Creative Cookery...

...in Hell's Kitchen

Rome Fiddles While Sudan Burns


Seeing things in black and white...

"I have not heard one U.S. Bishop [pdf] even suggest that Holy Communion might be withheld for any politician who enacted, or voted for, the immoral pre-emptive invasion of Iraq. Yet the consequent loss of human lives - both Iraqi and American - and the devastation of Iraqi society have been nothing short of tragic. Furthermore, this act of spiritual arrogance - invoking God's guidance while invading - has deepened historical animosities that surely will lead to more senseless bloodshed in the Middle East and across the globe." more...

"I wrote about Ms. Khattar in my last two columns, recounting how the Janjaweed Arab militia burned her village, murdered her parents and finally tracked her family down in the mountains. Ms. Khattar hid, but the Janjaweed caught her husband and his brothers, only 4, 6 and 8 years old, and killed them all. ... Ms. Khattar decided that the only hope for saving her two daughters and her baby sister was to lead them by night to Chad. They had to avoid wells where the Janjaweed kept watch, but eight days later, half-dead with hunger and thirst, they staggered across the dry riverbed that marks the border with Chad. ... That's where I found Ms. Khattar. She is part of a wave of 1.2 million people left homeless by the genocide in Darfur." more...

"That stand needs to be "this is genocide and we will not allow it to continue." Nothing short of that will do. We can't solve every problem or stop violence everywhere. But we certainly have an obligation to our fellow human beings when they are being murdered, raped, starved, and displaced by the millions. (And psst... UN, feel free to join in. Maybe boot Sudan off the Human Rights Commission while you're at it.)" more...

A couple of weeks ago, Frank Paynter asked me: "Mike, what the fuck are we going to do about the Sudan?" Frank has a habit of asking the hard questions, but I did what I could to answer him and concluded, "Meanwhile, the aid agencies are doing the piecemeal, humanitarian stuff and, for them, there is little protection. They're the ones with the tough job around the African war zones and, for that, they deserve credit and support."

Today, as the pols consider Sudan's potential as a vote grabber, Nicholas D. Kristof writes of 35-year old Hatum Atraman Bashir who carries the baby of one of 20 Janjaweed (Jingaweit) raiders who murdered her husband and then gang-raped her. Before Sudan becomes a media circus, replete with bloggers slanging each other and nobody at all for soon-to-be-committed atrocities in the streets of Khartoum, my advice remains the same. Give something... anything... to the aid agencies.

Kristof offers a great set of links to humanitarian organizations doing what they can to save lives in Darfur and eastern Chad. Follow them rather than lose yourself in the web spun by one of the oldest political organizations in the world. You'll save more lives doing so.

We have enough religion to make us hate, but not enough to make us love one another. Jonathan Swift 1667-1745

Note Using the blogs to good effect, the conservative Sudan: The Passion of the Present, "...a labor of love by a small group of people" offers background and breaking news on the Sudanese genocide and provides links to a host of aid agencies and organizations.

A Host of Ills — A Note

"The norm of the church is clear. The church exists in the United States. There are bishops there, let them interpret it." Cardinal Francis Arinze

Although circumstance has much to do with it, I happen to be a practising Catholic; with a capital 'C'. Choice does enter the equation, as does conviction and, to a degree, faith. Whatever... it does not matter.

I'm a product of a two-thousand year old culture. There's no escaping it. My appreciation of my culture, which coincides with that of the Catholic Church, grows as its relevance diminishes in a fast-globalising world where culture and tradition are seen as trash in need of recycling for use by the mighty dollar. And that's why the mind-numbingly short-sighted decision of political priests who've lost sight of the basis of their religion really pisses me off. What gives these selective bigots the right to deny others' communion?

Nothing. By doing so, they betray everything Catholicism stands for.

The decision to deny communion to politicians being pro-choice or supporting abortion stems from a Church Instruction "...on certain matters to be observed or to be avoided regarding the Most Holy Eucharist", Redemptionis Sacramentum. This document derives from a select group of people striving to uphold an ideal—a Sacred ideal, i.e. ensuring the Eucharist is treated with due reverence. As far as I can make out, the ideal was lost when a reporter asked Cardinal Arinze, prefect of the Congregation of Divine Worship and the Sacraments, whether the practical application of Redemptionis Sacramentum should preclude pro-choice politicians receiving Communion.

Well, much like Pilate, he washed his hands of the matter. "The norm of the church is clear," he said. "The church exists in the United States. There are bishops there, let them interpret it." And that was that.

Two thousand years of spiritual insight went up in the smoke of an official's ill-considered oiliness and John F. Kerry, a politician who looks as though he died ten years ago, was summarily struck from St. Peter's roll and a mass-media photo-opportunity. Given the nature of the Eucharist and a basic grasp of transubstantiation, I cannot see how any man can deny Christ to another. In other words, it is not up to the Church hierarchy to decide who may or who may not receive Communion. To assume it is in his power to do so, is to give man's interpretation of the Will of God greater clout than God's Will; whatever that may be.

Such an assumption is supremely arrogant and yet another indication of just how far Catholic officialdom has divorced itself from or, incorrectly, sees itself as, the pilgrim Church on Earth. As far as I know, Catholic means "universal". In a broad—and spiritual—sense, we Catholics believe we have a hold on Truth. For Truth, read God. This is not weird. Every major religion claims ownership of the Truth. Where Catholics differ from other religions, as I see it (and the nature of the Sacraments aside), is that we do not hold Truth to be exclusive to (or for) us.

Why? Because we cannot begin to comprehend it. And that which we cannot comprehend, we cannot own. The Truth is or should be made available to everybody, no matter who or what they are. And that means everybody; Christian, Muslim, Jew, Hindi, Buddhist, etc. If God is Truth and He offers Himself to man through Communion, who then are these bishops to deny Communion to those at odds with dogma or Divine Revelation as understood by homo sapiens leaping about an increasingly hostile rock circling the Sun?

No-one. The nut of it is that my, or anybody else's, readiness to receive Communion is between God and me. The person dispensing Communion has nothing to do with it.

As people lining up to receive Communion, we observe certain rites and rituals. These 'scene setters' induce an air or feeling of reverence. Hitting the right state of Grace without undue assistance from the pharmaceutical industry, we are well-placed to receive that which comes with the Eucharist. Who decides my readiness? A bishop? A priest? Hell, no. God does. In preparation, we go to Confession, another Sacrament. This enables me to believe I have made an honest effort to reach the state of Grace necessary to receive Communion. Who decides my penance? The bishop? The priest? Hell, no. God does.

