Life lessons from Githurai.

You know how your mother always told you not to go to strange men’s houses?  She was right.  Do not go to a strange man’s house for lunch.  Ever.  Said man may have a room full of women’s clothing, and accessories, clothing he makes his women wear on a night out, because he likes his women to look a particular way.  Now understand, I make no objection to a man providing his woman with a selection of high street fashion, but when said man is providing what appear to be whore outfits to a bevy of females, well then, I have some reservations.  Who does that?  Gentlemen, is this a thing, outfitting your girls in skimpy, underwear-revealing dresses, and stripper pumps, and stockings?  How?  Why?

You buggers need to stop laughing, this here is a true story.

when we...
should we say...
lemme see your hands up baby...
hii ni remix sawa
kwa mamanzi sawa

Slight detour, my life is a tragic comedy.  Further detour, this post was inspired by The Spinster, she who’s returned after too many months away, and is dedicated to OGAO (hello madam), whom I owe a good tale (I owe her more than I owe the rest of you, she's nicer to me, and she derives great pleasure from my troubles, perhaps too much?).  Detour over.

I met this man at the almost local, the karaoke bar, at the counter, where all the self respecting drunkards sit.  He was, I thought, a pal of a pal, and thus he became my pal.  We got to talking, hit it off somewhat, and before I knew it, he was my ‘karaoke husband’, twice a month, on Thursday.  Hang on, it occurs to me that you could use that information to stalk me, but you won’t, because you’re not batshit insane, right?  Right?  Shit.  Please don’t stalk me…  Now this ‘husband’ of mine is a ‘bar pal’, not someone I planned on ever meeting outside the dark (and slightly dingy) confines of that fine establishment.  It’s not that I wouldn’t have wanted to meet him outside the bar, it’s just that I know better than to try.

Lesson Number One: Friends made in the bar are only friends IN the bar.

See, most of these so called friendships we make at the local are seldom substantial, more often it’s a relationship based on one’s ability to imbibe copious quantities of alcohol, or one’s ability to share copious quantities by way of purchase, or one’s ability to conversate while doing either, or both.  It's beer goggle friendship, in my experience, made greater by the spirits, but ultimately an illusion.  These are not the people you’ll call when your mother dies and you need to raise money to take her home to Nyandarua, or when your business is crumbling and you need to raise a loose million overnight, these are the people you call when you have a spare ticket for a ragga concert (not reggae, reggae you share with your mother-resting people, no?).

Thing is, after almost two years of ‘friendship’, you kinda become friends, no?  We did, kinda.  Not so close that I was confessing my deepest darkest, but close enough that I was privy to the details of his last date.  Ah yes, I was also his confessor.  Another lesson I’m learning, don’t let men tell you their problems in the bar, they never stop, even outside the bar.  Woi…  Moving right along.  The man would sit there and rant about whatever was up his ass on that particular night, and I’d listen, happy to let him talk, often enjoying his misguided tales.  Then, as tends to happen with these things, it came to pass that we exchanged numbers, and with that we entered a new realm in our relationship, we became text buddies.

Lesson Number Two: Don’t give out your number unless your phone has a blocking thingi that allows you to ignore a mother.  Mother here refers to both your mother and that mother… who needs to stop texting your ass.  Gentlemen, a free tip, if a woman wants to talk to you, she calls. If she texts, she don’t wanna talk to you.  Unless she’s cheap, in which case she will never call you.  (That’s to cover my ass, because I never call.  Ahem.)

This man can text.  Lengthy texts.  With smileys cum emojis and shit.  Many smileys.  Kendo three in a row.  Now, I don’t particularly like smileys, I see their usefulness, but I can’t say I care too much for them.  Doesn’t help that I only know two smileys, happy and unhappy.  This man has a smiley for every occasion, I think he even has one with what looks like an umbrella.  Have I digressed?  I have.  So the man took to texting me, condensing his day into chatty little messages, breakfast, lunch, football, bar, and back around again.  Did I mention the man is retired?  No?  He is.  He’s blissfully unencumbered by the daily demands of earning a living, lucky bastard.  Which in turn means he has time to cook lunch for his many ‘friends’ (euphemism for random women), any time he damn well pleases, and he pleases to quite often.  After reading way too many lunch texts, I asked him why he hadn’t offered to cook for me. (I know, foolish.) He then offered to cook for me.  (Walked right into that one.)  I had to accept the offer, no?  No.  I should have followed my gut and said, ‘Hell no, you strange texting wierdo!’

Lesson Number Three: Listen to your gut.  That queasy feeling you get when you look at a suspect piece of fish is a warning, don’t eat it.  Wait, that’s a different story, but it applies here, no?  Perhaps not.

And that is how I found myself in a strange man’s house on a Saturday afternoon, staring at pictures of way too many women in various states of undress, and listening to his tales about the women, and the clothes they were wearing.  That’s right, he’s been providing women with clothing for many, many years.  And he has proof.  Walalalalalalala…  For the first 30 minutes, I was working out my escape plan, because a man with pictures of random, yet seemingly identical, women scattered all over his flat is not a man I feel comfortable around, and this was before he told me about the clothes.  I know I joke about men making like Lecter and eating my ass, but this guy had me scared, for real.  I was trying to work out if anyone knew where I was, in case I never made it home.  At one point I considered calling the mother (my mother, not the mother…).

Lesson Number Four: If you’re going to a strange bugger’s house, tell someone, and give them directions too, in case they need to bring the po-lice.  The only people I told about this plan were my penpal Blue and the pal who introduced me to this pal (he now denies any involvement, useless…).

There I am, in a strange house, surrounded by pictures of young women in as little clothing as possible, with a man who talks lovingly, way too lovingly, about the clothes he makes them wear, and I have an epiphany.  The man is insane.  Not mad, not delusional, batshit insane.  My friend, there are bodies buried in his garden, bodies of women who refused to wear the lycra mini dresses he is so fond of, or perhaps women who questioned his taste in shoes (not that bad, surprisingly).  On the up side, the man cooks, so…

Lesson number Five: Life really is too short for this bullshit. No really, it is.

Dear batshit insane men, please stop talking to me. I promise to stop talking to you from now on, and I will never listen to your tales of woe if you promise to never, ever buy me a drink.  No more drinks from chatty men at the counter.  Ever.  That’s how I end up sitting next to a framed picture of a lingerie clad Pamela Anderson, the only woman whose clothes, or therein lack of, he did not procure, because he's never met her, yet he has her picture sitting there like she's family.  And we were in bloody Githurai.  

In the words of a great poet, whose name I don't recall, fuck my life.

