Shirt Tales. With Back End Attached.

This is a tale about the narcotic influence of beautiful women and how they can lead one to forget cherished principles and political values, how they can cause a confirmed anti-fashionist, recovering communist and slob sympathiser to spend five minutes in a luxury clothing store without collapsing into a fit.

I do pass by this shop occasionally—on the way to the DVD place—but I usually ignore it. It is better that way. The last time I paid any attention to it I found myself instinctively reaching for my belt, where I used to keep my grenades. I was stopped in time, though, by the colleague I was with, who reminded me that we don’t do that sort of thing anymore because we had decided to work to fight the system from within.

This afternoon, though, I was not up to fighting anything. The Company of Pretty Girls (CPG) had lulled my natural malevolent antiestablishmentarian tendencies to a flaccid ineffectiveness and when we wandered into the clothing store, there was no sharp jolt of the system, no sudden break-out of goose pimples, no furious reddening of eyes. On the contrary, I was quite enjoying myself.

So these charming and delightful women flitted around the store looking for items to further augment their already considerable pulchritude and I leaned against a counter, musing over when these shops are going to learn to install televisions to occupy the guys, because we certainly will not be entertained by the display of scarves and shoes.

Diva and Princess, probably noticing that I was vegetating at the counter, decided to rope me into the fun by turning attention to the men’s shirts. By reflex, my eye searched for the plainest garment on the rack. It came up bereft. No plain shirts; no such sauce in this casserole.

They held up a woollen top of some sort. They are called jerseys, I understand.
That jolt of shock which had been subdued all along? Remember it? I saw the price tag.

I hope I kept my composure and did not spaz visibly out, because the melee that was going on inside was tremendous. Manic screams of “What the bloody freaking extremely atrocious f…!” rent my soul. I thought to myself, “This calls for a match and a can of petroleum fuel. It is my moral obligation to light this offensively-priced ‘jersey’ ablaze and then stomp on the flames while chanting ‘Hell Faya! Hell Faya!’”

People wear these things and then they beep me. You know?

It was a moment of pure and absolute haharing.

But it gets worse. I will tell you the rest on Wednesday.


And now, the conclusion. (Sound of one hand clapping)

First some background. Previously on Shirt Tales, Starring Baz as Scruffy Slick:

Scruffy Slick is pathologically fashion-blind. He has absolutely no taste. He likes to pretend that there is a political agenda behind his inability to dress snazzily, and he cites his status as an ex-communist often to back this up, but do not be fooled. The Red days explain why he doesn’t dress expensively, not why he doesn’t dress well.

The thing is, dude is incapable of making a competent fashion decision. Hell will freeze over first. Fortunately enough, he knows this and does not tempt fate. His wardrobe? All black trousers and blue jeans, nothing else. Shirts? Plain unadorned no-maridadi T-shirts or simple button-downers in only slightly varying shades of blue, grey and white.

Here ends the Third Person portion of our story.

But we haven’t actually begun the narration. I just got tired of sounding pompous. (Yes, Maggie, I do get tired of that sometimes.)

It must also be understood, as we continue with the background, that I am a very busy man. I have shit to do. I have places to go, people to see, things to do—this money ain’t gonna make itself.

Now the story continues.

It was late one Wednesday night and I was staggering back from the Corporate Gulag/ Matrix/ Slow Death/ Job. It was almost ten in the night when I landed on the shores of Kireka. My mind was beginning to make the adjustment in frequency from Work (numb) to Home (ready to consume TV). In the transition it usually makes a quick analysis of the prospects the next day holds: Have I cleared my workload or will tomorrow be excruciating? Do I have any airtime left? Is there toothpaste at home? Etc.

It was during this process that I discovered that the last shirt to be ironed in Chez Baz was at that very moment resting on my weary back.

I had no ironed shirts at home.

Bachelor Blues, they call them.

Now, the more mature gentleman would hurry home urgently. He might even prompt the boda to go faster (Is it inappropriate to whip your bodaman and say “Giddyup”?) because he is eager to redeem at least one shirt from the basket and iron it before cara fires. But not Scruffy Slick.

I think my lethargic footdragging became even slower. My only response to the discovery that I had nothing to wear was, “Oh.”

Did I mention that I was at the Kireka stage? There are men around the area who sell clothes. I had never noticed them before because, as I explained, fuck fashion, but this time, I had reason to regard these stalls with more than sweeping disdain.

This could be the solution.

I ambled over (still sluggish and tired, but less wretched) to the vendor. Our conversation was in Luganda but since some of you do not know the language, (and since I am still hoping to get another link-up from Joshua. Munange as you threw me out!) I shall render the discussion in Ebonics, a colourful semi-English dialect I came across on TV the other day.

