LUCY IN THE SKY WITH EXPECTATIONS.

Unleash them puppies! Wanna play!

It's my gesture in defiance of all the fucking cat pictures on the bloody internetlands.

But that's not the only thing there is too much of. There's ending a sentence on a preposition. There are too many tits with an opinion and too little work to do...

And there is this wry little article doing the rounds illustrating the shortcomings of Generation Y, and offering a variety of explanations as to why they're - simply put - fucked. They expect too much for too little. Their crippling sense of entitlement coupled with their inability to grasp the concept of hard work and the fact that they're not unique little snow flakes is the Molotov cocktail that's going to lead to them being miserable and unsuccessful, eking out a moribund existence under a bridge.
There is also a counter argument. In which one of the whiny, entitled brats alluded to in the first piece retorts with a beautifully written, succinct, articulate and entitled whine.

I'd like to offer my insight. Neither is entirely accurate. You have to look at the playing field. In a world where avarice and narcissism are seen as virtues, it is those who embrace greed and underhanded tactics that will succeed. Show me a man who is raking in the bucks and I'll show you someone who has stepped over many a carcass to get there. Humanity has no qualms about enjoying success at the expense of others, it's just that some of us are better at it. Fuck or be fucked.

Kinda makes you want to gently weep into your beer, doesn't it? Really? Take a look at yourself quickly, Mother Theresa. Are you as altruistic as you'd like everyone to believe? And I'm not talking about clicking-for-change altruistic. I'm talking about every day little things in the real world. Ever fucked anyone over? Be honest with yourself... Oh you are, are you? I didn't realise you got internet so high in the Tibetan Himalayas. Orange looks rather fetching on you.

In other news, we're in for a bit of a cold snap, if the latest buzz online is to be believed. So in the spirit of doing some good for a change, perhaps take this opportunity to help out someone who is going to have a really tough time over the next few days. According to Tarty Farty Tequila Party, doing something nice for someone else is a good thing. I'm going out and testing the "teach a man to fish" principle. I'm going to post leaflets explaining why it's an incredibly kak idea to build your home in the Cape Winter Lake District and expect not to have the annual deluge affect you. It's basic physics. I may look like Penny, but I remember a little from my education. When I wasn't being distracted by my Science teacher's growth. (It's name was Gilbert.) And my all-engulfing (and consequent obsessing about) inability to influence girls magically to find me desirable enough to suddenly want to make sex at me. And trying to reach a higher ranking on the pool team, while fleecing young ladies for free coffee. So many distractions. My mother was right. What she didn't count on was my ability to pass anyway. I always said studying before the time was cheating.

Anyway, enough about me. Go forth, Generation Y! Go forth and start your path to excellence by trying out the novel concept of putting someone else's needs before your own. And don't do it because you've heard of karma. My Name Is Earl portrays a very simplistic interpretation.

NGDG: Titanic. A cautionary tale illustrating how a game of just-the-tip can end in disaster.

Spread The Love. Someone Out There Needs It.

DOOMSDAY. ALL ALONE AND NOT A FLIP FLOP IN SIGHT.

Funny. Not a movie by Spike Lee.

Bright lights, big city! It's all really a bit dull, actually. The only bright lights are the ones leading us by the nose - Tommy Lee Jones in Natural Born Killers style - and they belong to our phones and computers. How quickly we've become hooked on these devices, designed to make it easier to experience a facsimile of various of life's functions, not overshadow the real thing. Now we can't possibly imagine a moment without the constant, nagging stream of worthless information about people we should care less about. Anyway, this gripe is nothing new. Many, many more learned commentators on the human condition have often expressed the self same lament. I just thought I'd add my 5c worth. It's a beautiful day in my neighbourhood and I've been outside. So there!

Ah that's better. Not that I'm a fan of the band, but Green Day's 'American Idiot' just put a smile on my face. Speaking of, last night was the first round of matches in the new Champions League. Glory, glory Man United! Even after squandering a number of real sitters, we still put 4 in the net and won at a canter. So did all the other big names, but that's to be expected. Oh, am I rambling about football? You want to hear what? How my anniversary celebrations went? None of your business!

