Word from Grace Jones...

MEN ARE TERRIFIED OF ME. I CAN EASILY STEP INTO THE MAN'S SHOES -THAT'S WHAT SETS OFF THE TENSION. IT PUTS THE MAN IN A POSITION WHERE HE HAS TO BECOME THE FEMALE. BUT MY IMAGE IS SUPPOSED TO FRIGHTEN MEN, SO ONLY THE GOOD ONES COME THROUGH.

I had to say it - Millie Jackson

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TJ9qkYq5HJg&feature=related

On a quest to find my smile

“I brazenly take a step into the black abyss of unknown ventures and unpredictable liaisons that is 2009… not before countless hours of contemplation and reflection… after all I am She-Who-Misses-the-Bergs (so named after overlooking the icebergs in several ‘almost’ relationships and sinking numerous titanics)… this time I have my binoculars and several caffeine pills lest I should overlook potential danger again.

2000 and GREAT was supposed to be the year for She-Who-Misses-the-Bergs to detox post fix-you episodes (failed attempts to paper gaping cracks in her soul), but the stars had a different plan for her and decided to deal a surprisingly overwhelming amount of drama… substantially more than her usual yearly serving. So 2000-and-DIVINE arrives with quite a lengthy, boastful introduction. She walks in the door false eye-lashes and glitter shadow batting to her dramatic stride, but alas! 2000-and-GREAT has already taken her bow and made her thank you speeches… and boy were her thank you’s long….The GREAT one is now swaying to the deafening sound of a standing ovation. The DIVINE one is annoyed… almost murderous… how could the GREAT one steal her thunder. Everyone knew that the ‘it’ year was the DIVINE one. The GREAT one was just meant to be an introduction for greater things to come.

Word gets around that She-who-misses-the-bergs has lost her smile… it stayed somewhere in 2000 and GREAT…. She searches frantically for it and even pleads with the Gods to take her back … but Fate has been holding a grudge against her since her episode with the Captain of the Santa Maria…. She’s doomed to a life of advancing… she can NEVER go back. Given that it is imperative for her to possess a smile for the DIVINE one, she needs to source one out. So the DIVINE one takes it up to assist her to find her smile… if you are gonna do it, do it big. She-who-misses-the-bergs and the DIVINE one have formed a search party to find the perfect smile… She knows for sure that the smile factory in the Orient was shut by Russians in 2008. Rumour has it that it could be located in the dark alleys of the place of gold… but she’s seen glimpses of it in the eyes of leprecauns…. There’s no telling where it could be… maybe fate will bury the hatchet…”

I wrote this at the very beginning of this year. What I discovered was that my smile was not with any foreign strangers, but fragments of it were in the possession of those dear to me. I have now put humpty-dumpty together again :-)

I missed the bus!

Today I was jamming to a golden oldie from a former favourite. Mack Daddy was retelling the tale of how he and Daddy Mack had “missed the bus”. This I relate to, on a very different level. You see, I missed the bus or rather, the ship. Word on the streets is that this particular ship comes around every two years or so. Unlike its more frequent counterpart, the friend-ship, which is constantly docking, the ship of relations is limited to the selected few with exclusive notifications from the secret society. This secret society was founded in the late 90’s, after several sunken ships were reported and the relation-ships were declared endangered. The twenty-first century has seen an alarming rise in reported cases of sunken ships, and the numbers of those brave enough to board are rapidly declining. According to recent unofficial surveys, the ships are losing popularity because of reviews by those with negative past experiences. They are most frequently criticized for being time-consuming and frustrating, often taking detours and unexpected turns on the seemingly smooth journeys. Ironically, the sinkings seldom occur when skies are grey, as BMW (baby making weather - for those of you with a less inspired acronym vocabulary) increases the efficiency of the vessels. They are most likely to happen on sunny days when hearts have melted and heads are hot.
For me and my fellow DPGs, rainy days have become painful reminders of old sunken ships and often induce frustrated sighs of longing and heart-ache. I have witnessed many a rainy day when minus ones are re-convened by a common loneliness and roam the streets (LBD’s and stilettos adorned), in search of the city’s pulse… hoping that perhaps it will provide a reason to go on. Ironically, the Cape of Good Hope is the city that offers the thinnest serving of hope. After almost two tedious years of single-to-fucking-mingle in the heart of inspiration, there is little indication that the state of affairs will improve. Not only is there a critical shortage of eligible men, but relationships are as fictional as four-leaf clovers. The only reason we have not hosted a mass-suicide is because we are only at the beginning of our lives. There are mountains to be explored and lands to be conquered, life has only just begun. Crap.

