IF SCHRODINGER WAS AFRIKAANS...

...he'd be all for the human equivalent of turducken.

In a hundred years, the far away future, when humans have developed extra opposable thumbs and kneecaps have become obsolete; when we all have naguiltjie eyes and our olfactory systems have all but shut down altogether, it is my hope that - in the dusty archives of some preserved time capsule - some historian will dig out my hopelessly haphazard dribblings and be forced to read this shit the same way you are, my dear and faithful friends. You shouldn't be the only ones made to suffer so.

The future is indeed bright.

As opposed to the past. We hark back with fondness and wistful nostalgia to our youth, memories flood back at the soothing tones of a favourite record, or the violent pop of a riot gun. We say things like "Damn, they don't make things like they used to." There hasn't been a great song written in years. And be it a house constructed in the 70s, the Great Pyramids of Giza or whatever, they just don't build 'em like in the good ol' days... We live in a world where as long as you get your union mandated tea break, it matters not if the stadium you're helping build tragically collapses, taking with it countless lives. Seems the crack of a whip got shit done, and I don't mean in the confines of your bedroom/dungeon. Alas, we strive toward a mythical Utopia, and in so doing allow ourselves to be led astray by oppressors more insidious than the old slave masters.

But I'm getting way too serious for a Friday morning.

Aren't we all supposed to have our optimistic, jolly faces on?

I also have several serious theories on the current state of South African politics, but since the proletariat seems to prefer being led around by the nose in much the same way Tommy Lee Jones infamously used a pair of pliers in Natural Born Killers, perhaps it's best I kept my rather more enlightening opinions to myself. The true outrage is not what is happening, but the fact that it is being allowed to happen. The shocking truth is that no one has the wherewithal, or will, to oppose dear ol' Zuma. He will continue snuffling and gorging himself at the trough of plenty and there's fuck all you or I can do about it. At least that warmongering c*nt Obama is plundering resources outside his own borders - his actions, no matter how despicable, are enriching his people rather than impoverishing them.

Ok, so on to the good news. This weekend we escape the foul environs of the city and spend the weekend getting delightfully sozzled in the countryside. It's the Brother-In-Awe's birthday and we're going wine tasting, braaing, eating out, and nursing hangovers whilst wistfully looking poetic on a balcony with coffee in the mornings.

And that's just the natural progression from the dinner club of last night. Billed as an event in which "two buggers and a slap chick" would result in a possible Eiffel Towering, although there were high fives aplenty, it was a rather more moderate affair. The food, obviously, was off the charts. And when you feed this specific combination of people any wine at all, the conversations tend to get fairly raucous. So it was business as usual, except for my unplanned 6-in-the-morning stroll to fetch a car...

Spread The Love. It's Very Odd That You Can't Even.

AFFLUENT / EFFLUENT

It's my blog - it doesn't have to have anything to do with the content.

Although, there is a pavement in there.

People = Shit.
We all know that, thank you Corey Taylor.

But why, in the name of all you lot hold dear, in the area of Sea Point so close to Fresnaye every second car is a Lexus, is there shit strewn all over all the pavements? I hope it's dog shit...
Are we protesting our good fortune? Or do we really just not care enough; or mind that we're literally knee deep in the kak? Have we become so cut off from our surroundings that we kind of just accept this as the norm? Pass me my acoustic guitar, for fuck's sake. Morrissey was right.

Well, yesterday took a turn for the decidedly worse. I got so bored I actually couldn't even finish this worthless attempt at brightening your day (above). Colgate, I ain't. At lease SUBVERS had a ton of fun at band practice. It's awesome to be able to jam tunes you love with people who enjoy it as much as you do. Not to mention the other shenanigans of which you will no doubt shortly see the results. But I'm not telling...

Shall we then sink our teeth into the country's current ails?
First of all, I realise it's yesterday's news (see above), but that oke Zuma is taking everyone for a royal p**s again. It borders on admirable the way he gets away with it time and time again. The real criminals are you and I, the people who know better, complain, and somehow find ourselves powerless to do anything about it. Or him. Nkandla? Fuck you. We'll sweep that shit under the carpet. Again. Smirk Smirky McSmirk Smirk. Marikana...? Once again, delay tactics. That's the first and most blatant give away. If someone is in the kak they stall and stall (see what I did there?). Have you ever known a politician to deny him or herself the opportunity to tell everyone how shiny, squeaky clean, virtuous and innocent of any wrong-doing they are? Nope. Much as I despise trial-by-media, this bumbling buffoon is taking you all for the biggest tits and we sit meekly by and whinge and wail. Perhaps we'll inherit the earth after all. What's left of it.

