www.theLVNGrm.tumblr.com

This blogspot site (www.theLVNGrm.blogspot) has been discontinued by the author.

Well, it wont be closed. But it will, from here on, only serve as an archive until it serves as an annoyance - at which point... Yes. I suppose. It will be, uhm - discontinued, as it were.

Let me explain.

Okay so, have a look at theLVNGrm's new tumblr page. It hosts all creative works ranging from branding, digital media, short write-ups and hand-crafts by me, Lutho Mtyamde and other contributors.

Its pretty rad.

I now freelance for Rolling Stone SA and am embarking on other write-ups for other publications simultaneously. Alas, you'd be true to thusly imagine a shortage in time for this blog extravagantly time-consuming ramble-ons.

I may feel towards, however, writing 2k word essays about absolutely nothing some more in the near future. In the instance that this possibility brings you joy, you are most likely to be adequately pleasured by hopping onto www.theLVNGrm.tumblr.com

Thanks for reading.

Hikari

Lutho Mtyamde

@theLVNGrm

***

To Pee Or Not To Pee

Too pee or not to pee, that is the question. Quite the simple one at that - due to the uncomfortable disposition one would endure upon choosing not to. I would, on that stream, pose a more provocative question - one that would look a man dead in the eye and coax him to question his very existence.


We all profusely enjoy the ablutionary facilities that have time and time again, put us out of our misery.. We’ve told people to piss off and occasionally experienced the unfathomably treacherous smell of stale piss whilst touring joburg streets. We’ve wet our beds as younger versions and furthermore, an uber strange few among us even enjoy having it being drizzled upon us during actions of the night.
All of this is why, at this stage, I think we can deduce that urinating is as natural an act as feeling passionate about shooting the entire Generations cast. But why then my good man, does my fellow urinater, who utilizes the urinal next to mine, feel absolutely compelled to stare at my credentials? To stare or not to stare- that is the question actually. Yet somehow, and very sadly,  the question starts to beg at alot of my fellow urinalians… too much really

I remember vividly a night on the town with my lovely half , spent guzzling away at the alcoholic contents of our styrofoam cups. Deafening into ourselves and the evening, we drank heavily and as a result had to visit the facilities . After having marched into the restroom, with a grunt and a sigh of relief, I drifted into the miraculous buzz that was a piss. As my mind drifted further away from my immediate environment to a magical imaginary place with waterfalls, I heard an abrupt - “hey”. As I turned to be faced with the interrupter of my bodily function I was bombarded with a seemingly far less abrupt - “Nice Dick”.

I have considered many a possibility and reasons behind that unfortunate event, came up with a few good ones too: He could have just happened to see it, with my blazze urinating vogue,  and thought to himself - "Hmm, that’s a nice dick, I should tell him", or I was being mocked due to the possibility that my dick could not in fact be described as 'Nice’. It could also have been that he was/is gay - explaining his intent on surveying another mans package then mustering the courage to critique it based on his notions and experience in varying levels of penis aesthetics. Sick bastard.

A more recent event led me to discover the psychology behind the urinal staremanship. As I pee’d with guy to my left and guy to my right, sandwiched in the act, it dawned on me.
Consider this image, or situation rather ( it shouldn’t be hard because I know you’ve been there – well that’s only if you are a guy or a confused woman - or something worse). You waltz into an ablution room, tank on full and the only urinal available is the one in the middle - about ten centimeters right and left of two other guys already going at it. You get in there and nervously unholster your weapon  You clear your throat, and away you go. The three of you are engaged in an activity that renders every other part of your body completely useless. You basically, HAVE NOTHING TO DO WHILE YOU PEE.
What do you rest your eyes on - your firing uzzi? You don’t need to, you’re pretty certain it’s doing its job. The wall? Its too close, your eyes will strain under the obscure focus.
You cant look down, nor can you look ahead. There’s no use looking up, unless you’re an infant who hasn’t learnt how to roll over and Ill leave it to you to conclude the number wonder of other directions you can comfortably turn your head.