I want to come back as a brick.

Being human really sucks. You come into the world knowing you are going to leave it just as suddenly as you came. Logically, why would you get into something that you know for sure will end? Don’t get me wrong, suicide is not the answer cos you are ending it anyway, but I’d like to know what the point of investing yourself into making this life thing work when you know that at any given moment you could die? Is it better to get a taste of good life, than just die young and spare yourself the trouble?

Humans worm around all day planning life… planning work… planning love when all the above are unpredictable and pointless. Take the most obvious example… love (and of course I am going to choose love cos it’s the only one of the 3 that I am familiar with)… when in love things are wonderful… but you seldom feel this without first having known what it was for things to be awful. Love has to hurt so that when it doesn’t, you can appreciate it. Anyway at some stage or another, IT WILL END. Either you are broken apart by stupid worldly factors like infidelity or change, or one of you die and leave the other heartbroken. If we know this from the beginning, then WHY IN THE WORLD do we even bother? When we know that the one thing that makes you carry on being human is the same thing that will eventually lead to your demise?

So I ran through a list of the things I might want to return to the world as, seeing as how humans probably have it worse than anything else. First I thought of being an ant cos they are basically programmed, even though they die really young, at least you come in to the world and work together towards a greater goal… there is no individualism.. if one ant dies no ants even wince because more are on their way. There is none of this complicated human babble about missing people and not being able to function without them, or anxiety attacks about the future and five year plans. There’s no time for bullshit. The only downfall about being an ant is that you work your ass off and have little time to laugh. If I were an ant I would definitely sneak away sometimes to watch stupid humans and laugh my ass off… but then again if I were an ant that thought wouldn’t come to me. So I choose to be a brick. You are an important part of a whole, and you are semi-permanent. Plus you get to watch stupid humans walk around all day, with no fear of being squashed or even acknowledged. You have tons of friends who are doing the same thing as you so conversation flows constantly. The best part is that self-important humans walk around with their evolutionary noses up in the air thinking they have the last word… while bricks actually rule the world. We have the last laugh. We outlive all those idiots who plastered us together to begin with.

The third little piggy had it right. The straw house blew away, the house of sticks blew away, the only one still standing is the house of bricks.

Once upon a time when courting wasn’t just for the birds.

Many of us grew up hearing rosy tales of how our persistent fathers wooed our stubborn mothers relentlessly until they finally caved and let them in. We sat huddled around our mothers’ knees listening to how her indifference spurred him on and eventually out of pure irritation she agreed to hear him out. We’d doze off fantasizing about the day when we’d finally reward that special someone for several months of grandiose courting. Playground crushes disguised in shoves and kicks, and high-school love stories masked in “I hate you” notes passed around the class were signs to keep hoping, that one day love may sweep us off our feet. After over two decades of holding my breath, I’m blue in the face waiting to be surprised. Perhaps a result of my Gemini impatience, lately I’ve found myself attacking first. I am way past the years when I coyly waited around for a guy to finally take notice of my vixen eyes and want me. Perhaps the most valuable love advice I’ve heard was from my sister, who told me that a guy will never be more into me than he is at the beginning. Based on that theory, if the courting is non-existent, then most likely the relationship will be too.

Very often the first night is the only chance you get. Unlike the ‘Love Years’ in which we were all conceived, twenty-first century love has become somewhat of a business. The first encounter is both the interview and the employment, i.e. if you don’t give him any, you won’t be getting a call back. Once upon a time, holding out on physical intimacy was a sign of self-respect and dignity. It used to indicate that you were something worth waiting for, worth pursuing. Now, those who hold out are a very small minority, and as a result men have so many alternatives that they’d rather not waste their time waiting for something that’s not guaranteed. Twenty-first century women are forced to be very strategic when it comes to dating. There’s so much walking on egg shells lest we should spoil the only chance we get… you can’t ask if he’s seeing someone on the first date, nor his opinion on relationships although heaven knows you want an explanation for the stiletto boot hanging out of his wardrobe… you courteously ignore the fact that when he’s with you he switches his phone off, or screens his calls and find comfort in the false truth that he doesn’t want friends interrupting your special moments, while in fact he hasn’t found a suitable enough lie for his significant other… and those are the fortunate ones.

