Tuesday, July 30, 2013
I'm not talking about that friendly tannie that sits outside the Pick'n'Pay collecting change for charity. I'm talking about real cripple cock-blasters, the type of persons who wholeheartedly embrace the notion that the world owes them something. Our national hero, Oscar, being a case in point. At the time of his teary trial, or hearing, or arraignment, or whatever, I very carefully steered well clear of writing anything about it, but since the story has all but been forgotten, the coast is now clear. Apparently he was a colossal asshat. Ok, so it's not much of a story... Please refer to the end of Monty Python's 'The Meaning Of Life'.
No, all this is about what I just saw. Enter Mr Legless Luge Guy. Hand operated bicycle on which you lie down - check. Inappropriate cycling shorts - check. Ridiculously expensive Oakleys - check. Helmet - check. Regard for own life - not a fuck! We all labour under the misconception that disabled people are nice, or at least careful. Notafuck! This oke - cruising along Beach Road in Sea Point - was actually a bit of a turd. Actually, make that a presidential candidate size pile of festering turd turds. As I drove past, I was immediately awash with the default reaction to seeing someone so successfully overcome adversity. I felt like I could respect this man for not allowing his lack of perambulatory equipment hinder his lust for life. I then stopped at a red traffic light, as you do, you know, one that straddles and very successfully regulates the flow of traffic across a four way intersection. Apparently, like all bicyclists, this tit deemed it entirely unnecessary to stop at all, never mind even slow down to see if something was coming. Now, I was standing right there, idling away a month's salary, I saw it happen. He is no more than 2 feet off the ground, hands a churning. The chances of a car crossing - rightfully - the intersection and not seeing him are approximately 100%. Apparently Deathwish Dave is made of Titanium. It got me thinking. So what if he had some poor bastard plough into him as he blithely bombed across the red light. Just another casualty, right? Put the arsehole out of his misery? But what about the distraught driver that hit him? It would clearly not have been his fault, but I guarantee you the general public and probably the public prosecutor may see things a bit differently...
Therefore, sir, today's award for being the biggest piece of shit goes to you, you unrepentant wanker! Disabled people are not all nice. I know this. I have just witnessed it first hand. The evidence is undeniable. I will now cast a suspicious, jaundiced eye over anyone in the special parking spot. I hope you're happy.
[Disclaimer: In no way do I intend to belittle the plight of the truly disabled. I most certainly sympathise. I might even empathise, as soon as I look up the difference. I too have various disabilities, not least of which is my rather frustrating inability to play the guitar at anything above funereal pace, hence the love of DOOM Merrills. I even have a variety of disabled friends, although they keep insisting that being a bit dof isn't really a disorder...]
On quite a different, more pleasant note, last night's band practice was tonnes of fun. Rose Thorn decided it was high time to stay over so we could get smashed/legless (see that?) together. And we did. It was a thing of rare beauty and I can't wait to witness the horror that is us recording us trying to sing the vocal arrangement we came up with for our new old song. Why is it every time I've had a lot too many, I feel the need to bellow along at the top of my lungs. Even the neighbourhood cats take cover.
It's a beautiful day. Yesterday's run went exceedingly well. Today I celebrate having legs and the fact that I'm not entirely an inconsiderate colostomy bag, and I do my "long run". If you see me hurtling through Clifton at the speed of dark, please try not to run me over or point and laugh.
NGDG: A Zimbabwean waiter once told me that Mugabe cannot die because he smokes marijuana and has virgin blood transfusions. Then the Lance Armstrong* scandal broke. Now I'm convinced the geriatric silk-screen enthusiast is sponsored by the US postal service.
*King of Disabled Dicks. Nice how Neal knew I was going to have this encounter today...
Spread The Love. Hug A Paraplegic.
Monday, July 29, 2013
Before I get started on the wonderful wonderfullness that was my spectacularly spectacular weekend, I'd like to take a minute to recite to you a thought regarding Nelson Mandela, as printed in the "Complete Kak" book, which I recently got back from a mate of mine. Especially in light of his failing health and the disgusting behaviour of all those around him in his final days.
"Please, for the love of everything that is good in this land, can people stop using Nelson Mandela's name for personal or commercial gain? The man is quite literally our last steadfast point of integrity and decency, and every time a foreign celeb rocks up to have a picture taken with him, or a businessman names a diamond the "Madiba Diamond" as a publicity stunt for his new investment company, or someone tacks together a sports magazine that looks like Die Son 'in celebration of Madiba's 90th birthday' or the ANC rolls him out for an election rally because they're a bit worried about turnout, they're just taking advantage of his good name and trivialising his deeds. And making themselves look like money-grubbing exploitative pieces of shit." - 'Complete Kak' - Tim Richman & Grant Schreiber.
Seems the doom-mongers (not those of us who play really slow merrills, but the nay saying sensationalists) were right when they predicted the shit hitting the fan the minute he passed. Except who would have thought it would be radiator fans? And they're flinging a shade early as well. Personally, I think it's all a well orchestrated campaign by Max Barashenkov, to deflect the media's attention off him.
And now that I have that off my chest, I would like to bring to your attention the worst thing I have ever seen. The Valleys, a reality show similar to Big Brother, The Apprentice and Jersey Shore. They take 8 kids from what's known as the Valleys in Wales and stick them in a house in Cardiff with the aim of starting careers in the entertainment industry, etc. If this is representative of young people today, the world has precisely 3 years and 87 days until it comes to an abrupt halt and only the cockroaches are left to keep Wall-E company. Mainly because if you can't afford to board the SS Atrophy, you'll kill yourself instead of spending one second being subjected to these people or their language or behaviour. I watched 4 episodes on the trot, I couldn't take my eyes off it. It was fantastic! Go and experience it for yourself. You won't thank me and you won't hit me. It's so awful you'll want to throttle the life from me but will stop short of doing so just because I seem like the coolest motherfucker in the world by comparison.
