Taylor Momsen is better known as one of the characters in the CW show Gossip Girl and also starred in The Grinch Who Stole Christmas. With influences such as The Beatles, Led Zeppelin, The Who, Pink Floyed, Audioslave, Soundgarden, Oasis, and Nirvana – this girl gives it all she’s got. Questionable stockings, black eyeliner and a kick-ass voice.

I never really had a fancy for female artists as they tend to be either way drama queen or happy rainbow. I am only catching the vibe now and it just gets better and better. This girl really incorporates a lot of emotion without you wanting to bite your own wrists off. If I had to compare this band to any other I don’t think I would be able to. Merge Flyleaf with Paramore and kick in a hint of Evanescence in there if you will. I am inlove with the way the music is compiled and the way it all just comes together. For a better idea, here’s their video for “Make Me Wanna Die”.

In an article Taylor said that she doesn’t write stuff because she thinks people might like it, she writes it because she has something to say. “So many feelings go into the lyrics that it’s hard to explain what they’re about.” It’s all about romantic insecurity, people that hate and it’s full of emotional power. Their debut album “Light Me Up” might be a little rough from what people might expect, but Taylor keeps true to herself. “This album is the most honest expression of who I Truly am.”

I honestly think that this is an awesome band that really speaks for some of us that don’t really know how. That is if you have a twisted side in you somewhere. It’s plain to see where all her influences come in. ” ‘Light me up’sounds a bit like what might have happened had Led Zeppelin been fronted by a chick,” as quoted from their Biography (http://www.theprettyreckless.com.bio/). I think that’s a bold claim, but I couldn’t have said it better myself.

[Editor's note: The following article was written by The Daily Discharge's own tame photographer, Cameron Richards, about his experiences while spending a month in the desert, preparing for and participating in this amazing event. It was originally published in much better taste by our good friends Vixxen magazine (or here is a link to the actual issue)- Jason]

Anomaly (noun): something that deviates from the norm or from expectations.

That’s pretty much what one would expect, (or have no god-forsaken-clue what to expect) from an ‘event’ thrown out in the desolate Tankwa Karoo. For first-time burners, or virgins, as they’re more commonly known, AfrikaBurn is about as easy to plan for as it’s as easy for a child to give Mr T a beat-down: pretty much impossible, and I do pity the fool that expects to rock up with a wallet full of cash and look for the first boerie-roll stand and bar to get a nice cold Double vodka and whatever.. you get the idea.

This year’s event was no exception to the anomaly rule. It’s an absolute breath of fresh air for all of you who are feeling the need to be a part of something special, something out of the ordinary, something completely surreal, created by you, for you, for all of us. AfrikaBurn is an ‘invent’ rather than an event, where all participants are urged not to be a spectator, but rather to bring with them anything and everything that they could possibly imagine being useful for surviving; your own radical self-reliance.

The principle of radical self-reliance is a vital one that fuels the sprit of the party, but it’s not the only thing holding this well-oiled machine together – not by any means. The other key principles are: communal effort, participation, civic responsibility, immediacy, decommodification, gifting, leaving no trace, radical inclusion and of course radical self-expression. These concepts are based on the ‘commandments’ forged at ‘Burning Man’ festival in Black Rock, Nevada, AfrikaBurn’s big brother, and inspiration for the whole festival.

“Like Burning Man, AfrikaBurn aims to be radically inclusive, we hope that its meaning is potentially accessible to anyone. The touchstone of value in our culture will always be immediacy: experience before theory, moral relationships before politics, survival before services, roles before jobs, embodied ritual before symbolism, work before vested interest, participant support before sponsorship. We hope that the ideas in the principles will become a way of life for those who have experienced them spawning independence, initiative, creative expression.” (From www.afrikaburn.com)

The 6 day festival runs on its own time, but largely due to the volunteered hands of a reasonably small group of people (as well as the participants of course). As AfrikaBurn is a completely non-profit organisation, it therefore relies almost completely on the input of willing participants in order for it all to be a possibility. Being no stranger to the event, (2010 being my 3rd year as a citizen of Tankwa Town) and understanding that someone, or a group of people, had to be behind the scenes, I decided to find out just what it meant to truly invest myself this year, and volunteered for the DPW (Department of Public Works) crew.

Before I knew it, I’d signed up for a good 26 days in the desert, still not sure what was in store for me and the other 12 or so volunteers that I was about to get to know very well. This isn’t going to be the point where I sugar coat it all – we worked our asses off, our fingers to the bone. For arguably the best party I’ve ever been a part of… oh ja, I did mention that it is one monstrosity of a party? The term ‘work hard, play even harder’ hasn’t applied nearly as much in my life as it did over the month spent in the Tankwa Karoo.

