Well since you put it that way

Three score and a few posts ago I mentioned that God had opened the heavens and showered me with a job. But I didn't tell you what the job was.

I have applied for a barista position with Satan's Coffee Makers, Starbucks. And didn't get the job. I applied for a front desk position at a pet store. I didn't get it. And soon, I started questioning my worth as a person.

Until suddenly, the heavens opened, a bright, blinding light eminated from the skies, and a booming voice called out, "My son, you have shown true patience and perseverence. You have begged and borrowed to pay your rent and for that I shall reward you with a job I know you know how to do. You, my son, shall get a job in an ad agency." And so it came to be.

I received an offer from a teeny, tiny agency out on the east coast. I shall neither mention the agency's name nor the city for there are criminal elements out there. I fear they shall hunt me down and slander my good name.

But once again, I shall find myself in the very industry I have worked in for the past ten years. And what shall I be doing? Well, I lie for a living. No, I'm not a lawyer. Although, in my profession, I don't contribte much to society either. In fact, they say my profession REFLECTS society. Jesus, that is scary!

Oh well, God made it happen so I'm sure it's not all bad, right?!

Pack, don't procrastinate

As I sit back and survey my condo kingdom, I am filled with fear and loathing.

It was time to pack up my shit into boxes and get ready for my move to the east coast about two weeks ago. Did I do it? Hell no! I'm the world's worst procrastinator. And going through all my stuff, I realized just how much crap I have accumulated over the year. So while I may have thrown a lot of crap away, I'm still left wondering what is absolutely, positively necessary for me to keep.

12 towels. I live alone and I have 12 towels. I turfed a few out. but what does ONE person do with 12 towels?

Books. I've read them all and can't bear to part with them. So they get their very own special box. And as luck would have it, it's the HEAVIEST freakin' box of the lot.

Pot plants. Into the huge metal garbage container outside.

Clothes. A dumped a whole lot into the Goodwill bin down the street. The difficult thing is that since I shall only be receiving my boxes back in about three weeks, I have to decide what I need to keep to use until they arrive. Not easy.

All the crap in the kitchen cupboards. Dumped in the large metal garbage container outside. Why on earth would pay to have Windolene, dishwashing soap, a bottle of Clorox and all other sorts of chemical detergents and cleaning crap shipped? Exactly.

So here I sit, maybe HALF the packing done, the five boxes I have almost full, and the moving truck comes in ONE day!

The saddest part is that after they have come and taken my stuff, I will be left with two more nights in my apartment before I have to catch my flight. I shall be sleeping on the carpet, with an old duvet and uncovered pillows for those two nights. And just before I leave for the airport, just where do you think that duvet and pillows will find themselves?

Dumped in the large metal garbage container outside.

Ah Christmas, the season for giving (and receiving)

Like everyone else, I tend to get very excited around Christmas. Yes, it's become a horrible consumerized day, but still. Presents. Decorations. Christmas card from family and loved ones.

But this year was different. It appears that "out of sight, out of mind" applies more this year than in previous years. Sure, my family is on another continent. But I hoped and prayed I would at least get a few cards from them. I knew that as sure as God made shiny green apples I wouldn't be getting any gifts from them. Fair enough, international shipping costs from Africa to the U.S. may be a little higher than what they can afford. So, a card would suffice.

I received three card this year. The little bear card on the right was from my sister, her husband, and my niece. Nice gesture. Warms my heart. So who sent the other two? Well, here's the thing. No one else in my family sent me a card this year. The other two cards came from my prison penpals. I shit you not!

And whilst tears well up in my eyes, I feel a little rage. These inmates are locked up, they make less than minimal wage with the menial tasks and jobs they can find within those prison walls. So even buying a postage stamp with which to mail a reply letter is a pretty big deal for them. But for two of them to save up and buy me a Christmas card each? Kinda puts a whole new perspective on things, doesn't it?!

Why the Holiday Season drives me mad

Because of stupid shit like this!

Okay, if you feel so direly in need to express your Christmas joy by nailing some stupid fake wreath on your front door to let passers-by know that they should expect the sounds of carolling and smells of egg nog to come eminating from your home, that's just great. More power to you. But to purposefully attach a wreath to the front grill of your car? That's just sad. Stupid and sad.

I saw one yesterday and the first thing that ran through my mind was, "oh no you didn't!" But apparently, oh yes you had. And you were proud. It's almost as sad as seeing someone walking through Wal-mart, pushing a shopping cart, and wearing a freakin' Santa hat. Please, spare us. Keep your Secret Sexual Santa fantasies for your bedroom. The fact that you actually donned that silly hat and headed out into public begs for you to be flogged.

Then of course, there are some people who think their cars are real people. Or, God forbid, an animal. And because it's the holidays, what better than say a reindeer?!