The bishop and the priest do not, or should not, enter the confessional. If they believe they do, I'd rather not open up to a Church official quite capable of rogering his altar boys.

In short, when it comes to "...certain matters to be observed or to be avoided regarding the Most Holy Eucharist", the bishop or the priest's job is to get his own house in order. Should he be messing about with the choir ladies, the Eucharist is not properly blessed and the whole exercise becomes a travesty. While I entrust the priest or the bishop to guide me—despite my dissatisfaction with his conduct in denying females entry to the clergy, his white-washing of sexual abuse, and his refusal to speak out on social matters, he has no jurisdiction over my soul.

That's between God and me, who denies Himself to nobody.

Should Bill Clinton have received Communion? Of course. Should John Kerry receive Communion? Of course. It is through receiving Communion that he and I might see how wrong (according to Church officials) we are in being pro-choice, accepting of gays, susceptible to sins of the flesh, etc. Should George W. Bush receive Communion? Hell yes. Bring him on. Every bit helps.

Bishop Wilton D. Gregory, President of the U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishops, is as slippery a customer as Cardinal Arinze. Ducking questions as to what he'd do should Kerry pitch for Communion, he welcomes the Cardinal's statement and announces the establishment of a "a task force to discuss issues with regard to the participation of Catholics in political life".

How about a task force investigating the participation of politicians in Catholic life? Now, forgive me, I must cut this short. I'm off to Mass... And Communion.

Just the Two of Us...

"To those Americans supporting Bush, it appears that the 'Fight Now, Pay Later' option is a solid investment whether a) they merely get to see a war, b) they roger Saddam because it turns them on, c) they occupy Iraq, install a U.S.-friendly version of Hussein, and control the destinies of all surrounding countries, particularly Saudi Arabia or d) it makes the rich richer." July 2002

It's gratifying to see more people highlighting the intentions of the Asses of Evil. From Ms. D...:

The real threat to the U.S. lies in Saudi. There is a constant threat of the King being overthrown by the fundamentalists and if they do, they will withhold oil from the U.S. There is no way we can allow that to happen. But, we can't go in and occupy Saudi. So we are establishing our military bases in Iraq. And if, when, there is an attempt to overthrow the Saudi government, we will move in and take over the oil fields, all in the eastern part of the country near Kuwait and in Dahrhan. more...

...who points to the consistently prolific and informed Xymphora:

We have to remember that the people behind these theories on Saudi Arabia are the same neocons who are angling for an excuse to wage war on the Saudis to steal the oil fields (with the Israeli thefts of Palestinian lands, and the recent American theft of the whole country of Iraq, and the planned theft of the Saudi oil fields, you really have to wonder if all the neocons are just kleptomaniacs). The attacks are part of a propaganda program to have Islamic fundamentalist terrorism render Saudi Arabia ungovernable, so the neocons can march in to 'protect' the oil (Michael Ledeen is completely explicit about the neocon plans). more...

"Saudi is likely to fall to al-Qaida and Cheney does not see why he should have to pay for all that oil when he can just take it." August 2002

Just the two of us | We can make it if we try | Just the two of us, just the two of us | Just the two of us | Building castles in the sky | Just the two of us, you and I

Bill Withers | Just the Two of Us

The Trinity for Dummies

The Dangerous Lives of Altar Egoes or...

...how to Get to Google Before They Close the Door


Father Christopher faces up to Google...

Yes, it's true. Way back when (last week, I think), I called Father Christopher a "perennial dirty old man and lecher". Since then, my Spiritual Guide and Mentor (SG&M) has refused to give me advice on matters of great ecclesiastical import. But I'll get over it. I am a hard man, a professional and a blogger to boot. I am used to these things.

Besides, if the shoe fits, fuck it. Anything is better than the flogging I regularly receive from a Mind Infinitely Greater Than My Own. A question such as "Should we strengthen the perimeter fence surrounding the Jesus Bunker?" is liable to be met with a diatribe against a judicial system hell-bent on destroying all that is good, noble and just in this venal world.

But he has a point. Who indeed are these fat-walleted slime balls to stipulate we should reduce the voltage to non-lethal levels?

Truth (as in "dirty old man", "lecherous", and "authentic") is, however, a relative thing. And relatives being a pain in the ass, I refuse to go down that road. That Angel has taken Swan's place at the head of the table (so to speak and as it were—or is) is of little consequence. There are plenty of girls to go round.

I therefore recant. Father Christopher is not a "perennial dirty old man and lecher".

See? It's easy when you know how.

Now, I'm not going to bore you by reciting the Jesus Bunker Creed. Nor will I reveal Father Christopher's lineage, details of his adventures with his stock, or the nature of his conception aboard a Virgin Atlantic airliner at 1,824 meters. You can read of these things yourself in my SG&M's latest encyclical, Father Christopher and the Temple of Gloom (a veritable blockbuster on the art of "begatting" and being turned down by Google's AdSense program).

It has kept Dr. Phil's Practical Guide to Home Lobotomies off the New York Times' bestseller lists for forty days and nights.

My task is to explain the mystery of The Trinity, a mental muddlefuck that has seen fish heads with nothing better to do scratch their scalps for centuries. According to Saint Annie (Father Christopher's pedicurist and foot fetish favourite), it is a disgusting habit easily cured by regular washing and a good anti-dandruff shampoo. According to my SG&M, it is the only hair-brained scheme in town.

I digress. As Father Christopher (He who Was, Is, or Sometimes May Be) has explained countless times on free-to-air community radio stations and any blog that will have him, The Trinity boils down to simple math. For our purposes, it boils down to Father Christopher, his all-purpose trouble-shooter and random suicide bomber RageBoy, and his slave-wage stenographer Chris Locke.

Here's how it goes. In the beginning...

You've heard this one before? Shit. Well, okay, the short version then. First, you get the Jesus Bunker, a bomb-proof shelter built by Father Christopher and Ed Yourdon in 1985 when, after eating black-magic mushrooms, they foresaw the end of the world (as we know it).

Ed: "Did ya see that."

FC: "What?"

Ed: "That."

FC: "Yeah. Far out, man."

Ed: "Are you out of your head? 'Far out' be damned. They went straight in."

FC: "'KABOOOM!' Bring on the Apocalypse. So what, Ed? What's your problem?"

Ed: "What should we call it?"

FC: "9-11?"

Ed: "Forget it. Not catchy enough. How about Y2k?"

FC: "Okay. Jesus Christ man, just don't hog that pipe..."

