BLOW ME

Wow. Let me be the VERY FIRST person to make this public observation on the internet. The wind has been hectic. Like, for real. People have been forced to walk like drunks and roof sheets have been dislodged. National crisis in Cape Town, the city of virtually no recollection.

And speaking of being very pleasantly surprised, I finally relented and went to join Up Side Down Girl to watch a gig and have a drink last night. Her husband is in Kuduchild and I've been threatening to go and witness their reworked revamped style for some time now. Tarty Farty Tequila Party was also in attendance. In what world does that sentence NOT seem compulsory?

The evening's festivities started off with an intimate show by Witness To Wolves. A band who at their core comprise of duo Natalie and Matthew, they stripped their performance of the usual cello and percussion accompaniment and went for a raw, bare vocals and guitar delivery.
Natalie, as a singer and performer sits uncomfortably somewhere between Cocteau Twins' Elizabeth Frazer, Jarboe and Patti Smith, as she wails, croons and captivates the audience with her sensual, gypsy like presence. Matthew quietly gets about his business, clearly passionate about his craft - a combination that weaves a textured mix of emotions and bastardised bohemian subtlety. They also completely surprised everyone by doing a particularly gorgeous cover of  'Change... In The House Of Flies', my favourite Deftones track.
Kuduchild - on the other hoof - snort and stampede their way through a thoroughly (and equally) enjoyable set. Their new and improved sound is just that, new and improved. A strong reliance on good solid songwriting and a canny awareness of dynamic has transformed the former Junkyard Parade into a seriously kick arse contender. Give them 6 months - and at this rate, they'll be right up there in the rarefied heights Cape Town reserves for its traditional rock favourites. Their hybrid of Zeppelin-esque stomp and deep rooted classic rock riffs is tempered - interestingly, by a vocal that can be favourably compared to Joe Strummer at times - and a clever interplay between guitarists Etienne and Nick, the latter clearly lost in a performance that immediately reminds one of a happy Frusciante. All this is tied together with renewed vigour, by Aiden, the band's equivalent of Animal, who takes evident delight in beating his kit to death in a series of primal, tribal and terrifically groovy beats. Watching these guys, as they are developing into one of the most focused, yet fun, bands to get down to, is a great reminder of what it means to enjoy music, either from the stage or from the audience.

And that, my friends, is my life. On a school night. Sucks, hey. And now I'm sitting here blasting the fuck out of Prodigy in the office, educating the colleague. Yes, the same one who every so often has to deal with my experiments in sonic torture...

If you're travelling to Synergy, please be careful, drive safely and have an amazing weekend. I intend doing bugger all. Read all about that next week.

And because I love each and every one of you. And because the image at the top may be a little vexing to some. And because I was discussing this lovely young lady earlier. And because I can, happy Fifty Shades Of Sasha Grey Irreverent Friday, everybody!

NGDG: New 'Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds' out Feb 2013. Proof that life goes on. The Mayans were wrong. Obviously. And not just about scarlet fever and gunpowder. And in thinking that Someone cares if you disembowel a slave atop your greatest architectural achievement (that any kid with LEGO can master at age 4).

Spread The Love. Do Not Smack Your Bitch Up.

PRAISE HELL SATAN

Now that I have your attention...

The words above are lyrics by a band called SLAYER, and follow the line "learn the sacred words..."
They do not implore you to sacrifice, mutilate or otherwise make small furry domestic animals suffer. Or any other myriad atrocities perpetrated by mankind in pursuit of wealth or spiritual nirvana.

If you are about to go elsewhere, you are the person to whom I'd like to have a wee chat this afternoon. If you've already left in a self righteous huff, well then fuck you, you are beyond redemption.

They are merely lyrics. Although I will give you this, they are designed to illicit a certain response and, ultimately, sell records.

The reason I bring this very touchy subject up, dear reader, is that the misconceptions of what constitutes evil piss me off and I'd like to air my dirty laundry, if for no other reason than slightly less whiffy undies.
I have been reading and looking at online clips vilifying Lady Gagger (the OTHER name I gave my penis) and other such popular acts by fun loving fundamentalists who use archaic script and dumbfounding logic to put forward their case from the safety of their klooster. They draw comparisons to the most obtuse instances of conspiratorial Illuminati and hidden meanings in lyrics and symbolism. Motherfucker please! Can you imagine they got their hands on a Deicide video? Lady Gagger is not a Satanist. No one affiliated with her is a Satanist. She is merely an entertainer who has been forced to extremes to sell her product. I hate her and every song she has ever recorded, but that's a personal taste thing. She should not be condemned for trying to make a living, no matter how sensationalist she is required to become. And, as much as I can't stand her or her shitty second rate "art", I'd still much rather subject myself to it that anything from Ryna De Beer - Die Fluitende Predekantsvrou. Believe me, this person exists. She whistled an entire album of Calvinist Classics.

I too was subject to such misconception in my youth, and possibly even still today, given the miscreants with whom I share my life. I have lost close friends who failed to understand that tolerance is a cornerstone of co-existence. Back in the glory days before Faeceboobs and app-based home recording, my band was seen in some quarters as the evil anti-Christs of alternative music, because some wet-behind-the-ears pillock didn't have the mental facility to read between some very meaningful lines. (I was listening to one of the songs in question just now, which got me thinking about all this...)