Oh I've seen you out there. And you look ridiculous. The only thing that would make you look more ridiculous was if you were out in public wearing a Santa hat. Behind the wheel of a car with fuzzy antlers and a red nose, and you wearing a big floppy red hat. Now if only you had a big black whip to flog that motor reindeer. Oh wait, maybe you could borrow one from the secret stash of the woman who puts a wreath on her car's grill.

What a load of ...

Shit may just be the most functional word in the English language.

You can smoke shit (see above), buy shit, sell shit, lose shit, find shit, forget shit, and tell others to eat shit.

Some people know their shit, while others can't tell the difference between shit and shineola. There are lucky shits, dumb shits, and crazy shits. There is bull shit, horse shit (see above), and chicken shit.

You can throw shit, sling shit, catch shit, shoot the shit, or duck when the shit hits the fan. You can give a shit or serve shit on a shingle.

You can find yourself in deep shit or be happier than a pig in shit.

Some days are colder than shit, some days are hotter than shit, and some days are just plain shitty. Some music sounds like shit, things can look like shit, and there are times when you feel like shit.

You can have too much shit, not enough shit, the right shit, the wrong shit or a lot of weird shit.

You can carry shit, have a mountain of shit, or find yourself up shits creek without a paddle. Sometimes everything you touch turns to shit and other times you fall in a bucket of shit and come out smelling like a rose.

When you stop to consider all the facts, it's the basic building block of the English language.

And remember, once you know your shit, you don't need to know anything else!!

You could tell your friends about this posting, if you give a shit; or not do so if you don't give a shit!

Well, Shit, it's time for me to go. Just wanted you to know that I do give a shit and hope you had a nice day, without a bunch of shit. But, if you happened to catch a load of shit from some shit-head...

Well, Shit Happens!!!

Of all the jobs in the world

There is a world of exciting jobs out there I could be doing.

For example, how exotic would it be to call oneself an Egg Collector? Yes, this was an actual job listed in an 1880 census. Or how about a Cotton Mill Worker. That could be stimulating. Somehow. I think.

Or a Feather Curler. I could have made a living curling feathers for the rich and famous. And if that didn't tickle me, I could have been a Surgical Instrument Maker. Important job this. Saving lives and stuff.

And if I wasn't in the mood to save lives, I could quite easily have chosen to be a Rodent Exterminator. Rats, be gone!

Or a Blacksmith. Or even a Gent at Large. Or my personal favorite because at some point, everyone would need one, a Coffin Maker. Morbid thought though.

but no, I had to go into advertising. And while there may be a market out there for Feather Curlers and Coffin Makers, there just doesn't seem to be anything going for an ad man.

America the Great

As a teenager, I grew up thinking America was wonderful. Every Friday night, religiously, I would sit in front of the TV and watch in awe as MacGyver would invent things from bubble gum wrappers, a paper clip, and some ear wax. And I would think, "Wow, America is great!"

Then I grew up. And eventually moved here. And I saw poverty. And crime. And gang violence. And sadly it dawned on me. America is not great. America is just like any other country in the world. Well, almost.

In high school, I would learn about European history and the two World Wars. I would learn about British history and the feudal system. I would learn about colonialism. In Geography I would learn about tectonic plates under the earth's crust. And I would learn about Cumulonimbus clouds and Cirrostratus clouds. In biology, I would learn about cell formation and structure. I was taught about the world in which I live.

But in America, while they are taught similar things, there's a slight change. They too learn about cloud formations. But as they occur in America. They too learn about history. American history. It's a very ethnicentric society this.

The newspapers contain pages and pages of events around the country. And maybe just one small insignificant page abotu world events.

It's no surprise then that the rest of the world vies Americans as stupid. But they're not. They're lazy. And they believe what crap the media tells them.

"The Middle East is the axis of evil and all Arabs are terrorists." Okay, check. Believe.

"The French didn't support us in our 'War Against Terror', therefore they are rude and dirty and we should boycott everything French." Okay, check. Believe. Done.

"Africa is poor and sandy and the people are starving and all have AIDS." Okay, check. Believe.

Sadly, this is the truth as I see it. Firsthand. At first I thought it was funny when Americans would ask me why I'm white when I told them I was South African. Now, I just think it's sad. I was once even asked if South Africa is just below North Carolina. Because it's a common belief that the entire world can be found between Los Angeles and New York City.

Yes, the Greatest. Maybe one day long, long ago.

Um, yes, that must be it!

So I came across this TV commercial here in the U.S. It's hysterical. I keep watching it over and over and over again. You should too.

Click to watch it: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=smtEtT7UJBo

Don't believe everything you read on the interweb

No seriously, sometimes the interweb spews out the biggest chunk of (insert expletive here). I learned that the heard way when I once submitted a research paper in college. Could explain the the scrawled, "SEE ME NOW!" written in red ink across the front page when I got it back.