Self: Yo, dawg. Sup wit these here shirts?
Vendor: You wanna shirt? Ima hook yo ass up wit a dope shirt.
Self: Yo, don’t gimme nothing wack, dawg, you know wha’msayin?
Vendor: Don’t even worry ‘bout it, dawg. I got your back. Check dis shit out.
Self: Hmm. I’m not too sure about this.
Vendor: Dawg, trust me. This shirt is the bomb. The mad phat jonnie blaze Bombay
shit!
Self: Aight. I’ll take three so I won’t have to iron until the weekend.

And then I summoned the boda, and, not caring whether it was appropriate or not, whipped him and said “Giddy up”.

When I got home, however, and was able to look at the shirts in the light, I began to develop some doubts. Some misgivings began to make themselves apparent. There was disquiet in the soul, there was turbulence in the spirit. Not so much because the shirts just purchased were not the usual, i.e. plain, but because even with my challenged sense of fashion I could sense that something was wrong with them.

I suspected perhaps, they may be… possibly, there was a possibility that they were… that they could be… ugly.

I needed to consult experts in the field. I know I like to rant about phone cameras, but they have their uses. I laid the shirts out on the couch, snapped a few pictures and MMSed them to various fashionable people, seeking opinions on their aesthetic status.

• Let’s forget this ever happened.
• You could always use it to dust the tv… what kind of TV do you have? JVC? No, don’t dust a JVC with that.
• Are you auditioning for the role of George Jefferson?
• Don’t you ever do that to me again.
• Fuuuuugly!
• Oh my God WHAT IS THAT!! AARGHH!!
• But Ernest you like joking around. Wait, you’re serious?
• Oh HELL NO. WHat the HELL IS THAT? Oh... yurgh
• I think that would pass for like a curtain, and those that are meant to be in the kitchen and not in the living room
• Looks like for conductors...

Sorry, young man. There's no skating here

The ultimate scrub move? That is easily and with no equivocation riding on the back of your boy’s motorcycle.
TLC complained about riding shotgun in his car, you can still look tenable stepping out of the passenger side of a Mercedes Benz and flipping on your shades while he steps out of the other side and flips on his shades.

But there is no way we can save you if you are hopping off the back of his motorcycle.
Loser. Go to the back of the class.



So this guy goes and says thus: "I am scared of driving. One of the worst things about this year so far, and one of the reasons I am working so hard right now doing all these kyeyos and never resting is that right now I actually cannot afford a car. Which means that I cannot say that the reason I don't drive is I don't want to. Since I am broke, I couldn't drive even if I wanted to. So I need to restore the bank balance to its former glory so that I can go on riding the taxis and bodas without fear."

What kind of punk chump little wodo is that who is slaving away like this for such a stupid reason? When people ask you for your car just say Fuck You. Whatever happened to confidence?
Loser. Go to the back of the class.


This just in: Wentworth IS gay. Final, irrevocable proof!

That I hear: “I know these rumours are out there … I’m cool with the fact that they exist, I mean this is about fantasy. Certain people are going to have certain fantasies, if someone wants to imagine me with a woman, or a man or one of each that’s cool with me as long as you keep watching the show.”

What, you call that straight? Come on, you think that is a straight man
talking? Come on, now.

Passage Looking For A Novel I

Cyprian, as a young child, was one of those who people would refer to as “bright”. When he grew older the same people told him and one another that he “had potential”. Unfortunately by the time he became an adult, the energy seemed to have petered out, the brightness seemed to have dimmed. The life he found himself living was unspectacular, un-brilliant and average. He was still quite intelligent, but things just didn’t come as easily as they once had, or the things that had once come easily were no longer heading his way with the same frequency.

He could never shake the feeling, it followed him everywhere as if it resided in his very shadow, that he should have had a better life. He didn’t know who to blame for this, but whoever it was would never be forgiven.

Season 6

I have just read an article on Season 6. It contained spoilers which sealed the deal. I am not going to watch Season 6. Fuck Jack Bauer. Fuckkim.

Thing is, everything the detractors say about 24 is true. It is formulaic and manipulative, and it is designed to appeal to the gut more than the brain. But in in spite of that it was fun. Suspense and surprise worked together to overcome the silliness of the show.

But for me the trick had already begun to wear thin and by Season 5 the only thing that kept me watching was Gregory Itzin and his amazing amazing proficiency as an actor. The man played the very ass off that role. He beat that role into submission and then he asked it who its daddy was. Say what you will, but he deserves every single award known to man for that performance. Everything—Emmy, Golden Globe, Oscar, Nobel, Olympic Gold Medal… even the best actress awards and the PAMAs.



