A Rush of Cynicism to the Head

Spare the kid..spoil the rod - Jayvir Pillay

2014-08-18T22:25:00.001-07:00

Let me start off by saying that I am not a parent. Not to my knowledge. I've never entertained such thoughts no matter how whimsical and I think it’s safe to say that any woman that has ever done me the service of allowing safe passage, has ever done so with that thought in mind. In short, my opinion on the matters to follow come from no place of fact or fiction and should be treated as such.

The setting for my tale spawns from an activity which I have grown to meet with disdain, derive humor and wonder as an insight into the modern human condition…..domestic flight. Comedian fodder I am aware but allow me this; I promise not to beguile home affairs or do a woeful Indian accent. I am a bean counter by profession and in my line of work I find myself in transit the length and breathe of Mzanzi. Where there is money, there is swinery in wake, and this how I make my bacon.

It all starts in the terminal where everyone’s transit is seemingly more important than the next. You’re greeted at the airline desk by the custodian of the conveyor belt who watches as you fumble with heavy breathe for your identification like a teenager pawing at the clasp of a bra for the first time. You negotiate the obligatory “safety” questions and the minutia of the pre-boarding dance begins.

Navigating the steel maze you arrive at the metal detectors and cringe for those with pacemakers. A forgotten belt buckle is your one way ticket to a frisk so deeply intimate you’ll need a cigarette and wimpy coffee with extra cream to restore emotional composure. The waiting game begins and ends half way through an episode of Downton Abbey shielded for fear of persecution and the chime of the overhead intercom signals an exodus.
A random allocation of a back seat means I have to traverse the tarmac for a rear entry. After ascending the steps to the iron steed I fumble again for my boarding pass which has managed to bury itself deep in the recesses of my pockets in the minutes from the boarding gate. After flashing this to the attendant on duty we exchange pleasantries about the control procedure (the bean counter emerges) and I’m told passengers minds are easily misguided when feet hit concrete and boarding the wrong plane happens more frequently than you’d expect. The check is merely a guard for stupidity. Entering the cabin as one of the stragglers, the pre-departure restlessness of my fellow passengers has visibly begun to take hold. With luggage stowed I recline in my seat, click my belt in one swift motion and take in a deep breathe of cabin ambiance. It’s about that time when I’m weighing up my in-flight beverage of choice that our story gets a subject and fear comes to fruition.

The piercing cries of a tumultuous child rip through the fuselage like something out of Stephen King novel. Starting of as sporadic agony we've now moved into a full blown rhythm of howling. This is a special kind of hell. It’s about this time when I tuck my boarding pass into the clasp of my folding tray, close my eyes and slowly begin to invoke Liam Neeson..he would know what to do. Mouthing expletives I open my eyes in anticipation of the anarchy to ensue.

The customary straining of necks from side to side and whispering begins. Mumbling becomes coherency and it emerges that the cause for distress of our little Machiavelli is protest over the seat belt. So begins the retort.

A certain carpenter of Nazareth is called upon in distaste by the couple to my left.

I lock eyes with a gentleman in front and I offer the following with instant regret;

“when I was a kid I would have gotten a hiding acting like that”

He’s response is swift

“That’s the problem ay, that kid needs a good hiding..and it’s clear he isn’t getting it at home”

I nod in agreement and quirk at the ETA of the drinks cart.

I find that seeded sentiment growing and I myself begin questioning the custodians of our tormentor. I’m too young to be from the old country but I still grew up in an era where acting the fool in public was greeted by consequence. This is by no means a swipe at my mother whom I’m grateful for instilling in me the fear of the wooden spoon or the loosening of the leather sandal. It’s these virtues that kept me on the straight and narrow and the reason I’m a moderately well-adjusted humanoid (moderately – adverb – within reasonable limits). In these times the sanctity of common courtesy in public was adhered and we didn't subject others to the tyranny of the fruit of our loins. Children were not treated as walking talking egg shells and Vicks vapor rub was all the medical aid you needed. Back chat was for the brave and respect unto ones elders was mandatory not optional.

My fellow passengers there are far more sinister things in the terminal of life that lie wake in wolf onesies to tempt and corrupt your offspring and to deprive them of direction is to strip them of any chance of immunization against the powers that be. Don't get me wrong, i'm not saying brandish the rod as though swipes earned frequent flyer miles but a few trips down south would be cultural. Parenthood today is far too often an obligation than a privilege but it’s a social responsibility that one owes to society when you bring life into this world

We've begun to taxi and the blood curdling is marginally muffled. The flight attendant's attempt to quell the situation with sugar (ho irony!) has been futile and and we've accepted this cosmic karma for our sins. It’s at this moment midst the rant that empathy finds its way home. Possibly mistaken for indigestion but I don’t have any ENO. This congregation of people, yours truly included, in varying degrees of death have banded together in true South African mob justice style and declared this person to be an unfit parent. We've appointed ourselves judge and jury, and considering the evidence at hand, found them wanting. Wrangling rug rats is no easy feat...especially at altitude

That being said…parents I digress. You have one job and one job only.

Don’t raise a poes

Go Ping Yourself - Jayvir Pillay

2011-10-12T01:01:00.000-07:00

How am I supposed to breathe with no air?..Play on broken Strings?..Ride with no handle bars?..these are just some of man’s most perplexing mysteries that philosophers and philanthropists alike have shed many a brow of sweat over..But never has such travesty befallen mankind as marks this day..October 11- 2011..Since the extermination of the Jews and the African genocides has there not been such an outcry of human rights injustice as will live on etched in the memories of all…Let future generations never forget the inhumanity of today’s events and the efforts of all of those who gave their lives to make it right..the bone chills and yearns for warmth at the thought of verbalising such atrocities..but it must be done..for today
…BlackBerry service…was...OFFLINE…

Alas if only sarcasm were a font.The joys to be had.

Looking out onto the social media landscape that is twitter and facebook, I was greeted this morning not by Bryce Lawrence hate slurs or a slowing trickle of how awesome Coldplay was, but rather the rising anarchy of BB troubles that makes Lord of the Flies read like a bed time story. Those of you who are familiar with my politics will know I’ve had qualms with blackberries and general disdain to false worship in media. I’ve skirted the topic of the messaging fruit, but after today the gloves come off, no more foreplay, planting the pole, sinking it in…etc..etc..

Let me just say that even though my views are jaded at times, I am nothing but an admirer of quality, of good business, and smart thinking. Hitler was arguably evil but you have to admire the man’s charisma. Akin to the Nazi’s I must stand back in admiration as to how Blackberry (PTY) LTD has managed to completely obliterate a mobile market share with an aged product that was given a shiny new case and repackaged as a glorified Mxit. Purveyors of Power Bands and that TV show How I met Your Mother (a poor man's Friends), I salute you..because not only have you been able to sell ice to Eskimos, but like a freshly ordained man of the cloth, you’ve put us consumers over a barrel and continue to have your way in plain sight. You threaten not to hurt mommy and daddy if we tell anyone, or make God cry, but expertly stroke us off one software update at a time.