Whitney Houston is NOT buying an African country. And North Korea is NOT a little hostile. These are lies that people post on the internet in the hope of raking in some poor sucker who believes everything they read.

Afganistan is NOT run by a group of undercover CIA agents dressed as nuns from the Sisterhood of Liberation. It's all a lie. Okay, so they kind of wear similar headgear and stuff but NO!

If everyone on the planet had to sneeze at the same time, the earth would NOT shift off its orbit people, come on. Shock! Where have you been? Has your head been buried in the sand?

What do you mean the U.S. economy is bouncing back? What a lot of crock. Which idiot posted THAT on the web?

And don't even get me started on those weapons of mass destruction ...

What does $1000 get you these days?

So a few weeks ago, a friend of mine came to Vegas from the Middle East. She was accompanying her richer-than-Bill-Gates boyfriend.

And after many tiring days of shopping and seeing shows and going restaurant hopping, they dumped me with about six bags of clothes and other gadgets to ship back to them in the Land of Sand. Me being the super-wonderful being that I am, agreed.

But not before taking a peek.

In amongst their many, many purchases, I came across a box. I looked at the box, turned it upside down, came across the price label, crapped myself and very gently put it down. For inside this box was what you see in the picture above. Yet another snazzy cell phone.

But folks, this ain't just any snazzy cell phone. Oh no. This cell phone is "More powerful than anything you’ve seen before, the HTC TyTN II takes communications to the next level". Wow, okay. So how does it take communication to the next level, oh knowledgable phone gadget person? "Communicating while on the move is a breeze with the ergonomic tilting design that positions the screen perfectly for reading and creating emails. The full range of wireless connectivity ensures you can roam anywhere in the world and still enjoy a high-speed internet connection.

Important information is just a glance away with the HTC HomeTM screen – giving an instant view of email, calendar, messages, missed calls, dynamic weather updates and more.

Staying connected means staying ahead. With a complete suite of Microsoft® Office Mobile applications including Outlook®, Word, Excel®, and PowerPoint®, out of office doesn’t have to mean out of the loop. Always ready for business, the HTC TyTN II ensures you are too."

Goodness me. Impressive Does it also prepare bowls of porridge? How about vacuuming? Does it vacuum the carpet? I'd expect that for $1130, it should at least do the dishes. No? Shocking. I'll stick with my flat screen Samsung phone/camera/music song thing, thank you VERY MUCH.

Perhaps, because of its shipping destination, it is able to detect incoming scuds. No? What a useless piece of junk. The rich are sooooo spoiled.

My silver spotted pedigreed Bengal cost me a cool grand and least she eats, drinks, cries and shits!

My Day in L.A.

There are literally bucket-loads of things happy campers can see and do in Los Angeles. It's a pretty big city which sprawls on and on for city block after city block.



There's the L.A. Zoo, because oddly enough zoos are always on the top of peoples' lists of Things to See While I'm in Another City. Or if you want to see wildlife of a different variety, go to Disneyland. Ah yes, Disneyland. The tacky joy of plastic fairy tales. Talking rats, dogs on two legs, flying elephants. Someone was on drugs!



Then, of course, there's the reason why everyone goes to L.A. Movies baby! Take in the sights, take a tour of Paramount Pictures and rub shoulders with stars and celebs. Yes, the good life. Schnarfing a line with Paris, exchanging child-rearing tips with Britney, trying to understand street vernacular with Snoop. Yup, you've made the big time when you hit the big screen.



But no. Not me. I had to get up early enough to catch a glimpe of Dawn's crack (as a friend so eloquently puts it), hawl ass to the Vegas airport to catch a 7am flight to LA, get picked up at LAX by someone who will be interviewing and scrutinizing me for the next few hours, get caught in gridlock traffic, eat breakfast near the intersection where the bus in Speed gets blown up, head to Santa Monica, interview, write a copy test, interview with someone else, go for lunch and be accused of being a liar by a ponytail-donning waiter because he didn't hear me say "chicken" when I ordered my CHICKEN caesar salad, back to the office, chat some more, hop in a cab, chat to the Moroccan cab driver, run through LAX, board a bounce-alot jet to Vegas, and that's MY Day in L.A.

When do I get to see talking animals and movie stars? Oh wait, whenever I want, down on the Strip!

Disclaimer: pictures were taken from flickr.com so please don't suse me - I've credited you

When you're running low of options

When you've been out of work for close on nine weeks, and your options are looking low, you start thinking, "Hell, I need to take what I can get. But is this it?" At this point, maybe this is all I can get, for now.

