Carnivorous Cow

Carnivorous Cow returned from the movies, where she'd finally managed to see The Constant Gardener without plunging the city into darkness. She was beginning to think that this was perhaps not a good thing - two hours of watching Ralph Fiennes wince and look miserable was much less fun than a power outage, even if Kauai's lemon smoothies depended on power for their production.

Aside from capitalising on every possible cliche about Africa, the movie trotted out a celebration of white wimpy maleness, festooned with golf, cricket and gardening. And, of course, the obligatory pre-teen computer nerd. It was all rather depressing, she told Gramsci.

But even more depressing was the drive home, past the lampposts trimmed in fading election posters with photographs so unflattering they threaten to put caricaturists out of business. The only engaging photo being that of Powerhouse Pat, with her twinkly smile and her catchy slogan. What a pity then, the Cow grumbled to Gramsci, that she had to undermine it by draping herself around that Wimpy White Guy on those other posters.

Carnivorous Cow wasn't sure who the wimpy white guy was supposed to appeal to. Certainly not the tough cookie women who revered PP as a role model. Nor the men of all descriptions who were attracted by her "feistiness". And not even by the excuse-me-for-breathing women who saw her as a threat - now more than ever, that she was moving in on wimpy white guy territory. The Cow found it all very confusing.

Still, she was relieved that the elections would all be over soon, and the politicians could creep back under the rocks they hid under for the intervening five year stretches. And the _real_ men could emerge once more.

Gramsci looked up as Carnivorous Cow panted her way into her office, triggering yet another power outage. It was an effect she seemed to exert in a number of places, too frequently for mere coincidence. Since blogging was out of the question during an outage, Gramsci thought talking might suffice.

"How was your day, yesterday?" he enquired innocently.

The Cow drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "You remember the saga of the car licence - which I was told had to be renewed in Skelmbos, and after two wasted trips was told must be done in Cape Town? Well, I was there as they opened yesterday, but as I got to the counter, the power went down. Pinelands was gridlocked. Can you imagine - a Zimmerframe traffic jam? Still, I got out, and as I drove into Mowbray, the lights there went out. I got to Campus to witness a rapid exodus of staff and students, and gathered that power was down here too. When it came back on, I phoned and checked, and it was back in Pinelands too, so I rushed out there. As I set foot in the building, the power crashed again. And now, again! That's twice in Pinelands, three times on Campus, and once at Stellenbosch! I've lost count how often at home, but add another twice in Claremont and once in Tokai!"

Gramsci bit his tongue, which is difficult as spiders don't have tongues. He'd been on the verge of reporting Mr Timberland's comment about the Cow's negative force field, but thought better of it. The power outage might render the security cameras inoperable, but witnesses might spot her slashing Mr Timberland's tyres since there was little to do but stroll along University Avenue.

"Did you get your licence?" he asked instead. The Cow snorted, flaring her nostrils. The Nostril Photographer missed a real scoop, with that. "Not. Yet." She uttered in measured tones. "Their computers, like ours, need power and networks to operate. But it's been a really interesting experience. The woman in Stellenbosch was really helpful - she couldn't help that I'd been lied to about weekend opening hours, but she was determined to be as compensatory as possible. The guy in Pinelands was a real sweetie - and when the power went down, we looked at each other and both burst out laughing. And the woman, when I went back later, pointed at me accusingly and proudly informed everyone that I'd brought the power down earlier, too! The car guard offered me a special regular slot, given the frequency of my visits. And I met a whole bunch of really nice people in the queue."

"So people were quite mellow about the outage?" Gramsci asked. "Oh no!" the Cow shook her head. "Some screamed and shouted, thumped counters and demanded to see supervisors, shrilling about waiving penalties and the inefficiencies of the Council and every soul who worked for The City That Works For You. But that was mostly the people who came in the BeeMercs and the SUVs. The drivers of the CitiGolfs and the Unos and the Kadetts were far more relaxed. Disempowerment was clearly nothing new to them, they didn't take it personally. They used the opportunity to make bad puns and good friends."