Ok, so rewind a little...
Friday, and the rain looked like it was going to ruin our football game. Thankfully it stayed away just long enough for us to have one of the best games of football ever. I haven't enjoyed myself that much wearing long socks and short shorts since I was a toddler!
Then it was off to a late Dinner Club out in Marina Da Gama. That's very far, but the food was worth every second on the rainy roads.
Saturday was interesting. It started when The Brother-In-Awe and I attended a wine tasting for breakfast. I have to tell you walking out of a booze dealership with several boxes of wine made me feel particularly adult, even if most of the boxes were his. At least it was a good run up to the rest of the day.
Which was spent being all metal and shit. Not metal like the pirate from the good ship lollipop who was at the front of the bus, just normal, not-fucked-up metal. Boarding the party bus along with the usual crew of miscreants, we settled in for our "booze cruise", which was unfortunately interrupted when our bus driver seemingly aimed for a very damaging item of steel in the road and successfully got it lodged in the tyre. A tyre which he had no means to replace. And no airtime, a trivial little fact that I learned after being stuck in the rain for more than an hour in a parking lot in Goodwood. At least I won the worst cd ever recorded. Pity I had to down Mokador for the privilege. Anyway, after giving him my phone, we were shortly on our merry way, looking forward to yet another stellar Metal4Africa Winterfest. It did not disappoint! The bands were all on top form. To my eternal horror I have to admit to really enjoying With Dawn. They were fucking good! I also remember bearing witness to Bile Of Man, who simply bludgeoned the bollocks out of the audience and Megalodon, who had the same effect as a rather large meteor collision. Wargrave was also fantastic, although I can remember far less of their set than the others. I blame people and their incessant need to converse.
I also remember making a very public, but very sneaky ninja bomb. Being old is a blessing and a curse.
Well done to all at Metal4Africa for a superb time! The only complaint I have seen or heard about is that it was too metal, so you've done an amazing job, as always.
NGDG: "We're doing something dangerous," says the man in the Maserati. It sounds like we work for MI5.
Spread The Love. But Keep It In Your Pants.
Friday, July 26, 2013
This is a drawing. Unbelievable? Believe it!
Unlike the writer of this drivelly drivel, I'll keep this short and sweet. Last night I had the pleasure of witnessing the rare, more tender side of Juggernaught. See what I did there? Meataphorically speaking. Anyway, the blues jam was actually just that. Not so much the humpin' and hollerin' one would associate with these guys, but a wonderful night enjoying their virtuoso splendour, and some of Cape Town's finest to boot! Snake Hips blew his harmonica. THAT saxophone player was other worldly! And The Hair blazed a trail of shredding smoke all up and down his fretboard. I shudder to think how bad the arson damage would have been if he'd remembered his industrial strength fan...
Also, I watched The Search For Sugarman before venturing out. Wow! It has to be some movie to impress me as much as it did, considering how much I hate and loathe Rodriguez. It was a truly heartwarming and touching tale - a story that resonated very strongly with my own flagging hope of one day being recognised for my contribution to the world of music. Although, truth be told, perhaps it's a good thing I haven't found the acclaim I deserve, since it would most likely be in the form of stocks and public humiliation involving rotten fruit.
And then there's this delightful individual - check out Dumb student asks for Nirvana video message. I don't know. I really don't.
There was also a whole shock/horror episode today involving pedophiles who don't want to be viewed as monsters. A lengthy debate arose wherein we discussed the desire to act on sexual urges involving minor versus the mere attraction to minors. No resolution has been reached. Some argue that it is a sexual orientation, much like LGBT, proposing that you cannot help to whom you are attracted. There may be merit, but I'm going to call them sick motherfuckers anyway. Call me a bigot. Publicly flay me for not understanding these poor afflicted people. I mean, I dress up as a fairy occasionally. And The Hot Girlfriend is half my age. And I recently attended a Michael Jackson party... But these okes are something special! I had written a whole bunch more, but I'm not getting into it anymore.
I'm off to play football in this ghastly weather. Let's hope I don't melt like the salt pillar I will undoubtedly be turned into for all my blaspheming and rabble rousing.
NGDG: I will finish all 600 grams of this pork ribs. Insh'allah!
Spread The Love. Just Leave The Fucking Kids Out Of It.
Thursday, July 25, 2013
Juggernaught! Actually today's post is about more than just the almighty Juggernaught, who happen to be playing tonight and have me more excited than a typical American teenage girl (the only virgin in her class) who is about to go to Prom with her quarterback boyfriend!
Today is all about music. Heavy music and all the glorious upcoming events. Obviously the whole internet is abuzz with news that Lamb Of God have confirmed 2 South African dates, but in my world that means 2 rather more important things:
- My mates in Mind Assault get to expose themselves (more than usual) to a HUGE audience and rock their tits (al die lekker fokken TIETE!) off.
- I don't have my news feed clogged up with shit jokes about some or other inconsequential sprog who's been born into a life of privilege and luxury. Who cares. Citizens, not subjects, motherfucker!
Anyway, back to tonight. Tonight is Bluestown Sessions, a firm favourite and weekly event at Mercury. Tonight we get to stomp around to the man(iacal) rock of Juggernaught, as they "bring the meat back". Clearly this means they're reintroducing what it means to traditionally be a real man, none of this guyliner shit. None of this emo she-doesn't-understand-me-now-I'll-pretend-to-understand-Poe shit. Just a bunch of beer-guzzlin', whiskey-chuggin', bearded dudes showing you bunch of chops their face-melting, erm... chops. Not only that, but a rare treat in the form of an all-star collaboration is also on the cards. I'm especially keen to see what The Hair and Snake Hips (from Sabretooth and Th'DamnedCrows disrespectively) come up with. It should be quite an education, especially if RamFest was anything to go by... No wonder that beer tent was so empty after a while.
