NO NOOSE IS GOOD NOOSE.

Once again, nothing to do with anything.

That is of course if you're not an advocate of the death penalty making a return. Which you shouldn't be. I find it temporarily amusing that so many people baying for the re-institution of the lethal injection are the same dumb fucks who can't help but point out the obvious shortcomings in our judicial system. Clearly not the brightest peanuts in the turd.

If you subjected me to Guantanamo Bay style torture, having bamboo shoots inserted under my nails, enduring a Parliamentary sitting, watching an entire 3Talk with Noeleen show, or if you forced to listen to the latest Nickelback offering on repeat, I really wouldn't be able to pinpoint what got me to that epiphany. And I hate using the word "random" altogether. It's just another reminder of the literary void exemplified in the current generation of layabout slouching youths. If I use enough big words I can distinguish myself from them. Or come across as a gigantic arsehole. Your choice.

The point is I really don't know.

Usually by now when I "just start writing" I have assembled some sort of idea what the subject matter is going to be for the day, but that tried and trusted method of shaping my mindless regurgitation is failing me today. I could tell you about the wonderful Garfunkel & Oates singing comedy act that I discovered on the intrawebs, but you lot probably already know of them. I just recognised them from cameo appearances in Big Bang Theory.

I wish I had more to offer. I wish I had something more constructive to add to the development of humanity. I wish I had bigger biceps...

Perhaps I should make an attempt at that 'contributing to humanity' thing. Seems like the one with the least effort involved. I'll try and steer clear of classics like "Don't be a dick, be cool":

1. Adopt or foster a rescued animal. If you can't, then do something to aid the institutions that save them.
2. Observe netiquette. Don't repost willy nilly. Everyone has probably seen that shit a million times and for goodness sake, use an anti-hoax site before you get your tits in a tangle.
3. Avoid "reply all" at ALL costs.
4. Get outside and exercise in the fresh air. Unless you reside in Lavender Hill.
5. Call your folks - if you're still fortunate enough to have. And stick up for your father, he stuck up for you.
6. Life's too short for bad music, cheap women or running out of booze. (Bad music is, incidentally, an affront for which I would gladly act as judge, jury and executioner. But it is the only instance in which the death penalty would be acceptable. And only if it offends my sensitive senses.)
7. Never fail to take advantage of an opportunity to help someone. Unless it's at your front door and you'd like to avoid a steady procession of beggars.
8. Always wear clean underwear? Hah! I say never wear ANY underwear! That way the paramedics will think you are way more risque/popular than you really are.
9. Don't marry your job, unless you're one of the lucky ones who do what they love.
10. Use spell check.
11. Recycle as much as you can.
12. And in the immortal words of Aretha Franklin, try a little respect. It goes a long way.

I still have no idea where any of this came from.

NGDG: This is why I live here. This makes me more patriotic than Candice Hillebrand in a green and gold g-string.

Spread The Love. Not The Ignorance.

THE CIRCLE-JERK OF LIFE.

What comes around, goes around. Indeed.

"The world we live in, and life in general..." Words that echo from way back in my childhood. As a devout Modie, they certainly shaped my interpretation of things, and probably still have some lingering effect. Don't ask me what exactly they mean to me, or anyone for that matter, but it is what it is.

I suppose lyrics to songs can very often be misinterpreted, and probably are more often than not. I try and keep mine as ambiguous as possible, allowing the listener to make their own assumptions and take from the words what they want. I've even caught the singers of these lyrics out, when asking them exactly what it was they were singing about. Then again, I can be purposely obtuse and a bit of a doos. The vast majority of these songs however, deal with times that have caused me emotional turmoil, such as break ups. To the point where we have even trademarked the name for that section of the song after the second chorus when the music either "breaks down" or "builds up". Yup! The "break up"...