While we're at it, you didn't reeeeally believe we just got handed the 2010 FIFA World Cup because we, like, totally deserved it, did you?

And with that, I have conveniently run out of shit to talk. But chin up (said the director to the starlet), and take heart in the sure knowledge that we're all working hard behind the scenes cooking up something utterly glorious for you.

And speaking of cooking, tonight we celebrate the commencement of my and my Brother-In-Awe's birth month. With a hearty slap-up at dinner club. Commander Conker will also be in attendance, as will his beautiful bride Rose Thorn, both of whom are also part of this salubrious celebration. This could get ugly. Especially when you add a pinch of Tarty Farty Tequila Party, a dash of Slappy, juuuust enough Hot Girlfriend, and allow the better half of the DSW to stir it all into a great big merriment pie.

Spread The Love. I Should Introduce You To Kim Some Time.

SPANKING SHOULD BE A SANCTIONED SPORT...

...in which I get to choose the spankees.

The world is crammed to capacity with geniuses.
Eskom implements loadshedding; every single person in South Africa chooses to inform every single person in South Africa that the parastatal power utility is mismanaged and struggling to meet demand. And that its all the fault of the ruling party, who have chosen to benefit financially from their sudden position of power, instead of heeding the warnings of the departing incumbents. How clever of everyone.
The weather - amazingly, and not at all against its natural course - turns a few degrees more nippy; mass hysteria and lamenting the likes of which were last seen at the Wailing Wall, and last Autumn.

Do you want to know who the government is REALLY letting down? The guy living on the street who has no heater. He can't turn it on to alleviate his shivering night, nor can he turn it off to spare the grid's embarrassment.

Get over yourselves and instead of spewing out redundant and self indulgent whining, do something positive. Enjoy a candlelit dinner. Plan ahead. Look into the cost of buying a UPS. Get a gas stove/light. This shit - no matter how terribly inconvenient to your precious sensibilities - is not going to sort itself out overnight. And pointing your accusatory little digits won't do a damn bit of good.
I'm not suggesting blind acceptance of something so blatantly incompetent, merely suggesting that your time would be better spent - and the community better served - if you rather did your bit to curb your own wasteful usage, or write a tune on your Grandpa's guitars. Actually, no scrap that last suggestion, it'll probably be awful and everyone will believe you to be a protest singer. And we're trying to get away from pointless complaining...

Last night The Hot Girlfriend informed me that I should complain less on this here virtual soap box of mine. And here I go, complaining about people who complain. Apparently it's far more enjoyable to read the irreverent stuff because there is an inherent humour in my incoherent rambling. She probably has a point, but as I pointed out over a delightful dinner (she took me out - it was awesome!), these days adulthood is taking its excruciating toll on my free time and my mood at work. So now I only post something when I have something to say, and that invariably includes anything to do with music, or whatever pisses me off. Long gone are the days of me entertaining you with tall tales of my death defying feats of athletic accomplishment (jogging) or the hysterical highlights of a life lived by the litre and all the near fatal flings with the poisoned chalice of chance (drinking). Ok, I've give you that one. That last list of seemingly pointless words really does make me look like the proverbial doos that's trying way too hard, and for that I apologise. I'm clearly out of practice. How about I promise to lighten up, eh? Just promise to keep reading! Otherwise the internet and the Universe are rendered entirely pointless and the last thing you'll read here is a suicide note...

I'd probably get a handful of Facebook likes for that...

Yes, so I got treated to dinner out last night. Perhaps as a reward for having to endure the cliched pain of shoe shopping with my woman. Thankfully it ended well, as the new boots are really awesome, but not before I had an Al Bundy moment with the unfortunate shop guy.

Anyway, back to the land of nod. I finally got my car back from its second opinion, since my current car doctors have been unable to diagnose what ails the poor thing after 4 attempts. So far so good. This time next year I hope that all the frustration of this year pays off, and I can transform into one of those annoying, smug arseholes who drive like dicks because their German-engineered cars cost more than my house. It won't be a huge leap, as I already identify with them. I just don't have the tools yet.