I jest. Of course. There was champagne. There was cheese. There was home made chicken pie. That's about all you're getting. It was awesome!

The rest all marches on as it always does. Half the nation strikes (not a woman or a rock, mind you, if they know what's good for them) while the other half works out how to pay them better or, if you're more like me, how much the strikes are damaging an already ailing economy. Don't like how much you're getting paid? Risk unemployment and beat those that choose to work - sometimes literally to death. I'll be the first to admit that many, many people are being exploited and paid far less than they're worth, but I'm tempted to start RnD on a self help petrol pump for SA. Don't like the mean teachers for giving you homework or the price of free textbooks, should they ever be delivered? Why, the answer's obvious, isn't it? Burn your school down and complain about having to sit under a tree. Our nation will never heal itself, never mind prosper, until the masses start taking responsibility for their own well being. Easier said than done, no argument. Perhaps taking a moment to vote in people who give a shit and are capable of a style of government other than fleecing the proletariat would be a good start. Instead of physically abusing followers of opposition parties. I often marvel at the sheer barbaric brutality of it all. I definitely live in a nice cosy protected little bubble.

It's just a pity that in that bubble I am permanently bombarded with such nauseating info. People butchering and torturing animals wholesale. If you can't get it up, or you're ugly, fuck off and masturbate in the corner. Don't add to the miseries of the world. Not to mention the incredible rate at which we are exterminating each other. I'm all for thinning out our particular herd, but we're culling the wrong ones. It really has become a case of 'Survival Of The Shittest'. Don't even get me started on the mouth breathers that condone all this so called "foreign policy" rhetoric just because the TV told them to. Hitler and Genghis Khan also had foreign policies.

Ooooh, I should just shurrup. Here is a ray of hope in an otherwise dismally dark world. And we haven't even been discussing ESKOM's tariff hikes. Spoken and written word poet, 47, is making Promenade Poetry every afternoon weather allowing this week. Beautiful words for a broken world.

NGDG: Crossfit is deceiving. They should call it Bubble Arms and Fat Arses in Lycra.

Spread The Love. Do Not Kidnap And Shave Cats.

THE GGG SPOT

Yup, the magical mystical realm of the GGG is right there, next to the Pooh...

If we added a few more G's - like with anything - more people would care. Or at least care just enough to try and find it. Or maybe they'll just find it funny because it's stupid, adolescent and it looks like 666...

Why I love The Oatmeal. He didn't lunge at the bandwagon like the rest of us half baked, insipid, internet hacks. He waited a few days, allowing the public's obvious knee-jerk reaction to pass, thereby elevating him above the dross-merchants such as myself. And when he finally did make a comment on it, he did so from the best point of view.

Intrigued? Drink me! Drink me!

Ok, let's get serious now for a minute. Today is the day that marks the 2nd full year that The Hot Girlfriend and I have been together. How cool is that? I found someone willing to put up with my shit! I don't know what I did in a previous life, but it must have been something awesomely rad-tastic. I am indeed a lucky man.

It also marks the beginning of Champions League season proper. I have been waiting for this for some time. Mainly because it's the only televised football I can get for free and I'm disproportionately cheap. Which reminds me, I need to go and buy beer. After I've gone and bought stuff for tonight's super special home cooked feast. I'm trying something original and inspiring again - will report back tomorrow if I make it through the night without being chained to the toilet. Or driven to Trauma at Groote Schuur.

The trick to being considered a good cook is the willingness to ply your guests with copious amounts of alcohol before you serve your sordid slop. And, as with anything else, you'll get away with it if you do your lying/stealing/conning with a straight, confident demeanour, as if you're supposed to be doing it. Bald faced con artistry. They can't teach that at Pastry Chef School.

Anyway, today I am afraid I shall have to keep it short and sweet. Duty calls and all that.

NGDG: The world needs more sunsets. And more public hangings. Ford Mustangs and uzis and art expo bannings. There are oilwells unlit and big game unstuffed. Slaps in the face from hands yet to be cut.

Julie Andrews herself could not have said it better.

Spread The Love. It's Easier To Find The Right Place Now.

THE BIG O.T.