But back to the matter in circulation. The reaction of the general populace to the BIS downtime was to be expected. But what I didn’t expect to see was just how less of the dominant species we really are. From the hysteria you would think that the Big Man himself had come down and reclaimed fire. Has our generation really reached a stage where something as asinine as a texting service,which we’ve lived without all our lives, has become so integral to existence that its absence renders insanity? It’s not for picking bones or finding issues where there need not be, but honestly when it all boils down to it, I'm just disappointed. I'm disappointed that as a human race whose advanced ourselves beyond single cell organisms, overcome wars and famine, faked moon landings, and found a way to squeeze out one more season of Prison Break, that we allow ourselves to descend to such frivolity.

Our youth proves time and time again the willingness to follow where others have lead, to use where others have invented, and lack exhibition of any independent or original thought for the sake of social acceptance. The widespread dispersal of IQ averages worries me not, nor do I propagate to be set apart or different from any other person, but it discourages the view of our days to come. The future of human interaction and the written word. Our peers of years gone by died for our rights and fought for cause and change. And yet all we find ourselves mustering is a gratuitous “like” on a UNICEF petition or giving up a BBM profile picture to a starving Ethiopian and tYp1ng lIk$ this…

Is it so important to keep that mono syllabic flow of communication with each other so close? Do we really crave any kind of contact so badly that we crumble without it? Is it of paramount importance that everyone has to see this picture I got forwarded of this cat..and its like really sad..and so he’s like “I hate mondays”..

Preaching of human rights violations and starving people is futile, and as futile as getting iPhone and Android users to see eye to eye. We just don’t give a shit.We know better, that we should do better, and care more about the bigger issues, but we just don’t give a shit. And why should we? We get everything we need from the comfort of our plastic and LCD wombs. From the safety of broadband and mobile service. From the haven of Edge and 3G so may we not be so alone in this world. A land where emoti-"con"s can substitute for real emotions and its all just one big RPG. Pity those World of Warcraft users if you will,but that online persona that we all project from the safety of wielding keypads for swords. That rivals even the most adventurous hobbit or elf.

Embrace technology and embrace change for resistance is futile and chivalry is dead. But lets try not to lose ourselves in the bullshit of it all and place so much value in tangible objects that we become lost without..

“There is something about yourself that you don't know. Something that you will deny even exists, until it's too late to do anything about it. It's the only reason you get up in the morning. The only reason you suffer the shitty boss, the blood, the sweat and the tears. This is because you want people to know how good, attractive, generous, funny, wild and clever you really are. Fear or revere me, but please, think I'm special. We share an addiction. We're approval junkies. We're all in it for the slap on the back and the gold watch. The hip-hip-hoo-fuckin' rah. Look at the clever boy with the badge, polishing his trophy. Shine on you crazy diamond, because we're just monkeys wrapped in suits, begging for the approval of others”

Jake Green (Revolver)

Handle Your Shit - Jayvir Pillay

2011-07-20T21:42:00.000-07:00

If your anything like me and remain silent in your civil pride and national unity (shown only when international sporting events come rolling around), then you probably also share my contempt and slothful scorn at the gloss (or lack thereof) of Durban’s night life. But every once in a blue-filled moon there comes along a sniff of activity that succeeds in wetting your appetite enough to leave your computer screens and brave the icy Durban streets to actually “go-out”. Ceremonially you gather your merry making band of brothers , you make that pre-club run to procure your choice of contraband for the night from the nearest pharmacist/horticulturist/beverage retailer, and consult over who had the eye drops last. I consider myself fairly flexible when the laws of Murphy decide to take a dump on my clubbing experience,but there's one thing that bemoans me to no end. Its not long lines, dress codes,Nationalist Party bouncers, policeman looking for there next meal ticket, or even entry price inflation....its YOU.....

…you belligerent party goers who CANT HANDLE YOUR SHIT and make me wish I was back home streaming eastern European “documentaries”…

Now before you berate me for killing your buzz, be assured I'm no hypocrite. You cannot even imagine the immensity of the f@#$ i do not give on what you do with your time and resources. Whether your poison of choice be bumping rails off an ass crack, toking the reefer, or simple alcoholic pleasure…but all l ask…no plead…is that you HANDLE YOUR SHIT...What makes you think that anyone wants to know what you had for lunch, leave alone clean it off their shoes.No one wants to see your grown ass projecting fluids in pot plants,over balconies, or on my new paint job..

The age restriction put on club entry is not a legal institution, it’s a social one, because by the age of 21 you are expected to know how to handle yourself with some semblance of dignity in public. I know I'm no Black Swan stumbling off the Origin steps at 4 in the morning, but I'm not tripping over asses and elbows hugging toilet bowls at 11:30. Like many things in life by the time we reach the age of 18, we have already learnt life most important lessons. Don’t drink on an empty stomach,don’t mix your spirits, and don’t be a hero. And yet you would expect to see Jeff Probst behind the bar judging survivors out drink themselves in an immunity challenge to see who can pass out first….HANDLE YOUR SHIT…

Those who share my self confession of being an EDM and trance music addict will no doubt liken the many international headlining acts which have graced our shores (shameless plug for Love-Tec Entertainment) as nothing less than religious experiences akin to the likes of a Man United fan going to watch a Liverpool fixture at Old Trafford. But unlike those Liverpool fans brawling in minority district pubs, I don’t want to have to stare down petrol breathe brown people on the main floor screaming indecencies at me cause I'm allegedly “snying his stekkie”. I know girls just wanna have fun and god knows we love watching you have it, but ladies please, there's nothing more unattractive than a saucy spinster flaunting her vintage wears all over the nearest shiny surface....HANDLE YOUR SHIT…

Which brings me to the poppers and droppers and general tripped-out party goers. What's with the sunglasses on the dance floor? Do you fail to realise that in doing such you only attempt to draw attention to your jaw grinding revelry which would otherwise only be deduced with direct eye contact that people in clubs rarely make. In the same way that selling bottles in brown bags at liquor stores is supposed to somehow make everyone oblivious to your purchases. Why not walk out of Adult World in Overport in peak traffic hour. And when your drooling over yourself in a epileptic fit , cause you took one two many bathtub Panados, remember when I told you to ...HANDLE YOUR SHIT…

What is about our minorities that bring domestic violence to any social event. Why cant we all just get along. We all came off the boat, fought the British, and caught snoek in the Cape together. There always has to be some roid raged mofo whose watched his bargain bin copy of Fight Club one two many times and needs to go Ed Norton on everyone's ass to feel like something of a man. Why don’t you go be a father to those 3 kids you fostered in Sydenham and…..HANDLE YOUR SHIT….