So in the spirit of being less serious, here is an appalling joke.
Sing along if you know the tune...

There were four in the bed
And the little one said
"Ag nee man fokof!
Ek will ook my beurt he om die hot een te spyker!"

Spread The Love. We Could All Do With Some More. It's Free To Give.

SWEET EPILEPTIC SATAN!

Yes, folks, this is my... ta ta daa daaaah! Six hundred and sixty sixth post!

Everything is kak! Everything is in a shambles!
I may as well have started like with 'Fly On The Windscreen'.

Actually, the only kak here is that which is coming out of my mouth. Via my keyboard. Obviously.
Life is peachy and I have very, very little I can (even) complain about.

Just don't get me started on the music biz.

I declared earlier on FB that I wanted to start a band called LIKE, SHARE, FOLLOW & THE SELFIE SCHTICKZ. Because having spent my entire adult (straight face, I swear) life trying to make something of substance other than my frequent toilet breaks, I have almost reached a point where I would like to see some return for my constant effort. Hence my suggestion to form a group or become an artist with seemingly no talent and no end to back-end support. And I'm not talking about adult diapers either. I also want to mutilate a popular phrase and splooge it all over a second rate beat while looking like a smug schmuck. I already have a crippling sense of superiority, so I'm halfway there!

I even have proposed song titles...

Bitch stab me in the back (wit' a swagger)
Don't poke me, don't poke me (in my hashtag)
Ain't got no big butt, but I still got mi'yinns.
Shitz gettin' Cray-Cray(YOLO) - multicolour mix

And then in a moment of ultimate blasphemy, I'd do a Cure cover... "Pictures Of Me"... but that would be a Jack Parowdy.

As you have no doubt discovered by now, I am having a slow day at work. And on top of that, I have loadshedding to look forward to tonight halfway through band practice. Lovely.

Actually, perhaps a barf-metal band would be a better idea. You know, the kind that concerns themselves mainly with themes of partying and drinking. I could write such celebratory gems as "Bladder Betrayal" and "Legions Of The Legless" and tour the world getting ironically drunk.

Anyway, suppose I'd better stop now before someone (me) gets hurt.

Spread The Love. It's All In The Eyes.

THE PENIS MIGHTIER THAN THIS WORD.

This is not what FR David was on about.

Words are meant to be all powerful. They're supposed to render ones opponent impotent in the face of their sheer magnitude and overwhelming force. Why then, has society chosen to upgrade its arms and devalue the written word so dramatically?

And by the written word I, of course, mean lyrics to songs. And now my train of thought has come to shuddering halt and sommer derailed itself...

My brain has most certainly atrophied to the point where I can no longer follow through on any particular chain of reasoning. Perhaps it's because we live in a world where what passes for literature is the equivalent of what passes through ones rectum after binging on McDonalds. And it's just as nourishing for your soul. Don't get me wrong. I'm no high brow literary man with leather-elbowed tweed jackets. I own Wayne Rooney's autobiography for fuck's sake. But I draw the line at "I can hazz cheezburger". And the subsequent demolition of language in all its glorious applications.

I also own a leather bound edition of The Necronomicon, although I struggle with that one. Also, for the real prose-nuts, an author bound first edition of Bayeau (as if to make my point, I'm not entirely sure of the spelling - darn you, socky ironicalness!). If you have to ask, then you're one of the many left out of the loop.

So why am I banging on about something most educated people have already lamented ad nauseum? I saw a link that asked 'Why can't we read anymore?" and instead of reading it, I chose to fill your lives with my pointless drivel. Aren't you excited? Now you can go and spend your lunch hour in a queue for Burger King (or any other establishment with wifi) and entertweet yourself with bytesized glimpses into the lives of some of the most inconsequential individuals ever to draw breath. Do not forget to buy the branded lunchboxes!

My poor kids, should I one day afflict the Earth with the result of my heaving procreation attempts, are going to be the least popular kids in school!

Fuck this - I'm going to "whooosah!" for the rest of the afternoon and have Anathema's latest offerings on youtube soothe my soul. If only there was genuine rest for the wicked. I'd even settle for just a nap and dial back my diabolical plans a notch...

Spread The Love. Wield Your Mighty Word Sword (Excalibur Mark)

MISSIONARY - NOT BORING AT ALL!

