Archive for August, 2010

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Pop sugar bunnies and braiiins!


2010
08.30

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Posted in Music, Pop Culture | 4 Comments »

Bunny shaped sugar lumps

Who's been a bad bunny? You? Right...

Today had a sweetly twisted flavour to it… In fact, as I speak, I’m watching an NCIS agent carry a dead and bleeding rat by the tail up a staircase in an abandoned ship… Yes, all the crew have mysteriously disappeared. And I’m betting Ebola or some other dodgy bloody death is about to happen. One can but hope.

But I digress. Things actually started out with bunny-shaped sugar cubes. I love it when people know what makes me tick! I don’t know where I can actually buy these, but I need to find out. It could be a whole new spin on the eating-a-Caramello-bear-procedure: first dunk the ears, then the head, watch the sugary droplets melt into your tea… PC bunny death by boiling water!

And then it got better. I saw the trailer for The Walking Dead, director Frank Darabont‘s new zombie TV series adapted from the monthly comic book by Robert Kirkman and Tony Moore. It’s launching in the US on Halloween this year. And it will rock. “The sun ain’t gonna shine anymore….”

So all this day needed was a soundtrack… And okay, I admit: Amy Meredith is not the type of music that would necessarily suit a zombie apocalypse. Well, maybe an upbeat one. But this Australian band’s sheer glorious poppiness have been making me awfully happy ever since my Sydney-based friend sent me one of those magical things called care packages. And in it, a copy of their first album, Restless. I love it madly.

Amy Meredith band

Camping? Billabongs? Nah...

I was first introduced to their music when said Sydney friend passed me a link to first single Pornstar. And it only got better. They’re all catchy hooks and showy lyrics and bubbles. There’s a tiny bit of Metro Station and a pinch of The Bravery worked in there somewhere. Lying has a brilliant music video (which I was lucky enough to see before Sony Music blocked South African access to their vids. Doesn’t it just make you totally de moer in?*), Young At Heart is a killer song, Carry On gets you belting along at the top of your lungs, and Late Nights has been driving me totally insane trying to figure out which old-school track they sampled. I know it for sure and it’s on the tip of my tongue all the time, and actually SO recognizable: “nah nananananah na nananananah…” I’d appreciate it if someone could put me out of my misery and give me the name!

So all in, a good day for wonderful pop cheesiness. I’m happy.

* On a random point of misery: I would have linked to their YouTube vids, except that their official videos are now blocked. General YouTube vids are recordings of live shows and acoustic sessions, it doesn’t always give you the full idea, but you can give it a go. Check out their MySpace page to get a taste of the music. But it is incredibly annoying. And a debate I’ll probably get into on another day.

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War of the words


2010
08.28

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Sticks and stones? Harmless. But words? Those little fuckers will stick to your skin like burrs, itching and scratching and eventually causing little calluses on your psyche.

It’s like the story I was told recently about the management conference gone wrong after an icebreaker game called “tin of shame”. Delegates had to write what they really thought about their colleagues on slips of paper and put it in a tin. It was then read out loud by the facilitator. The words spoken became the elephant in the room that eventually overshadowed everything: who said that about me? You? Why? Is that really what you think? Things quickly degenerated into a tense mess of furtive glances and frustrated allegations.

Same with when friends and lovers fight. We don’t take care of what we say. And we might make up or break up, forgive and forget… But words tend to stick around. And eventually, we have little careless word societies that set up shop in our heads. Fuck off. Screw You. You bitch. You’re weak. You’re selfish. You’re a child. Grow up.

It’s funny how the good stuff that is said doesn’t really stick with us. But something bad? Baby, those have got staying power.

I think after a while most of us have these clouds of words that we drag around behind us like a balloon on a string. Our perceptions of ourselves and others just become these big masses of words. They shape us and we feed on them.

I suppose the trick is to hang onto the good stuff. Hopefully, you’re lucky. Hopefully, your cloud is, on balance, positive words.

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The joys of owning a house…


2010
08.19

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I’ve never realized how much I value my private space until my home got invaded by a bunch of builders. It was a necessary evil: a 70-year-old roof that’s never been maintained and finally decided that now, shortly after we had bought it, was the time to start acting up. Chicken Little wasn’t kidding when he said the sky was falling. We’d lie awake listening to the resident rat in the roof, hoping he wouldn’t scurry too far up the beams and bring the whole structure crashing down around our ears.

