I’m not one of those homies who will ever show you my phone and ask you to look at videos or photos from a gig. At a push, you’ll get a video of my pigs. 

My preferred method of sharing is to write a review and tell you to read it, or to force you into listening to a story with a lot of hand gestures and unnecessary segues. Of course, this might be infinitely more excruciating than having to sit and watch a series of substandard cellphone videos of a blurry musician, through a tinny speaker, while getting sporadic commentary from the starry-eyed purveyor… “Wait for it, just wait for this bit coming up… You won’t believe it…” And trust me, like a clickbait headline, you literally won’t believe it. 

So, bust out the half time oranges and strap yourself in while you indulge me waxing lyrical about the Guy Buttery-Dan Patlansky musical fiesta that I’m still processing in my loud and what-the-fucked brain. 

Before I explain why my brain is so loud and hurty, let’s go back in time, a couple of weeks ago, to when I saw that these two legends were teaming up for a gig. I bought tickets almost immediately, even though the gig was at a school, forty minutes away, on a Sunday. 

1. School makes me a bit twitchy, especially single-sex schools. 
2. I live in a small town, also called a village, where I sometimes run for transport. If I ran to Michaelhouse, I would die. Hence it is not close enough. 
3. Sundays are usually when I dabble in puzzles, make a lot of food, or practise my act for best hermit under 45. 

You won’t believe I used to live in London and Cape Town. Anyway, you can clearly see that me going in guns blazing to secure my tickets is a testament to my enthusiasm. The thing is, when I want something, I also spiral by convincing myself that everyone else wants it as much as me, and therefore it has a strong chance of selling out. Cue the sleepless nights. Once I’d secured my tickets, I prepared myself by watching YouTube videos and telling everyone how excited I was. I will not apologise for this. 

OK preamble over, let’s get to the sexy chorus so you can sing along or pretend to know the words. 

Guy Buttery gets on stage. It’s unnerving because he looks a lot like a friend of mine, and they dress almost the same. Sadly, my friend is not as musically talented as Guy – I’d love to drag him out at parties to impress my friends. Anyway, Guy is understated and I dig that. I always love bathos, it’s one of my favourite literary devices. I think it’s because I’m a fan of delayed gratification and suffering for pleasure. I also love the absurd. And, if things turn into a fiasco I’m there for it. This wasn’t a fiasco, which is great news for the musicians, the backstage techies, and 99% of the audience. However, it was frequently offbeat (not literally) and a little bonkers. Back to bathos… Guy parks on his seat, picks up his guitar, and decides, naught, this isn’t going to work. He needs to buff his nails. 

On any other day, I would have shouted out something about “Guy Buffery”. It’s not a great joke, sure, but it was low hanging fruit, and I love a bit of strawberry picking. This day, my soul was more tempered though, and I think that worked out best for everyone.

In any event, I liked the fact that this bit of stage work did something to the audience. We relaxed, and were lulled into a false sense of security. Sadly, what happens next won’t blow your mind because you weren’t there, and hopefully you haven’t been duped into watching a shit cellphone video of the gig. But, hyperbole aside, it blew my mind.

In four songs, Guy told an acoustic story that took me back to the first time I heard Peter and the Wolf. I know that sounds completely bonkers, but this is my story and sadly you’re my captive who’s probably fresh out of half time oranges. However, instead of characters it was places that he invoked. His music felt like a journey through places that exist in my mind, and places that don’t. I have no idea if this was his intention but holy smackerel it was profound and beautiful and I was mesmerised. And then I was sad because there is sadness in beauty. And that’s OK. 

Before I got too sad though, he broke the fourth wall, which it really did feel like, even though this wasn’t theatre. Guy is a placemaker, and he just builds and bashes down metaphorical walls like a crazed tween playing Minecraft. On one hand he’s playing music that seems effortless, and on the other he’s telling a story about how this very music is a culmination of a 12-year project that nearly killed him. I bloody love a juxtaposition. And, aside from juxtapositions, bathos, hyperbole, tangents, and a couple of other things, boy-oh-boy do I love project-obsession. I love the graceful and terrible art of patience and time when creating. However, I do draw the line at 12-years. Nonetheless, I’m glad Guy is a better creative than me, his 12-year album is certainly something to write home about. Which is weird, because most people only write home to ask their parents for money. 

