THE ANNUAL MALCOHOLOCAUST

Excitement abounds! I am on leave as of 4pm this afternoon as I gear up to celebrate the passing (like death, not like gas) of another year. I'm closer to death, and closer to finally finding out which side of the religious debates that rage on FaeceBoobs turns out to be the right one. Damn I hope I chose wisely. Anyway, I hope to go pretty soon, and wake up with such an afterlife hangover that it really doesn't matter which side won.

That might happen this Sunday, although it may dent the plans for the rest of the weekend.

Specially flying in for this most auspicious occasion is the South African version of Dr Rockso. He does cocaine. He also happens to be my derailed Cuz from up Norff. We share a birthday, so it's a double barrelled birthday celebration. We share a surname, which doesn't quite explain the vast gulf in class, but at least explains the fact that a lot of people think we're both quite clever chaps. We share a disdain for lesser mortals. Of which there are many. Obviously if you cracked an invite to this party, you are within the minuscule elite that is not beneath our contempt.

Yet there are still some people who haven't bothered indicating their intentions on the FaeceBoobs event. Yes, yes, I know. RSVPing is gay. Like place settings at dinner parties and playlists with Abba on them. But I need to know who to be upset with when they don't pitch and I'm left cradling DrHellCuz's drooling head in my lap as I comfort him through his drug induced meltdown. Someone else will have to bring Nine Inch Nails. I believe that's the accepted soundtrack for that sort of thing. You know, general disappointment and swaying back and forth hugging your knees...

Or. We could do what we do every year and test the physical limits of our livers, kidneys and senses of humour. Yup, that sounds infinitely better.

That's if Daft Rob doesn't pitch up on Friday night again, a day early for the party. Robin, we are having a potjie on Friday night. You are not invited, although after last time my parents would probably love another evening being regaled with outlandish tales of the absurd. Just don't wear your Winnie The Pooh costume again.

And, if I don't die, we're going to have Sunday roast with Rose Thorn. Whoohoo!

But first it's the Brother-In-Awe's birthday din dins tonight. All rather civilised compared to the Star Wars party he had on the weekend. Everyone was like, "Ah I see your Schwartz is as big as mine!"
And the inevitable panicked rush to get the house in some presentable state for the descending of the masses. Its permanent state of mid-renovation has to be hastily under rug swept yet again to accommodate guests. I hope no one sits on the new kitchen counters - they're liable to collapse.

Anyway, onward and upward. One more hour and it's beer o'clock. I have been informed that this is normal practice.

Oh, and did I mention the Swans have announced the imminent release of a new studio album. I think I soiled myself this morning when I heard. No, really...

NGDG: "Don't think about a blue tree! bluetreebluetreebluetree. Don't look at pictures of the cannibal victim's half eaten face! Curse you, insubordinate inclinations."

Spread The Love. Happy Birthday, Mr President!

DEVIL MAY CARE...

...attitude. It's all in the attitude. Like some days I wonder what the fuck is going on in some youngster's head when I see them macking the ladies. (I believe that's the term, although I should probably spell it sans vowels to up my credibility as a commentator on the social ineptitude of the young and horny.) There they stand all sheepish angst, oily and spotty, designer jeans keeping their ankles warm or sometimes exposing nothing but their ankles, taunting some young girl with the shrill assertion that they are in fact some version of an alpha dog. How any self respecting girl can fall for the thinly veiled uncertainty is beyond me. Add to that the fact that it's become nothing more than a Jack Parow lookalike contest and it's not surprising young girls are forced to look beyond their age peers.

I'm giving away my age by denouncing high fashion, am I?

I disagree. There are many kids out there that dress more sensibly. Take metal fans for example. With the exception of Cape Town's only hipster metal band, the general attire is jeans and metal tshirt, something I personally consider far more appropriate. And whilst they are pretty much in the same boat when it comes to the high pitched, broken serenade which passes for chatting up a likely lady, at least they do so without looking like blind, retarded tits.

Anyway, I think I went a bit off topic here. I wanted to discuss "attitude". Especially when it comes to selling yourself. For whatever purpose other than slavery, if sex is supposed to be involved or not. I was having a conversation with someone the other day about confidence and that sort of thing, me naturally blathering on about the subject like some self appointed sultan of savvy. It transpires that the opposite sex responds rather favourably to the right dose of confidence. I suppose not looking like Steve Buscemi helps as well.