The days were run like any normal working day, wake up early, 2 cups of coffee, 3 stuyvesant filters, (hope the hangover wears off soon) as we have our morning meeting in preparation for the day’s tasks. At this point one should note that there’s no cell phone reception, no need for a watch, no wallet holding you back from doing what you wanted to do that day (it’s a completely non-commercial event).

Once all matters of business are attended to, its work time, then brunch time, work time again, maybe a swim in the neighbouring farm’s reservoir, and back to work again. Then lunch, then some more work, and so it goes. As the available light, which makes work possible, starts to fade, so out comes the whiskey and all things necessary to enjoy oneself in the desert. Party time.

The community created by all involved runs solely on it’s own time, and getting done what needs to get done is the order of the day, whether its building toilets for 2500 odd people arriving in a week’s time, or helping other themed campsites set up, you name it – the DPW crew were there to do it, no questions asked, kicking ass and taking names. I learnt a few things out there of course, besides introspective self-evaluations (which come naturally in isolated spaces). I learnt to be the most industrious little desert rat I could be, from making something out of anything, to making everything out of nothing, it all comes with the territory. If we needed something, like a new braai, we made it; needed toilet roll dispensers, we made ‘em. That’s the beauty of working in an ‘office’ that boasts some of the most epic views around, as well as harsh environments – no ‘boss’ to tell you what to do, but the relentless sun does feel like it owns you. In a big way: it is your boss.

I learnt a few things out there of course, besides introspective self-evaluations (which come naturally in isolated spaces). I learnt to be the most industrious little desert rat I could be.

But once the first headlights start to appear from over the horizon, you know something truly mind-blowing is about to descend on the space that plays host to the most spectacular party around, the space that I came to call home after already having been there for almost two weeks. But enough about the crew and the work we did. Back to the real reason we were out there: to give, to create, to share, to collaborate, and contribute to something that grows almost out of nothing, into a full-blown anomaly.

The sense of solidarity that comes from being so self-reliant in a place of such great natural beauty and solitude really starts to hit home when the gifting ‘economy’ starts to kick into gear. Unconditional gifting is the idea, no matter how big or how small, the gift one brings to the table is something that, without your input, simply would not exist in Tankwa town for all to experience. You brought it there, so therefore you and your gift become a part of it all. And trust me, nothing can be more sublime than half an orange that’s been sitting in a cooler-box, especially when it’s over 30 degrees. Well, perhaps an ice-cream hits the spot just as well (thanks to a fantastic Snowmen camp, supplying ice-creams to all. Yup, you heard right, ice-cream in the desert).

That was just one of the many little surprises one can expect from the wonderful inhabitants of Tankwa Town. This year boasted even more themed camps than ever before, (a themed camp is a collective of people who’ve raised their own dosh, in order to provide a certain summin’ summin’ for all to enjoy) – be it live music, a Desert Rose Saloon bar with whiskey whores included, or a mobile sound rig on an orange Landy (sporting a living room trailer and two massive, fire-spitting vuvuzella’s), as well as Down The Rabbit Hole, with its caterpillar DJ and daily tea- parties… that’s just to name a few.

It’s truly difficult not to catch the FOMO disease (Fear Of Missing Out) out there. This is due to the maddening pace of things happening all around you at any one time, and seeing everything is a feat I have yet to master, even being literally the first to arrive, and last to leave. FOMO does have a cure. Have no fear: it’s called letting go. Let go of wanting to be somewhere at any one particular time. Instead, jump aboard one of the many Mutant Vehicles, or art cars that take you to where you didn’t think you’d get off, talk to the nearest person, share a drink, have a laugh, and just experience all that is around you.

But do make an effort, however, to see as much of the ART as possible, and ALL of the burns (if you’re not passed out under the starry Karoo night sky somewhere- which does happen, and it’s not necessarily a bad way to spend the night either.) After all, AfrikaBurn is an arts festival in essence, celebrating the fact that art should be an individual concept that can be shared, through experience, with others. That’s the way I like to see it anyways.

As the name of the festival suggests, all of the artworks, most of which take months of preparation, do eventually get burnt to the ground. AfrikaBurn 2010 was undoubtedly a huge success for the pyro teams responsible for the craze-inducing fire-frenzies that we all experienced, and had waited all week to experience – the impermanence of it all.

Artworks this year included, “The San Clan” (the main effigy – our version of the Burning Man), “Echo”, which resembled the belly of a finally conquered Moby Dick, to the all-loved “Letgo” man, as well as the awesome (yes, truly AWESOME) pendulum, creating a wheel of fire no one will soon forget. But if all of this is starting to get you down because you’ve not yet attended one of these invents, it’s only because you haven’t made the effort to get there, and that’s all it takes. Make the plan, go through with it, and your life will change for the better.