Whatever you choose to believe, or not believe, how about the following simple guidelines:

1. Remove the log from your own eye before pointing out the splinter in that of another.
2. For fuck's sake, do not leap at every opportunity to answer/post/comment how fucking amazingly and aggressively progressive you are by pissing on other peoples' beliefs. It demonstrates the exact opposite.
3. Do not use a religion (any religion) to condone that which it should not.
4. Respect the beliefs of others, they have spent as much time considering their path as you have.
5. And lastly, as trite as it sounds, do unto others as you'd have done to you. If you demand respect or understanding, how about showing some first.

The world would be a better place without zealots condemning that which they do not understand - and without holy wars - and without the adolescent rage that comes with being anti-religious.

And in closing. I fucking hope some people are either offended or moved to make a comment. Dialogue is good. You're not at all likely to change the mind of the person opposing you, but common understanding will get us a lot further in this life than pooh flinging. Frank Zappa once said "A mind is like a parachute - it doesn't work if it is not open."

NGDG: Outracing the hail was possibly the most rockstar thing I did today. After vomiting on a hooker in the toilet. [Taken from some time ago]

Spread The Love. There Are No Turtles Left To Burn.

TURKEY TALK

Monica the Turkey clearly misread "One in the hand..."

Gobble gobble gobble. Gobble gobble gobble.

Now before you think I've lost the plot altogether, think again. I have a good mate who insists the most terrifying thing he can think of is the world being taken over by turkeys with tanks. I tend to agree with him. Imagine the terror. And the noise! Never mind all you zombie apocalypse amateurs or Lady Gaga naysayers. If there is a terrible way for the world to end, it is at the hands of some pissed off fowl with heavy artillery and a grudge.

Which is why it's ironic that the humble, stupid, vengeful turkey serves (and is served) as a reminder of things for which we as humans should be thankful. I know I'm a little late on my Thanksgiving analysis, but better late than never. I don't actually have much to say about the magical holiday in the USA that is Thanksgiving, but then I rarely have anything of any worth to contribute, as you may well have figured out by now. I wonder how many families sat around their festive and heavily laden tables and uttered "Thanks be to our heinous foreign policies that secure us this ill-gotten lifestyle at the expense of the helpless - both then, and now..." Keep waving your little flag, motherfuckers. It's happened to every other so called empire. It'll happen to you.

My apologies to each and every one of my friends that actually reside States-side. We do not have to share political ideologies. We just have to admit that I'm wonderful.

Anyway, on to whatever pops into my head next (I promise I didn't think of anything when I opened this window and just started typing all socialist and reckless-like...)

Tonight I get to do one of my favourite things of all time. Make music. I happen to think it's exceptionally awesome music as well. One day when you can take a pleasant afternoon guided trip around hell in nice airconditioning, you may just agree with me. But for now we gather in secrecy, behind closed doors, and bash at our instruments in such a rudimentary fashion as to disprove Darwin. And man, is it fun!

Rib injury update: nothing has changed. I'm still grouchy and in pain. These stupid sticky bandages do nothing other than make my chest smell of toothpaste. Although it's hard to say without a frame of reference...

NGDG: Our sun will only likely engulf planet earth in 4 billion years' time. So, go on and plan for 2013. Perhaps consider a moderate to aggressive equity fund, a tattoo, a midget fuckbuddy.

Spread The Love. Turkey Baster Optional.

RIBBED FOR HER PLEASURE

Apparently I talk too much about myself. Well, duh! That's what happens when you 're a self absorbed, egomaniacal bastard. If I were anything other, you wouldn't be reading this blog post because I'd be serving tea and cucumber sandwiches to some high brow type (before I skipped into my Superman booth and emerged waving a palm frond in a nappy...).

But enough about me, how about some more me? I am in a reasonable amount of irritating pain and I want the world to know. The rib "blunt force trauma" has decided not to dissipate and is now becoming a thing. I even had to go out and buy those nifty sticky-onny-cold-press bandages after some consultation with a very long suffering pharmacist. The jury is still out on whether or not it is working - I'll keep you posted. If it guarantees at least nominal sympathy. Gifts of booze are most welcome.

Anyway, in the continuing theme of Tarty Farty Tequila Party and I sweeping through the Western Cape on our whirlwind (read: tumbleweed) tour of fun, sun and mayhem, in 2 weeks we're off to Albertinia to re-enact that famous scene from Pygmalion (or My Fair Lady, if you prefer). We're going to some or other stud farm to check out the Arabian stallions or something like that. Included are a potjie braai and some stellar blues music. I think people will start looking at us all funny if we perch ourselves under a shady tree and proceed with the Pimms until one of us is shitfaced enough to yell "Move your bloomin' arse, Dover!"

Interesting fact: Pygmalion is also a mythological sculptor who fell in love with his statue. Imagine the possibilities...

Anyway, let's get onto the very interesting subject of equilibrium. Not many of you may be aware, but equilibrium is the most fundamental state on which our entire physical world is based. Newton was a clever little beggar. And I was sharply reminded of this when I finally found out that I hadn't lost my flash-drive, just sent it off with a friend of mine. One in, one out. I can't find the lyric sheet for a song we're working on. Typically, it's the best work we've ever done, I can't remember anything more than the merest snippets and it's the only copy. Ying can yang my wang! And you just KNOW that if I attempt to re-write it, it won't be the same and I will be permanently disappointed. And then I'll get into fights with the rest of the band when it comes to deciding if we should release it, and every single one of my band members can crinkle me - as is currently so vividly demonstrated by me being a fragile little baby.