This all also applies to things like job interviews, because what is a pick up line if not the precurser to a job interview anyway?
You're judged on a checklist of qualities the other party is looking for if they are to make any sort of commitment. Even a one night stand constitutes some form of commitment, at least for a few short hours, so how you present yourself it pretty much important all the time. And how you present yourself has just as much to do with your ability to converse without bashfully sagging into a red-faced heap or spazzing out if it doesn't go according to the plan. The plan should be that there is no plan. Whilst you may have an obvious agenda, it is best to take things as they come and go with it. How many movies have you seen where some dopey wanker follows the ridiculous advice of his friend after a heartfelt pep talk in the bathroom before boldly going where no man has ever succeeded before? But treat people the way you'd like to be treated - approach someone as an equal - and you'll be surprised at the results, in your personal life and your professional one.

So the rules are simple:

1. Smile, not like you're packing chloroform, just nice and easy.
2. Stand up straight.
3. Be yourself, unless you're a complete moron. Then don't leave the house.
4. Don't challenge the boobs to a staring contest. (How did I EVER get a girlfriend?)
5. Try to avoid witty repartee if that sort of thing doesn't come naturally to you.
6. Don't be too dejected if she makes you work to get her number, this isn't pornland, she isn't going to shriek "Do me, cowboy!" because you brushed against her elbow. The mere fact that she's still talking to you should indicate that she's seeing where this is going.
7. Do none of the above if she is standing in the shade of her fridge-sized boyfriend.
8. Do not debase the conversation with below the belt or suggestive vulgarity. (Seriously! How the fuck did I ever get chicks?)
9. Wear trousers at the height for which they were designed.
10. Be at ease and comfortable with who you are, then so will they. Although you might want to temper the high fiving brotherly act - lest ye be friendzoned...

Basically, whilst being a grown up has its obvious draw backs, we get laid a lot more often. So act like a kid, but if you want to do grown up stuff like put your winky in a nice girl, you have to start with the grown up approach to it and treat people with respect, including yourself.

Don't ask me where this all came from. I was going to write about lamb & veg Cup-a-Soup. I'm not in charge here.

NGDG: "One of the times one regrets colour-coding one's books, is when on cannot locate one's Jerome K Jerome."

Spread The Love. Have A Good Attitude.

ONLY ONE MAN WOULD DARE GIVE ME THE RASBERRY!

So. It's Monday. After having spent 90% of yesterday in bed, I still feel like my body, mind and liver require a full week of recovery. JUST the way I like it!

I knew Saturday was going to be heavy. So I stayed in on Friday. True to form it was the earliest night of the week.

So Saturday rolled on in with the weight of expectation and before I could wipe out my eyes, it had gotten into full swing. First up was lunch with the ever effervescent Tarty Farty Tequila Party. We took 3 wrong turns but eventually rectified our horrifying lack of historical knowledge and culture by finding the parking lot at the Rhodes Memorial. The restaurant snuggled in behind this impressive testament to one of England's foremost supporters of colonisation is quaint and very inviting, and has unbeatable views. The food is very traditional and was perfect winter fare. Being shown to our reserved table in front of the indoor fire, we enjoyed the awesome food, booze and company. Too much as it turned out. I almost had to be rolled out of there...

But things needed to be done, so after beating a leisurely retreat, I met my dad back home for a spot of installing kitchens. Having successfully covered every square inch of surface in a healthy layer of sawdust, it was time to get my arse hurriedly to Mercury where I was in danger of being late for my DJ set. The event was World Goth Day. The problem with playing the first set of the night is people are only starting to arrive and haven't got enough liquor in them yet. I played an amazing set, to very little physical appreciation. Luckily as more people made their way inside via the bar, the more seemed to take an interest in the result of all my standing there pushing a button every 4 minutes. By the time I had cued up my last 3 songs, the dancefloor was full of swooning bodies, all bedecked in their black leather 'n' lace splendour.

The reason I had to play the early set was because I needed to be in Marina Da Gama. For a Star Wars themed party. For the Brother-In-Awe's birthday. At the risk of going into too much detail, just imagine a bunch of party-party-party nerds, free booze and a variety of light sabres. And a Death Star shaped cake...

The next morning was sheer hell. I had to drive with my head at a rakish angle to keep the Hot Girlfriend's sunglasses from falling off my face as I drove directly into the rising sun on our way home. The rest of the day was a write off.

And now I need a lie down...

NGDG: "I got lost in Parkhurst, lost in the Northgate Dome. If I ever accidentally enter a forest that's tickets for me for sure, no matter how much urine there is in the flask."