Ed was thrown out of the Jesus Bunker early in 2000 and Father Christopher, with RageBoy and Locke, donned the mantle defiled by the Cardinal Oligarch, becoming what we refer to simply as The Trinity.

It's actually a lot more complicated than that (and includes Holy Wars), but I left the story in meg's comment box and can no longer find it.

"So what do I tell them?" I asked Father Christopher when the huddled masses gathered at the gates of the Jesus Bunker demanding that we explain Himself.

"Tell 'em to fuck off," He replied, getting straight to the point.

"But Larry Page and Sergey Brin are out there."

"Tell them it's an Eternal Mystery. That'll keep 'em happy."

For the most part, and faced with Brother Marek behind the 30 mm cannon mounted to the hood of his Cadillac, it did. Brin and Page were the exception though, slouching off into the wilderness, swearing Eternal Revenge on Eternal Mysteries.


Chris Locke and RageBoy each claim culpability...

Years passed.

Ed Yourdon became a New Age novelist, the Cardinal Oligarch re-established His Kingdom in Hell, and Page and Brin founded Google, a mammoth-project-cum-evil-empire designed specifically to exact revenge on my SG&M.

I was sitting in the War Room one morning nursing a psychosis when news of Google's onslaught on the Jesus Bunker beat my spam filters and trashed Outlook's Inbox. It was Father Christopher.

"Get down here now, you swine," he roared. "Mobilize the Irregulars. Ev's sold out and he and those Google bastards are throwing everything at me."

I felt sick. I knew exactly what he was speaking about. Somewhat guiltily (knowing of Brin and Page's evil intent), I had just added Google's AdSense program and Search feature to my blog.

Google knew it and I knew it. They had waited and now they knew they had either Father Christopher or me. How could I face my SG&M? Google had me wrapped around a dilemma packaged in a conundrum (I've always wanted to write something like that). It was a case of "They knew that I knew that they knew..."; a classical outflanking maneuver.

When you fear the worst, it cheerfully realises itself. Agh... you can read the diabolical story yourself. I am too traumatized to speak of it.

Needless to say, it was imperative that Father Christopher mount an immediate counter attack on Google, but our options were limited. PorridgeBoy was visiting Family in Sicily, RageBoy had been dispatched to blow up Dr. Phil in a suicide mission calculated to cause maximum damage (but had snuck of with Sweet Melinda for the day), CheeseBoy was Shrinking the Gap with Gruyere cheese, and the girls formed my SG&M's comfort detail.

I had my own guilty secret and opted for a pre-emptive strike.

"It was Locke's fault," I told Father Christopher, showing him my blog with AdSense included.

He didn't buy it. "Locke has been recording this shit for prosper... posterity," bawled my infuriated mentor. "He has nothing to do with this."

I pressed on: "He hacked my PC and put AdSense and Search on it. He slotted it in above profane posts rubbishing racist pigs and Dave Winer."

To his credit, my Spiritual Guide and Mentor did not go through the roof (as He does on special occasions and to impress the girls).

"Listen, you conniving little dipshit," he screamed, "Locke was researching pharmaceutics. It's my job to know these things. He didn't do it."

I played the ace I'd been hiding up my sleeve.

"RageBoy perhaps?" I suggested demurely, knowing he would return before Google started its bombing runs. "This morning I saw him with Sweet Melinda in Boulder, browsing Barnes & Noble."

I'd hit the jackpot. Father Christopher did not go through the roof, but he did spin around the room like a demented quark on Electric Kool-Aid.

"The treacherous little viper. I wanted McGraw dead and he didn't go through with it. This is in direct violation of everything we stand for. Jesus Fucking H. Christ, I'll have the vicious shit head put through a grinder before serving him up for breakfast. That fucking bastard..."

I decided to rub it in. "He's been spamming the search engines and putting up pictures of the girls."

"Swan?"

"Sadly, yes. Indeed."

Father Christopher's eyes were flaming coals and foam flecked his lips. He started babbling.

"Why don't we send him to Mountain View?" I suggested. "Bomb the Googleplex? That'll teach them to turn you down."

I knew immediately it had worked. Father Christopher grew visibly calmer. His eyes changed colour and he smiled beatifically.

"Beautiful," he thought aloud. "Just beautiful. That'll teach them to fuck with us."

"Yeah, that'll teach them," I echoed, knowing it to be so... the Truth as it were and so to speak.


RageBoy is sent on his way...

"Y'know, Golby, there's hope for you. Your sins are forgiven, my son. Go in peace."

"Thank you, Father," I intoned, feeling a great weight lift from my shoulders. I backed gently through the door before running pell-mell to the Dick Cheney Room under the bomb shelter. I set the time locks.

It did not take long for RageBoy to return. Following a trend set by members of the Lord's Resistance Army (LRA), he had hacked off a foot to make it look as though he'd tried to do the job on McGraw, but my SG&M was having none of it. That night I could not sleep. RageBoy's screams penetrated 30 meters of concrete and seven floors.

EGR Irregulars are well aware that it hurts Father Christopher a great deal more than we could ever know to keep us on the straight and narrow. But he had Sweet Melinda assist him.

We call it penance.

At daybreak I headed for the Dining Hall. Somebody had sent Bulgarian prawns. Father Christopher was in a good mood.

"Hey, how're your ads going?" he laughed. "Make any money yet?"

"Oh that? Yeah, I dunno," I answered, feigning indifference. "You think I will?"

That cracked him up.

"Ha! RageBoy's taken the heavy Semtex vest and a dirty bomb. He's on his way to Bayshore Parkway as we speak. In fact, he should be arriving anytime now."

As Father Christopher finished his sentence, a loud rumble shook the earth. We all rushed to the picture windows facing north. The sky shimmered in dawn's early light and a crimson cloud mushroomed on the distant horizon.

My SG&M headed back to his seat and plate of Bulgarian prawns. Sweet Melinda hopped onto his lap. He appeared more than satisfied and laughed harshly. "Ha! AdSense? NonSense. That'll teach the fuckers to mess with a Mind Infinitely Greater Than Their Algorithms."

He turned towards me. "Now, we have serious ecclesiastical matters to attend to. Why exactly did you want to strengthen the perimeter fence around the Jesus Bunker?"

"Umm..."

His laugh was warm, gentle.

"O, ye of little faith... Let's all head for the Jacuzzi. Where the hell are Swan and Angel? I believe she just got back from the coast."

Note Without wishing to detract from my assertion made at the beginning of this post, viz. that truth is relative, I feel that I should point out that the events sketched above are to be taken literally, i.e. they are true in every way. Trust me.

