Stars 'n Stripes

I had a look at my sitemeter thingy, and - lo and behold - I saw these little pictures of the Stars and Stripes! Some guys (or girls) from Louisiana and somewhere else - maybe shitsplat Idaho or something - have been checking out my blog.

Welcome, guys. It's good to see your flag on that page.

Also, to the visitor from Singapore! Ni hau? (Excuse the spelling... And the Taiwanese.)

Welcome to you, too. Pleased to make your acquaintance.

Let's Face It...

They say that guys think about sex once every God-knows how often.

Is it true?

Well, yes. I'm hoping so. Otherwise, there's something incredibly wrong with me. In fact, I think I might be perverted.

But why is it that no statistics like that abound for women? Why is it people never say that women think about sex exery X amount of times? Is it for the same reasons we're told that women don't fart? (They "break wind" or "pass" it, remember.) Is it because women don't sweat (they "perspire"). And they don't belch, either.

Well, then what the hell are all those holes for if not to pass gas and, like every other mammalian species, sweat?

Now here's a pearl that you're probably going to think is a crock of bullshit - and you're welcome to believe what you want - but I, for one, feel incredibly uncomfortable when it comes to serious conversations about copulatory issues.

I remember in primary school. I was the big fish in a little pond and all that. My sister, being in Standard 4 (which, by today's educational standards, is called Grade 6 but is probably the equivalent of matric), was a few rows in front of me in the school hall. If I remember rightly, there was a bear (because it would've been too appropriate having a beaver teach your kids sex-ed) going on about something or other that we should probably only have come across at the age of 16 or so. The ursula asked a question and to my ultimate disgust and chagrin, a high-pitched voice unmistakenly that of my flesh-and-blood screamed out: "Vagina!"

I could have died. Probably should have.

Anyway, that was the first time I came across this previously unfathomed murky depth of the female psyche.

I only really became interested in the fairer sex towards the end of my matric year. Not because of anything gay - just that I had better things to do. Like get an education.

Funnily, my education only really started when my slow-blossoming interest took firm hold of my very being (it's ammusing how badly we are actually slaves to our libido, us guys).

But I would like to suggest - I had a whole argument here that really really supported my case, but would have really landed me up in major shit, so I removed it - that women are just as much slaves to theirs.

The only thing is that they're multi-taskers, so they're a hell of a lot better at hiding it.

MORE meetings...

We just hosted a rather lengthy meeting in which nothing was resolved, things were further complicated and, I'm sure, both parties left feeling slightly more confused. It's already been pointed out to me that I'm looking a bit brain dead.

Well - that's because I'm feeling a bit brain dead. It takes enormous energy, especially for someone like me who never usually minds falling asleep when it's necessary (just ask Finn - he woke me up back in varsity, when I was being kakked out for falling asleep in lectures), to pretend to look interested and to say just the right thing to make the speaker think their opinions are actually being considered.

Right now, I should be trying to get production insurance in order, but I'm not entirely sure that anything I do at the moment would be any more useful than me not doing anything.

It's passed lunchtime on a Friday, and I'm running low on Mint Imperials - my latest drug of choice to stave away boredom and dull the nicotene cravings. And, no, I'm not trying to stop.

"Stopping" is for quiters.

I'm just trying to slow down some. I'm not worried about my lungs. As far as I'm concerned, my big mouth'll probably be the end of me before cancer even has a chance to set in.

I'm worried about my wallet. Might as well be rolling up notes and smoking them directly. Although I don't think the ink's all that good for you.

I need to sit in front of my Mac again - after a long absence. I started on "The Thing That Should Not Be" ages ago, and it's been lying dormant since. That one has a lot of potential in it. My favourite scene involves a fairly detailed description of the inside of a derelict crematorium oven, with claw marks raking through the blackened, congealed fat.

The characters are pretty rounded for once - something I've really been struggling with in the short-story format. Word limits are unpleasant, definitely, but they do help you hone in on the nitty-gritty of the piece.

I like the way that sounds. Makes it sound easy.

Actually, it's pretty fucking hard - but rewarding when you finally get it right.

I still haven't waxed it.

By the way, boys (and I guess some girls), keep your wangers away from the little kiddies. The pic alongside is funny, yes, but not to be misconstrued as endorsement.

You sick bastards.

Committee Thinking... Or Lack Thereof

In the past, great tribes used to gather for huge meetings - pow wows or whatever they called it (A rose by any other name would smell as sweet, after all). The amazing thing about this was that elders, chieftains and what-nots always knew what was going on and always new better than to try organise solo pow-wows where they'd have no option but to wing it.