Slam those tequilas, pound those shots, and by all means proposition your favourite blogger with sexual favours whose chugging Smirnoff down the bar. Get down, get dirty.Kiss that girl and like it. Smack it, roll, chop it, smoke it, pop it, shoot it...have a good time…but for f*#$ sakes..…HANDLE YOUR SHIT…

______________________________________________________________

Epilogue:

Many a night of debauchery night has spawned drunken dialogues and quotes like

“ Bru you tipsy?……NO!...I'm not tipsy...I'm drunk”...

“ I’ll stop drinking when Captain Morgan puts his leg down!”…

But I’ll leave you with a particular transcript of a soliloquy from someone who we’ll call Rosencrantz.We pick up the action a pocket full of bottle caps later ;

“You know what i'm talking about…you have to maintain..you maintain…You find out what's good..what's what's good for you…and then you maintain it…that’s the problem with these f#$&*! lighties in the club…these f#$&*# lighties throwing up in the streets…they peak…you know what the problem is..they peak too early..see them at 1 in the morning throwing up on the pavement…that’s not how you f#$&*# party!...but you maintain…you don’t push yourself so much…just maintain..you get luka...and you maintain it throughout the night..these f#$&*# lighties…what are they listening to in the jol anyway?..T-Pain and David Guetta?...T-Pain T-pain…everyone teaming up with T-pain”….

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Epic Fail – Jayvir Pillay

2011-01-23T21:47:00.000-08:00

It has become customary,l’ve notice of late,to meet those old acquaintances and school chums in my day to day activities,to which the limited passing by conversations have become precedent. The formalities of “howzit”…”hows things”…”what you been up to” proceed on non-chalantly until that awkward pause,slow exit and then departure. But as certain as death and taxes, I’ve come to expect the enquiry of “what are you studying/doing with your life” which I ‘ve grown to resent.Not that I'm wasting away my blissful ignorance of a youth on meaningless online blogging or not proud of my career path. My consistent response is “Accounting” , to which an even more rudimentary response is that look or utter and sheer boredom and monotonous groan to which the reply is “oh that nice”.

Now I know that as far as mundane and bland occupations go they don’t come as bland or mundane as the accounting profession. Its not all glitz and glamour as the auditing team uncovering Schabir Shaiks off shore accounts will have you believe.

Anyone who has happened to be in my company for a sustained period of time will at some stage have heard how much I hate it and my dwindling regrets at not pursuing the Billy Elliot dream.Yet its something that I’ve come to not only accept but embrace. I wont be so bold as to say I wake up with enough gopher wood to build Noah an ark,over spread sheets and bank recons, but I’ll sleep easy in my 600 thread count sheets.

It makes me wonder though if my fellow school compatriots are as welcoming in acceptance of their career choices and its at this juncture that I have to conclude that whilst many exceptions to the rule can hold true, our education system has failed us...and I jump and jostle my way onto that already full band wagon come mini bus taxi with no qualms.

Lets paint the scene shall we. You beat off every swimmer in the “load” and escape the womb 9 months later.You spend those first cumulative months feeding on an appendage that every man will spend the latter of his life trying to get back to and every woman will use to control every man. You’ll enter the public schooling system around the age your parents stop seeing you as their pride and enjoy and start calculating a tax deductible dependant. This is where you spend the next 12..13..and,making your parents curse contraception ,14 years. Over this time you learn your 3 R’s and take a crash course in the birds and bees lectured by Johnny (who has an older brother) behind the bleachers. Your teachers take off where your parents leave slack and essentially spoon feed that pre-constitutional syllabus to you from text books Eugene Terblance himself used as a play ground soap box.Fast forward to the end of your schooling tenure and your now standing on the street corner with a Daily News at 3 in the morning having just found your name, and with an Umalusi certificate in your back pocket.What now?..its all elementary..only a decision in a career path that will change the rest of your life..no biggie. Is it all coming clear now? Not a Picasso but the unequivocal reality. What preparation if any have our school systems given us in making a decision as paramount as this one? Its with that thought that I have to look back for any sign of lessons learnt or morals instilled.

Throughout my high schooling career and often deep within the warfare that was organic chemistry, you could always have predicted two things;

1 - yours truly being vacated from the premises for some act of disobedience or “smart-ass” remark.

2- a question that has been posed by every student at some stage upon their teacher.”When will we ever have to use this ?”

To which the response was always short and abrasive…”do your work Mr Pillay”

But with some years to my name and on the cusp of entering the working world I have to wonder if we were justified in asking that question so frivolously at every turn.Has so much of what we were forced to regurgitate ever proved useful in the real world? Lets decide shall we;

Biology- Learning the intricacies of the female menstrual cycle has proved pretty useful in avoiding unnecessary abuse…

English- Never a bad thing to learn the mother tongue and whip out a Shakespearean sonnet from across the bar counter..

Science and Chemistry- Bunsen burners are fun…Arsony charges are not..

Afrikaans- Purely to understand the punchlines of Jack Parow’s songs and helpful in planning an early exit after finding yourself caught in a De La Ray support chorus. I cant tell you how many times a “Go Bokke!” has diffused an otherwise doomed situation.

Accounting- SARS is reading this…I pay my taxes I swear…

L.O- Always carry spare underwear…cause you never know..

God bless our teachers as we put them in early graves and it would be a miracle if the Mrs Thompsons and Mr Krishna’s of the world aren't found attending weekly sobriety meetings in the neighborhood church every Friday night. But did we ever learn real life lessons? I guess it just wasn’t in there job description.

What now of discipline.Did my formative years of awkward teenage angst at an all boys school put me on the straight and narrow? Did that 2 hour detention for “allegedly” smoking behind the scoreboard really teach me a lesson. The pack of Rothmans red behind my sock draw and the lighter concealed within an old VHS copy of Old School says no. For clarity sake i must reiterate that the status of that accusation for all intensive purposes will remain as “alleged”. As barring any actual video footage and without any substantiative proof,the detention slip simply read;

“found with a lighter and cigarettes”

(In hindsight that was probably a calling for me to pursue a career in law.)

Having attended the afore mentioned boys school,my college experience can pretty much be summed up into the avid study and pursuance of female anatomy. So any further exploration isn't required. Lessons learned are limited to; contraception is your friend.