The Jazz Singer

Zithulele Donald Tshomela 1933-2004

Republished: January 2002

I knew a man Bojangles | And he danced for you | In worn out shoes | With silver hair, a ragged shirt | And baggy pants, the old soft shoe | He jumped so high, he jumped so high | Then he lightly touched down.

Barrelling down NY78 at 09:30 I swerved to avoid smacking into Mankunku Ngozi's old Mercedes pulling out into the road. Like black lightning, friend and legendary jazz vocalist Donald Tshomela rolled down the passenger window of my car to heap ancestral imprecations on South Africa's giant of the tenor sax. Who, with a finger, dark sunglasses, and a dangerous laugh, gave as good as he'd received.

NY78? It's the number of a road preceded by an abbreviation of 'Native Yard', the name given to the lazy, featureless sprawl of Cape Town's Guguletu township by post-war social engineers. Still designated by number, finding a clearly demarcated street in 'Gugs' after all signs were destroyed to confuse apartheid's goons is as difficult as finding good music in Cape Town, South Africa's vaunted jazz capital.

If you do happen to find some blue-note magic in the Mother City, rest assured, the person delivering it is a muso in dire need of money, a regular gig, and a recording contract.

Our close shave with Winston Mankunku was no coincidence. If Cape Town's townships had trees, musicians would be falling out of them. You can't walk the length of a dusty, cracked-slab street without bumping into a living legend. It's true of Gugs and it's true of Langa, the font from which Cape Town's music has flowed since blacks were evicted from our most liberal of cities in 1927.

Langa, developed between 1923 and 1927, was built on the memory of a forced removal of blacks from central Cape Town to Ndabeni, erected on the forestry station and military staging camp, Uitvlugt, in 1901. It was named after AmaHlubi leader Langalibalele, imprisoned on Robben Island and at Uitvlugt for leading his people in revolt against British rule in 1873.

Bubonic plague, introduced into the city by the British Imperial army, led to Cape Town's white citizens following the Cape Times' 1899 exhortation to "...compel the removal of the alien Kafir population from the city to some suitable spot outside". Subject to racist policies since its inception, Langa has become Cape Town's Cinderella suburb, a repository of talent and creativity unrecognized by most Capetonians. Its people have been forced, over generations, to fall back on their own meagre resources, to draw into themselves. There's a danger they might never come out - depriving us of a history as colorful as New Orleans's.

Overtaken demographically by rapid urban growth and geographically separated from white Pinelands by what has been described as the most precipitous social gradient in Cape Town, it occupies as much of 'some suitable spot' as nineteen and twentieth century Capetonians could have wished for.

The growth of Nyanga, Guguletu, Crossroads, Khayelitsha, and myriad sprawling shanty towns has delivered an enviable, low-cost labor pool to Cape Town's commercial and industrial sectors. A stagnant economy and a growing population threaten to marginalize Langa completely.

Just as much of our political change is superficial, so too is the notion that the heroes of children growing up in Langa during the 1940s were drawn exclusively from the ranks of those fighting for social, political, and economic justice. Such people were the norm, taken for granted. Musicians were not.



Donald is a jazz singer. At 69, he's fitter than most people half his age. He doesn't smoke, rarely drinks, and pines for his girlfriend in Bloemfontein. I was giving him a lift to the airport to catch a plane to PE. A fax from an outfit called Razzmatazz, that looked as though it had been drafted by a lawyer, had arrived a couple of days earlier. Three shows with Maiden Voyage spread over a week. Donald reckons if the band's still on its maiden voyage after twenty years, it's unlikely to see land again.

Given around $200 for the week and the plane ticket, he was to foot the bill for his accommodation, travel, food, and entertainment. He was also to be on call for photo shoots and interviews between interpreting Cole Porter, Nat King Cole, and Satchmo [RealPlayer]. And there are few in South Africa who can make you believe it's a wonderful world like Don Tshomela can. The guy has a throat that secretes music as smoothly as The Manhattans' Blue Lovett's once oozed sex appeal.

At $200, Razzmatazz are the good guys. Donald's happy. He's got work. This, after being down and very nearly out in the city he lives for, Cape Town. Besides his brutal honesty and vituperative tongue, Donald is the most personable guy around. A slickly dressed, smooth-talking sepia Sinatra with style and sass. Perhaps it was something he said to Henry.

Henry is a co-owner of the 'dedicated to the preservation of jazz' Green Dolphin eatery on the Waterfront and the brain behind Grahamstown's annual Smirnoff Jazz Festival. He also masterminded Boereqanga, a band proving that, while you can get a rainbow nation to sit down and write a constitution together, it takes a lot more to get a disparate bunch of South Africans from vastly different pasts to make music together.

Heated words were exchanged. Donald has found the going tough since then. And with only the remnants of Nico Carstens at the helm, Boereqanga has, thank God, slipped into oblivion.

"I did a CD with Boereqanga," says Don. "I think I sang two or three numbers. But, the way it was recorded; it's disgusting. It's terrible. I did it because I wanted the money. That's prostitution. The way they did that record! It's not even worth mentioning."

(SAFM played 'Meadowlands' the other day. It didn't sound half bad.)

Lot of anger there. Maybe it wasn't Henry. Perhaps it was the plague, turning the minds of Capetonians to stewed cabbage all those years ago. But, whatever or whoever Capetonians have ever pretended to be, history and music belie the bullshit. Don's bitterness is understandable if not pardonable. He went to a tough school.

[...]

Sitting in Masibumbane, a 'ncila' in the New Flats section of Langa, I'm surrounded by musicians. Ncilas are not shebeens; they're gentlemen's clubs with impossibly strict admissions criteria. Loosely translated, 'masibumbane' means "Let's pool resources". Discourse curls lazily on a haze of blue smoke or flows like beer down a parched throat. Often mellow, seldom adversarial, the conversation is always intense. Here, the musos are either unplugged or unhinged. A zol does the rounds and, after taking long, throaty mouthfuls from the 'bekel' of 'qombothi' - a tin pail fashioned into a five litre mug of homebrew - metaphysics tend to dominate.

But not today. After a mind-blowing interview recalling the '60s with former Young Rhythm Chordettes leader Dannayi Ndlova at his well-furnished, flower-bedecked home in Zone 3, we've retired with Dannayi to Masibumbane, joining Nyamizeli Piyo (aka Dutch, Mabula or Qwash, his clan name), Reggie Nolutshungu, drummer Max Diyamani, Yuma, Mpiza, Ronnie and others, including the skeletal and ancient Buta Sonwabo, for some lighthearted socializing.