Enter the 21st century twit, who sets up a meeting (forgets about it), then listens to your presentation, then casually announces that this actually has nothing to do with him, but he'll pass the information on to the relevant person who will then summon you into a pow-wow, break for a committee meeting, then call you back to the pow-wow so they can decided whether it will be necessary to have another pow-wow to deliberate the finings of the previous two. Why, dear twit, do you not save me the effort and inform me of this bureacracy over the drums... I mean, phone? The same one you had plastered to your ear when you set up the original "non-meeting" meeting.

Oh well. Welcome to South Africa.

And this was at a church...

On another note, and to justify the porn reference above, it turns out getting an age restriction for a commercially-released DVD (or any film material for distribution) is actually a pain in the nutsack.

First, you have to register as a distributor. CHA-CHING!!! R 825-00.

Then, you have to apply for a bunch of government-appointment windbags to watch the film (which, by the way, also includes things such as photos intended for distribution), with no guarantee they'll approve it. CHA-CHING!!! R 1 100-00 for the first 90 minutes, and an additional R 16-50 per minute over that.

And let's not even bother with the business of porn. First, before you can register as a distributor, you have to apply for a certified license of adult premises (that's what it's called) from a particular department. Fair enough. I'm not even bothered to try find out how much that'll cost. Then, there're additional charges to the above, especially if you're dealing with any X18 or XX18 rated material.

As I said to a colleague: I bet that when you produce those things, you're actually hoping that the male lead suffers from pre-mature ejaculation. While the pump-tickle-squirt structure may not pull the audience in its masses, at least it costs less to have some group of chastity-belt-wielding conservatives to give you a sticker (that MUST be on the cover) telling your audience that they shouldn't be watching it.

Heck! Maybe next movie, you'll be able to afford a condom for at least one of the scenes.

I don't really have a point today. Nor an axe to grind.

Yesterday, as I said the previous post, was election day. So I made my mark on the country - by adding to state coffers with an additional shelling out of sins tax.

Today's just another day like all the others.

I haven't heard from Demonic Tome yet - but I'll be checking their website from time-to-time, seeing as though they actually have a little section where submitters (is that a word?) can go check the status of their submissions (that is a word).

I leave you now with this last pearl of wisdom.

Until we meet again, sport fans!

Oh! And before I forget: Welcome, Kate, to this little smidgen of electronic depravity!

It's Been A While...

Well, hello there, sports fans.

It's really been way too long since you last stopped by. What's new on your side?

I've been chaotically busy at work - deliveries, unexpected DVDs for EMI that needed to be made, contracts, month-end... The list actually goes on, but suffice it to say things have been a lighter shade of kak for quite a while.

I do have news, though.

"Harbinger" is still under consideration for publication in the Scottish-based Raw Terror anthology, which is a good sign, I guess. "Disturbing the Peace" - my story of the romantic dismembering of a hapless neighbour - has been very, VERY favourably received by a US publisher. Unfortunately, he'd run out of available space and apparently other authors' work was very, very, VERY favourably received. "Salvation Road", the little gem I left on these electronic pages for you, has also been rejected based on the ambiguity of the ending. I was promised, however, that the editor had had serious thoughts about including it in his magazine.

Oh well, I guess no one's ever won the Nobel Prize for attempted science. And there's no such thing as "pretty good" tightrope artists, right?

So, soldiering on: DTP has been sent to "Demonic Tome" (US), and SR is now under consideration by "The Moonlit Path" (US / Canada). I've had a bit of a chat with Tricia Urlab, the fiction editor for the latter, and think SR may stand a fair shot at finding a home there. If it doesn't, maybe I'll consider re-writing it (although, sometimes it's better to just put it to bed and let it rot). I'm not all that precious about that particular one, though, but I really do hope it finds peace. It'll be quite ironic if that's the first one to find a home.

In terms of the slush pile, that hasn't grown over the past few months: I've been a bit lazy when it comes to knuckling down again. I blame my job. It's difficult to sit on your ass for even an hour and concentrate when there's actually been a 17 inch studded asbestos dildo rammed up for at least ten hours every day.

I do what I do because I love it (keep telling myself that... Over and over... Make it real...)

Ag, fuck it.

At the end of it all, even if I do manage to make headway towards a childhood dream, it doesn't mean shit if all I have to eat every day is a ProVita with mouldy Marmite, right?

On the note of loving things:

ES twisted my arm and procured two bearded dragons for herself, vivarium and all! Now, all we need is an organ-grinding monkey and we can charge entry to our place.

But, I jest.

These little beasts are so freaking cute, you quickly get over the initial gross-out of feeding them live crickets. Rather, suppertime becomes a substitution for prime-time programming on most occassions.

