and my thoughts are still scattered and wild. I don’t know where they are going and don’t care. I want to sleep.

Among those thoughts are random snatches of song. Not the whole song. Just a line or two.

Streetsider decided to just blog the way writers are supposed to– pure art for arts sake etc, and so he started it, this business of just spilling guts instead of the usual, proper way of doing things, where we don tuxedos, wait for the lights, then stride onto the stage to deliver a practiced routine deliberately designed to make  you laugh.

And Rhino had something to do with this, too. He started it. Just writing long song lists for kigafla. He doesn’t do the tuxedo.

I am convinced that Rhino is what happened when God, after I disappointed him, decided to try again with another dude.

The Insomniac’s playlist

Morning: “Joseph’s Face was black as night. The pale yellow moon shone in his eyes.”

That’s two posts in a row to freak you out.

11.something. “Here we are now, entertain us.”

12.00 “I am 32 flavours and then some. Taking my chances as they come. 32 flavours and then some. Looking for truth but there is none.”

12 close to one, when I snuck off to try and get a powernap in my car:  ”I am a child of fire, I have desires. And I was born inside the sun this morning.”

I went to sleep at 10:30pm last night, and was awake again at 12:30. I wasn’t able to sleep again until four am. I was half an hour late for my nine o’clock meeting this morning.

I have been semi-catatonic all morning. It’s one-oh-five now and my thoughts are still scattered and wild. I don’t know where they are going and don’t care. I want to sleep.

Among those thoughts are random snatches of song. Not the whole song. Just a line or two.

Streetsider decided to just blog the way writers are supposed to– pure art for arts sake etc, and so he started it, this business of just spilling guts instead of the usual, proper way of doing things, where we don tuxedos, wait for the lights, then stride onto the stage to deliver a practiced routine deliberately designed to make  you laugh.

And Rhino had something to do with this, too. He started it. Just writing long song lists for kigafla. He doesn’t do the tuxedo.

I am convinced that Rhino is what happened when God, after I disappointed him, decided to try again with another dude.

The Insomniac’s playlist

Morning: “Joseph’s Face was black as night. The pale yellow moon shone in his eyes.”

11.something. “Here we are now, entertain us.”

12.00 “I am 32 flavours and then some. Taking my chances as they come. 32 flavours and then some. Looking for truth but there is none.”

12 close to one, when I snuck off to try and get a powernap in my car:  ”I am a child of fire, I have desires. And I was born inside the sun this morning.”

What. I have nothing to write

So Instead I have blogged a creepy picture. Woooooo…!

Crane Bank Uganda: Growing to serve, my ass!

sdfasdferfect drivers, such as I recently was, do not know this, but when the law gives you a ticket, you need to pay your fine to URA, via Crane Bank Main Branch, then take the receipt to the police station to indicate that you have cleared your debt to society. At the police station you show them the receipts and then, after you say sorry and promise to never do it again, they clean your slate.

I was highly trepidations about the police station but little did I know how downside-up I had got things.

The police were quick, professional, efficient and helpful, even though I was there in my capacity as a criminal. The bank, however…

Now, I have accounts at three banks. Standard Chartered, Stanbic and Centenary Rural Development Bank, each of which has very comfortable services, which has led me to falsely believe that all banks treat you well, smile, and generally behave the way you are supposed to behave when you are taking a lot of someone’s money away from them.

But this is certainly not the case at Crane Bank.

I stood in the line with my tickets and my money to wait for my turn at the cashier. That is when one of the guards stopped me. “Sir, I notice that you have traffic tickets. You shall need to fill in a bank slip before you get to the cashier,” he said, and I am, of course paraphrasing.

“Where do I get such bank slips?”

The guard pointed me in the right direction, I found the bank slips, picked up two as I always do (in case I make a mistake on one) and returned to the queue, where I met the guard again.

“Sir, not to be nosy, but you haven’t filled in your slip.”

The first question the bank slip asked was who I was paying the money to, and the second question it asked was what this person’s account number was. Surprisingly, I had no idea what the account number of URA was. “I’ll get assistance from the cashier when I get to the counter,” I said to the askari.

He smirked patiently, since such a thing is, apparently possible, and tutted, “She’ll just send you away,” he said. “Here, let me help.”

I did not entirely believe that a cashier would really chase a customer away because he was not an expert in the account numbers of all government departments, but I gave one slip to the askari and, this is true, he filled in the form for me. Fully. Only my signature was missing.

Eventually I made it to the cashier and handed her the tickets, the filled-in bank slip and the cash.

Now, I have friends who have worked as bank cashiers, so I know that it is one very stressful job. You have to endure all manner of idiots, ingrates and impatient louts and take it all in as part of the job. I know not to take tellers and cashiers for granted. I didn’t waste her time. I handed her the things she needed, she took them and I waited for a stamped piece of paper in return, or at least for instructions on where to go next.

