Archive for March, 2010



16
Mar
10

Are Women Getting Hotter With Every Decade?

It has been a theory of mine for some time now that women have gotten better and better looking over time. Just when you think they can’t get any sexier, BAM, another stunning supermodel seems to pop out of the woodwork, even more beautiful and unobtainable than the last.

Then again, maybe it’s just me, maybe I’ve just been brainwashed by the media to think Miss X, Y or Z is so incredible, when actually drop-dead gorgeous women have always existed, the only difference being which one the spotlight shines on, from what angle and after how much photo-shopping.

And so I approached the authority on such issues, Google Images, and started looking for pictures of ‘sexy’ women through the ages.

I started at 1900 and found the following gem:

 

 

Let me break down what we’re dealing with here. I see a woman with a strange-looking, skunk-like mop of hair for a hairstyle, reclining suggestively with a book, inches away from showing us a little nip, but thankfully keeping the PG rating of this pic at a 10.

This is the kind of girl who would make a great librarian, pre-school teacher or postal worker. All in all, I think she should go back to reading her book and pull up her dress for heaven’s sake! No need to scare the children.

Moving right along, here’s what 1920 yielded in the form of the first popular female actress to make it in Hollywood, Florence Lawrence:

 

 

Yeah, are we making any progress here? Yes? No? Sure, there is some kind of charm about her, but let’s be honest, if you passed her in the street would you give her a second look? I mean, besides to stare at her hat, which is making my balls shrivel up inside me.

I think this is what people mean when they describe a woman as ‘handsome’. She’s a handsome woman, ie. good-looking… for a man.

Just wait though, cause with 1950 comes good ol’ Marilyn Monroe, hooo-weeee!

 

Was Marilyn Monroe really the belter everyone makes her out to have been, or was she just the first attractive woman with enough confidence to be able to pose half-naked and make it look sexy?

What I’m seeing in this picture is a woman with smallish breasts, some pretty meaty thighs, a stomach she’s definitely sucking in for all it’s worth and a face that’s attractive the way your sister’s best friend was attractive back when you were 11. Then you realised her mustache was thicker than yours and never spoke to her again.

Let’s move onto 1970 shall we?

 

 

All of a sudden, things are starting to heat up a little. Meet Veruschka von Lehndorff, one of a dozen or so ‘supermodels’ that were popular in the 1960s and 1970s. Veruschka, with the right kind of make-up, lighting and wardrobe could easily nail an FHM front cover.

Still though, can she compare to modern-day beauties? Maybe not quite, but I’d say she’s damn close.

Then I stumbled on this picture of model Gia Carangi, who was big back in the late 70s and early 80s. They made a movie about her starring Angelina Jolie called Gia which, if you like seeing lots of Angelina’s naked body, is DEFINITELY worth watching.

 

 

Now THAT is a good-looking woman and one that is definitely comparable to any modern-day beauty. She was also one of the original ‘supermodels’ on the scene, but died tragically at 26 from AIDS, which she got from shooting heroin with dirty needles.

Still though, would you say she’s better or worse looking than a modern-day supermodel like say, Joanna Krupa, for example?

 

 

Or the woman who seems to be topping a lot of lists these days, Megan Fox?

 

After trawling the interwebs for literally hours to find pics to base this post on, the conclusion I’ve reached is that yes, women are getting hotter and hotter and it’s all thanks to the invention of the supermodel way back in the 60s and 70s.

Once supermodels came into existence, all of a sudden female perfection had a benchmark to measure itself against, and now women are not only getting hotter and hotter, but the mainstream media is flooded with images of them on an ever-increasing basis, causing untold damage to ordinary men and women alike, who do all manner of fucked up shit to either date women like this or become them.

Which is why sometimes you gotta take a step back from it all and realise that while these women might be incredible to look at, chances are they have really shitty personalities and are plagued with insecurities.

Bottom line is when you look that good you’re so used to getting your way and walking all over people that you think behaving like a sycophant is totally normal and acceptable.

I say let’s go back to a time before supermodels and celebrate what true female beauty is and so, I’d like to invite you in appreciating the following NSFW image with me of a woman from 1920 who has great breasts (if this is your gran, I’m sorry, but she had a great set and you should be proud of that).

 

 

The lesson here is not to let the mainstream media dictate your tastes. Instead, you should get into 1920s porn and not only will you be an INDIVIDUAL but you’ll also have a great conversation starter (and ender) at the next dinner party you attend.

All those girls in magazines, all the ones in the movies and on 50ft billboards, let that shit go. Look for beauty in the real world and when you find it, hold onto it, cherish it and you might just find something close to true happiness instead of shallow pleasure.

-ST

15
Mar
10

Short Story: Who The Fuck Is SlickTiger?

‘So yeah, this SlickTiger guy, he’s got a site, I read some of it the other day, it’s really crazy shit up there. Really crazy shit. I mean, reading it I feel like we’re connected somehow – does that sound fucking crazy to you?’

Dr Schmeizer shifts slightly in his chair, sighs and rubs his eyes.

‘Yes. That does sound fucking crazy to me.’