On top of that, I've spoiled myself to my dream bass: an Ibanez SRX 305 Soundgear, with a Laney 15 W practice amp. This black beauty not only has the much-coveted B string and a round sound that's so sweet it's like listening to mice orgasm in an empty steel cylinder, but it gleams! And, being second hand (bought from a musician who tours with the likes of Dozi and Steve Hofmeyer), it (stop laughing) has (no, really, get off the floor) been maintained to perfection and (stop it) cost a fraction of a new SRX 305 Soundgear (Ok, that's it - screw you all off! At least it wasn't Pratricia Lewis).

I think it's great. And I played it and, guess what? I don't suck!

And that's swell.

Tomorrow - for those of you who aren't South African (and those of you who are typically South African) - this country goes to the Democratic [sic] Polls for the umpteenth time. All I can say on the issue is that I hope ******************************************** ***** **************************** f****** f*******, but that m*****f***** ************** * * * ********** * *& *************.

Hey! At least the potholes will be something to grace postcards for years to come!

I've been told I don't have a right to complain about my government because I don't vote.

Here's my argument: Fuck you, dipshit.

Unlike the vast majority of South Africans who register to "make their mark", I'm unfortunately part of the vast minority that pays its taxes so that you wingnuts have resources over which to appoint a government. (Unfortunately, I wasn't 100% sober during the conversation, so this guy walked circles around me... Actually, I was so drunk, the dog had a better understanding of physics than I did at that time, but he came up with this spectacular thing that a "Shareholder can't complain if he's not represented by proxy"... something like that.)

Ummm... You're a douchebag with a hole in it. AND that's MY democratic right to say that. Also, you looked about the right age to start shaving. I attended school with my head under my desk and cops going through our shit.

HIS suggestion was that I'd have a right to complain if I went to the poll and deliberately spoiled my ballot. He didn't seem to understand that, first, that's not really an environmentally friendly way to do fuck all, there are so many less strenuous ways to do fuck all, and, second, that surely that was the equivalent of believing in God IN CASE there's a Hell.

So while you're out there queueing and dehydrating, waiting to get your hands on a pen and ballot that my tax money has paid for, so that you can try tick a box knowing that for every one tick your party gets, the other (and there's no need to name names here) has at least 400 more ticks, I'll be nursing a hangover in front of South Park.

I know what your bleeding and - deliberately obtuse and verbose - liberal heart will say: at least I'm trying to stop them from winning their two thirds! You're (referring to me) doing nothing.

Actually, my friend, I am. By not voting, I am giving out a vote. The issue is this: no matter who's in power, there's going to be fraud, there's going to be corruption, there's going to be incompetence. It's the African way (and that refers to nationality, not skin colour, by the way). I've got a huge issue with the individuals (all of them) standing.

In short, I rebut your eloquent postulations simply: Cram it with wallnuts, dickhole.

On Team Building and Stroking Pussy

Saturday. Team building. Just the thought of it was daunting. A Saturday with the very people I hope to avoid all weekend.

In the end, it turned out not to be all that bad - even though it wasn't the greatest thing ever to happen, I must admit there was fun had by all. What better way to amuse a bunch of TV guys than expose them to the same kak they put viewers and contestants through week by week.

A company was hired in, and they created an Amazing Race circuit for us to follow.

It was great fun. And I'm not being sarcastic. We raced around Northern Joburg, deciphering clues and completing challenges that included things like building towers, problem solving, counting (real) crocodiles, go-kart racing and target shooting.

The highlight for me, however, was stroking the pussy. As always.

And here, I'm talking about the mother of all pussy: the lion!

Having worked on 50/50 for three years, I've really started to miss working with the better of God's creations: animals. People are just far more unreliable. At least you learn to never trust an animal. As long as you remember that, then you have nothing to fear.

In fact, I've worked with some of the deadliest beasts on earth. And I've only experienced fear twice:

1) When a Rottweiler almost took my hand off

2) Whenever the animal in question was a snake

And that's all.

Above, you can see some of the pictures from the day.

That was the second time I'd been so close to a fully grown lion (except the first time, there was a sheet of glass between the beast and me). This time I was able to smell the crusting blood and raw meat on its breath. Admittedly, I even took a very quick, very tentative stroke against its nose. The feeling was amazing: to touch the King of the Beasts, knowing it's capable of killing someone three feet taller than me with one deft swipe.

But the thing that really struck terror into my heart was knowing that the guy next to me delivered a mud pie into the seat of his underpants when the lion jumped up, and that there were still twenty minutes left to the end of the drive!

Another highlight was holding a baby crocodile in the palm of my hand and stroking a giraffe. Really, really cool.

But I better get going: today's quite a corker.