Instead she virtually growled that I should stand aside.

“Oh. I’ve got a bitchy one,” I thought, and was justified in thinking so, because from the tone of her voice, she was certainly insulting me in her mind as well.

I stood aside.

Several minutes of just standing there watching her pound wads of money around and shuffle bits of paper up and down, I did what anyone would do. I am not a Crane Bank Cashier, so I cannot just stand around in the lobby doing nothing all day. I walked back to the counter.

I could have said, “What the fuck, are you going to deal with my papers, or not? I don’t have all millennium. What the fuck?”

But I believe in courtesy and civility, that is how I handle myself. So, instead, I said, “Excuse me, you asked me to stand aside and wait several minutes ago, but you haven’t called me to get my receipts. Is something wrong with the documents I gave you?”

She replied in the tone and with the look you would more likely find accompany a witch’s curse the single word: “No.”

I returned to the empty spot of floor I had been warming for the past ten or so minutes now fully aware of the sort of person I was dealing with. No, you don’t argue with people like that. Let me explain.

1. A URA bankslip needs to be filled in. There are two people at the counter. One has training and experience in URA bankslips, and the other does not. How do you get the slip filled in?

a) The person who knows how they should be filled in should send the ignorant person away.

b) The person who knows how they should be filled in should guide the ignorant person

This cashier was not intellectually equipped to answer that question correctly, so I classify her as being of below adequate intelligence. There is nothing to be gained from engaging dumb people in debate.

After another ten minutes, it was beginning to look like I would have to accost this dreadful woman again. I had steeled my nerves and began to step up when another askari stopped me. “Ssebo, is there a problem you need assistance with? I notice you are not in the queue.”

I explained that I had just paid my traffic tickets and the cashier had told me to wait here in purgatory for, apparently, ever.

The askari then pointed across the lobby. “If you have paid, you should be on the other side of the room to wait for your receipt there, sir.”

And surely enough, after I walked just a few steps toward the counter he pointed at, there was a man, holding my receipt asking where Bazanye was.

I could see cashier failing another logic quzzle:

2. A URA fine has been paid, and the receipt requires collection. Do you

a. let the payee just stand in the middle of the bank for several minutes

b. Tell the payee where to get his receipt?

I have no way to understand why she didn’t just tell me instead of making me stand there like that. Did I look like an ex-boyfriend she hated? Was she just a very thick person who just could not figure out how to point at a counter? Was she a Sunday Vision reader who recognized me and didn’t like something I wrote?

Either way, it’s a very very sad commentary on you as a person and as a professional and it says even worse things about the bank you work for if the jobs of the cashiers are being done by the askaris. Your job might suck, but if you suck at it, you suck too.

Crane bank advertises heavily on radio, and there are billboards with Gaetano grinning all over the city. Their slogan is “Growing to serve and serving to grow.”

My ass.

Perfect drivers, such as I recently was, do not know this, but when the law gives you a ticket, you need to pay your fine to URA, via Crane Bank Main Branch, then take the receipt to the police station to indicate that you have cleared your debt to society. At the police station you show them the receipts and then, after you say sorry and promise to never do it again, they clean your slate.

I was highly trepidations about the police station but little did I know how downside-up I had got things.

The police were quick, professional, efficient and helpful, even though I was there in my capacity as a criminal. The bank, however…

Now, I have accounts at three banks. Standard Chartered, Stanbic and Centenary Rural Development Bank, each of which has very comfortable services, which has led me to falsely believe that all banks treat you well, smile, and generally behave the way you are supposed to behave when you are taking a lot of someone’s money away from them.

But this is certainly not the case at Crane Bank.

I stood in the line with my tickets and my money to wait for my turn at the cashier. That is when one of the guards stopped me. “Sir, I notice that you have traffic tickets. You shall need to fill in a bank slip before you get to the cashier,” he said, and I am, of course paraphrasing.

“Where do I get such bank slips?”

The guard pointed me in the right direction, I found the bank slips, picked up two as I always do (in case I make a mistake on one) and returned to the queue, where I met the guard again.

“Sir, not to be nosy, but you haven’t filled in your slip.”

The first question the bank slip asked was who I was paying the money to, and the second question it asked was what this person’s account number was. Surprisingly, I had no idea what the account number of URA was. “I’ll get assistance from the cashier when I get to the counter,” I said to the askari.

He smirked patiently, since such a thing is, apparently possible, and tutted, “She’ll just send you away,” he said. “Here, let me help.”