Wayne Hussey is wonderfully flawed. On his own, or with The Mission, he has never delivered the picture perfect performance, or at least not to the best of my rather limited knowledge, having been stationed on the other end of civilisation for most of his career. This makes him endearing and honest. And last night I was once again fortunate enough to witness and experience one such performance, having had the privilege to "rock out with my Docs out" many years ago when he brought out the full band and Dawnrazor still called Cape Town home. (I know, because he was my major partner in paralytic crime that night, front and centre...).

Except last night was mainly acoustic, completely intimate and Wayne alone, doing a selection of songs from his illustrious career (songs that have informed and influenced the way I attempt to write to this day) as well as a few seemingly cheekily chosen covers. Allow me to lift the veil...

Ashton Nyte, South Africa's favourite son and dark romantic, got proceedings under way with is own set of acoustic gems, spanning an impressive career boasting some 18 albums, the latest of which, Some Kind Of Satellite, he is touring - hence his inclusion in the Hussey roadshow for South Africa. And not a moment too soon! Ashton has been an awesomely accomplished performer for as long as I can remember, but every time I see him on a stage I am even more taken by his charisma and presence. I only have one ... observation. Yes, I get that "that song" put him on the map and brought him to the attention of the local media and fans, but people please! He has consistently released the highest quality material - having written such exquisite songs as Maree and many more. Stop baying for damned 'Sound Of Silence' and appreciate this amazing artist for all that he has to offer.

Anyway, on with the dog 'n' pony show.

Up next, ushered in "Here, have a seat, Mister Huss!"style was, well, Mister Hussey.
Backed by an array of gorgeous guitars, he launched into his stellar back catalogue (as well as some other interesting nuggets and anecdote, most of which were him remembering the shenanigans from his last show in Cape Town, but nothing of The Purple Turtle after party...)
Since I can't possible remember everything, here then, the highlights and various other of my lustrous opinions:

'Severina' was exactly, exactly the way I imagined it would be, stripped of its stadium pomp, it was an understated, but not unassuming jewel, as was the equally austere 'Like A Child Again'.
'Wasteland' was one that I was looking forward to immensely. Wow! What a unique take on one of his biggest classics! Playing an extended version which strayed so far from the original that when he eventually meandered his way back to the memorable chorus, people were actually surprised.
The haunting beauty of 'Tower Of Strength' will stay with me for a long time. I can't really comment more.
Interspersed between these Mission classics, were a number of treasures such as a cover of Echo & The Bunnymen's 'Killing Moon' done on ukelele - smashing! He also snuck in a rather subdued 'Personal Jesus', which worked very well if you prefer the Johnny Cash version to the Depeche Mode dancefloor favourite.
At one stage I found myself outside at the bar, where I was royally entertained by the MC, Danny. So I know for a fact I missed a few songs, and you'll have to forgive me if these were played, but I felt that a trick may have been missed by overlooking 'Grapes Of Wrath' and 'Lovely', both of which make stunning acoustic numbers...
And then he went and did The Cure... Holy Shit! - as in "holy shitting on my holy cows" that is. I cringed my way through whichever song it was that he assaulted, I can't even think which one it was now. Only the Sleepers have ever successfully pulled off a Cure cover.
Also, 'All Along The Watchtower', although given the Mission treatment, just didn't do the song justice, especially since Jimi made it so famous with all his guitar wizardry, spicing up Dylan's doleful dirge.
And then all was forgiven, forgotten and forever consigned to history as closer 'Butterfly On A Wheel' brought the fucking house down! Inviting Ashton back on stage to share vocal responsibilities on what is arguably The Mission's best known title, the crowd was blown away! Ashton's immense vocal capability gave a song I have loved for 2 decades or more an added sheen, a lustre of such blinding brilliance that I sat there awe struck and dumbfounded. Without a doubt, that rendition was one of the highlights of my existence. Bravo! Both of you! For an incredible show!

Anyway, I have to love and leave you. To Jon Monsoon, thank you mate! To ASP Records - congrats on putting on a great show and thank you for bringing out one of my heroes. Again. And Ashton, it was good seeing you again. And to the few unfortunates who didn't book their babysitters late enough, you missed out on one of the singular greatest performances I have ever had the privilege of experiencing. Seriously.

And to my own collaborator-in-chief. I'm truly sorry.

Spread The Love. Just Not Like On Amelia.

GLORY HOLES - YOU'RE DOING IT WRONG.

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