So lots of tears, anger at the previous owners (with their stupid predilection for blue carpeting, wobbly ladders and their apparent lack of maintenance skills, now simply know as Them Damn Germans) and pleading at the feet of various moneylenders later, and we have a new roof.

We also have a cracked ceiling in the lounge, flattened spring flowers (My sweet peas! My jasmine! My pansies!), constant headaches due to hammering and dust (there’s asbestos up there, I’m telling you!) and a disturbing lack of toilet paper. Apparently, builders need to use the toilet many times during a day at regular intervals. In fact, they were so busy using the toilet it’s a wonder the roof got built. They queued, I tell you! I’m thinking they eat too much Special K.

And, of course, we are now also deeper in debt than ever. And not one new curtain, scatter cushion, paint job, decorative cornice, new light fitting, or item of furniture to show for it. Just a roof that won’t fall down in, say, the next three years. How prosaic.

Three years is also how long the warranty on the roof lasts. I’m betting that three years plus one day is how long it takes for Jozi’s first hurricane to come say hi.

It didn’t help that I got knocked down by an infernal monster from hell aka the common cold during this period of building. The fever dreams I had while tossing to the sound of their incessant hammering… And since we’re not big believers in curtains at our place, a builder probably got an eyeful. Well, an eyeful of a moaning, groaning lump of white duvet and loads of snotty tissues, at the very least.

Anyway… I must confess: my kneejerk reaction in times of physical or mental stress is to verbalise lots of negative feelings and lash out at the people closest to me. Ultimately, I get over it, because the gears in my brain start moving into problem-solving mode from the moment I’m faced with a challenge… Only problem is, my mouth also motors into action. It’s like I can’t move on to solve something until I’ve got rid of all the noise in my head. So a few of my people have had a rough time of it… And I’m thinking I’ll need to bake some cupcakes to apologise.

I should probably give the builders some cupcakes too, just to show willing. Hopefully it makes whichever one of them is planning to come rob us in two months’ time think twice. (Stereotype much? Yep.). But I’m not giving them bran muffins. Something tells me they don’t need the extra fiber.

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Ode to the Common Cold


2010
08.17

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Giant microbes from Vestal Design

No, they're not cute, they're horrible. But you can buy them at giantmicrobes.com.

You insinuated yourself into the graveyard shift of my dreams, creeping up through the perfectly respectable vampires doing their perfectly understandable bloodsucking thing… At first, I thought you to be just an eerily physical side effect of said dreams. But no… First a tickle, then a scratch, and I woke up at an unholy hour with the full and terrible knowledge of your existence: a sore throat. Literal pain in my neck, you stupid vampiric life form.

Things went quickly downhill from there… The weakness, sneezing, nasal drip drip drip like a leaky faucet… And I know how it will play out. The fever dreams with Lady Marmalade as the chosen soundtrack – on repeat; the piles of tissues collecting like a snotty army of darkness; the bleary-eyed struggle to focus on my computer screen (damn us workaholics); the red and tender skin around my nose; the wheezing cough and gurgling struggle to breathe; the extra-hard nudges in the ribs as my snores reach epic proportions; the tasteless food that awaits me…

You’ll keep me from my masochistic training sessions, you’ll cause others to look at me in disgust and vague pity… I’ll overdose on ginger and lemon tea and vitamin C, I’ll schnarf down Med-Lemon and eat Corenza C raw. I’ll be unkissable, unhuggable, a pathetic lump of coughs and curses.

Eventually, you’ll wend your way to some other unfortunate soul, probably those with their desks closest to mine. And I’ll start feeling marginally better.

But wait, shall we test if the monster is really dead? Let’s. I’ll climb those stairs and they’ll find me halfway to the top, collapsed from lack of strength in my noodlish limbs and lack of air in my refried lungs.
I won’t even get a plaque in my memory. Probably just a lonely tissue left lying in the corner…

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A fisheye view…


2010
08.15

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So my first batch of lomography photography has been developed, with mixed results. Clearly I have a few things I still need to learn, like how to move the film on properly, when the flash is useful, where the sun is in the sky when I’m taking the pic… But I’m loving the results. Some of the pics have a real faded vintage feel to them. Looking forward to loads more experiments! Some pics below…

Peroni, a black, white & brown patchy cat, reclining on a bed. Fisheye view!