Not to mention the greatest band in South Africa (oh no, wait, that's the other lot...) had a really good practice last night. My studio (in which I was NOT touched) was almost littered with the top half of all our heads. Life is good!
I wish the weather had the internet, then it would see how wrong it is right now and feel ashamed and go somewhere else.
NGDG: Machine guns in a Polo? I could kill that gangster Krecjik instantly. I'd just slip a note in his bodyguard's pocket that says: "Do you even lift, boet? Kisses, Radovan."
Spread The Love. Get The Meat IN You!
Wednesday, July 24, 2013
I find it very difficult to maintain any sort of inspiration. You know, in the every day goings on of one's life. I work, as we all do. Jeesh, that's the real test! Getting out of bed is bad enough in this weather, but schlepping one's unwilling arse into an office, no matter how luxurious or glamorous the situation, can be soul destroying.
Then we have our exercise routines. Well, some of us do. I've been neglecting the running of late - I blame the weather. I'm far too old (but clearly not dignified enough) to be flinging this carcass about in the rain. Cold I don't mind too much. It's running into the teeth of a storm which has me bolting for the car and a glass of wine at home instead.
Luckily the once-a-week football is still as enticing as always. Except, once again, when it's horrible Cape winter fare. But at least there are a whole bunch of other people suffering through the same appalling conditions with you, so that makes it bearable. It's like getting into the pool. Once you're cold and wet, you can't get any colder or wetter. And unlike with the running, you aren't afforded so much time trudging along a lonesome pavement to contemplate your drowned rat status.
I also occasionally make music. This is generally considered a team sport. We (all the various band members and I) all contribute where ever and when ever we can. No suggestions are overlooked or dismissed out of hand. But one still needs to mull over one's own contribution and sometimes one experiences what is commonly regarded as writer's block. Which is frustrating.
And just as common when your contributions to the well of written word mulch clogging up the internet is concerned. Some people attempt lucid, well formed arguments, but fail in the piercing flourescent glare of public opinion. Some stick to a hard-line, hard-headed refusal to budge an inch in their stubbornly held opinions. And then get kakked out by the wallowing herd. Some make light of serious issues in order to elevate themselves from the chewers of politically correct cud. And are shot down by indignant net-warriors. Correctly so, but to the perverse enjoyment of all onlookers. And some pick a pretty picture and start moering the keyboard until something with an alarming amount of fragment error emerges, hit spell check so we can't be ridiculed by the people we compulsively correct, and reluctantly send our cerebral diarhhea out into the wide world of the web...
And later get beaten with sticks for wasting approximately 8 minutes of our mates' time...
So to avoid getting chased out of town by a lynchmob of angry blog readers, I have some news for you!
Tonight I have band practice. I'm really looking forward to it. Playing the songs we have been working on for so long with a full compliment of skilled and motivated members is a feeling of indescribable wonder and so I will refrain from trying to describe it. But tonight is gonna ROOOOOOCK!
Perhaps something newsworthy will happen in the world shortly. Then you won't have to put up with all of this.
NGDG: Restaurant review: EAT. A saltier Beef Stroganoff hasn't been had since 1974 when Lyudmilla Ismailovna queued all day for beef, cream and mushrooms to find that the only produce at her village soviet was, da, salt.
Spread The Love. It's Smaller Than Three.
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
Skwisgard's first attempt at scatter cushions was a huge success in convents.
I really despair for the state in which the world finds itself these days. Your favourite chocolate and cereal manufacturer is killing cute domestic animals wholesale. Groups advocating this very cruelty (and hiding behind some bullshit Hitler said about all the little children) are allowed to exist on social media platforms. Shameless, shameful examples of human filth proudly post pictures as they stand over slain wild animals, their guns held in the air like rednecks at a cousin ho-down. And people are still expected to believe there is no underhanded agenda when it comes to the policy makers controlling our every day lives.
What to do? What to do?
Well, we could all sit and make wailey-wailey sounds, but that's not particularly productive. In fact, it's just about as productive as pushing the "unlike' button and hoping that it'll make the slightest difference. Whilst I am all for creating and spreading awareness, I find all too often that those in question just carry on regardless. It is, however, the one or two cases of success against bigotry, cruelty and stupidity that should inspire us to continue giving the ignorant and the cruel a hard time. Perhaps even consider stepping it up from clicking "share"... At the very least do something outside of the internet...
Also, to maintain some balance in your life, you owe it to yourself to make ample time for enjoyment. Personally, I prefer dressing up in discarded womens' clothing and making a right tit of myself on Saturday evenings in the freezing cold. It's invigorating!
Occasionally I make music with my friends. Like last night. Last night was good for the soul. I may as well let the cat out of the bag... There will be a sequel to Symphonaire Infernus. For those of you who don't know, Symphonaire Infernus was our wildly successful tribute show that honoured all our most beloved Doom Metal bands. Various members from various bands got together and put on one almighty show, playing monumental tracks from the likes of My Dying Bride, Theatre Of Tragedy, Type O Negative, Swallow The Sun, Anathema, Electric Wizard and Reverend Bizarre. The next one is going to be even more immense, if last night's impromptu first rehearsal is anything to go by. We have some awesome surprises in store for all you lucky little fishies!
And then there's all the other wonderful bands we can go and watch. Juggernaught, those meat-eating, whiskey-chugging, blues'n'roll man-rock behemoths will be playing in Cape Town this weekend, most notably at Mercury Live on Thursday as special guests at The Bluestown Sessions, joining an all star cast of stellar musos - not an event to be missed!
And then on Saturday it's time to board the bus (moving bar) and go to the annual Metal4Africa Winterfest! This year the tireless team bring us Bile Of Man from up north as well as a whole host of local talent for a night (and afternoon) that will leave you bruised, sweaty, deliriously happy and on the verge of giving up alcohol for good. I can't wait! Download the free sampler - featuring singles from every band performing - here.