I've looked all over the country, and no-one is hiring toward the end of the year. I just hope I can make it till the beginning of the year when agency bosses say they would be looking at new hires. If not, it's the street for me.

Happy Thanksgiving?

A young man named John received a parrot as a gift. The parrot had a bad attitude and an even worse vocabulary. Every word out of the bird's beak was rude, obnoxious and laced with profanity.

John tried and tried to change the bird's attitude by consistently saying only polite words, playing soft music and anything else he could think of to "clean up" the bird's vocabulary.

Finally, John was fed up and he yelled at the parrot. The parrot yelled back. John shook the parrot and the parrot got angrier and even more rude.

John, in desperation, threw up his hand, grabbed the bird and put him in the freezer.

For a few minutes the parrot squawked and kicked and screamed. Then suddenly there was total quiet. Not a peep was heard for over a minute. Fearing that he'd hurt the parrot, John quickly opened the door to the freezer.

The parrot calmly stepped out onto John's out stretched arms and said, "I believe I may have offended you with my rude language and actions. I'm sincerely remorseful for my inappropriate transgressions and I fully intend to do everything I can to correct my rude and unforgivable behavior."

John was stunned at the change in the bird's attitude. As he was about to ask the parrot what had made such a dramatic change in his behavior, the bird continued, "May I ask what the turkey did?"

FW: Thank you

I must send my thanks to whoever sent me the email forward about poop in the glue on envelopes because, I now have to use a wet towel with every envelope that needs sealing.

Also, now I have to scrub the top of every can I open for the same reason.

I no longer have any savings because I gave it to a sick girl (Penny Brown) who is about to die in the hospital for the 138,258th time.
I no longer have any money at all, but that will change once I receive the $15,000 that Bill Gates/Microsoft and AOL are sending me for
participating in their special e-mail program.

I no longer worry about my soul because I have 363,214 angels looking out for me, and St. Theresa's novena has granted my every wish.

I no longer eat KFC because their chickens are actually horrible mutant freaks with no eyes or feathers.

I no longer use cancer-causing deodorants even though I smell like a water buffalo on a hot day.

Thanks to you, I have learned that my prayers only get answered if I forward an email to seven of my friends and make a wish within five minutes.

Because of your concern I no longer drink Coca Cola because it can remove toilet stains.

I no longer can buy gasoline without taking someone along to watch the car so a serial killer won't crawl in my back seat when I'm pumping gas.

I no longer drink Pepsi or Dr. Pepper since the people who make these products are atheists who refuse to put "Under God" on their cans.

I no longer use Saran wrap in the microwave because it causes cancer.

And thanks for letting me know I can't boil a cup of water in the microwave anymore because it will blow up in my face ... disfiguring me for life.

I no longer check the coin return on pay phones because I could be pricked with a needle infected with AIDS.

I no longer go to shopping malls because someone will drug me with a perfume sample and rob me.

I no longer receive packages from UPS or FedEx since they are actually Al Qaeda in disguise.

I no longer shop at Target since they are French and don't support our American troops or the Salvation Army.

I no longer answer the phone because someone will ask me to dial a number for which I will get a phone bill with calls to Jamaica, Uganda, Singapore, and Uzbekistan.

I no longer buy expensive cookies from Neiman Marcus since I now have their recipe.

Thanks to you, I can't use anyone's toilet but mine because a big brown African spider is lurking under the seat to cause me instant death when it bites my butt.

And thanks to your great advice, I can't ever pick up $5.00 I dropped in the parking lot because it probably was placed there by a sex molester waiting underneath my car to grab my leg.

I can no longer drive my car because I can't buy gas from certain gas companies!

If you don't send this e-mail to at least 144,000 people in the next 70 minutes, a large dove with diarrhea will land on your head at 5:00 PM this afternoon and the fleas from 12 camels will infest your back, causing you to grow a hairy hump. I know this will occur because it actually happened to a friend of my next door neighbor's ex-mother-in-law's second husband's cousin's beautician...

Have a wonderful day...

Oh, by the way... A South American scientist from Argentina, after a lengthy study, has discovered that people with insufficient brain activity read their e-mail with their hand on the mouse. Don't bother taking it off now, it's too late.

My Celibacy Anniversary

Hip hip, hooray. This month marks my one year celibacy anniversary.

No, seriously, don't laugh. I haven't had sex in a year. Partly by choice. And partly by circumstance. Have you seen the unfortunate lack of talent out there?

I hadn't planned on being celibate. It just turned out that way. A week turned into two. A month turned into two. And before I knew it, I didn't really miss it. The anonymous "wham bam".

But after a while, it's a bit like smoking pot - you start to get a little paranoid. You think people are looking at you, that they 'know'.

"Shame, poor guy. Hasn't been laid in a while. I guess that explains his crankiness."