After a masterclass in acoustic guitar, it was Dan’s turn. I’m not sure if this is offensive, I have almost no filter as you may know, but here goes… 

Dan Patlansky is like a rockabilly South African hybrid Bruce Springsteen. 

There I said it. 

Feel free to send me shit (literal and figurative).

I like my rock with as much gravel as it would take to fix all the potholes in the greater Msunduzi area, and Dan delivers it in spades. He also makes loop pedals artful and not gimmicky. My English teacher once told me you can break the rules when you know them, and I feel like this applies to loop pedals. Once you’re a proper musician you can use one. And only then. 

I don’t have to tell you that Dan is obviously a proper musician because he can make sounds out of a Fender Strat (my personal favourite of all the guitar varietals) that would make even the hardiest sound engineering nerd weak at the knees. Honestly, if it came down to it, I would listen to Dan play Stairway to Heaven. And I’d like it. 

When he busted out Hendrix and made it his own, I was a bit alarmed. I wanted to use the term “world-class”. South Africans always have to strive to be “world-class”. Fuck that. Dan’s in a class of his own. At Michaelhouse, on a drizzly Sunday afternoon. 

And speaking of Michaelhouse, it seems prudent to give the Schlesinger Theatre’s acoustics a helluva shoutout, that space was humming like a 90s pentium computer. And, the invisible heroes, the sound guys… Well, let’s just say I haven’t heard sound like that since I stomped my feet at the Tomb of Agamemnon.  

The combined set with Dan and Guy was like an audiovisual Bromance experience… But with zero Bro Rogan vibes. And while I sat through their individual sets, and their combined set, I just couldn’t shake this one word. One wanky term that was prodding at my grey matter like an excitable toddler at a dinosaur convention. 

“Conceptual.”

“Fuck”, I thought, this music is conceptual. 

Conceptual and self-indulgent are often in the same WhatsApp Group. There is a subtle difference though. Self-indulgence is almost always a wank-fest, whereas conceptual can be a wank-fest but it can also be the Lance Klusener we all need to smash it into the cheap seats for six. Sorry, it’s been a while since I’ve been self-indulgent/conceptual enough to use a dazzling sports metaphor. 

Guy and Dan are conceptual. They push you to the brink of being almost very uncomfortable and then whip you back with a just-in-time bridge or with the familiarity of a riff to cling onto. It’s thinking music, and you have to go with it. 

You have to suffer for your art. 

It’s hard work. 

And the results sparkle, dazzle, confound, and linger in a world where ephemerality and limited attention spans promise the illusion of the next best thing. 

Heartland- either it’s the heart of a place, or it’s a shop that sells Live Laugh Love paraphernalia and motivational posters with dolphins… “All of the dolphins, none of the endorphins”. While the latter sounds fun to mock, in this case, I’m talking about the true origin of the term.

It turns out that Heartlands aren’t just reserved for places like the American Midwest and the Karoo.

The heart of a place is broad. Where exactly it is, depends on who you ask. The best Heartlands are those that you have to know about to gain access, and you won’t find them on maps. I’m distrusting of maps. Who decides the borders, and who decides what documentation you need in order to be there? Way better are hidden gems… Places where you have to be “in the know” to find them… The truest real estate.

As it also turns out, the best people can be Heartlands… As if by magic, people can become places. Certain people become important sanctuaries where you can go when you need to experience calmness and serenity. The kind of calmness and serenity that doesn’t need a swanky brochure, dress code, and overpriced spa treatment.

WELCOME TO STEVE… POPULATION ONE.

“Steve, you’re a Heartland because everyone who meets you is drawn to you in a way that’s magnetic without being creepy.”      

“Everyone who meets Steve immediately feels his energy and warmth.”      

“Steve, you would make the most phenomenal cult leader, if only your ego would allow for it. Instead, you’re a Heartland, because you have no ego, only equity.”      