I don't hold a lot of hope for Sunday...
NGDG: You know you're getting old when you have a spare R4000 and you use it to settle your credit card rather than buy a replica human skeleton from the Linvar medical supplies catalogue.
Spread The Love. Stop Killing Bunnies For Safer Snacks.
Monday, July 22, 2013
I've had just about enough of the kids moaning on the internet (he says, moaning on the internet). What's wrong with the back of the panel van? Things were so different in my day. (Hand me my Zimmer frame...) Here's a tip that's going to prove incredibly valuable to your possible growth as a human being. "It's not them. It's you!" Responsibility is not an ugly word. You're the common denominator in all your problems. People don't dislike you because you're different. They dislike you because you're a monumental pain in the arsehole.
Also, I had quite an awesome weekend!
Friday night's football was an exercise in fluid fantasy. No, not that kind. The kind that makes jaded fans believe in the beautiful game again. So much awesome skill on one pitch...
Then it was a race home to dive through a shower and get started with band practice. Well, I don't know what to tell you. You know you're finally doing something worth doing when grown men stand around in a room and grin uncontrollably at each other. That, or something sordid and very illegal. But for now, it's being kept firmly under our hats. Not that any of us wear hats. We're not THAT kind of band.
Saturday was the Big Day. Those of you who know, will know. Party decorations and gazebos were erected. Trays full of sweets were out - no doubt to lure the innocents to NeverNeverLand. Bubbles was even there, but not in the shape of a chimpanzee, rather just a machine. One or two decent attempts at Michael Jackson outfits and a handful of really half-arsed attempts did nothing to dissuade the judges from proclaiming yours truly - resplendent in a Tinkerbell outfit - the ultimate fancy dress winner! Well, unofficially. And if I was the sole judge... Damn it, I was cold! Much later, and with unrestricted access to the punch, I found myself snoozing on a couch. It's a strange ol' feeling being teabagged by a 20 year old girl, but there you have it. The Hot Girlfriend was being flung around the dancefloor by what appeared to be a seasoned skoffel expert, but what turned out on closer inspection to be Prince One El. Apparently the floor was the most popular destination for the evening, with most people making regular visits. I have bruises. But I'm in relatively good shape compared to the poor cake, which got mangled and maimed by a gang of bloodthirsty drunkards. Quite a shame actually. No, really. Needless to say, I spent yesterday recovering and manfully fighting back a refrain of "I'll never drink again!"
And that's all I have for you today, folks! It ain't over 'til Porky Pig sings!
NGDG: People say the Sunday papers are too depressing. Then don't read the property section.
Spread The Love. Heal The World.
Friday, July 19, 2013
Not the toys Polly had in mind for her birthday...
I've been nagged. I've been prodded. I've been poked (and not in the amiable Faeceboobs way). I have neglected you, my dear and faithful following. For that I am truly, truly sorry. I have an appointment with my pit of ashes, at which time I fancy I'll be sporting the latest in Hessian fashion trends.
Speaking of fashion, I've finally solved the single greatest fashion related question since MC Hammer's pants. All youngsters are Vulcans. Their pointy Spock ears need to be hidden from human detection and are thus tucked into their caps. I'm sure of it.
And yesterday, in a daring and original display of humanitarian magnanimity, I went a'kennel building. In fact our entire office went along to The Emma Animal Rescue Society and did our bit for the 67 Minutes initiative. Along with a whole mess of naval cadets, a local health food store owner and 4 very loud blokes, I sawed and hammered together a majestic mansion of a kennel. Actually, the previous sentence makes it sound like we all pitched in for the one kennel. Nope, we eventually made 30. Unfortunately for the ladies in the office, that sort of demanding physical labour was a bridge too far and they were recruited as cat groomers for the afternoon. Had I been given the choice, I'd definitely have gone for 67 minutes of pussy stroking too!
Anyway, back to the fashion. It is with a heavy heart that I must admit that fashion is not restricted to the runways or the underside of young men's bottoms. It is also to be found in a variety of places, such as broadcasters of popular "entertainment". Not only do these halfwit "musicians" with the vocabulary of Hodor influence our youth's taste in attire, they also poison their minds and ears with whatever the fuck it was that I just heard...
Seriously 5FM? A radio station that used to employ the likes of Alex Jay, Phil Wright and Barney Simon. Who the fuck do you have working as your programme directors? The song I just heard sounded like someone with a medical condition instead of an intellect accidentally got a KAOS pad stuck up their arse. A KAOS pad linked to an early 80s Casiotone keyboard. Imagine the sounds if that person was to scratch around their rectal cavity trying to extricate the gerbil that was up there. Of course the gerbil itself is on hallucinogens. Don't even get me started on the lyrical integrity. My unborn progeny could throw up milk on my imaginary wife's cracked nipples and even that would contain more substantial prose.
Luckily, dear readers, there is a solution - a counterpoint to the mortifying decay of "art" in today's sordid, sad world. Shannon Hope is in Cape Town this weekend, and a more accomplished, admired, eloquent and exceptional musician you will not easily find. She is here to seduce your ears. Her tantalizing brand of powerful and evocative musical magic is a sure fire antidote to the bottom scratching that currently pollutes our airwaves. She will be mesmerising a very, very lucky audience at the Mahogany Room on Sunday evening. Do not miss out...
Tonight I brave this slightly nippy weather to play some glorious football again. It's transfer season, but I still have yet to see one scout come out and watch. How on earth do the big clubs expect to sign me if they don't make the effort?
After that (and a quick shower) it's all excitement as we have or first official band practice with a new member. You can just imagine...
NGDG: eBay just sent me an email with the following subject line: "Save on designer sunglasses and dresses, Neal." Foolish algorithm; I only buy my dresses from Zara.