‘Um, are you allowed to say that?’

‘Say what?’

‘I dunno, swear at me during a consultation?’

‘Under normal circumstances, no.’

I start to say something, but the good doctor cuts me off, ‘But considering you come in here sprouting the same gobbledy-gook week after week, month after month since we started these sessions, and considering your total lack of progress during that time, I hardly think it matters what I say or don’t say.’

‘Yeah, but I pay you to be professional. I pay you a lot to give a shit.’

‘Do you know how many sessions we’ve had so far?’

‘Of course! I’m paying for them, of course I know…’

‘Ok, how many?’

‘Um…’ I cast my mind back. I get as far as about a month ago, I’m wearing my ‘The Internet Is A Fad’ shirt, driving here. Some guy in the traffic is waving furiously at me. Do I know this person? I’m swerving to avoid getting side-swiped by the crazy fucker.

No, it can’t be a month, it must be longer. I cast my mind back further. It’s like throwing a fishing line out there. I remember when I was a kid learning to fly fish, watching my dad, the long, slow motion of his line like an extension of his arm, the way the reel used to spin, making that zinging sound as it unravelled. I do the same in my mind, I cast a line way the fuck out there, the reel zings, then snags abruptly, cutting the line.

I watch as the line floats through the air, anchored to nothing. It sails over the opaque waters of my mind, and lands like a long, thin snake on the water.

It sinks.

‘Um…’ I say again, stalling for time, ‘like, about three months?’

The good doctor’s head slumps forward and he stares at me through his thick, heavy brows. This is a passive-aggressive gesture, he’s doing it to show me he’s pissed off. I’m always pissing someone off.

‘Try six months. September 28th, that’s when you first started coming here, do you remember that?’

Do I remember that? Sure, I think I remember that. I mean, if he remembers it then it happened right?

‘I dunno doc, I try not to sweat the details, things like that, they’re neither here nor there really, I say three months, you say six months. I mean, in the universal sense of time, does it matter? In the universal sense of you know, the way things work, is it really a big deal? I don’t think it is. This conversation, my life, your life, I think maybe we j-‘

‘I took the liberty of recording our last session.’

‘Eh?’

‘And if you don’t mind…’ The doc opens his desk drawer and pulls out a dictaphone. He hits play, I’m saying something, but he stops and fast forwards it, he’s saying something, he stops and fast forwards again. I’m saying something. Boy do I love the sound of my own voice.

‘I dunno doc, I mean, life’s too short to sweat the small stuff, y’know? Does it really matter how long it’s been?’

‘Humour me.’

‘Ok, phew, um…’ uncomfortable silence, broken only by the sound of me squirming in my chair, in the recording and in real life. ‘About 3 months?’

‘It’s been six months.’

‘What? Really, that long? Phwoar.’

‘Does that surprise you?’

‘Yes. No. A little. But really, in the bigger picture, is it really that important? I mean, in the universal sense of time, does it matter? In the universal sense of you know, the way things work, is it really a big deal? I don’t think it is. I could be wrong. But I don’t think it is…’

He hits the stop button. This profound silence hangs like a punching bag in the room.

‘You have a serious problem,’ he says, his hands doing that pyramid thing when people touch the ends of all their fingers together and move their palms forward and backward. I think this is supposed to have some kind of calming effect. It’s like watching lungs. Or a jellyfish.

‘Hahaha, okay, and it’s taken you six months to figure that out?’

‘Your memory is abnormally impaired. In most cases, once a number of weeks have elapsed, it seems you forget things completely. The people you’ve met, the things you’ve done. In other cases, it’s instant.’

‘Huh. You don’t say.’

‘It’s a rare condition, and I must admit, I’ve never seen it before. I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never seen it.’

‘Okay. That’s… fucking great…’

‘There are a number of psychiatric drugs we can put you on to try and improve your memory function and promote higher levels of concentration, I th-‘

‘What?! No fucking way. No drugs.’

‘You have a very serious problem and I really think what wou-‘

‘I didn’t come here to get dosed up to my eyeballs, what the fuck?! I came here so you could help me figure out why the fuck everyone thinks I’m someone I’m not!’

‘SlickTiger?’

‘Yes! Fucking SlickTiger! Who the fuck is SlickTiger? Why the fuck does everyone think I’m SlickTiger?’

Dr Schmeizer stares at me through his brows again. Man is this going well. He presses fast forward on the Dictaphone. The sound of the heads whirring inside, intricate mechanisms spinning, working like tiny insect bones inside the machine.

He hits stop. He hits play.

‘I’m not interested in your bullshit miracle cures! What the fuck?! I didn’t come here to get prescribed a bunch of bullshit drugs that are going to make all my fucking problems go away! I came here for answers! I came here to figure out if I’m losing my mind or not! I need to know that shit!’

‘You need to know what shit?’

‘I need to know who the fuck SlickTiger is!’

It’s like staring into a mirror reflecting a mirror, reflecting a mirror, reflecting a mirror…

‘It’s you. It’s always been you. You just don’t remember.’