Which brings me to today's track, the timeless 'Wasee (Githurai) Remix' by Mr Googs, Vinny Banton and Mr Lenny.  

whose got the biggest appetite for Kenyan ladies
when them move a thong
wakijua them wearing tighties
when them move a short silky skirt with no high heels...

These Githurai fellas are a little kinky, no?  Yes, I realise it gives away my age, but come on, no one in their 30's hears Githurai and doesn’t think of this song, it's like their national anthem.  The lyrics are no good, but dammit if it wasn’t the funkiest thing out of Ogopa at the time.  After E-Sir.  And Historians.  And a couple of others, but it was definitely top 10 funky, shallow, but funky.

na wasee tumetoka Githurai
tumekam kukupa rhymes zingine dry-y
tuki-fry whack MCs ka mayai kwa kara-ai
ikiwa zimeshika sema my!

Lakini these lyrics (courtesy of Ghafla) are suspect...

36 and counting...

I turned 36 two weekends back, and I forgot to tell you.  Then again, you forgot to wish me a happy birthday, so I guess we're even.  

Now on one's birthday, one is expected to wax philosophical on the meaning of life and such like nonsense.  The reason I didn't was because I already did all that at the beginning of the month.  Which means that I have nothing to tell you now.  I'm bila issues this year, at least no more issues than I normally have.  I am surprisingly devoid of man drama, thanks to a lengthy purging process, some of it not entirely by choice.  There are no men vexing me currently. Well, there's one, but he's vexing me in a good way, so he doesn’t count.  Get your mind out of the gutter, bloody perverts, I mean vexing in the literal sense, he's fucking with my head, and I like it.  I have no work drama worth talking about, work is work.  I have no family drama either, because my relatives have finally given up on me and resigned themselves to my fate as the errant child.  Not to tempt fate or anything, but I'm okay, this month at least.

Happy birthday to me.

I went for Karaoke a couple of days earlier, figuring singing is a good way to celebrate the day (because it worked so well last year), and that's when I made a shocking discovery.  Turns out, I can't sing when I'm sober.  Let me rephrase, I can't remember the words when I'm sober.  Yes, the whole point to the exercise is that the words are on a big screen in front of you, but only idiots follow those Made in China lyrics.  The rest of us experienced (ahem) types know to sing songs you know back to front, your memory making up for what is often a complete lack of vocal ability.  So there I am, early, too early, and on drink number one, and I get called up to sing.  I'd picked the song I always pick, because it's short, and easy, but lo and behold, I couldn’t remember the words.  Completely blank.  I'm standing there looking at the screen, struggling to recall the melody and thinking, 'Shoulda had a stiff one first...' (take that as you will).  Worse still, everyone else was sober too, because it was too bloody early, so I know they knew I was making shit up.  I don’t know why I keep subjecting myself to mild levels of public shame, I'm starting to suspect I may have masochist tendencies, and not the good kind.  That said, shame = free drinks, and I am nothing if not cheap.  In fact, I'm thinking of pulling that stunt more often, pity booze is kinda nice, no?  Probably not.  It's usually followed by a demand for pity sex, and that one's kinda crappy.

Slight detour.  Remember the dude I hit on last year, the one who lenga'd my vibe with madharau?  I will have you know that I did not let that sleeping dog lie.  No sir, not at all, I went back and showed him the error of his ways, over a sustained period of three months.  You must have realised by now that I can be quite persistent when I put my mind to it, and that bugger was not going to get away with that humiliation of my person(age?).  How now?  I have a reputation to protect.  I plied him with booze (too easy given his fondness for what I consider alcopop), and then I did the gushing female thing, 'I love your voice,' said with a suitably awe struck tone (just for the record, I wasn't lying, the man can sing like a baritone angel.  Problem is, he knows it, he uses his vocal chords to funga small girls...), I may even have unleashed some cleavage to get him to focus.  And then after all that effort, I realised I wasn't interested in the man, my only interest was in redeeming my wounded pride.  Once that was done, I returned to my normal ways of propping up the counter and ignoring the men looking to funga something, anything I suspect.  The moral to this tale?  Booze, shameless flattery and a boob are useful seduction tools.  Hmmm...  Clearly my age has not come with added wisdom.  Detour over.

So, I'm sitting there, thinking back over the past year, struggling to recognise the somewhat broken woman I was last July.  That sounds dramatic, no?  Too dramatic.  I wasn’t that fucked up, but I wasn’t all that good either, was I?  One year ago, I was drowning my sorrows, trying to see my forest from my trees, or vice versa.  This year?  I was blissfully sober, drinking white wine, if you can believe it, and generally feeling quite...settled?  Who is this woman, man?  White wine?  In a bar?  In the almost local?  

Hang on, I need to explain the wine story, so you can properly understand the depths to which I have sunk.  I'm a red wine drinker, have been for (too many) years.   White wine lacks...balls.  I like a wine with a big set of cojones, full bodied and as dry as possible, but smooth, like butter.  Problem is, the drier the wine, the worse the hangover, you wake up as dehydrated as a desert, and it gets worse the older you get.  A couple of months back, I split a bottle of white with a friend, because she doesn’t drink red, and I'm the booze langa, willing to switch drinks if need be.  Next morning, I woke up sans any hint of pain, and this after I knocked back two thirds of the swill.  I had a eureka moment, leaping out of bed (more clothed than Archimedes, thankfully) and dancing around with glee.  My fellow winos, you who know the pain of which I speak, if you're drinking and not eating, the trick is to drink sweet wine (apparently the sugar helps), white if possible.  Your body can, nay, will thank me later.  That said, that white stuff has no balls, its like Ribena, only without the colour.  Old age sucks...  Let's continue.

I have become a woman who drinks the mild drink, so as not to hurt the following day.  I am the woman who can comfortably embarrass herself in front of friends, and strangers, and not go into hiding for three months (see blog.  Yes, this one.).  I'm the woman who happily goes home at midnight, despite unnecessary name calling from the drunkards at the counter, because I can't handle more than four hours in the bar these days, not without greater spirits moving me, and even then, maybe another two hours at best.  And when I get home, early and damn near sober, I read a book to fall asleep, a real book, not a book with pictures.  I'm no longer the woman looking to lose herself for as many hours as possible, these days it seems I'm happy being me.  What the hell is going on?  I sound grown up, almost sane.  This is horrifying.  Thing is, it also feels really good.  It feels like this woman you're reading, Alex, she's no longer a separate entity, distinct from the real me, or is it that the real me has finally caught up with Alex?  Whichever it is, I don't feel like I'm pulling in different directions any more, kinda like the many voices in my head have finally shut up.  Does this make any sense to you?  No?  I'm not sure it does to me either.  

