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.”