I'd met Ronnie several years earlier at a set-in in Ndabeni Street. Back then he was a quite, brooding presence in a PAC T-shirt.

Masibumbane is a long, rectangular shack made of wood and black plastic, positioned between two unbelievably ugly, rundown, Third World tenements, one of which is gutted. Stagnant puddles of water line the path to its entrance. It is dirty. On the road, mamas cook qombothi on fires, pouring the boiling mix into 44-gallon drums. Or they sell fly-ridden pieces of chicken and boerewors cooked on open fires. Blank-eyed kids are everywhere. So are the piles of rubbish. Further down the street, some men kick a football around. Lacklustre people hang out of hollow-eyed, pane-less windows. As Dutch puts it, "You see things and you see things. You have to be flexible."

I've become a mental gymnast.

[...]

Other sections of Langa are different. I wrote a letter to the friend who'd introduced me to Langa and its people, reflecting on the death of the man who'd given me a Xhosa name, Nxolisi.

"I don't remember the old man too well. He appeared out of the sun and the smoke and the haze of perambulating confabulation to bestow the name on me with the authority of the Pope blessing the faithful in St Peter's Square. Lyall Watson dressed up such things for mass consumption during the 80s. It's all about bridges of time and the people we know. All we have to do is tell the story. Of how the bluegums grow in the ghost-gray sand of the land in front of the deserted old churches opposite the police station on Washington Street. And how the people idling along that same stretch in the late afternoon sun are forever there, frozen in time, nameless, faceless but always going, going ... to do something, meet someone, touch others' lives. It's a strange tableau, but were I to tumble through Alice's looking glass, that's where I'd go."

I paid my respects to Buta Wonga's wife, Anne. A colored woman who speaks Afrikaans, she refers tearfully to her late husband as 'Wowo'. In her late forties, she met Wonga Somana when they worked together at Irvin & Johnson's fish factory in Woodstock. They were married in 1987. Working in a cold, dank environment, Wonga caught asthma, pneumonia, and tuberculosis. A devout Muslim, he died peacefully in Anne's arms in August 1996. He would have been sixty-six this year.

[...]

Langa has many faces. Many histories. And many musicians. Aspro Sipoya popped in on us at Masibumbane. Aspro had been a great vocalist. He remains a great, albeit short, character. Again, Dutch, chair of the as-yet-to-be-formed Langa Arts Collective, describes him best. "He's a jackal. When he's sober, watch out - he's got the devil's sense of humour. When he's drunk, he's reasonable." Aspro is deferential, dignified, altogether human. The world wonders at the character of Nelson Mandela. Go to Langa and talk to Aspro. Or countless others like him.

The following day, we find Tebogo Louis Moholo sitting on a bench on Scarab's garage floor in Moffat Street. Although Monday's morning has hours to go, the 30-degree sun beats like a hammer against his burning brain. His delicately patterned red-and-white shirt is unbuttoned and he kneads his hands into an ample belly speaking as much of excess as it does of success. His body is all George Foreman, his hairstyle Don King, and his voice is a passable Mike Tyson growl.

"Oh fuck man, guys, I can't speak to you now, man, I feel like shit. Oh, Jesus, I feel fucking awful." Two days out of London, the Viva La Black leader and former Blue Notes drummer feels the pain of a 40-degree change in temperature and countless brandies reducing the weekend to a timeless blur. We agree to meet him the following day. At least the boy's back home. He looks like it too.

With Chris MacGregor, Dudu Pukwana, Mongezi Feza, and Johnny Dyani, Moholo exerted enormous influence on Britain's free jazz movement in the mid to late 60s. Asked in 1993 by 'Vrye Weekblad' who his influences were, he replied, "From South Africa - Nick Moyakhe, cats like Cups 'n Saucers, Chris Ngcukana... They started me off." Sadly, the interviewer had to admit to not knowing who the hell Moholo was talking about.

[...]

In 1942, Mbrux 'Count' Mlomo, a contemporary of Moses Molelekwa and Themi Hawker, started a 15-piece band, The Merry Macs, an elegant assortment of musicians well-schooled in cinematic chic, wearing bowties, black or white morning coats, and two tone shoes.

Come Christmas and New Year, The Merry Macs toured the streets of Langa on the back of a five-ton flatbed, playing day and night to appreciative, partying residents. The band lasted, in one form or another, until the death of its last leader, James Bebheza, in 1989.

Mbrux Mlomo still teaches from his comfortable home in Gugs. Watched over by his vigilant son, Thabo, the seventy-something livewire only goes haywire around pension payout time. Much loved, he was a disciplined band leader, virtually drowning his musicians, forcing their heads into buckets of water for protracted periods to develop their lung capacities.

While The Merry Macs played, myriad bands came and went. The Bantu Young Ideas, Harmony Kings, Hot Spots, Swingsters, Rhythm Downbeats, Jazz Souls, Harlem Boys, Missouris and the Symphony Five. They were overshadowed by the achievements of more popular groups, The Chordettes, Honolulu Swingsters, Tuxedo Slickers, Hop Skippers, Twelve Disciples, Jazz Souls, City Jazz Kings, and The Statelytes.

Saxophonist Stoto Zibi, probably the bands longest serving member and leader of the Zoom Boom Rhythm Jizzlers, a vocal group incorporated into The Merry Macs in 1948, is another wonderfully warm, grandfatherly figure caring for an extended family of budding musicians. He works closely with a Merry Macs latecomer, John Mtshibilikwana.

Any kid trying to get into John Mtshibilikwana's Jazz School in Guguletu has to have what it takes. They should be between ten and fifteen, without a future, be loaded with talent, and prepared to work hours that would make most medical interns turf their stethoscopes into the nearest bedpan. They also have to find the school, nameless and heavily disguised as a panel shop and battery recharge centre in a foul corner of one of the lousiest ghettoes on God's good earth.

Now in their 70s, the two elder statesmen of Cape Town jazz are virtually unknown outside of the townships that shot them and many other South African jazz legends to prominence. Both personify the dignity and heart of a music form that's been at the losing end of a struggle for recognition and acceptance for as long as its been around.

Mtshibilikwana, a relative latecomer to The Merry Macs, carries on Kadudu Ndlebe's 1960's initiative of teaching music to children. John, Wilson Bhele, brother of the Merry Macs' late Saki Bhele, and Stoto teach music in Langa and Gugs with the help of Amampondo's Simphiwe Matole and Dizu Plaatjies. Simphiwe's late father, Themba, was a Merry Macs pianist.

