Tuesday, October 28, 2008

Bunch of crunch

I have strong convictions that bumper issues are nothing but recycled and rehashed mediocrity. Literal bricks which we lay down on paper; that which we ardently try to gloss over. Giving new lustre to an otherwise painfully simplistic and disengaging account of events passed. Now that I’ve satisfied my monthly conscience attack of the sudden and revelatory need to uphold ‘journalistic’ integrity (read: snobbery), I have to be wary that what I am about to write in the following article may be the biggest flop since Howard the Duck. This is no longer the age of the word of mouth, my initial clinical reaction towards advertising people isn’t hate and I really try to believe that there isn’t a hell. Strangely those are two very disparate topics to mention in one sentence, let alone one breath. However I’ve come to believe that if there is a race that belongs in hell, it’s made up entirely of advertising people. Yes, I said it, they’re a race.

Not for nothing but let me explain why I’ve resorted to saddling them with such a strong statement. Every nook and cranny that is available, every avenue has pretty much been invaded by the advertising brigade. Advertising on television and radio is fine by me, no two ways about it, you want to enjoy a show, you’ll just have to sit through the advertisements.
But, you can change the channel right? Oh yes, you can. The intended message doesn’t get across, visibility of the product is diminished and sales are lost...boo hoo. So in order to combat the scourge of the two bit, game show watching, Sunday morning genital scratching television watching public from suddenly developing the mind to work the remote, advertising companies decide to parlay their advertorial misdeeds on a larger scale, literally.

Where else can you watch advertisements on the screen but not be able change the channel? Cinemas folks, that’s the first step of the final frontier, when I was younger I used to think, oh isn’t that just downright dandy, the man who owns the cinema also sells beer. That’s why he’s given to fits of monologue as to how you drinking his brew will make you feel all velvety and swank, as you cosy up to the hip crowd in the newest, trendiest nightspot in town.

I should probably go on and list my varied grievances against advertisements but I’ll stop short and say this, it will not be long before people our age wilfully allow themselves and their children to be branded with tattoos bearing names of corporations, in effect, pushing us further down the food chain and making us the subservient and dutiful ‘consumers’ that they expect us to be.

Just a run through since I last dazzled you with my array of witty, genial but sardonic humour, I went home for the 3-day weekend. Oh it was marvellous, just downright glorious, people in the neighbourhood shops welcomed me, they came in throes to shake my hand, to butter me up with pooh-pooh words, young lusty women playfully flutter their eyelids at me amidst the smoky incense that blanketed the scene.

Shy children played coy and hid behind their mothers while they crane their necks to catch the spectacle that has come to town, the trumpets blared, the djembes banged and the carnivalesque atmosphere crescendoed into a deafening blare. Well it would’ve been really quite nice if all that had actually happened. That would’ve been quite the rousing homecoming.
But in some mirrored way, it sort of happened.

See, when I return to the land of exotic beasts and spicy spice, I am actually treated like a visiting dignitary. Yes, the homeples (home peoples) lavish me with the sort of curiosity and reverence fit for a king of some newfangled young nation, brimming with optimism, it leaves my chest so swelled with pride that it threatens to rip the seams of my shirt.

I never fail to make passing comparisons between myself and that movie where that American girl found out that she was royalty in some European country. In short, when I return home, I always feel like a princess.

That’s not necessarily a good thing, and no, it’s not comforting either that it is a very emasculating notion. For one, the man-based activities in my house are similar to the activities I think most men can agree with and do engage in, loud burping noise making, t-shirt sleeves as tissue using, toothpaste cap left opened, running, pushing one another into walls, couch and television gap bridging, pissing on the toilet seat and various noise related activities that involve orifices.

I too indulged in all manners of the elusive Manimale. For a full 15 minutes, I ran the entire gamut; I pissed and left the toothpaste cap opened at the same time. Immediately I arose to my feet and said “what the...” fully intending to leave the sentence as it is. Yet all budding theatrics aside, I spent the weekend being a good daughterman and I cleaned.

Some weekend it was.

I’ll tell you what else happened. I was killed in a dream, by a soap star. In my dream, civil strife had finally spilled over as a direct aftermath of a global financial doomsday (reality much?) and somehow, as in the case of typical, not-too-distant future movies would have us know, men routinely become highly skilled in weaponry and they hearken back to the days of yore when the ability to throw a spear quantified to receiving a university degree.

I was standing on top of a building, posing actually, one foot on the ledge with so much machismo oozing that if it had actually happened, real soldiers wouldn’t function. They’d just stand around with one foot on makeshift ledges, flashing their greased up scruffy mugs to the wail of distorted guitars, their hair effortlessly blowing in the breeze even when there’s no breeze.

Anyways there I was all Ramboed out, cocked, locked and ready to rock when suddenly an artillery shell whizzed past my head and cracked a wall behind me. The chopping sounds of helicopter blades caught my attention in the distance. I wear a look on my face that said ‘no sweat’ but I’m naturally quite sweaty anyways. I let out an effusive grin and loaded my rocket propelled grenade launcher. Target’s in sight, I let her fly, she hits the copter and down it comes.
But to keep things interesting and on an even keel, I had actually fired off the rocket when the helicopter was right above me, thus it came tumbling down, spelling a certain doom for the already doomed, snarky antihero. I lunge and rolled out of the way but it was too late, the concrete had caved in and I fell, hitting the floor whilst letting out a manly blood curdling growl that Schwarzenegger would’ve approved of.

The wreckage of the chopper was right beside me and suddenly the cockpit door is kicked open and out comes the aggressor. I ran up the wreckage with a grimace on my face and pulled the pilot out but I was kicked in the gut as the pilot removed her helmet. It was Sandra Oh from Grey’s Anatomy and she had clearly been a victim of some higher up Pentagon experiment. She had scales on her arms, her eyes closed sideways like an alien and she had an androgynous male-female voice. Actually she didn’t say anything to indicate that she’d have the voice but I thought it would be cool if she did, so it ended up in my dream.

She stabs me in the guts with a hunting knife and pulls the blade across. Proceeding to dig her hand into my stomach, she rearranges my insides for a brief moment and rips out my entrails. I looked down, I gasp and my jaw drops and I died clutching a flag that conveniently appeared out of nowhere, again to the wail of distorted guitars. The never say die attitude action movie machismo of my dreams was effectively ended by a soap star.

Conventional taxi stand etiquette dictates that it’s all turn based; the person in the front gets the cab first. However, the taxi stand at my work place doesn’t adhere to that rule. This morning I was at the front of the line and I flagged at taxi down, I was about to open the door when suddenly this Misster barges in and effeminately says

‘Eh that’s my cab, don’t be so rude okay?’

‘No it isn’t, I flagged it down, you just happened to easily saunter up my way’

‘Eeesh.... you bitch, so rude la you!’

Whoa oh...he said that whilst giving me the hand at the same time. Ill skillz that thrill on a hill. He’d put me on a spot here, how was I to respond? What was I to say in retaliation? I couldn’t bark something like oh yeah, we’ll see how you do on a rugby field because I realised giving his disposition to channelling his inner Boy George, the Misster would’ve indeed loved to be on a rugby field. Instead I played it safe, I used a line that has been used almost too many times than I could care to recall.

‘Don’t quit your gay job you twat!’

So does that make me a homophobe then?

Have many good ‘morrows y’all cool cats in fancy suede hats.

0 comments:

Related Posts with Thumbnails