What makes that one harder is that your subconscious knows that the other two guys suffer from the same disposition. They very well could be staring at your junk. Only one word is adequate to describe a situation such as this - (I rescued this one from my feelings concerning elevators and the people in them)  ‘Awkward’ .

Have a go at this notion next time you take leak would you mate?

Untill then my Goodman, to pee or not to pee? That is the question. A more provocative question poses itself therein - one that looks a man dead in the eye and make him question his existence. To stare and compliment or not to stare and compliment

theLVNGrmr 

***

theRVDIO - Loui Lvndn ^ Funnily (Free Download)

Loui Lvndn - Funnily

Free Download

***

theRM - Little Red

theLVNGrmr

***

theLVNGrm

theLVNGrmr

***

theMGZN - Frankie Beagle #RealMusicWed

Photography by theLVNGrmr

See story on Rolling Stone SA

***

theMGZN - Lacey May #RealMusicWed

Lacey May (Candice Armitage and Kelly Grevler)

Photography by theLVNGrmr

See story on Rolling Stone SA

***

theMGZN - Bouwer Bosch #RealMusicWed

Photography and story by theLVNGrmr (Lutho Mtyamde)

See story on Rolling Stone

***

theRVDIO - Loui Lvndn's Funnily

Loui Lvndn - Funnily

Free Download


***

theCUXN - The Tale Of The Day Of BOLD - A Berrytale

Once upon a time in Southberry, a horrible four eyed monster named Monochrome held a deleterious reign over the once beautiful land and it’s once vibrant and unified young Southberries. The poor Berries had been surviving persistent waves of hellacious attacks at the hand of Monochromes Polyphonic Army. The once colorful people had such incredible heart that however defeated and beaten they were by the army they would proclaim wishfully in song the hope of the Day of Bold.
This day was promised one hundred years ago in a most magical prophecy. It was written that a single man would liberate the people and defeat the tyranny before repainting the world with the most beautiful colors. Monochrome thought the young people fools and scoffed at their wishful grasp to the ancient word. He laughed so loud at their song that the ground trembled so hard that all the color of the world fell to the ground and scattered - making it hard for the Berries to see or communicate with each other.

On a treacherous day, Mono walked up to rest his weight on the alarmingly short podium as the people gathered in Curve Square for the once a year Passing of Law hosted by the plump tyrant. A stale, stagnant gaseous concoction of machiavellian tactic, solitude and tariff stunk into the crowd as he began to speak.
“Amendment one:  Bills for all communications will be quadrupled. Amendment two:  The cost of all communication devices will be also quadrupled”. A piercingly loud reign of boos flew from the cheated population. Monochrome raised his voice as he spoke on, “Amendment three: All youth found holding gatherings of more than three will face the horrors of the polyphonic chair!" The final amendment read that the Prophecy of Bold would thenceforth be banned from Southberry and whosoever would dare make reference of it would suffer the glare of the Green Screen Beam.

Terror and hopelessness settled in the hearts of the berries. As it did, Lord Monochrome ordered his soldiers to throw canisters of Green screen beam into the crowd who, as a result, dispersed in every humanly possible direction coughing, kicking and screaming.
In the confusion of fleeing Berries a mother left a boy to be lost in the thickness of the Green Screen beam. The boy held tight to his fluffy companion, QWERTY, noticing how the smoke didn’t affect him in the slightest. Monochrome seized laughter when he saw the boy’s silhouette did not shadow that of the other terror struck berries. The boys arm, at that moment, was yanked by his relieved mother’s hand.

