Book Review of Hectic by Aryan Kaganof
In the local pubs, pool halls and dodgier districts of all South African towns and cities, a seedy underworld of drug-smuggling, drug-taking and gun-running exists. This world is one most people have encountered, at the very least indirectly, even if we are unaware of it. This is the world of Cool Red Kowalski and his low-brow friends, as is so vividly brought to our attention by Aryan Kaganof in Hectic!
The texture of this story and its characters is not brought about in a conventional way, as it is the patterns of speech and colloquialisms that give us an insight into the various personalities in this hard-hitting novel. The author has apparently read a lot of Irvine Welsh, as his writing guides us into the accents of speech of Cool Red and the gang. Much like the first time I read Welsh’s Marabou Stork Nightmares, when after a while I found myself thinking in a broad Scottish accent, I could hear the voices of these characters in my head as the pages turned.
For much of the novel we are appalled yet enthralled by the main character, Cool Red, as he bumbles his way through various shady dealings and acts of sexual deviancy. Make no mistake; this is definitely a book which appeals to the basest of our desires. Think what Spud might have ended up like had he succumbed to the appeal of class A drugs and heavy drinking and you have some idea of the sort of humour we’re dealing with here. For the first few chapters, we see Cool Red’s antics as very shallow, with no real reason for his deviancy other than that he is obviously too lazy and unmotivated to get off his arse and live a normal 36 year-old’s life.
In the opening paragraphs, one is lulled into the false belief that he might be a man in his early 20’s, freshly dropped out of university and trying to make sense of where he might be headed in life. His age is dropped like a bomb and we instantly realize just how far gone this guy’s chances may well be. He’s infatuated with the proprietor of his local pub, Miss Mallurby, and spends most of his time ogling her over the bar counter while scrounging Black Labels off of the other patrons.
He’s managed to get himself into a relationship with a 19-year-old UCT student called Spacey, but is continually frustrated that she won’t allow him into her pants, so to speak. Her issue is that she can’t trust him, and with good reason as we learn towards the end of this slice of nightmarish South African life. We learn that he associates his feelings of arousal with nausea, as Spacey had just thrown up the first time he managed to convince her to give him oral gratification.
This is obviously gross-out stuff, and we spend most of the novel disappointed in the habits of this weird, charismatic individual. It is only much later that the real reason behind his fixation is revealed – he tells us how he remembers being overcome by “the peculiar mixture of nausea and arousal” that accompanied the first time his mother put her tongue in his mouth as an 8-year-old boy.
The last 10 or so pages reveal a truly nightmarish conclusion which floors us with the matter-of-fact way in which Cool Red tells it. This is a fascinating, kidney-punching window into the soul of a truly damaged, yet somehow affable, individual. By the end, you feel kind of bad for actually liking Cool Red.
Self Improvement is Masturbation: book review of Fight Club by Chuck Palahniuk
It’s often said that the book is always better than the movie, but in the case of Chuck Palahniuk’s Fight Club, this is not the case at all. Hell, even the author agrees that the film version turned out more satisfying than his story of a madman on a quest to destroy history. This is an often misunderstood part of the story in the film, as all the buildings targeted for destruction are banks and building societies. It is only hinted that all of them are next door to museums and archival record buildings, which are Tyler
This is not to say that the novel isn’t a riveting read, it just means that we encounter a better, more subtle storyteller in the film’s director, David Fincher. I was at a distinct disadvantage upon reading the book, as I had seen the film first and thus knew of the now famous twist in the tale.
Nevertheless, I feel that this gave me an interesting perspective as I tried to balance the two versions against one another. The first half hour of the film is segmented by single-frame clips of the iconic madman, Tyler Durden, as his presence to the narrator becomes more and more real. The in-joke is only later revealed when we learn that Tyler Tyler
Much of the narration from the book is used unchanged in the film, making them a good pair to enjoy in quick succession of one another. I couldn’t help hearing the narrator’s voice as that of Edward Norton (who plays him in the film), and this may have forced me to see him in the way David Fincher would have wanted rather than as my own interpretation of the character. The fact that the author was heavily involved in the production of the film, however, eases my acceptance of Norton’s voice narrating the novel to me.
We all know about the violence and the twist and the dogmatic statements made by Tyler
Leisure Rules
Idle hands do the devil’s work. Whoever said that obviously didn’t know the first thing about procrastination. Idle hands tell the devil to get stuffed. They find anything to do other than what they’re supposed to, but I’d hardly call throwing a tennis ball up against a wall for a couple of hours the devil’s work.