And on picking fights with band mates, I think I'll suggest in the strongest terms that we do a Goth cover of Gerry Rafferty's hit 'Baker Street'. Perhaps one of those Faeceboob polls would help to convince them? My distaste for those is well enough documented. What's the point?

Anyway, we'd like to welcome Neal back to the land of the living. He's been quiet of late, but is right back on top form!

NGDG: Did you know (and I bet you didn't) that another name for the exclamation mark is a dog's cock? Use it sparingly.

Spread The Love. Or Wear The Ribbed For Her Pleasure Inside Out. I'm TOLD It Rocks...

THE PRINCESS AND THE PEACOCK

Peacock. After much discussion on my camping trip with Tarty, it was decided that it was definitely a better name than 'pooh-arse'.
So this is the part where I fill you in (never quite took off as a pick up line in a bar for me...) about what's been happening in the last week and a half, and explain my mysterious, but enjoyable, absence.
I went camping. Not the kind of camp you'd normally associate with long hair and looking gooood in toight trousers, but the real camping. The rough rugged life of a wild man. In the wild. The real wild. Well, farms at any rate.
It's a tale of Bilharzia, a tale of Bears, and a tale of Broken Blow Up Mattresses.
Let's start at the start. Tarty was late and we only got there once Weekend Wizzard had pretty much finished the potjie. (We really did rough it...) After a couple of cold beers and a refresher course in how to erect a small tent, it was time to settle into the evening around the camp fire armed with a bottle of sherry. A lot later, much to the vocal despair of our camping mates and our neighbours, Weekend Wizzard and I were happily sitting around the campfire (still) and solving the world's problems.
The next day was greeted with the bleary eye of the still-half-sauced, and the hellish chorus of an invading squadron of demon ducks. Due to the brand new inflatable mattress deflating over night, I was unable to attend the goat and lamb feeding. Spent the rest of the day feeling sorry for myself around a dam. Tarty thought it was hysterical to play "rock the boat" which delighted her no end as I tactfully pointed out my desire to stay dry.

Cue packing up campsite, stuffing all our belongings into Cherry Bomb and barrelling off to the town. I was all excited to show Tarty the Belmont Hotel, a place that holds significant and special memories for me as part of my childhood holiday experiences in Ceres. We got there. It wasn't there anymore. What was left was a depressing stretch of barren, broken land. Fuck progress.
So off to the next farm and another adventure. Having set up camp once again, we took a stroll up a nearby hill to see if we could find reception for our cell phones. (Roughing it, I tell you!) Then onto a wonderful meal sharing Tarty's steak (mine hadn't travelled well in the cooler box) and contemplating the possibility of getting mauled to death by bears. I concluded that this was a favourable death to the slow painful way you go when infected by Bilharzia, which was the other farm's speciality plague.
The next day being Monday Bloody Monday - as recounted in the now famous Ceres Fruit Pickers Uprising Of 2012, we decided on an alternative route into town, which took us along a very picturesque dirt road where we found an old abandoned farmstead. It had rusted agricultural equipment and broken down buildings - even a bell tower - which made for even more interesting pictures for our ongoing rural adventure.
Driving into town with due vigilance, we stopped at the Pick n Pay for supplies. And by supplies I mean booze, as we'd almost run right out. Imagine the travesty. I almost bought shoes. Then, the highlight (or one of the highlights) of the trip was when we took a stroll down memory lane and through a camping resort known as The Pine Forest. I'd spent most of my childhood going there on family holidays and had heard awful things about it being run down. Not so. To my ever growing vocal delight I took Tarty on an ice-cream wielding tour of the entire facility, pointing out places and remembered events like a seasoned guide.
A brief stop off at the local second hand store saw me leaving with an armful of old records and an ashtray, before we took on the drive out to the next farm near Tulbagh. This one had a splash pool, This one had spectacular views of the Witzenberg Mountains. It had a dam replete with rowing boat. It had the best ablution facilities (Roughing it!) and it had the best dog, Basil the elderly and attentive Boerbul/Lab cross. It also had a peacock. That hellish demon spawn with beady satanic eyes and the shriek of the undead. I almost put Tarty's head through the windscreen and refused to get out of the car. It's always so reassuring when your friends nearly pee themselves laughing at your debilitating phobia. Then we bravely set up camp right under its roost.
More of the usual drinking and braaing, followed by our final breakfast cooked on the coals and it was almost time to head back to real life. But not before buying wine, olive oil and olives from the friendly farmers and making a stop at Tulbagh to check out the charming Church Street with its National Monuments and heritage sites. Lastly we stopped at Die Tolhuis for a late lunch and almost had to stay and wash dishes as we scraped together our last cents before finally dumping out weary bodies in the car and going home. It's amazing how tiring relaxing can be...

Upon getting home and just wanting to flop down on my bed, I discovered the council had turned my water off. Not "my water broke", that means something completely different. So another day off to go and sort that out - luckily (and mercifully) that was quickly and relatively painlessly reconnected. I swore a lot regardless.

Then the working week kind of engulfed me and I neglected you, my faithful and obviously immensely erudite readership. Apologies.

The week ended by me winding myself AND getting rugby tackled in my weekly game of football, resulting in a rib injury that has had me grumpy since. It's fine as long as I don't laugh, or sneeze, or cough, or sniff, or move, or breathe...