I say ‘Holy shit’ at the same time the me on tape says ‘Holy shit’.

The good doctor hits stop. I slump back in my seat. Sandbagged.

‘So… does this happen every week?’

‘For the last four weeks, yes.’

‘And you think drugs will help me?’

‘Yes, it can’t hurt to try.’

I sigh. Do I want to go down that road? There’s a reason I’m forgetting all this stuff, do I want to know what that reason is? It feels like a bottomless can of worms.

‘Okay, I’ll try it, what the fuck. Why not.’

‘Excellent. And in the meantime, I need you to do me a favour.’

‘What, like a homework assignment? I’m not good with favours, I always forget the- oh yeah, you already know that.’

‘I want you to get off your lazy fucking ass and write something funny for fuck’s sake!’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Something funny! I don’t read your site everyday for this metatextual bullshit! I read it for the Klapping Gym Boet articles! Stop fucking around or I’ll go read some other site. LOL-cats or something. Maybe Motifake. Do you understand me?’

I understand him. And I know what I have to do.

‘You’re fucking fired,’ I say as I get up to leave.

‘You say that every week.’

‘Yeah, but this time I’m fucking writing it down!’

I storm out of his office, slamming his door hard behind me. What a fucking jerk. I can’t believe I’ve been going to him for such a long time. Three months totally wasted, what the fuck.

Outside I light up a smoke. It looks like it’s going to rain, did I do any washing? Maybe. But fuck the washing, I’ve got bigger fish to fry.

Like figuring out who the fuck this SlickTiger guy is.

Yeah… I think I’ll start there…

-ST

14
Mar
10

Sunday Post – 5pm and still haven’t made the bed

When you wake up, it is a firm belief of mine that you shouldn’t fuck around at all. You should jump right up and make the bed and make it well so when you get home later you can collapse on it and feel good because even if your day sucked, at least you don’t have to climb into an unmade bed at the end of it.

Well, it’s 5pm and I still haven’t made the bed.

 

 

Instead, I’ve spent the day writing. Hammering as many words as possible out of this poor laptop while its sticky-coffee keys squeak and protest under my relentless fingers.

And still, I feel unfulfilled. Like I’ve wasted the day completely. It’s frustrating how on some days you’ll pour every bit of effort into your writing and come out with something that’s only mediocre at best and on others you’ll plonk out a few words that are sheer genius and have hundreds of people commenting and sending the link to their friends.

This definitely won’t be one of those posts.

All I really wanted to do with this post was write about yesterday and what an amazing day I had at the beach in Kommetjie with J-Rab, my cousin Sub-Human and his wife and kids.

It was the kind of day where the beach is the last thing on your mind. It was overcast and had rained that morning, but we had nothing to do after lunch, so we took the kids to the beach and it actually turned out to be a really beautiful day.

Sitting on Kommetjie beach, you are flanked on either side by beautiful mountain ranges with nothing but the sea and all its majesty in front of you. It’s amazing how relaxing it is to just sit there like that with hardly anyone around, thinking of nothing really and just enjoying living in the moment.

 

 

I call him Sub-Human because I don’t have any other nickname for him and it’s what some of his friends called him back in the day because he was wild and free in ways you and I can only imagine.

He has an incredibly big heart, the biggest of anyone I know and is fiercely intelligent, but most people when they meet him think he’s beneath them.

My ex-girlfriend thought that. She thought he was white trash and even made that comment about him one evening when we were on holiday a few years back in Cape Town. All I can say is it didn’t go down well with me at all.

She hated me doing this one thing, it upset her more than anything in the world and so, the second she made the ‘white trash’ comment I did that thing, right in her face, to piss her off as much as possible and surprise, surprise, it worked.

Nothing quite like instant revenge to spice an evening up.

Sub-Human is a philosopher and a poet who can strip an engine and put it back together in record time and who is a loving father and husband to his wife and two boys.

But more than that, he’s the best cousin in the world.

Back when I was a teenager, he was my hero. He must have been in his mid twenties, and I loved the way he was so honestly unconcerned with what the world thought about him and completely unafraid to say what he thought and fight for what he believed was right.

There was integrity in the way he lived and I respected that. The trappings of this world have never meant a damn thing to him and he’s always had this way of seeing straight through people’s bullshit that never fails to crack me up.

 

 

He freaks a lot of people out, they don’t take him seriously, they think he’s a clown, a buffoon, but if you could have sat on that beach with us, looking out over the oceans and the mountains and heard him speak about the Albatross and how much he loves watching those colossal and magnificent birds glide over the ocean, you’d swear he was the single most fascinating person you had ever met.

‘Act like a pauper, think like a King’ he always used to tell me and I’ll remember those words as long as I live because they take on a new significance for me with every situation I find myself in.

I don’t think Sub-Human is a fitting name for him and I’m almost embarrassed to use it to describe such an amazing person.

Instead, I’ll call him Albatross, that’s much more fitting.

And also, I’ll make the bed 😉

-ST

12
Mar
10

Inappropriate Joke Friday

Hey Party People!