On walking the colorless paths that lead to the boys mothers’ humble home, he noticed his stuffed companion QWERTY was no longer with him. He thought desperately to try and recall the moment of separation. 
Meanwhile, one of Monochromes soldiers was clearing the hall of empty green beam canisters when he found what looked like a toy. The Soldier thought the miniature keyboard on the toy quite peculiar and thus returned it to Lord Monochrome whom he would examined the artifact rigorously by.
Once the boy set foot at home his mother finally let his now drenched in sweat hand to be at his own whim once more. Mother was tired, and all the boy could think of was QWERTY – poor lost and probably cold QWERTY. He tried to forget until the morning but by the time Mother fell asleep, his inexplicable bond with QWERTY had led him sneakily out the house and speedily on route to the great hall in search of his most favorite toy.

What is your name son? A soldier asked a little boy lurking the great hall alone at night. “My name is BOLD, I am looking for a toy of mine I may have dropped sir. Could you have by any chance seen it?”

The soldier, recalling the strange artifact he had found earlier that day, asked the boy - “Does it have a miniature keyboard on it young lad?” Yes, the boy replied with gleaming eyes. “Does it have a series of oddly shaped dots on back of its head?” Yes that’s QWERTY, The boy exclaimed. The soldier grabbed the boy firmly by the arm and said “you’re coming with me!”

The boy lagged violently behind the soldier's tight grip, through the streets and up the stairs inside great tower and into Monochromes chambers where QWERTY was perched on the tallest pedestal. Monochromes grimace deepened before he interrogated Bold using the agonizing Green Beam. The boys courage shone through after surviving waves and waves of green beam glare, he did not die. Instead monochrome quickly tired, and thought to continue his violent inquisition in the morrow. The boy, who was then locked in a small cage, began to fall asleep from the pain.
So close to, yet so far from QWERTY. His eyes grew heavy, as did the inevitability of the fate awaiting him.
This would have been so, if the most enchanted and impossible had not.
With one buckle and a shake, QWERTY flew gracefully from its pedestal and hovered above the ground magically toward BOLD's cage.  QWERTY synchronized the cages lock with his miniature keyboard and typed the letters b-l-a-c-k-b-e-r-r-y. The cage magically opened.

It is said that Monochrome died that morning of a heart attack when the soldier revealed the name of the boy who escaped. It is also possible he already knew the boy’s name before he slumbered, and died the next morning from natural causes. QWERTY would disagree.
Before noon, all the Berries knew of what Bold had done and could not help but burst with jubilee at the fulfillment of the Prophecy of Bold. Monochrome was gone forever and all the youth could finally live together - sharing, interacting and communicating freely; talking revolutions, setting trends and promoting smiling faces.
All is well said Bold. All but one thing – the color of Southberry was still missing from the walls and trees and everything once beautiful.
The Berries soon realized that after all of Monochromes earthquakes, the colors of the North had been shaken to the South and all the colors of the West had been shaken far into the east. One could not possibly travel those distances on foot.

When QWERTY heard this, his heart began to pulse a white glow and the oddly shaped dots on the back of his head formed came together to form what appeared to resemble the letter B .
All the colors of the world, from the South where the excitable youth dwell, the North that hosts the collectors and thinkers, and the East where swagger exudes to the west where the singers and arts men rest, flew magically into Qwerty. With a click and a scroll all the colors of the world were shared evenly across Southberry and the marvelous envisage that was this country was restored.

The Berries sang the Prophecy of the Day of Bold again and again until time was no more.

The End

Story by Lutho Mtyamde for Blackberry

***

theRM - Distortion

Album Art Design for J-SEC (Just Separate Emotions Completely)

By theLVNGrmr

***

theCOUCH - Let Her to Weave

She looked as good as the day. My fingers fondled about her from the tiny frolicles of her arm northbound until they found purpose in her hair. As my index finger became a hostage to a cornrow sheltered by a sheath of horse fiber, my fateful inquisition began. 
I don’t encourage a follow in my fingersteps as you too may have a page turner seized or worse yet, develop an obscene intrigue in the captivating and abandoning strand of contemplation that is the Brazilian weave.
I dared to ask how much it cost and the answer left me speechless - but type full. The reason why someone would want that extensive maintenance plan for the rest of one’s existence titled my vessel enough for what we have here.