Spread The Love. Spock-shocker!
Tuesday, July 16, 2013
Finally, a practical application for those silly expanders.
According to Robert Smith, spreads its wings. And you never know...
Well, more prophetic words could not have been dreamed up, considering what I just found out. But let's leave the intrigue there, shall we. I have no intention of getting an inch closer to this one, although I have to admit I'm a bit of a romanticalistic and couldn't be happier for at least one of the parties.
And on that rather inconsequential note, how was your weekend?
Mine was very good thanks. Friday Football really couldn't have been any better. Once again Commander Conker and I contrived to be on the same side. In cricket, they say "catches win matches". In football they ought to say "telepathy makes you look less of an old twat", the 2 oldest fogies by some distance dishing out lessons in elegance, guile and fancy footwork. Afterwards The Hot Girlfriend and I were treated by the lovely Rose Thorn to pizza. Somehow pizza is still a magical thing.
Saturday, the setlist for the next Symphonaire Infernus show was finalised. If you remember, the first of these shows was a roaring success, showcasing the best of DOOM Metal played by the best of local musicians (well, those interested in the genre, at any rate). We have a longer, more dynamic setlist than last time. Longer is always better in DOOM, even though some girls insist it's more about girth. We're even including some local flavour for your earholes this time, in an expanded, more exciting set. Keep your eyes peeled - details to follow much closer to the time. We may even reveal a nice little surprise or 2.
Speaking of, last night's DOOMjam was brilliant! The combination of TDB, Rose Thorn, LordDoom, Lord Bigglesworth III and yours truly made for some awesome sounding slabs of monolithic majesty. One day we will be able to share the amazingness with you all. One day... When we figure out how to manipulate time to accommodate more than just one song's intro into the hour or so a normal gig takes.
Strangely, I have nothing much else to contribute. No rant about the political landscape. No amusing musings on the state of humanity. No incisive insights into the rank underbelly of the notable or newsworthy. Except of course to simply state, Max Barashenkov, you are a fortunate man to have escaped with your job intact. FHM, you missed a golden opportunity to make a positive statement regarding a very sensitive social problem in our community and world, although I suspect you were hamstrung by an overly liberal labour law.
Whatever, fuck both of you. Whatever tenuous credibility either of you had has hopefully been altogether obliterated.
One step forward, 2 steps back, eh...
Viva our fledgling democracy!
Leave Madiba alone.
What are you doing to prove what a giving, caring, politically correct and selfless Samaritan you are on Thursday? Mandela Day, tailor made for privileged white folk to feel at one with their less fortunate brethren while still maintaining the status quo and eating cake behind their high fences. Just more than an hour per annum to wash away the guilt brought on by parking your Hyundai Tuscan on the pavements of lower Woodstock every Saturday morning and buying ordinary veggies packaged in designer pooh.
I'm building kennels for TEARS. People suck.
NGDG: Grocery shopping is just the final step in reverse engineering your favourite take-out.
Spread The Love. One Step Beyond.
Friday, July 12, 2013
Used without permission. I hope the same can't be said for the model.
To make it up the artist/photographer/model, why don't you go and browse here?
It is very rare, however, for me to wet myself a little bit. Very very few artists or bands would have, or have had, this effect. Shannon Hope's searing sincerity has that effect on me. Lucy Kruger reduces me to a giggling fan boy. Anathema's secret show at the Shepherds Bush Empire reduced me to tears. News of The Cure or Paradise Lost even entering the same hemisphere and continent would render me INcontinent. And word of My Dying Bride (shut up, Little Spoon!) would have me organising to be the opener for the tour so fast, you'd swear it wasn't even DOOM metal, but rather NASCAR. Don't even get me going on Swans, that would be like witnessing the resurrection of Ian Curtis first hand...
All this brings me to today's big news. Suzanne Vega is coming to SA. I grew up loving, and still love, Suzanne Vega. I was given her Greatest Hits earlier in the week. It must have been a sign. I've been listening to old favourites like 'Luka', 'Tom's Diner', and '99.9F degrees' all week. And then they announce she's playing Cluver Wine Estate in November. Pricey, at a whopping R450 but worth it...
Anyway, it's certainly cause for celebration!
As is the news that our clandestine collaboration looks set to be a huge hit on the music making front. It's refreshing and quite the indescribable feeling to once again stand in a practice room with everyone grinning like a collection of Cheshire Cats. Our next song is a cover of the Guns'n'Roses classic, 'Patience'...
And speaking of things musical and fucking awesome, be sure to keep the 24th of August open for War Ensemble, a SLAYER tribute show honouring the passing of one of metal's great legends, Jeff Hanneman (R.I.B).
I'm not going to get into the Deftones appearance at One Night In Cape Town. Ok, maybe I will say a little something about how I fail to understand Cape Town's reluctance to buy presale tickets. Why wait til the last minute, risking missing out? Why? Or rather, why do the organisers feel it necessary to give away 10% of the available tickets for free? In the first place, the message you're sending to all the fucking Obz hippies is "just wait around, man, you'll, like, totally score one for free, man..." and it discourages the rest of us who fought the shocking plankton system to get our grubby hands on these (no longer) prized tickets when they were made available. I get it, it's magnanimous, but also pisses me off. Perhaps it's an ingenious way to dissuade scalpers?
I'll give them this, though. They are also bringing down Manchester Orchestra, a band who I did not know anything about until now, and I'm quite enjoying them. So there's that. New discoveries usually have the opposite effect. Like Yellowcard. I'll be in the men's lavatories during their entire performance, licking urinal cakes...
In the spirit of oldies reminding us of a happier time, I hereby declare this weekend "Transvision Vamp Weekend"!
And HOW did Neal know I have decided to fix my car instead of buying my dream A3?
NGDG: Following customer feedback, Audi engineers have responded to the complete indifference to indicators by replacing visible bulbs with thin strips of spectral light.