Some Dirty Rhymes Roald Dahl Wished He'd Written

What with it being Friday, and what with me feeling a bit crazy (not to mentioned pissed off by the fact I have to spend 12 hours with my "buddies" from the office on a fuckin' SATURDAY), here're a couple of "songs" that kept a juvenile me ammused for ages back in the day.

Zippy and Bungle

Went to the junlge

To have some fun.

Zippy got silly

Pulled out his willy

And stuck it up Bungle's bum.

Here're a few verses that should be sung to the tune of "Yesterday", by the Beetles:

Leprasy

Body parts keep falling off of me

I'm not half the man I used to be

Oh, why did I

get leprasy?

Syphilis

All this started with just one kiss

Now I'm finding it so hard to piss

Oh, why did I

get Syphilis?

Courage

Luckily, Kali - and ES's mom - has exacted her revenge on me by securing at least 30 minutes of Bombai Belly. It wasn't pleasant. Not remotely. But I'm sure some of you out there are thinking to yourself: white men... Can't jump (it's true, gravity and I have become inseperable over the years), nor can they eat curry (also true, in my case). It wasn't as bad as the time ES didn't mix her sauce right and I thought I was going to spontaneously combust if I didn't suck the milk out of at least three Fresian cows, but it was bad enough.

Funny thing is, though - I can't stop eating the damn stuff. Maybe I'm a masochist. Or just really, really courageous. I've heard somewhere that courage is actually a middle-class substitute for brains. Jim Davis wrote that, in a Garfield comic.

Today's been eventful to say the least (oh, and by the way, hope you've noticed I finally managed to post a pic where I wanted it: surrounded by text. Yet again, it was accomplished by sheer accident!).

I've almost fired a client. That's right, the big boys from Lesotho. Told 'em they need to sort out their homework, pay me, and either get the hell out or agree to pay another whopping invoice. Oh, and - did I mention - PAY ME!

Give some people a finger, and they consume the whole arm.

I'm waiting for a meeting with some gentleman who wants to go into partnership with me. Only problem is, I haven't been able to say yay or nay, because I can't make head nor tail of his freaking proposal. He thinks he's coming here for an answer: I'm hoping he'll be able to answer a few questions from me, so I can begin considering an answer. But he sounds like a nice enough guy, and I'm not in the mood to cause kak.

Hopefully I can help him out a bit. At the moment, the show he's got in mind is like the chassis of a BMW: really sparkly, nicely shaped... But useless without the engine.

And I don't think he's thought about that. Poor fellow.

Guess we all start somewhere, though. In my defence - he's a lawyer. So he should have a bit more savvy than that.

Oh, and it turns out I managed to slay the dragon! That slithery beast we throw our money at once a month, only to have it really bite our butts once a year: the tax man.

I think the only thing in life that's a given is tax. Death is just a natural part of being taxed to death. Get rid of SARS, we'd probably all live for ever.

Anyway, after paying my dearest friend a hefty amount of money (2 days after, as a matter of fact), said dearest friend finally looked at my Notice of Objection, and has decided to pay me back just about double what I paid him. I only hope the transfer doesn't take forever - because at least then ES and I could be looking forward to at least one of those amazing little Belgian Chocolate Bunnies this coming Easter Weekend.

On the note of that: a bunny's a rhodent. They don't lay eggs. And I ain't never seen any animal pass chocolate. So, why is it an "Easter Bunny" and why does it have "eggs". Does it have access to some kind of secret chicken laboratory? Is it out to genetically modify our youth?

Mmmm... Perhaps we should stirfry him on charges of forcing us to perpetuate bullshit amongst our youth? I know Finny's folks once fed him a rabbit for easter. Clever way of getting yourself off the hook for not buying at least one of those amazing little Belgian Chocolate Bunnies. And getting your kids over the capitalistic myths created to further the goals of rampant consumerism and capitalism.

Ten out of ten for that one, Ma'am.

And don't worry, Finny, that pork roast you enjoyed so much that Christmas... Maybe, just maybe, that was the other OTHER white meat. Know what I mean?

So, W - I hear you had withdrawal symptoms yesterday because I didn't post. Hope the above is enough of a fix for you.

My next appointment's on the way, so I better duck out of here. I'll be back...

Later!

Yesterday

So, yesterday was such a huge fiasco that I didn't have a chance to let you all know that Ian Hunter finally came back to me.

Good news: he hasn't rejected the submission. Bad news: that's because he's pushed back the release date to October, and will be contacting all authors again in June.

The long wait has just become longer.

My friend W, I understand you were quite frustrated by yesterday's lack of posting. Sorry.

