UNDERCULTURE

A friend has recently rapped me on the knuckles. She says I have been remiss in my duties to underculture and, of course, she is right. But I do have an excuse, a lame one, but an excuse nonetheless: I have been busy putting my life back together after the storm of blood, fear and blame of what has turned out to be the most bitter-sweet heartbreak I’ve had to go through yet.

And that should mean something because I’ve gone through a few. Embarrassingly, I’ve yet to forget the drinking binges that followed ——— and the massive cloth-rending, gnashing of teeth self-pity that came in the wake of ———. By Odin’s beard, I cringe in shame just recalling those. In fact, I often muse on how some of you are still my friend after those self-pitying and narcissistic petulant tirades, and it is still a mystery to me (I love you guys).

Here, however, I think it’s slightly different. There is no self-pity, no self-destruction, just a vast emptiness. It broke and I‘m not sure I know why. She snuck away in the confusion of a cloud of cobbled reasons and questions like a ninja escaping in a puff of smoke and a flash of light. All I am left with now is this terrible hollow melancholy that visits me at the most inopportune time. Every time I think I’m ok, another emotional hook is uncovered.

But the upshot of being a bit older and less attractive is that I am, by now, quite familiar with the process of getting over a broken heart and I know I’ll get to the end of this. It’s been two months, so far and it’ll soon be three, and then four, and then five… And, soon enough, far sooner than my heart would like I guess, there will be a time when friends will mention her and I’ll go who? But that time is not yet upon me. Right now, I’m just focusing on moving forward and walking the troublesome tightrope to avoid the usual emotional traps.

Like a very wise friend (although not that wise: she doesn’t like Clint Eastwood, the fool!) once said: it’s a process and you have to go through every single stage, just make sure that you don’t get stuck on any one. She is right. Saying goodbye is a process and it takes time. There’s no way around it. And, of course, sure there are still lingering questions but these have no place on this blog. They are still best answered over late night beers and very, very patient long-suffering friends (did I mention I love you, guys?).

The long and short of it is that, if she had a choice (and I have my doubts) then what transpired was her prerogative and it is my duty to myself to simply deal with the consequences. I wish her luck and bear her no more rancour. There is nothing left to forgive. After all, I always did say it would unfold this way, I just wish I’d been wrong.

Alright, by now, many of you reading this are screaming at the screen: “fucking let it go, already!” And if you’re one of them, you’re right. Zeus knows how you’ve had the patience to sit through all my melancholy thus far but please bear with me a little longer. Just like you cannot make yourself fall in love, you cannot force yourself to fall out of love. All these matters of the heart work at their own pace, no matter how frustrating and irritating it is.

Let’s face it: for the most part I’m actually quite ok, almost all the time. After all, I know that I wasn’t the one who gave up and, while I’m aware that all breakups involve two people, I have come to terms with my part in this farce. I know where the lion’s share of the blame lies. And I therefore know my place in the story. It has allowed me to keep my centre, my core, and it also means that it’s going to take a lot more than this to break me. It’s just that, well, every now and then, one of her ghosts come to remind me of a future we were working towards that will never happen.

This is simply my Requiem for a Dream, I guess.

Luckily, I am more than blessed with such a marvellous and supportive handful of friends that this process is sure not to last long. It also doesn’t hurt that, suddenly and for very mysterious reasons, I am no longer house-bound and with pocketfuls of tequila money. This has, all in all, lead me right back into the waiting maw of Port Elizabeth’s night life (cue lightning crash and dramatic music).

I thought that I’d left those days behind me but, alas, here I am, for my sins, knee-deep in the night-owls, the dysfunctional and the functional, the players and the preys, the lonely, the heartbroken and the simply broken. Each and everyone bringing with them their handful of hope that, tonight, this time, it’ll be different. Tonight, they’ll meet The One and things will be better. Tonight, the loneliness will be kept at the door and they, too, will finally get to live the dream.

It ends, predictably enough, in beer, tequila and talks that no one remembers about things no one really cares.

But this also brings with it meeting new people, making new meaningful connections, discovering new places, changing the scenery, partying, staying up far too late and, of course, tequila.

So. Much. Tequila.