Spread The Love. It's The Drug.

FRIDAY FRIVOLITY - ON A SCALE OF IRREVERENT TO... THE PLUCKY PRIEST.

This is one FUCKING GREAT POSTER.

Once again, well done to Stephen Green Designs.

Lots of excitement! LOTS of excitement! Metal4Africa have just announced the line-up for their biannual metal festival. Winterfest '12 promises to be one to remember, not least because me, myself and my fancy pants are going to be parading around on the stage. Yes folks, the toight trousers will once again be dusted off (read: procured from Wolf Clothing) and worn unashamedly as I - along with the other 4 maniacs that comprise the industrial metal explosion known as AXXON - attempt to test the adhesive quality of the bits between your face and your skull. Your ears will be mercilessly murderlized and your eyes will not believe the stimuli flowing into them. For one thing, you'll probably wonder how someone this old can fit into pants that tight...

This impacts on my usual routine, though. It is with some pride that I have managed to establish a tradition of being lavishly lathered at every one of Metal4Africa's festivals. For obvious reasons, this will not be the case come the 28th of July. The things I do for you people! The sacrifices I have to make!

So. In an unrivalled attempt at making up for said impending sobriety, I feel it necessary to pre-emptively test my capacity for alcohol consumption. We'll start at the Brother-In-Awe's birthday party tomorrow night. Which is directly after World Goth Day at Mercury, at which I am Djing, but lamentably have to skedaddle as soon as I am done. At least I might avoid the swift facepalms Slappy is usually handing out this time.

Then next weekend is my birthday. And that of "Twinzie" as well as the good "DrHellCuz". He's making a special trip from Joburgville to celebrate our special day together. We're going to take the cable car up The Mountain and then a few selected guests will be in attendance at the annual Malcoholocaust that evening.
Aaaawwwwww...

Busy, busy, busy...
June/July is to birthdays what January/February is to weddings. I have to attend a birthday party every weekend for the next 2 months. Seems Spring time really is the best time for lovin'. Good thing I gracefully exited the gift swopping habit earlier this year.

If I manage to keep body and soul tenuously together by the end of it all, I shall have to consider a serious de-tox. Let's hope it doesn't come to that. I hate when I lie to myself.

Anyway, as we bid adieu to another week, please keep safe on the roads and in the sack. Stay warm and don't do anything I wouldn't. Which includes, but not exclusively, flying a copper kite in this wintry weather.

NGDG: "I just paid over R500 for a book of Konstantin Paustovsky's stories. Addictive little drugs. I'd be a millionaire by now if I had the good fortune to be illiterate."

Spread The Love. Under The Covers.

GIVE A DOG A BONE

With thanks to the Larst Viking.

Not quite like the Southpark episode where the 4 boys take turns to play with the dog's pink lipstick, but close...

I meant to write "Give it a rest..." but that just came out and I don't have the patience or inclination to change it. Fuck! How much more of this ridiculous "dick pic" nonsense must we the South African public, have to put up with? We're bombarded with it on every platform, be it social satire or serious news. I thought these kinds of adolescent pictures were the mating ritual of ill educated, teenage Chatroulette fiends in the USA... For fuck's sake apparently the defence attorney for King Ding(gaan)aling broke down in an emotion flow of tears in the court. Whilst, get this, urgently seeking an interdict against anyone in the Universe showing the picture that has already been censored/defaced/had the rude bit covered up.
I feel like saying "Quit 'Stalin' and get on with service delivery..."

And yes, I realise the irony of writing and complaining about people writing about it. At least I've stopped giving JuJu blogspace. Fuck, there I went and gave him some. It's a good thing he's not a Southpark character. Cartman would have a field day with him...

Anyway, onto more mundane subjects. The radio is on in the office. It is the latest in a series of unwarranted punishments meted out on us under the guise of "getting more in touch with the industry". Balls! It's cruel and unusual punishment. Being in the music industry was cool as long as I was allowed to spew my aloof and condescending viewpoints from the safe distance of a handy nearby cliff (NOT Gareth, who knows about as much as the sink in my kitchen). A place so far removed from the autotuned dross the public feeds on that claiming superiority was entirely unnecessary. A place reserved for the informed few. Those of taste and culture.

I just had my ears raped by "Aaaaaaah, no!" Carstens and a lovely little ditty composed on his iPhone using the dubstep app. No doubt on the toilet. No wonder the greats are dying off. It's obviously a last gasp (terminal) attempt to escape the noise pollution.