And now, thanks to some curry, I'm going to have to keep you waiting a little longer before I post something else. Nature, she's a-calling.

Here's a New One.

If you really look at this picture, you'll see there's actually a cat's tail dangling from the dog's mouth.

Okay...

Maybe this is becoming "one of those blogs..."

Enjoy, anyway. You only live once. (But seriously, guys: leave the young 'uns the hell alone. You got two perfectly good hands if that's what floats your boat. Sis.)

And "no" really means "no". Remember that!

Crazy Day

What a crazy day so far. I'm sitting down for the first time since this morning.

You see, Newton left a couple of things out of his theories.

First, when a very important document is meant to print on glossy paper, the printer will insist on printing on standard grain. This cannot be counteracted by swapping printer trays.

Second, once said document begins to print correctly, said printer will end up with something stuck in one of the rollers. Such jam will, without fail, require a GPS and advanced degree in mechanics to track down and remove. Should either of these two requirements be lacking, said document will remain in the queue until such a time that the deadline, which was five hours away, would now be two hours away.

Third, not a single envelope in a communications company will be large enough to accommodate the bulk of said proposal. There will also be no signs of basic stationary stock, such as pens, glue, scissors and the like. Quick trips to the supplier will result in the pressing need to top up one's petrol, as one's hyper-intelligent on-board computer has ceased flashing warning lights and has opted to rather communicate with you via the radio, switching channels to transmit syllables that, when heard in rapid succession, form a soliloquay of swearing.

Fourth: the delivery address on the recently updated brief will be wrong. It will lead you through labyrinthine corridors where you'll finally be told it's the building across the street. Because all TV personnel at the SABC have been moved to Radio Park. TV Block is now populated by pen-pushers and 2010 lunatics. And some poor techies.

Makes sense.

But luckily I still made it in time.

Just. But I made it. And that's all that counts.

On other fronts, ES is feeling under the weather again. Hope you're better soon, Babe. Ian's not replied - so I'd better start chasing, although I think I'll give it a week to make sure I don't piss him off if all he's doing is waying his options. If that's the case, I'd hate to lighten his load that way.

The new position is turning out to be just as fun as having warts burned out.

But, on that note - and why there's a Rah-Rah USA poster here - I've been contacted by a recruiter appointed by MTV. And they seem very, very interested in me. It would appear I'm being head hunted.

And that's great. Maybe if they found my head, they could let know where it's been all this time.

Bwah ha ha!!!

I think my "naughty" (let's face it, sports fans, we know they're pretty clean in comparison to what's out there) posters are attracting quite a bit of attention. If it was my writing, I'd assume there'd be some comments here. (Yes, for those of you reading, that is a less than subtle hint to consider pulling your fingers out.) As for the pics, I'll try track down some more dirty ones (hell, why not) for those of you out there who still only read graphic novels (and I'm not dissing you at all - I love a good comic now and then, especially Calvin and Hobbes).

See y'all later. If the pace doesn't pick up again.

Is Ignorance Bliss?

Good question.

And I'm not all that sure I know the answer, but my worldview is more in line with the two soldiers poster. Honestly, I think there are a lot of things out there none of us know about and somehow believe that, because they're unknown or never experienced, those things will never - in some way - touch on our lives.

(While writing the above, I was interrupted by a gentleman from the commercial crime unit who called to let me know he's taken over the case I opened against old numbnuts earlier.) And that's a good example.

We all know there're syndicates out there. We all know they prey on the unweary. And yet, for some sodding reason, no one ever considers themselves unweary. Rather, the crook was always "that much" smarter. I'm starting to wonder if I shouldn't actually take on a bit more of the blame than I already am. After all, my gut feel wasn't right...

Anyway, hindsite's 20:20, isn't it?

But not everything we don't know is negative.

Sometimes, you walk along the pavement, see a wad of paper. If you picked it up, it could be a crumpled R 50 note wrapped in a receipt. It could be a wad of paper. But you never know.

What if I'd moved to England? What if ES and I packed up our stuff, laugh it all off as a bad joke, and head to Europe? Or the States? We could thrive. We could suffer. After all, there's a saying the grass is only greener because there's more shit in the water.

As you can see, I'm feeling rather introspective today. Introspective and, to an extent, reserved. This promotion of mine isn't making me feel any happier - which is what I thought it would have done. Or, at least, should have done. I don't see possibilities or opportunities opening up.

Instead, it's like I'm staring down into a precipice.

I need to write again. Rekindle something creative in my head. Create something like I want it, so I can destroy it like the world's slowly destroying me. I want revenge against the unseen forces that have driven my life so far. Unfortunately, I don't believe any of that will be effective.