But that's just the thing. I'm not cranky about it. I'm actually okay with it. I'm a virile young 33-year old. I enjoy it as much as the next person. But of late, yeah, not so much.

Don't get me wrong, the opportunities have been there. EVERYWHERE! But it gives one a sense of power to be able to boldly declare, "Thanks, but I've decided to be celibate for a while." Some even take offense, as though you have personally rejected them. Tough shit.

This is about me and MY empowerment. But perhaps in 2008 I'll come up with a new resolution. One that isn't so taxing.

Dont be sad, little boy

So yesterday the phone rang.

*ring ring*

"Hello"

"Hi, this is so-and-so from XYZ in Portland, Maine. We'd like to thank you for taking the time to come all the way up here to interview. We've all regrouped and discussed staffing needs. Unfortunately ..."

The search continues because now Maine ain't so quaint.

10 Questions Not To Ask During A Job Interview

So I went on a job interview last week. No matter how much one prepares for an interview, one is never quite fully prepared to just be oneself. That said, when YOU go for a job interview, be on time, be presentable, be awake, and ask questions.

However, it's advised that you DON'T ask certain questions. These top 10 questions should never be asked in an interview:

1. What's your company's policy on severance pay?

2. How long does it take your company's bureaucracy to get around to firing somebody for poor performance?

3. Could I get an office that's really close to the exit?

4. Does your company's life insurance cover suicide?

5. Who's the ugly bitch in that picture on your desk?

6. Does your company's insurance consider genital herpes a pre-existing condition?

7. How many sick days do you allow each employee before you stop paying them for not being here?

8. Does your insurance cover sex-change operations?

9. Does your LAN have a firewall that blocks triple-X websites?

10. About this drug testing thing, how often do you do that?

Of course it's quaint ... it's Maine

So here I am, in Portland, Maine. Did I have any preconceived ideas about what it would be like? Of course I did, I'm human.

But this, this is Portland. Not quite what I expected, but still beautiful. And quaint. Tree-lined streets. Old stone churches. Cobble-stone streets. Antique shops selling lots of little antique things. All very artsy.

I love it.

But it's cold. Not, "Gosh, perhaps I shall don a sweater today" kind of cold. More like, "Shit, I forgot my thick black coat back in Vegas" kind of cold. Sunny? Not so much.

And people smile here. Strangers. They walk past you and smile. And you wonder what mischievous mischief they have been up to. Or perhaps, here's a wild idea, perhaps they are genuinely happy. And so would I be if I lived here.

Old buildings. Friendly people. And Birckenstocks. Friendly people who wear Birckenstocks.

And did I mention it's cold?

If you go down to the Strip today you're in for a big surprise

People come to Vegas for many different reasons. Okay, that's a lie. They come to gamble, drink, and get laid. This is, after all, Sin City.

So it's no small wonder that on every street corner, there are illegal immigrants flicking theese cards. And not just flicking them, but shoving them in your face as you stroll past. And not just once or twice. It's ALL DAY!!

"Girls direct to your room in 45 minutes" they promise. I have no problem with this form of advertising, but what really riles me is that these guys flick these cards in the faces of men walking down the Vegas Strip with their wife and kids. At first it was comical watching ttheir reaction. Pleasure. Then shock. Then fear when they realize they have incurred the wrath of God (and the wife).

The roads are littered with these cards. Pick one up, and pick one up. You've only got to wait 45 minutes. so get comfortable and make sure the wife doesn't have your credit card down on the gambling floor.

See the world, come to Vegas

It's no small wonder 75% of Americans don't have a passport.

Why should they when the world can be seen in a weekend right here in tacky Vegas.

That's right folks. If you're after a little French culture, come to Paris (in Vegas) where you can dine in the Awful Tower, eat croissants at a French cafe.

Perhaps you're after something a little more musical. Then stop by the Ventian with its Italian-style architecture, and a real, honest-to-God canal where you and your lover can take gondola rides through the hotel.

For the more adventurous, the Luxor offers a fine example of Arabian tackiness. Shaped like a pyramid, the Luxor features a fake Sphinx (although, many people here can't tell the difference).

Yes, why leave the confines of the great United States when you can pop over to Vegas and experience the world all along one street. Indded, a modern travel miracle.

Where to next?

The great thing about not having any family living with you when you live abroad is that when you grow tired of one place, you can just pack up your shit and move on.

This is precisely what I will be doing soon.

But where to next? Do I want a large city, or a small town? Snow or sun? Beach or farm? Birckenstocks or flip flops? Yes folks, these are all question one needs to ask oneself when one is considering moving oneself to another place.

San Francisco was beautiful. But expensive. Vegas, well, I've been here a few months, and that's a few months too long.

Perhaps I should throw a dart at the map and go where it lands. Or do a nationwide resume drop from the air and go where there's interest. I have no aversion to any particular area, except for perhaps Mississippi or Alabama.