Oh I almost forgot to mention playing a gig last Friday. The physical trials and tribulation of camping and sleeping on the ground were exacerbated by a chronic headbanging torso-n-neck injury. Blind spots were particularly challenging.

Oh, and I managed to submit my tax return after having left most of the relevant documents at home last week. Let's hope they pay me. Otherwise no Christmas presents...

Anyway, I hope this has served to bring you up to speed. It's been a gas.

NGDG: Sandton City is full of the most godawful shit. I have a gift voucher burning a hole in my pocket and I'm about to buy a monkey-shaped candle or a bandana just to be done with it.

Spread The Love. Don't Make Me Laugh.


ps: Funny moment of the week: Tarty Farty Tequila Party locked herself out of her house because she left the house keys on the car keys when she sent the car in for repairs after our adventure...

OVER AND OUT

Both words, that when applied to the noun 'shit' mean completely different thing...

I'm NOT going to punt my incredibly cool live performance tonight. If you miss it, it's on you and you've been given more than enough warning.
I'm NOT going to go on about the mindless carnage in the Western Cape or the fact that it mean a very exciting camping trip with Tarty Farty Tequila Party, I'll leave that for next week's report.
I'm NOT going to tell you to tune into Assembly Radio right now and have your ears 'vajazzled' by the amazing Shake Sum Action peeps because if you don't already know, then you deserve to spend the rest of eternity in the well with that darling little girl from Telkom.

What I AM going to do is tell you what a wonderful day it is here in the Motherless City. Well, it'll be Motherless in a matter of a few very short hours. Capetonians are starting to show signs of holiday fever already. Some have been working on their tans. Others have been winding down an already chilled work ethic to a virtual stand still. And the clever among us have been working on our "Welcome to Cape Town. Now Fuck Off!" placards.

I'm also going to tell you all about the wonderful folks at Paul Bothner Music who so kindly kitted Axxon out with Laney Ironheart amplification and some serious Jackson Guitars for tonight. Leaders in music instrument retail and keen supporters of local musicians, they certainly deserve a massive shout out and a great big thank you hug. Thanks guys!

Ok, it's Friday afternoon. It's glorious. And I have better things to do than entertain you ingrates. Have safe, spectacular weekends!

NGDG: [Is absent. Because he clearly also has better things to do...]

Spread The Love. Mmmmmmmmmmm...

LOOK AT MEEEEE, I'M MICHAEL JACKSON!

Weeeeeeeeee! Let's plaaaay!

Actually ol' MJ is the closest thing I could think of when the phrase "cutting off your nose to spite your face" cropped up. This is in effect exactly what the rioting rotters in the Western Cape are doing right now. They are literally burning the very source of their livelihoods. Is there not ONE person close to them "on the ground" as it were, that can explain this simple concept to these poor people?

Debates have been raging on social media, most from outraged and privileged observers that only read a lopsided and very badly written set of media reports. Sensationalising the shooting - no matter which side of the fence the bullet lands - is , although tragic, not the crux of the matter.
Why is it only in the Western Cape that farm workers are protesting minimum wage?
Why are busloads of protesters being brought in from outside the affected areas?
Why has there been no official response from government?
Why are protesters engaging in criminal activity in the towns or these areas?

Now I am no bleeding heart. I am not a liberal, neither am I a Communist. I truly empathise with the plight of the disenfranchised. But let's look at some uncomfortable facts:
These people are unskilled labourers.
They are employed to pick, sort and process fruit.
It is an unfortunate reality that not everyone can sit in a cushy office and get paid a fantastic salary for doing fuck all. Doctors and lawyers do not get paid for what they do. They do not engage in back breaking labour. They get paid for what they know. Their expertise is a hard earned qualification. It's not the fault of the labourer that he or she is a bit short on education. Even in the most perfect first world system, you get haves and have nots. Otherwise it would be known as Communistic Utopia and not a single person would have the motivation to excel. Hey, even in the giddy heights of the Kremlin's iron-fisted hold on Communist Mother Russia, there was a section of the population much better off than most. And ghettos. Not the cool ghettos you see in hip hop videos either, real shit holes. Clearly Communism work, eh Blade? Ask the recently liberated Eastern Bloc countries.

The problem here, and in a lot of other parts of the world, is that world economies are no longer able to sustain themselves on the back of borrowed pretend money, people fuck too much (I mean have too many fucking children), people expect too much for too little and everyone mistakenly buys into the misconception that they're unique little snowflakes capable of anything they set their minds to.

Seems most people aspire to be violent looting thugs when they don't get their way. The part about applying yourself in a positive manner to the goals you set yourself seems to have escaped the collective conscience.

I'm not saying don't vocalise your discontent, but I am saying don't be a fucking idiot. Keep voting in the ruling party that is directly responsible for setting the wage bracket you now so vehemently protest. Fuck sakes, you don't need a University education to figure it out. Not that University educations are worth the paper the Degrees are printed on anymore. Imagine the whole world decided that common sense was suddenly a grand commodity...

Sometimes I think it a curse to be able to see the wood for the trees.

But then most mornings I'm not wearing my Forest undies...

NGDG: I thought the weekend was enjoying my company. Then it has a friend send it a pre-arranged 'emergency' SMS and it scuttles early.

Spread The Love. And Peace. And Understanding.