Modern pop music is nothing more than an ad jingle with tits. Designed for nothing more than to be a vehicle around which 5FM can stuff in as many corporate advertisements as possible. Integrity be damned. Melody, harmony and an intelligent eloquence, on top of stirring chord progressions, are all but dead. Now it's about how you can portray yourself as stereotypically or as absurdly as possible while trying not to reveal that your "music" is nothing more than a collection of primal, sampled beats. Congratulations, you have successfully taken everything ever done to refine one of the greatest art forms on earth, by everyone from Bach to Zappa, and brought it full circle back to the stone age when troglodytes banging on rocks was considered worthy of attention. Considering the outcome of it all is similar, I'd say that's a fair comment, wouldn't you say? Yes, I'm talking to you, dragging your "bitch" back to your "crib"...

The thing that confounds me, though, is that as much as the vast majority of people on the planet like to think of themselves as "above average" consumers of modern culture, this shit is still allowed to dictate trends. Everyone is all like "Oh, this is shit!" Then to whom are the programme directors, record companies and the like pandering? Or are they merely banking on our spineless society and hoping McDonalds will keep paying their exorbitant ad subs? Talk about apathetic subjugation...

So... has anyone heard about the Twitter-splosion following the crowning of a new Miss 'Murica? She is apparently of Native American extraction and is clearly too un-white to be declared the most beautiful woman in the country. If I were these people, I'd refer myself back to the lovely young ladies who have already gone some distance to proving how clever white girls in pageants can be...
How can a nation be so arrogantly arse-headed? My views on 'Murica are not only well documented, but shared by just about anyone on the planet that isn't a dungaree sportin' cousin fucker. It's like the Afrikaner who refuses to accept that apartheid is a thing of the past and was perhaps a bit of a kak idea. The kind of person who refuses to integrate into our wonderfully diverse cultural stew, preferring to remain indoctrinated in a culture based solely on crocheted condoms and handshakes designed to turn your bones to powder.

Anyway, enough of this negativity. Unless of course, you'd enjoy reading my considered opinion on everyone's favourite poodlerockers, Nickelback. You don't? I thought not. That's one drum that's been banged with far too much monotony. The guy can't help the way he looks. Well, he can, but maybe he has problems. Don't judge. Lest ye be judged yourself. Or unless you agree with me that their particular brand of smug schmaltz-rock can fuck off. Now instead of paying what is no doubt a Nigerian Prince's ransom to bring merely another band who has long since reached its sell-by date (and should never have been allowed to poison us with their putrid banality in the first place), Gary Cool gone and done a thing. I don't know the bloke. My first impression of anyone involved directly with that other smarmy motherfucker's blog/radio station/general wankery, is not a favourable one. But he seems like a genuinely legit cat. And he is attempting to have a dream of mine come to life. I want The Boss to sing "Born In The RSA" live. Right here! In MY country!

Although he may be too white, eh Julius? Perhaps extradition to the US of A would be appropriate punishment for your next transgression... If only US of A wasn't so difficult to spell. You'd fit right in. They have rampant morbid obesity, they're dumber than rocks, and they celebrate brash, thoughtless, dangerous rhetoric. You'll never beat Comrade Zuma, but you might just have a shot at the White House. Now, toddle off.

And finally... On to that happy news I was trying to get to. United won. Chelsea lost. And Shitty dropped 2 points. Life is once again on an even keel.

NGDG: It's a mystery, wrapped in an enigma... No it's Churchill's cigar and scotch-torched tastebuds trying to make sense of turduken.

Spread The Love. This Ain't Amistad.

I'M SO GLAD I'M BETTER THAN YOU.

Michael Gira should just be put in charge of the world.

Oh, and before I forget. To all these Middle Eastern child-bride-taking, so called traditionalist, paedophile, minor molesting, detestable halfmen rapist cunts! What the FLYING FUCK is wrong with you? Surely any modicum of common sense or decency should set off big fucking red warning alarms in your opium addled minds! It's a fucking child, for fuck's sake! You sick piece of shit! Close your eyes and picture your own daughter, why don't you... Oh, that's right. I forgot. You also publicly shame, torture and punish rape victims. There are too many people in this world, and whilst I will remain outraged at the unfair involvement of warmongering shitheads like those in the 'Murican government, today you get a free pass to "I don't give a shit if they blast you back to the stone age - in fact I hope they do". If it wasn't for the fact that your women and children would suffer alongside you, I'd actively fucking encourage it. Doos!