Most of us go through the interview/date, follow the strict guidelines provided by successful dating 101, and leave the date with the glow of someone who just landed their dream job. The goodbye kiss, the exchanging of phone numbers, the fluttering butterflies clouding your judgement are all apparent signs that things went well. Until of course, he never calls, or worse yet you are the victim of the infamous conscience call. The call a guy makes when he knows you are unavoidable. Whether you share mutual friends, work together, or were set up by a relative, you make him uneasy to the point that he is obligated by conscience to let you down tactfully. You know you are the victim of a conscience call when:

a. he calls and concludes the conversation by saying, “I just called to say wasup” and gives no indication that he intends to see you.

b. he concludes the conversation by saying “see you around (or soon)”.

c. he texts and very formally thanks you for your company

d. he calls only after seeing your 3 missed calls.

e. you send him a flirtatious sms (or two or three) and he responds and says something like “Thanks for the message. I hope you are cool”.

Have our standards really dropped that low? I smelled a rat recently when a few friends and I were gob-smacked by a cordial young man who held the elevator and opened the door for us with a polite smile and not so much as a pick-up line as repayment. We’ve all just stopped expecting much from men … The only guys who ask for phone numbers and actually use them are very often the guys you only speak to after the fourth drowning-your-sorrows-tequila. The hyena-men, the ones that are smart enough to skulk around the bar looking for low self-esteemed women aided by vodka until they are drunk enough to be hit on by anything. So as we all slowly make our five-year pit-stop at the age of definition, the twenty-somethings, we are dealt with two options, a stalker sweetie who showers you with piles of attention and gallons of saliva, or a once-off ass hole who allowed you the privilege of touching him… once. If those are the only options we have, then I reckon it’s safe to throw in my towel now.

Mukamuka

Mukamuka - Japanese for 'so angry one feels like throwing up'...

This is a letter to Black men… No! Scratch that, this is an appeal to Black men!

My friends and I are perhaps the least politically correct people I know (besides my family), with the exception of one Z whose profession and religious principles have her giggling in the corner but not adding much butter to the dish. In my close-knit circle of friends, I’m told I’m one of the few that tell it like it is. Our daily Denny Crane-Alan Shore sessions range in content: from bulging bunions to “No-Way!” Njipses (the term for a receding hairline caused by a combination of abusing one’s hair and really unfortunate genes). Truth be told, given the option between a devilishly glamorous night out and a Crane-Shore session with some mis-behaviour inducing liquids, we often opt for the latter… that’s how much we relish in one another’s company. On the few nights we do brave the party bus, we make it a point not to leave the dance floor ‘til our grinding faces come out.

On one such a night, we attended the infamous Party People on the first, last weekend of a 2009 month. Indeed, the event failed to disappoint. It is seldom that I know and adore every song that plays, but Kenzhero had it on point. To add glitter to glamour, the party was swarmed with chocolate hunks and sultry sistas. It almost seemed like Kenzhero had the soundtrack to my not so long but eventful life. Needless to say there was no space for conversation since he had Everyday People jumping hysterically to the Weekend Special. All that was needed was a Big Poppa to Tell Me If he wants Me To… so I can take him back to our Roots and reveal my God-given knack for knowing What he wants. Many nineties niceties later, we found ourselves replenishing our parched throats several times, partly in order to flirt with the delectable chocolate bartender, but mostly an excuse to take leave from the vibrating dance floor, We were Feeling So Good… that was until we saw the Conspiracy Theory! I was moving Back and bumped into them, tried swinging Forth and AGAIN they were there! Everywhere we looked we seemed to be in a Groundhog day version of White Men Can’t Jump. There isn’t enough liquid in the icy waters of the Cape Town Atlantic to cool down the Jungle Fever we witnessed.