NO, I WON'T SHUT UP.

Sycophant? Just another failed musician? Or a self important prick trying to effect positive change from inside the machine? Take your pick. I probably wouldn't care which you prefer. But know this. Every so often you are going to hear me singing (pray not in real life) the praises of another local musician or group. As you are by now probably all too acutely aware, Shannon Hope and Lucy Kruger are among my all time personal favourites, as are Fetish and a host of others. New on the radar are very much the muscle-car engine-revving energy of Th'DamnedCrows and the sinister, prison-style hard-time rock of Dead Lucky. I tend to wax lyrical about acts that I find worthwhile, intriguing or extraordinary, even if they do not fall into the category of my own personal influences. I lie like a fly. Pretty much everything can be cited as an influence - it's just that I happen to have more My Dying Bride cds in my collection than Mazzy Star.

Today's victim, or as it were, next lady for a shave, is the blues/country/folk singer/song writer, Mr Gerald Clark. Imagine my surprise when I had the Twisted Sister and the Brother-In-Awe around the other night and excitedly presented this great artist I'd discovered for myself, only to be told that he was already a firm favourite of theirs. Perhaps removing my thumb from my arse and placing it more accurately on the pulse of the music industry is called for.

Anyway, Gerald Clark. A bluesy, gritty, demon on a guitar and a deep-down, smokey, Southern crooner behind a mic, he delivers songs of dirty integrity and harrowing honesty - enough to draw any amount of comparisons to the roots of the blues themselves. I can easily see him waiting patiently at a sweltering, windswept crossroads...
That was the album I got my hands on. Now it seems he has changed approach slightly and gone for a more bittersweet polish. Check out a new title called "It's not that easy" from the rooftop at the Boom.fm Deck. There is no substitute for astute song writing and undeniable ability. Fuck the nay sayers, South Africa is ripe with talent. Now if only the rest of the industry would climb aboard the "MTV culture is stupid" train...

Oh well, that's it I suppose. I know I'm preaching to the choir, but can someone please tell the unwashed masses that perpetuating the crimes against humanity that are constantly play listed on national and regional radio is their own stupid fault. Supply and demand. The radio stations need to keep the numbers up and keep the revenue from advertisers coming. Too often they are thought of as vehicles through which music lovers can get their jollies. This is not the case. Broadcasters are not run by music lovers for music lovers. They are large corporate entities that exploit a product. Change the demand and they will follow suit.

In other news: I have a new dining room cabinet - after much arthritic huffing and puffing! I'm getting too old for this shit.
Also, if you want to experience some steaming sonic fare of the far more aggressive variety, why don't you pop on down to Zula Sound Bar on Friday night for FRONTLINE? You know you're going to be in the area. And you know you want to have your regular dose of adrenalin administered at ear-splitting, bone-crushing volumes. Not to mention being able to see me trying valiantly to hide my ineptitude with the smoke and mirrors of long hair and flashy guitars. Come one, you know you want it... The battle for Long Street is apparently on. Catering to all extreme tastes, from the twisted thrash of Wargrave and the guttural groove of Suiderbees, to the tumultuous torment of Wildernessking and the mechanized madness of Axxon, there will be something for everyone. Be there, if only to satisfy your curiosity. And see how the other half do it. Don't be scared. The internet says we have cookies...

NGDG: Draw a pretty rainbow. There's a dead leprechaun and a big pot of "Sorry - not a winner" at the end.

Spread The Love. Even If It Isn't That Easy.

THE WORLD HAS GONE TO SHIT.

It is indeed a wonderful day, isn't it friends? I sound like a demented child's TV program host, don't I?
Conjuring up images of Pumpkin Patch should instill in you a horror second to none, not warm feelings of contented , lazy afternoons secure in the knowledge that all is well.

Dramatic sigh. I know.

Speaking of thing that should induce not only dramatic sighs, but an outbreak of projectile vomiting the likes of which have not been seen since the black plague, I asked a child the other day at the cricket "What does YMCMB stand for, since it is so brightly emblazoned all over your clothes?" The tween, chubby, white, comfortable middle class young girl answered with the following:

YMCMB = Young Money, Cash Money Billionaire...

This, coined by a generation that would get a collective aneurysm just trying to spell that, never mind in any way grasp the concept of hard work in order to achieve success. I was quite thrown from my normal bolshy stance on life, and not a little amused. What!?!? Young. Money. Cash. Money. Billionaire. What are they teaching our youth in schools? Oh yes, you're right. They aren't. Except perhaps Sassy Killer Lady - she's probably dropping knowledge like it's, oh I don't know... hot?
Therefore the education of our youth is left to the multitude of platforms from which they derive stimulus in this world. Well, basically the idiot box and the other idiot box. TV and the Internet are shaping our future. Remember, these slack-jawed, barely literate kids will grow up to be the policy makers and our caretakers in our dotage. Can you imagine...
This rabble of brainwashed idiots are being informed by the likes of Lil Wayne and that ghastly fucking Nicky "who or what the fuck IS that" Minaj. Young Money Cash Money Billionaire. MTV Cribs, here we DON'T come. What happened to good, wholesome role models, like Kerry King or Kate Moss?

I despair.