If there's one thing you have to admire about we South Africans is that we stick together when it counts.Nothing unites us more than joining the chorus of praise at our own achievements and on the flip side, scrutinizing our failures. Too often a national treasure has turned villain by an unforgiving and fickle public.And debates over the OBE system proceeded its induction somewhat like clockwork.Many of us will recall these 3 letters being whispered in the corridors and emanating from the teacher lounge as we went through the primary motion, but we never really battered an eyelid unless of course it spelt for more work.The ‘007’ matriculating class were fortunate to be able to escape this new system which was being beta tested on the latest crop of students.The Outcomes Based Education system was introduced as a step forward and proposed to focus more on pupil performance assessments and involvement as apposed to the old “teach and regurgitate”. Whilst many have berated the new system (with no matter of manipulation presenting the results of its introduction as an improvement), I cant help but think that when you live in a country that would induct “old shower head” as president, you'll take any glimmer of hope you can get. Anything resembling a step in the right direction. The problem and ultimate failure of the OBE system was as in everything trying to launch off the runway in this country.It was just too idealistic.It assumed that teachers and students were not only equipped enough to integrate with the new system,but that all pupils had access to resources like computers and the Internet. So epic fail there.

But getting back to the matter at hand;What now? If there is anything resembling tangible advice I can give matriculating students as they stand upon the precipice and look out onto the world its this: Your career path will no doubt be the foundation for the rest of how life pans out.This is not to scare you, but it’s a reality. The choices you make will ultimately decide your future. What ever field of study you are considering, research and get as much exposure to it as humanly possible. Come sit in on a 3rd year Financial Accounting lecture on leases using the corridor approach and then tell me how you want to be an accountant because they drive nice cars. Ask anyone who has changed courses after a year into campus and they'll tell you that it just wasn't what they expected. Let me assure you that any perception of what you've heard about a given degree is far from the truth.Which brings me to the usual debate of financial security versus happiness. Putting it bluntly:Screw it. Ofcourse I implore you to follow your passions and dreams and unicorns and rainbows,but as long as you have conviction in what you wanna do, no one is going to fault you. If you want to make money then by all means go into law or accountancy or engineering.Do medicine,…but know this.…it’s not all Boston Legal and Greys Anatomy out there in the green and blue we call the real world….

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150 Years and Still Rocking the Boat - Jayvir Pillay

2011-01-15T02:27:00.000-08:00

To my fellow South Asians;

As life (post the new years merry making) returns to normality as it always does and we get to grips with the dyslexia of having to remember to replace the ‘10 with ’11, I am enticed to reflect on an event that I passed by with laxidasical interest. The month of November 2010 marked the anniversary of the arrival of the first Indian indentured labourers to South Africa and on behalf of my people I would like to apologise to the National Party. I know we said we would just sleep on the couch and be off once we got on our feet, but we kinda liked the weather and the whole Durban beach vibe just worked out. I'd like to think that for humble sucrose connoisseurs we've done pretty well for ourselves given those little issues of being slaves and the whole racial persecution thing.

It's not in my nature to look a gift horse in the mouth. We all love a free ride as much as we have that tendency to arrive at family events just before the food is served, but one thing I've found myself wondering every time I've unproductively fallen asleep at work is ; Why us? Don't get me wrong, I'm nothing if not proud of my Indian heritage and roots,(Hullets is ours!..We Taking it back!!)…but lets think about the thought process that went through our Dutch slave masters;

So you land on Durban's sunny shores in the name of the motherland and all that red tape bureaucracy.The earth is fertile and so are the native woman. You claim all land within eyesight and create a new race on the Cape Peninsula. Now firsts things first,you'll be damned if your gonna lift a spade in this heat,so slaves are required. Now here in lies the confusion. You decide to bring Indian people, to do hard manual labour, in the sun,with no SPF100? Now as a gene pool in general we are no strangers to hard work, but built for manual labour we are not.Even forgetting all that.Lets say the ship had a lower deck gym. How much productivity are you really gonna get out of cloth wearing pacifists? (and yes I can call my people that because I’m Indian and that's just the way it is.It's my birth right.Just take it as an inexplicable truth) So as I was saying, how much of work did they really get out of great grand daddy Pillay and his 9 brothers? Because you know these madhirs were 4-balling and crying Kanack every time Armin Van Buuren SNr turned his back.

One topic of interest I've eavesdropped onto around water coolers and FB statuses alike is this whole issue of local “masala merchants” supporting India on the cricket pitch as apposed to the Republik Van Suid Afrika. Ordinarily I bypass topics of patriotic dissent such as this one, but given we're talking sport, I must in nature be obliged to give my 2 cents(rupees). In short, we as Indians, just need to slow our roles. I get this whole patriotic to the Asian motherland thing, truly I do. We're a proud nation and we'll take every opportunity to burst out in song to prove it.

But this whole pro-India issue stems from our natural instinct to assume the role of victim and ensure that the Indian struggle is highlighted and much publicised at every turn. But consider that whilst this deep rooted animosity between minorities will never leave the residual resentment of our parents generation, it was black South Africans as well as Indians alike who died for us to even enjoy the simple luxury of being able to sit and watch cricket from the “white” stands.The struggle was a South African issue. India never sent down troops to Sharp-ville to protect our rights did they?. Don't get me wrong, I'll back the boys in blue on every pitch across the subcontinents, but on home soil my blood is green. I am a South African and this is my place of birth. Lets be honest, India is as close to us as buying dvd's from blue lagoon or watching Bollywood via satellite. How do we move forward as a post apartheid nation if we keep segregating ourselves from our own South African brethren. Isn't this the same thing as us criticizing African Americans landing at King Shaka International and proclaiming Africa the motherland. A little hypocritical don't you think?

What happened was wrong. Injustices of the past that I wish are never forgotten and should be passed down to my children and their children's children. But are we also gonna past down the hatred and resentment that our parents or maybe grand parents still harbor? How long is enough for our fledging democracy to finally ”get even” with the apartheid regime. How do we quantify undoing the wrongs of the past. And at what point will we stop playing that race card at every turn and wipe the slate clean so that our children and their children's children grow up in a South Africa unburdened by the shadows of the past.

No doubt many of my brown brothers have had some stage been subject to some form of stereotypical jest. That “thank you, come again” popularised by Harold and Kumar or the “ay watkine man” accent. Sure enough our Indian people can be proud of our achievements. You don't have to look far to see brown excelling in all spheres of commerce, sports and academically. But can we hardly blame those who jokingly mock us for doing so because of these “plantation” Asians who regress our cause every time they open their mouths in ignorance. If we not selling dvd’s on street corners, then we either catching sardines or smoking zol and sugars in the suburbs. I'm tired of people coming up to me in clubs in search of narcotics because some “char-o” sold him a pill outside Cape 2 Cairo. All we do is perpetuate the stereotype and create a mindset that results in people expecting to see a potato samoosa or tin fish sandwich every time I open my lunch box. You know I curse the day Vin Diesel was born.Because after Fast and Furious came out the idea of under hood lighting and auto styling became the national obsession of Indian males. Please stop “sooping” up your 1975 Datsun, pull up your FuBu pants, use a condom, and get a real job.

Just when you think that some respectability has come to our people, uncle Schabir Shaik plasters E-news at 8 with that “el” look on his face and because of him every Indian professional who comes into any wealth is considered to be under investigation by SARS.And you know why? Its because we become accountants and really don't pay our taxes. That C63 AMG is not a company car.