The main culprit in this is Shhugars (I finally learnt how to spell it right even though I’ve been pronouncing it increasingly better the more I drink), that fine little bar on Heugh Road. It has a lovely atmosphere and some pretty great music. It is, unfortunately, filled with way too many people who think way too much of themselves but that can’t be helped. We may even overlook that because some of them wear tartan miniskirts (in-joke. Just smile and nod). The drinks are a bit more expensive than I would like them but, hey, they make some mean cocktails and the waiters actually know what they’re doing. I haven’t been there in a few weeks but, writing this, I have given myself good reason to go this weekend. Really, if you’re looking for a nice little place for a nice little drink with friends, go there. You’ll enjoy it.

The only major drawback is the road works in front of, next to, above, under and next to the place which make it a complete nightmare to get to. To this day, I still don’t know how to get in, let alone how I leave the place. Some mysteries are best left unsolved.

On the almost complete opposite experience, we have that firm student staple: Pool City in Walmer. There’s nothing fancy here. It is the WYSIWYG (What You See Is What You Get, for you illiterates out there) place to drink and I suspect that it wouldn’t be nearly as nice if it wasn’t for the awesome group of miscreants and lowlifes there that I am only too proud to call my friends. It turns out, also, that it’s a great place to have a 30th but a terrible place to have Stroh Rum (not that I can think of a single place, ever, in the entirety of all four dimensions, which would be a good place to have that excremental drink).

In between, we have Pacino’s in Rink Street next to Uptown Theatres. I’ve only been there once for it and would be much happier to recommend it if I wasn’t so certain that they’d stolen the decor from The Golden Curtain. I would even venture so far as to say that part of the problem of that place (apart from the slow service) is that you’re always expecting some girl to walk in and start stripping. The only reason I don’t venture such an opinion, of course, is that I kind of have that expectation no matter where I go. I suppose that the best way to describe is the lounge version of Dagwoods on Cape Road. I know that probably doesn’t make a lot of sense but if you know, or go to, the two places you’ll go ah, yes, of course.

My travels even took me to the Deck Party. Did you know that PE still has Deck Parties even though Barney’s has closed down? No. Me neither. But apparently they do, down at the Oyster Catcher in the harbour every Sunday (although I suspect that they will close it down for autumn and winter). It turned out to be surprisingly fun if somewhat too full to move by the end of the evening. It’s exactly what you expect from a deck party, though: drunken men posing, drunken women posing, some drunks dancing and some drunks standing talking shit, no one looking really at each other and everyone trying to look good. Did I mention that people were drunk? It is nothing than a meat market of drunks with a live band playing cover songs. Still, if you go there with the right people, like I did (but I always go everywhere with the right people), it can be quite a blast.

None of these, though, even came close to rivalling my House Warming Party (yes, I finally had one after two and a bit months) I have to talk about it because none of the 30+ who showed up had a camera with them. The event will only live in our memories which, thanks to an overzealous tequila train, are shot. It is now just a blurred event on the corner of everyone’s minds. I think it may be time, come to think of it, to throw another one. Does anyone have a good occasion for us to celebrate? Anything really. I’m not fussy.

It is possible that this brief list of events and talk of drunks and tequila may have been giving you the impression that all I’ve been doing is partying and drinking. This is certainly not the case.

Well, not the whole case.

There were some cultural things, like attending and even speaking at a couple of EPSAC exhibitions, in Bird Street. I realize that I’ve been far too hard on them. Sue, and the rest of the committee (but especially Sue) have actually been doing a stunning, amazing job. The work on display at the New Signatures exhibition also went a long way towards restoring some of my faith in the cultural potential of Port Elizabeth (although to unpack that idea, I’ll need a whole separate article. I may get around to it one day).

I also attended a showing of Othello at the Manville theatre, where Gareth played a superb Iago. And I must say how pleasant it all was. There really is something special about sitting on the grass, wine and picnic at your feet, to enjoy a great play. It was marred by disastrous sound, constantly hissing and popping but I lived through it. All in all it was good. I missed the music in the park a few weeks later but, hey, I can’t do everything.

Importantly, although this has nothing to do with drinking and culture, I’ve finally bent to Grant’s repeated suggestion and joined their Shun Wu Tang Kung Fu classes out in Westering. Holy fucking shit! What an amazing and wonderfully uplifting thing to do. I am kicking myself for not doing it earlier (in style now that my kicks are getting fancier). I absolutely love it and it is proving to be the thing that’s getting me through my emotional rollercoaster. Guys, if any of you are interested, and I cannot recommend it enough, drop me a line or give me a call, I’ll get you into contact with the right crowd.

That’s it for the moment, now leave me alone, or buy me a tequila, or join me at kung fu. Hmmm… tequila.