All I want to know is, who the fuck is this woman, and what did she do with the other one (I'm thinking buried in the garden, corpse to be discovered in a few months' time, minus fingertips and teeth.  Stop looking at me like that, I watch 'Dexter', I know how to dispose of a body...)?  Don’t get me wrong, I like this recently joined woman, only she's a bit scary in her peaceful quiet.  Yes, this is me quiet, and peaceful.  I can see you smirking, you malicious bastards, waiting for the other shoe to drop.  No worries, I'm waiting too, suspicious of this recent development.  Feels like the calm before the storm, either that or its the calm after the storm, who knows?

I think I'm going to enjoy 36...  

Life gets clearer through the bottom of a whiskey glass.

Saturday night was the closest thing to a religious holiday that I have on my calendar.  No really, the night of the Champions League final has been, for the last decade or so, like Christmas for me.  It’s the night when I surrender my soul to the gods of football, happy to lose myself to the brilliance of 22 plus men and a ball.  Aaaaahhhh…  Absolute bliss!  I can see you frowning at the screen right now, upset that I have the audacity to talk about football after going MIA on you last week.  Don’t worry, this isn’t another post about my beloved men in shorts, this one is about friendship.

Today’s soundtrack is a song that will forever remind me of my (former) local.  Back in the day when it was just a hole in the wall, we were repeatedly subjected to Mkubwa’s limited music collection, at 35 songs of it.  Yaani, after spending a week in that bar, you knew all the songs and what order they were in.  This song was number kendo 24.  For those of you old enough to remember, Marques Houston was one of the little boys in Immature.  As tends to happen, he grew up, and grew into a half decent musician, and a better actor (just saying…).  Whenever ‘Clubbin’ would come on in the bar, me and mine would lean back and sip on our drinks like we were macelebs in a music video, all head nodding and such like nonsense, because we were so damn cool.  Perhaps not, considering most of us had no clue what the bugger was saying, or didn’t particularly care.  Just as well though, because the lyrics are in fact quite useless, as befitting a track done specifically for the club…

You know we be,
Up in the club,
Where we do things like,
Throw our hands up,
All kinds of drinks are,

Off in the cups,
All of my thugs,

Honies show me love,
DJ playing the cuts… 

It used to be that every once in a while I’d catch up with a group of old friends for a loose drink on Saturday, the routine being to sit down and eat/drink while we discuss the days past, work, biashara, family, politics, fashion, sports, love lives, sex lives, imaginary sex lives… we would sit in the local from 4.00 in the afternoon till Ben the barman kicked us out at midnight, and then if they were up to it (I could never last long enough to continue, but only because I was usually the idiot imbibing a spirit when they were sipping on frothy liquids), proceed to go uptown, or downtown, in search of pleasant distraction in the form of scantily clad females.  I used to call those sessions dunia wiki hii (this was before the blog and my occasional rants about the idiot politicians, and press) and I absolutely loved them, because they’d give me a peek into other people’s lives, an absolute treat for a voyeur like myself.  Plus the strange tales I’d often hear would confirm what I’ve always believed, that we’re all a bit fucked up.  Those were simpler times.  Problem is, these days we’re all so busy no one has time to sit down any more.  Some have families that demand their time, others have shops to run.  Some have gout, others have diabetes.  Some of us work all night and sleep all day, and others don’t work at all.  Somehow, there’s always something keeping us from getting together. 

One of the casualties of this life we live is that we don’t get to see our friends as often as we’d like to, or nearly as often as we should.  I regret the fact that my strange working hours and hermit-like tendencies keep me from catching up with the fellas more, these days it seems I only see them once a quarter, on a good quarter.  But the one day that is, and probably always will be, reserved for them is this day.  May kendo 26th is reserved for this bunch of men who are obsessed with the game, and I’m not talking about that bunch of idiots who know nothing other than Premier League, these buggers are the chaps who gush over old matches from the 70’s on ESPN Classic.  They have been known to watch women’s Under 21 football.  Wait, that doesn’t help their case, does it?  These men are sports junkies like no others I know, and bless them they are kind enough to let me weigh in after half a season of no shows on my part.  They patiently bring me up to speed on what I’ve missed, not laughing at my occasional ignorance, reciting all manner of unnecessary stats, because they know I love a good useless statistic.  See, not only do they entertain me, they educate my ass in the process, and its brilliant.  Which is why this one night of the year is all theirs, bila question.

Saturday night we gathered at what used to be the local, before the yuppies showed up and desecrated it with their too tight clothing and loud disco music.  It was the wrong time to be meeting up for a drink up, what with the fellas in the midst of organising one guy’s wedding, and by organising I mean devoting all available resources to planning the stag night next week.  For some of us it wasn’t pay day yet, and the wallets were disconcertingly empty.  Some of us were working Sunday.  Some of us had drama going on at home.  But all of us still felt the need to sit down on this one sacred night, to enjoy what is almost always good football, in the company of good friends.  Last night did not disappoint.  I was only with them for three hours, but in those three hours I remembered just why I like spending time with the fellas.  Thing is, I like the woman I am when I’m around them, and not just because that woman is more relaxed and generally merrier.  That woman is much more like the happy go lucky girl I used to be many years ago, before life and love took their toll, before I started thinking way too hard about things I couldn’t control, before I stopped making new friends at the drop of a hat, before I started looking at strangers with suspicion and calling everyone an idiot. 

For all their foolishness, and those men can be quite foolish when they put their minds to it (which happens pretty often, just for the record), these men remind me that there’s more to my life than work, and that I’m not as lonely as I sometimes feel, sitting in my house by myself, watching Statham and Co.  Old friends remind me who I am, who I’ve always been.  They look past the superficial changes made every so often, instead preferring to see the unchanging core.  My old friends know that despite whatever issues I may be going through, that girl they’ve known and loved for many years is somewhere buried underneath all the layers of bullshit I feel the need to cover myself with from time to time, in my attempt to fashion myself into the ever elusive ‘better woman’.  All they need to do is pull her back out into the sun (LED lighting in this case), force her to laugh at her own foolishness, stick a few drinks into her and she’s good as new.  My old friends keep me grounded, they keep me from losing sight of what matters, and all that matters is knowing who you are and what is truly important, to you. 

I keep saying I go to the bar to lose myself, often creating a more relaxed alter ego to match my carefree persona, a persona that makes it easier to get away from my life, if only for a couple of hours.  This week I realised that what I thought was an alter ego is not as much of an act as I thought it was.  That ‘loose like a langa’ mama is the mama I used to be.  My alter ego is ‘Champions League final night (not) Alex’, and after last night I’ve decided she needs to make an appearance throughout, and not just when I go out to destress, once in a long while.  This year, I’m going to spend a bit more time with old friends whose company I have sorely missed, because those lovely idiots know how to make me see life more clearly.  Admittedly through the bottom of a whiskey glass, but hey, that’s what friends are for, no?