I digress. I have to tell you about a certain interesting run in I had this weekend. Hanging out at some place in De Waterkant for an old friend of mine's birthday party, I found myself glancing around the room more often than usual. I was the designated driver and the conversion was getting away from me. When all of a sudden I notice one of the party of bachelorettes looking at me as if I'd let one rip and she was having trouble seeing through the ensuing fog. I recognised her instantly as one of the young ladies about whom I have been forced to pen a ditty in the past. It wasn't all that positive (he says nonchalantly flicking his fringe from his eyes). After mouthing the query/response of our respective names at each other, we got up and did the whole "Oh wow! It's so awesome to see you! How're you doing?!" schpiel, and here's where I actually started quite enjoying myself. We no longer have contact, in fact there has been very little in the way of communication since I took my kite flying a bit more seriously. It transpired, without going into any sordid details, that in the end one of us is a lot better off. At least in the matters of the heart. I couldn't help but feel a little smug, but managed to avoid blurting out "Ja, serves you right!"

Anyway, people make their choices and we have to respect those choices. Sometime you agree, sometimes you don't. But in the end, we can but hope and pray that the ones we make steer us to the best situations, people and results for us. And here's another thought, just while it popped into my head. You know how everyone believes in karma and the power of retribution and evil people getting their just desserts? Well, that's all good and I'm sure that shitty people will be rewarded accordingly, but I disagree with the same premise being applied to the good side of "what goes around, comes around". Basically, no matter how magnanimous or noble you think you are by "paying it forward", you're doing something nice because you expect something wonderful in return, which is to misunderstand the point entirely.

Now here is something - for you - because I love you and no other reason. A new instrumental Sleepers track. Enjoy. At least this one's words won't be misconstrued...

NGDG: If you simply have to protest Israel, can you start with those annoying Dead Sea Skincare promoters?

Spread The Love. Listen To Michael Bolton On Mute.

OOPS! WRONG HOLE!

Peek-a-boo!

So Tarty Farty Tequila Party posted something witty about a visit to the gynaechiatrist, and I unfortunately responded by saying I was infinitely grateful that I would never have to go through that clearly dreadful experience. Now, long story short, I have to write a piece on it...

Not that I haven't woken in sweaty night terrors at the prospect of having my prostate checked. I believe I am almost at the age when I get the relive the sheer hell of the school nurse curtly telling me to "cough". It's very similar. Little did I know back then that I'd spend virtually every waking moment of my life dedicated to getting a female to cradle my balls in a similar fashion. It was only weird in the army physical...

Then someone told me that they no longer give you the Polsmoor Probe to determine whether or not your prostate is healthy - they now rely merely on blood work - a fact met with much rejoicing! Which brings me back the the stirrup demon. It's easy to joke about it, but I'm sure that for most women it's rather an unpleasant gedoente. And in the light of my only comparable experience now being a thing of the past, it left me wondering just how kak it must be and how I'd manage a trip to the dreaded Uterus Mechanic. Right now all I can think of is how I'd react to being pants-down in a room resembling a doctor's surgery and all I can come up with is "Happy ending, please!" seconds before the physio threw me out on my ass.

So let's pretend I'm a lady and I do lady's things, and for a few minutes at least resist the overwhelming temptation to point out that I'm a little bitch anyway. You call up and make your check-up appointment. What is the protocol vis a vis grooming? Does one present a neatly trimmed patient for inspection in the same way you brush your teeth before gaping open your maw at the dentist? I bet you there are a few gynies who could tell you some stories. But never mind all that, from what I'm led to believe (I've seen movies like 'Knocked Up' and so forth...) it's fairly unpleasant, if only for the invasive nature of the visit. I would imagine that even for the most aggressively sexual among us that this is invasive and most would rather not have to go through it.
So there I am with my heels in the stirrups, doing my best not to speculate as to the possible problems that could be found and, at the same time, praying that it'll all be over soon and I'll be stamped with a clean bill of health. Bits dangling in the breeze waiting for the bearer of lube and probes. No, we're not in Amsterdam. And with the theatrical thwack of a rubber glove we're away! I don't know what you're looking for, but like I keep telling my husband, it's a little to the left!

You see, it's hard not to sexualise or trivialise these things, as a guy. And I am trying my best not to be too flippant about this subject / ordeal. But with every word I type I have to be honest and admit that the only phrase bouncing around my big dumb head is "don't work where other people play". You see?