Her Royal Highness Queen Peroni doing what she does best: reclining.

A man wearing a bear mask passed out on the grass during Oppikoppi 2010.

The Teddy Bears' picnic got a bit out of hand at Oppikoppi this year...

A brown chicken at the zoo.

Chicken Little's meeting with Farmer Brown was set to go well...

Mea, a pretty blonde toddler, posing on a rock at the zoo.

Mea. Just the most beautiful thing ever.

Close-up of Jasmine in bloom with house and blue sky in the background.

This is suburbia.

A huge blow-up yellow Octopus floating in a pool

Cthulhu in happier days.

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The traveller’s lament…


2010
08.14

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Stephen Jake Friedman

Stephen.

My friend Stephen Friedman lives the kind of life that some of us only dream of… A surfer, model and adventurer, he’s also working non-stop on his own television show, The Blueprint Travel Show. Stephen’s currently travelling a bit of Europe: it was supposed to be an extended break, but true to his energy and drive to DO things, he’s found himself working as he goes along. And somewhere along the way, he’s got a bit homesick… So he wrote me a bit of a traveller’s lament!

The Blueprint Travel Show: Finding my feet

“I haven’t written for a while, the reason being that I’ve been really busy… And to be honest, my mind’s been all over the place. I can’t even remember where I left off or what day it is any more. I’ve got into a routine of waking up and going to bed, and I don’t remember what’s happened in between. But over the past few days I’ve been able to think back. Basically, like older people do when they think back, back to the good old days, when prices were reasonable and politicians were honest. I’ve been taking a lot of photos… and boy, the things I have seen and done, did that really happen?!

Europe does something to you. If you come from the place where I come from, South Africa, it makes me wonder – could I ever live here? I know all my buddies will rip me off, but I heard the Waka Waka song from the World Cup and it led me to this conclusion: that I am from Africa and I’m proud to come from a country where our blood has stained the soil red. Unlike the history of Europe, which has moulded the world we live in today, but makes me feel like I’m trapped.

I know I’m supposed to write about my amazing adventures. And don’t get me wrong, I’m having an amazing time, but I’m missing the rush of crossing a road in South Africa and wondering if I’m going to get hit by a car, as compared to here where you wait for the little green man even if the road isn’t busy. You’re controlled by computers, the train arrives at this time, and leaves at this time, everything just works. Everything is very predictable; if I lived here I think they would know my time of death. Tomorrow isn’t a mystery here!

So I bet you’re reading this and asking yourself, ‘Steve, what are you doing, you’re in Europe!’ Okay. So, I will let you know that being in Europe means that you can have a breathtaking life-lesson experience, but you have to be willing to bend the rules, be spontaneous and just let go. From the amazing food, parties, music, interesting people that make Europe so unique, to some of the prettiest backdrops, from the forests and lakes of the Alps, the oceans that the great explorers sailed, to the old buildings with their history and blood-stained walls that are covered in layers and layers paint, drowning the past. Europe is unique all on its own; you just have to find your feet. I just saw snow on top of the Alps!”

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I am dead, long live Oppikoppi…


2010
08.10

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Posted in Music | 3 Comments »

Oppikoppi’s been and gone in a blur of dust, tequila-filled squeezee bottles, dirty denim shorts, green lazer-dappled trees, zebras coming out of portaloos and bands flashing manic rictus grins at the video camera in a celebration of Sexy.Crooked.Teeth. I might have also squeezed in some music somewhere, but the zebra? That was something special. Especially wondering how he/she/it got out of the costume to pee.

But this basically sums it up.

“She’ll fuck you like a hurricane.”

Now, I don’t usually take half-naked skinny emo guys whose jeans are falling halfway down their butts seriously, but Teejay was rocking it out with New Holland and their track Hurricane was spot on.

Oppikoppi will, indeed, screw you over. Physically and mentally. Once the red dust kicks in and merges with the sunburn and dregs at the bottom of your bottle (it could be anything from leftover tequila and Fanta mixed with beer and cane and maybe cream soda and fermented into a lukewarm mess) you’re in true Oppikoppi spirit. The music grabs you by the spine and pulls you along a pathway of mud and boots and passed-out people, past the grimy tents of Mordor and the dry thorn trees adorned with empty Black Label bottles and the dirty portaloos, through the trees and over green grass and then you trip and land in the perfect piece of shade… The better to chill out and watch bands from, my dear.

