I’m not really the type to foster rumours or facilitate fear-mongering. But yesterday I stumbled into a damning sequence of events that point to a single conclusion which will not be ignored.
On the way to the SAMA nominees announcement (what’s the event equivalent of name-dropping?), we took a detour, off the main road, through Linden.
We drove past an attractive but gormless man in a Jeep (even if you are fairly bright, everyone knows that a mouth hanging open for no reason is shorthand for gormlessness).
I gazed dreamily at him as he ambled along the road, mid-morning, wearing a golf shirt that suggested that everything in his life was unaffected, but still driving a vehicle equipped for environmental combat.
(I am prone to morning daydreams if I’m not syringed early on with caffeine directly into the eyeball.)
This reflection was interrupted by the question “Isn’t that John Vlismas??”
And there he definitely was.
He was entirely in black in the bright sunshine, and wearing an unseasonable, shiny black jumper, standing on the pavement, waiting to cross the road.
Somehow, his standing there made perfect sense to me.
Because in my mind, that is how I imagine John Vlismas navigates the conscious world, like a cool, unknowable sprite or a magical goth jumping bean – appearing as a mirage at traffic intersections, doing Mr Burns Hands and then disappearing as suddenly.
I should clarify, at this point, that John Vlismas is one of my favourite famous people. The fabulousness of his existence in the world alone wins a hurricane of arguments that lesser people like myself will fail to, even when we try really hard.
Even we, the dispossessed, need a little mascot, and I think I mentally marked him as that a very long time ago.
Anyway, this is worrying because I live about 3 roads away from where we spotted him.
This means that maybe one night, when I get home from going out, and I’m in one of my moods where I refuse to accept that the evening is over, and I make one of my trademark, ill-advised decisions, eg. Replacing the Cute Going Out Outfit with ugg boots and a crocheted poncho and wandering gracelessly to the garage next door for cupcakes at 3am, he might be there.
(I realise I will probably never be one of those cool people I read about. But it still doesn’t seem in my best interest to prove that to all the famous people I think are cool on an individual basis.)
Anyway – on the drive back from the SAMA announcement (thank you, thank you…) we had to pass through the same suburb.
As we stopped at a streetlight, two of the three Shadowclubs scooted past us on a… scooter.
They had just scored 2 nominations, which I do think they deserve – that bass player is a sideshow unto himself. But the thing is – they were heading towards the same spot where we were Vlismassed earlier.
Now. I began this by explaining that I don’t monger conspiracy theories without any founding in reality. But I think we’re all thinking the same thing here.
Clearly, clearly, Linden is a giant, magnetic locus for all the cool famous people, where they all live in a great haunted dungeon (which the rest of us can only access on a full moon by saying “Son House” three times into a mirror). The Shadowclubhouse, perhaps?
And there they all sit, at a round table, twirling their moustaches and congratulating each other on being awesome and plotting the overthrow of all of Randburg, far as the eye can see.
Anyway. All I’m saying is, I’m keeping my wits about me the next time I dress up as a samurai and go for emergency drunken 3am cupcakes. The trees have ears.