Ama-strike
Blogbuddies… This site is horrible. Yes, we have increased functionality in some ways, but the stuff that made blogmark unique has gone. This is just another crap blog. I think it’s time to go on strike. Lots of people are drifting off to other homes – I suspect because the comments don’t work properly and the site is slow. Even my ability to become addicted has dwindled to almost nothing.
In an ideal world we would be toi-toiing with signs outside M&G offices, but I don’t have the energy for that. And getting you lot there would be like herding some scratchy cats.
I don’t think anyone gives a crap about us anymore. Abandoned. All they had to do was leave us alone. Blogmark was not dependent on flashy stuff – but good content. I loved that. Vince and Matt have not fixed stuff up and I think their hardware can’t cope with greater speeds on the comments etc.
The shit they gave us about how BM was like a forum was maybe valid, but that is why we joined up in the first place.
I am getting really gatvol. Anyone else think a strike is a good idea?
Violence and Vincent
It was quiet in the M&G offices. All Vincent could hear was the steady beat of his keyboard as he slouched over the screen. He did not, nay, could not hear the clickety-clicking of high heels heading down the passage towards his desk. The blogmark chicks had decided to Take-Him-In-Hand.
KC, Arb, Marijayn, Morticia, Dolce and Dolorez – oh it had been easy enough to track him down. They knew his cellphone number even. This was not the time for electronic communication, however. This would take a personal touch. A very firm, cold, silvery touch…
“Vincent?”
“Tired grunt.”
The four in unison said sweetly: “We are here about our blog.”
Vincent cowered as he saw the nail files, sharp ones…
“Matt!” he shrieked.
“Oh, we already had a word with Matt,” said Arbchick, smiling as she reached out and firmly grasped his hair.
“Now, let’s talk about fixing things up around here,” said KC wiping her blood stained fingers on her Levis.
Gays, drunks and the Catholic Church
My beloved church says that homosexuality is fine, just not the act. There are various biblical reasons for this, but basically it seems that sex is for procreation so everything else is deviant. This includes oral and anal sex and very definitely gay sex. Seeing that most of my male friends are screaming fags you would think I would have a problem with what the church teaches. I don’t.
See, I always look at the KC perspective, how can I have someone else’s? So, I am an alcoholic. Fact. It’s either genetic or conditioning, but there it is, regardless of cause. Does that mean I have to drink? No. So, does being born gay mean you have to act on it? No.
Doesn’t mean I am drifting around like a judgmental preacher. The many gay people I know and am close to, often feel ostracized by their church. Yet, I know one who was in a Catholic seminary studying to be a priest he has been in a long and loving relationship for about 15 years with a Buddhist. Yet he still goes to Mass and has none of the issues others do with his faith.
As an alcoholic, I also face extreme censure from the church. We don’t do divorce, but discovering your husband or wife is an alcoholic is grounds for annulment. The church believes you have the seeds from childhood and treats like a mental illness/evil.
I think peace needs to be made with whoever you are and the God of your understanding. Many people turn from their church when they find something in themselves that is not compatible. Yet if you were brought up in it good luck finding another God that works for you. Haha. Not easy. I have watched enough people try. The church teachings may be hardcore, but the structure of the church is of forgiveness and tolerance. Some parishioners are not. My alcoholism or someone else’s gayness is not, in my mind, a good enough reason to turf the whole thing. Does that mean that gay people define themselves only by their sexuality? Shame.
I chose Catholicism, after an atheist upbringing. I chose it, despite who I am, what I am and what I have done in my life. I have broken all bar one of the ten commandments and I have been guilty of every one of the seven deadly sins. Yet, I chose this thing and in it, I have found something very beautiful and ugly at the same time.
Dead Animals
I don’t understand the general revulsion for skinned and/or stuffed dead animals as décor and apparel. In no way do I think hunting is ok, but there is a great deal of antique and vintage dead animal paraphernalia around that should be made better use of. These animals are dead. Long dead. And they were killed in order to be worn or displayed on a wall. The *vomit* noises and general shunning I received from my artist upon my exuberant discovery of a full fox fur stole, is entirely uncalled for.
It was attractive. It had nice glass eyes and still had its claws, nose and tail. Very good condition and only R240. Yes, folks, two hundred and forty ZA Rand. Good deal huh? Not according to my family.
Then there was the ancient zebra skin. It had holes and mangey looking patches, but it was done it that old way where the ears are pinned back and everything left on. Very nice. Except the guy wanted just under R4k for it. I could get a better rug out of my mother’s daschund (one example of humane pet euthanasia if ever there was one – the little rodent eats books, passports and half done jigsaws). If it had been reasonably priced I would have stuck it onto the old kelim rug that was killed in a flood at my old house.
I am not sure how this dead animal fetish started. I was anti-fur for the longest time. Now I find myself scouring antique shops for them I just have not yet found the perfect thing. Someone suggested today that I go to some taxidermist out in that god-forsaken hell hole called Fourways, but they miss the point. I don’t want a NEW dead beast. I want an old one. That wasn’t shot in some sort of canned fashion. I want one that was stalked across the savannahs and shot by some crusty old pom called Nigel or Rupert or something.
It is my dream to one day have one of those giant stuffed polar bears in my hallway to put my hat collection on. It’s glassy little eyes can peer out at visitors from beneath the brim of my panama, while he dangles the others off various other parts of bear-body.