I shouldn't read the news. I really shouldn't. It upsets me no end, even when I purposely scroll down to the sports section. It seems the entire planet is hell bent on fucking up more sensationally than the next guy. And it's all pervasive. My friend, Commander Conker is looking to exchange this rat race for the simple life of a farmer out in the middle of the Karoo, tending to a small stud of horses. I think he may be onto something. Although I have a sneaking suspicion it may also have to do with the fact that he's stuck in Tableau Voi. Off the grid and out of the loop? Sounds idyllic right now.

In a rather more pleasant twist on the "fuck this world" narrative, I have rediscovered the 'Is It Just Me Or Is Everything Kak?' series of books. I was given them as a gift a number of years back and have dusted them off for some very enjoyable number 2 chortles. Thanks KJ!

And moving swiftly back to the Voi, because most people are stuck in its inexorable tractor beam death grip, I found myself in the neighbourhood last night for Commander Conker and Rose Thorn's auspicious Dinner Club Hosting Debut. Wow! What a spread! We were treated to some top notch gourmet shit! I hope they realise they're getting plain ol' spagbol when it's my turn... Anyway, a great time was had by all, quaffing wine around the table and talk-shrieking kak for a few hours. Bravo.

And as the weekend approaches, bringing with it the prospect of after-work-football and planned braais and nights out, the weather decides to switch moods and become a suitable Friday the 13th backdrop. So, to one and all: have an awfully sinister day. If you get home and your partner has left the hockey mask or some type of hedge trimmer casually lying around, get the fuck out as fast as your stumpy little legs will carry you and don't look back.

Oh, and one last thing. Fuck the SABC. "We can't (won't) pay thousand of local and international writers their royalties (an internationally accepted legal obligation) because we don't have the money. So pay your TV Licence. It's the right thing to do." Um, one point five billion whats?

NGDG: I cannot believe that in this day and age there are still people running around in white hoods with burning tapers, proclaiming their antiquated ideology at isolated gatherings in the forest. At least wedding season is over for another year.

Spread The Love. You Know, Like Responsible Consenting Adults.

DEATH IS EVERYWHERE

There are flies on the windscreen. Tuck your eyes into your pants. Do the dance with no pants. As if no one is watching. Fuck like you're being filmed. Etc.

Also, there's that brilliant new video with Hannah Montana in it. Innit? There is nakedness. There is nudity and gratuitous grinding. There is lewd and lascivious licking of a hammer in all sorts of suggestive ways. There is also indignation and outrage. How dare that sweet kid emblazoned on my child's lunchbox grow up and discover how good fucking feels? How dare she further her career using her (rather limited) sex appeal? It's not like pop starlets haven't been doing the exact same thing since before Samantha Fox... Here's a thought. YOUR daughter is doing it as well. In dark corners of seedy clubs. In bathroom stalls. At house parties under your nose. It's this realisation that has everyone freaked out. I hope one day when I am all growned up and have a child that it is a boy. With role models like these for his female school chums, he should have far less hassles getting laid than his dear old dad.

But seriously, there is real life horror and tragedy to deal with. Why fixate on what some wiry little tit is getting up to on her video? There is sadness and atrocity of such terrible proportion and monolithic magnitude that not even a biblical shitstorm would stand up to it. It is travesty of such immeasurable depths that no amount of consoling or comfort can ever right the diabolical wrongs...
Sabretooth have announced their demise. Bam! Another nail in the coffin of the local music scene. Their style, flare and omnipotent hair will be sorely missed. Isn't it ironic (go on, you did that in your Alanis voice...) that the very first time I've read a proper description of their music, it's in their obituary on Metal4Africa. "Retro-metal". That's the bunny! So, as with all good things, this too must come to an end. Farewell, gentlemen! It's been great. May your future endeavours endear you to us all as much as your Sabretooth shenanigans and music did.

I suppose I have to go back a little. I've been absent again. Did your heart grow fonder? No wonder Jane took to aerobics...

