Saturday, December 15, 2007

Songs of Experience


"That free love with bondage bound."

O rose, thou art sick!
The invisible worm,
That flies in the night,
In the howling storm,

Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy,
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.


William Blake | Songs of Experience: The Sick Rose

On politics...

Ever heard yourself say: "Could Zimbabweans not have read the writing on the wall?"

What are South Africans waiting for, a plane to write it on the sky? Simply put, the choice at Polokwane is: Would it be better to remove my left arm or my right arm? Pundits have proclaimed Jacob Zuma is better; no, Thabo Mbeki is better. Actually, the real question is how after only 13 years of attempting democracy is ons so diep in die kak?


...crime...

This week a guard starts patrolling the beautiful, tree-lined street in which I live. Since January there have been 13 criminal incidents, including five armed robberies and five house-breakings, in our block of 20 houses. A woman was badly beaten in one incident and needed 13 stitches in her head.

There has not been a single arrest in any incident this year or last. The only arrest any of us knows of in our community was the arrest of the person who raped and stabbed me eight years ago and that was because a private-investigator friend drove the investigation. The area we live in falls under the policing precinct of Parkview, reputedly the best in Johannesburg.


...inequity

Let’s look at Mbeki’s South Africa: the Sunday Times reported early this year that South Africa is the world’s fourth-largest creator of new dollar millionaires with close to 50 000 in the country.

Since 1994, according to the BusinessMap Foundation, there have been R225-billion-worth of BEE transactions, with 173 empowerment deals, worth R75-billion, in 2006 alone. The recent University of Cape Town/Unilever Institute of Strategic Marketing and TNS Research Survey estimates the buying power of the country’s 2,6-million black diamonds at about R180-billion.

Not bad — but this in a country that added a million more unemployed in the past 10 years. We have 40% of our nation unemployed, according to Stats SA. The Human Sciences Research Council tells us that 54% of our people live in poverty.


Charlene Smith

Okay, so she's a rich white bitch. So what? She's also one of the best journalists operating out this Godforsaken patch of Heaven on Earth. Much like Tom Feeley's InformationClearingHouse, you'll find every kind of irrational, illogical, or mentally deranged attack on the author cluttering the comments feature of Smith's blog.

Why the hell South African media-blogs persist in highlighting comments features is beyond me — they detract from the article. If people feel strongly enough about an entry, let them write their own. Thus is the hyperlink spread and the geography of the Web expanded.

ThoughtLeader's also a miserable fucking idea — perpetuating a closeted elitism blogging was first used to subvert. An invitation-only gaggle of eclectic and indifferent blogs, it sets itself up to embarass itself — and all-too-frequently does.

Based on her above entries, and those putting the increasingly facile Ronald Suresh Roberts, Mark Gevisser, and other Mbeki sycophants firmly in place, Charlene Smith is an exception to the norm. Her writing springs from the catholicism of charterism and a natural allegiance to The Freedom Charter as the most profound but difficult of all South African manifestoes.

Hers is one of the more 'objective' voices you'll find.

I need to point to her blog here. She holds to a belief that we'll see our way through increasingly dark times (Eskom's propensity to turn off the lights and everything else at any time of day adding to the gloaming). Coming from an economically differenct perspective than does Smith and viewing South Africa as a bit player on a far larger stage, I most certainly don't entertain such beliefs.

But I do hope she's correct.

Thursday, December 13, 2007

Father Christopher's Picture Show



"In Just Seven Days...."

Disillusioned words like bullets bark | As human gods aim for their mark | Made everything from toy guns that spark | To flesh-colored Christs that glow in the dark | It's easy to see without looking too far | That not much | Is really sacred.

Indeed. My work is never done.

Still, who am I to complain?

I'm human, for Chrissakes. So there was no need for my Spiritual Guide and Mentor (SG&M) to be so rude.

"You fucking lazy white shithead!" he screamed.

I withdrew the phone from my ear and stared at it.

Gingerly placing it back against my ear, I asked "Father Christopher?"

"...less than twelve days to go and you've missed your fucking copy deadline," roared the unmistakebly Omnipotent Voice of The Jesus Bunker (Boulder, CO HQ).

His Immaculate Finger more perfectly placed on the pulse of popular culture than any other so-called Sentient Being, I felt my SG&M's rantings equated to those of an arrogant boor. I am, after all, a man of honor. Separated by an ocean, several thousand miles, and hidden at the foot of The Dark Continent, I felt sufficiently empowered to answer back.

"Huh?" I replied, trying to remember what deadline I'd missed. "What's it now? The bombing of Iran? An EGR Irregular AGM? The sub-prime lending chickens coming home to roost? Christmas?"

"Yes!" he screeched, his voice akin to electrical feedback generated by young James Marshall Hendrix on one of his better or (remembering my parents' reaction to him) worse days. "Christmas!"

Even Hendrix was mild by Father Christopher's standards.

"So?" I responded, "Who gives a damn? We get to take the day off."

Father Christopher is nothing if not patient. Nevertheless, I felt a searing pain separating my occipital lobes.

"You Goddamn baboon," he roared (I think the phone — Stateside — was hurled to the floor at this point). "I need the blurb for this year's release of Father Christopher's Jesus Bunker Joke Book. It's the thirteenth edition and I've had Locke working on it for weeks."

Editor's note: Chris Locke, a sometime blogger, new-age mystic, eugenicist, and resident of Boulder, works as Father Christopher's stenographer.