I did not entirely believe that a cashier would really chase a customer away because he was not an expert in the account numbers of all government departments, but I gave one slip to the askari and, this is true, he filled in the form for me. Fully. Only my signature was missing.

Eventually I made it to the cashier and handed her the tickets, the filled-in bank slip and the cash.

Now, I have friends who have worked as bank cashiers, so I know that it is one very stressful job. You have to endure all manner of idiots, ingrates and impatient louts and take it all in as part of the job. I know not to take tellers and cashiers for granted. I didn’t waste her time. I handed her the things she needed, she took them and I waited for a stamped piece of paper in return, or at least for instructions on where to go next.

Instead she virtually growled that I should stand aside.

“Oh. I’ve got a bitchy one,” I thought, and was justified in thinking so, because from the tone of her voice, she was certainly insulting me in her mind as well.

I stood aside.

Several minutes of just standing there watching her pound wads of money around and shuffle bits of paper up and down, I did what anyone would do. I am not a Crane Bank Cashier, so I cannot just stand around in the lobby doing nothing all day. I walked back to the counter.

I could have said, “What the fuck, are you going to deal with my papers, or not? I don’t have all millennium. What the fuck?”

But I believe in courtesy and civility, that is how I handle myself. So, instead, I said, “Excuse me, you asked me to stand aside and wait several minutes ago, but you haven’t called me to get my receipts. Is something wrong with the documents I gave you?”

She replied in the tone and with the look you would more likely find accompany a witch’s curse the single word: “No.”

I returned to the empty spot of floor I had been warming for the past ten or so minutes now fully aware of the sort of person I was dealing with. No, you don’t argue with people like that. Let me explain.

1. A URA bankslip needs to be filled in. There are two people at the counter. One has training and experience in URA bankslips, and the other does not. How do you get the slip filled in?

a) The person who knows how they should be filled in should send the ignorant person away.

b) The person who knows how they should be filled in should guide the ignorant person

This cashier was not intellectually equipped to answer that question correctly, so I classify her as being of below adequate intelligence. There is nothing to be gained from engaging dumb people in debate.

After another ten minutes, it was beginning to look like I would have to accost this dreadful woman again. I had steeled my nerves and began to step up when another askari stopped me. “Ssebo, is there a problem you need assistance with? I notice you are not in the queue.”

I explained that I had just paid my traffic tickets and the cashier had told me to wait here in purgatory for, apparently, ever.

The askari then pointed across the lobby. “If you have paid, you should be on the other side of the room to wait for your receipt there, sir.”

And surely enough, after I walked just a few steps toward the counter he pointed at, there was a man, holding my receipt asking where Bazanye was.

I could see cashier failing another logic quzzle:

2. A URA fine has been paid, and the receipt requires collection. Do you

a. let the payee just stand in the middle of the bank for several minutes

b. Tell the payee where to get his receipt?

I have no way to understand why she didn’t just tell me instead of making me stand there like that. Did I look like an ex-boyfriend she hated? Was she just a very thick person who just could not figure out how to point at a counter? Was she a Sunday Vision reader who recognized me and didn’t like something I wrote?

Either way, it’s a very very sad commentary on you as a person and as a professional and it says even worse things about the bank you work for if the jobs of the cashiers are being done by the askaris. Your job might suck, but if you suck at it, you suck too.

Crane bank advertises heavily on radio, and there are billboards with Gaetano grinning all over the city. Their slogan is “Growing to serve and serving to grow.”

My ass.

Verbatim Vs Verbatim: 99 Problems

Our hero is standing at the traffic lights having a chat with a traffic police officer at around eleven on Saturday night.