[...]

American import René McLean slides in and out of our jazz joints like a black panther on a Harlem night. Keeping a low profile as a teacher at UCT's jazz school, his musical pedigree explodes off every stage he treads. A whirling dervish of creative invention, the American-born McLean is prone to unleashing razor-sharp solos of laser-like intensity. The man wields his sax like an axe, cutting straight to the heart of jazz.

His father, Jackie McLean, a onetime member of Art Blakey's Jazz Messengers and a great altoist, also played hard and fast, yet lightly, recording himself into the annals of American jazz. Who'd know it?

And, yes, we have to be told these things because they might just make us sit up and take note of the magic people like René, Basil Coetzee, Robbie Jansen, Hotep Galeta, Errol Dyers, Basil Moses, Sammy Hartman, Jimmy Dludlu, Don, and countless young musicians dispense so freely from club stages in the Central Business District. We're too ignorant to recognize the beauty of a great performance. It's time we looked to our past. Only then will we be able to say, "Let the future take care of itself."

[...]

Zithulele 'Donald' Tshomela was born in Springs on January 21, 1933. He matriculated in Queenstown in 1952, did some mining, and moved to Kensington in the '50s. An article written in the '80s quotes Don.

"It was Dollar Brand who advised me to go it alone. There were so many bands and soloists in Langa and, unfortunately, I was never there. I first saw Langa when my aunt took me to the Bantu Administration office to get a pass. I was told to find employment within seven days. I looked for work for three months without luck before being given a 'last chance' before being sent to the potato plantations.

"Fortunately, my aunt talked an Indian shopkeeper into signing my pass for a small fee. I never worked there and was free to travel to Langa to listen to the big bands. That's where I established myself as a solo artist. It was an amazing scene. Things were happening. I remember Mr Sitsila, Mr Pasha; we were moving around with Lily Khuzweo and Nompintshi, the Fix Brothers and the original Jig Aces.

"The competition was tough. You had to know your story before going onstage because, in most cases, half the audience was made up of musicians. You got criticized to pieces. Graduates from that great era include the world's top drummer, Louis Moholo, Makhaya Ntshoko, Mbra Christopher Columbus Ngcukana, Dollar Brand, Chris McGregor, Martin Mgijima, Winston Ngozi, Willie Nettie, Danny Ndlova, Victor Ntoni, and a host of others."

Returning to South Africa after performing at the Newport Jazz Festival, Dollar Brand (Abdullah Ibrahim) first stopped off at Langa. "Man, the township is where I started and it is there that I must go to prove myself. The fact that they accepted and understood my music makes me feel that I have succeeded in my struggle and that my message still comes through in my music."

I left the jazz singer at the 'Park and Drop' entrance to the airport. In his calfskin loafers, tan slacks, cashmere sweater, and leather cap, he looked like any jazz man the world over. But he's not. He's a Capetonian. It's enough to give anybody the blues.

He said his name, Bojangles | And he danced a lick across the cell | He grabbed his pants in fettered stance | Oh, he jumped up high | Then he clicked his heels | He let go a laugh, he let go a laugh | Shook back his clothes all around | Mr. Bojangles, Mr. Bojangles | Mr. Bojangles, dance...

Mr. Bojangles

In memoriam: Basil 'Manenberg' Coetzee, Dannayi Ndlova, Boeta Wonga, Bugs Ngongco, Reggie Nolutshungu and, now, Donald Tshomela, a true friend and a prince among men. My family feels his presence tonight and I hear the songs he sang my wife and children. Our condolences go to his family and especially to his son, Zama. Fortunately, while I took Don for granted, reveling in his loud personality and gregarious spirit, Roz Wrottesley took the time to paint a graphic biographical portrait of him in her May 1, 2003 Cape Argus article, 'I'd starve and die for music if I had to', capturing elements of his great heart and gentle soul.

ora pro nobis II

Legionnaire's Disease

Each one feed one...


Centers for Disease Control

Note Colonel Frank Paynter, still pissed off he wasn't offered a free ride in the Barbie Rocket, advises me the CDC pinched the above map from his Global Cheese Submersion Think Tank. Apparently the yellow is 1.02 x 1015 cubic meters of Gruyere cheese. The green is Wisconsin. My apologies, Colonel.


Plasmodium vivax and Gap Closure

Voices echo this is what salvation must be like after a while.

Bob Dylan | Visions of Johanna

That Asshole Dave Winer

The Naked Ape Bares His Chest

Dave Winer stops beating up on women


"I said Halley has the most to learn, but I meant most to lose." [Dave Winer]

You really fucked those weblogs.com users Sessum, hard. I bet you enjoyed it. Talk *that* over with your famous therapist.

Dave Winer

Reading one of Dave Winer's latest updates on the weblogs.com debacle, you'd think the brouhaha of the past week was a malicious storm in a teacup. You'd be wrong. Most who've been around a couple of years have learnt to be leery of Dave's propensity to "use 'em and lose 'em".

Before tracking the skin Winer sheds as he slithers from a mess of his deliberate making, read this:

The attackers are disproportionately women. Do you think maybe they're using me to get even for how someone treated them? A father, a brother, an uncle, an ex? Does our culture let them be abusers, assuming the man is always wrong, guilty until proven innocent? I've been in this big strong body for a long time, and I gotta tell you, it's a rare thing when people consider your feelings in how they deal with you. I think some people take advantage of that too.

In inimitable fashion (I mean that—Reagan had more class), Dave casts himself the victim of a vicious smear campaign hatched by vindictive virtual harridans. I am, of course, speaking of Shelley, Jeneane and Halley.

Before aligning yourself with Dave's not-so-subtle call for assistance from his testosterone-charged fellow misogynists (who hang about the tech world scratching crystal balls while pretending to be gorillas fighting the mist of others' failings), read Jeneane's blogging of the sordid saga. And make up your own mind. Winer's been around a while (he is, after all, the Al Gore of blogging) and knows the ropes from which he swings. But he's becoming increasingly careless and, one day, will hang himself.

As for the acrimony generated by Winer's summary ditching of 3,000 bloggers, read this one from Jeneane. For those not using blogs as vehicles for self-aggrandizement through two-line link whoring, it's what blogging is (or was) about. Unfortunately, with Winer's active participation, this execrable trash is fast becoming the norm.

So... who really did "fuck them", Dave? You "fucked them", Winer, all on your own. Swing, Bubba, swing... you're looking good.