"So now... " Gramsci began slowly, "you're technically driving an unlicensed car?"

"So?" the Cow retorted. "That only becomes an issue if you happen across a speedcop. With all these power outages, they're all phoning in sick to avoid point duty. When last did you see one at large?"

Gramsci had to concede that point.

It was like a movie - Men in Pink II. Glittering with aluminium foil and adorned with monstrous sunglasses, the youth in whose care we'll place the planet bounded over to the Cowmobile. "I've got a bad feeing about this," muttered Gramsci from under the dashboard in his best Han Solo imitation.

"Why didn't you warn me?" grumbled the Cow. "Even the traffic report didn't mention that it was Sax Appeal Day!" She put on a second pair of sunglasses. She'd never seen so much pink, so much glitter and dazzle - not even at the MCQP extravaganzas. Where did they find so much pink? Surely they couldn't *all* be cyclists?

Oddly enough, the closer they approached to the University, the more constrained the behaviour of the students. The less extreme their dress. The more demographically diverse the composition of the groups. The last group the Cow encountered before hitting Campus were so well behaved their parents would have been proud. If they recognised them in their interesting attire, that is.

Despite the congestion at traffic intersections, pedestrian crossings and random geographical coordinates pulled off Google Earth, the trip in to Campus took a mere ten minutes longer than the norm. The temperature gauge threatened, but never actually moved into danger zone. But most remarkable of all was the mood.

Driving through the BeeMerc Belt everyday, Carnivorous Cow was accustomed to the aggression and intolerance that was included in the purchase of any German luxury sedan. The SUV driver whose purchase - or perusal - of a newspaper held up the traffic by longer than a microsecond after the green arrow appeared would be serenaded with hooters in surroundsound, roadraged into quivering submission... but none of that impatience greeted the extended transactions (whoever decided on R15???) holding up traffic flow. Not one foilclad lad was threatened with GBH for leaving palmprints on the impeccable paintwork. Even the newspaper vendors, joke sellers, flower merchants and beggars were treated with greater respect and tolerance. Adrenalin levels were at an alltime low as the Cow stepped out into the Beattie parking lot. The absence of sirens screaming along from the M3 was deafening. Something was clearly going _right_ in the traffic. "Perhaps," ventured Gramsci, "they should have Sax Appeal Day everyday?"

The Nostril Photographer was having a bad day. Working for the Ministry of Propaganda, most days were bad, but this one registered an all time Bad on the Richter Scale of Misery. And he had only himself to blame.

The wheels fall off when one starts believing one's own spin. And, steeped in the Discource of Freedoms that permeates institutions purporting to be liberal, the Nostril Photographer had chosen to exercise his Freedom of Screech by posting a facetious comment on an internal distribution list.

Those acquainted with the Nostril Photographer shrugged it off as facetious. But others took offence at the use of terms like "idiotic little heads" and "hijack" - given that these were used with reference to the Presidential Motorcade's use of the highway en route to the opening of Parliament. Within minutes of his hitting the send button - well, Martian minutes, given network speeds - the ether was crawling under the weight outraged responses calling for punishments which even religious extremists would find educational.

A public apology was duly given. In person, at a meeting. Virtually, on the same distribution list. The clamour subsided.

And then, as it receded into that mindspace reserved for bad memories - cluttered with ex-boy/girlfriends, primary school embarrassments and letters from your bank manager - Instant Karma struck. Lifting the phone, he found himself answering to someone purporting to be from the Presidency, who demanded that he be disciplined for his utterances.

In the conversation that followed - as he later reported it to the Cow - he let slip that he'd even voted for the Ruling Party in the previous election - the likeliness of which was challenged by his interlocuter. The cow found all of this interesting. Was it a ploy, she wondered, to solicit votes in the upcoming Local Government Election? By appealing to the guilty consciences of voters who had access to a platform - albeit His Master's Voice - whence to influence the impressionable minds of others, might Someone be seeking to boost the electoral chances of one of the contending parties?