In the 1970’s Martin Luther king led an incredibly prominent socio-political movement which played an incredible role in the revolution of the black society. Unlike his contemporary, Malcolm x, Martin Luther didn’t strive for black power. His dream was of equality and black consciousness. Consciousness, that is, of one’s self and the embracing of one’s true identity. This notion could be stretched far across the borders of race but Ill practice restraint. MLK wanted the black civilization to be proud of who they are and embrace their natural attributes.
Racism however and all the components therein had bestowed insistently upon the black community a self-inferiority complex.  The idea that white people are superior slowly began making and shaping their logic. 

Long and silky, shiny hair, and light skin resembling purest of pures. The grave deepens but I’ve dug enough as we've uncovered the two attributes of the white man that the black person, Martin Luther king and all the ‘black is beautiful’ chanters could never compete with - Beauty.

Correct me if I’m wrong but I think the average price for a hair peace is like five-hundred Doughnuts. Not much I thought until she told me she changes it every month. I popped up the calculator and punched in the holy trinity (Merlot, cigarettes and ice-cream). The calculator proposed that I could buy a 2009 and a corkscrew, fifteen twenties or rent an ice-cream truck for a day if I took the hair peace to cash crusaders. 
As my eyes left the green beam of the math tool and fixed on hers, I looked with a most contorted expression. How could a person ever live with themselves knowing that they have blasphemed against the holy trinity for a chance to prove that oppression is still ferociously in effect?



In the same era, protestors pertaining to the movement began to publicly object to the use of hair strengtheners, bleaches, skin whiteners and everything black people used to make themselves, well… white. We’re talking marches with Fists in the air, a cloud of afros and a floor of sneakers (Thus came about afro comb with fist on the top… I cannot account for the footwear however). They began to embrace their blackness and revolted any white culture transference they had undergone. Being black, became the bruise of an abused woman worn with litost and an exhibitionists flare. They needed not apply something to themselves to be beautiful or acceptable, their being was enough 

I am aware of our unique psychologies, face and humanity alike - making the act of hiding your own attributes to look like the other person as futile as standing still for a very long time. 
Today, almost all the black woman I come across boast a well lubricated peace of oppression on their heads. And if for some reason this additive isn’t available to them, life as they know it is in utter distress. An acquaintance of mine even said this, ‘god is unfair for giving us this hair!' 
A protest chant if you will - unfair for this hair! Unfair for this hair!

Now I’m not saying that all black woman should cast their weaves to sea and sport the perplexity cluster that is Khoi-San hair. Definitely not because the argument that goes against all that I have said is just as strong if not overwhelming. It calls itself Globalization - the inter-cultural exchange that has allowed Skhothanes the Italian Carvella and coloured people martial arts training. Without the possibility of borrowing from each other’s cultures we wouldn’t be much of a unified or interactive world. 
So you, yonder, contemplating your scalp. It’s quite alright.

My finger was rescued by my pulling wrist, whom I will now deem town hero in the city of Arm. I caught a glance of the stuff gated by her eyes and remember what gave her her genius - all that she could say without saying anything

 ***

Authors LTR - Welcome

It could happen that I've squandered the sense of humor the old title implied. It could also be that the new title "The Living Room" assumes a palatial new dimension driven by riveting intent - where the living (Animate) room is a spatial allowing a mind-bendingly fresh perspective at all things profound and less profound.

I am your partisan in the rebellion against the prosaic and monotonous. Welcome to the Living Room where the television is an uncomfortable seat and the ottomans resemble Pandoras box. These Sofas persistently lull pop notions while the lamps rage intermittent scarlet for any absenteeism of light.


www.theLVNGrm.blogspot.com

***

theRM - Box

Box

theTV - 21st Century girl

theTV features strings of inspired photography arranged in  progressive sequences. click "theTV" above to access

theRM -The Couch

The Couch

theRM - She

Outside - Fuck

I thought Id share something I found rather funny - A wikipedia definition for 'fuck'.