Next time Powers or Suitt or Sessum try to insert hysterics, we can swarm them with love, ask them to stand back until the problem is clear, to stop meddling and when there's an outage, please please don't get us Slashdotted.

Dave Winer

Note Visit Father Christopher for a theological perspective on the weblogs.com mess. You'll have to queue though; he's swarming Dave with love in the counseling room.

Stupid White People...

...prove themselves miserable failures

Stupid white person mocked and jeered...

"I believe I am deeply changed in the knowledge that I am only man, and my creator, Jesus Christ, the father, the son and the holy spirit, will give me the right commands to live my life as an honourable citizen who also knows his duty to his Boer folk." So said Eugene Terreblanche (E.T.), Afrikaner Weerstandsbeweging (A.W.B.) leader on returning to earth after three years in jail for attempted murder.

As far as I know, and I've had the privilege of attending a mass rally at which Mr. Terreblanche frequently invoked the name of his creator (during the halcyon days of the early 90s when his drunken, rifle-toting Ystergaard goons and khaki-clad Aryan wannabes were given free rein), this guy probably believes his own shit-for-brains blather.

Reunited with his favoured horse, Attila, the anachronistic leader of a discredited ideal shown up for its trailertrash stupidity is not the only colour-crazed kook in town. Twisted neo-Nazi fascists, of the type who gave the pathetic icon of a deluded dream succor, adulation and material support during a two-decade long reign of hate and fear, continue to live among us and bring the Web into disrepute, as Fodder points out.

Fodder rails at those who, no longer able to call themselves South African, nurse a vicious and irrational grievance against anybody not white. The site cited boasts, like the broken-backed whore of bigotry, that it "...has been around since 16th August 2001." Fodder's suggestion is to googlebomb the bastards. Hell, for want of an AK47 and a foul temper, why not?

Like one of his commenters, my choice of term would be different than "stupid white people"; I'd prefer "miserable failures", in memory of the high ranking given another born-again zealot and conscienceless baby killer, the present and future president of the United States, for whom many of these gutless wonders (irony intended) are now butchering innocent Iraqis in the name of their creator. But, who cares whether we actually put them up there or not? As these sub-normal retards prove, it's the thought that counts.

Not being a high-traffic blog, I'm not likely to hold much sway with Google, but every link counts. So here it is for stupid white people and all those twisted fools who stew in the crazed brio of their unresolved hatreds while the rest of us get on with our lives in a country we can, for once, call our own. Where else would people, nearly torn apart by a Zimbabwean or Israeli type of racial hatred and social engineering, allow neo-Nazis to parade the streets? To the utter indifference of adults and the jeers and derision of little children?

Blogger Con

Some Egg!

"Some omelette!"

I mentioned yesterday that Frank and RageBoy set me to blogging. Well, that's true as truth goes but there are degrees to everything (sheez, I had a twinge of conscience writing that - seriously). We're speaking Prime Cause here and although RageBoy has long considered himself to be Himself as it were, i.e. the Prime Mover and Shaker, he's way off beam. Although you can get into serious trouble for saying it these days, it's Dave Winer. Seriously.

Mike Golby April 11, 2002

I will also note that, given my persistent view that matters of property and propriety are essentially contested conditions at best, it is satisfying to find this position ratified, as it were, by an act, if not of God, then of someone not far from that job title in the world of blogs.

Tom Matrullo June 15, 2004

God is dead.

Friederich Nietzsche 1882

Long Live...

...the Fishrush Underground

...the Fishrush Underground

Indeed. You know who you are... For now, here's how it goes...

Signal. Signal. Sending Signal.

Ba Ba Bidi Bi Blocks.
Bird changes Gold Cage's Golden locks
Birdy, bi, ba bada bi bi!!!!
You got got got a new gold key.

For you new golden cage, age age.
Ba Ba Bidi Bi Ba.
Keep on changing keys keys keys
Bada bi bis bis bis

Peekaboo! to you all.

Fresh orders will be posted on receipt.

All the Fair Ladies...

...on the Banks of the Congo River

Liboké de Poisson

Well, I don't know how it happened | But the river-boat captain, he knows my fate | But ev'rybody else, even yourself | They're just gonna have to wait.

The surf report was gloomy.

"Clear skies allowed an early sun to light the Sentinel this morning. But that's about the only good news we have, I'm afraid. The early morning swell coming in from Boulder is huge but it's being blown apart by a stiff westerly. Cross currents are fighting a rising tide and what may have been a good wave is being shredded. Fuck."

Bummer.

After a couple of hash bongs, we hit the beach to cook breakfast and surf the point. I wasn't in the mood for a wave, deciding instead to sketch the mountains from the fire and, with Sister Jacqueline, Carmela and Mother Mary, whip up the Liboké de Poisson.

The girls slipped off their jeans and cooked in their bikinis. They cleaned the fish, leaving the scales on. They then cut a few gashes lengthwise on each side and poured on the marinade before leaving it to marinate in a glass dish for a quarter hour.

"This is a damned side better than surfing," I thought.

We had bought the fish the night before from a passing fisherman, but I was too stoned to know what the hell it was. Nobody else knew either. "So what?" giggled Brother Marek, "It's fucking big."

Sister Carmela was using a recipe she and Dingo had brought back from their surf safari up the Congo River. It was on a page ripped out of an old issue of Fair Lady.

"They love it up there," Carmela explained, brushing her long, blonde hair from her face before putting the fish on the fire. She began to chop some okra and tomato. "Fair Lady that is."

"Why?" A great bank of cloud had moved in towards the shore, blocking the sun. The wind was unusually warm.

"Dunno. It has something to do with blonde hair. All Africa's mad about blonde hair. The Congolese have some of the finest waves in the world and nobody surfs. They all sit on the banks of the Congo River reading Fair Lady."

"You serious?"

"Yup." In the eerie light of a fast-darkening sky, she mixed some oil, chopped onion, lemon juice, salt, black pepper and red pepper. Sister Jacqueline and Mother Mary had ducked off in search of banana leaves.

"Bizarre."

"Yeah." She gathered her hair up and, with a couple of deft flicks, turned it into one of those loose knots. Under a fast-darkening sky, it ran like gold. I could see lightning flicker on the horizon. "I haven't seen waves quite like those you get in the Congo. Not surfing them's a crime."

"They should punish the bastards."

"Oh, they do. They make them sit on the banks of the Congo River and read Fair Lady."

Above us, the clouds roiled, sending out great plumes of what looked like whipped cream.

"Ah. Yeah, you mentioned that."

Good enough to eat, I thought.

