I am a child of the eighties, which according to the Urban Dictionary means ‘a person born roughly between 1972 and 1984’. For boys, it meant growing up watching cartoons like He-Man or Transformers, playing with GI Joe dolls or Nintendo’s Double Dragon, watching movies like Beverly Hills Cop or Back to the Future, and of course listening to some of the shittiest music ever. Whether it was Genesis, Duran Duran or Bon Jovi that tickled people's fancy, I’m pretty sure they all look back now and think ‘What were we thinking?’.
Still, my parents have often told the story of how as a toddler I went absolutely ballistic every time Culture Club’s Karma Chameleon was on. If you need to be reminded, do press play:
It’s funny that especially this Karma Chameleon should have been my favourite. Indeed, as I grew up and even today, people have told me that in some ways I am indeed like a chameleon. Which, I guess, is sort of true. But then again, aren’t we all? I mean, us modern folk live such varied lives that we are in many like chameleons, shifting shapes as we go. Or is it just me?
I’ll let you decide by the different skins I have put on this week. So far I have been…
(Sunday) …the Italian grandma: making pizza from scratch with fresh dough, home made passata, mozzarella di buffala and 24-month-old Parmigiano Reggiano, wearing a dirty apron, sweating profusely and cursing like an old sailor when chipping my fingernail while chopping the fresh basil.
(Monday) …the Italian twenty-five year old: getting up at 10 o’clock in the morning and wearing pyjamas until 12. Then off to the gym for an easy workout, followed by a long shower. In the afternoon espressos with a friend and complaining about how hard work has been lately. And in the evening frozen margaritas with the boys and going to a groovy funk gig (Ben Westbeech rules!).
(Tuesday/1) …the Englishman in tweed jacket: discussing the interdisciplinary possibilities of rhetorical theory and mathematics with two of my colleagues from academia, sipping sweet Manzanilla sherry, munching cheddar cheese and saying things like: Yes, I do believe persuasive strategies of both individual speech and communal discourse could be formalised in a mathematical decision model, but obviously specific values will have to be substituted by general proportions.
(Tuesday/2) …the fat American guy: sitting at the poker table with my head between my elbows at one o’clock at night, trying to decide whether a flop bet of four 20¢ chips instead of three chips (one 50¢, one 20¢ and one 10¢) is a sign of strength or weakness after having too many beers, all the while trying to pick one of those damn Duyvis-nuts from between my teeth.
Which of course, begs the question. What will Wednesday bring?
Tormented writer guy? (trying to finish that short story that’s in my drawer) Marathon man? (going for a long run later today) DIY handy man? (finally replacing my name tag on the doorbell) TV dude? (catching up on stuff I taped)
Or all of the above?
Karma karma karma karma karma chameleon,
you come and go, you come and go.
Still, my parents have often told the story of how as a toddler I went absolutely ballistic every time Culture Club’s Karma Chameleon was on. If you need to be reminded, do press play:
It’s funny that especially this Karma Chameleon should have been my favourite. Indeed, as I grew up and even today, people have told me that in some ways I am indeed like a chameleon. Which, I guess, is sort of true. But then again, aren’t we all? I mean, us modern folk live such varied lives that we are in many like chameleons, shifting shapes as we go. Or is it just me?
I’ll let you decide by the different skins I have put on this week. So far I have been…
(Sunday) …the Italian grandma: making pizza from scratch with fresh dough, home made passata, mozzarella di buffala and 24-month-old Parmigiano Reggiano, wearing a dirty apron, sweating profusely and cursing like an old sailor when chipping my fingernail while chopping the fresh basil.
(Monday) …the Italian twenty-five year old: getting up at 10 o’clock in the morning and wearing pyjamas until 12. Then off to the gym for an easy workout, followed by a long shower. In the afternoon espressos with a friend and complaining about how hard work has been lately. And in the evening frozen margaritas with the boys and going to a groovy funk gig (Ben Westbeech rules!).
(Tuesday/1) …the Englishman in tweed jacket: discussing the interdisciplinary possibilities of rhetorical theory and mathematics with two of my colleagues from academia, sipping sweet Manzanilla sherry, munching cheddar cheese and saying things like: Yes, I do believe persuasive strategies of both individual speech and communal discourse could be formalised in a mathematical decision model, but obviously specific values will have to be substituted by general proportions.
(Tuesday/2) …the fat American guy: sitting at the poker table with my head between my elbows at one o’clock at night, trying to decide whether a flop bet of four 20¢ chips instead of three chips (one 50¢, one 20¢ and one 10¢) is a sign of strength or weakness after having too many beers, all the while trying to pick one of those damn Duyvis-nuts from between my teeth.
Which of course, begs the question. What will Wednesday bring?
Tormented writer guy? (trying to finish that short story that’s in my drawer) Marathon man? (going for a long run later today) DIY handy man? (finally replacing my name tag on the doorbell) TV dude? (catching up on stuff I taped)
Or all of the above?
Karma karma karma karma karma chameleon,
you come and go, you come and go.
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