To be fair, the criticism levelled at what constitutes pop music these days should in equal amounts be dished out to the makers of more alternative music as well, lest you think me biased. Just because your mom can afford to buy you some speaker monitors to go with the pc in your bedroom doesn't mean you have the inherent right to write and record music. If at first you don't succeed, by all means, try, try again. But please. For fuck's sake. Apply some common sense and listen to the product carefully and preferably as objectively as possible before deciding it's good enough to paste it all over the intrawebnets. I mean, really!

And on that note, it is once again time to Neal before the ever erudite Goldwyer:
NGDG: "Owing to the pestilential fug that is the winter Highveld atmosphere, I have been forced to wear my dickhead glasses. No one has said anything negative. Maybe I am the only person who hates popular culture after all."

Spread The Love. I See A Dick Pic And I Want To Paint It Black!

HUMP DAY

I have to say I'm thoroughly disappointed to have found out this refers to the apex of the week. "It's all downhill from here..." doesn't quite make up for the fact that today isn't recognised as a certified day of obligatory coitus. Actually come to think of it, most days should be so. Just saying.

As it is I have a date with a 12 year old this evening. Her name is, strangely enough, Johnny. As in "Johnny Walker Black Label". And this is all happening whilst I watch The Sing-Gher replace more of my kitchen's plumbing and then attempt to re-write history by penning the best song ever written. I'm hoping the 12 year old helps...

Anyway, here I sit waiting for a meeting. The fact that this meeting is with a band - whilst falsely instilling in you a belief that I am cool - is sending the familiar cold feeling of dread down my spine. I hate meetings. And bands are notoriously late. Well, this lot is anyway. So I sit and blog.

In other band related news, Ramfest has confirmed the dates for next year already. Cape Town, ready yourself for 3 days of mind bending debauchery (yes, they have returned to the much loved 3 day festival format) from 7 - 10 March 2013. Hallelujah! Can't wait for that hungover contentedness one can only experience with 3 days of smelly grime embedded in every crevice...

Let the speculation and ranting about the line up commence!

So I was reading this article earlier - quite enjoyed it actually. Thanks to LordDoom for linking this, the last word on the Zuma Penis Portrait Debacle. I wonder why everyone is being so prickly about it...

NGDG: "Just leave me to my spreadsheets and my Maylene and no one gets hurt."

Spread The Love. Under Will.

CHAIRMAN MEOUW.

A while ago, it transpires, a few of my friends started quietly competing with each other by sending me pictures that they thought had a chance of being used in my blog posts. It's certainly flattering and most definitely taken a burden off my already overloaded shoulders.

Who am I attempting to kid? A daily blogger, by the very definition of the beast, is someone with too much time on their hands...

Anyway, today's beautiful pussy throne is one such submission. And perfect for today's purposes, as it turns out. Because as convenient as the subject is as a default fall back when you have nothing else to discuss, I thought perhaps I'd like to crush a few glorified perceptions of myself by writing a revealing piece about some of my less attractive qualities. In other words, am I the King Of The Pussy Throne...?

Right, the time is now 12:12pm Tuesday afternoon...

Time to roll up my sleeves and get down to listing the things I don't like about myself...

Ok, perhaps if I had lunch I could more clearly illustrate my point.

12:19pm Tuesday afternoon...

Still nothing...

Oh wait a minute! No, thought I had something. Sorry...

12:37pm Tuesday afternoon...

Oh yes, I'm mortally terrified of birds.

And...

Ag screw this, I give up.

12:44pm Tuesday afternoon.

Does an unhealthy obsession with boobs count as something negative?

Hey, I finally thought of something! I was informed earlier that the beard gained me man points. My obvious retort was that I didn't need any. A scathing reply - something about typical response - was issued. I think I'll go home and find a lumberjack shirt, just to be sure. I'll show them! But at least that means there are people out there that think I need improving upon...

Ok, so I can't think of anything about myself that I don't like or would change or that could possibly be seen as a weakness or a flaw. Sue me.

In other equally important news, last night I was once again treated to awesome lasagne courtesy of The Hot Girlfriend. See, everything about my life rocks.
Also, it is officially World Goth Day. Happy World Goth Day!
Watch this space for details of the official event this weekend.

NGDG: "Jacob Zuma will just have to admit, as must we all, that he's no Michael Fassbender."

Spread The Love. The Greatest Love Of All.