Confessions of a (possibly drunk) stranger.

I like going to the bar on a loose weekday, late in the evening when my day has finally wound down and I’m looking to de-stress for a couple of hours.  Problem is, it’s the middle of the week, thus not too many idiots are up for a drink at 11.00 pm, and because of this most inconvenient fact, I tend to make said trip to the bar all by my lonesome.  Sounds depressing, no?  It isn’t, oddly enough, but that’s probably because I tend to go the local, or the almost local, where I know a couple of the regulars and the barmen, and can therefore sit in relative peace without a random idiot attempting to funga my ass.  At least that’s usually the plan.  Thing is, us Kenyans are generally a chatty bunch, often feeling the need to converse with strangers, especially female strangers, in a bar, all by her lonesome.  A woman alone at a table won’t get bothered, I’ve found, save for the creepy staring from a distance, but sit at the counter and lo and behold… 

It is for this reason, along with my uncanny ability to attract lonely souls (kindred spirits, I wonder?), that I often end up in deep conversation with a strange man, a man who upon meeting me, 5 minutes earlier, immediately feels the need to share his life story with me.  I may wander into the local looking to lose myself in the noise for a couple of hours, but more often than not I end up talking to one or more of the fellas about their woman problems, because woman problems must be shared at the counter, with a woman, no?  No.  Now I must cut the figure of a wise woman (stop laughing), because these geniuses keep turning to me for ‘a female perspective’, expecting me to make sense of the occasionally stupid shit they do.  They figure, for the hefty price of a double, I am only too willing to counsel their confused behinds, all bloody night long.  While I was sitting there having random conversations with random strangers, I inadvertently became the woes whisperer. That was the beginning of my own woes...

You know how I keep saying you need to listen, really listen to what a man is saying?  Turns out I may have been wrong on that one.  After yet another evening of random conversation with a stranger at the almost local, it has dawned upon me that men are just as duplicitous as women, perhaps even more so. 

These are my confessions,
Just when I thought I said all I can say,

My chick on the side, said she got one on the way,
These are my confessions,

Man I'm throwed and I don't know what to do,
I guess I gotta give part 2 of my confessions,
If I'm gonna tell it, then I gotta tell it all,
Damn near cried when I got that phone call,

I'm so throwed, I don't know what to do, 

But to give part 2 of my confessions...

This lovely stranger (no longer a stranger I guess, now that I’ve had random conversations with him more than three times) is a fascinating study in the complexity of the Kenyan man.  The first time I met him, he found me in deep conversation with one of the regulars, his pal.  He was seated a couple of stools down the counter with his woman, a woman I noticed because she was exceedingly beautiful, and exceedingly drunk.  As the night wore on, and the crowd began to thin out, I found myself right next to them, and I struck up a conversation with said woman.  Well, as much of a conversation as you can have with a drunken woman, but that’s beside the point.  Ms Drunk and Lovely was gushing over her man, talking about how kind he is, and how much she loooves him…  I was suitably smitten with her to not ask too many questions, preferring instead to bask in the glow of their, umm, love.  Yes, they’re that couple.  ‘Which couple?’ you ask.  The one that engages in very public displays of affection, but not the nasty kind that involves sticking tongues down throats, more like the gentle kiss on the forehead every two minutes.  Aaaaawwww…  What?  I am nothing if not a romantic, no?  Probably not. 

Imagine my surprise when, a couple of weeks later, I run into said man at the counter, alone this time, and as we talk he starts to paint a slightly less rosy picture of the aforementioned love.  I made the mistake of asking him where his lovely lady was and that set him off.  He started off with how much he loves her, then it became how hard marriage was, and how he doesn’t like it when she drinks too much, and how sometimes he doesn’t want to go home, and then back to how much he loves her, he loves her so much.  FYI, that’s a typical counter conversation, ‘the good (love), the bad (pain) and the ugly (sex)’.  So the man tells me (almost) everything, then we drink a bit more, then everyone goes home and gets on with their lives.  Only a couple of weeks later, I happen to find out that part of what he told me was a bit of a lie, this from one of the regulars, after I enquired as to his and his wife’s whereabouts.  ‘Wife?  What wife?’ my pal asked, confused.  Turns out, the marriage bit was not entirely accurate, and by that I mean she is not his wife, but his girlfriend.  And yes, there is a wife, somewhere.  Say it with me…Hmmm…  Thing is, when you find out that a significant part of the story is false, makes you wonder, how much of the rest is true? 

Another random conversation later, back with the (occasionally) married man, and this time I steered clear of the ‘wife’ story, figuring that if he went to the trouble of concocting that elaborate cover, then it was a ruse worth maintaining.  Far be it for me to question another’s tales of love and happiness, and woes.  Thinking about it, I realised that he wasn’t looking to deceive me for some nefarious purpose (he wasn’t trying to funga me), he was just looking to paint his situation a less lurid shade of red.  His misrepresentation of facts was simply his way avoiding the ‘What about your wife?’ conversation, a conversation that tends to come up whenever a married man talks to another woman about his girlfriend.  Despite the fact that he was talking to a stranger, he still felt the need to edit his story, because the whole point of the conversation was to find a sympathetic ear and there is nothing a drunk bastard loves more than sympathy (except maybe a sympathy shag, they love that too).  Put differently, you’re allowed to bitch about your wife in the bar, but to bitch about your girlfriend, when you have a wife, well that’s just bad form, no?     

Fast forward a couple of months later, and I’m back at the counter, and who do I chance upon?  That’s right, the happy couple, or not so happy, depending on what time of night you meet them (they’re also that couple, the dramatic types who have silly, passionate fights at 3 in the morning, kissing and making up before they get to the car), and as always they’re both waxing lyrical about how lovely the other is, while I’m sitting there thinking, ‘I want whatever they’re smoking, because that’s some good shit!’  In my conversations with them since, neither one has ever brought up the wife/girlfriend issues, not even when they’re at their most drunk (which happens disturbingly often, because they’re that couple, the one that gets drunk, always).  I assume that despite the occasional drinks we share every so often, we are still strangers, and therefore must continue to maintain the façade, each of us playing the role we have carefully constructed for ourselves within those four walls.  

And thus we get to the point of this long-winded tale.