The Cow recalled the parting communication from a previous Minister of Propaganda, who used her access to internal mailing lists to announce her candidacy for one of the political parties while communicating her departure. It wasn't impossible, she reckoned. Perhaps, with the passage of time, we might find ourselves driving in to work accosted by the leering grin of the Nostril Photographer from fading election posters promising A Better Lie For All....

The grapevine decided that Mr Timberland was having it off with one of the PhD students. Well, that was one version - the other held that he was pursuing her relentlessly, but she had yet to succumb. Carnivorous Cow's need for triangulation kicked in, and she phoned Mr Timberland to find out. Predictably, he was taken aback. Neither version held the remotest grain of truth, he assured her.

In fact, he asserted, if he was to stray from the straight and narrow, this particular PhD student would find herself rather far back in the queue. Besides which, he whispered, he'd always assumed she was involved with a colleague in another department...

Carnivorous Cow could relate. Of all the people she'd been linked to on the grapevine, very few of them - if any that she could recall - would have passed muster on her "might consider" list. That was the trouble with the grapevine - one was simply not given any credit for any taste one might have. In fact, the more _unlikely_ the association, the more fervently the grapevine seized it in its teeth and clung on.

Still, she was rather relieved that the grapevine had victims other than herself these days - and speculating on Mr Timberland's extra-mural activities made a welcome change from speculating on the identity of Mr Timberland, after all.

The [identity deleted] rolled his eyes dramatically and sighed deeply. Rottweiler Rita was much on his mind of late, and not in a good way. She'd been walking on water for so long, he confessed to the Cow, that he wished she'd just ascend to heaven and have done.

The Cow nodded sagely. Enlightenment was still many incarnations away for bovines, but she could sympathise with the [identity deleted]'s frustration. Particularly when he complained about the whole department having to witness the spectacle of Rottweiler Rita having carnal relations with some student in her car in the parking lot. Which, the Cow mused, might have something to do with the rapid inflation of parking fees of late. She wondered if "parking" fees would also one day be charged for the stairs next to her office, which - since the closure of the study area in the Library - had become one of the few areas left for such pursuits.

But she was intrigued that Rottweiler Rita was engaging with such young material in her pursuit of carnal bliss. The [identity deleted] seemed to find it all in order - younger men sought quantity, and older women - well, quality only became an issue if one was in a position to exercise choice.

"But that's the fallacy!" explained the Cow. "Younger men think older women will be grateful. They're not, they're critical. They know what they want, and the chances of something just out of nappies providing it is remote!"

The [identity deleted] shrugged. By that time, the younger man has moved on to the next conquest, the previous one forgotten. "Not so!" argued the Cow. Had he, as a man, never experienced the scarring of a critical woman at some impressionable age? It appeared not.

The Cow went off and mulled over that. She'd always wondered who provided the experience that the 20year old men gleaned to allow them to enter their 30s and beyond as less inept than their 20year old incarnations, and now she realised that there were Rottweiler Ritas out there doing their altruistic best to upskill the youth.

Perhaps, for this noble activity alone, Rottweiler Rita had earned her ascension?

How they came to be discussing not wearing underwear, Carnivorous Cow couldn't recall in retrospect. Yet they were. Mr Timberland was relating an incident involving a graduate student walking beside him, whose skirt was upended by the wind, revealing her to be underprepared for that eventuality. Ever the gentleman, Mr Timberland asserted, he averted his eyes, but the poor student flamed scarlet. Her face, that is.

Carnivorous Cow tutted sympathetically. "Spoiled the surprise?" she asked. Mr Timberland protested vehemently that the student in question hadn't been _his_ graduate student, in any sense of the word, and changed the subject. Which was probably as well, as a head popped around the door moments later.

Not a student seeking concessions, this time, but a neighbouring professor, who pounced on the Cow. "You've been blogging!" he accused, "and I've featured in your blog!" Taken aback, the Cow tried frantically to recall the context, the content, the litigability...

She rushed back to her office to brief her legal defence team. "Try temporary insanity," suggested Gramsci, from a safe distance, "the only problem you'll have with that is convincing them it's only temporary!"