Valentines may be for the lovers, but Christmas is for the ho's...

Aaaahhhh… lovely, lovely December.

The holidays are here and with them come the shameless gluttony and mindless pursuit of pleasure that’s characteristic of the end of days. I don’t know if it’s the new year on the horizon, with its promises of a fresh start, or the waning days of the old year, the last kicks of a dying horse, but for some reason December is the one month of the year when foolishness is not just permitted, it’s expected. This is the month I can wear sequins to the disco and no one will ask me why I’m subjecting them to torture of my reflective clothings. This is the month you can get shit faced drunk and make out with the accountant (ideally at your staff party) and the following week she’ll still pay you, plus a bonus if you were a gentleman. This is the month you can drive into the city centre at 1.00 pm, on a weekday, and find parking outside The Stanley. This is the month you can go to church at midnight and sing a hallelujah, and no one will arrest you, or exorcise your demons. This is the month you can send the kids to cucu’s for a week and they (parents and children alike) don’t hate your ass for the next sixth months. And this is the month, say it with me, this is the month... you can walk up to a complete stranger in a bar/club/coffee shop/church...well, maybe not church... and offer them your (Christmas) present, and past and future if you got game, and you will not be slapped in return. Aaaahhhh...the holidays! It’s like Valentines for single people...

Just in case I’m not being clear, I like Christmas, and for all the wrong reasons.

Today’s track is off the soundtrack to Love Actually, my favourite Christmas movie, if only because its not all happily ever after.  I originally meant to put up the brilliant yet horrible Billy Mack corruption of Wet Wet Wet’s ‘Love is all around’, but then I remembered this more fitting song, ‘All I want for Christmas is you’.  I realise the sweet sentiment of the song is in conflict with the general tone of this post, but its such a happy song even my jaded ass couldn’t resist its charms.  I apologise for the possible sacrilege, and for possibly using the lyrics in a questionable context…

I don't want a lot for Christmas
There's just one thing I need
I don't care about presents
Underneath the Christmas tree
I just want you for my own
More than you could ever know
Make my wish come true...
All I want for Christmas
Is you...

I’m looking for my Santa, a bringer of joy and giver of gifts of great size, I mean value, great value. I’m waiting for a bugger in red trousers to climb down my chimney and up my tree, put up my tinsel and deck my hall with holly, light my roaring fire and smother my dying embers, make me say, nay scream out, hallelujah!

Did I mention I really like Christmas?

If you’re single, or otherwise unattached, this December, you need to put on your shiniest dress and go hunting, you will get lucky. There are all manner of idiots out and about; (not) disposable cash burning a hole in their pockets; libidos gleefully unleashed from the tyranny of the six day workweek and endless congestion that make up our daily lives; morals at an all time low, either thanks to constant inebriation, or soul crushing loneliness, or the absence of the oh so moral brigade, out of town with their families or spending all night in church. Single people, this is our time to run this town! See, while the philandering bastards are all off playing happy families, and therefore no longer skewing the market against you, and the greedy gold diggers and senseless party chasers have run off to the coast to follow or lose their money bags, the city is left to the ones with no (evil?) plan. Odds are if you meet a fellow singleton wandering the streets aimlessly on December 24th, they’re loose and looking for a plan, any plan, especially a plan in shiny dress like yours.  Season of goodwill and cheer, no?

You’re not buying this are you?

The problem with us mature single people is that we refuse to see the silver lining in the clouds of our lives.  Odds are you’ll sit at home moping, because all your couple friends are off having brilliant couple holidays and basking in their love, this while your pathetic behind is stuck watching Bridget Jones (or The Expendables for the gents amongst us) for the umpteenth time, singing along to Celine Dion’s ‘All By Myself’.  Now look here people, it doesn’t have to be this way.  This is no time for staying home alone, you need to get your sexy ass off the couch and into a suitably sexy number, and then wander down to a well decorated room filled with lovely strangers.  I promise you, you will find like minded individuals looking to lose themselves in a holiday fling.  That’s right, I said holiday fling.  What’s that?  You say you’re not on holiday?  Just because you haven’t left the city doesn’t mean you’re not on holiday, it’s called a staycation (google it).  You don’t need to go to Lamu to meet a hot stranger, just try a bar/club/coffee shop/church...well, maybe not church... a different one from your regular haunt.  Spread your wings, my lovely, and experience all your city has to offer you, now that the traffic is finally light enough for you to wander about aimlessly.

I have to throw in a disclaimer here, at all times keep in mind that despite the fact that you’re at home, it’s still a fling.  Come January do not expect that man to morph into your boyfriend, or that woman to start washing your socks.  It’s a FLING, yaani short term, yaani pleasant distraction.  If you can’t handle the thought, stay home with a good book.