Entertain me if you will as I pick up the Tribune Herald to see another “el” look on Shrien Dewani’s face.This choco-chino paid R15,000 for two rural hit-men to kill his wife whose gorgeous ass had just been insured. He brought her on their honeymoon to Cape Town and took her for a “drive” through Gugulethu because Jamie Oliver said it was an African Circle of Life Simba experience. Now let me say if it hasn't already become apparent,that if this “member” is innocent,Michael Jackson never touched little boys, and OJ deserves an apology .15 lousy grand you cheap ass dessicated Oreo.Really?? If you gonna kill your wife at least do it with class like ever other Indian man does. Make your mother move in with you after you get married.

Let me say with unequivocal passion that I'm proud of my heritage. Born and bred on Shannon Drive,Reservoir Hills. I bought my bread and milk at One Stop Superette, gripped sausages and chops at Solly's, got my hair cut by Aunty P...and I will stand up (with the zest and sting of a Grey street mutton bunny) to anyone who has anything to say about my brothers and sisters. (Yeah we're all related after all). But lets try and maintain some kind of moral high ground and not give anyone a reason to doubt that we aren't still the Minority Front slaves that first rocked the boat in Durban 150 years ago….

(...lets play spot the racial slur...How many can you see?)

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(Whats the story) Morning Glory? - Jayvir Pillay

2011-01-08T21:19:00.000-08:00

It was Armin Van Buuren that once said; “It's not love for music,its a passion,and it goes way beyond liking,and beyond a hobby,it's about a way of living. Music is essential for my life”

It was Young Money that said “ Mr room is the G-spot…call me Mr Flintstone,I can make your bed rock”..

Florence and the machine can hardly be beguiled for assuming that the “dog days are over”, but in my opinion they have only just begun. For what music today has become is nothing short of a litter of Little Bow Wows, and Snoop Doggy Dogs,interjected by periodic bitches! When did the music industry become a capitalist machine as much as Coca Cola and Macdonalds are sovereign entities, because I feel like i went to sleep smelling like teen spirit and woke up feeling like
P.Diddy.

Manchester (England) ,the late 70’s and 80’s, was the scene for the much documented birthplace of a revolution. The dawning of a new era and an alternative to the mainstream music of the time. The beginning of the Indie rock movement. Bands such as the The Sex Pistols,The Smiths,and My Bloody Valentine, tired of the monopoly of big record labels signed themselves onto Independent DIY labels that whilst had limited budgets gave them free reign over musical content .Thus coining the phrase “Indie Bands” which later evolved into the sub genre we know and love today.Paving the way forward through inconicism and infamy, namely the latter, was Oasis. As far as the real Rock n Rollas, these blokes were the full monty.

70 million records sold worldwide, eight UK number-one singles and albums, fifteen NME Awards, nine Q Awards, four MTV Europe Music Awards and six BRIT Awards,Guinness Book of World Records holders of the “Longest Top 10 UK Chart Run By A Group” after an unprecedented run of 22 successive Top 10 hits in the UK.The band also holds the Guinness World Record for being the "Most Successful Act of the Last Decade" in the UK between the years 1995 and 2005, spending 765 weeks in the Top 75 singles and albums charts. I could go on pasting from Wickipedia all day but it still wouldn't do them justice.What set Oasis apart from the bands of that era was that they were in all earnest, a true voice of the generation. They were kids who grew up as “florescent adolescents” on the Manchester streets and sang of non conformity,economic hardships, domestic turmoil, cigarettes and alcohol. The real rock star life,the toilet seat powder, the woman and the rebellion. The mindset of the youth was the canvas and the guitar was a paint brush. Never shy of the stepping up to a mic or ducking an interview, they hated everything that the commercial music industry stood for and famously once proclaimed how much they resented their Hit "Wonderwall" due to its massive commercial popularity.

I know that the era was defined by the “drugs,sex and alcohol” credo, but I think that artists today have taken this ideal a bit too literally. The only lyrical cacophony you hear today is about drinking Cristal in the club,getting shot and riding dirty. I don't know what you guys do on your weekends but they aren't talking to me.

Am I then to assume that pre pubescent teens like Justin Bieber and Miley Ray Cyrus are the voice of this generation? They aren't even old enough to have unwrapped a Hybrid Theory or know what a Chilli Pepper is, and yet their karaoke Sing Star titles and lunch boxes will outsell a Led Zepplin greatest hits .But lets not be too judging. Bieber had a tough childhood. (That one time he ran out of mousse and tampons, and his favourite pink GHD was lost in transit). Let's be honest. The little shit still has embryonic fluid coming out his ears and hasn't been on this planet long enough to have felt up a Victoria Secret mannequin,but he's singing to us about first love heart break and “baby baby oh”? Whats more discerning is that the celebrity charmed like "Kim" and "Paris" are tossing their diaphragms into an arena that was long reserved for the true artists and showman. Throwing up an album like carbs by way of synthesized beats and big budget producers.But why are we as consumers supporting this “music” because the reality is that due to our star struck eyes , anyone with a bullet wound thinks they can slap some bitches and bottles onto a gangster beat, get that vampire to piss glitter on it,and sell it at $0.99 a pop i-tunes.

For that matter why do we have reality shows and TV channels dedicated them. Do we live in such sad depravity that we have to consume our time watching other people live their lives.They all eat,sleep and shit just like everyone else does, so no, i don't care what brand of toothpaste Brangelina uses.

Its not that I really care who makes an album and what music people listen to.Go ahead and make a High School Musical 15 and please do sign that petition to bring Bieber fever to South Africa, but my qualm is the effect that its having on the music industry across the board. Fair enough its naive to think that music be made truly for the art form because ultimately it's a job and social welfare isn't throwing around Christmas cheer all year round. But with the consumers opting to chew through copious amounts of bubble gum pop, the true artists and musicians have fallen down the capitalist rabbit hole. Established pioneers of the industry are now being forced into jumping on the commercial band wagon just to be mentioned on a TRL chart.

Case in point the new Linkin Park album. I'm reiterating this point because their music was,putting it mildly,the changing point of my musical palette. I remember it like it was yesterday that my brother brought home that blue and white TDK with a 16 track onslaught of teenage angst.(A moment of silence for all the artists who starve from piracy) It had become somewhat of a ritual of rummaging threw his music collection,being the first one to come home from school ,and firing up anything new and shiny in our Samsung 3 CD changer. Up until then I had entertained myself with the pure thrill of secretly listening to profanity drenched lyrics of the most popular radio tunes of that time. But in that album I awoke a sleeping giant. It was a hybrid in its own with a mix of Theory and Meteora. Track 14 will forever remain etched in my memory as muscle memory kicked in ever time I flipped through to find: Nirvana-Smells like Teen Spirit. Those of you who i believe know what i am saying will recall the blood curdling voice of Chester Bennington resonating through our innocent minds as he spoke of love,hate,confusion and isolation.The corner stone of any teenage phase of rebellion. Lyrics weren't just a hiss on a back track.It was a medium.Poetry of the 21’st century . Let me just say that I have not heard the new Linkin Park album. Nor did i tear the plastic off and rip it to my i-pod.And no I did not assume the fetal position as I bore witness to the death of a generation of alternative rock. It did not happen because I will forever pretend that I never pressed play and keep the fond memories of that blue TDK in my mind till the day I shift off this mortal coil. And I hope they get paper cuts from counting the riches they amassed sound-tracking that movie with the robots and Megan Fox..