Damn, how does she bring it up, how does she break it down,
Man you at the clinic, dawg slow down that's yo child,
But if you keep it, then you gotta tell your girl you was cheatin’,
And you went raw dog when you beat it,
That's when she gon' tell you to beat it…

I’ve finally realised that any conversation had at the bar counter must, by necessity, consist of half truths, misrepresentations, and, surprisingly, brutal honesty.  Any less and all you’re doing is having a bit of a wank on someone else’s tab.  Don’t worry, this isn’t just about talking to strangers in bars, despite how it must look right now, I’m not that much of a lush (yet?).  This is about talking.  I’ve learnt that when we have conversations with random strangers, more often than not we choose to omit the less than savoury details of our lives, not because we’re deliberately trying to be dishonest, but because talking to a stranger gives us the opportunity to reinvent ourselves.  Talking to a stranger is a chance to give your story, the way you think your story needs to be told, rewriting the fairy tale, so to speak.  Thing is, talking to a stranger is also an invaluable opportunity to get an outsider’s view of your insides, it’s a chance to unload your deepest, darkest crap without fear of repercussions.  A genuine conversation, one without the whitewash bullshit typical of PR campaigns (read attempts to get laid, or paid), can be revealing, liberating even, but it doesn’t work if you spend half the time concealing what you’d most like to reveal. 

Today’s soundtrack is a BOGOF, ‘Confessions Part II’, the original and the Jermaine Dupri remix featuring Shyne, Twista and Kanye West.  The former is one of my favourite Usher jams, in part because of the most excellent video that involved him taking off his shirt (Ah Usher…sorry, I drifted off in a fog of vague lust…), but mostly because it was refreshingly honest, even though, as it turns out, the song wasn’t actually about him.  The remix, continuation is a better word to describe it, the continuation is better, and I don’t say this lightly.  Press play and skip to 1:00, the rap by Shyne, recorded on the phone while he was in jail; its 30 seconds of perhaps the finest rapping I’ve heard in a long time (please keep in mind that I listen to rap three times a year, on average).  This Shyne fellow has a most intriguing bio, in case you’re interested, he was convicted his involvement in the night club shooting incident in N.Y. (yes, that shooting, the one that led to J-Lo dumping Diddy and finding a slightly less ghetto (read more white) man).  These lyrics are his confession, I assume…

Sittin' in my cell, head about to burst,

Wouldn’t be alive if I didn't shoot first,
Had it made, sorry for the ricochet,
but I’d be in da grave if I didn't let it spray.
I never said that I was perfect,
Nobody walkin’ on this earth is,
That night, I would've gotten murdered,
If I ain’t grab the ratchet and let them cowards have it…

I just came here to dance, dammit!

Today’s soundtrack is what passed for club music in the 80’s, back when (I assume) dancing was slightly more sedate, and men wore suits to the club (at least on TV).  Freddie Jackson is the daddy of all things R&B, and I will have no conversation on this matter.  The man is, was, a small god, and this song is my misguided idea of a ‘getting dressed to go out’, ‘building up to the party’ track.  That’s right, my geriatric ass will be found swaying to his disturbingly excellent voice as I pick out a fulana for the trip to the local, the old(-ish?) school vibes getting me stepping in rhythm to his funky syncopation.  Yes, I used the word syncopation, because I am old, and I know what it means.  If this song does not get you swaying…  I was going to threaten to slap you, but that’s a bit pointless, because you’re clearly defective enough as is.  Younglings, this is what a song about going out used to sound like, long before alcohol and sex became the theme of our party nights…

Tell me why you came here,

Was it just to sit and stare,

Won’t you come go with me,

Take out some time,

If you lend me a hand,

I know that we could jam,

Let’s get on down right now,

Let’s get on down,

Now don’t you wanna jam tonight…

My people, if one more man tries to funga me in the bar, so help me I will slap that bloody idiot, in the balls.  I mean really, enough!  This is the problem with going out to the bar alone, such as I often do, you open yourself up to all manner of propositions, most not welcome.  I’ve gotten to the point where I’m scared to talk to random strangers, because at one point in the night, the man will decide, erroneously, to whisper in my ear just how much he wants to get laid, often after we’ve just finished having a detailed conversation about his girlfriend/wife/clande/mistress/regular ho.  What the hell?  Is there something I don’t know?  Does the fact that I’m willing to talk to you, maybe even dance with you, is that code for ‘I want to shag you’?  Because if it is, then I must look like the biggest langa in the bar… 

Here’s the thing, I live alone, and for the most part I work alone.  I don’t talk to too many people, hell, there are times I go for days on end without any conversation with someone other than myself.  Its not that I don’t like people (although perhaps I don’t), it’s just the nature of my work, and life.  So when I trudge down to the bar for a bit of wine and off-key singing, I’m looking for distraction, happy to have random conversations with whoever happens to be sitting on the next stool.  I’m not looking to funga anyone, I’m not even looking to meet a man, seeing as how I’m convinced the worst place to find a man is at the counter, what with his beer goggles and my paranoid distrust of anyone who tries to derail me when my guard has been artificially lowered by booze.  In as much as I realise that many men are looking for a random lay, and that striking up a conversation, flirting, or buying a girl a drink, is part of the seduction routine, surely you buggers can tell when a woman is just being friendly and when she’s looking to jump your bones?  Can you not tell that a random conversation is just that, random?  Can you not see that my dancing with you is simply me dancing with you, because I like to dance, and you like to dance?  Can you not see that?

Apparently not.

You know who I blame for this sad state of affairs?  I’ll tell you, it’s the women’s fault.  That’s right, I blame all the snooty women who refuse to talk to strange men in bars, unless they look a certain way, or sound a certain way, or drink the right drink, or buy the right drink, or wear the right jeans, or dance the right way…  Do you know what happens to all these men who are constantly being ignored?  I’ll tell you what happens, they resort to propositioning idiots like me, foolish langas who don’t have the good sense to ignore them.  That’s right, the reason strange men hit on my ass is because I show them a bit of attention, which in their addled brains means I must like them, like that.  Listen here, you foolish women, we need to train these buggers to think differently, and hopefully approach us differently.  All it takes is you getting off your snooty little behind, stop assuming that every man who approaches you in the bar is looking to shag you, and talk to the bastard.  Let him buy you a drink if he wants.  Dance with the bugger.  It’s not that serious, is it?    

Don’t you wanna, don’t, don’t you wanna,

Jam…

Perhaps it is.  Perhaps the fact that I’m not the hottest of women is the reason why I cannot comprehend why a woman willingly ignores a man looking to talk to her for a minute or two.  Perhaps the fact that I’m not constantly swatting off unwelcome advances means that I have a higher tolerance for idiots.  Perhaps the fact that I do not think I am the shit is the reason why I am only too happy to spend a bit of time with someone who is also not the shit.  Perhaps I’m just old enough to know better than to assign sexual motives to every idiot in the bar.  Or perhaps I’m just too foolish to know better?