At the same time, though, I'm happy. ES and I are very happy together, and trust me I wouldn't change that for all the world.

It's just perverse that there seems to be a cosmic trade off we're all agreed to - whether we like it or not.

If you're happy at home, eff you, your job will suck the dripping wet-end of a donkey's nethers. If you're happy at work, eff you, your private life's about to become that Normandy Beach scene from the opening sequence of Saving Private Ryan.

Enjoy.

Now I'm faced with a Catch-22. It's a viscious cycle I've tried to rectify several times: normally to little or no success. That makes me think: there's something out there I'm not aware of. So it's time to go looking. Surely?

I tend to think there's a sacrifice being demanded of me. One of lifestyle. I need to kiss the lifestyle I know now goodbye, be prepared to take a few steps down, and find a job that'll sustain ES and I (at a somewhat lower comfort zone), but at least allow us to be happy. Hollistically happy, I mean.

Ian's still not replied, and I'll probably start chasing that answer as of tomorrow.

And on that note, I bid you Adieu for now.

AAAAAAARRRRRGGGGGGHHHH!!!!!!!!!!

Here ya go, Finni.

Now it's that kinda blog!

Both exhausts are pretty sweet, no?

*Bwah Ha Ha*

Actually, today I've felt kinda like Jamal all day. (Singing)Bring me my AK 47 - 'cos I never can bladdy remember to bring it along...

No, seriously, folks.

It's been rough. My head's tingling from the wounds I inflicted yesterday, shaving all hung over and stuff. In fact, you can actually still see the patch where I almost removed my ear from the side of my head with one deft sweep of one of those five-bladed razor things. It's a pity I didn't get it right too, 'coz the other day, the one earpiece (I don't know what it's actually called) fell off my Oakleys. Maybe if I'd succeeded, I'd be able to wear my sunglasses again.

Starting a new position in an old company... It's kind of like a sympathy lay, isn't it? Feels good for a short, intense while. But once the euphoria's washed away - no matter how brief or intense said euphoria may have been - it starts to dawn. The only thing that's really happened is you've just got fucked, is all. If you're lucky, you might see her again if she forgot her toothbrush when she pissed off over the rear wall.

I'm sure you can see where this is leading. Or coming from.

My day. A real, real doozy.

Anyone out there - anyone at all - who could use my services? Let me know. Even if I have to find out where ol' Moldova is. Buddy - let me know, man!!!

I'm sure, once I've pulled myself towards myself, I'll get over all this hypertension and stress. And the fact I've run out of my fucking happy pills again and I can actually feel the chemicals changing inside my skull (it's a type of sleepy feeling that just seems to take over everything for a while).

But I'll get over it.

'Coz I'm a suh-VIE-VORRR.

ES and I left our maid (again, I repeat: That IS the WORD FOR a LADY WHO CLEANS professionally. DOMESTICS, I repeat, are what happen in Kempton Park between a man, sy vrou and a couple of bottles o' brandy) at home to do the ironing. All day. After all, we didn't rent the Hazmat suits for nothing.

Needless to say, it was reported broken. Time of Death: 12:00.

Is this some sort of conspiracy? Break everything around you so you don't have to work. Don't have to pull your weight?

That fucking thing's been working perfectly. It's not even five years old. And now everyone's going: c'mon! It's 5 years old!

Fuck off, it was working perfectly. I'm 29 and still going!

And on the note of going, I actually logged on to say there's still no word from Scotland and I'm going home.

Love you all for reading my rants. I'll see you tomorrow.

Yes, even you, my friend from Maldavia...

Whatever...

Chisinau, the Republic of Moldova

How you doing there, my visitor from Chisinau?

I'm going to tell you something about South African education right here, right now.

Back in the day, when I was still in school, I was given an option: Accounting or Geography.

I took accounting.

As a result, I'm broke and have never before heard of the Republic of Moldova. Maybe my head's too far up my ass, or you guys don't get along well enough with the yanks to make it into the storyline of any Hollywood blockbuster (hey, for years we were the "scaly Russian co-conspirators", so don't feel too bad about it).

I probably could just run a search on Google, but where's the fun in that?

How are you doing? What are you doing? And where are you doing it? Hope you're enjoying your visits here. Drop me a line, would you?

And I see they've got electricity in Parow, now. Congrats, bud.

Okay. Fine.

Well, ES has logged on to the blog, read the post and really wants one of the pics up. So here's one for you to all weep over.

It's a bit blurred (didn't see that on the cellphone screen, but anyway). It was quite a mission getting it up here, but I finally found a way.

So, enjoy.

Just, by the way: that is our bed in the background. I kind of like the patterns. I love the colours.