I learn something new at Oppi every time. And this is it.

A tent is a natural amplifier. Lie down on the blow-up mattress and you’re immediately surrounded by crystal clear surround sound. From all three stages plus the deck on the hill.

Why was I lying down in my tent while there was still actual music in the air? I guess I’m getting old.

Yes, it is possible to have a swimming pool with a blow-up octopus toy floating in it in your campsite. All I can say is that the Jose Cuervo people rock. (Shameless promotion!)

Yes, it’s possible to lodge a deckhair at the top of a very tall thorn tree. Why? Why not?

Yes, you can drink tequila for a whole weekend without actually rolling down the side of the hill and breaking a leg. How? It’s called a miracle.

And then, there’s also always highlights at Oppi… And these were it.

Albert Frost and Vusi Mahlasela. When Vusi threw back his head and pulled in that extra breath needed to raise the roof, I swear even Albert had tears in his eyes. In fact, he told me he did.

Dancing to Haezer… Dancing so hard your brain rattles loose and dances out your ears and down your arms and skips over the heads of the crowd until it reaches the stage and goes “I wanna have little Haezer babies!” And then you remember nothing more but the beat.

Looking at Sean Brand’s photos – and understanding what he means by “En ek kan nie ophou kyk nie”.

Interviewing bands at Oppi and filming some interesting moments. Like one band member misinterpreting a question and giving advice to virgins planning to lose it at Oppi… In a nutshell? Day one people, ‘cos things get diiirrty!

And then, I also always update my own personal Oppi survival guide… Which I’ll share.

Stuff a poncho/hoodie/towel at the bottom of your sleeping bag to keep your toes from freezing. Wear the rest of your clothing plus a beanie on your head. You might survive.

Repeat after me: wetwipes.

Do not drink from a stranger’s squeezee bottle.

When in doubt, have another shot of tequila.

It’s okay to just stay in camp and toast marshmallows. Yes, really.

Hipsters, hippies, emos, rockers, punks, goths, frat boys, poppies… We all smell the same once the Oppi fug sets in.

Will I go back? Honestly? Hell no*.

* This time next year I’ll be updating my survival guide. Don’t miss it.

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Women: not too bad, all things considered.


2010
08.09

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The original We Can Do It poster

Yes, we can!

Women terrify me.

Not just because I am one, and thus know first hand how twisted the female of the species can be… I’ve just never fully understood the fairer sex and, logically, myself. As a kid I spent most of my time hanging around with guys. Their company was much more interesting and uncomplicated. I was perfectly happy to swop sisterly gossip- and nail-painting sessions for midnight excursions carrying a canoe to the local dam with a bunch of gung-ho guys. (Yes, this really happened.) I wasn’t into make-up, didn’t care much for fashion if it didn’t involve a T-shirt, couldn’t defend myself against female teen bitchiness and really wasn’t interested in fighting anyone for her first-team hottie.

It wasn’t much better at varsity. The politics of maintaining a circle of close female friends drained me; I just couldn’t be bothered if there was a good book I could read instead. Besides, it was so much more fun spending time with my assorted bunch of guy friends: the geeks, the freaks, the hotties, the artists, the nice guys… I loved them all. And yes, I’m sure the constant undercurrent of sexual tension that occurs naturally (in my opinion, at least) in any boy/girl friendship just added to the fun of it all.

Not much has changed. I’m still not into tea-party conversation and the art of making a proper green salad or quiche. My mom’s horrified that my husband’s the one who buys the groceries and cooks. I still pick books over people most days. I’m not interested in running a kitchen when the braai’s the place to be, I hate getting manis and pedis, the most done-up I’ve ever been is on my wedding day and “base” isn’t make-up but a musical instrument in my head. (Yes, I know you spell it “bass”.)