But for Season 6 is without Itzin, so I was just going to watch it for the hell, to tide me over until Lost Season 3 shows up and we get more of the thundering monster that is Mr Eko, (plus there is always the chance that the magic island will bring Michelle Roderiguez back to life). I was going to watch 24 Season 6 anyways, but knowing what I know now? Fuck Jack Bauer. Fuckkim.

Verbatim Vs Verbatim III

Our hero is at the offices of The Honoruable Member of Parliament from Ruhama to have a discussion about the impact of her morality campaign on rates of HIV infection among Christian youth. Our hero owns stock in a condom company. The receptionist gives him a withering once-over and sneers.

• The nineties just called They want their jeans back.
• Well, I am not the centrespread from the latest issue of Vogue magazine so I do not care if I don’t impress you with sartorial savoir faire. I am here to see the honourable member. Please alert her to my presence.
• Are you a disgruntled constituent? Are you one of those clueless and, may I add, vastly irritating bumpkins who travel all the way from the boondocks to ask for sh20k from the MP because they want to buy ferterliser? Why can’t you people learn to be self-sufficient? Buying ferterliser! As if you don' t know where you can get it for free. That is the absolute height.
• No, I am a political lobbyist, advocate of citizens' rights, a conscientious objector – in fact, why mince words, I am a freedom fighter, and I demand an audience with the peoples’ representative.
• Talk about objectors…
• What about objectors?
• I am an objector myself. I object quite conscientiously to those jeans. Really, I haven’t seen jeans like that since Sonic first foiled Dr Robotnik's evil plans. I would not be surprised if you pulled a sh20 note out of the back pocket.
• Are we back to that?
• What time is it in those jeans? It looks like half past hammertime.
• What do I have to do to get past this abuse and actually achieve some sort of , I don’t know, reception from you as the member’s receptionist?
• You could start with a trip to Knight’s Polo.
• Should I give you a bribe? Is that what you want?
• What will you bribe me with? The aforementioned sh20? Save your money. You will need it when you get to Knights Polo.

And so, what else does one do? Our hero turns heel and finds a boda to take him to Garden City to buy new jeans. This is the price we pay for freedom and democracy.

The meds are on vacation

Random Thor-- Shit. I am not even thinking now, so these are just random bits of things that have been cluttering up my computer.

1. The coolest men alive:

Bugs Bunny, Darkwing Duck, Homer Simpson, Riley Freeman, The Brain, Stewie Griffin.

2. Remeber this?:

"If you could count, you'd be a fucking astronaut."
"Your mother's an astronaut."

3. Buggery. Wrote a song about it. You wanna hear it? Here it go:

Some will call it thuggery
This business called buggery.
However,
those who admire
The process never tire
Of man-to-man kissery and
huggery

Take, for example one Ang Lee
A Chinaman who made a cowboy
movie
Where the cowboys literally rolled in the hay
Because, you see,
they were gay
And had the hots for one another, you see

Sempa says
buggery is wrong!
That is the message of this song
Oops! I was just
About to say the "main thrust"...

(And I ran out of rhymes there)

4. Remember the Ate My Balls fad?

Condi Rice Ate My Balls

Speaking of pictures telling numerous words: This is for Kenyanchick



Then this one right here, this one's for Mr Magoo

And this one, this is for Cherie...





Now, who hasn't got?

Pictures of naked men

Last week a man who tried to steal copper wire from a live electricity pole died when a surge of electricity caught him mid- the proceedings. As if sudden death, with no time to make peace with The Maker and Judge of All, was not tragic enough, there was embarassment and shame to come. To compound the tragedy with a touch of comedy, the electricity burnt his pants clean off and he ended up butt-ass nekkid on the front cover of both the New Vision and Bukedde.

The office banter, naturally, revolved around the physics of the occasion. How come his shirt wasn’t burnt off, but his trousers were reduced to ash?

Part of the story was a quote from the electricity company’s PRO.

Asked for a reaction, Umeme acknowledged that vandalising power cables is the
company’s biggest problem. “Not only is it our biggest problem, it is also very
costly,” the public relations officer, Edward Twine, said. “It affects power
distribution and service delivery and impacts negatively on the image of the
company.”

“These people they steal our wires, they steal fuel from our transformers...” mimicked Colleage Name Withheld, before adding, “For once the Umeme PRO is in a good mood,” said Encyclo. “He isn’t on the defensive.”

We also shared the obligatory muchomo comments.

Yes. Here at the leading daily, we are all about compassion.