Hell, right now, go write it down in your calendar, ask the boss tomorrow for that week off (maybe a few days after too – to adjust for re-entering the default world again). Get together with a few like-minded mates, come up with some fantastical, imaginary idea that would only work out in Tankwa Town, plan an artwork, big or small, get costumes ready, find that old duffel bag that’s gathering dust, and come out to AfrikaBurn 2011, and get even more dusty.

Just do it. Whatever it takes, say to yourself: I will not miss another year! And hey, if this all doesn’t sound quite like “your cuppa-tea”, bring your own, and come along for the ride anyway.

Paul: Take a look at this piece over here.

Rudi: Peace? It’s like a madhouse in here.

Paul: No no, this piece of art.

Rudi: Ah I see. That bit over there? That painting?

Paul: What’s a painting? I can only refer to art as a piece.

Rudi: What if it’s made of more than one piece? Like a train-set.

Paul: That would be an interesting piece. An allegory of the industrial era, bustling and careening through the fertile landscapes of our previously pastoral existences.

Rudi: Let’s get back to the work in front of us. I think I know what we’re going on about now.

Paul: All right, hit me with your ism.

Rudi: When I look at the “piece” in front of me, I feel that the artist is referencing a guttural feeling, perhaps recalling the days when we were hunter-gatherers, the ooga-booga of frustration. I sense that the artist is feeling caged, trapped inside modernity. It really is a tour-de-force, of force.

Paul: Funny you should say that.

Rudi: Really? You’re not laughing.

Paul (adjusting his beret, eating a baguette nonchalantly): Titter. What you just analysed was a lipsticked glass of white wine and a left over cocktail weenie. That was left behind by one of the other arty-types. It’s not art.

Rudi: But is it art? Who are we to decide?

Paul: Actually, now that I think about it, now that I take my mind forest, mow it down for grazing land, put some cows on it, grow them up, kill them (humanely), sell their skin for leather, make some shoes, sell their meat to make hamburgers, start a hamburger joint, name it the burger-hole (only for good citizens [bilingual pun count : 1, use of two different types of brackets : 1]), turn it into a franchise, become a corporation, sell it out, become a hippy, move to India and really ruminate on it – I think you have a point.

Rudi: When you said “ruminate”, did you mean act like a Persian poet from the thirteenth century?

Paul: Well. Yes and no. They call me the double entendre.

Rudi: You walk into rooms twice?

Paul: The second coming is just my shadow self, slinking behind me like a chastised dog.

Rudi: Did you just say second coming?

*smack*

Paul: Heck yes I did. God that was a good high five.

Rudi: So, you were saying how you thought I had a point?

Paul: Yes, I mean, who are we as humans, as these tiny, little, infinitely small specks of dust on the shoe of the universe, nay – the very atoms that dare to hang on the dust that aspires to be on the shoe of the universe – who are we to say what is art?

Rudi (doing a little pirouette): Is this art?

Paul (about to cry): It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

Rudi (drinking a beer and smoking a cigarette): Is this art?

Paul: What a searing take on modern youth! My lungs fill up with sweet water and rust at the sight of your raw honesty.

Rudi: I’m like a piece of steak.

Paul: Let’s get to business, you arty bunceball of a man.

Rudi: Do let’s.

Flea from RHCP looks like Wayne Rooney. What a sellout.

The dialogue you just witnessed, acted out by Rudi and I, shows you just how far pretentiousness can get you. I’ll let you in on a little secret – there was no glass. There was no cocktail weenie. The weenie was inside you all the time, wriggling around and finding the soft little folds in your gutbags. We weren’t even at an art exhibition. On pure pretentiousness alone, Rudi and I went from two guys dressed as a laptop and a paving stone respectively, to two highly important sounding intelligentsia.

Point Number One: Use unnecessary words

Intelligentsia. No, not clever people. Not people who like art. Not cultured types. Intelligentsia. It’s not a paint brush, it is a device that paints bloody swathes of the discourse between modern man and his barely repressed sexuality.

Point Number Two: Find meaning that isn’t there

You’re staring at a piece of art. It is a painting of a knife, a fork and a plate; restaurant art. It is an allegory for the plight suffered by Africans. See that checked tablecloth in the painting? That is made up of blood-red HIV positive signs. And you thought it was a simple representation of eating utensils. Tut tut, you philistine.

Point Number Three: Be condescending, in fact, deign to condescend

Some people may look at things and like them for exactly what they are. They are sorely mistaken. Sorely mistaken. Mistaken sorely. We are not allowed to “enjoy”! Our job is to frown over glasses of white wine and shake our heads knowingly.