But I’ve kind of come around to the idea of girls. Or women. Chicks. The fairer sex. Mostly because despite kicking against it, I’ve managed to pick up a few truly awesome female friends in my life. They’ve stuck around, too – granted, some had no choice. It’s nice to discover the warmth and fun of a bunch of women getting together. To know that this girl might look all dainty and sweet, but she’s a hellion if you harm her friends – and she has your back, too! I love how varied girls are in their thoughts and opinions, how they dress, talk, what’s important to them… I love how they hug, and how they’re not afriad to dish out some tough love when you need it. I love how they tolerate all my random bad habits and how they know that I’m not neglecting them, I’m just stuck in a typical Donnay-situation – or a book. And I love it most that they’ll hit me over the head with said book until I emerge into daylight and their companionship again.

Guys I’ve got figured out, mostly. Girls, not so much. And that’s awesome too, because it means they keep me endlessly entertained and fascinated. I’m never bored around them these days, even when we stray into typical cupcake chat… ‘Cos somewhere along the way, I’ve kind of figured out that I, too, am a girl. Or a woman. And you need your kind on your side, you know?

I’m aware of all those arguments about Women’s Day: does having a special day allocated to females just emphasise how marginalised they still are in our society? Isn’t a bit nasty to have a day for girls, but not guys? Shouldn’t everyone be celebrated equally? Perhaps, and if you catch me on another day, I’ll probably go on about how cheesy the whole idea is.

But for today, I have a few awesome women in mind who’ve stuck around… You guys rock, and you deserve a day to celebrate how awesome you are. So, in no particular order (well, except for my mom, obviously!), these are the peeps that need to get hold of a bottle of champagne and down it right now before the day’s out…

Elma aka Mom aka make-up really isn’t that important and this is why…

Meagan aka heart as big as a ten-ton truck

Margaux aka my changeling other

Mea aka littlest and cutest and most perfect girl ever

Kristia aka I know what you did the past few summers… And I love you anyway. (Read Kristia’s Women’s Day blog!)

Thea aka I knew her when she was so anti-girls… And I still stuck around.

Talita aka “Hoekom lyk jy so hartseer?”

Jennifer aka “I have a knife and I’m not afraid to use it”

Claire aka the person most likely to kick me in the head – deservedly, too

Cecile aka the gentle soul

Adrie aka the solution is just a good bottle of red wine away

Jo-Anne aka yes, we shall dance our faces off

Carla aka original air-guitar champion

Janice aka the artist within

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Who’s a pseudo-masochist then?


2010
08.02

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Some types of pain are worth it.

The crick in your neck caused by spending a morning looking for gargoyles on the pillars and cornices of the epically beautiful buildings in Jozi’s CBD, while stuck in Commissioner Street traffic. And spying a random film shoot instead, involving five black cows with scary-looking horns, patiently waiting in their tiny enclosure snuggled between two venerable sort-of skyscrapers.

The ache in your lower back and blisters on your palms after attacking the living room wall with lime-green paint and a roller, trying to reach as high as your arms can reach… And the ache in your eyes when the sun catches said wall for the first time. Green is good, people!

Knuckles and fingers that feel cracked from punching a heavy boxing bag… And elbows and knees bruised and blue from pursuing their double life as deadly weapons.

The calluses on your fingertips from hours of patiently picking away on your guitar, trying to prove to yourself (and the neighbours) that somewhere in there lies a profound musical talent just waiting to take wing and scare the Hadedas shitless.

Torn nails stained with dirt from an ill-advised gardening attempt: you have to hide them from sight for weeks before they recover.

A lovebite with the emphasis on bite, lips bruised and botoxed by kissing.

The inability to move your head, neck and shoulders after an insane night of frantically trying to prove that you can still mosh with the best of those pansy-assed teenagers…

The chafe marks and scratches on your feet and ankles after your first surfing lesson – even realizing that blood in the water attracts sharks didn’t dull the bliss of feeling so physically alive. And the sunburn and sandburn and waterburn (believe me) just heightened the experience.

The teethmarks and scratches on your hands, arms and any available extremities after a game of “who wants to catch the rat in the roof?” with Her Royal Highness Queen Peroni.

The tiny little scar that sometimes still throbs (hey, in my head, at least!) when remembering the tiny little feral cat that launched an insane psycho B-grade-monster-hellcat-attack to protect her kittens. She’s lucky I didn’t dropkick her: we fed and housed them instead.

And that choked-up feeling that hurts your heart when you suddenly just love somebody or something an awful lot. More than your body can stand. And perfect.