Sometime in December, one of the lovely gentlemen I meet up with at Karaoke every once in a while propositioned my ass, in a most blatant fashion.  I only met the man in October or thereabouts, he’s a friend of a very good, very old friend, a friend I trust so implicitly that his people automatically become my people, by default, because that’s how we do.  Shock on me when, after assuming that the new friendship I was forming was just that, harmless friendship (because he’s my pal’s pal and therefore a no go zone, plus he’s married), this genius steps up to me and tells me he wants to fuck me, immediately.  I have not paraphrased.  ‘Eh?’ was my studied response, my thought process (clearly) dulled by the cheap red I’d imbibed.  I have never fled a bar so fast, this after I gave him an unequivocal, ‘No!’  See, its one thing to be hit on, it’s another thing for a man to try and funga your ass, that way.  To my mind, hitting on me is an expression of desire, possibly misplaced, but desire nonetheless.  Trying to funga my ass, on the other hand, is an expression of lust, yours not mine.  At that point, the man had reduced me to nothing more than a warm hole for him to stick his dick into, and that’s just plain unacceptable behaviour.  Gentlemen, if you ever learn anything from this blog, let it be this.  A good come on leaves a woman feeling like the shit.  A bad come on leaves her feeling like shit.  Try not to make us feel like shit, will you?

Come on and sing along,

Do whatever you feel as long,

As you have a good time that’s all,

Just have a good time,

Don’t you wanna jam tonight…

The bar scene is given much more significance than it deserves, and all because we’re a bunch of lazy idiots who don’t have the good sense to learn seduction 101, preferring the artificial scene of tight clothing and dim lighting, fuelled by alcohol and/or other, as our source of all things sexual.  Listen here, not everyone in there is looking to hook up with your allegedly fine ass, and that goes for both men and women.  Sometimes, as unlikely as it sounds, a stranger just wants to have some good conversation and unwind.  I know, who’d have thunk it?  Listen, you buggers, why the hell should I have to change my ‘loose like a langa’ ways, because some men erroneously presume me a langa, because it’s (allegedly) only the langas who dance with random men in bars?  Nkt!  That’s right, I dance with strange men.  Not any strange man, mind you, but if I’m dancing with a bunch of guys I know, and then someone else joins the group, I’ll dance with his ass too (and the same goes for having a loose drink, because I know that one swallow doth not a bloody summer make).  I come from a generation that liked to dance in the club, really dance, and I have no qualms with swaying gently to the soothing tunes of ‘Lady In Red’, even with a stranger (admittedly not a complete stranger, just someone whose last name I don’t know).  It’s just a dance, dammit, it’s not like I grabbed your ass or something… 

That I have issues with our funga culture has been well documented on these pages.  That I have no objection to (preferably good) sex has also been documented herein.  So trust me when I tell you that our bar scene has lost its way.  I don’t know if this is true of every bar, but it seems to me that these days one can’t simply go out to have a good time, a good time that does not involve going home with someone.  I’m all for sexual liberation and what not, but some of us go the bar to kick back and get our drink/dance/sing on, and nothing else.  I will gladly talk to you, I will let you buy me a drink, and most probably I will buy you one in return just for good measure, I may even dance a jig or two with you.  But I have no intention of shagging you.  I may be loose (read easy going), but I’m not that loose (read easy).  Gentlemen, are you hearing me?  Are you really?  Good.  Now please stop telling me about your bloody boner, useless wankers… 

These days, slightly older and marginally wiser, when I go to the bar I stay close to the fellas, they who know I do not want to shag them, never straying further than a couple of idiots away.  And when I talk to a random stranger, I do not flirt… that’s a lie, I do flirt, because flirting is fun, and good for the ego, but I do not do anything more than mild flirting, not even so much as a saucy wink.  I do not dance too close to a man, lest he gets the wrong idea, and I do not let him touch anything other than my arm (lower, not upper), because apparently letting a man put his arm around your waist leads him to believe that you plan on sucking his dick in the very near future (I’m not joking, these buggers really are a bit delusional).  These days, I’m so busy weaving through potential mine fields in the shape of drunk, horny men, I can’t even relax enough to get my high on.  What is this world coming to when a woman can’t get drunk enough in a bar to let her damn hair down? 

I wanna jam, I wanna jam with you baby yeah,

Come on, let’s do it the way we love to do,

Let’s jam the night away…

Still haven't found...

I’m at karaoke listening to a bunch of men sing the most syrupy ballad ever, one that challenges every definition of masculinity I have ever had. And they’re loving it! Go figure. See, all this time I've been thinking you buggers have the emotions of a torn sieve and yet here they are, a bunch of grown ass men crooning away to a Celine Dion song like their lives depend on it... Eh?  When did men get emotions?  Now there’s a bugger singing Bette Midler...

My friend, this is live blogging, yawa! But do I say...

I’ve had a weird week. Random conversations with various characters I barely know have left me convinced that for all our differences, we’re really not all that different.  I know, that doesn’t sound like a dramatic revelation, but it is, especially for someone who has always thought that being an ‘individual’ is more important that ‘fitting in’ and being part of the crowd.  This ‘human condition’ jive seems to be more real than I thought…

And now the manager just bought me a drink... This night will not end well, karibu I funga my pal, he that is currently chasing a woman with a spectacular ass, and not much else it would seem.  I’m just saying, she wouldn’t have given him a second look if he wasn’t light-skinned, and by light-skinned I mean Indian.  Seems at 2 in the morning, anything goes, which then begs the question, why am I sitting here typing out a post on phone instead of trying to get my ass taken home by a (seemingly) attractive stranger?  She pauses and looks up, scanning the room for prospects, but sees none, the room being crowded as it is with young attractive females in very tight jeans and ankle boots (slight detour, did I miss the fashion memo?  All the girls in here are wearing the same outfit, complete with matching hair…very peculiar…), and only 4 grown men (I refuse to count the boys who look like they finished high school not too long ago, despite their thumb-sucking hotness), of whom 3 are idiots I know better than I’d like, and the last one has absolutely no interest in me. 