Spread The Love. Left Of Centre.
Thursday, July 11, 2013
With today's level of education and regard for spelling, I'm surprised these aren't UOL1 caps...
I know I used "you're" instead of "your". It was intentional. I am trying to ram home the point. Jees, do I have to explain everything?
I was at the cricket at Newlands about a year or so ago. I saw a shy, pudgy, snow-white teenage girl skulking around, emblazoned on her hoodie the letters "YMCMB". I had no idea what it meant and, having seen it on so many shirts, tops and ears-tucked-in caps, my interest was piqued. Recognising the perfect opportunity to broaden my horizons and add to my vast library of acquired knowledge, I asked her. She almost weed her pants, but before running off in an embarrassed shuffle, she managed to blurt out "Young Money Cash Money Brother". I stood there in confused silence.
Was it a reference to the Fresh Prince? New Jack City? The fast rising new black bourgeoisie in SA? What? It dawned on me that, like with most "fashion" these days, this young person had fallen victim to what passes for popular apparel among Western culture's youth. Haven't Li'l Wayne and Chingy done enough? Why didn't they stop at assless pants and golden grills?
If I read that correctly it translates directly into "I live my life by one simple tenet. The value of anything I am, anything I become or anything I achieve can very simply be measured by how much cash I have. I will stop at nothing to accumulate as much money as I possibly can and there is nothing I will not do, no matter how unsavoury, to achieve this goal. It will never be enough. I will be in pursuit of more wealth until the day I die. I will not hesitate to lie, steal, cheat, embezzle or commit violent crime if it leads to more money. Even worse, I'll inflict upon the unsuspecting world whatever ill-informed, misogynistic, badly worded, uninformed kak they're willing to accept as my art... Furthermore, I will invest my ill gotten gains in the most garish trinkets to show the world how much I am worth. Then print stupid slogans to remind humanity that it is in fact they who are responsible for my existence, wealth and obnoxious dress sense."
Then all the pubescent little girls in high brow Newlands can wear that shit...
Young Money Cash Money Brother indeed.
It makes me extremely concerned for the fashion sense of my own offspring one day. What will they think of then? When looking like a criminal dipped in the semi-precious scratch patch is considered a throwback to more elegant times? I shudder to think.
Not that my folks didn't faint at the sight of their little scrawny, awkward progeny bedecked in black from head to toe and sporting (sprouting) enough body jewellery to start a small scrap business. The horror with which I was sometimes viewed was quite unsettling, but then again, that's probably why I did it. It makes me feel really old to think that I am now that person doing the disdainful glare of disapproval.
Anyway, on with the body count...
It is with great joy in my heart that I can proudly announce that last night's musical collaboration went exceedingly well. I cannot tell you anything else, but feel good in the sure knowledge that I am sitting here as chuffed as fuck and really excited for the future.
And on that note I shall allow you to get back to your boring, mundane little existences.
Or will I?
The whole point of this entire post was to tell you the punchline.
Thanks to Sabretooth's tub thumper for the following:
YMCMB = Your Mommy Can't Make Breyani
I nearly fucking DIED!
NGDG: I wore Gorbachev-style glasses and had a Justin Beiber haircut in 1988. You can't imagine the shit I went through. I wish I had a time machine. So I could introduce fin-de-siecle weapons banned by the Geneva Convention to the youth of today.
Spread The Love. Even If Your Mommy Can't Make Breyani.
Tuesday, July 9, 2013
Is that Rodney King in my knickers?
Always a bit late on the uptake, I was only just now made aware of this story. This disgraceful perversion of justice that has left me quite shaken. I have long since been quite unamused by the general level of policing in our fair land, the ineptitude and the lacklustre glass-eyed approach to anything are truly mind numbing. I can almost (and have pretty much) accepted that the local constabulary is more intent on catching up with their sleep than learning how to write out a crime report. Anyone who has ever been through the harrowing experience of watching the Grade 3 cursive "flow" as the tongue is stuck out in a mixture of furious concentration and world class not giving a fuck, would argue that the crime they were reporting, usually only for insurance purposes, was less of an ordeal.
But not this poor bloke. Yesterday 6 polizei dragged (assaulted) a blind busker and broke his guitar for allegedly refusing to stop playing once his allotted time was up. His guitar, even if it was a Cort, was his only way to earn money. Fuck sakes! What the fuck was he playing to be deemed so offensive? Shut down 5FM!!!!
It is horrifying that the custodians of our peaceful coexistence, trusted as they are with the responsibility and qualification to literally make life and death decisions (carrying lethal arms) are such fascist fucksticks! I hope the orificers in question are brought to book. This was clearly excessive force and quite unnecessary. Utter fucking wankers! What's next? Are they going to beat old ladies who take too long to cross a pedestrian crossing when the little flashy man turns red?
Anyway, seems the power of social media is indeed worthwhile. Since the story broke yesterday, he has already had his guitar replaced and apparently some kind soul has offered to take up a criminal case on his behalf. To each and every good Samaritan out there that helped make this possible, three cheers! And to every single flatfoot involved, their useless fucking superiors, and the entire overpaid, under qualified hierarchy of gravy-stained fuck-knuckles, up to and including Zuma, fuck you! I wish I could watch karma work in our life time and exact upon your diseased souls the kind of vengeance you deserve.
Silver lining, please Mr Dark Cloud Of Sucky World...
Apparently I'm doing it right. Maybe a bit too right, but let's not dwell on negatives. Now, being a dodgy old booze-hound is good for you! Halle-Loob-Jizz!
You may be wondering about the content of this here post and exactly how it relates to the heading. It doesn't.
Unless I put in how awesome Saturday night's party was out in Kommetjie. It was a rainy Sunday morning when I heard those rather special words from our gracious host's better half. She was busy dying in a chair. As were many others. My own hangover only arrived much later in the day, rendering me unable to talk and quite grumpy. The true sign of a kick ass party. Happy birthday for Sunday MunkeyHead!