Anyone with half a musical inclination will tell that, that guitarist is doing shyt. Don't get up on stage,strum together two chords on a drum and bass back track and call it Rock.Why not bring back Milli Vanilli for a world tour while your at it. Technology has improved for back track singers. And while your at the concert, don't forget to stop at the kiosk and buy your Jonas Brothers promise ring/chastity belt combo.

Anyone familiar with EDM (Electronic Dance Music), Trance and Progressive will no doubt share my gripe with the “cross-over” generation. No stranger to the genre, I have witnessed trance titans like Tiesto long since get on his knees and fellate the commercial juggernaut.(look up the definition of fellate if you must..its worth it) Artists like David Guetta are collaborating across the board and making a genre long upheld by the underground, more accessible to the masses at the expense of the music. Repackaging trance and dance music into commercial and more palatable portions in order to rake in Beatport sales and fill dance floors with drunken teens. The maestro himself Armin Van Buuren admittedly remarked in an interview that he was forced to produce more commercial and lyrically driven tracks on his latest album just to get on the radio. The saving grace within the genre though is that there are myriads of up and coming disk jockey/producers willing to pick up that fallen torch and carry it forth onto digital vinyl without obsession of monetary gain. But for how long?

So if you will excuse me, I'm going to get back to stock pilling my bomb shelter with TDK’s, Verbatims and Memorex.Because when the world ends I do not want to have to re-populate to the sound of…"hotel....motel...Holiday Inn"…..

Skinny Jeans and Chuck Bass Dreams-Jayvir Pillay

2011-01-04T12:38:00.000-08:00

Let me start off by saying that I,Jayvir Pillay, am no feminist.

I resemble one as much as I resemble a young George Clooney and anyone who has ever been within an earshot of one of my rants or ramblings,laced with innuendo and dripping of sexual undertones will surely bare testament to this. But even in my “swine” chauvinism I feel like I have to champion for the fairer sex.

Whilst the usual demons of gender inequality, sexual harassment, and altogether general disdain continue to rule rife, there is another evil that threatens to undermine the struggles of the womens suffrage. A national pandemic prevalent in Couture retailers, Mini Cooper car dealerships and campus runways nationwide: D.L.G.S (otherwise known as Daddy’s Little Girl Syndrome)
Now before you reach for your phone to speed dial child line or ‘alt-tab’ to Google search as every guy has just done, I'm not referring to a new fetish in the adult film industry.But rather a new incarnation of the modern day woman. However these are not the little girls who grow up wanting to be politicians, lawyers or C.E.O’s of the corporate world, but rather aspire to be under them, quite literally. Excuse my bluntness, I just couldn't resist. (remember that time when I said I wasn't a feminist)

The DlG I'm referring to is commonly characterized by:

The "devil may care" attitude with which she blazes trails swiping daddy's credit card

The designer handbag embossed with the intricately stitched emblems achieved only by the nimblest fingers of Vietnamese sweat shop children

The blood flow inhibiting, yet aestheitcally pleasing "let you put your hands on me in my" Skinny Jeans.Don't mind if i do(no feminist resides here)

The tell tale"O-M-G"

And deep within the recesses of these designer handbags behind the rhinestone encrusted phone and under the make up department, (don't hold your breathe) you might find some sort of reminisce of a student card,conveniently so because lets be honest; What can you fit in those jean pockets apart from the odd airtime voucher or stick of gum??

(I’m not really sure what it is that they eat because in captivity you'll never witness it.But its rumored they can survive on attention alone. Oh,and stem cells)

Now it's at this juncture, if you haven't already stopped reading, that you may ask why I'm going on this tirade and why I should even care? Perhaps a scorned lover? A skeleton in the closet? But the all earnest truth is that as impending as the laws of natural selection, one day I'm eventually going to have to find a woman willing to listen to me bitch (case in point) for the rest of our happily ever after. The problem is that given the current selection in the much diluted gene pool, all will be well for now. But what of the future? What will my porch mate and I talk about when Gossip Girl goes off the air?

So her parents raised her with good wholesome values, kept her under lock and key away from anything with a y-chromosome,but they still couldn't keep her off the pole. There's a whole multitude of possible reasons for her succumbing to the clear heels: Abandonment issues, Mommy issues, Daddy issues and Twilight issues. But ultimately the one scape-goat which we have come to love and hate is the media. In the interest of not flogging said goat to near extinction I shall merely dabble on the subject.

I don't need to tell you that good female role models are few and far between, and unfortunately the good ones simply cannot compete which the advertising budgets of the celebrities/amateur adult film enthusiasts. The glossy covers on magazine stands depict images of unrealistic beauty which girls today pursue to emulate whilst those same models pursue their own (Columbian) habits.

The body issues I can deal with. Ask me if your ass looks big in those jeans. Go ahead and ask me. But one thing I just can't deal with is the fake ignorance.The "OMG thats like soO funny". Why do smart girls often feel the need to act clueless to get attention? Its beyond me. I get it, its cute…for about 5 minutes. But ultimately all it means is that men will entertain you but never take you seriously. I'm not saying I haven't enjoyed the fruits of the promiscuity that the “channel 124” generation brought to the table (I don't know if I mentioned this..but I'm not a feminist) but there comes a time when every guy must bring home the future carrier of seed and I'm sorry but no one is going to take home the ditsy and clueless prom queen. Sure we'll wine and dine you, but you wont find a ring in your glass. No Vera Wang for you.

Sure,you can blame the media and the Western world all you want but it's the home and society we grow up which builds the foundations of who we become as we embark into the great blue and green.

The most prevalent,and yet grossly understated,factor of social pressure is from parents themselves,who often replace text books with Indian Delights and lunch boxes with AMC. The sheer fact is that most young girls in our community are being bred solely to marry and reproduce. Not as openly agreed upon but its what effectively is happening. The pressure to find a husband and learn to please him (having the roti hot and ready by 6:30) trumps any academic ambition other than that of Home Executive Phd Cum Laude. I know that being a mother and home maker is the noblest profession in existence and its role underplayed , but surely this mentality of the women's place being in the kitchen,and on the mantle piece,should have stayed in the past with the customs of burning witches and sacrificing virgins. All I'm really saying then is that when you fail to place an emphasis on a good education or any independence on your daughter, what you're basically doing is burning every bridge she has.