D'ja ever hear th' one about th' hooker and th' pit bull?

While preachers preach of evil fates | Teachers teach that knowledge waits | Can lead to hundred-dollar plates | Goodness hides behind its gates | But even the president of the United States | Sometimes must have | To stand naked.

I noted my mortality at the start of this entry but, Jesus H. Christ — I'd forgotten all about the cover blurb for this, the thirteenth (or Judas) edition of the annual Jesus Bunker Homily to the Faithful.

Strictly interpreted, such an error might be construed as Mortal Sin.

It's been a special year on the financial front too. Embracing globalization, Father Christopher has had his assistant, RageBoy — a social-suicide bomber in training, put together a massive marketing package including toy figurines, metallic bumper stickers, a cartoon series, a soon-to-be-released movie with Jennifer Aniston as Jesus, as well as the soundtrack of the movie (Radiohead).

All I had to do was deliver on the copy.

"But wait, there's more, you low-rent jerk," I heard RageBoy bellow in the background. "We're releasing a Slimline edition for the illiterate, the weight conscious or morbidly obese, a New Age++ edition for the Mystic Bourgeoisie or those otherwise uplifted, and a Charlton Heston edition for religious freaks and those who've read Ulysses from cover to cover."

"What about the Cecil B DeMille limited edition?" I asked snidely.

"We'll release that on CD at Easter," answered RageBoy without hesitation. "We'll bump it up with some Old Testament jokes and call it The Director's Cut."

What can I say? I felt bad. Father Christopher's Jesus Bunker Joke Book keeps Amazon afloat and the publishing industry in the disgustingly opulent style to which it has so readily become accustomed. My SG&M refuses to speak to J.K. Rowling in general and Sixpack Chopra in particular, snubbing them at book signings, circle dances, and Magic School swap meets. These people are, after all and when all is said and done, what we in the EGR Irregulars like to call "small fry".

FC and RB cut me some slack — they always do, and I put down the phone and returned to doing what I do best, i.e. nothing. Let the copy write itself; it always does.

The extraordinary irony behind megachurch philosophy is its conspicuously Darwinian core. In order to compete in the 21 st century for that unsaved, consumer-junkie soul, it's clear: Adapt. Evolve. Or die.

Exit: crown of thorns. Enter: the swoosh.


Maryann Mann | The Megachurch Juggernaut


Sponsored by Paypal Encyclicals Online, Inc.

An' though the rules of the road have been lodged | It's only people's games that you got to dodge | And it's alright, Ma, I can make it.

Bob Dylan | It's Alright Ma (I'm Only Bleeding)

Images courtesy The Jesus Bunker Archives, Inc., Boulder CO.

Friday, December 07, 2007

Martians


Beyond reason...

CNN tells us:

Two Mormon missionaries found in Martinique

This is news? Hell, more than thirty years ago I found two Mormon missionaries in Pinelands, Cape Town.

It didn't make the papers.

I was skateboarding a gentle incline in the middle of the cocooned suburb when I espied two strapping young men dressed in flannels, short-sleeved white shirts, USMC-issue haircuts, and black bicycles.

To a seventeen year old, it was kinda like meeting Martians. We had such things back then — Martians, that is. Or Orson Welles. Something like that.

We chatted. One of the guys hailed from a Californian break called The Wedge, then regarded as one of the most extreme U.S. bodysurfing spots. This appealed to me far more than my newfound friends' Martian origins, so I invited them around to my parents' place.

We got along great, but for the fact that we were a Catholic family and they were, well... Mormons.

Eventually, we decided our weekly chats were enough and gently introduced our young friends to the idea that we considered Joe Smith a deluded crackhead (or whatever passed for a drug-addled New Age evangelist back in those days).

One thing I never understood about those two Mormons though. They exuded an air of unnatural serenity not attributable, in my experience, to pharmaceuticals.

Now, thanks to the Bush Broadcast Media, I know how Mormons attain serenity. They might not visit Mars to acquire their other-worldly demeanour, but they do holiday in Martinique.

Saturday, December 01, 2007

Say It's Not True


46664 World AIDS Day Concert

You can say it’s not true | You can say it’s not right | So hard to believe | The size of the crime

Queen | Say It's Not True



See The Origins of AIDS below. Better, watch the movie.

We don't need no...




I watched an armed employee of our largest suburban security company draw money from an ATM this morning. Despite the screen displaying a large notice proclaiming "Being serviced", the security guard persisted in his attempts to draw money. Eventually, whoever was servicing the machine allowed him to proceed.

I realised immediately the guard was illiterate.

Millions of South Africans cannot read or write. To supplant the ATM's iconic crossed circle with text was a dumb move by the bank. I also realised that — if they are to survive the coming war between the rich and poor, those now quick to complain that we have no police force, no health services, and no transport, telecommunications or Internet infrastructures should move beyond their "Government should do something about it" mindset.

I mean, for God's sake, the guy paid a pittance and charged with ensuring the safety and security of fat-walleted suburbanites wallowing in the ignorance of cosseted splendor cannot read and, therefore, probably cannot write. What the hell is government to do about it?

In a country where obscene wealth flaunts itself in the face of grinding poverty, the rich need a wake-up call. To hell with health, transport, and telecoms. We need an education system way more effective than that which have do not have now. And to get one off the ground, we need a wealth tax with bite.