ten things eighteen
1. time line:
1961
Haydée Tamara Bunke Bider moves from Berlin to Cuba to work alongside Che Guevara, takes the nom de guerre Tania
early 1970’s
first Karaoke machine invented in Kobe, Japan by Tanio Koba, who is also considered to be the father of the Japanese model gun industry.
4 February 1974
Patty Hearst kidnapped by the Symbionese Liberation Army, takes the nom de guerre Tania.
15 April 1974
Hearst photographed wielding an assault rifle in the lobby of San Francisco’s Hibernia Bank. Witnesses report she repeatedly screamed “I’m Tania! Up against the wall, motherf***ers!”
January 2007
Joel Parsons is stranded in Delhi, India
2. glass candy, a plot without a story, the big-eyed frantic feeling of geckos and fauns and other skittish animals who are always wetting and darting off into the underbrush
3. don’t ever tell anybody anything. if you do, you start missing everybody
5. my apartment building is a historical landmark in the center of cape town. Every day at least eight open-topped tourist buses hurtle down my street, allowing historically minded people in sensible shoes and fanny packs (also known as 'the elderly') to snap blurry pictures as their shoulders blister in the sun. these buses have prerecorded commentary on the history of the street and its buildings, and i have completely memorized the segment that plays as the buses stop at the traffic light on my corner. i will not reproduce that commentary here. instead, here is the commentary that i quietly offer from my balcony for anyone who cares to listen:
6. this freedom is still strangely seductive, wooing me over the strangest side of myself i've ever known. if i want to buy a cake and eat the whole thing for diner, or even if i just want to lick the frosting off the top and squeeze the rest between my fingers while sitting on the floor of my kitchen, wearing nothing but my underwear and a lightning bolt shaped pendant necklace, singing Train in Vain through my nose, i can. not that i have, but i can.
i pay the bills. i worry at the window latches. i wash the knives. i make the rules.
i also worry about Making the Most of It, whatever that means. probably not sleeping until two, then doodling with highlighters and gnawing on buffalo jerky in bed while listening to four reruns of This American Life in a row. but, then again, when will i ever, in the normal, freedom bereft life i will someday return to, be able to do that? probably never. maybe wasting a little bit of my time is the best use of my time, for now.
7. the party starts with the associate of the driver throwing open the sliding door, launching his upper body out into the street as the van continues to travel at top speeds, and repeatedly yelling the name of the final destination. sometimes he does it in time to the sternum-shaking bass that vibrates the windows. inside, there are anywhere from five to twelve more people than were originally intended to ride in the vehicle. plus, the minibus that plies the route that i travel between home and the gallery has been christened "The Panty Dropper." I know this because it's airbrushed on the sides, front and back of the van, right on top of the fare schedule and the phone number that you can call if the driver is behaving erratically. this should all be unsettling, i suppose. i've heard a few cape town public transport horror stories involving assorted weaponry and various degrees of bodily harm occurring at frighteningly high speeds, but for some reason i trust the Panty Dropper.
8. the economy of the following conversation:
-i just got out of prison. i have a big knife. don't make a scene just give me some rand.
-no thanks?
-ok.
9. the congolese riflemen who guard my apartment building: deedee, womgami, bonagi, and elton
10. to be the ira glass of the visual; also, a taxonomy of crazy
1961
Haydée Tamara Bunke Bider moves from Berlin to Cuba to work alongside Che Guevara, takes the nom de guerre Tania
early 1970’s
first Karaoke machine invented in Kobe, Japan by Tanio Koba, who is also considered to be the father of the Japanese model gun industry.
4 February 1974
Patty Hearst kidnapped by the Symbionese Liberation Army, takes the nom de guerre Tania.
15 April 1974
Hearst photographed wielding an assault rifle in the lobby of San Francisco’s Hibernia Bank. Witnesses report she repeatedly screamed “I’m Tania! Up against the wall, motherf***ers!”
January 2007
Joel Parsons is stranded in Delhi, India
2. glass candy, a plot without a story, the big-eyed frantic feeling of geckos and fauns and other skittish animals who are always wetting and darting off into the underbrush
3. don’t ever tell anybody anything. if you do, you start missing everybody
- catcher in the rye
4.
joel's really landed with his bum in the butter , then, hasn't he?
oh, you've landed with your bum in the butter here.
well, look who landed with his bum in the butter .
oh, you've landed with your bum in the butter here.
well, look who landed with his bum in the butter .
5. my apartment building is a historical landmark in the center of cape town. Every day at least eight open-topped tourist buses hurtle down my street, allowing historically minded people in sensible shoes and fanny packs (also known as 'the elderly') to snap blurry pictures as their shoulders blister in the sun. these buses have prerecorded commentary on the history of the street and its buildings, and i have completely memorized the segment that plays as the buses stop at the traffic light on my corner. i will not reproduce that commentary here. instead, here is the commentary that i quietly offer from my balcony for anyone who cares to listen:
If you look to your left you’ll see a homeless man wearing a plastic poncho and masturbating in the bushes. If you listen closely you can just make out the song he is singing to himself...anyone? Yes, that’s right. Amazing Grace. And to your right is the O.K. convenience store, established in the mid-to late 20th century, which sells over 20 varieties of jerky, including ostrich, smokey ostrich and ‘mixed.’ As we pass the art school up ahead please remember not to take photos of the broody hipster kids, as this will only encourage them.
6. this freedom is still strangely seductive, wooing me over the strangest side of myself i've ever known. if i want to buy a cake and eat the whole thing for diner, or even if i just want to lick the frosting off the top and squeeze the rest between my fingers while sitting on the floor of my kitchen, wearing nothing but my underwear and a lightning bolt shaped pendant necklace, singing Train in Vain through my nose, i can. not that i have, but i can.
i pay the bills. i worry at the window latches. i wash the knives. i make the rules.
i also worry about Making the Most of It, whatever that means. probably not sleeping until two, then doodling with highlighters and gnawing on buffalo jerky in bed while listening to four reruns of This American Life in a row. but, then again, when will i ever, in the normal, freedom bereft life i will someday return to, be able to do that? probably never. maybe wasting a little bit of my time is the best use of my time, for now.
7. the party starts with the associate of the driver throwing open the sliding door, launching his upper body out into the street as the van continues to travel at top speeds, and repeatedly yelling the name of the final destination. sometimes he does it in time to the sternum-shaking bass that vibrates the windows. inside, there are anywhere from five to twelve more people than were originally intended to ride in the vehicle. plus, the minibus that plies the route that i travel between home and the gallery has been christened "The Panty Dropper." I know this because it's airbrushed on the sides, front and back of the van, right on top of the fare schedule and the phone number that you can call if the driver is behaving erratically. this should all be unsettling, i suppose. i've heard a few cape town public transport horror stories involving assorted weaponry and various degrees of bodily harm occurring at frighteningly high speeds, but for some reason i trust the Panty Dropper.
8. the economy of the following conversation:
-i just got out of prison. i have a big knife. don't make a scene just give me some rand.
-no thanks?
-ok.
9. the congolese riflemen who guard my apartment building: deedee, womgami, bonagi, and elton
10. to be the ira glass of the visual; also, a taxonomy of crazy
good morning joel, which four episodes of "this american life?"
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Important things in S.Africa and J.Town:
The Hearst/ karaoke connection.
Playing dead when hanging out with little Japanese kids who are playing with model guns.
Only wanting to lay in bed and listen to This American Life when just outside your door is all kinds of "culture" to be discovered.
My Celica
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