Point Number Four: There are certain things you just do not do

Have a family? Like walking dogs? Like rainbows? How silly of you. You are an automaton of consumerism.

Point Number Five: Your music is so mainstream

You listen to a person locked in a cupboard batting their eyelashes against non-stick pans? You are so mainstream. You listen to three Inuit tribesmen, who throat-sing Abba songs while performing bondage acts on seals? You are so mainstream. You listen to a person who only records major rivers? You are so mainstream. You should listen to this new band, it’s made up entirely from recorded ambient sounds. In fact, it isn’t really music as such, besides – music is so 2008. What? You aren’t in 2011 already? Not being in 2011 is so 2005. Anyway, this band, this collective really, they don’t really play music. In fact, they don’t even talk. They aren’t really people. They are just a construct of my mind. Yeah, they get on stage and sit down. They don’t even face the crowd. They face the wall and think about what their music would sound like. Sorry, now that I just told you about them, they sold out. I don’t like them any more.

Sweating and instruments. So mainstream. Fascist.

I would say something like goodbye now, but greeting people is such a social nicety,

Paul White

Dunno why I put this picture in cause it's a still from the vid so you'll see it anyway

Because I’m feeling lazy I’m not gonna write a recap of the launch party, if you missed it it’s your own damn fault and I’m not taking responsibility for your failings. If you were there you don’t need me to tell you what happened, unless you were blackout drink in which case what I said about people who weren’t there applies to you.

So without any further rambling here it is. Touch yourself, smoke a joint, pour a tumbler of Johnny Blue or whatever you normally do before watching a video. And without any further rambling (for real this time) here it is.

Pretty decent I say. And I’m not just saying that because I’m in it, it really is good, like a blowjob when you’re stoned. (The Daily Discharge does not in way endorse the use of narcotic substances. Actually we do but don’t blame us if you end up on the streets selling your body for crack)

Keep an eye out for your beloved editors and our incredible acting skills. Jason claims to be the first mask she turns around, I claim to be the mask with the most screen time, we’re probably both wrong, lying or just fucking with you.

If you don’t have internet (How are you reading this) or want to preserve your bandwidth cap (get uncapped) you can watch the video on MK89 on 23 June Between 20:00 and 20:30.

Cheers

X

“Ask not what your country can do for you – ask what you can do for your country.“

-John F. Kennedy

I’ve come under a lot of fire recently for what my friends and co-workers have been calling my lack of patriotism, lack of gees (spirit), and general World Cup hate. I’d like to take this chance, on the eve of South Africa’s biggest moment in the spotlight since Nelson Mandela walked out of prison, to speak objectively about how I feel about all of this.  Maybe it’ll make some of you think a little differently about it, though it’s not my aim to try and change your mind.  I’m going to do it in two parts.

Part One – On Patriotism

It’s not my intention to bash my country, or football, or anybody who is interested in football.  It’s all great – don’t get me wrong.  It’s a cool thing for any country to host, and it’s nice to see everyone in a nation that is usually rather divided come together for a single purpose.

As I write this here in London, there are just about as many South African flags as their are English football flags.  It’s nice to see, but there is something about all of this that bothers me – and has bothered me ever since the hype really started to get going, well over a year ago.

It might seem odd that I began with the epithet by Kennedy.  I wholeheartedly disagree with it.  While the world is divided into nations, I believe that it is the governing bodies of those nations’ duty to serve those who live within its borders in the most unobtrusive way possible, while allowing the greatest possible civil liberty, and still providing social justice and infrastructure.

That, in my opinion, is the sole purpose of the state.  The state should never intervene in the private lives of its citizens – it should have no moral impact whatsoever on how those citizens choose to live their lives, and as little financial and civil impact as possible.  I take a lot of my views from Robert Nozick, whom I realise is unpopular these days.

As a counterfoil to Kennedy’s iconic soundbite, I would like to offer this quote:

“Patriotism is your conviction that this country is superior to all others because you were born in it”

-George Bernard Shaw

I was born in South Africa, and I have lived there for most of my life.  I am not an expatriate - I’m only in London temporarily.  But I’m glad to be here right now, and not there. Originally this was just because I saw most of the World Cup shenanigans as an inconvenience.  There is still no public transport aside from an unreliable train service (which I used to use daily) and hazardous or expensive taxis in Cape Town.  Daily life and mobility for citizens there will become difficult.  But that’s not the main issue.

My main issue is that we are all expected to suddenly be really stoked about being South African, and give a massive floating shit about how we perform in the World Cup.  Part-and-parcel of this, sadly, seems to be making those who do not share the national enthusiasm feel ashamed of their lack of spirit.