For the true-blue student, this kind of procrastination becomes an artform. Just wait ‘til swot week. Take a walk around campus and see how hard it is to find an open tennis court at any time of day. Not many can even hold a racquet the right way, but they’ll be there. Take a gander at the pool, the infamous meat-market. Goths have magically transformed into sun-worshippers and even the most uncoordinated have taken to water polo. Sometimes, people even take to reading books for enjoyment and not because they have to.
When it comes down to it, people will do damn near anything in the name of work-avoidance. In vain attempts to escape the shackles of desks full of study materials, students flock to the cinema – pirated movies just don’t seem to cut it anymore.
Don’t feel ashamed folks, I’m not pointing fingers here. As a matter of fact, I’m somewhat of an officianado on this particular movement. Back in my res days, we were able to kill off whole afternoons just by talking bollocks. Especially in the glorious summer months.
After spending a good hour or two in the dining hall at lunch discussing the goings-on of the previous night, we’d all migrate to the balcony. Shirts off, smokes out and the lurking began. There wasn’t any point to any of the conversations, other than that they kept us away from the stifling confines of our rooms and responsibilities. There wasn’t even a need for the toys which so often become a part of this particular kind of procrastination – the tennis or rugby balls, perhaps a slinky. Go slinky go!
As a graduate of lurk-soc, I would feel a right hypocrite if I were to pass judgement. My only saving grace these days is that I’m in my final year of study and simply can’t avoid the work anymore. Most of you out there still have plenty of time to kill, so take it easy. Ferris Bueller said it best: “Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t slow down once in a while, you just might miss it”.
Still Life With Brewskies or An Average Saturday Morning
Something very bad happened here last night, and nobody’s overly keen to talk about it. All around me lie the sordid remains of what was once a reasonably respectable-looking lounge. Only the skeleton of the room remains, couches reduced to sad imitations of felt-covered tents, their innards jutting out at angles that make one queasy if the eye lingers just a moment too long. Shattered shards of glass form a torture-carpet across the floor, interspersed with wounds of dried up wine, beer and a green liquid which I now wish is dish-washing soap, but if memory serves it’s actually peppermint licquer.
Bottles jut out of the walls at obscene angles – monuments to some vain effort at venting out frustrations over the blurred memories of yet another sporting disappointment. Rob’s bedroom wall is a shadow of it’s former self. Holes now take up more space than the boarding it’s supposed to be made of. All around us, scrawled across the remaining intact walls are the savage ravings of boozed-up beat poets, interrupted occasionally by scorecards for the drinking games which were no doubt the destroyers-in-chief of the collective memories.
Bodies are strewn across the room, most begging for a quiet and peaceful morning’s death. Some are cocooned in duvets and blankets, most are haphazardly slumped over the parts of the furniture still fit for use. Life is overrated when you’re feeling like this I suppose. Thank the man up above that this party didn't try to inflict itself on the rest of this poor hamlet.
Outside, the world goes on, oblivious to the travesty that’s just taken place indoors. The only evidence out there where things still appear real are the smouldering remains of the kitchen furniture out on the front lawn, but even those might look like just a normal bonfire from a distance. Birds twitter in the trees, cars take their occupants safely about their daily business and life goes on.
It’ll go on for the occupants of the room in a day or so too, but for the time being all that is in the immediate future are vain attempts at staving off that all-too familiar feeling. They say it’s as close as most people will ever come to dying of thirst, most here wish it was something more akin to drowning. It’d be somewhat more poetic that way I think, and apparently a damn sight more pleasant. If one can contemplate thinking of death as pleasant. Something tells me most here are thinking along those lines right now.
The Alconauts: observational piece
The spittle was flying from his jowels as he raged on, that booze-besotted drunk down at the Rat on Friday night. There he stood, in the corner by the stairs, trying to lure whoever might pass into his surreal world where nothing seemed to be functioning quite as it should, from the simple art of speech to gravity itself.
Slow, lumbering movements were all he was capable of, like Neil Armstrong up on the moon. The alconaut. On his own quest to boldly go where no drinker had gone before. Judging from the lack of a ticker-tape parade, no drinker wanted to follow him there either. Is there life on Mars? He wasn’t sure.