Anyway, I have attempted to think what it would be like to deal with this experience, and have come up short, not only in terms of completing the narrative, but also in being able to remain calm and rational. Perhaps I AM a woman after all. I have failed to remain composed and to offer a reasonable or fair portrayal of the terror inherent in a visit to the gynaechiatrist. For this I apologise. But I just cannot get my head around it sufficiently. Let's not even get me started on the obvious confines of trying to keep my language in check.

NGDG: Energy-saving bulbs! Enjoy a glimmer of stone-age ambience in your home today!

Spread The Love. You Got A Shoe-horn Or Something!?!?

THREE BREASTED WHATSIT? TSEK!

Gaan haal daar vir die oom nog n biertjie, dan kry

jy n slukkie, maar moenie vir die tannie se nie...

It continually amazes me, although it really shouldn't by now, how easily people are swayed by popular opinion. Even the so-called intelligent among us. How easily we bay for blood or have a really strong opinion on something or push an agenda without first educating ourselves or finding out everything there is to find out about a certain issue or story. We're slaves to our emotions and we'd all do very well to take a step back and apply some rational thought to our knee-jerk cries for justice or emphatic outrage against this, that and the next thing. Every day I see highly educated, erudite people that should know better falling into this trap. They sully my newsfeed with half truths and poorly researched propaganda or, even worse, some smutty sensationalism - even the ones with the itchy Snopes trigger fingers. It appears to be more a of a contest in appearing to be just the right amount of indignant, outraged or compassionate that drives this sort of behaviour. What happened to cool detachment?

Well, that isn't the answer either. I am glad so many people are that passionate about so many things. Our ways need mending. And perhaps I'm a bit cynical, but some days I wonder if a bit of circumspection wouldn't go a long way. It really is true that there are usually many facets to any one argument.

Anyway, before I start pointing fingers and pissing off some of my nearest and dearest, I suppose I should move onto jollier ground. Tomorrow (can you hear Annie singing her little heart out?) is a public holiday here in good ol' South Africa. We are celebrating Heritage Day, and since the only thing the various different people of our disparate country have in common is the bloodthirsty consumption of beasts cooked over an open flame, we have dubbed it National Braai Day. (That bloodthirsty bit was for all my friends who do not condone eating flesh.) Or in our case, National Braam Day. You see, it is TDB's birthday and we get together for an event called "My! What An Enormous Sausage" every year. I can't remember if that's in reference to the braaing or that time Tim-kerbell was in the bathroom stall next to him...

Um, nothing to see here. Move along...

In other news, my vineyard now has rootstock planted in it! So now we watch, wait, pray and water regularly. With any luck in a couple of years I'll have some people around with very clean feet and we'll stomp some grapes into mulch, after which we can wait another couple of years before we even know if it's a roaring success or an abysmal failure. Some new pics for you...

And on that rather uplifting note, I bid you bugger off. Enjoy your day off tomorrow, but do so responsibly. Remember the cops will be out in full force and you don't want to be Papa's next girlfriend.

NGDG: Professor Tim Noakes telling jewish fund managers to eat traif liver and brains as part of a Real Meal Revolution: hilarious. Telling me not to drink beer: Not gonna happen.

Spread The Love. Green Peace Sells.

VINE - A SOCIAL NETWORK

I hope her feet are clean.

Hang about! Don't we have enough platforms on which dumbed-out teenagers, preppy pouty princesses, pissed off pseudo-intellectuals, crusty conspiracy theorists, and self-centred spammers can assault us with cute pictures of pugs, aggressive one-sided rhetoric and woeful spelling?
What do we need yet another for? Is it punishment for ending sentences on prepositions?

Or are people that desperate for a new background on their screen?

I'll tell you a secret...

The vine has been responsible for social networking for thousands of years. Yes, ladies and gentleworms, good old fashioned wine has been the social lubricant of choice for so long, it may as well be considered as old as mankind itself. This probably also accounts for an entire history strewn with poor decisions and worse consequences.