"But they don't mind."

"No."

Looking to the point across the deep, dark-green sea, I could see the others ripping up good, clean six-to-eight foot waves.

"It's the blonde hair thing, you know?"

I knew.

Sheltered from what was now a hurricane wind, the waves were pumping in and peeling off crisply. They were perfect too. I bet the waves on the Congo River weren't much better.


Fair ladies on the Congo River

Well, I got the fever down in my pockets | The Persian drunkard, he follows me | Yes, I can take him to your house but I can't unlock it | You see, you forgot to leave me with the key | Oh, where are you tonight, sweet Marie?

Sister Jacqueline and Mother Mary returned. They each shouldered a huge pile of banana leaves. Both looked as though they'd hacked their way through a rain forest. Mother Mary had a near-naked girl of about 19 tethered to her at the end of a long rope. Olive-skinned and with perfect breasts, the girl's black hair shone like the sun, which had disappeared completely. The shrouded sky suffused the day with a tangerine glow.

The girl's eyes flashed murder.

"What's with her?"

"She tried to stop us so we thought we'd bring her back," explained Mother Mary. "Her name's Lavena. She's evil."

She looked all right to me.

When the fish was ready, Carmela and Lavena warmed the banana leaves before removing their center ribs by cutting across them with long, pearl-handled knives and pulling them off. They then folded each piece of fish into a packet two or three layers thick.

It smelled finger-lickin' good.

We were all gathered together eating our Liboké de Poisson and smoking more hash when the storm broke. I reckon 50 millimeters of rain fell in around an hour. The wind howled across the mouth of the bay and, from our hut we could see and feel the lighting electrify the sky. But it didn't affect us. Good food and company were all we needed.

I'd finished my meal and had just lit myself a smoke when Dingo choked on his food and died. He did so right in front of us. It was extraordinarily quick and, we'd like to believe, painless. Fortunately, he'd waited for the rain to stop. The air smelt fresh and sweet, so we dragged his body outside and stood around on the beach, wondering what might have caused him to choke on such a wonderful meal.

"He was dreaming of the waves on the Congo River," sighed Brother Marek.

"He was eating too fast," speculated Mother Mary.

"He was thinking of this morning's surf," suggested Sister Jacqueline.

"He was reading this old issue of Fair Lady," said Carmela, handing it to me.

I took it from her. Her eyes were large, moist and blue. I could not imagine what Dingo saw in the waves of the Congo River that he could not find in there.

Standing next to me, the beautiful Lavena guided my search to the page where Dingo had left off. He'd been reading the recipe for Liboké de Poisson. Lavena's delicate hand steered my eyes to the foot of the page.

It read: "Note: Shock the Monkey as you will but never, and I mean never, eat the fucking banana leaves. Trust me." It was signed: The Management."

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Carmela and Lavena exchange the briefest of smiles, before both looked up at me.

Now, I been in jail when all my mail showed | That a man can't give his address out to bad company | And now I stand here lookin' at your yellow railroad | In the ruins of your balcony | Wond'ring where you are tonight, sweet Marie.

Bob Dylan | Absolutely Sweet Marie

Feathered Lips...

...avoiding Wipeouts

Feathered lips...

I did not believe the information | Just had to trust imagination | My heart was going boom boom, boom | Son, he said, grab your things, I’ve come to take you home.

The wait is on for Big Wave Africa 2004. And, nope, I never amounted to a surfer's dogleash. Still, surfing's held me in thrall for around thirty years. I'm not alone. Come winter, the north and a good swell, Big Wave Africa relegates all but those able to ride the monsters to the boats, shore and sidelines. We're all spectators now.

And so it is with blogging. Sometimes it proves itself a sport throwing up sets well worth admiring. A knowledge of the winds, tides, waves, surfers and some experience enhances the experience. Reading the tit-for-tat between Father Christopher and Mother Superior this morning, I once again felt better about riding the shorebreak off the Jesus Bunker. Sometimes, really good shit happens and a war breaks out. Only it's never a war. You know...

In response to my Spiritual Guide and Mentor publishing this entry (don't trust the permalink; scroll down the page and read 12 Words and the two years preceding it), Mother Superior filed the following e-mail:

I am probably getting old, and losing whatever I once had of any delicate sensibilities, but I can’t help thinking that dreams are wonderful when walking quietly by yourself in the woods; keeping you company as you reflect on what once was. They suit the drip of the water from the leaves, and the smell of rich, old dirt and the song of birds not quite seen.

But then I think I would rather get in my car and go home and be met with something real and tangible–someone I can wrap arms around and exchange garlicky kisses with after a nice dinner.

True, dreams never fade or get older; there are no shadows or harsh lines, and the light doesn’t glare, but instead glows with a lovely, inner light. Dreams don’t sag or get lumpy or wrinkly, or cranky. But you can’t reach out and touch a dream. You can’t move your finger down a dream’s face, or hold a dream’s hand. When you sneeze, it doesn’t go bless you, or bring you broth when you’re in bed, sick. It doesn’t laugh at a dumb joke, because though you might see your dream, it doesn’t see you.

Imperfect reality. I think I would rather have imperfect reality.

Nice, eh? Of course, you'll need to read around two years' of the Mother Superior's writing to really appreciate the warm wisdom of her words. But what does Father Christopher do? With an eagle's eye (and Coyote's nose), he espies (and scents) heresy.

Never one to shirk his duties to his charges and other sundry 'standard nethead whackjobs', he fires off Shelley Powers—Her Secret Life, a blistering expose of Mother Superior's secret life as Sheena, a dominatrix of renown. Sheena immediately responds with Living this Moment (containing the above copied e-mail), and blogging shows surfing to be a sedentary occupation for salt-encrusted dribbleheads.


...avoiding wipeouts.

I was feeling part of the scenery | I walked right out of the machinery | My heart was going boom boom boom | Hey, he said, grab your things, I’ve come to take you home. | Yeah back home

Style, finesse, élan... such words leap to mind reading such exchanges. Actually, they don't, but I tell you, the first sets drifting in from Boulder on a cold winter's morning really set me up for the day. How one rides them—something that could be ever so easily misconstrued, makes all the difference. Later, the sun sets in the South on essays such as this, Divided we Stand, wherein Shelley brings it all back home.

As Cheyne Horan puts it: "When the waves are big you don’t need a light board."

Today I don’t need a replacement | I’ll tell them what the smile on my face meant | My heart was going boom boom boom | Hey, I said, you can keep my things, they’ve come to take me home.

Peter Gabriel | Solsbury Hill