His knowing smile was betrayed by his mumbled “feckaff”. All around him, people stopped and stared, but he didn’t know or didn’t care. Neither would have surprised me. I’d seen him, earlier in the night when he was still capable of holding his own in a conversation. He seemed lucid enough at the time. Friendly even. Amazing what can happen after the worm has turned.
The funniest thing was that he wasn’t the only one in this state of disrepair. All over the place, tucked away in the corners to which they’d been shunned, were his compatriots. Giggling dumbly at their own jokes with glazed over cow-eyes. Constant movement without moving, as if testing how far they could sway without falling in a heap of sweat, fumes and drool on the floor.
Some had even managed to get themselves trapped upstairs. There they sat, or leaned against the bar, trying their best to stare down the challenge which lay before them. The men fall head over heels, and the ladies fall on their bums. That’s the way it always happens.
And that’s just the ones who refuse to throw caution to wind and kamikaze-dive down the flight head-first. Like Chuck Palahniuk’s space-monkeys they soar, but not for long. What goes up must come down, and with the ground descending at a generous 45 degrees below them, they’ve got a long way to come down. Bash, tumble and crash and off to the bar once more.
Behind enemy lines, mission complete, and now for the celebration. January, February, March, April, May, June, July…
We Stop. We Smoke. We Drive On: conversational experiment
So me and GP are driving through the Kei Cuttings. Anyone who’s done the Durbs G’town drive knows just what a nightmare that section of road can be. Donkeys, goats and cows everywhere, no lines, traffic following no rules in particular. It must be kinda liberating to live life that way I suppose.
Anyway, the car rounds a corner on a sheer cliff face. Me behind the wheel. Next thing I know, there’re just taxis everywhere, filling up my line of sight. I don’t quite know what happened next, I just knew that I hadn’t lived quite long enough for my life to be flashing in front of my eyes. Still too much to do and see. I look across at Geeps. The man’s a ghost. I think he may have even tasted his lunch all over again. We stop. We smoke. We drive on.
The third term beckons – Grahamstown’s strange appeal pulling us away from the hometowns we know and love. Nobody gets homesick here – it sucks away all the ‘real world’ problems, leaving us cocooned. Tucked away in our little corner of the Eastern Cape
No worries. The car’s looking okay too. A few scrapes on the hubs from the gutter sidings. Never mind though Geeps, the old man’ll cover the costs. D’you think the taxi drivers shat themselves as badly as we did? I think there were four of them, and there’s no way they were thinking about what was coming round the corner. Two white boys scared shitless is what, just trying to get safely back to varsity. All they were worried about was who’s getting to the top first. I think the only thing that saved us from soaring to a Thelma & Louise-esque certain death was the gutter siding.
Scenery was as rugged as the Grand Canyon too.
All I Remember Was The Red: a phone call to Mum & Dad as a young 'un
All I remember was the red Mum. Honest. Greggy was there, he’ll tell you I wasn’t fooling around. It was brilliant at first. Everything was upside down, but no-one was falling off the ground. The guys on the cricket field hit the ball down and then it would fall up back onto the ground. Then down up down up and rolling towards the boundary. I felt the bar getting warmer behind my knees, but didn’t think anything was going to happen. Greg says that Dale was behind the bushes. He’s nasty that Dale. One time, he tried to put a condom he’d found on the grounds in my cap, but I kicked him in the goolies before he could. I felt bad about it, but he is bigger than me Mum, and he often takes Mark’s peanut butter and syrup sarmies at lunch time. Little and big break. He deserved it. I never saw him do it, but Greg did. He says Dale pushed me off. All I remember is the ground coming at my face and the red Mum, honest. When I woke up Greg was splashing water on my face and Mrs Scott was running down from the main buildings. Greg was the only one who saw him do it, so he’ll probably get away with it. He’s never at practices either. I hate that guy. Sorry Mum. But I really, really don’t like him. Do you think I’ll be able to play on Saturday? It’s Clarendon this weekend and me and Gareth are opening. No, Rhys has the flu, I think. Lots of guys do at the moment. If it gets any worse, we’ll all have next week off from school. Cameron says I can go fishing at his farm all week if it happens. Please can I go Mum? It’ll be so much fun! Thanks Mum, you’re the best. I’ll catch some for Oums and Oups as well, ‘cos his farm’s not far from their place. No, matron says it’s not broken, but you should see my eyes! They’re all black and blue. No, Mum, I can see fine – we played