But enough about all the agricultural attempts by my predecessors, we're here to discuss my latest venture. For years I have wanted to make a bottle of wine on my own. From grapes I grew myself. This is unfortunately inordinately difficult to do when one owns a thin strip of backyard in urban purgatory.
Enter Slappy, who has some land just lying around in Constantia...
I now have a partner. We are going to make wine fit for the highest choir of angels, nay, the Gods themselves! After some careful planning and calculation, we embarked on this ever-so-exciting venture on Sunday when we erected the first half of our very small vineyard's trellises. The day after the Sepultura gig. In the sun. With a hangover. I've probably never worked that hard in my life. A farmer's life? Ha! You can keep that shit. But the results will be glorious! With probably a hint of plum and spices.

I'm going to use this here wee virtual soapbox of mine to keep you updated with the odd picture and accompanying anecdote. Vines go in this weekend. With any luck, I won't feel as close to death's door as I was on Sunday.

I hope you enjoy looking at these few pictures of the fruits of my labour as much as I hope to enjoy drinking them one day.

NGDG: You know you've had a wild weekend when your fridge is still full of all the beer you bought for chillax downtime.

Spread The Love. Sowing The Seeds.

SUIPULTURA!

I'm broken. Fucking totally and utterly spent. Kla, finished, overska-dovers...
And not because "I'm too old for this shit..." either, just because I had one HELL of a weekend. And as one does when one is having a splendid time, one imbibes.

Saturday night's Sepultura gig was IMMENSE! The preceding weeks' gefuffle about presale tickets seemed a distant foggy memory as Assembly filled up nicely to welcome the Brazil Nuts From Hell. Opening proceedings were the inimitable ING. And this is where I need to stop and carefully consider my next words. And they are as follows... Given the right presentation, in the form of world class sound and lighting, we are sitting on a fucking goldmine of international standard talent here in li'l ol' Slaapstad. ING were INGcredible! Clearly reveling in the chance to spread their tongue-in-cheek bile from this elevated platform, they excelled, leaving little left over for the other 2 bands to break.

Next up, the long awaited return to a Cape Town stage for Groinchurn. All I can say about them is, wow! If making massively impressive, hooky and intense music is what life's all about, and having an absolute ball doing so, then these guys have got it just right. The energy with which they performed was infectious, and given the fact that most people haven't heard these guys before (and those of us that had, did so 15 years ago), getting the crowd to go that mental was no mean feet.

And then, as if someone stuck Megamaid's vacuum cleaner into the bar area, the almighty fucking Sepultura bestrode the stage. I've seen them before. I am fortunate that way. But no amount of knowing what to expect can prepare you for the awe you feel when presented with a show of that magnitude. And for the record, fuck me, but that drummer of theirs is on another level altogether! He's simply beyond belief! As is their entire repertoire! We were treated to the mandatory classics and some monstrous newer material, all combining to devastating effect, and treating Cape Town to a night we shall not easily forget. I take my hat off to the guys at Witchdoctor Productions for the effort, the vision, the risk and the persistence that they have shown in being able to bring these world renowned bands here, for us. We owe you a huge debt of gratitude.

What's a blog post without a good whinge, eh?

Why in the glorious great fuck did the lights keep tripping at Assembly? At one stage when I could tear myself away long enough to grab a beer, I swear I even heard the stage go dead. Although In my defence, I was severely impaired by then. What with the very real intent to get as bladdered as humanly possible. Which did happen.

And to that grizzled old veteran standing in front and being a miserable git, stop being a huge dick. Yes, I agree that chivalry should never be overlooked, but kakking out the laaities who were clearly having the time of their lives, moshing their little hearts out, and admonishing them for getting too close to your lady friend? What the flying fuck? If you can't stand the heat, stay the fuck out of the pit. You're clearly a lifelong fan and follower of the heavy metals; has this never occurred to you? If you want to be an old bitter doos, come and join me at the back, far enough away and safe from the danger zone. I'll even buy you a beer. Besides, what you were doing borders on sexism. The ladies know how to look after themselves, trust me. Once, this young lady introduced herself to me with rather excessive force, resulting in me being launched onto a stage and breaking some plastic garden furniture. The bruised ribs could be from falling on the chair or the initial impact from her "Juliet-Lewis-in-Natural-Born-Killers" spear tackle.

Sunday I awoke feeling pretty sorry for myself, but that is a report for later... a tale in which I reveal my tastes for the finer things in life. And becoming a farm labourer, but not entirely to be paid with the dop system...

