The Wahoonie

Journalism is hard, mostly because it rarely ever brings with it the promise of promotion. The only time a journalist does get promoted is when he either a.) Gets hold of a scandal story through which various famous people deplore and threaten him or b.) Gets killed because of what happened in (a.) or c.) writes a column consistently for over a number of years which people ignore over a number of years and then is noticed suddenly because people now want him to retire and hand over his space to this new other journalist with deluded dreams of grandeur.

In most music industries around the world you have your commercial rockers and metal-heads who feed the masculine generation their need for something to feel good and manly about. And then you have your 'serious' musicians who read Freud and Jung and try to incorporate the anima animus into their music. These people rarely ever manage commercial success but they do hit it off with depressed males and females living in the dark of their rooms. And then you have your Beyonces and Rihannas who cater to the masses' libido. We have the same as well. Except our version of female pop icons usually are somewhat better suited to scare kids to sleep. They aren't exactly the stuff that makes guys sweat when watching their music videos. The Reporter was sent to interview just such a female. And being the Reporter, he never knew what he was walking into. He caught up with her at some studio when she was getting ready to get yodel… sing.

But there was a chaperone valiantly trying to ensure the wannbe icon didn't get into trouble with her parents for talking to unknown guys.

Chaperone: Bhai, apne ke?

Reporter: Um… ah… I'm here for the interview.

Chaperone: Kisher inntarbhieu? Amare to kisu bola hoi nai. Na bhai.

Reporter: See, um, this letter states Ms. Chila over there is releasing a new album. I would just like to ask her a few questions.

Chaperone: Bhai, apne Banglai kotha kon bhai. Eto beshi engrezi koile kemne hoibo?

Reporter: Um…er…

At this point things become a little fuzzy. The Reporter, as we've long stated is suffering from chronic schizophrenia. One of his inner demons took over. For the sake of legal issues concerning The Human Rights for Low Paid Chaperones Group, we won't go into detail as to what happened. Let's just skip to the interview.

The Reporter: Excuse me, ma'am?

Chila: Whaot?

The Reporter: I'm sorry I didn't get you.

Chila: Aye sayed whaot?

The Reporter: Eh?

Chila: Oh alright. I would've thought you working for a distinguished English newspaper would get an English accent. Where's my guard?

The Reporter (ignoring the latter question): They didn't really give us classes in dialects when they were teaching us grammar.

Chila: They didn't? Well, you should have learned on your own. Like I did.

The Reporter: You did dialects? Why?
Chila: I was bored. And the 8 A level subjects I took weren't filling up my time as I hoped they would. So I learned stuff.

The Reporter: You mean like singing?

Chila: Nah… singing came to me naturally. I found I was always good at it. Did you know I can imitate falsettos?

The Reporter: That explains a lot. You say imitate falsettos? Why can't you just sing them?

Chila: Eh… too much trouble. Hey… why is my guard over there twitching like that?

The Reporter (deftly changing the subject from twitching chaperones): I see. Anyway. You're releasing a new album and people seem to be… not so interested. Do you figure you're lack of commercial success stems from being distant and disconnected from the audience?

Chila: What are you talking about? Everybody I know can connect with me. Heck, some friends of mine even manage to finish my sentences for me. I'm sure the general population can understand my music.

The Reporter: Well, I wouldn't say not being able to understand, the public probably think that naming you're one of your songs The Huge Wahoonie may be bit too much. Then there was that other song, Quantum Relativity. They probably didn't understand that.

Chila: What's wrong with the The Huge Wahoonie? And Quantum Relativity? What's there not to understand?

The Reporter: Well, not all of us took 8 subjects in their A levels. Some of us didn't even know there were 8 subjects to be taken. Most of us just try to live with the fact that we have to give A-levels to care much about quantum.

Chila: Meh… small minds. And what's that gurgling noise? Did you do something to my guard?

The Reporter: Small minds?!!? I'm not the one who sang a song called The Huge Wahoonie! And you're a pop icon. I'm not surprised you came up with something like that. No sane person would…

Chila (now quite angry… her fake disaffection is starting to fade): Pop icons? Was that a jab? Just because we sing commercially marketable songs that don't mean much doesn't mean we're stupid. I mean Mariah Carey had an album called E=MC2. She obviously knew what she was doing! Do you know my E is = to MC squared?

The Reporter: Um… maybe it's a reference to the fact that most MCs are squared up on E, E meaning ecstasy? But how does that have anything to do with your upcoming album?

Chila (now taking a huff, obviously that jab about ecstasy hit home): Well, my next album is going to be named after the Trapezium Rule.

The Reporter: The Trap-a-Zion Rule? You must be really worked up about Gaza!

Chila: That's anti-Semitist that is. And it's the Trapezium Rule!

The Reporter: Hey! It's not my fault you have a weird Swahili accent!
Chila (now considerably pissed): It's a cultured English accent!

The Reporter: Sounds Irish. Drunken Irish to be exact.
Chila (going nuclear): You… you little…Why is my guard running away? What's that sticking out of his?

The Reporter (panicking): It was nice meeting you ma'am. As for your chaperone… who knows? Now I must be going.

Chila: Hey wait! You haven't asked me anything about my album!

The Reporter: I've gathered enough! I must being going now… before the guard returns.

And then things became fuzzy again. Schizophrenia is a bad disease. When The Reporter finally made it back to the office with the interview, he was babbling about a certain naked man on the streets who had given him chase. Knowing his mental state we dutifully ignored him. The Reporter is considering going back to administration. Journalism causes schizophrenia anyway.