On a far brighter note, and concerning a group of gentlemen that should not only be considered role models, but acolytes of the highest order and fine examples of everything you should be striving to be yourself, and your children one day, Th'DamnedCrows are putting on another stellar performance for you this evening. With the absolutely legendary Dave Ferguson at The Waiting Room. If you haven't yet been blasted away by these ballsy boys, then it's about fucking time. If you have, then why aren't you already camped out in front of the venue, eager for another deadly dose of swamp stomping wreck'n'roll?

And on that note, now that I have your attention, you are uniquely fortunate to be alive. In this day and age. A time that has borne unto us the surreal talent of Shannon Hope - a truly outstanding beacon of light in an otherwise dire darkness. She is performing in and around Cape Town (you lucky little devils, you...) from Wednesday evening to Saturday. Do yourself the favour, nay, the honour, of going to one of her shows and the experience of a life time.

Oh, and Lucy Kruger, the mesmerising Lucy Kruger, was on the telly this morning for those of you that missed it. I didn't. But then, I pay attention. Actually I lie, it was just a happy coincidence I was flicking the channels looking for a weather forecast, when I got this most pleasant surprise. It is a magical way to start a day. You don't have to believe me, but then I know more than you do.

Fun activities for the rest of the day include a light, casual jog with The Hot Girlfriend, a drive out beyond the curtain to fetch a new dining room cabinet, and super awesome dinner. The Hot Girlfriend is on holiday and has decided to devote her time to spoiling me, so I have zero complaints about life right now. Except fucking Young Money Cash Money fucking Billionaire.

And last, by by no means least, today marks the birthday celebration of the weird, wise and wonderful Neal Goldwyer. Is it a funny nick name? Or am I protecting the identity of this keen philosopher, splendid scholar and obtuse observer of the human condition? You'll never know. For sure. Either way, here, to help us wish him the best birthday ever is...
NGDG: And to think that my former disabling of Timeline to save my wonderful friends from tagged sunsets and 'Neal I viewed your profile. Download this Llama' spam wallposts almost deprived me of all your marvellous wishes today. I'm touched. Thank you to each and every one of you. Quick, download this Llama.

Oh, and Tony Ehrenreich can suck my balls.

Spread The Love. In Real Life You Don't Need Emoticons.

HOLY COW. DIVINE STEAKS.

A few things that have happened recently:

Some Oriental gentleman was sentenced to what we all vehemently hope is 40 years worth of very unpleasant treatment as a guest of the state. For rhino poaching. To feed the ridiculous demand from the East for larger penises and more virility. They really should just go around our local municipal power boxes. There are millions of traditional doctors offering the very same remedy, along with doing better at your exams and winning the lottery. Also if you wanted a big dick, you could just switch on the telly and watch the news. Doesn't matter, politics, sports administration, whatever.

Apparently the Bieb won some award and the usual "he sucks/she's brilliant" argument has sprung up all over the intrawebnets - featuring the elite of the music lovers among us versus a bunch of mindless, bleeding- heart, tweenie wankers devoid of the ability to think or be discerning about what they are fed. Also, ears. Or eyes.

I had a wonderful weekend in the company of (in chronological order): The Hot Girlfriend, Axxon, Rose Thorn, Commander Conker and the rest of the football lads. We played a wonderful game of football to send off our long time mate as he emigrates to Germany. The football was followed by a braai. Was awesome to see all the old boeps galloping about in the sun.

And now for the sports news. United won. Chelsea didn't. The Bokke won. That's pretty much all that counts.

Really not much more to report on. My life can't always be that exciting. Tonight we make another awfully slow cacophony and drink wine. Brilliant.

NGDG: I started the running again after 6 or so weeks of black-cloudy burnt-out quitterdom. And it hurts like hell. Good. Naughty.

Spread The Love. However Far Away.

MO'NY MO'NY

Now THAT'S a Mo! Thanks Kevin.

Reasons I will not be growing a Mo'vember moustache are well documented. I wrote last year explaining my lack of participation in this most honourable endeavour. I hope my participation in Septembeard was sufficient. Alas, it is for entirely self-centred reasons that I am reticent to end up looking like the bastard lovechild of Legolas and Napoleon Dynamite's older brother.

So, we're on the edge of the precipice, about to plunge into the downward spiral of a weekend! There will be lots of football. There will be braaing. There will be band rehearsals. But most of all, there will be me, The Hot Girlfriend, and no one else. I can't wait!

Alas, the reason behind half of the activities this weekend are because one of our friends has decided to permanently emigrate to Germany. Stranger things have happened. We here at Monster Headquarters wish him and his wife the best. Don't be a stranger!

Wonderful thing about Fridays, other than not having to work on a Saturday, is the early start one gets to the feel good vibe. If you are one of the lucky ones that is aware of Shake Sum Action, they are guys that bring you the legendary parties once a month at Mercury, spinning the best in old school, diesel-soaked punk rock among many, many other things ranging from surf rock to the dreaded and horrible cringe-worthy "rockabilly" although to be fair they don't pander too much to what passes for local hipster music.

[*Disclaimer: I am and always will be against the popularisation of a perfectly acceptable sub genre by second rate rot.]

Anyway, they also have a weekly radio show on Assembly Radio, which is where the feeling good for the weekend starts. Hosted by the ever-charismatic L.I.Am (of Th'DamnedCrows infamy), and a number of illustrious co-hosts, prepare for a rollercoaster of good fun, stomping rock adrenaline to kickstart your weekend.
Tune in. Kick back.... aaaaaand just as I intend closing the chapter on Shake Sum Action, they play 'White Wedding', a song written by Billy Idol. The same blonde who made the heading of this post famous. Incidentally a cover...