NGDG: There's a new vagrant on my route who is either a former cricketer or just cavalier with serifs. Sod Bless!

Spread The Love. \m/

ROOTS! BLOODY ROOTS!

Used without permission.

I apologise for my clearly one track mind.

No, I don't.

It's a picture of a carrot.

And a young lady who clearly values healthy eating.

A carrot is a root.

Once again, it's one of those days...
I'm sitting here balanced precariously on one thumb, hoping against hope that gravity and my exit hole don't conspire to make life even more uncomfortable.
Which reminds me of a particularly unpleasant instruction I received from a young lady I was, right up until that point, seeing in highschool. It was at least fairly conclusive, if a little too embarrassing for my adolescent self confidence, and left me in no doubt as to our future, or lack thereof.
As opposed to that incident many, many years later.

Can you tell I have had a slow day and sweet fuck all on which to report? In fact, I'm only writing today to avoid falling asleep at my desk, drooling into my keyboard and dying by electrocution. It's so quiet everywhere, I feel like I'm on the set of a Bjork video.

I can tell you about my hopes, dreams and aspirations if you'd like. I hope to complete a run after work, although the likelihood of that is diminishing the closer we get to beer'o'clock. Something however, that I am definitely going ahead with is my vineyard. Yes! I'm planting grapes and in a couple of years hope to be able to make some delicious wine. I have a partner in this venture and we've cleared a little piece of paradise in the Constantia valley. There's a palpable sense of anticipation now that we've committed to going ahead with this project. The trellises are going in this weekend and then there's no turning back. We even have a name for our little vineyard, but that's being kept under our hats until we're pretty certain we'll at least be able to bottle a product. Logo design has even started. You know, all the important thing...

Ah yes! What the internet is all about this week (and last) - the upcoming Sepultura gig! I cannot wait! Modern day messiahs of metal, Sepultura have certainly influenced many a burgeoning metal musician, not to mention millions of devoted fans all over the globe. Their intense, tribal, groove-orientated metal mantras have inspired the incorporation of influences that before may not have been considered. When they explored their "roots" the results were groundbreaking! People lost their shit!

And now they're coming to my little home town for the second time. Last time Andreas and I had a moment as he passed me his guitar pick. This happened just after I declined to beat up a very small girl with whom I was struggling for the possession of one of Igor's drumsticks (for my friend JDP). Eventually I let her keep it. Her gargantuan boyfriend was quite the daunting prospect. But not this time. This time I fight anyone who dares argue over memorabilia. I'm going home with the lot! Screw you guys!
But wait, that's not all! For the last time ever! And since you ask, for the first time ever, the almighty Groinchurn will be returning to a stage to bludgeon you to a pulp with their trademark grind! Exciting times! The last time they were in Cape Town I was left bloodied, bruised and completely happy, smiling from ear to ear. Not to mention that - if you order NOW! - we'll throw in the scathing machine-gun metal of ING, Cape Town's own bastard battalion of unPC, uncompromising thrash titans! But you can't go if you don't have tickets! Time is running out! Don't be that arsehole who laments later that they were unaware and wails about missing out!

Anyway, before I slip all the way down my dirty digit, I will bid you farewell. Not forever, just until tomorrow, when my mucky musings will once again soil your conscience.

Be good to one another. And if you're sans other, be good to yourself...

NGDG: If you say "Oh! Not you sir, that was for the idiot in the Porsche, driving in your blind spot" with sufficient conviction, the angry man in his safari suit who drove around the block, to find the runner who flipped him off for driving in the yellow line, will not punch you in the face. Even if he knows there was no Porsche.

Spread The Love. Remember To Eat Your Veggies.

GETTING AWAY FROM IT ALL.

In the spirit of maintaining the bullshit levels in the internets, I hereby humbly submit my report on this weekend's activities. It was yet another wonderful weekend away celebrating the lateral aging of one Tarty Farty Tequila Party. Accompanied by around 20 of her closest friends, Robertson was about to get a new one torn.

Surprising then, that Robertson is still walking just fine...
Probably because we were some ways out of town in this picturesque type of farmhouse accommodation.