Personally I am fairly neutral about my country.  It has been good and bad to me.  It is where my friends and family live, and is an enjoyable place to live some of the time, but not others.  Public service is in a sad state, as is public transport and a number of other things people in the first world take for granted.  Crime is a constant worry, and this is something that a lot of people who have never lived elsewhere don’t seem to realise: there are places in the world where you do not have to lock your doors at night.

I myself have been a victim of crime several times, and once in quite a traumatising way.  I have struggled with inept social services, government infrastructure, racial inequality (yes, I’m white – we get it a lot too) and the educational system.  However, England has its own problems that citizens gripe about every day.  That being said, here’s a little graphic showing the number of murders in South Africa versus the United Kingdom last year:

My point is simply that there is no special reason to privilege your country.  It is something we are taught is right and good and proper – but it is entirely arbitrary. I am South African purely by accident of birth, and for no other reason.  I could just as easily have been born anywhere else in the world.  Since there is no particular reason I was born in South Africa, I see no particular reason to get more excited about South Africa than anywhere else.  In fact, there are a great many countries that, as objectively as possible, are “better” places to live than South Africa, and I challenge anyone to prove me wrong.

It is much like the majority of Ugandan citizens feel that it is appropriate that people found guilty of homosexuality receive prison sentences, or even the death penalty (in the case of homosexual sex with a minor).  A lot of people there (and they must exist because laws don’t happen when everyone thinks they’re a bad idea) believe in this as wholeheartedly as we believe that our country deserves our support when we’re playing a sport against another country.

Don’t get me wrong: I love my home.  But I love it in the way I love my dog, or my favourite bar.  It’s familiar, comfortable, I get my drinks cheap and they know me there.

Take, for example, the vast number of South Africans who support English Premier League football teams.  Most of these people have never been to Chelsea, or Liverpool, but fervently support them to the point of getting into physical fights with supporters of rival teams. They drive around with their team’s slogans on their cars, and sink into deep depression and drunkenness when their team loses. How these people decided to arbitrarily support one team over another has always escaped me.

It makes them happy, so good for them.  But I see no more reason to support Chelsea than I see to support South Africa in World Cup soccer.  I probably care more about South African rugby – not that I’m fond of rugby, but I do know the game better and once played it a little, so it’s slightly more familiar.  But I can’t say I even watched the last Rugby World Cup final.  This brings me to:

Part Two – On Football, and Sports in General

Most people like sports.  In fact, I very seldom meet someone who doesn’t like at least one sport, and most people like most of the popular sports on TV: cricket, rugby, tennis, football and even baseball or American football. But this is not something we are born with.  I usually find it difficult to explain to people that I do not follow any sports.  I was forced to play just about all of the above throughout high school.

I was never very good at any of them, and that could be for many reasons.  I was not naturally athletic, but neither are a lot of people who enjoy sports.  I simply had little interest, and received even less encouragement.  When that’s the case, it’s very unlikely you’ll develop any skill in, or affinity for, something.  It’s just like Accounting – I was fine with maths and physics and chemistry, but I just didn’t like Accounting.  I gave it up at the earliest opportunity.  I found it frustrating and discouraging, and my teachers did little to help that.  It’s no wonder I dropped it at the end of grade 10.

The same goes with sports. What I want to point out is that there is nothing wrong with not caring about sports.  It might seem unusual to most people, but it is perfectly natural to me.  I enjoy Formula One, because I like cars and strategy.  I like boxing because I enjoy the primal spectacle of two people engaging in a purely physical contest. But that’s about it.

My point is this: I do not care that much about the Football World Cup because I don’t like football.  I never have, and see no reason to start trying to enjoy it now.  I wish I could make people understand that.  It’s a massive media event, and completely in everybody’s face right now, and that’s why it seems like such a big deal to people that I’m so disinterested.  But when the World Maths Olympiad is on, nobody except those quite closely involved care about it (not that I’m one of them – it’s just an example).  The whole world doesn’t suddenly become mad about Maths and start supporting their favourite mathlete.

I don’t like Lady Gaga or Justin Bieber.  I don’t like ‘Tonight’s Gonna Be a Good Night’ by the Black Eyed Peas, despite mainstream media’s massive attempts to persuade me that these things are cool.  I’m just not buying.  Maybe it’s my anti-establishment stubbornness, maybe it’s just a matter of taste – but I like to think it’s because my parents, friends and teachers have been the type of people who taught me from a very early age to think for myself, and decide whether I liked something on my own and the basis of its merit, rather than try to fit my taste to what is most easily accessible.  I put football in the same category.  It’s something a lot of people enjoy, and that’s cool.