I was going to get to Billy Idol. I was called Billy Idol in school, but then if you read the story from last Mo'vember you'd know this already.

Anyway, enjoy whatever sordid activity you assault with your attentions this weekend.

NGDG: If Gordon Ramsay endorses the meat from my local butchery, I can only think the reason it tastes mediocre is because I fucked it up.

Spread The Love. Use Your Imagination.

NO WORDS

So here we sit on a day which isn't quite sweltering, but largely unpleasant. Some people are merely uncomfortably warm. Some people no doubt have hangovers ranging from mild to "please rip out my liver and replace my eyes with Creme Soda". And others are recovering in hospital after a scaffold structure collapsed on them. A family has been thrust into mourning over the untimely and sickeningly unfortunate death of their daughter, who was merely an innocent on her way to a concert.

I wasn't going to write about this incident. I feel that enough has been said and am always awkward and unsure of what to say in situations such as these. Firstly, I would obviously wish to offer my sincerest condolences to the bereft family. And I will be eagerly watching to see if anyone is found accountable for this travesty. I only write now because of an eyewitness account that has left me not only ill, but morally outraged. I'm not going to get into it, but it clearly illustrates the lack of compassion, sophistication and general empathy a portion of our fellow "human beings" - people barely deserving of the title - have.

What I WOULD like to highlight, though, is the following:
Hundreds, if not thousands die every day in this country - many, many of them violently and as victims of crime. The value we as a collective society place on life is dwindling faster than the Zim Dollar and it is shameful that it takes a tragedy like the one last night to make us sit up and take note.

Where is the highly emotive public outcry against the hundreds of victims of rape, grievous bodily harm and murder? In this country the only time you hear anything like that is when a politician on the losing side wants to garner support at the expense of the one on the winning side. It's all become a game of statistics and is as disgraceful as it is morally repugnant.

What I WOULD like to see is not the buck-passing and responsibility dodging that I fully expect. Somewhere on some level someone was responsible. If protocol was followed or not, perhaps some initiative could have prevented this disaster. It is an unfortunate truth that we live in a world where this has not only been all but wiped out by an overly bureaucratic tint to everything, but we are forced to push political agendas into the work place, where some people are forced to be responsible - for structures and ultimately, lives. This applies to a broad field and I'm not guessing that the person signing off on this particular structure may have been less qualified than perhaps he should have been, let's just call it a caustic comment on the woeful state of affairs.

Let me not get stuck into too much of a rant. I do not want to belittle the plight of this particular family. I merely want to highlight that people are, by and large, media sheep that need to catch a wake up. Don't wait for a high profile event turned sour. Acknowledge also those who suffer in silence. And if, in any way, you can veer more towards part of the solution than part of the problem, then do so. Even if it's in small measure. Apathy condones.

Neal will not be featured today - it's a black arm-band, flag at half mast day.

Spread The Love. To Each And Every One.

FULL OF SHIT

Yes, I know. I'm a pooh-poohface. I have been neglecting you, my faithful, precious readers. All 9 of you. Well, my absence from my soapbox and the consequent tragic lack of poisoning your minds, violating your eyes and causing general incensed outrage is probably down to one thing. My mom always said "If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything..." I was always regarded as a "good child" because I was reasonably quiet. This premise can be translated to why I haven't bothered posting anything since the weekend. Not that I didn't have a rapturously good time for the most part, it's just that I felt a bit kak about something and didn't feel like the rest of the world had any right to know. And this being my own personal whinge scratching-post, I chose to shut up and wallow.

In far more exciting and happy news, this weekend was one of wall-to-wall engagements! Congratulations all round to Commander Conker, who - over the course of a decade has broken the strong willed Rose Thorn and finally made this serene siren succumb to his romantic overtures. She made that high pitched noise on Monday night when she showed off her ring. In any other context that sentence could be taken entirely differently.
And then The Vi-King enchanted Sheik Yerbouti into saying yes when he popped the question. No doubt a huge step and a huge mega-congratulations to all of you!
They weren't the only ones either. One of my dearest friends and her other half, Kung Fu Ken, also made the announcement that they plan on tying the knot. It must be - like my fellow DSWer says - something in the water...

Whatever it is, a whole bunch of my friends have been made very happy, so I'm celebrating. By remaining inebriated all week. Oh, the sacrifices I make...

Anyway, on that note, I get The Hot Girlfriend back on Friday after a very trying series of exams. Just another reason to stay sozzled all week. Time flies when you're sitting at your desk enjoying the dry heaves. And then there's music to keep one otherwise occupied and not pining away for the fjords or accidentally getting nailed to a perch. Tonight I have the odorous task of fighting my way through extra heavy traffic on my way home. Thank you Linkin Park. Not that I dislike them at all. I really got into their first 2 albums - it's just that I believe I may have outgrown them somewhat. That, and I couldn't be arsed to go. I'd much rather spend the evening making my own music. If only the world outside the four walls of my studio knew how good it is...

And then there's the election in America. Sorry Mitt, me old chum, leave the ruling to someone who doesn't crap in his own backyard. It's a far better policy to crap in everyone else's. And all you're proposing is to force the disenfranchised at home to clean up your steaming pile of estate garden poop. Perhaps if you learned to drop a gang sign...