What a Weekend

So, as I've been harping on: My deadline for "The Devil's Food" is tomorrow. And just guess how much of it was done.

This weekend started with the iota of a plan: let's go for a drink. Just one.

So, off ES and I went on our little adventure and, lo and behold, turns out both of us were actually still quite thirsty. Turns out a week's worth of bullshit can dry your mouth out.

Saturday morning was spent waiting for the kind souls from Glasfit to bring me my windscreen. They arrived promptly at the time they said they would - which our hangovers said was about ten hours too early. And, in proudly SA style, they brought the wrong one.

The. Wrong. One. This after they insisted I give them my VIN number so they can check with the dealership which one (of the two possible) is in my vehicle. Unfortunately, the cure is yet to be found.

Luckily, this gave ES and I some sorrows we had to drown.

Sunday was spent in Hazmat suits, wielding flamethrowers at dustbunnies that had mutated into something that fought back every once in a while. Chloe - our three-legged wonder - was so delighted to witness the glorious restoration of her domicilium, she took herself a shit - one worthy of a Rottweiler (and I always spell that wrong), right between my bass guitar and my acoustic. I was delighted! It reminded me of an easter egg hunt - with clues to the location and more! Oh, I got joy, joy, joy, joy down in my heart.

Crown it all with this second gem of brilliance: let's wash our duvet.

No problem. Sounded good, and I could finally turn the mattress.

Washed, and smelling as fragrant as the Namaqualand daisies wafting in on a crisp, coastal wind, my buddy Murphy thrust his middle finger heavenward, and turned to ES and me, a maniacal twinkle in his eye. And laughed.

How the hell do we dry it? At night?

Answer: you don't. you sleep under the duvet slip, huddle up close and let hypothermia numb the ache in your extremities.

But, one thing's for sure, we really met some amazing people over the last couple of days. Guys, you know who you are and here's to hoping we see more of you.

And now - no points for guessing how much was done on "The Devil's Food". It rhymes with Duck Ball, only it's a little ruder.

But we had so much fun (despite the sarcasm above: sometimes it's actually pretty cool just getting down and dirty *LOL* {that's how it's done on these sort of forums, right?}) that I think I'll brutally kill those characters off some other time, for another tome.

On the note of tomes - still no word from Ian Hunter at RAW, which may or may not, be a good thing. The blessing is tonight's the night all responses are being sent out - so, who knows?

I took some gorgeous pics of ES over the weekend - she looks like an angel that fell down from Heaven (and if I use one more cliche here, perhaps I should sign up for an hour or two of Chinese water torture) - that I'll post here as soon as I've figure out how to get Windows Mobile to communicate with any other platform, let alone Mac.

But don't - do not - hold your breath.

I might just decide to hold those back jealously.

Happy Weekend, Everyone!

It's finally that time of the week: weekend.

And not a minute too soon. I'll be back on Monday, if I don't figure out how to post from my phone before then. Should Ian get hold of me now, I'll try my best to let you all know the outcome.

If not: see you Monday.

Have a good one.

And Welcome, NS

NS - otherwise known as Finn - has joined my following.

You'll notice he's the only follower with a face, thus far.

We're old varsity buddies and go back a long way: even worked in Greece together.

Welcome, Finny!

Ah, the joys of getting into the office early. Very early. So early, the frigging urn's still full and hasn't even been turned on yet. (Okay, it's on now, obviously. I turned it on. The lukewarm coffee I just had really really sucked.)

It's almost the end of the month. For those of you who've just started reading these pages (even if only to swipe the pics of the hot chicks - I still appreciate it), that means two things.

First, Ian Hunter, who's editing "RAW Terror" in Scotland, is almost done with his reading and selection of stories for the anthology. He's already been in touch with me in connection with my submission: "Harbinger". But he's held off on letting me know whether it will find a home in his book. Obviously, to be fair, he needs to go through all the submissions he's received first.

In my opinion, that's good. There was no outright rejection and, seeing as though none has been forthcoming since then, it means he's seriously holding onto that story. That's also good. The longer it takes him to reject (or hopefully accept), the better the story is in his esteem. So even if it does end up on the floor in the long run, at least I can rest assured that it's given a fair innings, and several people a run for their money.

The book will be published towards the middle of this year, as a soft-cover release in the United Kingdom and Scotland. The possible pay (on publication) is all of ten pounds and a contributor's copy (which is great, because I somehow doubt his aim is international distribution). He himself is a relatively well-known short story writer (in Scotland, that is) - so I'm dying for his feedback.