You’re looking at me funny.  What now?  No, I’m not advocating fungas this festive season, a holiday fling is not a one night stand, it’s simply a condensed relationship, with hook-up to break-up lasting no more than two weeks.  Think of it as extreme dating, or dating on a clock.  The only expectations you should be harbouring is the expectation that it will end, sooner rather than later.  With this in mind, you might want to stay away from the delusional types looking for everlasting love at the counter, or at the bottom of the wine glass, those buggers will not be very understanding when you disappear on January 3rd.  I’m just saying, if someone calls you their soul mate, run and don’t look back.  I know this for a fact, no?  And what if you meet someone worth more than a fling?  Then you had better make sure they feel the same way before you go any further.  You don’t want to be the idiot pining after the girl you met in December, in June, six months later.  That’s not romantic, it’s just pathetic.

I have a sneaky suspicion I will get some form of hate mail for this one, either for not treating someone’s religious holiday with sufficient reverence, or for advocating (mild) promiscuity, or simply for my dodgy sentence structure.  That’s just fine, free speech and what not, but I will not be making any apologies.  Dammit, people, singletons have no special holidays whatsoever, surely, surely I say unto you, surely we’re allowed a couple of weeks of shamelessness?  Folks, its time for us to take this city back and run this bitch!  

Baby, all I want for Christmas is…
You…
And you and you and you and you…

Fair warning to all, this month I’m on only one track, and it does not lead out of the sewer. 

This one is about the vote, my apathy and promises.

Have you registered to vote?  No?  What are you waiting for, an extension?  Get up right now, go to your nearest polling station and get registered.  Don’t worry about who you’re going to vote for, or if you’re even going to vote, just go out and register, we’ll sort out the rest on March 3rd, next year.  What’s that?  You don’t have time?  Not to worry, it only takes a couple of minutes, and as an added incentive, they’re giving out free tequila shots as they take your picture.  No really, they are, go see…

I got myself registered, but to be honest I’m not entirely sure I want to vote.  Wait, don’t lynch me just yet, let me explain my reasons.  I no longer believe that expressing my democratic right at the ballot box will bring about the change I’m looking for, not just because the idiots running for office are, well, idiots, but the very structure of that thing they call government seems to be fundamentally flawed, I don’t think it could deliver even if it wanted to.  That’s right, I am completely apathetic, but I haven’t always been this way.  Used to be that I was a fervent believer in the power of my one measly vote to change the future.  I was that eager patriot who would call people on voting day to make sure they went out and cast their ballots.  I was the fawning idiot who attended a rally at Nyayo Stadium back in 2002.  I was the idealistic girl who tried to convince her conservative parents that voting for change was a good thing.  I was that silly optimist who actually believed them when they told us, me, that standing in line for 2 hours at dawn was the only way to get the pot-holed roads and erratic water supply sorted, once and for all. 

I am no longer that person.

I grew up middle class, actually working class (if recent definitions I’ve read are to be believed), and I’ve always known that as a humble raia, I am a nobody, a mere cog in the system to be used and abused at will, except for that one day, every five years, when I get to have my say and be heard.  2007/2008 showed me that wasn’t the case.  Someone somewhere took my voice from me, violently, and then proceeded to flaunt my powerlessness in my face.  I’m angry.  I’ve been angry for the last five years, hell, I think I’ll be angry for another five, maybe even longer.  Two years ago, I was so angry I refused to vote in the referendum, figuring, ‘Why bother?  These bastards will do whatever they want to, irrespective of what I say.’  There was also the minor matter of tallying, I was convinced that those bitches couldn’t count (can they?).  Don’t look at me like that, I’ve voted in every election since I turned 18 and I voted in the first referendum, I’ve earned a free pass if and when there’s no contest.  If there had been a possibility that the YES side would lose, I would have gone out to be counted, but that was never a possibility, seeing as how the YES side was the government side and, in Africa, the incumbent never loses. 

That’s the only up side to the coming election, there’s no incumbent.  On the down side, however, our choices are currently, foolish, foolisher and foolishest.  Oh joy!

If I do vote, and it is likely I will, it will be for three reasons:

1.      I plan on using my vote as a protest against the idiots who continue to fuck us over for their own foolish desires.  Irrespective of who wins, I want it on the record that I do not agree with you and your allegedly reformist agenda, I do not believe in whatever bullshit you’re peddling, I do not trust your punk behinds.  I don’t care if mine is the lone dissenting vote, I will not endorse you. 

2.      I need to earn the right to spend the next 5 years bitching endlessly and holding someone, anyone, to account for the bullshit I will, no doubt, be forced to endure.  My vote is like the backstage pass to the farce that is our politics, and no amount of apathy will convince me to give that up, what the hell will I blog about if I do?  What?  They’re looking out for their own selfish interests, why can’t I?  Don’t worry, I’ll vote for the best of the worst, whoever that turns out to be.