A lot of the things I like are not enjoyed by a lot of people.  I like to tell people about bands I like, places I enjoy, etc,  but they are usually not well-received, because they are often quite different from what is most prevalent.  It’s because I tend not to listen to the radio or watch a lot of TV, and rather seek out entertainment based on my own tastes and the recommendations of like-minded friends.  The World Cup is extremely popular, and easily accessible.  It doesn’t mean you have to like it, but it’s a lot easier to like it than to not like it.

And that, dear readers, is purely down to marketing.  Specifically, marketing budgets.  More money is being spent on this than any one person can actually comprehend.  From FIFA’s official budget, down to the improvements made by cafe owners to spruce up their bars in preparation for the crowds. FIFA will make a massive profit from this event, and South Africa will make a net loss – this is well-known.

Where there is money, motives are never clear.  FIFA claims to be doing it for the benefit of the sport, and that may well be true. But one cannot ignore the fact that this is primarily a business venture, and that the target market is the entire world. You see ads about it all over the place; on TV, on the radio, all over the interwebs, and pasted up next to your office water-cooler.

There is no escaping it, and you have only two choices: fit in or fuck off. Like it or lump it.  I’ve tried to get excited about it.  I really have.  But I would be lying to myself if I pretended that I was. I will watch the opening game and the final, and some in-between, because they will be enjoyable social events.  But I cannot bring myself to summon enthusiasm for one team winning over another.

I have a great many interests, but this is not one of them. It is my hope that my friends, and my readers, will understand this – if not agree with it or support it.  We are not all created equal, with the same likes and dislikes, and to me it is entirely natural to have no interest in the Football World Cup. Maybe there are others who will read this who feel the same.  It doesn’t matter if there are or not, though.

I wrote this so that those who berate me for having no national pride, or just for being a grump, might understand that there are different ways of seeing this whole thing.  I wish I could go back in time and tell fourteen year-old me that there is nothing wrong with having little interest in sports, and that it is no crime not to enjoy something in which the vast majority take so much pleasure.

Everyone is different, dear readers.  In a time when the world comes together to support their countries, and take pride in being on the same side, I feel that it is important to remember this.  If your horse prefers orange juice over water you can shove its head in the lake as much as you like but it won’t take a drink.  And I am that horse.

Yours emphatically

Norman Conquest

I have no idea what this costs me

The fact of the matter is the most people select their contract without really considering the cost involved. If your friends all have blackberries you get a blackberry contract, if you’re an Apple sheepdrone you’ll take the assraping required to get an iPhone, if you work for a large company you’ll use whatever contract your company gives you and if, like me, you just want a new phone every 2 years you’ll get a topup style contract. You may also base you decision on how many free SMS’s you get.

For people who base their technology purchases on how pretty something looks.

If you’ve ever tried to work out what your contract will cost you  you’ll find it fairly difficult. There really is no easy way to compare tariffs across operators. They all use different pricing systems and when you get down to it, the information is fucking impossible to find anyway.

Which makes me angry

In order to rectify this situation buyersbibles.co.za has put together a little guide to summarise the costs of calls across the various pricing plans on the various networks. They call it the Airtime Bible and it’s available as a PDF download. The primary statistic used to pull everything together is that the average length of a cell call in SA is allegedly 98 seconds long. They’ve rounded up to 100 seconds for the sake of decent numbers but it’s close enough. Every call plan on the four South African mobile networks has it’s details tabulated and then the cost of a 100 second call is calculated.

The calculated cost does not include the extra credit card charges you're paying for your telephonic horoscope

The cost of data transfers is not included but I have been told that they are working on it. Till they have that sorted I’m still working on the assumption that a 3 minute, 30MB youporn video will cost me R60, so when I get down to brass tacks I may as well go adult world an just buy a DVD.

The point being: what I feel is not important. At least not to you. Even you with the exceedingly long nipples, well done, by the way, for making it out of the house – I’m proud of you. You could feed babies on the other side of the room. But, the Internet, and social media specifically are designed in such a way that your opinions, your pictures, your links, your everything are given centre stage. The paradox is that there are millions and millions of centre stages and the only member of the audience is a rather shiny mirror with a giant gold frame.

Some of you might have seen a documentary called Century of the Self, by Adam Curtis. This posits the theory that the idea of a self was not crystallised in human minds prior to the early twentieth century, where Sigmund Freud’s nephew, Edward Bernays, used psychological techniques to further consumerism and influence people. For a very brief overview at Wikipedia, click this collection of linky letters. For a little more of an in-depth look, dive straight into this blue pool of linkage (The BBC’s page for Century of the Self). And, what with the wonders of free information, why not let your mouse hover over and chomp up these letters, which will allow you to download the entire documentary, for free. Don’t complain if you burn up your Internet.