• Hi Jake, what’s up?
• Jake? Who’s Jake?
• You know. Jake. Like slang for police. It comes from old cowboy westerns. The sheriff was always called Jake. If you don’t know that word, how about, um… Five-O? Po-po? One-Time? (Singing) Bad boys-bad boys whatchoogonnado?
• Enough of this gibberish. You have committed a terrible traffic offence.
• No, I haven’t. I have committed a stupid traffic mistake, granted, but the road was clear, no one was in danger, and it’s the guy in front of me who made me think…
• Enough of that gibberish, too. I’m going to write you a ticket for a 40 thousand shillings.
• Well, I’ve just been at the ATM looking at my bank balance. I’m rich as hell, son. I can pay your ticket.
• And I’ll impound your car until you pay the ticket.
• I wouldn’t like that so here, let me give you a long winding cock-and-bull story about how I am on my way to deliver milk and mineral water to a relative who has just been admitted to hospital. Munange, they just called me half an hour ago. I have to make it there immediately.
• Yeah, like I haven’t heard that one before. That’s what they all say. I’m impounding the car!
• Okay, but you will impound the car for like four seconds, cos I have the money in my back pocket right now. Did I mention my bank balance? It’s gigatintic.
• Oh, you don’t pay here, tonight, on Saturday. You pay at Crane Bank on Monday, and then take the receipt to Central Police Station and THEN you get the car from the impound there.
• Oh, well. I’m still rich. You stopped me right next to a Special Hire Taxi stage. I’ll just use this 40K to jump in a cab and head off on my way.
• I am going to so write you a ticket, it’s going to be a ticket like you’ve never known tickets could be written.
• Why aren’t you writing it then? Why is your hand just hovering over the paper? Why do you keep saying it and not doing it? Are you waiting for me to offer a bribe? Okay, let me cautiously probe your intentions by putting my hands in my pockets and shuffling them around.
• I didn’t tell you to put your hands in your pockets! Harsh Tone!
• I was just checking my phone. I thought I heard it vibrate.
• Okay. That does it. I’m writing this ticket. I won’t impound your car, but I’ll hold onto your Driver’s Permit until you pay up.
• It’s a fair cop. Snigger. I will pay the fine on Monday as agreed. I don’t condone corruption, at least not much, but I would much rather have bribed you. My misjudged action didn’t endanger anyone; it was an honest mistake, not a grievous felony act. Besides there are loads of reckless drivers out there and you traffic cops are our only defense against them and for that you get paid pathetically. I would rather have given the money to you so you can do something for your kids than give this money to the Ministry of Internal Affairs, but hey, it’s your call. Let me go deal with the public sector. Later Jake.

Bruce Springsteen, life, words, and facebook photos. On the occasion of his 60th birthday

When a person makes a song that we enjoy dancing to, we adore that person. We might even put pictures of them on our facebook profiles and celebrate their birthdays. You can’t deny the value of a good, solidly funky song. It’s one of the greatest pleasures of life to get down and bust a move. I think one of the reasons I have been having such a spate of good days is that I have been dancing in the mornings to Q’s Jook Joint. That’s great entertainment. And Q is a great entertainer.

We have our entertainers and we have our artists. Art isn’t fun. It can be miserable, heartrending.
The way I see it is that art and entertainment are different ways society handles reality. To understand reality we have science. To escape reality we have entertainment. And to articulate it, we have art. There are things we feel: joy, hate, anger, confusion, despair, love, elation, wonder, grief… and not just specific emotions, but whole spans of experience that cause certain things to take certain shapes inside us, or certain situations that make us be certain ways and we know what is going on or think we do, but we can’t fully say so to our brains.
Until an artist comes along and says it for us. A good artist makes you say, “That’s it! Exactly! Well put! You’ve nailed it! I couldn’t have put it better myself!.” They articulate reality.

When someone does that for you, comes along and turns those dull echoes in your soul into clear words, you become immensely grateful, and you invest a great deal into this person. You could even say you love them.

A person like this could present his art in a song that’s funky, and then we will respond as we do with efficient entertainers: we will take the peripheral aspects of the experience of that enjoyable song, like the clothes the singer wore, or the slang it was performed in and emulate them; or we may take the image of the singer as a symbol of that experience, and place posters above our walls or on our facebook pages.

The way we treat entertainers like Q. We can treat artists like entertainers.

Bruce Springsteen has made some awesomely entertaining music. I think it’s called Stadium Rock when Springsteen and his longtime partners the E Street Band would unleash tsunamis of energy that would flood entire stadiums. Their shows are legendary epic events which have been rocked faces off for decades.

But Springsteen the songwriter, that’s beyond entertainment. He has an uncanny gift for reaching inside and seeing what’s there.

When he spoke of restless youths stuck in blue-collar ghettos of New Jersey suburbs dreaming of a freedom they only ever got a fleeting taste of when they jumped into their muscle cars and floored the pedals, shit, even I got it, and I was a Ugandan university student who was scared to drive.

When he spoke of how those dreams were broken, when he spoke of how something rose from the wreckage to defy its own doom with the mere but the glorious act of merely surviving, I got it.

From Born to Run to Growin Up to Nebraska to Lucky Town to Human Touch to Born in The USA to Darkness on The Edge of Town to Promised Land to Jungleland to No Retreat No Surrender to the sublime Thunder Road to Into The Fire to Worlds Apart to When You Need Me to Back In Your Arms to I’ll Work For Your Love, I got it. The songs this guy writes set a tuning fork in my own soul resonating.

Now, you may not feel the same way about Bruce Springsteen. Millions of people around the world have, for forty years, but, as always, that means there are millions more who haven’t. As I said about Michael Jackson, if your music is strong enough to be loved, it is strong enough to be hated.

But I hope if you don’t feel this way about Bruce, you feel this way about some singer somewhere, or some writer, or some painter, or someone.