Disclaimer: This post is rated PG 17. It contains strong language, disturbing images and flash pho… no wait, wrong disclaimer. But seriously, be prepared, it’s more than just mild swearing. Thank you. Have a nice day.
When I think about bosses, I don’t quite see them as human. To me, they are these amazing, ethereal beings with hot cars and six-zero-salaries who can do no normal thing. Except maybe hitting [on] people, coz, you know, they’re bosses.
But then I realise they’re only flesh. They have peeves and ploys and fetishes. They’re just like the rest of us … except with a hot car and six zeroes and a license to hit [on] things.
I had an interesting conversation with K7. He had just had the most blogworthy of weeks, and I was trying to get him to, you know, blog. But he couldn’t, coz his blog is, you know, bookish. In a good way. A very good way. A paying-the-bills kind of way.
I’ve asked him to guest-blog at mine, but he needs motisha. Any cheerleaders available? Mini skirts are a plus.
It showed me something though. It showed me that professionals, and bosses, are not necessarily as clinical and they appear. They have just learned to look that way. Like the Rogue King. It serves their purpose. And sometimes, when glimpses of the real come out, it’s too much to take. I should know. I’m still haunted by the image of a stern, scary bosslady expertly doing mduara at an office kitchen party. The horror!
K7, as he often does, made the point very clear for me. MJ, rest his dear soul in peace, was a legend, but he did get up to the strangest things. I was watching this video of him live in concert someplace, and I noticed one thing. He loved it! He was on stage doing the robot moonwalk routine, and his face was glowing. You could see he was totally into the dance, possessed almost. The moves flowed through him, raw and wild, like some kind of jericurled 3PO oompa loompa.
Then he’d finish the song and his expression would change. He’d stand still for a few moments, breathing while the crowd went wild, and just like that, he’d be mortal again. He’d go back to the little-girl voice, blow a shy kiss at the crowd and squeak ‘I love you all’.
Then the next set would start and he’d morph back into this larger than life piece of walking talking genius, even his voice changes. You can’t compare the angstious vocals and ATT in ‘Bad’ to the frightened mousy guy hiding his children in the Emirates. Being on stage was his strength, his passion. Being off it, he was just, well, human.
We imagine that celebs do their crazy antics because they’re celebs, but they really don’t. You could snort yourself silly on a bottle of brrr and nobody would care unless your first name was Catherine and your last name rhymed with dental floss. You could drive at age 6 and nobody would call you underage unless you were Miley Cyrus. You could, and do, get away with a whole lot when you’re not in the limelight.
I’m a writer, and this here is my space. It’s not very well concealed, but it’s a part of me I don’t show off in my other life. Because here I’m more myself, less of the serious professional person that some people think I am. So I get fairly uneasy when someone from that world leaves a comment here, because frankly, CB is a clown.
But I suppose CB is simply human, and the ones who pass by here aren’t doing it to find my CV. Unless of course they’re headhunting, like some employers do with facebook. Uh-oh!
I am always being told to stop taking myself so seriously. Which is weird, coz in my mind, CB is the one place where I take myself quite lightly. I get amused when people see CB, and imagine that I am this … well, I’m not sure what they imagine I am.
But what I do imagine is that the average person, when they meet Crystal, without the caricature or the fruit, will be somewhat … surprised … possibly disappointed that I am so … normal.
It’s always been that way, even when I was the little kid that did xyz, and people would meet me and get shocked that I looked so … standard. They half expected me to have two heads and a tail. Or at least to be a little taller.
I think inside all ‘deep souls’ resides a little Michael Jackson, dolled up in shiny clothes, grinning shyly and squeaking ‘I love you all’. The deepest of stories arise from mood, and when the mood passes and the writing is done, we all just want to lick a lollipop, suck a helium balloon, and make like Mickey Mouse on crack.
It’s why one agent says she doesn’t like writers interviews. You read a novel or poem or blog and imagine the writer must be this god-like being that plays Muse like a cheap roller drum [what d’you call that drum-on-a-stick thingie from Karate Kid and Bomas, the one you roll between your palms and these strings with balls on them spin and hit the drum? That one]
But after the interview, you learn that the Deep Ones like orange juice and weetabix and slightly burnt ugali, or that they have been divorced six times, three of the divorces being from the same spouse, and that they failed their driving test six times, or that they wrote their entire work of genius while high or sawdust and cough syrup.
Suddenly your hero is merely an Ewok, and their immensely beautiful prose, which seems to be written in their very own invented language, turns to be Choobaka talking kyuk and asking for a bar of soap. [Yeah, I’ve been watching Star Wars again]. They’re not any less deep, they’re just a lot more … human. Hence the famous quote ‘Writers should be read, not heard [or for that matter, seen. Publishers, however, disagree, hence readings et al]’. It’s probably also why the original X-generation bloggers are so fiercely protective of their offline identities.
I’m learning not to take myself so seriously. It’s about time. I am deep, I am wise, I am mature, and I am good at what I do. But I am also silly, naive, dense, stupid, and sometimes downright blonde. So don’t be too surprised if you make a date with CB and end up with a squeaky-voiced dreadlocked kid chilling on a jumping castle with headphones singing along to Lithium, Disorder, or Halo. That won’t be princess, she’s the lighter one in the girly dress. This version is dark and lives in jeans. I’m just saying…
PS: I love the way rock songs can make the obscene sound adorable. I mean where else but in a rock song would you laugh at a line that says:
‘… I dreamed that I was lying beneath a naked woman saying something that I can’t repeat…’
This band also has lyrical gems such as
‘…wanna put my tender heart in a blender, watch it spin round to a beautiful oblivion…’
and
‘…she was cool and collected till she found him erected with another.
Shit went bad he’s on the roof again.
She flipped, he flipped the bird and then he went
on the roof where his threats ring loud and clear.
‘Gonna jump, gonna jump, gonna die this year .’
…your heinous highness broke her hymen
hey man try to quit your crying…’
I love this game.
♫ Nightmare ♫ Eve 6 ♫
PPS: The title is my homage to Jay Z and Lil’ Kim. What.
How d’you say ‘my love’ in Spanish?
Mi Amore.
How d’you say ‘my love’ in thug?
Can I hit it raw.
[then a bunch of nasty words that I can’t quite hear]
Ea-sy Papii…
Teach me more!