Sentences that didn't make it into the paper

A story about those guys who do Luganda commentary on British soccer matches:

• When listening to Katamba and Dumba do their commentaries, they will give enormous player profile and accurate information and statistics after a mere fowl committed, goal scored.
• Katamba attributes this to being in the soccer field for a while and the pre match preparation. They have a two-hour pre match preparation, of which this time I was part, to study the teams, players and their respective countries and the team couch.
• He’s giving the proceedings of the game on a touch-for-touch commentary. The main business is “Lampard gets the ball, gives it to Makelele, Makelele to Drogba. Oh no! Ferdinand intercepts. It’s now Paul Scholes, to Ronaldo, no he suits wide!”

I am worth every penny I am paid.

Staying Tuned To WBS

(Apologies to the Lil' Homey)

On days such as Monday, when I am possibly, occasionally, maybe perhaps running a bit late for work, and am still within Chez Baz when the clock blips nine, and I know I should be exploding out of the door like a bullet from a gun, eager to get out there into the real world where I am sorely needed, I have found, of late, reason to tarry.

It wasn’t always like this. In fact, when Daniel Arap Moi – not the ex-president, the semi-literate WBS news anchor—was doing the breakfast news, I would actually flee the crib in fear, anxious to get off the premises before his dumb ass appeared on the screen.

However, these days ease of departure is impeded, rather than aided, by the TV. Because WBS has hired HNC.

No, I don’t know her real name. Since Arap Moi, I learnt to keep the volume on strict mute when WBS shows news. So I haven't heard her introduce herself. I assume she just says, "These are the headlines. I'm Hot News Chick."

What do you want me to do? Rush into the cold, cruel, mean, soul-draining, mind-numbing, heartbreaking corporate gulag just like that, without a second glance at this glorious visage, itself the very light of heaven? Of course not. What man, if he be truly a man, would begrudge me a few minutes to stand before the screen basking in the heat her gorgeousness radiates, just a few minutes? That could be the only moment of pure beauty I will encounter all day.

Unless I, like, have plans for the evening or something.

James Nsaba Buturo. Laughingstock. Disgrace. Contemptible piece of shit. (Also featuring a Diarist post titled "How I grew down in 2006")

This is the story: When Jimmy was Minister of Information in 2004, he received money from a radio station in Gulu. Sh20 million. The station gave him the money for some jibber jabber about formulating a policy framework blah blah... whatever. They gave him money so that he can do some work for them. After receiving the money Jimmy said, “It was after I studied the nature of the request that I concluded that it was not possible to do what the Board had requested.”

That is to say, Jimmy took the money then said, “I can’t do this job.”

This is the point at which he should have sent the dough back, right?

Well, a man of integrity, would have, but this dude didn’t give it back until parliament and public uproar ordered him to.

He still does not think he has done anything wrong. Dude, in a country where corruption is a crippling disease, widespread and ingrained, a land where corruption is so deep it is part of the culture, the man who is charged with fighting it should not fiddle around with finances. Do things by the book. He should understand what the words Zero Tolerance, Setting and Example, and Appearance of Impropriety mean. He should at the very least understand what Integrity means. That is what we pay him for.

Oops. I forgot. Nsaba James Buturo doesn’t think it is important do what he is paid for.



I can't believe you are still reading this...

I know there are real thieves out there, real crooks, who are stealing, not just um… reassigning… funds, public funds, my money, not Mega FM’s, I know that this case is petty small fry peanuts, so why am I riled up about this? Why no blog rant about The Global Fund?

Well. the global fund crooks did not presume that they should usurp my adult right to determine how best to live my own life by assuming that I lack the moral maturity to decide on my own. Global fund thieves did not repudiate my citizen’s rights and call me a callow child who needs to be protected that I hear from seeing Ray C’s hips.

And they did not trumpet this abhorrent bigotry against people who don’t make much money as if it was a fact declared by God that Mukono people lack the sense to not allow themselves to be sodomised in exchange for pigs, insinuating that because they are poor they must also be stupid. Global Fund thieves at least had the decency to respond to their indecent acts by skiving, ducking and making excuses. Nsaba admitted that he did it. He said he was enthusiastic about breaching procedures and disregarding principles.

Also in the news this week:

How I grew down in 2006

Favourite movie at the end of 2005: Adaptation
Favourite movie at the end of 2006: Pirates of The Caribbean: Curse of the Black Pearl

Musician most often quoted to myself in 2005: Bruce Springsteen
Musician most often quoted to myself in 2006: Jay-Z

Book I felt I had to read by end of 2005: Invisible Cities
Right now I cannot wait for Amazon to deliver my copy of Azazel by Asimov.

Issue I ranted most about by end of 2005: Women being complicit in the insuduous corrosion of their own workplace rights
Issue I rant about now: Nsaba Buturo daring to say I should not watch EATV.