Setting off directly after work, we got there at around 8 to discover that the potjie I was supposedly in charge of, was already basically underway. So, hastily catching up, and grateful to the foresight of the Bacon Pilot, I set about creating another masterpiece. Masterpieces, as we all know, take time. Especially when one is given a very large canvas (No.14 pot) and one has so many critics to satisfy. Alas, it seems we well and truly live in the era of fast food. Eventually I took a very calming little moonlight stroll and came back with my spirits lifted, ready to lift more spirits. To my bek.

I've never been a huge fan of Wimpy, but our outing to town for breakfast was well worth it if only to prepare me for the rest of the day by providing a timely reminder that we were, in point of fact, no longer in Kansas. Our waitress, bless her soul, manfully wrestled whiff the Ingils. As, evidently, she had done earlier whiff the same person who was responsible for Mimi's make up on The Drew Carey Show. After abandoning all hope of a successful shop at Pick 'n' Pay, we congregated at Kilpdrift for a private brandy tasting and tour. The inevitably trying introduction video was soon followed by a very interesting exploration of the cellars, equipment and processes involved in the making of South Africa's favourite spirit beverage. But it was the tasting at the end everyone was looking forward to the most. The Hot Girlfriend got all the little pairing edibles and I got all her brandy. The stage was set...

En masse, eventually, we did descend on the Robertson Beer Festival. After mild sunburn waiting to get our arm bands on, we were duly informed that they had run out of beer mugs (included in the entry price) but that we could purchase ours inside. The people inside knew nothing of this arrangement. Patience wearing thin, and bek burning from all the brandewyn, I eventually managed to slake my thirst with whatever lager was kind enough to dribble the measly millilitre for "tasting" into my nice clean unbranded mug. I'd need a few more of those if I was successfully to avoid allowing the treble assault on my poor ears to get the better of my good mood. So I quickly settled into a system of obtaining a "taster" in double measure, walking outside to my friends while sipping it down, and then promptly turning on my heals to go back and fetch the next. Until I got to the Belgian speciality stand. Where they actually refused me service. Deciding that they could forthwith fuck off, I got stuck at the Red Something Or Other stand. And bought a few bottles of their Indian Pale Ale, which was awesome. But even further down the rabbit hole I discovered Robertson Brewing Company and their delightful IPA, Irish Stout, and Scottish Ale. Didn't even bother with anyone else, as a wonderful afternoon out on the lawns was had by all.

Upon returning to our farmhouse, the braais were lit up and so were we, merely carrying on where we had left off from the beer festival. As conversations invariably do, ours turned to how c**t is not a bad word and resulted in a cunning strategy to "take it back" including various ways in which it could now quite easily be used in a sentence to have a more positive overall interpretation. I'll spare you the details, but I'd encourage you to use your imagination.

Sunday morning's monumenstrual hangover was very well earned. But after a Hearty Tarty Farty full English breakfast, we all went on a hike into the beautiful surrounding nature. Some of us hiked harder than others. There was a dog called Mischa who spent the first half entertaining everyone by carrying a half a tree trunk as a stick and unearthing rocks on which to chew from the damn. And that pretty much wrapped it up. Another awesome weekend away almost leading me to believe that I would be quite content living out in the sticks, where life is simpler and the air is clean. That is until you take a jaundiced view of the type of people who enjoy slapping the table at a beer fest while enthusiastically singing along to Queen's greatest hits, or indulging in a poorly co-ordinated conga line which for some inexplicable reason ended up "biting" its own tail and went cyclic (much to the terror of the poor patrons trapped at the tables inside it).

So no thank you, I'm quite fond of my "cityfolk cynicism".

Anyway, back to life, back to reality. Here I sit in my little office, spewing forth my bilious bullshit. If you've made it this far, congratulations. You may stop slapping the table at any time.

So in honour of a very special person, and a very special weekend that was had in her honour: Happy happy birthday Tarty! We all love and cherish you very much. Your precariously zany presence in our lives makes us all the more blessed. You are a ray of sunshine in an otherwise rather dull journey through life. Even if you brought a FUCKING BIRD along on our weekend adventure. Thank you for being everything you are.

NGDG: What if Where's Wally has a fear of crowds and the longer it takes you to find him increases his anxiety levels?