Lakini, I must tell you about that one bugger who is immune to my (and I say this in complete jest) charms.  That bugger shot me down, yaani, alinilenga na madharau.  What!!!  I have not felt that small since I was 28 and my brother’s friend, he whom I had been (not so) secretly lusting after, introduced me to his friends as his ‘little sister’.  Yes, the ground does in fact open up and swallow you if you pray hard enough, either that or its just the feeling of shrinking till you’re about 2 inches tall that makes you feel like you’ve just sunk to previously unknown depths.  Stop laughing at me, I know you know what I’m talking about, no?  No?  Shit.  Back to the bastard at the bar.  The man not only looked right through me, he then walked off and began chatting up one of the aforementioned young girls dressed in what I suspect is the new Kenya uniform (she did look quite spectacular, though).  I sat there, stunned, for a minute, and then I gathered up my skirts and skulked back to the counter, into the arms of my langa pals, who at that point were rolling on the floor in evil laughter.  Again I ask, what???  Still, the night has picked up somewhat, I was proclaimed ‘one of the boys’ soon thereafter, in honour of my bold and audacious, yet ultimately unsuccessful, attempt, and I’m now currently enjoying the third of what appears to be a never ending stream of free drinks.  I keep saying this, a willingness to humiliate yourself in public will earn you unlimited quantities of tequila.  Feel free to quote me the next time you go down in a blaze of shameless glory…

I must stop doing this, I’m starting to look a bit pathetic now, plus I’m a bit concerned that I can type on the phone, half drunk, at 2:34 am.  If I met me in the bar, doing this, I’d be a bit scared.  Then again, I am me, so what the hell, no?  No.  I will pick this up when I’m sober, and alone.  

Fast forward to a couple of nights later…

This ‘one of the boys’ story is the source of great humour in my life.  Apparently, I think I like a man, or so I’m told, only I don’t get it, because I don’t understand men, clearly.  At best, I figure, I’m a bit of a hybrid, many years spent in the company of mostly men has essentially infused me with certain male characteristics, for instance, the ability to use the word ‘fuck’ as a noun, pronoun, verb, adverb, adjective and conjunction (coarse language is for the most part a male trait and it takes a woman with a very sexy voice to pull it off.  I do not have a very sexy voice, but I make up for it with my brilliant mind, and a variety of hand gestures…).  Back in the day I used to love it, being ‘one of the boys’, I figured life was much easier when I could blend in with my environment, and my environment was very, very male, but eventually it gets a bit old, once you realise that for all the talk, you’ll always pee sitting down, and not on the side of the road.  These days, I’ll sit at the counter and talk dirty with the boys, then I’ll stand up and adjust my boobies, and wander off to chat up a sweet young thing, as girly as I can pull off (which, just for the record, is not much, see earlier incident as reference), then I’ll go back to the boys and give them a most filthy run down of the conversation I’ve just had, complete with hand gestures.  It’s the best of both worlds, no?  Perhaps not.

Some time back, Jackson Biko wrote about women in his Mantalk column (One of the Boys), I guess I should say women like me, except that I don’t think what he wrote was entirely accurate.  He said, and I quote, “And that’s the one limitation to being One of the Boys; for the longest time she has the enviable privilege of knowing the uncensored thinking of a man, privy to such dirty laundry and the mannerism of men that when she outgrows that role – and they usually do – she goes into a relationship with so much baggage that it takes years of ‘exorcism’ for it not to spill over into her new relationship.”  Thing is, I think he has it backwards, its the baggage that drives a woman to become one of the boys, not the other way around.  Any time you meet a woman who is aggressively avoiding her femininity (and I do agree that a woman who is seen to be ‘one of the boys’ is in some ways a bit butch), there’s a story buried there, it could be as simple as basic rebellion or as complex as daddy issues.  More often than not, these women are slightly fucked up individuals (as we all are, no?), and the drama that ensues when she tries to find a man has nothing to do with her friends and everything to do with her (as is the case with all of us, no?). 

I know you’re sitting there thinking, ‘Nkt!  She’s defending herself, the foolish cow…’ but I’m not, simply because, despite what my idiot friends tell me, I do not consider myself ‘one of the boys’, and I know now that I never was.  See what these men don’t, and probably can’t, tell me, is that I will never truly be one of them.  No really, never.  We can spend a long evening watching football and discussing the merits of 3D porn (don’t ask), but when its time to go home, they will see me to my car and make sure I get home safe, because I’m a girl.  They are only too happy to throw drinks my way, and happily take the drinks I throw right back at them, but they will strap me down in my chair if they think I’m too drunk to be making eyes at a stranger, or if the stranger is too drunk to be making eyes at me.  They will call me up in the middle of the day for my professional opinion, that which they claim to respect greatly, then turn around and accuse me of making ‘emotional’ (read female), and not professional, decisions when I tell them I turned down a job because I didn’t share the client’s vision. 

I used to think it was chauvinist of them to constantly treat me like a girl, and I often complained about what I thought were double standards, until one day it finally clicked, for all their talk, they can never forget that I’m female.  Thing is, when a man treats you like a woman, a competent woman, but a woman nonetheless, turns out he’s showing you respect.  I like that I’m good enough friends with my male friends to be treated as an equal, albeit an equal who occasionally insists on having girly conversations about feelings and such like rubbish, but at the same time they still treat me with the respect accorded to a lady…well, perhaps lady is too strong a word, let’s use woman instead.  I used to think that fitting in with them meant I had to muzzle the female in me, but I learnt, through them, that a large part of the reason I was part of the group was because I’m female.  They like that I have a different perspective, that I reason differently (I would say more clearly, but I’m a cocky female so…), that I show them the other side of the equation, and that I look better in a skirt than they ever will. 

So what does this, a grown man singing Bette Midler’s ‘Wind beneath my wings’, my humiliating rejection at the hands of a stranger and my mboys, all have in common?  It’s the human condition.  We’re all out here looking for the same things, love, respect, meaning, maybe even gratification, who knows?  We’re not that different, you and I, except for the troubling fact that my spelling improves when I’m under the influence of greater spirits.  

Hang on, I should have written that bugger a note instead, no?  No, that would just be odd.

I have run, I have crawled,
I have scaled these city walls, these city walls,
Only to be with you,
But I still haven't found what I'm looking for…

Not to offend the diehard U2 fans, and I consider myself one of the many, but the cover by The Chimes absolutely kicks ass.  I’m just saying, this song was meant to be sung by a black woman, and from what I’ve read about it, I think Bono and Co. would agree. 

Thaate fae!

I recently discovered I have a six octave voice.  Granted the higher 4 octaves are complete and utter crap, but they’re there, so there!  Dammit, I can saaang!  Or not.  Turns out I sound like a cross between Barry White and Ol‘ Dirty Bastard, and not in a good way (if a good way is even possible in that tantalizing mash-up).  Thats right, I sound like a (possibly illiterate) man when I sing.  Oh joy! 

Last week, in frustration, I went off in search of Karaoke, because I figured, how better to celebrate the anniversary of the auspicious occasion that was my day of birth than to sing a song of joy, in front of a bunch of strangers?  Woooiiiiiiii…  Folks, there’s a reason my musical career never took off back in the day (I was in a school musical once), it would appear that I can only sing three songs, and only when I’m completely sober.  Throw in a bit of booze and things go pear shaped, very fast.  I have vague recollection of butchering a Toni Braxton song so badly I had to apologise to the masses therein, they who were so inebriated they probably couldn’t tell what it was I massacred, thankfully.  Word of wisdom, if you ever get it into your head to get up and sing at karaoke, do not, ever, do a song you do not know back to front, instruments included.  It will end very badly, I know this for a fact.    