I didn’t get a chance to bang out another thoughtful, insightful and well written post last night because the universe didn’t want me to. Instead, the universe told me, explicitly, to go home, lie down on the couch and pass out.

Who am I to argue with such a compelling suggestion?

 

 

So I’m inviting some community participation today! Like when the teacher tells the class that today they’re doing unprepared speeches in order to ‘work on their public speaking skills’ ie. he was too drunk the night before to prepare a lesson.

I hereby declare today ‘Inappropriate Joke Friday’. The only question that you need to ask to see if your joke qualifies as ‘inappropriate’ is: If I told this to a group of complete strangers, would they ever speak to me again?

If the answer is yes, I’m sorry, but your joke isn’t quite inappropriate enough. Buy a Jimmy Carr DVD and try again next time.

So to get the ball rolling, here’s mine (courtesy of Stikey):

A serious alcoholic keeps coming home at 3 in the morning, blind drunk and covered in his own puke. After years of this, his wife finally offers him the following ultimatum:

‘If you come home like that one more time,’ she says, furious, ‘I’m divorcing you.’

That night the man tells his friends what his wife said while they’re sitting in the pub getting tanked.

 

 

‘What the fuck am I going to do?’ the man asks in desperation.

‘Easy,’ says his buddy, ‘put a R100 note in your shirt pocket. When your wife starts bitching you out for being covered in puke again, just tell her that R100’s from the guy at the bar who threw up on you. It’s to cover the dry cleaning costs. Problem solved.’

‘Fuck!’ the man replies, ‘you’re a genius! Who wants tequila? I’m buying!’

Early the following morning, the man staggers home, covered in puke only to be greeted by his wife, who is spitting mad.

‘It’s over!’ she screams, ‘I warned you about this you good-for-nothing drunk asshole!’

‘No, no, no, wait,’ the man slurs, ‘see this hunnered rand note? It’s from the guy who puked on me to get my clothes dry cleaner, um, cleaned!’

‘That’s two hundred rand. What’s the other hundred for?’ The wife asks, still livid.

‘Oh that? That’s from the guy who shat in my pants.’

Da dum.

Tsshh.

Ok, now you!

[Sound Effect: Crickets in the background]

-ST

11
Mar
10

Album Review: Spoon – Transference

Spoon is one of those bands that you’ve definitely heard of before but if you had to name one of their singles or even an album chances are you’d draw a big, fat blank.

This is because even though the band has been playing since 1993, they’ve never managed to break into the mainstream music scene. Sure, some of their songs have featured in TV series such as Scrubs, Veronica Mars and The Simpsons and the movies Stranger Than Fiction and Cloverfield, but if you can name one song that featured in any of those (WITHOUT Wikipediaing ‘Spoon’) you’ll win a prize!*

The first recording of theirs I got my hands on was their 2007 album Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga and though I didn’t think much of it at first, after 5 or 6 listens I had to concede that it was a great album.

 

 

I then delved into their entire catalogue and was pleasantly surprised to find that if there’s one thing that can be said about Spoon, it’s that they write consistently good music, which is what lead to MetaCritic ranking Spoon as the ‘Top overall artist of the decade’ last year, an accolade not to be taken lightly.

After hearing the first single from Transference (‘Written in Reverse’) on the band’s MySpace site earlier this year, I was convinced Transference would be a good album, and it is. Not stupendous, not mind-blowing, but definitely worth sinking your teeth into whether you know Spoon or not.

The beauty of Spoon is that they have this ability to take simple beats and riffs and turn them into songs that are much, much more than the sum of their parts.

Their idiosyncratic brand of upbeat indie rock, which is punctuated with funky basslines and foot-tappingly infectious piano melodies is easily accessible, which is why it’s always baffled me that more people aren’t into this band.

The first track on Transference ‘Before Destruction’ opens sparsely and keeps things that way. The drums are guitar definitely take a back seat to singer Britt Daniels vocals, which turn an otherwise bland song into something with a bit more character.

 

 

‘Is Love Forever?’ comes across as messy at first, the drums and guitar sound like they’re following different time signatures, and Daniel’s vocals sound like an attempt at singing Morse Code.

An interesting choice for a second track, but then again, Spoon always put their strongest tracks in the middle of their albums, so if you’re not feeling anything yet after the meandering third track ‘The Mystery Zone’, hang in there, it gets better.

‘Written in Reverse’ pulls no punches and is a great example of what this band can do when they find a killer riff and drive it home. The piano chords play with the precision of factory machines stamping engine parts while a jangling, Rolling Stonesey guitar riff struts confidently into centre stage like a stripper after 6 tequilas.

‘I Saw The Light’ follows neatly afterward with its soft / loud dynamic that, just as it’s getting tired, swings into piano and drum instrumental that almost sounds like a completely different song and adds an interesting layer to an otherwise mediocre track.

Besides those tracks, ‘Got Nuffin’ will also stand out as another example of Spoon’s simple but-catchy-style of songwriting. Listen to the individual parts of the song and nothing much is happening, but put them together and you’ve got a song that hooks you by the second chorous.