pool cricket yesterday and I smashed Iain over the school block when he dropped it short. His mum and dad’re coming to watch on Saturday as well, so I’ll give them all your best. Love you Mum. Bye. Hi Dad! Ja, I’m opening again on Saturday. Clarendon. Mr Beetar says if I keep on batting the way I have I might make the firsts by the end of the season! I think Jason’s got a better chance though – I’ve got out to some silly shots in the past few games. No, Mum’s being silly. It was just bleeding. It was Dale. No, Dad, I can see fine. You should see the shiners though! Mum’ll tell you all about it. Ja, what goes around really goes around! He’s not so tough once the inter-house rugby season starts though hey!? No, we won’t target him Dad, we’ll just make sure we thump them properly. It’s different here. I miss you guys, especially when you’re traveling. That’s when I worry the most. Ja. As soon as you’re safely home then I’m okay. Oh! Is it okay if I go fishing at Cameron’s for the week? Oh, sorry, no. There might not be school next week ‘cos too many guys are getting the flu. Cam says he’s asked his folks if it’s okay already. I’ll also be able to see Oums and Oups, it’ll be brilliant! Yes, of course I’ll take them some fish Dad. Maybe Oums can cook them for Cam and me. Cam and I, sorry. Are you gonna get away this weekend at all? Wow! I hope you see some lions! Don’t forget to take lots of pictures okay? And please please post some down. Will do, you know they all miss you down here too. Love you Dad. Bye.
Retail Therapy: observational piece
This place has always been a bit of a sore point for me. It’s not that I have a personal vendetta against this mall in particular; I just don’t get the whole enjoyment factor from shopping. The mind boggles at how some people, and I’m talking about the ‘professional shoppers’ in the malls of Jozi/Durbs/Cape Town, can say with a straight face that shopping is one of their hobbies. Hobby?! Last time I checked, a hobby was something that required a modicum of skill, not just a fat wallet and a trolley with good suspension!
You walk into Musgrave centre or Sandton Square and they’re everywhere – big, plastic sunglasses, hair neat and perfect, handbags compact yet with enough space for the ‘essentials’, skin fake-bronzed from tanning salons or the bottle (the sun is no longer on friendly terms with these people) and the legs toned and sinewy from endless hours in uncomfortable yet eminently stylish shoes.
Up and down the aisles and corridors they go, ambush artists lurking from aisle to aisle, corridor to corridor, ready to pounce upon the first unsuspecting bargain. ‘Retail therapy’ they call it. It’s a sad state of affairs if people are resorting to buying shit they don’t need to make themselves feel better about straying partners, kids who won’t do as they’re told or bosses who won’t listen to their ideas for the company’s future. Stuff doesn’t solve problems, people solve problems.
All the while, the consuming goes on. Around me, I see this place changing. Longer aisles, more stuff. More space so the consumers can pack themselves in, squeezing the next bargain out by force if necessary. This mall might not be like the giants of the major cities yet, but if Raymond Ackerman and company get their way, it soon will be. It’s sad to know, not just think, that there will be enough professional shoppers, even here, to keep the tills ringing all day long.
Round two and on face value not much has changed. A few items have moved house on the shelves – a convenient necessity to confuse shoppers like me who like to get in and out with as little pain as possible. And I do mean pain. I don’t like to shop – it’s an unfortunate necessity for those of us who aren’t subsistence farmers, a blight on an otherwise peaceful existence.
The hammering and drilling goes on unabated, the builders forging ahead like explorers leading the shop into new and exciting territories. It’s almost difficult to see the pastry section at the back of the shop now as the aisles stretch, enormous as highways, down to the arse-end of Grahamstown it seems. Gaping wounds in the building’s structure engender a false sense of hope that the consumerist kingdom might come crashing down, but these are the wounds of surgery rather than injury. This juggernaut is coming back stronger than before. It won’t be, can’t be stopped.
And the professional shoppers go do do do doo doo doo do do do back to their shrine-like houses, museums to the crap available from who knows how many clones of this same place. Maybe I was wrong the first time – they don’t regard shopping as a hobby. No, it’s gone way beyond that now. It’s a religion, and the mall is their place of worship. These are devout followers of their warped faith too – worshipping once a week simply isn’t enough to satisfy a God like theirs. No, seven times a week, and for hours on end. Any less and all you’re doing is paying lip-service.
Any less and you’ll end up trawling flea-market hell for the rest of eternity.