Note the manner in which they articulate themselves as to appear detached from any and all vulgar connotations to the word - as if the contributor has never himself used the word apart from this attempt to illustrate its usage.

"Fuck" is an english word that is almost universally considered vulgar by its speakers. In its most literal meaning, it refers to the act of sexual intercourse. By extension it may be used to negatively characterize anything that can be dismissed, disdained, defiled, or destroyed and may also be used as an intensive.
"Fuck" can often be used as a verb, adverb, adjective, imperative, interjection, and noun. It has various metaphorical meanings. To be "fucked" can mean to be cheated (e.g., "I got fucked by a scam artist"), or to be broken or ruined (e.g., "my computer is fucked") as well as to be sexually penetrated. As a noun, "a fuck" or "a fucker" may describe a contemptible person. "A fuck" may mean an act of copulation. The word can be used as an interjection, and its particle is sometimes used as a strong (not necessarily negative) emphatic. The verb to fuck may be used transitive or intransitively, and it appears in compounds, including fuck off, fuck you, fuck up, and fuck with. In less explicit usages (but still regarded as vulgar), fuck or fuck with can mean to mess around, or to deal with unfairly or harshly. In a phrase such as "don't give a fuck", the word is the equivalent of "damn", in the sense of something having little value. In "what the fuck?!", it serves merely as an intensive. If something is very abnormal or annoying, "this is fucked up!" may be used.

***

theCOUCH - I Love Big Butts and Fiction Eludes Me

Of my most favourite ironies  in this increasingly dual existance the intricacy and complexity surrounding the most controversial part of the human anatomy protrudes. This region of the body map has a most profound task of hosting a rectum whose purpose is as equally profound,  allowing the bowels the reoccurring delight of excreting a substance arguably most vile in all history of repugnance. Yet at the same time, dependant on proportional values,  it eagerly aspires to the single most sexually arousing part of the female form. A battle between form and function eventuates. Where function is unanimously horrid and shameful, whilst the form is enough - even held in the mind artistically enough - to redirect a mans blood circulation to a limb that does not necessarily aid in walking or handling objects.

Far less interesting however is this duality than is the purpose of the next few paragraphs – to discovery why the  form so drunkenly compels us all as if no other aesthitic offered by earth is worthy of an erection. This purpose is why I have journeyed beyond the borders of wikipedia, through the tempestuous deserts of google, companioned only by my bic pen and an anthropological defiance. I sought to relinquish the reason why the wind nudging my shoulders as a result of a female form passing me, signals my turning and completely consuming the marvelous envisage that is her arse as she walks off so transcendently. My mission from that point on, would be 'to get to the bottom of this'.

In the heart of my secondary years I had the great honor of being exposed to numerous takes on Western takes on African takes of art. More a dishonor really considering I am now an Artist in Africa. The area of sculpture however, amidst its very one sided and politically driven conetmporaty they camoflauged as fine art, I now recall as the Gluteus Maximus' signature. Dating from pretty old to not so old, these illustrations of the subsumed by fertility themes female form , all appear to have certain body parts exaggerated amazingly in size. This prolific thickness would extend generously around the figures' adequately carved thighs, breasts and buttocks. Fertility dolls, theyre called, reiterate the reknowned idea that men want a woman with larger assets.
 I will demonstrate this notion in this very intricate and breath-taking example: bigger woman – bigger child - bigger legacy
This exuberant fat depository capacity represents too, other sought after, more mainstream traits like opulence, health, happiness and wealth. In some counties, thickness is not just revered but it is inforced. Jamaica being a 'fitting' example where over 65 percent of the female population are classified as obese. In this island nation particular emphasis is placed on having generous hips and hindquarters, a condition known as steatopygia. 