‘Goodnight Laura’ is also notable and should have been the last song on the album, it’s a great track, one which perfectly showcases both Eric Harvey’s talents as a pianist and Daniels’ talents as a vocalist.

However, Transference is not without a few shockers – the beginning of ‘Trouble Comes Running’ sounds like it was recorded on someone’s cell phone and does little to hold your attention throughout the song, but isn’t as bad as the fourth track, ‘Who Makes Your Money’ which repeats the same flakey piano chords and bassline for a full 4 minutes.

‘Out Go The Lights’ and ‘Nobody Gets Me But You’ are both Ok songs, but that’s about it. Neither will jump out at you or make much of an impression until your 6th or 7th listen.

 

 

In terms of the lyrics, Daniels keeps them as simple and dimmed down as possible, which serves as a double-edged sword in that they don’t come across as flowery or overly-pretentious, but at the same time, I can’t honestly tell you one line throughout the album that really stood out for me.

What you’re getting with an album like Transference is a collection of songs that will definitely grow on you in time, but probably won’t change your life in any majorly significant way.

If you liked Spoon’s albums Gimme Fiction (2005) and Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga (2007) then you’ll definitely like Transference. Likewise, if you’re unfamiliar with this band, I would highly recommend listening to those two albums first and then giving Transference a spin.

Final Verdict: 6/10

*The prize is self-importance. Well done.

10
Mar
10

SlickTiger Interviews The Minister Of Arts And Culture… Or Does He?

Last week’s post about the time I interviewed Vodacom CEO Alan Knott-Craig got a whole bunch of old cogs turning in my head and memories I’d long since forgotten have been playing all jerky and in sepia tones at the weirdest times.

 

 

The one where I ‘interviewed’ the then minister of arts and culture, Dr. Zwelidingo Pallo Jordan, jumped randomly into my head outta nowhere and I burst out laughing in the middle of a teleconference call with Ireland.

I was 22 years old at the time and facing the biggest hair crisis of my young life. During varsity I cut my hair about four times in as many years. I looked like a roadie for Metallica,  which was great, at varsity.

Back in the real world (ie Joburg) people looked at me like I was something that had dribbled out of a garbage bag they had just lifted from the bin.

So I reluctantly agreed, in the interest of securing gainful employment, to get a haircut. But the next question I faced was what kind of haircut? At that stage in my life I’d only had 3 – a ‘pot cut’ from when I was born up until I was about 13, then a middle parting throughout highschool and then shoulder-length, greasy, grunge-rock hair from when I arrived at varsity till when I left.

Stupidly, I told the hairdresser to keep it pretty long and defaulted to the middle parting I’d worn back in highschool.

It was fucking cringe-worthy. Remember Will Ferrell in ‘One Night At The Roxbury’? No? Let me jog your memory.

 

 

Yeah, it was that bad.

So anyway, the group of journalists I was working with at the time managed to set up an interview with the Minister himself, ol’ Zwelidingo, at the ministry in Pretoria and so we set out early one morning to get there by 9 and conduct an ‘interview’ with him (ie. try to sell him advertising in the bullshit report we were compiling).

In order to make what we were doing look legit, there were a number of essential tools we used, such as:

  • Expensive-looking suits (ties and all)
  • Briefcases
  • A thoroughly researched list of interview questions (no shit, if we didn’t at least get this part right, no one would take us seriously enough to buy advertising)
  • A ridiculously overpriced ratecard and legal documents that were anything but
  • A dictaphone that used tiny old-school tapes, and
  • A digital camera that took fucking crap pictures

About halfway to Pretoria, my colleague, a Hawaiian guy in his thirties called Steve asked me if I’d brought spare batteries for the camera at which point I froze rigid.

‘What?’ he said, ‘Don’t tell me you forgot spare batteries.’

‘I didn’t forget spare batteries,’ I said, still rigid.

‘Then what?’

‘I forgot the camera.’

‘Oh, what the fuck dude?! What the fuck are we supposed to do? We can’t go back now, we’re nearly there, the interview’s in 20 minutes!’

‘Fuck, just relax, that thing takes fucking useless pictures anyway, we’re not going to use one fucking picture we’ve taken so far, they’re all shit.’

‘Yeah, but that’s not the fucking point! The fucking point is to look like we’re journalists and journalists take fucking pictures! God! How could you forget the fucking camera!’

‘Stop being such a prick about it I’m sorry! What else do you want me to say! I’m sorry! Fuck! At least I remembered…’

‘What? What is it?’

‘Oh fuck.’

‘Don’t say that. Don’t say ‘oh fuck’ like that.’

‘Dude. I forgot the dictaphone.’

‘Oh fuck.’

 

 

We were royally screwed. We had no choice but to keep our eyes peeled for an electronics store on the way to the interview and though we found two, neither of them had dictaphones.

This left us with only one option, call the Minister’s PA, explain that our dictaphone was broken and find out of the ministry didn’t have one we could borrow.

She said she’d see what she could do. I still remember sitting in the ministry foyer, nervous as hell, jiggling my leg, drumming my fingers, praying for a miracle.