Spread The Love. Lookada Cute Lil Bunny.

MUTI SO ISSIE!

The natural progression from "why should I pay for the music I consume?" was always going to be "why should I pay so much for going to a live show?" In a fast imploding industry that is literally squeezing blood from stone, a downfall of its own doing, the movers and shakers are clutching at straws. Record companies are insisting on publishing rights to remain afloat. Artists are relying on money from merchandise sales and concert tickets to remain capable of eking out a living. Yet we all follow the rantings of the tweeters and the twats.

In the wake of a few Cape Town shows potentially being cancelled or postponed due to extremely poor ticket presales, the question once again raises its ugly, acne-pocked head: Why are the residents of Cape Town so apathetic towards everything? The Mother City's inhabitants have always been famous for their reticence to purchase tickets up front. It's an extrapolation of their every day social interaction. Never commit to anything lest something better comes up. And with the summer looming, there are a lot of distractions. But let's - for the sake of argument - assume we're going to focus on the perpetually black clad trudging in the shadow of Table Mountain and glaring at the well-to-do passers by in the Gardens Centre. There remain precious few who take any subgenre or "scene" seriously enough to "live the life". This includes walking the walk, talking the talk and wearing the corresponding clobber despite the prevailing weather conditions. It's a gross generalisation, and I know some shining examples who are exempt, but these individuals are also invariably of the terminally unemployable variety and are therefore always broke. Just getting to the venue is sometimes a bridge too far. And these are the very people to whom the concert means the most. In most cases a plan is made, but it is difficult.
Then you get those who can afford to buy tickets to every exciting band coming here. This requires the sort of expendable income that's usually associated with gainful employment. And being stuck in suburban hell, sprogged up and short of babysitter options. Priorities change, particularly when the majority of the bands, however unbelievable they are, could be argued to be a little dated in some cases. Make no mistake, they appeal immensely to those of us that remember the halicon days of our misspent youth, but what of today's miserable youth? We very quickly pooh-pooh their tastes, but pull a face when they don't congregate in their droves for what can only be described as classic rock acts, by their shitty standards.
Then you get those of us in the middle. The successful adults who have the music so ingrained in their make-up that they wouldn't dream of missing the opportunity, or privilege, of seeing these amazing bands do their worst. In most cases, we have traveled outside our borders in order to see as many as we can. Some of us even continue to pay our own dog's ear homage to our heroes by forcing our square musical pegs into round holes.

So the answer is not simple. The organisers who are putting their fortunes and reputations on the line are doing an amazing job. Their sacrifice is appreciated by the vast majority of those of us who don't have the resources or will to put so much into making these amazing shows happen. But you can't make a horse drink once you've led it to the water. You can only hope that the deeply ingrained culture of apathy is eventually replaced with genuine excitement and commitment from the many, many people to whom they hope to appeal. Drawing comparisons between - for instance - Sepultura visiting our shores a decade ago, and their show next weekend, become difficult. 10 years ago we had nothing. We are seriously spoiled for choice now. People are having to decide which shows to attend and which to forfeit. Very few of us are lucky enough to be in a position to afford it all. For fuck's sake, most people balk when you charge R40 for 3 or 4 awesome local bands at a great venue.

"Why should I pay for my entertainment?" Don't get me started, but it's going to be almost impossible to get the horse back. It's bolted and no amount of closing the stable door is going to change that. That being said, all we can do is continue doing our best to make it better. Encourage people to invest in local music by paying to see shows, or buying the records or merchandise. Provide them with something worthwhile spending their money on. Giving up now would potentially have devastating effects on all the hard work already invested. If shows need to be cancelled because of financial constraints, then so be it. I understand and will redouble my efforts to help avoid a similar scenario in the future. I can't speak for all the rest of the mouth breathers.

With any luck we can avoid something as drastic as cancelled shows, but let me put this out there: Lamb Of God had City Hall packed. Why? Are they simply an altogether more enticing prospect? Are they really more popular? I suppose so.

In summation: This is an upward curve, relying on YOU, the music fan to make it work. Only if we all pull in the same direction do we achieve results. The organisers do not owe you a damn thing; you owe them your eternal gratitude and more of a willingness to buy into their endeavours.