The Heartland of Steve is an open-access space, provided you’re somewhat of a good person. As with maps, I’m also distrusting of people who label themselves as nice/kind/good. I’m the type of person who scrutinises kindness and looks for fault behind the thin veneer of perfection. Luckily, I’m not in charge of who enters Steve’s Heartland. Frankly, I don’t know how I got through the border.

Steve, you’re a pivotal space where kindness is celebrated and not one platitude or Live, Laugh, Love trinket is visible. It’s kindness without being told to “Choose Kind”. Your Heartland embodies kindness without sanctimony and postulating. It’s real and doesn’t make you feel like you need to rebel because it’s too vanilla and kumbaya. It’s the type of kindness that you stare in the face and think, “I want to emulate this”. It’s kindness that’s just there to wrap you in its warm embrace, to share a witty joke, and to feel truly seen.

Steve’s Heartland is unique because to benefit you have to show up and realise that this is not a place of flags, colonisation, and exploitation. To benefit and thrive, it’s 50/50. And this symbiosis is why Steve is a Heartland. Steve owns his vulnerability and has the bravery to ask for help, to tell you what he needs, and to lay out boundaries. It would be easy to set himself up for exploitation but that’s an unsustainable environmental model, and no one knows this better than Steve.

Steve embodies growth, and through his growth he encourages everyone to do better. Not because it’s a competition, but because growth is the future. When you’re around Steve you feel Life… There’s always music, laughter, good food, bubbling conversation, thoughtfulness, the warmth of feeling seen, and, dare I say it… To set off the LLL trifecta… Love. And if this is starting to sound like one of those sales pitches to sell timeshare at the world’s greatest Heartland, well don’t get too excited. Steve is actually a person, not just a metaphor, and he’s not for sale.

Plus, if the Heartland of Steve becomes too popular and commercial that’ll mean sharing, and it turns out, we’re not that kind.

You literally won’t believe who isn’t getting a good morning this morning.

The truth is that clickbait is bullshit.

However you clicked on it. It wouldn’t exist without you.

Ignore it.

Scroll past.

Engage with the good shit.

So every time you click on clickbait… that’s one less good morning.

Today I reached the 100K word mark. One hundred thousand words. In seven days Jaqui Hiltermann wrote more than her PhD thesis and she is smug as fuck. And exhausted, because I’m now allowed to use that banned word because I’ve fucking earned it. And sure the 100K is not exactly quality writing by any stretch of the imagination, BUT it’s been an absolute test of my resolve because I wasn’t allowed to use any swearing… If I was I could have pushed it to 110K. OK 120K easily.

So today I’m marking “Day Ten” by plagiarising a conversation I had on Facebook earlier because there is no ways I can come up with a creative narrative to mark the “halfway” mark. My brain just doesn’t have the stamina to do anything other than have another glass of wine and maybe try to do battle opening the blue cheese- but I don’t think I’ll manage that. And yes we’re on the halfway mark but, Fun Fact: if you think we’re getting out in 21 Days you’re dreaming… seriously I’ll bet a bottle of wine. But whatever helps you sleep at night.

So one of my top humans, Ron (his real name) has been having “issues” with joggers… and I’ll write about privileged joggers in another post, but I thought you might like this particular snapshot… Ron has a way with words (you should buy his book)

“Weird question: Is it hydrochloric acid that breaks down the human corpse to liquid or is it something else? Asking for a friend. Also have some assorted pairs of used jogging shoes for sale. Can deliver only after lockdown.” (Ron Irwin, 2020)

Jaqui: The return of joggers means that the earth is finally healing… Pinelands is healing…

Ron: The return has been partially halted.

Jaqui: Is this because of your canned jogger hunting?

Ron: They’re not “canned”. They are running free in their own environment and have a fair chance at survival. It’s sport. SMFH.

Jaqui: Whatever… I prefer trophy hunting.

Ron: “It puts the takkies in the basket or it gets the hose..”

Jaqui: This is all going in my book.

And mark my words all of this will be embellished in my book because there’s a lot to be said for a story about Pinelands joggers going AWOL during lockdown… but for now I leave you with this.