A need a place with culture, with restaurants, with museums. A need a place with soul, with life. I want to feel settled and enjoy living there. It should have outdoors, or at least have them nearby.

Any suggestions?

Will work for food

or rent, or clothes. Yes folks, it happened again. The proverbial axe went swinging around in a more potent fashion than my supervisor who walks through the agency swinging his you-know-what around.

It happened on Friday and between then and now I have sent out 85 solicitation emails. No, not THAT kind of solicitation. What kind of guy do you think I am? I mean the "Dear X, I'm looking for a job. Sweeping floors, mopping up vomit, writing copy. Do you have anything going? Please?!" kind of solicitation.

How many people replied? One. That's 84 less than I had hoped would reply. I had expected my inbox to be bursting at the seams with all the emails offering me lavish positions heading up creative departments nationwide. Did that hapen? Strangely enough, no.

So my search continues.

If it carries on at this rate, my soliciation letters will start reading, "Dear X, Please hire me to work behind your counter. I have spent ten working in advertising and winning foreign awards so I can dress up in a clown outfit and shout into a microphone, "DO YOU WANT FRIES WITH THAT?"

A Thousand Splendid Evenings of Reading Pleasure

Yesterday, for the first time in almost five months, I trotted off to a bookstore. I knew precisely what I wanted to get.

If you read a few posts back, I wrote about Khaled Hosseini's first novel, "The Kite Runner". Well, it was a runaway success. And I enjoyed it so much that I have been intending to read his second effort. Neatly and firmly tucked under my arm, I made my way to the cash register.

"Good afternoon. No, I do not have a Barnes & Noble book club member's card, yes I found everything just fine thank you and now I would like to purchase this exquisite piece of cultural literature from your fine establishment."

And off I trotted.

Tonight I shall bury myself in the pages of "A Thousand Splendid Suns" and get lost in time-forgotten Afganistan.

Marvelous Kitchen Miracles

Every home should have at least one. Kitchen, that is. And in one's kitchen, one should have at least one Marvelous Kitchen Miracle.

I am fortunate enough to have two: a dishwasher, and that thing in your sink that eats all the gunk at the flip of the switch. What's that thing called? Oh yes, a garbage disposal.

I hate washing dishes. Wait, allow to rephrase. I ABHOR washing dishes. So my dishwasher is a much-appreciated Godsend. I did a load of dishes this weekend and they all shiny and clean and like new. We like new.

As for the garbage disposal, she has started to reek somewhat. So it's a bit of bleach for her, some hot water, some lemon, and VOILA! Like new. Technology, ah. Life is so much easier with Marvelous Kitchen Miracles.

A day with my knight

Back in the days of jousting for love, and plunder of kingdom, young aspiring wanna-be knights would select a knight they respected, they looked up to. And they would spend almost every waking moment learning everything they could about knighthood from their mentor.

They would learn how to shoe a horse properly, how to take care of one's lance (?), and how to polish suits of armor. If the trainee knight showed promise, the knight would teach him how to joust and be a proper knight.

My knight is a woman knight, and while this may have been relatively unheard of back in the days of round tables and what have you - Joan of Arc doesn't count, she was French - it appears to be more acceptable these days. That is, if we still had knights. My knight happens to work in advertising. And what a jouster she is. She stands tall, metal armor blindingly bright, lance in one hand, spear in the other, she mounts her stallion and makes me proud. Okay, let me rephrase that last bit. There's no mounting going on here.

I digress. There aren't that many women knights in the advertising kingdom, on neither this side of the ocean, nor that. That's because all the big men knights are afraid the women knights might find out just how tiny things are under suits of armor. That's why I chose a woman knight mentor. She's fearless. She's talented. She has the driest sense of humor I have ever come across, oh and she mentors me, albeit from one kingdom to another. And despite what Neil French once said at an ill-fated speech given to ad folks in a kingdom tarpaulin in Ye Olde Toronto, this one has shutzpah.

All the other knights in yonder kingdom respect her, because stepping out into the male-dominated jousting pit every day takes courage, stamina, determination, and my mentor has those all. She guides me. She chides me. She tssk tssk's me from time to time, but she is always there to answer a question, offer a comment on how to improve my technique.

She's wonderful. She's also 25,000 miles away. And we have only met once. But communication technology being a little more advanced than they used to be in yonder days, we stay in touch regularly. But still, I hope to see my knight some day.

Having my cake, and eating it

I have decided that there are in fact some nice people on this planet. Take for example the nice girl who randomly gave me this nice cake on Friday. What a wonderful gesture. Bless. Perhaps she gave it to me because she thought I needed to put on a few pounds, but I like to think she gave it to me out of the kindness of heart. Because that's what nice people do.