While we were sitting there waiting a man with a giant ghetto blaster walked past us and into the PA’s office.

I looked at Steve. Steve looked at me. His leg started jiggling.

‘Are you sure this will work?’ we asked the PA moments later.

‘It should – it has a record button and we found a clean tape you can record on, just make sure you sit close to it.’

And that’s how, on a random Tuesday morning, I ended up walking into the Minister of Arts and Culture’s office dressed in a 3-piece with a fucking terrible haircut and a ghetto blaster.

‘Ehhhh,’ the Minister said, frowning, not entirely sure what the fuck was going on, ‘are you going to play me a song?’

Believe it or not, it gets worse.

The ghetto blaster had the shortest cable known to man and no batteries, so in order for us to all be close enough to it so that we could actually record what was being said, we had to rearrange the fucking furniture in the minister’s office so that we could all sit at the boardroom table, around the gheto blaster.

Thank fuck Steve was with me, he kept the Minister occupied with polite banter while I made sure the tape was rewound, hit record/play and started saying ‘testing, testing’ in a voice loaded with the kind of quiet desperation people usually reserve for prayer.

 

 

I hit stop. The loud sound of the spring-loaded buttons snapping up made the room so silent. I hit rewind. Everyone’s attention was riveted on the gheto blaster. It got to the end of the tape and I hit stop again.

I shut my eyes. With a trembling finger I pressed play. The tape spools started turning and the next thing I new, clear as day we all heard…

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

The record/play buttons on the blaster were for recording CDs, or maybe even, if you were feeling daring, the radio, but that was it.

‘Um,’ Steve said as he realised how fucked we were, ‘Minister. I’m so sorry about this, but I think we’re going to have to reschedule…’

‘What magazine did you say you were from again?’ The Minister asked, too baffled at this point to be angry.

‘British Airways. HighLife Magazine,’ I replied, blushing blood-red.

‘Well that settles it then.’

‘Settles what?’ Steve asked nervously.

‘I want free flights. British Airways.’

I looked at Steve. Steve looked at me. I gave up. So did Steve.

‘Free flights,’ I said, ‘you got it.’

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how NOT to interview the minister of arts and culture, and yes, there will be a quiz later 😉

Have a killer day.

-ST

09
Mar
10

The Day I Won The Lottery

I stood in the sea, holding her. We watched the sun set pink-red over the horizon while surfers around us paddled lazily after waves and a man on the beach threw a frisbee for his Jack Russell.

We left when the sun was about a fist from the horizon and drove back to our crazy wooden house, both of us salty from the sea with sandy toes, and we talked about the future.

 

 

Back at home I fried up some burgers while she did a load of washing and when we were both done, I popped a bottle of Champaign and we drank a toast, clinking glasses. Our wild eyes met, my lioness and I, and we kissed. The taste of cold Champaign, the feeling of her body pressed against mine.

That old Sheryl Crow song came on her iPod, ‘My Favourite Mistake’ and I remembered the first time she ever said those words to me.

The things women tell us when they’re falling in love, we never forget them do we? No matter what happens, no matter how badly it ends, we never forget the words women whisper to us in those moments when the universe is holding its breath and it feels like the credits in the movie of your life could roll at any second.

And now she lies sleeping on the couch next to me while I finish the rest of the bottle of Champaign, listening to Jimi Hendrix on this balmy summer evening, at the end of a day that I think has changed my life completely.

There are things happening, things I could never have foreseen and they’re good things because they prove what I always suspected was true, that the good guys win sometimes and that if you find something you’re passionate about and stick to it, great things will come your way.

Me, I’m a writer, always have been, but I can’t tell you how long I wasted that gift, how many years I kept it locked away waiting for an opportunity that never came, making excuses.

Not living, just killing time.

But the day I finally got my shit together and started this blog, something came alive, and this thing, it’s big and it’s getting bigger.

Maybe, like me, people are tired of being fed a load of contrived bullshit. Maybe they just want to kick back for a few minutes a day and feel like they’re connecting with an actual human being instead of a bunch of fucking robots.

 

 

I stand like I always have, naked in front of you, shameless and unafraid, and I tell it exactly the way I see it and I leave the rest entirely up to you.

But I will say this though, pull up a chair if you like what you see here, because the show’s just starting and you bet your ass, it’s gonna be a good one 😉

-ST

08
Mar
10

Top Four Reasons Why Drinking An Entire Bottle Of Whisky Before Work Is A Good Idea

It’s Monday morning and I know what you’re thinking.

“Fuck” is probably it, followed shortly by, “this again.”

Well, I have good news. Thanks to a miracle remedy I recently discovered, your work days no longer have to smack of mindless repetition, bullshit meetings and faking that you enjoy the company a bunch of people you wouldn’t piss on if they were on fire.

That miracle remedy, ladies and gentlemen, is whisky. Don’t believe me? Well then, read my top four reasons why drinking an entire bottle of whisky before work is a good idea.*

Ready? Atta boy! Let’s get started!