Why is it that the role of the parents is so underplayed? Well cos mummy and daddy always know best right…right?

Allow me to entertain the hypothetical:

Daddy finds his little pride and joy a “nice boy” from a prominent family. (for all intensive purposes, nice = he wont make us look bad, and prominent = Opera rich)

8 months later, not 9, he has his first grand child.

Now fast forward a few more years , and the hubby has developed a habit of making frequent “business trips” and slapping around the wife a little. What then? What does the daughter whose best interest he thought he had when marrying her off fresh out the womb do? She can't leave him because she has no means of supporting herself or her children,and leave alone most important of all: “What will people think”. But that's an entirely different road that I'm not even going to go down. My apologies for that brief reality come Soul City tragedy moment there, but it's the truth and its happening. And I'm going to reiterate that I know that this isn't happening in every household, but isn't just one, one too many?

So the product (DLG) we reach is a spoilt Prima Donna who never had any emphasis put on her to do anything but bide time till a “nice boy” “comes home” and they become carriers of genetic code.A girl who hopes said boy has a budget at his disposal big enough to resolve Africa's debt and outfit her walk-in closet with enough Prada & Co to keep up with the Joneses . No less a girl who needs a father and not a husband. You can call me daddy all you want but its not going to make it true.

The point and plea I'm reaching (yes there was a point) is that girls of today not go easily into the night. We'll never change the mindsets of our parents generation but we can at least do right by the next one. Girls, you will never be seen as equal by those ignorant chauvinists unless you stand up and demand the respect from them. Stop worshiping false idols and forcing yourself to fit into social moulds and circles who will welcome you with open arms and then reject you with the fickleness of a toddler…

I am in no doubt that many of my fellow brethren want nothing more than one of those trophy Stepford wives who'll always have the tea just the right temperature and never have any anything to say, but I am not one of them.Where's the fun in that? So I beg of all woman to wake up and smell the briyani burning on the stove , cos I'm tired of the near impossible task of finding one that has,and getting my ass kicked in search of the alternative.

Until then, if you do decide to go against the grain… I have wood. (Did I mention that I wasn't a feminist?)

The Real Hustle- Jayvir Pillay

2010-12-31T05:45:00.000-08:00

As Durban’s youth prepare to usher a new year into existence with copious amounts of alcohol intake and bodily fluid exchange, there goes a delicate process by which one and all adhere to. Certain nuances and customary rituals that must be performed to ensure optimum revelry on a night out.

The first objective as the fleeting daylight retreats behind the horizon is sustenance or lining the liver as its own. A meal not too heavy that it will result in paying homage to the porcelain god as the clock counts down, but just the right balance of grease and carbohydrates to not only fuel you into the early hours of 2011, but also obey the cardinal rule. Never drink on an empty stomach. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve given this precise sermon to
compatriots expelling last night’s chicken curry and rice over the décor of upscale establishments. Next up is grooming; customary shower, shit and shave (it has a ring to it..dont gross out on me..). Men must craft sideburns and other delicate areas. Dress- smart /casual but comfort above all else. Woman- tasteful yet provocative, and ensuring the ideal clothing to skin ratio for calculated aesthetics. Parental disapproval of that dress which is just a bit too high or a neck line that’s a tad too low is easily concealed with a jacket or cover up that will come off faster than a teen at Mardi Gras. It’s all academic as your safe once you reach the confines of the car/changing room. Word of note, wearing sunglasses at night, inside a club, only draws attention to that fact that you covering your eyes for what ever narcotic reason. That’s only if your grinding jaws or stroke like mouth gestures didn’t already give that away. Or so I’ve heard. Financial subsidy negotiated, accomplices notified and last minute smell tests. I find not matter how intrusive, over compensating the Eau de toilette is better than under. Your 24 hour guaranteed antiperspirant wasn’t designed for the onslaught to follow. Which brings me to the last and most crucial element to any night out for those still young enough to need one…..The ALIBY…which will be the subject today's “how to” if you will, drawn from experiences I have amassed and for the benefit of those still housed in parental compounds.

From the dawning of time when god sent down his only son, there has been the misappropriation of the truth between parents and children as far as full disclosure on nocturnal activities. I am in no doubt that even the kids of the Great Great Grand Pilllays making their voyage on the ships had to sneak away to the “jols” on the lower deck. It’s not for being bastard spawn that we blatantly re-represent the truth but there are some things that our parents would rather just not know. If you think about it we’re actually bending the truth out of love. We are the ones who care……….*dwindles into delusion*….but back to the matter at hand.

The best alibis breed from familiarity. You cant spend all year round cradling your pillow on the back of endless Lost and How I Met Your Mother marathons and suddenly be going out to meet with a local Jane Austen Book Club. You also have to be consistent. You can’t say you going out for supper and then come home at 3 in the morning, pupils dilated; smelling like fresh cut wet grass, and be warming up a plate of roast chicken and a side order of death by chocolate cake. If you can, name drop someone who is held by your parents in some regard higher than you. This doesn’t even have to be the case as long as their parents are a doctor or a lawyer and such. Tends to be an Indian thing. Whatever you do, be sure that you inform your “alibi” that they are in fact your accomplice because I’ve seen too many fly too close to the sun only to crash and burn.

Never underestimate the deduction skills of your parents. They may not be able to work out how to put that “mouse thing by the Internet thing” but they’ll smell you wholesaling bullshit a mile away and they aren’t buying. Whichever con your going with, make it believable or you’ll find yourself as far from freedom as a Chilean miner. Don’t even think about the “sneak out when they go to sleep” maneuver unless you have amassed great knowledge as to your parents sleep cycles, schedules, and possibly medical requirements. You’ll find your parents chronic nightly Valium doses a blessing in disguise.

If you’re going to dabble in grand theft auto, I must again emphasis attention to detail. Make note of petrol the gauge before you leave and do a stop by at the garage to wash off the blood and vomit before you return. Let me just that even the position of the rear mirror and seat adjustments can be your outdoing. Alas to be young and ignorant

I look back with fond melancholy at my first attempts at circumventing warden control. The late night escapades running up taxi meters and feeble excuses of “it was the smoke machine” and even more pathetic “someone spilled their drink on me”.

If you are unlucky enough to be subject to “the phone call” then plan ahead. Survey the floor plan of your venue on sober arrival and pre determine a sufficiently acoustic place to answer. One of the most useful ploys I came across was a friend of mine who assigned his home and parent’s phone numbers as a police siren ring tone. Another had so eloquently renamed a contact as “shit!!...its mom..”