Stay the Fuck Indoors: so nature can heal or whatever.

It’s no secret I think diamonds are very pointless and I’ve discussed them before. I don’t want my value represented by something that perches on my finger, alerting you to how much my partner loves me and how wealthy he is. I’d opt for a plastic cracker ring, preferably one of those amazing decoder rings you could get in cereal boxes back in the “old days” (Monkey, if you’re reading this take note).

One of my 3rd year students, who is really fucking cool, told me that she’s not on Instagram because ‘it’s not for her’. She wasn’t being glib, or self-pitying, she just meant that she literally feels like an alien within the space. It’s not for her. She feels othered because, as she phrases it, ‘I’m poor’. Like I said, no self pity, no judgement of Instagrammers themselves, just a mere statement of fact. I’m obviously relaying what she said with lashings of judgement, while remarking on how kak and shallow I find Instagram. Sorry to ruin your fun, but Instagram is all about conspicuous consumption and flashing the proverbial diamonds. And, if you don’t have any of that shit, well you can window shop, while those on the inside take pity on you and talk about “the 3 c’s”.

So, back to Browns and their stupid diamonds. A while back I was reading the SAA in-flight magazine and this Browns advert appeared. I loved it because I’m obsessed with irony and being an asshole.

This image is what we call an “iconic image”… and it has circulated on postcards, greeting cards, posters, etc. It symbolises the end of World War II, celebration, and that groovy Hollywood style Romance we’ve come to enjoy- thanks to all those really imaginative movies that end with running through airports…

I am the first to admit that I bought a card with this very image for my Nana’s 80th Birthday (over a decade ago), because she was a nurse in the second world war, and my Gramps was a Navy man. They had a wartime romance, and although Gramps was into sarcasm, and gently mocking my Nana, it was the most realistic portrayal of love I’ve yet to see… “Nothing says love quite like sarcasm and gentle mockery”. Try that on for size Browns. Anyway, I thought the above image was a pretty accurate depiction of love so Nana received this card because I was trying to be nostalgic. My Nana had dementia, and this is the only time I was ever thankful for this, because for those of you who don’t know this image has become the poster/postcard/greeting-card-child for sexual harassment/gropey-mc-gropeypants.

You see, just out of shot is this man’s bokkie who had just been taken to the bioscope… She’s watching in horror as “her” man (drunk) gropes this lovely dental assistant. Dental assistant did not enjoy this grope… she was taken aback by this grope. Woman was not keen… But being the era of women’s anti-lib this was shrugged off as “boys will be boys” and “he was just drunk and excited” and framed as lank romantic. There are articles on this which you can read… (such as the one hyperlinked above). This image and it’s sexual harassment vibes TRENDED. TRENDED on Social Media. I don’t know if you know this but people in branding and advertising are supposed to know about trends. You know what they say about assumption? Yeah well…

So this is Browns’ advert in the SAA in-flight magazine. Irony is just so wonderful sometimes I think to myself men should propose with that and avoid themselves the hassles of a diamond.

Nothing says Love and Commitment quite like gropage that isn’t consensual.

Browns… I think you might need to speak to someone in advertising.

It’s no secret I’m a vigilante bullshit police officer on the Internet. I’m 35 years old now, so I’m easing into life as a grumpy woman. I’m totally OK with it. Why just yesterday I posted a “this is a hoax” link onto someone’s post about… Actually fuck that let me pull up the post and insert it so that you can see what kind of bullshit we’re dealing with here…

Posts like this… they are worse than finding empty ice trays in the freezer, worse than thinking about making a cup of tea and forgetting, *click*, hello loadshedding my old friend. Posts like this are everything I hate about people on the Internet. It’s 2019 and I am sick of telling people about hoaxes and asking them politely to not spread bullshit. Because it starts with an inaccurate post such as this, and the next thing, Sunil Tripathi is being named as the Boston Bomber. And actually, when you decode these posts, they’re not just innocent mistakes.