We were all secretly furious, it was so bad that we didn’t even discuss it until we got home out of fear of pulling wavy hair off the shoulders of our lost Black soldiers. We were baffled, insulted, livid! How could ALL the Black men at the party truthfully tell us that their preference is White women when all around them they are swarmed by Foxy Browns whose genetic makeup forces our hips to swing to beats. To add insult to injury, several of the White bunnies hopped happily onto the stage that we the Foxy ones didn’t dare to impose upon. Some went so far as to approach and request songs that clearly weren’t a part of the Mpho le Mphonyana childhood a great percentage of us cannot deny having. The bunnies were on such a nauseatingly marvellous high that they mistook our quarter-to-murder looks as friendly signs of encouragement until even PC Z was forced to regurgitate an angry “this is not a social!”

Don’t mistake this for another baseless complaint. We have reason to be angry. After several failed relationships (designed to exclude an ‘M’ so as to emphasise the lack of Monogamy) with eligible Black men, many of us have reached the end of our page. We have gone from dignified self-respecting Black queens, to smack a hoe-down ladies, until the unimaginable willing-to-turn-a-blind-eye-for-a-sister overcomes us. Reality and Male-God have dealt us a paralyzing blow and we are forced to acknowledge the fact that it is very likely for our men to cheat, and so as to avoid several heart-wrenching incidents, we settle for “as-long-as-he-still-loves-me” mindsets. But to know that we are no longer smiling through gritted teeth for fellow Foxies, but for bouncing Bunnies… you have to allow us our anger.

It’s almost mathematics that Black man + new money + intellect + art = property of confused White girl. What made it worse was the fact that I witnessed a tall, dark, rugged, DIVINE Black man make his way past sistas with neck sized waists and voluptuous attributes, only to finally settle in the arms of a big White tub. This may be superficial and I am unapologetic about that, but I could perhaps walk away with my tail tucked in if she were a Scarlett Johansson (even I find myself pausing the PVR for What Goes Around Comes Around). But to squeeze past the tight ‘delela’ dress that clings on my curves like a ‘Machonisa’ to a debtor without so much as a wince, only to end up engulfed by a TUB? A TUB (high pitched expression)?

We shaved off our shiny relaxed hair in the hopes that we might attract men whose words flow like a tall pitcher of ‘Gemere’ on a hot summer’s day. We traded our 9cm heel fetishes for ama Hamba-Voetsek, so we would no longer be addressed by our significant others as ‘Boo’, somehow believing that food alone was no longer enough to get you to a man’s heart. We thought the problem was with us, but we had it all wrong. It is not the fault of the whimsical White Whitney who is riding merrily along the path of life, nor is it the beautiful Black Busi who needs to reflect… it is solely the error of the brainy Black Bongani who needs the re-assurance of a White woman that he is better than his people... that he cannot be referred to with the derogatory terms previously reserved for Black people because he doesn’t date women who look like the people who boiled his beans and cleaned his tripe. How can one deny the beauty of the powerful Black mothers and headstrong Black sistas who made us the people we are today? Its one thing to genuinely fall in love with someone from another race, but to date Black women until you think you have ‘arrived’ and then adopt a strict criteria of “Whites Only” messages that are the hurtful reminders of the past centuries of racial oppression that plague the hearts of our Black people.

Why don’t we jump on the band-wagon and pair up with White men as well? Firstly, I can speak for an astounding majority of the Black women in my world when I say, there is no earthly equivalent for a handsome, intelligent, strong, “eish!” of a Black man. Secondly, White men, like new-age Black creative intellects often have eyes for….. well… White women. It is already evident that there is a shortage of male flavoured spices in the creation pool, and the ratio of women to men is revoltingly alarming, yet Black women seem to have become the bottom of the dating chain. First its Black men and White men, then hot White women, then gay men, then bisexual men and women, then tub-like White women and finally somewhere between hookers and sheep, are Black women. We aren’t even granted the 3 women to 1 man insult, we must now wrestle for puny crumbs left over by the true Queens and Kings of the relationship jungle.

Until the messiah of our time, Chief Barrack Obama (he deserves a throne), we had thrown in our towels and resigned to the fact that we no longer have men that are ours. But the O in Outstanding has renewed our faith in the Spinderella story… that Black men may just be salvageable. It is perhaps not probable, but still possible, that Soft ’n Free Spinderella may just end up with her Fresh Prince of kinky-hair.