3.      Many, many years ago, someone somewhere put their life/livelihood on the line to get me this vote.  From back in the days of Mau Mau, through to the second liberation, courageous men and women stood up to be counted, they went past the empty talk and put their bodies where their mouths were.  We, the post-independence generation, tend to forget that this freedom we take for granted, and often sneer at, was won on the backs of these (mostly) anonymous souls.  Shame on us.  The system may be broken, but at least we have a system?  That does not make me feel any better, but I will still go vote, because I owe them that much.

I read a guest post last week on Diasporadical (Why I Will Not Be Voting) that got me thinking about the vote, more to the point it got me thinking about what happens after the vote.  I like that he argues that we have to get past elections as our panacea and look for other ways to become the change we claim to want, by ourselves, for ourselves.  I like that he’s disillusioned with the fucking system, but not so disillusioned that he’s given up all hope.  (I also like the bit about the porn, but that’s another story altogether.)  I don’t care if you vote, frankly I don’t even care who or what you vote for, this election is only a (small?) part of what we’re trying to achieve.  I’m more interested in whether you go out there every day and try to build something greater than yourself, using whatever resources you have at your disposal.  Picture our country as a body,  we’re the vital organs that keep this entity living and breathing, we make this shit work.  The politicians and their nonsense are merely the (not so pretty) skin we wrap around the naked flesh, to keep it all together and present a slightly attractive face to outsiders, but everything within, that’s us.  I know, the skin is the largest organ in the body, but it’s constantly dying off and being replaced, you try that with your liver and see how long you last. 

So if I don’t care about your politics, why am I insisting that you register as a voter?  Because three months is a long time in Kenyan politics, and there is a chance, a remote chance mind you, but a chance nonetheless, that some individuals worth our time will show up and make it worth our while, and if they do, you can be sure they’ll need all the help we can give them, because they will be running against a system whose sole purpose is to screw us over.  Ignore the presidential campaigns, what should matter more to us is the candidates for Governor, those are the geniuses who will have the greatest impact on our daily existence.  You don’t want to be the idiot, in March next year, who wants to vote for a worthy candidate, as unlikely as it seems that said candidate will appear, but you can’t vote because you didn’t take a few minutes to register. 

Go register, hayo mengine tutaangalia baadaye, at length.

Enough.

Made a wrong turn, once or twice,
Dug my way out, blood and fire,
Bad decisions, that's alright,
Welcome to my silly life,

Mistreated, misplaced, misunderstood,
Miss 'No way, it's all good',
It didn't slow me down,
Mistaken, always second guessing,
Underestimated, look I'm still around…

There are only seven women in this world that I would happily shag, and Pink is one of them.  Stop looking at me like that, every woman has a list of women she’d like to shag, and any woman who tells you different is lying.  That’s right, we’re all closet lesbians, in our minds at least.  And no, I’m not going to tell you who the other six are, not yet anyhow, I’m saving those stories for slow weeks, not unlike this one.  Strange thing is, when Pink first burst on to the scene with her luminous hair and teeny-bopper tunes, I was not a fan, despite the fact that I was not far from being a teeny-bopper myself, the slick pop tunes held no appeal.  And then she released her sophomore album, slamming her own earlier music, and in the process completely transforming her style and finding her unique (and slightly crazy) voice.  That’s when my love affair with her began.  This woman says whatever she thinks/feels, good and bad, without any of the self-censorship bullshit characteristic of someone trying to manipulate our emotions for their own (often financial) gain.  The fact that she’s a smart cookie (see ‘Dear Mr President’) is simply a delightful bonus.  Like I said, one of seven…

Folks, its time to switch gears.  This searching for a relationship story is becoming a bit of a drag, no?  I mean really, how many times can a girl ruminate on why she doesn’t have a man?  Its time to move the fuck on to something else, something of slightly greater maana, like the price of unga, or the strange tremor in my left leg when I’m walking downhill.