Please bear in mind that my takeout from the documentary is almost as simplified as the plot to Twilight. So don’t kill me, or troll me, or start a flame war, or whatever it is that the Internet kids are doing now.

What we are seeing now, manifesting in the Internet is the evolution of this idea of the self. If or when you watch the documentary, you will see how the public had to be given this idea of the self. And then, they had to be taught that only by buying things, they could define who they were in relation to other people. The Century of the Self tells us that prior to this, humans only ever consumed what they needed. Am I guilty for owning 30 pairs of shoes. Yes. I am.

The Internet has evolved to meet this idea of the self and push it further than we could imagine. People celebrate themselves for no other reason than they are themselves. This doesn’t make sense to me. While one should certainly be happy with one’s self (I am happy with myself sometimes two, three times a day), I still don’t understand people’s need to blab so much. To literally cut themselves open and let it all pour out. I don’t like having your smelly, emo guts all over me, thank you very much. Perhaps because the Internet is so much more anonymous and there are less consequences than there are in real life, people are happier to air their dirty laundry without fear of recourse or someone looking at them funny with that slight sneer as if there’s a strange smell afoot.

Think of facebook status updates. I have seen more post-break-up wars of words than I care to count. And no one realises just how silly and childish they are. The same goes with overly emo status updates. No one cares that you’re upset, that you’re over it, that you quit or that you give up. Mentioning your dear Pep-pep that just died means nothing. Does your emotion only become validated when it is seen in a public forum? If there was no Internet would you have to run around in the streets with a sign around your neck (complete with an unhappy face, just to let people know for sure that you’re upset)? Or (and this is something that irritates me more than people trying to justify to me why Twilight has any merit whatsoever) are people just doing the old emotional fishing? This can take the form of fishing for compliments or fishing for sympathy. Either way it’s pretty lame. As soon as people fish for compliments or sympathy around me, I tend to ignore their pleas quick-smart.

I think it’s the assumption that your emotions, your insides, are worthy of public consumption that frightens me. I define myself (on the Intertubes and to a large extent in real life) by what I create, by what content I put forward. It doesn’t matter that I was the youngest person to reach the South Pole wearing only underpants and green nipple tassels, or that I entered the Winter Olympics for the antique pipe-smoking and typewriter abuse events and won gold at both (and had to get a really bad tattoo to let you all know that I was there). What matters is the content that I produce.

I define my value by what I can create. What I can bring into being from nothingness. My selfish hopes and dreams have nothing to do with any of you. You can ask me and if I feel like it, I might share some things with you, but I hope I will never overshare my personal life. It’s really not that interesting. And neither is yours. Even if you’re quirky and zany. And you know what? Even being kooky is not enough. What I’m interested in is your responses to things, big things, not the way your best friend’s ex-girlfriend totally likes you but you’re not sure if you should do her or not because bla bla bla bla, I’m sorry I couldn’t read any more of your self-serving blog because I was stabbing an oyster fork into my eyes.

I don’t even like oysters and I wear glasses. You can imagine the amount of effort needed to just undertake such an action.

Dear readers. There is a difference between blogging and writing. I am not a blogger. The democratisation of the Internet has been its biggest boon and its biggest bugbear. The idea that information and content can be created and shared by anyone is still one of the most exciting things I’ve ever come across. Just thinking about twitter makes my brain wet, when I consider what a thrilling, dynamic conversation it can be. It can also be a whole lot of emotional whining, or mind-vomit, don’t get me wrong. This democratisation has allowed anyone to start a blog, a place where they can share their talent with the world (if they have any). Or they can share pictures. If that’s their thing. I’m generally about as visual as Stevie Wonder. But please kids, stick to your talents. The piss-stained sepia look does not make your photos more arty, even if you’re pouting as best you can, sticking your neck out so that your double chin doesn’t show and standing with the biggest group of friends you can find, to prove how cool you are. Ditto black and white. Black and white photos should be left to the professionals. Or dogs.

You can become righteously indignant. Tell me I’m no better than you. That I’m a bastard for slapping the sunburn that is your personality. I’m just as boring as you are. I just recognise that I am. And anything I share in a public sphere I try to make interesting. Especially if it’s actually about me.

Yours (in parentheses),
Paul White

The modern era is all about differentiating factors. These can take many forms. Some of them may be physical (i.e. A skew eye, one leg shorter than the other, wearing your underpants outside your pants or a skin condition) some of them may be mental (i.e. Being incredibly stupid) and others still may have to do with your personality (i.e. Being an asshole, not being an asshole and the very subject of this piece: being funny). The thing is, we are all unique – just like everyone else and therefore people feel the neehd to “stand out” and “make a statement”. A great physical differentiating factor that I have is that I can click my knuckles, just by making a fist. I see it as “investing in my future”. Another differentiating factor I have is the ability to use the so-called, “inverted commas.” See, I just did it there.