"Harbinger" is a pre-apocalyptic tale, where I drew from my personal experience of confronting a stranger in my house at four in the morning. Fortunately, my guy (and I say this with utmost affection, poor dear! Bless!) shat his pants and bailed before I bludgeoned him to death and didn't react the way the one in "Harbinger" does. That's another joy of horror: we can look at "what ifs" without any of the real risks involved in pushing the envelope in real life.

Then, of course, there's the looming deadline for my submission to "The Devil's Food" anthology. These guys already have their cover art available. Judging from what I've seen there, I need to open a can of gore and mix it with my vomit before smeering the pages.

Even though I've started on this about five or six times now, I'm struggling to focus. There's always something getting in my way: religious nuts coming to convert me; religious nuts trying to get me to make a TV show so they can communicate with other religious nuts (She wasn't too impressed when I told her I thought televangelists did an amazing job furthering the reaches of global fraud syndicates. She just smiled uncomfortably and shuffled in her chair.); people holding a Madi Gras on the road outside my window; cats scratching their asses on the back of my pen as I try to write... It's seems endless.

With so many obstacles, I believe there's something conspiring against me, trying to stop me from doing this (which is, of course, absolute horseshit - religious nuts are religious nuts and when your ass is itchy, I'm sure you scratch, too). So I'll be tripling my efforts over the weekend - tonight I have a business meeting.

(See? Fate, again. Damn you, dude!!!)

Other than that, the other stories are still with Necrography (at least they're honest and just state: you'll be hearing from us in a few months) and Big Pulp. The story with Big Pulp is an "extreme horror" (formerly called "Splatterpunk") tale, "Disturbing the Peace". It makes ES feel uncomfortable: it's a graphic and lovingly descriptive tale of the mutilation of one friend by another.

As soon as I have any feedback, I'll post it up here.

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

Work ethic.

That used to be more than a misnomer at some stage. Not anymore.

I understand contraction and expansion and all that jazz - and I know there could have been a weak spot or small chip - but please tell me how some dipshit manages to crack my windscreen (from the top all the way to the bottom) while washing it? And then, more importantly, has the balls to tell ES she's lying: there was always a crack in front of the driver. Right in front. Of the driver. We just never noticed it.

Listen, Son-of-Bitch: I'm insured. Yes, I am expected to shell out R 550-00 excess thanks to you. But I know you earn peanuts, and wouldn't have taken the food from the hungry mouths of your family.

Had you just said: Missus, Ah fucked up. Sohry.

But turn around and lie about it? What? Were you conceived in a clown car during the matinee?

People like you, dear Dickhead, are a waste of chromosomes. There are several people - good, kind people - who've been robbed of full functionality by the luck of the draw. Couldn't you just become the first chromosome donor?

You're not using yours anyway.

A Lot To Swallow

Well, today has certainly been a day and a half.

I've just been released from a hell of a long meeting, garnering some significant yields: I went into the boss' office as a producer. I've just been made Head of Production.

I know when I started I said I'd avoid speaking about work things. But this is just too rich not to share.

Is that big cheese I smell, or is it just me?

Yee-ha, DeAndre! Yee-ha!

A Little Visual Glimpse Pt 2

This shot simply shows me doing what I normally do. The oke chilling at the table's AS, my assistant at the time.

That's me at the braai. Yes, I'm bald by choice.

I've got no idea who's thumb that is. I suspect SH, but that's not definite.

And, seeing as though I'm so photogenic, this is probably the last you'll see of me here.

A Little Visual Glimpse At My Life Pt. 1

My boss and me at Moyo's, along the banks of Zoo Lake in Johannesburg. It was a first: we were both actually on time for a function.

Above that, we have Estee with Tshepo Maseko, who acted in a movie I produced the end of last year. She's been following his role on "Isidingo" for years, thus the excitement on her face.

Food For Thought

I just had to share these pearls of wisdom. Hope you enjoy them as much as I do.

Ladies and Gents: You've Gotta Love Pussy!

Why?

What were you expecting? Pig.

I grew up with dogs. In fact, it's only lately that I haven't had a canine companion drooling all over the show and farting at the most inopportune moments.

And I miss them. ES and I have even considered selling up our little place in Randburg so we can get a FiFi or Bono to run around the place.

But until then, I have to settle for cats.

Admittedly, cats are like athlete's foot: they grow on you pretty quickly, and they smell funny. At least, our's do.

But each of our four terrorists has a distinct personality. And I've learned to read their facial expressions. All four could line up in front of me, and I'd be able to tell you which one (it's almost always Mica) just destroyed something.

Chloe has "naughty ears" - they look like handlebars - Mia's gives you an "eff-off-and-die" look, Rusty looks all sheepish and gets cuddly when he knows he's in trouble, and Mica's guilty. Plain and simple. He yowls louder, as if he's shouting at you.