Cue silence…

This is the problem, I have nothing to talk about.  I can’t talk about work, because my job requires some discretion, that and I choose not to bite the hand that’s feeding me.  I can’t talk about my family, because they also prefer discretion, and they can and will beat me if I say anything about them.  I refuse to talk about politics and such like nonsense till December, purely because I’m in denial, trying to ignore all the bullshit noise around me in the hope that one day I’ll wake up and it will be March 5th.  Looks like all I have left is sex, but for some reason I have nothing to say on that most entertaining topic, probably because I’m currently (read reluctantly) practising forced chastity (no more booty call, remember?  I know, not exactly one of my more brilliant ideas…).  Which means I have nothing else to write about?  How strange…

That was Wednesday night.  As you may have noticed, I didn’t post midweek, and for that I sincerely apologise, but when the cow refuses, the bloody cow refuses.  She’s still refusing, seems I’m a dog with a bone this month, my mind refuses to look at anything other than this thing called relationships.  Thing is, I can honestly say that when I started blogging, I never thought I’d become that chick who keeps going on and on about this rubbish.  Do I sound disgusted?  I’m not, well, not entirely.  I’m just tired, I don’t like spending time on something unless it’s fruitful, and, to my mind, the endless questioning has already given me the answers I was seeking, or in some cases hasn’t, to my great surprise.  At this point I’m simply flogging a dead horse into the afterlife, and you know what I think about afterlife flogging.  I’m afraid I have nothing to say on matters relationship right now, not because I now know all there is to know, but because I think some answers can’t be found, or perhaps shouldn’t be found, on a blog, even if the fabulous blog is mine. 

Ah yes, I’m still quite delusional…

Ladies and gentlemen, with your permission, I beg your leave.  I want to turn off my computer for a couple of weeks, get out into the big bad world and see if I’ve actually learnt anything over the past year, or if I need to start asking more questions of myself, different questions.  Knowledge is a funny mistress, the more she gives, the more she demands, and my mistress is currently demanding interaction with others, hopefully wiser than me, or at the very least with a different perspective.  On the up side, I am an infinitely troubled individual, therefore you are guaranteed more tales of foolishness when I get back.  Stop frowning, I won’t be gone for long, only two weeks as usual.  I’ll be back, most probably with a foolish tale, hopefully deviant, on December 9th, 10 in the a.m., GMT +3. 

I’d tell you not to break anything while I’m gone, but we both know you don’t listen to a damn word I say, clearly.  For those that feel so inclined, the ON THE DOWN LOW... page is up, feel free to tell a tale of your own.  I’ve often found that getting shit off your chest is muchos therapeutic (although, if my continued poking around in the dark is any indication, perhaps not, no?), just don’t expect much of any reply, buggers around here tend to be a bit quiet, no?  Well, that and the fact that there are only kendo three people here on any given day, and that’s counting me.  I’m just saying, if you’re looking for adoration of the masses, you might want to go elsewhere, say facebook?

You're so mean, when you talk,
About yourself, you were wrong,
Change the voices in your head,
Make them like you instead,

So complicated,
Look happy, you'll make it,
Filled with so much hatred,
Such a tired game,
It's enough, I've done all I could think of,
Chased down all my demons,
I've seen you do the same…

The song is ‘Fuckin’ Perfect’, and thanks to my dustup with the powers that be I am compelled to state that despite the lack of quotation marks, I am quoting these lyrics verbatim, duly accredited to the recording artist.  I have no intention of using them for any form of personal gain, save emotional, I’m just being an over-enthusiastic fan talking about a good tune, and occasionally streaming (not sharing mind you) them, possibly without a license, but, again, not for any gain, save emotional.  Really.  Slight detour.  You’d think that the fact that I’m usually talking about the song I’m quoting in glowing terms would be an indication of my lack of ill motive, but nooooo… I was slapped with a cease and desist.  Really?  Fair use, anyone?  You’d think I was bloody Pirate Bay or something.  Shame man!  Detour over.  Why this song?  It’s like she says, I’ve done all I can think of…

ON THE DOWN LOW...

Do you have a story you're dying to tell?  An undercover tale of activities you can only share if you're on the down low?  A tale of lust, of unrequited desire, of love gone wrong or love finally going right?  Do you want to break the monotony of this blog, and share a happy tale?  Do you really, really want to get something off your chest?

Are you tired of looking for love in all the wrong places?  Tired of spending long nights in dark bars talking to drunk strangers?  Tired of mingling with the wrong crowd?  Tired of endless chats online, with people who can't spell?  Are you tired of meeting people who just don't get it?

Well you've come to the right place.  Here at Kai Nikii?, we like a good story, so please, share yours.

THE RULES:
1. Thou shalt not slander anyone, because I don't need to get sued.
2. Thou shalt not post images, because that shit makes the page heavy, and I hate slow loading pages.
3. Thou shalt endeavour to write in clear(-ish) English, or provide translations of any other language used, and that includes sheng, and Kenglish.
4. Thou shalt use a name, any name.  Anonymous is not an option here, unless, of course, you're actually called anonymous, in which case go right ahead (ID verification may be requested though).

DISCLAIMER:
I, (not) Alex, do not know any of the people here and therefore will not vouch for their sanity, or lack thereof.  For that reason, I, (not) Alex, shall stay well out of this, do not write me a harsh email to complain, I will not respond.

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.