Steatopygia ( /stiːˌætɵˈpɪdʒiə/;[1] Greek: στεατοπυγία) is a high degree of fat accumulation in and around the buttocks. The deposit of fat is not confined to the gluteal regions, but extends to the outside and front of the thighs, forming a thick layer reaching sometimes to the knee. - wikipeadia (You have got to adore the interweb)

(an interesting note is that this condition is not gender specific. Yes, it has fortunately been gradually faded by time but men, too, had bums of  dreams)

The Steatopygia partisans believed that a woman’s ability to produce healthier, larger and stronger offspring would be heightened as this disposition more pompously instilled itself. Most civilizations right now with limited exposure to the model worshipping media and thus influence still believe vehemently in having their woman curvy as opposed to ‘infertile’. In the islands of Tonga, beauty is still demarcated by large physical proportions. 110 000 of the islands 114 000 inhabitants are obese. There is also an inflating pill market across the world, which caters to young women attempting to gain weight. Places like Kuwait. Nauru, Mauritius frown upon woman exercising and feed girls from a young age exuberant quantities of fatty camel milk throughout entire day. Women in these kind of societies are frequently divorced for their inability to maintain a spherical existence after child birth. 


A human, as an animal, driven by instincts that insist upon the survival of a humankind must contribute at all costs to the cause. He must produce the fittest offspring in order to ensure the next generation emerges at a similar or stronger stance as a specie.
The air drenched in male, cunning eyes lock after having pondered the sumptuous chance at the females bum. Survivals trigger retracts and shoots into both animals a virulent rush of brutalilty. 
This is not because of some innate hate male animals have for one another but it is because the victor of this unrelenting bout will ultimately have been the strongest, and most likely to produce a stronger youngling together with the female counterpart. 
With this common event acknolwedged, aggression and sex are accomplished. Freud argued those two attributes, mans most primary instincts. My animal bang-on has successfully cheered him on.

The love for bum, is deeply embedded within our DNA. Not for perverted reasons but for the protection of the human existence.  Media ran states, I believe, still subconsciously know this but the social stigmas surrounding obesity do not allow for an ideally rounder wife to co-exist with a strong sense of self and achievement. According to the 21s century social doctrine, as I’m sure you are aware, women are to maintain twig-like physiques as to  reach a state of sexual attractiveness. The Gods of our age, fashion and television,  preach strongly against letting ones self go.
A few flashes of hope have briefly held my breath as I transcended the 1900's. A beyonce here and a J-lo there. But the enthrall of the round bum embraced only the Native demographic.
Interestingly enough however, European women, in as recent as the 18th century wore walking costumes and ball gowns that would extend curvaceously from the backside – creating an illusion of a larger than life hindqurters. Explicated by these superfluous costumes is that the African bum motif is also installed in the genetic code of the Europeans. Globalization, if you will. 
It only becomes an affliction, i suppose, when we see that they do not posses the necessary resources.



How quickly they forget themselves. 


Meanwhile, with the prevalence of AIDS and other diseases that riddle us, the association between weight-loss and illness contribute immensely to our not-so-warm view of thinness. Steatopygia/Thickness has embedded itself culturally as the official opposition to lower standards of life. Regardless though of socio-political factors, this magnetic relationship between my eyes and that booty is innate and I am absolutely compelled that I had nothing to do with it. And for the absence of comprehension of the reality where which it does not exist, I am truly  grateful. 


The European and Western influences within my environment are undeniable. They aim to kill what we are. to rid us of the polygamous instincts. Flat sodas that are bottomless cokes replace the vigor of a world unscathed by simulated human beings. In this world where anorexia is filmed, cut, printed and applauded it would be plausible to predict the death of ass in the near future.
I will however, take a stand and revolt against the killing of our true nature by bum slapping every girl that nature has deemed worthy of my open palm. I will scream the name of Darwin whilst uttering inspired phrases such as: Doggy Style. I will open windows, allowing the rude and obnoxious lyrics of MC Hammer escape the confines of my living room, and confess!.. I like big butts and fiction eludes me!!

***