Posts such as these deliberately pit Muslims and Christians against each other, and a person who shares such posts is aware of these particular agendas. I want to say, “listen here Carol, no one is saying Christians have never been victims of terrorism, but not today… not today Carol”. That’s actually not what I want to say, I want to say, “Oh fuck off Carol”. But I don’t. Instead I just post a link and hope Carol will realise she’s spreading bullshit ideology about how Christians are getting the fluffy end of the lollipop.

Whataboutisms are the sweet spot of the Internet, and they’re akin to saying “But what about the time Nicholas got to watch that 16SVL movie on M-Net?” when you’ve been told you’re not allowed to watch a 13PG movie. But we don’t actually notice how prevalent whataboutisms are because we have no real political discourse in this country other than, “But what about the BLF?”, “What about when Julius said that, this is reverse racism?” “What about Helen?” The SA political landscape is like watching other people’s horrible kids on the playground, and you have to choose which one is the least kak. Good luck with that.

We’re used to comparing one asshole with another, one shit situation with another, “Cape Town has no water, but at least we have electricity…” Hold my beer.

Anyway as self-appointed bullshit police officer (BPO) I am unequivocally unafraid of offending people who are patently incorrect, aka WRONG. Because sharing false information is not OK. When faced with information everyone needs to take a breath, mull over it, maybe open another browser tab… Google Google, and Google will come up. Click on it. It’s easy, and it doesn’t involve a trip to the library like in the old days. And “better safe than sorry” is not an excuse to propagate bullshit either. Because sharing misinformation propagates fear, and fear is a precursor to bullshit and bad decisions. Fear is how we got to the second half of this decade of clusterfuckdom, Trump, Brexit, resurgence of white Nationalism, etc. etc. etc. 2019 is a product of fear. We’re hear because we’re scared. We’re paranoid. We’re afraid of anything that isn’t “us”.

Not all that glitters is gold, and not all that is news is news… I came across this absolute gem earlier, and it’s what Oprah calls a “teaching moment”… I didn’t fact check that. I don’t know if Oprah says that, but it sounds like something she might say. Anyway some chap posted a shortened clip of the video below, with a comment, “What did this idiot just say? Fees must do what?”. You may see the clip trending on your socials (check me being so up to date). The clip is in the throes of going viral, and it may go “Woolies Water”, but we’ll see. What is interesting is the response to the clip, and it says a lot about not taking time to listen and going straight to shouting.

Humans think they’re smart. But they’re not that smart. Notice how I othered myself from humans, I’m such an asshole. For example, just because it’s on the news Jason, does not mean that it is news. You know? No you don’t know Jason, so I’m here to explain. Coconut Kelz is a satirical character, and if you listen, rather than jumping to conclusions based on your opinion of women, black women, women with long manicured nails, etc. then maybe you’ll get it. But maybe not. Rome wasn’t built in a day. So, as expected the comments on the clip are wonderfully disparaging and subtle, and not so subtle, in their racism. For your viewing pleasure I read them all..

If you Google Lesego Tlhabi, you’ll find she attended school. Not only school, but Brunel University in London. She’s also not mentally ill. But you Facebook commenter, who I shall name Pamela, you obviously attended school and are OK upstairs. Nonetheless you are blind to satire. So well done there. Or maybe you just just jumped to conclusions about this “thick” black woman, based on your own misguided assumptions, rather than actually listening to the fucking video and critically analysing it? Is everything OK upstairs Pamela? Do you need a lie down? Thinking is hard.

Coconut Kelz and by proxy Lesego Tlhabi gets called a cow a lot. She gets shamed for wearing a blonde weave. She also has shit for brains apparently. She’s the product of the Generation Fees Must Fall, stupid and entitled. One commenter actually calls her out for being a “house n (word)”- he’s black, if that even matters. The n word.

If I took my job as BPO seriously I would respond to each and every single one of these people and make them feel as small as they are trying to make Coconut Kelz feel, but the Internet is a dark place, and it’s full of terror. It’s a big job, I can’t do it alone.

So let’s all take in the silence for a while… But then we have to start shouting at all the people who make the Internet kak with fear and bullshit. I’ll be watching you.