So she handed over this German Chocolate cake and asked politely, "Would you like this German Chocolate cake, kind sir?"

To which I cordially replied, "Hand it over, it's mine. ALL mine."

So this weekend, I was a little pig. I finished three quarters of the cake, and now can bearly move. This is what they mean by having your cake and eating it too.

Personally, I've always wondered what the point of having a cake is if you can't eat it.

What are you afraid of?

I am not embarrassed to admit it: I suffer from Ophidiophobia. For those of you not in the know, this is a legitimate fear of snakes. Not arms. No legs. And the ability to move/bite/strike. Not normal.

Some fears are a lot more rational than others. I remember as a kid, like most othes, I used to suffer from Achluophobia - fear of darkness. I guess other rational fears include:

Hadephobia- Fear of hell

Medomalacuphobia- Fear of losing an erection - this is never a good thing and a VERY legitimate fear for men.

And Politicophobia- Fear or abnormal dislike of politicians. Understandable.

But then there are some not so rational fears. I can't quite put my finger on it, but take a look at these and you be the judge:

Ablutophobia- Fear of washing or bathing

Alektorophobia- Fear of chickens

Atomosophobia- Fear of atomic explosions

Caligynephobia- Fear of beautiful women

Clinophobia- Fear of going to bed

Enetophobia- Fear of pins

Ephebiphobia- Fear of teenagers

Euphobia- Fear of hearing good news

Hobophobia- Fear of bums or beggars

Xanthophobia- Fear of the color yellow or the word yellow

Xenoglossophobia- Fear of foreign languages

And my personal favorite: Zemmiphobia- Fear of the great mole rat

Not as much 'scarey' as 'dreary'

This has been a very BLAH week. I took a day off on Tuesday and was continuously ripped from my slumber by calls from the office.

"Where's the copy for X?"

"It's on my desk. Leave me alone."

"Where are the amendments to X?"

"I'll email them to you. Now LEAVE me alone!"

I have sadly neglected my dear friends in prison, the ones who count on me for correspondence in the form of letters. Instead, I have been working, sleeping, eating, and sleeping. But bless, they still continue to write. Makes me feel bad.

Last night my cat - the one that cost about as much as a generous donation to a small African country - got stuck in the cross bars of the ironing board. I'm still at a loss at how she managed to get up there. I was taking a nap when she started shrieking like a banshee. I just assumed she was fighting with my other cat - and losing, quite badly. Eventually the tone of the banshee scream changed to a blood-curdling growl. I peeped out from under the blanket and saw her dangling there, arm twisted into some weird position. SO I hopped out of bed to save her - much like a fireman saves a cat from a tree - only to have my hand lacerated by the thrashing needles she has on the ends of her paws.

Great. Super. Just wonderful. I'm tired and look like a wreck. Not scarey-looking, mind you. Just dreary and washed out. Like my friend the scarecrow.

Game. Set. And match.

Tis not all that often that I play tennis. But yesterday I decided to venture out on to a tennis court and practise the old backhand with a work colleague.

What a jolly sight it must have been, watching me run around the court like an excited puppy, panting and sweating profusely. I haven't played the gentleman's game in almost three years, but that is hardly any reason for my 'opponent' to get all up in my face about it. Just be happy I smacked it over the net, fellow!

I must admit, rather modestly, that my backhand is quite dynamite. It's the forehand that needs a lot of work.

I finally got the hint that my opponent, a work colleague, was getting rather annoyed at me when he started shooting balls across the court that came whizzing past me at speeds that would make a race car envious.

"Okay, that's enough. I'm rather buggered," I yelped across the court. He was most happy.

Off we trotted to grab some refreshment as my mouth was drier than a camel's underfoot.

Today, I can feel the pain of strained muscles in parts of my body I never imagined ever did a day of work. My thighs are on fire, and my lower back makes me feel as though I'm 70 years old. Time to hang up the racquet, put away those fuzzy green balls and stick to a nice, relaxing game of tennis. Online.

"You've got mail"

A few weeks back, I ordered some crap called "wall art" online. It looked nice on their website. And I like nice. So I wanted some. They are these long dangly things with odd-sized wooden hoops. Looks very nice and I was thrilled to hang them up.

That is until I checked my mailbox a few days days later and there was a west elm brochure.

"But I didn't order this," I said to myself - quickly glancing around to make sure no one saw me talking to myself. "What a nice surprise though." And I quickly thumbed through the pages of expensive stuff I can't really afford but wish I could have.

A few days later, there were two more catalogs in my mailbox. Now I know for a fact that I didn't order anything from these people. The one is Pottery Barn. The other is some pretentious Italian place called Chiasso where for just $4000, you can get a snow white sofa. Why on God's green earth would anyone want a snow white sofa? Unless of course they lived in a museum. And at that price? Good Lord, that's rent for almost half a month.

