6 keys from the edge…

I’m, not hating,far from it.I respect the whole concept of photography.Given the right setting I’d pose with Angelina Jolie if Bradd let me.But that’s it.I would not go all out on the whole thing the way many people do.It never ceases to amuse me(yes,I am actually a very to amuse person…which is why Breakfast Shows hold some sort of appeal) the lengths people go through for pictures.
I asked someone what they hoped to achieve from this,whether the answers to life’s greatest mysteries would be revealed within the flash of bright lights or whether she had actually chanced upon the secret to youth.I desperately wanted some sort of “deep” reason that would leave me in a state of awe or at the very least pondering the intricacies of film and the like. She summed it up in just the one word-JUST!
Suffice to say,my afternoon was killed and I consoled myself with some asinine game whose objective had me trying to guess what the next Ebonies play would be called.I didn’t see Obnoxious Abomination coming.It just didn’t make as much sense as the other titles. For the record,you can really find yourself in an Inextricable Dilemma wherein the outcome will without a doubt be an Excruciating Conundrum.The perfect example of such a situation would be sitting through any of their TV series…and I use the word “Series” in the broadest sense of the word.
Don’t Worry,Be Happy
Someone claims that getting your picture taken is some sort of anti-depressant.Apparently if you are feeling low and walk into a studio you will emerge shortly afterwards in such high spirits.Two things clash with this theory.I have never seen anyone smiling in those mugshots the police in “outside countries” take in the movies.Secondly alcohol is reputed to lift spirits faster than photos,seeing as there is no time lag as they “develop” alcohol.
Amnesia
There is simply no other way of putting this.People supposedly take pictures so that they can remember how they looked at some point in their lives.This prompts the question,“Then what?”.How exactly is this going to impact your life or the great hereafter?
Just
You can not “just” take pictures.There has to be some reason,heck throw in some sort of vanity or narcissistic spiel.“I figured I looked incredibly good that day and seeing as I described myself in that chatroom where people go to meet their future spouses as looking drop dead gorgeous,this was ideal…now obba where do I get blue eyes…”
There are a few questions that are exceptions to the “just” excuse.You can answer some questions with the one word.Questions such as,“Why do you say all those nasty things about Jennifer Lopez?”
The issue here is not so much the fact that pictures are taken.People need to make a living,Winnie Munyenga needs stuff to talk about..the issue is the fact that people will actually go to the ATM,withdraw money walk past all these takeaways and airtime joints and get a picture taken…Just for Just!!

The first thing that crept into my mind as I entered the club can not be printed.Not necessarily the first thing when you get down to it,but the first word.It was an exclamation of sorts.Nonetheless,I made my way up the stairs and my vision was accosted by the colour.

I realize at this point you’re looking at this and thinking, “What did he expect?What an idiot?” In my defense,I half expected a few shades of any colour but red,but red is all I got.
In a somewhat unique way,(and I say unique in the broadest sense of the word) the club is pretty roomy.I casually observed a lady nearby doing the splits.

Before you get all high and mighty,ask yourself how exactly this is a bad thing. Seeing as there was sufficient room.she didn’t bother anybody.Plus the Rouge is probably the only club where she could do this.In Silk someone would have tripped over her(and said something tacky to the effect,“I fell for her!” *embarrassed laugh*) and if she’d taken that sort of thing to Ange she would have been trampled under some sort of stampede.
Let’s face it,sometimes Ange tends to get so crowded you spend half the night trying to get in.

Something about the place gave me the impression that I didn’t quite fit in. I can’t put my finger on it really.It might have been the fact that the music could not quite be danced to(someone will probably want to dispute this) or the fact that the smoke coming up from under the dancefloor was very suspect.Given the right amount of smoke you could look out for someone,anyone that you had a grudge with and visited your wrath upon him.

Then again I almost felt the way I would if I entered a nightclub only to find that I was one of 12 Ugandans…no,scratch that,Africans…

This is a good thing,you realize.It means that no matter how badly off you are,you can never be the worst dancer in a place like this….