*Note: For best results, an ENTIRE bottle must be consumed. Don’t be a pussy and stop when you’re two thirds down because you’ve gone blind, what are you? Six? MAN UP fer chrissake!

Reason #1: The drive to work will be AMAZING!

The first thing you’ll notice once you’ve chugged down the last few delicious mouthfulls of whisky is that you are more confident and capable than you’ve ever been IN YOUR LIFE!

The second thing you’ll notice is that your pants (and underpants) might need changing before you venture out into the world due to a large, warm, wet stain around your crotchal area.

Don’t let this deter you, the complete loss of bodily functions is a common side effect after drinking an entire bottle of whisky. Just make sure you sit down first before attempting to change your pants as balancing on one leg at this juncture could prove tricky.

 

 

Armed with fresh pants (and underpants) stride confidently out the house and into your car and leave for work. If you’re having trouble starting your car, run through the following checklist of questions to make sure you haven’t forgotten something:

  • Have you left the house?
  • With your car keys?
  • Are you sure it is indeed your car that you are trying to start?
  • Is your car in gear?
  • Do you remember how gears work?
  • Have you taken the handbrake off?
  • Have you reversed down the driveway, across the street and into the neighbour’s living room? If so, explain the situation away by saying you’re recovering from extensive neural surgery, and then pretend to slip into a coma

Once this checklist has been completed, you will notice that the drive to work is AMAZING!

You’ll careen at breakneck speeds along pavements, the wrong way down highways and possibly even along railway tracks. All that traffic that used to cause you unnecessary stress will magically disappear as you tail-end, side-swipe and pile-drive your way through any vehicles unfortunate enough to get in your way.

 

 

Provided you aren’t arrested and your car doesn’t explode in a blazing ball of molten steel and broken glass, you’ll arrive at work in record time, invigorated after your near brush with death and only vaguely concerned about the newspaper vendors smeared all over the front of your car.

 

Reason #2: You can finally get all of your issues with fellow work colleagues off your chest

Any HR person will tell you that the best way to maintain a happy and healthy work environment is to keep lines of communication open at all times.

In practice this becomes difficult to do as people don’t always take kindly to you telling them that they are big fat pathetic losers who are further down the food chain than prawn shit.

This can lead to the suppression of any number of issues that you have with fellow co-workers, which can have negative results on your performance in a team-orientated office environment.

However, after an entire bottle of whisky, voicing your concerns becomes not only easy to do, but also thoroughly enjoyable.

 

 

I’d suggest starting with junior staff members in order to practice your new found skill and then moving up the food chain and finally ending with your boss or even the CEO of the company.

Here’s another check-list of constructive comments and feedback you could give to your colleagues and co-workers in order to facilitate an open and honest forum for future discussions:

  • Your ugly! Anyone ev’r tell ya that? UGLY AND YOU SMELL! Go home! N’body likes YOU!
  • Look-ee look-ee! If it isn’t Miss ‘I jus’ got ANOTHER pr’motion! Everyone knows you’re screwin’ the boss, yeah! That’s right! EVERYONE!
  • Hey there sweetcheeks! Did I ev’r tell you you’r fuckin’ HOT? HUH? DID I? Well, you are. C’mere, gimme a hug, c’mere. I love you. I LOVE you! Hey, c’m back here!
  • Yo Boss-man! Up high! Hahaha! C’mon, loosen up ya big, dumb prick, stop bein’ such a fuckin’ homo all the time!

You’ll find all these and many, many more conversational ice-breakers come naturally after an entire bottle of whisky, so why not lighten up the atmosphere in your company and drink an entire bottle of whisky before going to work today!

 

Reason #3: You’ll get to go home early

After your courageous display of honesty at the work place, you can be sure that your bosses will reward you by letting you take the rest of the day off.

You can spend this time reflecting on the profound difference you have made in the lives of the people you work with, or, even better, getting started on a second bottle of whisky!

 

Which brings me neatly to my final reason why drinking an entire bottle of whisky before going to work is a good idea.

 

Reason #4: I’ll have someone to drink with

Having experienced first hand all of the reasons why drinking an entire bottle of whisky before work is a good idea, I now find myself waking up completely carefree everyday at noon without having to stress about the burden of going to work and with not a worry on my mind except my impending court date.

Which is why I urge you to try this miracle cure for all of life’s woes and when you have, come and find me!

I can be reached during the day at the Salvation Army shelter in the city centre and at the alley behind it at night where I often pull up a plastic crate with my new friends and drink varying kinds of interesting alcoholic concoctions they make from metholated spirits and shoe polish!

 

 

So don’t delay! Drink an entire bottle of whisky before work NOW and kiss your worries (and life) goodbye!

-ST

07
Mar
10

Sunday Grocery Shopping = Hatred

Things were going well, I had a handle on today, I felt like progress was being made.

I was up by 9.30 finishing the final few things that needed picking up, packing away, pulling out and plugging in. I ate leftover spaghetti bolognaise for breakfast, when you eat meat for breakfast the world bows down to you because it knows that you cannot fuck with this man!