And speaking of birthdays...
To today's special lady, Ms Cheese, hope you have a wonderful birthday! Hope to see you for a drink this evening!
NGDG: Prince Harry looks very dapper in his cornet's uniform behind the controls of an Apache Helicopter. And yes, our King Buyelekhaya Dalindyebo looks a bit like the guys who sort your Tuesday garbage but he reminds me of Harry's grandad when he calls the president "a drunk boy with the heart of a serpent".
Spread The Love. Fuck The Police.
Friday, July 5, 2013
Cape Town's silly hat trend was taken too far...
Oooooh, I'm going to get so much shit for this! My friends, well all the hip and cool kids at any rate, are going to do double flik-flaks when they read that I just don't get Ghost. Ghost is a band, for the rest of you. They're pictured above. Their quite enigmatic frontman is known as Papa Emeritus II. He's a baaaad motherfucker...
Or so you'd think, judging from the pictures. And the lyrics. The lyrics are pretty diabolical. As in dealing with demonic shit, not "Baby, ooooh baby" diabolical. But that's where it ends. I was seriously expecting more. Seriously. Where's the downtuned, snarling guitar, or the aggression, or for that matter, the anything resembling metal. It sounds like David Gilmour jamming with The White Stripes for fuck's sake! They look so cool, it's quite disappointing. Perhaps I just listened to the wrong song, but then I'm not going back to check any more, not after that one, I can't even remember which one. And don't get me wrong, I wouldn't even classify myself as a metalhead, and certainly not one who judges music on how heavy or harsh it is, far from it, I simply can't get my head around this "package".
Let the lampooning begin.
Anyway, on with the body count...
I just got the best news ever from my mechanic. After blowing a little smoke yesterday, Ol' Faithful seems to have given up the, erm... ghost. Looks like I'll be over-investing in that long gawked-at A3 after all. Let's hope the hillbilly tune up he's administering passes the trade-in bluff.
As if the extra plane ticket last month wasn't enough of a kick in the nadgers.
Life - she's a cruel mistress. But then she dishes up days like today. Today, work was actually quite productive and very encouraging. Then it's off for another magical game of Friday Football. Well, that is if I don't end up on Gandalf's side. The only commandment he adheres to is "Thou shall not pass!" Tit.
Then it's off to Famous Butchers Grill for a slap-up 3 course meal with The Hot Girlfriend. Ooooh, can't wait! Thanks, TDB and Me-Swifty, I'm certainly going to make a meal of it.
See, I'm over my 'Murica bashing. All is good with the world. Stuff the car. Stuff everything.
I watched quite an interesting TED talk by Amanda Palmer. As a member of the ugly side of the music biz, as well as a wildly unsuccessful musician, I must admit I'm incontinently conflicted about this. You be the judge.
NGDG: Sometimes an email from the Body Corporate Chairwoman reminds you of the newspaper article in Withnail and I and your day is immeasurably improved: "I am not going to listen to Mr J, the druguee - I had a lot of problems with him when he was staying here, thanks God he is renting his unit now. I don't like people on drugs = when he was high on drugs, he used to come shouting at me."
Spread The Love. In A Silly Hat.
Thursday, July 4, 2013
Even a complete dumbass like Zack De La Rocha knew...
Independence. Ah! What a wonderful thing to celebrate. An optimistic, happy and loving community - free to live their lives as they see fit. Free to pursue their dreams. Free to torture prisoners and hold them without trial. Free to kill people they call terrorists using remote controlled drones - without trial. Free to kill their women and children, just for being in the vicinity. Free, some allege, to fucking kill their own people and use it as an excuse to wage war on the East to secure oil supplies. Free to single-handedly destroy the spoken and written English language. Free to ensure the moral decay that has all but wrecked modern Western culture. (Ok, most of London can accept some responsibility there too.)
Now all stand and clap as Tom Cruise waves his little flag from his wheel chair.
Don't get me wrong, 'Murica is responsible for some of the greatest things on Earth. It most certainly was one of the great nations on this planet. It existed as a noble, shining example of endeavour and spirited determination. Then it basically devolved into this. Congratulations, you evil, stupid, morbidly obese fucks! You must be so proud...
Those of you who take offence at this mild mannered observation may take solace in the following. (Don't worry, you can look up some of the hard words later - just don't underline them on the screen...)
It's not the majority of your citizenry responsible for all this shit. It is, however, you lot who are all sitting back and allowing it to happen. You're basically accomplices.
Yours is the latest in a long series of empires that stretches back throughout history, and like every single one of them before you, yours will crumble.
Lance Armstrong is a nice tidy symbol of your collective morals.
So is the Westboro Baptist Church, with its militant refusal to admit its own ignorance.
But I'm sure most of you living in your suburban middle class comfort wouldn't dreeeeeam of being bad people...
Too early in the morning for this level of vitriol?
I suppose so, especially since I had such a great night last night. Things are looking up. But not in the retina-searing, direct at the sun kinda way - you'd have to be on your knees behind me for that.
Ok, I'll stop then. Sorry to have hurt your feelings. I will leave you with this food for thought, though. Perspective being really important in most consideration, the very fact that YOU are solely responsible for every teenager in Western culture walking around with their pants under their arse should have you begging the world for forgiveness.
NGDG: Andy Murray. The most embarrassing Scot since a young Robert the Bruce.
Spread The Love. Love Missile F1-11.
Tuesday, July 2, 2013
"Let me hear you SCREAM!"
I have many theories. Like why they install air-blowey-dryers in public toilets. Not because they're more hygienic. And certainly not so that Madonna can dry her pits, no. It's so that the collection of individuals sitting timidly in the cubicles, trying to pass for mice, can let loose the bowel barrage under cover of hand dryer noise blast. People are essentially shy...