August 29, 2005 – Fox television network aired the pilot of their ground breaking new series, Prison Break. Audiences were titillated in front of their TV screens as they watched Michael Scofield as he broke INTO prison. A thrilling concept which we’ve actually been doing ourselves for years. It’s all good and well pulling off the real hustle. Nailing the hook and following through like Ernie Else on the Sun City back 9, but if you don’t get the close just right, its game over. Surely enough if you had to lie your way out of the house, your going to need to hide your state of mind when you return and here are some finishing tips.

Given your timing and condition, as well as at what stage of their rem cycle your wardens are, you going to need to move with caution. You not making an entrance and this is not Durban International arrivals terminal coming in from

India

or the Middle East. Be cool. I’m talking Clint Eastwood in Dirty Dozen cool….Cool Hand Luke…Harvey Keitel Pulp Fiction Cool….generally a low temperature if you get what I'm saying. The last thing you need is to come in flaking and sweating like a whore in confession. Limit eye contact to a bare minimum and don’t outwardly avoid conversation. Keep it brief; maybe throw in a fun fact and bee line for your room. All of which is completely useless if you come home smelling like the South African Breweries control tester. So clean yourself up. Gum, eye drops and deodorant are glove compartment essentials.

However you do decide to spend your New Years in the bleakness that is Durban, don’t drink and drive. You’ll spill….and drugs are bad mmmmkay….

Meet up in the jol ;))

Analogue in a Digital World – Jayvir Pillay

2010-12-27T10:01:00.000-08:00

"Misterrr Anderrrson"

No doubt by the time your eyes shift the length of space preceding these words your attention will have been diverted to the erection of a pop up promising to enlarge your man parts in just 3 weeks or the red ember of a notification foretelling your demise unless a video of 3 kittens playing with a ball of wool is forwarded to 25 people in the next 3 seconds. Albeit from me to distract you from tending your farm…fish tank..or whatever it is the kids are doing these days..but its at this juncture that when faced with the question “whats on your mind?” that i dare to ask,Where did we go wrong??..because if “OMG, GG season finale” or “Moe hates Mondays” is any inclination,then not very much is on our minds.Its at this point that you should feel free to click that close button or hit back, as your initial presumption to this being a cynical bio-tribe on everything that's wrong with society would be a correct one..Go ahead..click that close button..proceed to go and pick up a bandwidth refund...accept…yes I do want to join you in the fight against vampires.

When did “inbox me” and “BB” (and I must note that its with great control that i fight the urge not to go into a rant about the BB pandemic but I'll leave that for another time and get back to the matter at hand) become terms in urban survival dictionaries. Since when did a drop-down box with a “relationship status” cause so much suspicion of infidelity. When did “poking” become fore play and why did no one forward me the app that tells everyone with an internet connection that I just drove through the KFC lot. But more importantly when did the internet become the fly on the wall in the privacy of our lives, because I hope this isn't the dawning of an age where an i-phone application tests your two-sies (salute Dr John Dorian) and prescribes a high fiber diet for you and 20 of your friends. That KFC is a colon buster ay…
Now before you sharpen your pitchfork and call me a hypocrite, for I too am on the book of face, this isn't about having a blackberry or being on facetube or twitter..(R.I.P Ringo)…but more that we ask ourselves if, as technology advances beyond the realms of imagination ,are we as a society doing the same?
Growing up and witnessing the complete lack of efficiency with anything electronic and shiny my parents had,I always told myself that I would never lose touch of trends/pop culture and such.However the mere fact that at any given time I can turn on my TV and feel geriatric leads me to believe that I have already crossed this Rubicon.
When did lyrics like “popping bottles in the ice,like a blizzard,when we drink we do it right getting slizzard” pass as music?? slizzard? Thats not even a word. Poetic license revoked…and as John Lennon begins his evolution into fossil fuels 6 feet below our feet im sure even he is cringing at every bubble gum coated album that comes off todays music conveyor belt. Kids today know more about the internal workings of the Kardashian family politics than that of their own country. Although lets be fair, there aren't many disparities between the current role players of the South African political structure and the drama of weekday soapies. Fair enough,we take this media on face value as purely entertainment but the hordes of screaming prepubescent girls who shudder at the mention of Edward “check me out I glitter in the sun” Cullen surely is some indication that entertainment has far evolved from a humble pastime. I guess its all irrelevant as long as your fly like a G6 and waking up feeling like P.Diddy..
Watching the current generation of high school musical clad youth reigning carnage in shopping malls and commercial flights is enough to make me grip a scalpel and give myself a vasectomy. Any parent will tell you that raising children in any frame of time is a feat in its own but do we really wanna bring up our children in a world of Hilton’s and Lohan’s on that black box in our living rooms which will ultimately influence them more than we ever will. Grant it I grew up on a South Park and Simpsons cocktail and I turned out reasonably……….nevermind…
When did even emailing become so archaic, and the written word blasphemous. God forbid people should actually meet in person, and as we contribute to the death of the English language one “lol” at a time what then? Will the next great works of literature taught in high schools be transmitted via eMoT!c0nS
I don't loathe change, i'm not one of those people who believe that anyone born in the 90’s has nothing valuable to contribute to any forum. Its just that im tired of being physically abused…yes..abused. Maybe i am too old or perhaps im just stubborn and reluctant to change but could I hardly be blamed for falsely interpreting a girl's advance to “tweet me” as being a lewd eastern European sex act currently seeding in my download manager. I'd be lying if I didn't say she slapped the taste of raw sugar cane back into my mouth. Word of note..frozen peas work best…
Did I miss the memo?..did I not get that email attachment?..why didn't anyone tell me that the Ebola virus was on the loose like SARS (the killing virus, not South African Revenue Services-tho its hard to tell the difference) on a fresh manila envelope, cause with the lack of physical social interaction that people do nowadays you would think everyone was a prisoner to their own leper colony.
Whilst i’m not gonna go into a long drawn epilogue bashing Tom and his Myspace or Mark Zuckerbergs brainchild, cause im all for the social platform that networks such as facebook and myspace provide, but not when day to day interaction feels like we living a real life The Sims game. Where people seem more content living in the virtual world than the real world. We translate every human emotion over our broadband connections whether it be from behind our keyboard or mobile incarnations, and all you ladies can argue all you want but you cant tell me that spending every waking moment typing back and forth over a virtual messenger can substitute Hugh Grant’s monologue in Notting Hill…
Now don’t for one second get me wrong. I’m not against technological advancement. I’m in no delusion that im not a total geek in every sense of the word. I get hard every time Steve Jobs gets on stage just like the rest of my kind and I have a storm ship trooper suit in my closet between the X-men utility belt and Pc Format magazine centerfold. No amount of holy water could clean my internet history. Nevertheless, all I ask is that we not lose ourselves in the Matrix of it all..cause lets face it..if shit starts hitting the fan..do we really want Keanu Reeves being the last hope of the free world??…dude’s getting old….(mmmm…Sandra Bullock in Speed……….