A musical lull

Regardless of some threats I received in the comments to my last post (Hullo Judearoo) to do with pitchforks and lanterns (I don't know which one is scarier, a pitchfork or the weapon of mass destruction, also known as a lantern?) in case there ever was a lull in my blogging, I'm here to tell you of just such a potential, veritable lull.

What?

What?

What?

But surely she'll cease to exist if she does not chronicle every shower that she doesn't take with meticulous attention. She'll become a shadow of herself, a person whose only activities are golf, reading and the occasional pee, before she withers away completely and croaks, bites the dust, hangs up her clogs for good, and goes ahead and dies.

What?

So what actually is going on, is that, since we know Mandela personally (please don't take this literally, since I'm probably already under surveillance for tweeting, blogging and commenting about stalking him) and can send him after anyone we choose like a pack of polar bears with the polar-bear munchies, the internet provider has finally agreed to improve our flailing webby connection.

Or they got tired of my incessant wailing.

Either way. There is some 'down time' scheduled for this week, which, if this is actually African time, could mean this month, but hopefully not this year. Although there have been promises of complimentary internet connection in some office building somewhere on this here estate, my experience is that upon arrival to said building with my laptop all ready to blog my little heart out, I'll only encounter locked doors and lots of raised eyebrows and shrugs from the guards, who will then, as soon as I turn my back, start making fun of the 'gullible European'.

They won't laugh in my face though, because, sadly, I'm much bigger than any of them and could possibly take most of them in a number of forms of close range combat. Now that I think of it, I'm conflicted. I don't know whether I should be proud that I'm double the size of a Zulu man, fearful because our estate only seems to employ Zulus that are on the small side (where do the big ones go?), or sad that I'm even contemplating whether I could take someone in close combat, be they Zulu or not. Usually, I'm not at all physically aggressive.

Still, they won't let me in the building, because "Madam, we have no internet."

And sure enough they don't.

I really wish I was more organized and could write a bunch of posts to be published every morning for this week on some dazzlingly excellent topics, such as 'Now the car is fixed, why is she still not leaving the house to go anywhere?', 'Does it count as a shower if you wash your hands all the way to the elbows?', or 'The finer points in clothing your pug so that it simply cannot be sexed.', while I finally finish either Foucault's Pendulum by Umberto Eco or Den Afrikanske Farm by Karen Blixen, instead of hitting 'refresh' like a mad woman. But alas, my organizational skills are pretty much limited to remembering where I left the computer the night before (recently, due to some undisclosed moments of panic and distress, I make a point of remembering where I park it ever night), and the science of making a good cup of organic filter-coffee.

So just in case I, tonight (or last night, depending on when I set this post to publish), end up curling up into a lifeless (read: off-the-grid) ball and dying in the blogosphere sense of the word (which translates to 'will be back by Friday'), I'll leave you with a list of musical issues to ponder, as these issues have been consuming me lately.

Not really, but I'm thinking of them now.

:: Is it okay for me to like Eminem? I know I'm supposed to abhor gangsta rap, but he's not that, is he? I really do, so badly, want to be a proper feminist and would hate for my love for Eminem to stand in the way of embracing my chosen -ism. Please.

:: Where exactly is Butcher Holler? And does it even exist? It sounds awfully gimmick-y.

:: When did I manage to learn the lyrics to Sir Mix A Lot's Baby got Back and how much of my brain are they currently taking up? I don't feel this is a good use of my limited capacity.

:: What does Madonna really sing in La Isla Bonita? And do I even want to know? Or do I just want to hold onto the way I would sing the song in fluent Finglish like I did when I was 10 years old?

:: Same question goes for George Michael's Careless Whisper. How does this chorus strike your fancy: An I neva gonna dance again/ guilty feeling got no rhythm/ oh it's easy to pretend I know yam not a fool/ should've known better than to chain a friend/ wasted chance that I'd been given/ so I'm neva gonna dance again the way I danced withoo-oo? Once again, but with feeling please. 

:: Can I still love Madonna regardless of her muscles desperately trying to escape her skin, and despite her questionable methods of becoming an adoptive parent? Not in that order.

:: Is Hubby off his rocker for loving me after my impromptu performance of Luis Miguel's Si tu te Atreves on Friday night shortly before dinner. I know all of Luis's moves, and can do his awesome finger pointing action to a T.

In this fashion.

Oh and I'm only now finishing the broccoli salad I made on Friday, so some lull in the blogging could also be caused by food poisoning.

I laugh in the face of danger.