I also have a theory about conspiracy theorists. Convenient, hey? All those people breaking down and dissecting the mainstream media, claiming that we're being fed easily digested "news" so that we may remain subjugated, must also question their side of the story. It is, after all, intrinsic to their argument.
It's a classic red pill/blue pill scenario...
I will always question those who so vociferously try to get their point across. There's usually some sort of middle ground. Let's look at an example:
America. Land of the brave. Land of the free. If you ask me, it's land of the obese fatheads. My apologies to the handful of USA citizens I count among my friends, but your land of milk, honey, and Taco Bell is fast turning into the butt of every joke in the world. If it wasn't for your military might, naturally.
'Merica is like the unpopular, uncultured kid who borrows a hundred bucks from you and then uses the money to buy a gun. Then uses force of arms to refuse to repay you when you politely inquire about your money being returned. It's actually genius.
We've allowed ourselves to be completely regulated by their cheap imitation of Western culture. Rammstein was right. Hollywood is the new NATO. And the masses follow blindly, faith in the stars never questioned. It's the new astrology. With tits 'n' glitter.
Also, come to think of it, the world missed a trick. America and Australia remain the only 2 economically strong countries in the world that are still basically English colonies. How come no one ever put pressure on them to relinquish their illegal occupation of a foreign land that was already inhabited? Oh, I know the Native Americans didn't have a flag, but all the other countries where gin is available have been given back. At least these still play cricket. And of course, no one gives a fuck about Australia, it's a penal colony and a refuge for expat Saffers. You just have to look at the indigenous wild life to realise something is rotten in the state of Den-Maaaahk!
Anyway, back to America. I have a question. Do the citizens not care about the war crimes being committed on their behalf? Or are they not aware of these humanitarian atrocities? Or is it simply a case of being satisfied that their interests are being taken care of?
But I have news for all you so called educated commentators. In the same way you condemn the corporate owned media for blanketing the world's population with a soft comfy layer of bullshit, distracting them from the empire state building going on (see what I did there?), they also have to admit that some of the more elaborate conspiracy theories are also a little hard to swallow. Especially since the world's foremost cross-border intelligence is now expressed through baseless memes.
It goes one step further though. You, and I'm looking at YOU, need to make sure your own shit is in order before pointing any fingers. Who of you has never done something wrong? Let he who is without sin cast the first stone and people who live in glass houses shouldn't make home porn. Or something.
Am I rambling? It sounds like I'm rambling.
I say let the motherfuckers eat themselves to death. Failing that, perhaps the best course of action is to ignore the bastards and turn our attention to sustainable fuel sources instead of playing into the grabbing hand by remaining so direly dependent on their precious fossil fuels.
Basically all this flashed through my head as I filled up at Engen yesterday, so forgive me if it isn't very well constructed.
At least they gave us SLAYER, muscle cars, Tom Cruise, The Golden Girls, HD porn and Barney Stinson.
NGDG: "Families is where our nation finds hope, where wings take dream." George W Bush
Spread The Love. Legen... Wait For It.... Dary!
Monday, July 1, 2013
NOW I get the song...!
For once I have nothing to moan about, fling my opinion at, or poke light hearted yet amusingly caustic fun at. Do you know the one about Van who was in England on holiday?
Walks straight up to a bobby and asks him in his best broken Oranje English "Excuse me, man. Do you know where Big Ben is at?"
To which the bobby rather haughtily replies "Sir. One does not end a sentence on a preposition."
Van mulls this over in his head for a little while and then asks the bobby again "Ok, man. Where is Big Ben at, Poes?"
My apologies for the level of profanity so early in the week, but the joke doesn't work any other way.
And now that I am well on my way into this blog post, by the smoke and mirror trickery of all of the above, let's see... what's been going on in the land of Nod? Pretty much fuck all, lemme tell you. Other than redefining popular South African cuisine on Friday night when I made a totally kick-ass stove-top potjie. Or as you could argue, a cast iron pot stew. Either way, I was well chuffed with myself, especially since the result was spectacular. I'd post a recipe, but I can't remember very accurately...
Saturday made me rethink this whole living-in-the-urbs agenda. We visited some friends of The Hot Girlfriend for a braai out in the sticks. What an absolute pleasure. Small holding sized grounds and a charmingly obedient Doberman, not to mention some awesome company and a fucking amazing braai, combined to make a wonderful evening replete with a feeling of majestic isolation from the hustle and bustle. Then it was directly off to Roxy's in Town for JDP's birthday party, which we missed by 5 minutes. I didn't feel that bad when I spied with my little eyes one Tarty Farty Tequila Party emerging from her car at the same time...
Then I saw one of my old friends from when I successfully emulated student life. Even with far less product in his hair than acceptable, I still recognised him and we had a blast catching up.
If there was a prize for laziness and remaining motionless and awake for the longest period of time, myself and The Hot Girlfriend would have gotten second place yesterday. (The undisputed miffing champion of the world is our very own Tieta.) What a glorious achievement! We did absolutely fuck all! It was wonderful.
In international news, Obama is here. I even saw helicopters. So fucking what?!?! South Africa harbours and nurtures mass murdering motherfuckers all the time. Big deal. Yes... We... Can!
Oh yes, and in far more important news, the ruse to surprise Princess Pants with an unexpected visit from LordDoom went down a treat. If you count staggering awe, barely able to breathe, a variety of tears and beating one's boyfriend on the chest in a sort of Tarzan-Jane reversal of dynamic "successful"...
Either way, well done to TSAR and ASH, well done!
Aaaaaaand - HAPPY HAPPY BIRTHDAY to Sheik Yerbouti for yesterday!
NGDG: Sometimes I think I'd like to go back to study. Times like when I'm told there's a really slutty midget on campus at my alma mater.
Spread The Love. Fifty Shades Of Grey Matter.