Let's see, what have I been up to?

Myself and the lads were involved in an epic photoshoot for the band (well, one of the bands...) I can't wait to be able to show you all the results. I can't wait to see the results myself. Much fun was had. Well, that's not entirely true. Dr Benway, who was the photographer, had all sorts of interesting ideas about us standing in Bilharzia puddles. I'm hopeful that his madness does in fact have some method to it...

I had a terrible case of the ManFlu as well. I was almost dead. Misery had a new poster child last week, but I couldn't take time off work, since it is our every-six-month busy period. I can't imagine how normal people do this week in and week out.

I've also been putting all my efforts into figuring out my new phone. Yes, I've finally converted to the 21st century and got myself one of those glass snooker tables that can read the interwebs. I'm getting quite adept at the swipey-flicky, if only so that when I'm seen in public squinting at my phone over my protruding tongue, I lessen the comedic visage by appearing to know what I'm doing.

A lot of other stuff has happened - none of which I can remember right now. The one thing of almighty importance though, was the birthday of one Tarty Farty Tequila Party. We lunched on roast - as you do on a wintry Sunday afternoon. It was glorious. I am infinitely grateful, however, that I managed to escape the festivities before the real boozing started. Happy Birthday, Tarty!

Anyway, everybody out there in interweblands, have a great day! With any luck, my life will take a turn to the less mundane and I'll have something interesting to write about.

NGDG: Maybe now that Russell Brand reminded us all of the link between Hugo Boss and the Nazis someone will fix the evidently erroneous sub-heading in the wikipedia entry for Hugo Boss: "Shit from Union Manufacturing".

Spread The Love. Send The Bitch A Miley Face. Bitches Love Miley Faces.

TURN LOOSE THE SWANS

Free the puppies?

Unleash the dogs of war! That sort of thing. The new Ramfest line up has been published. Or, at least the international acts that have been booked. So far we are set to be entertained by none other than Killswitch Engage and Trivium. Prepare for the barrage of righteous indignation and people who know better despite their infancy in the industry...

... but hark! What is this?

As the late Karen Carpenter would say: "There's a kind of hush..."

Could it be that the bands have met the variety of criteria necessary to warrant the stamp of approval? Could it be that everyone agrees? Not one meme about it one way or the other yet... It's particularly eerie on FacialBoobs. (Watch now, as soon as I want to post this, one or other vapid vandal will have something to say...) Well if no one else is going to complain about something, then I may as well. Well, not "complain" as such... It's just that I realised the other day that I have lots of opinions on music related subjects and not enough people have been exposed to my particular brand of lascivious logic. So here, something over which to pore while you slurp down lunch:

Music - Art or Industry?

Flogging A Dead Horse - The Music Industry Today

Give You A Gun. Blow Me Away

A Noteworthy Note Of Note

I'm going to write a book one day. Not the great American Novel. I believe Twain beat everyone to it and the current edition would just read "Kill, Fuck, Maim For Oil!" No, I'm going to bring out a literary tome detailing the modern music industry. It will speak of the ups and downs, the ins and outs, and the seedy underbelly of an art form gone wrong. I think I'll call it "Tweetin' And Twerkin' - For Tweenage Twerps".
I know what you're thinking. You're thinking "why on earth is he giving that shit even more undeserved airtime?" Well, it's like this. I am so disheartened and disgusted by the depths to which modern musicians have to sink - in order to get somewhere - that I tend to fixate. Take Die Antwoord. No please! Just take them.
I like to think of myself as somewhat of a purist. I'd take Adele over Allysa Milano any day if it were purely for recording a voice. But then I remember Cristina Scabbia and the world is once more whole. Fuck the Butcher Babies. That's all they're good for. Hannah Montana - you fucking amateur...

Ok, I'm going now. Being ill with the plague is taxing and I need to conserve my strength for at least one or two more barbed responses. Also, there's this pesky work thing.

NGDG: I must be very liberal because the only thing I find disturbing about a girl with a lolling tongue mock-masturbating with a huge foam finger is that she looks eerily like Robin Thicke when he sits down with his crayon to write lyrics.

Spread The Love. Take My Scars.