But enough of this, “poppycock” and “lollygagging”, let us now open Door Number One and see what is behind it – “How to be funny in the modern era.”

There are many ways to be funny. For example: slapstick comedy. Slapstick comedy usually works well on the mentally ill and the young. It basically involves falling over and hurting yourself. Kind of like when your grandmother fell over, broke her hip and then whimpered about it until her leg went gangrenous and died and they had to amputate her face – except she wasn’t doing it to be funny, she was doing it because she had a weak character and terrible balance – ever since that incident with the blank CD and the roquefort. Should you want to make people laugh in a style of slapstick, HEADLINE payoff suggests that you fall over at random times, preferably when people are watching. With no laughs to assuage your pain, slapstick comedy can be a painful experience to say the least and a debilitating experience to say the most. Remember that you could be falling over into a campfire, or some spikes or even a vat full of acid, so always look before you attempt this manoeuvre. Other ways to engage in a bit of the old slapstick include: throwing pies at yourself (to do this, simply bake a boomerang into a pie), hitting people with things (like an octopus for example – slapstick to the max) or driving your car at 120km/h into a wall.

To segue into the next method, let me just say that slapstick comedy is basically a stick you use to slap someone in the face with – thereby gaining some laughs.

Yes, it’s time to pun my people. A pun is a play on words. Many people find puns to be funny (or is that punny?), I do myself – because I like words. Other than asshole, I have been called “Wordy William” before. Puns generally rely on a word having a double meaning. Permit me to demonstrate.

A young boy comes up to you with some paper wings stuck to his schoolbag. You tell him that, that just isn’t going to fly. He cries. You laugh. A pun.

A young boy comes up to you with some paper wings stuck to his schoolbag. You tell him that you have herpes. He gets confused. You cry. Not a pun.

Right, I hope that you’ve got that all cleared up. (To be punny at this point, consider making a joke linking “cleared up” to acne or linking “right” to write.)

Another way to be funny is the knock-knock joke. I am quite sure that the majority of you are au fait with such humour so instead, I will show you some knock-knock jokes that don’t work at all (one could argue also that jokes that aren’t funny are funny, but there are only so many people with such an intricate understanding of the spiky quagmire that is post modernism that will be able to appreciate such (anti?) humour.)

l  Knock knock.

Who’s there?

Your mother.

My mother who?

Your mother’s dead. She died of Tuberculosis of the foot.

l  Knock knock.

Who’s there?

Table.

Table who?

Table cloth that matches your serviettes.

l  Knock knock.

Who’s there?

Stephen.

Stephen who?

Gerald.

Now, let me carry on to a surefire yet simple method to be funny that I have come up with myself, after sucking up many minutes of humour into my lifehole, digesting it, assimilating it and forming my own opinions about it, after making minutes of all the humour I assimilated and emailing it to my email address I use for work related issues. This method will henceforth be known as my audaciously divine rule of 3. The method works thusly: list 3 things, make the first two very normal and make the final one something off the wall (no, not a painting, punballs). It is this contrast that makes the third thing mentioned so funny. It is this same principle that made you laugh so much when your little sister had an accident in church. On the priest.

So, without being any more prolix than I have to be (even though mentioning prolix, may itself be prolix – good Christhell I am off my tits on post modernism), let me get on to some examples of my audaciously divine rule of 3. NB: The third word often has a sexual connotation but it does not have to have one.

• Boiled eggs, lawnmowers and masturbating.
• Keyboards, microchips and Jesus’ beard.
• Running, stamp-collecting and frottage.
• Bench press, carpets and brain surgery.
• Blank CD’s, a fan with 3 variable speed settings and Michael Jackson.

Perhaps what makes this method so funny is that there is an inherent narrative between the three things mentioned. Imagine the story that revolves around boiled eggs, lawnmowers and masturbating. Definitely a story I would like to read. This method can be used in response to questions as well. Take a look under this antique armoire here and see what I’m talking about:

Q: So, what did you eat for breakfast today?

A: Eggs, bacon and a G-Strap I got from my dog’s bed.

Q: So what’s wrong with you, why weren’t you at work yesterday?

A: I had: emphysema, asthma and a large hotdog.

Right, well my squidsausages – if that’s not enough for you to be funny, you could always just send people our way – sometimes just knowing what’s funny can count as a sense of humour – and as far as we’re concerned – we’re pretty funny. If you’re still battling with the idea of differentiating factors in the modern era, I am sure I can rustle up a piece explaining that for you.

Enjoy the meat, potatoes and salad tossing,

Paul