There is obviously a whole interwoven multitude of socio-economic factors that one could argue this way and that ad infinitum, but I don't have the time to get into that. I have wounds to lick and prayers to offer up. Also, that whole cliche of drowning my sorrows...

NGDG: For every ditch in the road there's a subterranean mole person braking for a speed bump.

Spread The Love. Refuse! Resist!

WHO THE FUCK IS JENNIFER LAWRENCE?

Excuse my dithering ignorance, but unlike the rest of the herd known as humanity, I remain obstinately - and very blissfully, I might add - unaware of most #trends, current aberrations in the entertainment industry and the like. Unless of course they are forced on me and I can't ignore the glaring lack of tact, taste or talent.

For the most part, suffice it to say that I see the headlines, but prefer the company of my own mind and a jar of lube. So, let's go and google this poor dear and see if there is anything besides this naked picture leak scandal.

Ok, so it turns out she's an actress and apparently her most significant role was in something called the Hunger Games.
And now she's Kardashian-famous because some piece of shit who probably fantasises about his mother in the shower decided to post very private nude pics of her and some other celebrities online. Firstly, let me put it to you that YOU are the reason this happened. No, not YOU, the ever so bent out of shape literary activist who has spouted incensed vitriol since the breaking of this sordid story, but YOU the general public who click on anything put in front of you without the slightest thought or consideration. Because your attention span is that of a particularly easily bored goldfish and your overwhelming sense of self worth has built indestructible blinkers around your fat fucking head. YOU'VE caused this. YOUR veracious appetite for smut and sensation that ooze from your every pore created the demand. YOUR validation of vapid, vacuous harlots whose only contribution to society is their ability to gorge on cock and build celebrity careers out of nothing created the demand. You're exactly the type of p**s that would be front and centre pushing some poor misunderstood girl into the clutches of Matthew Hopkins himself, baying for blood and proclaiming loudly how she'd turned you into a newt. What's wrong with you people?

The fact of the matter is this. People, no matter how famous or sought after, are entitled to their privacy. Granted, some flaunt and tempt and taunt a little too much for comfort, but that gives no one the right to transgress this moral line. Besides, what the fuck is the fascination? Is it just because it's "taboo"? Please! You're just too lazy. More than half the internet is filled with pornography of every variety. Sleazy, sick, even sexy. There is something for everyone's taste. No matter how depraved a voyeur you fancy yourself, there is something for you - just a few clicks away. And the discovery and enjoyment thereof is actively encouraged by those that provide it, very often free of charge. And at no emotional detriment to themselves (for the most part - hopefully). But just because this shit surfaced on a popular aggregation site and the news got hold of it, all of a sudden you decided to completely ignore the social norms you grew up with (and most likely expect from others, let alone will probably teach to your little girl one day)...

Next time you feel like reaching over to your extra value jar of lube while about to click on one of these sensationalist "exposes" think to yourself how you'd feel if it was your sister. Or your girlfriend.
Next time you shout at some old lady for driving slowly, imagine that's your grandmother.
Next time you blithely download someone else's intellectual property, imagine it was something you'd worked on for years and poured your soul into.
I could go on. And often do.

So much for the self righteous rant. I'm just as guilty as anyone of perpetrating the crime against decency by blogging about it. But I refuse to wantonly click on it. And don't get me started on amateur sex tapes. I really don't get it. What makes these halfwits so special or worthy or our attention? Naughty, naughty. You should collectively be ashamed of yourselves.

Before I finish up... and then inevitably deal with everyone's unwanted opinions on the matter after I post this, let me ask one last question? Why make sex tapes in the first place. Unless you have no other skill, are slightly squint and possess the arse of a couch-ridden diabetic, and you're hellbent on a career in show business, what's the point? I'm the most annoyingly narcissistic arsehole alive and even I don't have one. And trust me, The Hot Girlfriend is way hotter than whatshername? The one everyone is clicking on right now...

NGDG: My alarm clock scares me. The last time something loud and wired was in my bedroom, I battled to get it to drive home.

Spread The Love. Turn Off The Internet And Go Play Outside.