Dylan would be gutted.

The reason China is still staunchly Communist is that flea and fair democratic erections would require more rhino horn.

And - ladies and gentlemen - THIS is why you get to read the daily gems courtesy of one Neal Goldwyer. A scholar. Purportedly a gentleman. More than likely, though, just a demi-deity and sardonic sinner amalgam. Whatever - the man should be heard by the entire world.

NGDG: Dressed in my animal costume, with plastic sheeting on the sofa, waiting for the fireworks. Why? How else do you celebrate Guy Fawkes?

Spread The Love. Pass Me A Fucking Beer.

IRREBBUH-RUNT

Man, I don't feel like being here today! I am still hungover, I'm hot and bothered, and I have a sudden urge to jump in my car and fuck off to some desolate part of the country on a road trip. Ok, maybe not too desolate. I think a few days wine tasting could be in order...

As it is, I'll probably end up spending most of my weekend cleaning my house. That is if I can squeeze enough time between football, running, dinner with Rose Thorn and Commander Conker, guitar seminar, band rehearsal and watching Son Of A Naartjie. And braaing. In the despairing words of Morrissey "Etcetera..."

The important thing, though, is to remain hydrated on these warm days. Global warming se ma. I think the weather is being controlled by the SAB and the people who make those 'Slet Sappies', as the Hot Girlfriend calls them. Brilliant. Luckily most of the above mentioned activities can be done whilst taking the necessary precautions against dehydration. Although jogging with a beer, even if it is cleverly disguised in a water bottle, is probably defeating the purpose.

And speaking of lots of fun activities and drinking, Tarty Farty Tequila Party and I are off on a "grand adventure" soon. We propose to camp at 3 different resorts on 3 consecutive nights. I do all the hard work like setting up tents and braaing, whilst she swans about and acts wistful in a summer dress, taking the occasional note or photograph. One of these resorts is the one we went to all my childhood for family holidays. I intend walking through the entire place (which is huge) and recounting all the stories to the poor Tarty of all the mischief we got up to for the better part of 2 decades. I will probably embellish - as I'm prone to do - nothing should get in the way of a good story or skewed sensationalism! I will tell her of all the times I got rat-arse drunk as an underage party animal, of all the naughty deeds and of course of all the young ladies I managed to seduce with my lily-white, concave chest and shrill falsetto. Not to mention my roguish sidepath and the purple paisley button shirt...

I do however, fear the trip to the cherry-picking farm. It is my experience that being stuck in a car after eating your fill of cherries leads to an experience that can be closely linked to Tarty's full moniker. I don't know who should be more scared...

Another fun thing that's happening this weekend - but will have to forge ahead without my esteemed presence unfortunately - is The Summer Seance. Unlike Rose Thorn's maypole affair, which is going to involve a large phallic object with ribbons tied to it and genuine, actual fornication, this is a gathering of musos and bands from vastly different backgrounds - a celebration of variety and a coming together of styles, genres and people. Sounds like a fucking good idea to me. Something for everyone and some welcome cross pollination in a music scene too often backed into its own dark corners and lacking the vision to expand its horizons, mainly because it has its collective head up its arse and vision is a little blurry.

Anyway, whatever you get up to this weekend. Be safe. Be silly. Be sober if you need to drive.

NGDG: Sure, they'll park their cars under the sign that says 'No Parking', but they won't break the 15km/h limit and hopefully hit the brat kid with his football.

Spread The Love. It'll Save You.

BETTY SWOLLOCKS...

Let's see how effective the picture is at selling the garbage below.

...is the name of a porn star - I shit you not. What that has to do with ANYTHING is completely beyond me. I just love sharing. Well, almost everything. Some people know about one or two things I don't share.

Like vital information. But if this were a post about sharing - or protecting - vital information, it would have to end right here, wouldn't it.
Instead this is just a post without purpose. A purposeless post. Like Paris or Kim, although I would encourage you to refrain from any bodily fluid emanations in the direction of your screen at this time. The emergency exits are THERE and THERE. Right behind the elbow basher.

So how are you all doing on this fine ass day, with your fine asses? I have a feeling there is going to be some flesh on display all along the Promenade today when I do my best to emulate a jogger without raising suspicion. The runny type, not the silk short type... Summer has seemingly finally got a foot hold and is making the most of it. And speaking of the Promenade, I had the dubious honour of explaining to my colleague what a rent-boy is. We live in a funny ol' world. Funny peculiar, not funny haha. That one belongs to my mother.

Mother jokes with my sister are particularly hysterical.

Another thing that is not funny at all is the way my friend The Ninja Turtle's Mentor makes me feel whenever he picks up a guitar. He makes me feel like giving up. Altogether. The money from the sale of my gear alone could fund a small revolution, but I don't wanna. So I rather fight back the nausea and admire the fretboard wizardry. Which could quite literally leave you dazed, stunned and more than a little uneasy. Catch him at Paul Bothners Claremont this weekend as he imparts some of his knowledge and expertise for those still willing to learn and improve. Or if you just want your face shredded off. Afterwards I'm walking out with his amps, whether he likes it or not. Be there. 11am, Saturday 3rd November. Bring extra socks.

There's mustard from France on my desk.

And that, in my most authentic Porky Pig voice, is all folks.

NGDG: Grow a thick skin, they said. How, they did not say.

Spread The Love. You Could Probably Find Some At The Shack.