I’ve had a crap week.  A project I’m working on imploded, suddenly and without warning, and I was the idiot left to pick up the pieces, and take the flak in the process.  My friend, I was shouted at by so many different people, for so many different reasons, I lost track of what fire I was putting out where.  By Thursday, I was so knackered I couldn’t face the thought of another whipping, so I cleared my Friday morning and decided to get absolutely, positively shit-faced.  No really, the plan was to wrap myself in a blanket on my (almost a) balcony and drink the better part of whatever bottle I’d stashed under my sink.  That’s where I keep the good shit, by the way, where my good-for-nothing scrounger (not) friends will never think to look (insert bitchy laugh here………….).  Slight detour, I’m tired of cheapass bastards rocking up at my door to drink my (perhaps not quite) top shelf whiskey, this when all they usually drink is day old instant whisky (no ‘e’ in the cheap stuff), the likes of Johnnie ‘engine cleaning fluid’ Red.  Boss, you earn kendo three times what I do and you’re too cheap to buy single malt, or even the black thingi?  Nkt!  Kumbafu wewe!  I’m no longer sharing the good stuff with stingy, greedy bastards, mkikuja kwangu nitakupatia VAT 69, lakini kwa chupa ya Chivas.  Idiots won’t know the difference will they?  Say it with me…NKT!  I apologise for that bile-filled detour, that has been bothering me for a while now, but I feel better having gotten it off my chest.  Moving on swiftly… 

So the plan was to get very drunk, by myself.  But then I thought, after the year I’ve had, surely this is the one night I should not be alone, that is simply unacceptable, no?  And with that most brilliant reasoning, I put down my drink, the first of the evening mind you, cast aside my blanket, put on the 4-inch high boots and drove myself to the bar.  To sing.  Allow me to explain why that is significant.

First up, I’m not short.  I’m not obscenely tall either, but tall enough that when I put on heels, I am, unfortunately, a couple of inches taller than the average Kenyan man (assuming the average is 5’8” or thereabouts).  Now I rarely wear heels when going clubbing because it skews the field (against me) somewhat, plus they hurt like a bitch to dance in, no?  But that night the heels were put on, because I was in no mood to entertain any advances of any sort, I had a mission and I was sticking to it, I was going to drink, and sing, and then drink a bit more.  No dancing, on or around tables, and no getting distracted by a foolish man looking for a random midweek shag.  I know, it sounds strange, but there it is, a short and possibly useless guide to not getting funga’d, I’ve learnt there’s something about having to look up at a woman that scares a man away.  I’m not being height-ist, I’m just saying, there’s not too many men interested in hooking up with a taller mama, and by hooking up I mean shag.  I suspect I will receive hate mail for that one, but know that if you bitch then I’ll know for sure you’re a midget (insert evil laugh here............).

The second reason I’m telling you this tale is that I don’t sing in bars, or anywhere else for that matter.  Ever.  I’ve only done Karaoke once before, in said bar, and I had no intention of ever repeating the experience, despite my love for a good tune.  Like I said, my vocal ability is a bit suspect (perhaps more than a bit), but that’s not why I don’t like to sing in public, it’s just that I don’t like to be the centre of attention.  I know, this from the woman with the borderline porno blog?  Really?  Yes, really, you sceptical bastards.  Given the chance I’m content to remain in the background, propping up the counter, generally being nondescript to the point of invisible.  I don’t go to the bar to court attention, just the opposite in fact, I go to lose myself in the crowd.  The reason I went to sing on this particular night?  Because the best way to put your problems into perspective, I’ve found, is to get some distance from them.  When I’m in the middle of shit I can’t handle, I like to get out of my cocoon and pretend to be someone else, at least for a couple of hours, the booze helping the process of transformation (sometimes), and by the time I get back to myself I can usually see the forest from the trees.  Going to sing to a room full of strangers was a break from my normally uptight, introvert self, I was going to play make-believe for a couple of hours in the hope that the break would clear my head, and it did.  The fact that I was celebrating was simply an excuse to do something out of character, if not on this one day then when, right?

The last reason for the ‘I went out to sing’ tale?  I don’t like strangers, at all.  And I don’t go to strange bars by myself.  Ever.  Granted, I’d been to this bar before a couple of times, but always in the company of a certain special gentleman.  I didn’t expect to meet him there (although he rocked up at one point), in fact I didn’t expect to meet anyone I knew there save for the barman, a lovely youngling who I could just eat right up (if I was in a cradle-snatching frame of mind, which I’m not, yet…).  I was flying solo.  I didn’t feel like calling anyone up, because I didn’t really want to talk to anyone, because that would inevitably lead to talking about my problems, the ones I was running away from.  I went by myself.  And it was fucking brilliant!  I sat at the counter, made ‘friends’ with the lovely (yet slightly unstable) young lady next to me, then the couple on the other side, then the chaps at the next table, then the guys at the far end of the counter (two of whom I’d met on previous visits with Mr Man).  Hell, by the end of the night it was practically my local, I was the (wo)man!  Turns out, a willingness to humiliate yourself in front of strangers will earn you some affection, and tequila. 

I’ve just realised I don’t remember where this was supposed to go.  Bloody hell…  I know I started this with some brilliant life lesson I intended to pass on, but now for the life of me I cannot recall what it was.  Does this happen to the rest of you bloggers or am I just spectacularly crap at this shit?  Ah well…  Guess it wasn’t a very brilliant thought, no? 

Folks, that’s how I spent the first few hours of my birthday this week, singing, nay, howling Toni Braxton and Bill Withers, among others (not including Barry White, this time), in a bar half full of strangers, and a man it would appear I will never figure out (he vexes me…), and a barman who I fear is too young to abuse, despite apparent willingness (he really is quite delicious, bloody jail bait!).  I got to hear a shy girl sing the fuck out of a couple of Adele tracks, and as an added bonus, the following day I sorted out my work shit, or at least I figured out how to cope with the shit flowing my way.  In my book, it was a night very well spent, no?  Ladies and gentlemen, I am now old enough to tell you to bite my ass, as and well I feel so led.  I’ve been around for a minute, or two, and dammit if it hasn’t been a fucking brilliant ride, perhaps occasionally just plain fucked up. 

I’m assuming that when I eventually stagger out of the mess that is my week/weekend/month, I shall have something more profound to share with you, but until then, here’s to the next ‘thaate fae’!