You cannot fuck with a man who eats meat for breakfast – that man proceeds directly to the shower and scrubs himself so clean he gets out red, the colour of beetroot, and races to the sink and brushes his teeth, LIKE A SPARTAN!

 

 

This man was ME!

Right after that, I grabbed the nearest pen and began writing a LIST! Of GROCERIES! Because we were running dangerously low on MEAT!

Once I’d made sure my grocery list had at least four DIFFERENT animals on it, I added other crucial foodstuffs that I knew I’d get in trouble if I didn’t remember such as:

  • MILK!
  • YOGHURT!
  • COFFEE!
  • A MOSQUITO NET! (Technically not a food stuff, but not too bad on a piece of toast with some peanut butter)

I surveyed my grocery list, realising full well that it was lacking in a number of additional foodstuffs to make the consumption of the MEAT more palatable for my WOMAN and other leafy, vegetable-like foodstuffs that my doctor told me I need to have in my diet to KEEP THE SCURVY AWAY, but these were MINOR DETAILS that I knew I could figure out WHEN I GOT THERE!

And so I struck out, engine roaring, music blaring, to HUNT and GATHER from the hot, dry and dusty savannah plains of Pick ‘N Pay, confident that WITHIN THE HOUR I’d be back with a wagon-load of food to nourish my tribe.

 

 

I arrived and contemplated parking in the yellow bays right by the entrance that are reserved specifically FOR THE ELDERLY! But that’s highly inconsiderate and what would my mom say?

I then GRABBED a trolley and stormed into the grocery store, one I had never been to before, only to find that it was FUCKING MASSIVE!

Crap. I thought. How the fuck am I going to find anything in here?

The second thing I noticed was the music, which was quite CALM and PEACEFUL and had the same effect SLEEPING PILLS have on me.

Before long, I started to lose enthusiasm. Before long I was just kinda flopping from one aisle to the next, thinking ‘Hmm, Royco Cuppa Soup… do we need this? Royco? Cuppa Soup? I… don’t fucking know…’

The music rolled like a thick fog into my brain, which, already completely overwhelmed for choice, was systematically starting to shut itself down.

Eventually the workings of my mind resembled a goldfish, dead, floating belly up in it’s tank. Or a donkey, standing in the boiling midday heat, its face completely expressionless, half-heartedly swishing flies away from its ass.

 

 

Fakh, I thought, not for the first time in my life, I hate grocery shopping.

I don’t know what I bought, hell, I don’t even remember the last half-hour of my grocery shop, which explains why I came home with the following items:

  • Coat hangers
  • Mince Mate (but no mince)
  • Ice Cream
  • A gem squash
  • Soap
  • Steak
  • Oven Gloves, and
  • Royco Cuppa Soup

Kill me.

Kill me now 🙁

-ST

06
Mar
10

Saturday Post

Man-o-man, I haven’t popped out a Saturday post for months! I dig writing them though because there’s none of the usual bullshit pressure to get them out as fast as humanly possible.

That’s one thing you learn very quickly about blogging – you do it on borrowed time. ‘Especially if you have a job and a girlfriend and drive and a life’ J-Rab has just chirped in. She does that from time to time, but rest assured, I punish her for such disruptive behavior.

Warm up the wagon wheel, yeee-ha!

 

 

Aaaaaaaanyway. Yeah, like I was saying, unless you get paid shitloads of money for it, you literally have to steal time from other things you should be doing in order to blog. I often wonder what this blog would be like if I got paid a crapload to just write it and didn’t have to hammer posts out through the night or at sparrow’s fart in the morning.

Chances are, ironically, it would probably be much worse than it is right now because when you’re racing against time to finish posts they have this funny way of turning out amazing. I do some of my best work under pressure, that’s a fact.

Today was a good day, that’s why I’m writing this. In fact, the whole weekend so far has been awesome.

On Friday after work, J-Rab and I hit the beach in Camp’s Bay and the weather couldn’t have been more beautiful if God himself had CGIed the sky.

 

 

We wet our feet in the sea, we took goofy pictures of ourselves, we looked up at the mountains. Something inside unwound a little.

Afterward we sat at Caprice and drank one cocktail after the next, people watching all the while and watching the sun set slowly over the edge of the ocean. It’s a crazy place Caprice, a lot of beautiful people go there looking sexy and talk to other sexy people and pretend like they’re the only people in the place.

I was keen to meet up with a buddy of mine, Jacques SS, after Caprice. He was going to the opening of Trench Town in Obs, but J-Rab an I were getting too drunk to drive all the way back to where we live, which is basically between Stellenbosch and Somerset West, so we just drove back home, shagged one another’s brains out and slept like the dead.

 

 

The entire day today was spent straightening out the little house where we live and fahk! I’m happy to say everything’s finally done.

It’s weird, I didn’t like this fucked up little wooden house of ours at first, but now that it’s full of all our stuff I’ve warmed to it a lot.

And with that I’m going to bid you all a good night. J-Rab and I are itching to sink our teeth into the third season of Dexter and the longer I write this, the less time we’ll have to do that.

Too-de-loo muthufukkahs!

-ST