Anyway, I digress. I have become a hot commodity, a saleable item. I'm guessing my name and address where sold to "the" catalog people - the ones who decided whose mailbox gets bombarded with loads of catalogs for places ranging from Crate & Barrel to that one-man shop run out of Hope, Arkansas.

I just want to take this opportunity to say STOP!!

Stop sending me all this crap. If I want something from you, I'll hunt you down and buy it. I don't need prospective things shoved down my throat. Silly idiots, don't you realise you can choke a person like that. It's more than enough that I have to deal with all the Sale crap from Wal Mart that fills up my mailbox, but to have to contend with those endless catalogs as well?! No more. My regular mail is complaining that its not getting enough attention. You know, mail like bills from Nevada Power.

So, enough already with the catalogs. I don't want more of your stuff.

LEAVE CHRIS CROCKER ALONE!!!

Seth Green Chris Crocker Outtakes

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I have a stye on my eye

And it hurts like a Mo Fo.

So I went to visit my knowledgable friend, Wikipedia - odd name, I know, but I didn't pick it - anyway, my knowledgable friend informed me that a stye is an infection of the sebaceous glands at the base of the eyelashes. Okay. While they produce no lasting damage, they can be quite painful. No shit Wiki.

But oh knowledgable one, I thought only kids got styes.

Wiki: They are particularly common in infants, though people of any age may experience them

I see. And what in God's name causes this aesthetically-unpleasing things on one's eye?

Wiki: Styes are generally caused by a Staphylococcus aureus bacteria infection. They can be triggered by stress, poor nutrition or lack of sleep.

Well it can't be poor nutrition. If you saw how many Twinkies I eat a day, how many cups of coffee. Seriously, it's not the nutrition thing. But stress you say? Lack of sleep? Both very interesting. I suffer from both ailments. Perhaps they got together one night while I was pulling my hair out due to my insomnia and decided to bump uglies before giving birth to this swollen red thing on my eye.

Wiki: The first signs are tenderness, pain, and redness in the affected area. Later symptoms that arise include swelling, watering of the eye, sensitivity to light, and discomfort during blinking. A yellowish bump develops in the affected area.

Oh, thanks Wiki. That sounds super attractive. A yellowish bump you say?! Charming. Discomfort while blinking? What a pity I happen to this SEVERAL TIMES A MINUTE!!

So let me get this right. It's 2007. We have chemotheraphy for cancer, Head & Shoulders for dandruff, and amputation for gangreen. But nothing to cure a stye. Yes, there is this Stye Eye Relief, but does it work? Hell no. Another consumerist trick to get you to part with $9.99.

But Wiki, how can I get rid of it?

Wiki: Most styes will drain on their own though this may be accelerated with a hot or warm compress, or by pulling out the eyelash. Styes typically resolve within 1 week with treatment. Since a stye is technically a pimple, it can be popped. However, doing so is not recommended without technical expertise due to them forming dangerously close to the eye for those inexperienced at this. Medical professionals will sometimes lance a particularly persistent or irritating stye with a needle, to accelerate its draining.

And by "lancing" I imagine you mean taking a needle dangerously close to my eyeball and popping the red, swollen beast. Wonderful.

I have a new toy

My new Palm Treo. It retrieves my office email, has texting capabilities, keeps me in touch with the world, predicts the weather in Asia, blow dries my hair, tests my cholesterol level, and does my Christmas shopping, trims trees, navigates 747s - across continents, whips up fluffy omelettes in minutes, and makes my coffee.

My brand new, 2nd hand Palm Treo PDA ladies & gentleman. Who would have thought I would have stepped so boldly into the 22nd century of tech advancement?! Sure as hell not me. Now if only I could figure out how to switch the damn thing off.

Ommmmmmmmmmmm

Now bring your right foot over your left shoulder, push out your chest and stretch out your arms as your hamstrings feel like they're about to snap. Feel that? Good.

So today I started yoga. Everyone in the class was able to have knees parallel to the ground. Mine? Not so much. About halfway through the class, this pops, that snaps, next thing you know, I'm stretching and pulling muscles I never knew I had. But all cliches aside, I feel great. I feel taller. I want to sit properly at my desk instead the easy slouch. My mind, well, my mind is jello right now and I can't really think of anything really funny/insightful/enlightening to add.

Sorry. Will try do better next time. But right now, I need to keep my palms flat on the ground and stand straight up, keep those legs straight.

Dear Friendly Customs People

So my boxes arrived from the Middle East yesterday and I had to go and pick them up. But not something as simple as go in, sign for them, leave. No, that would be too easy. Go to Forward Air. Sign a form. Go to the airport (Terminal 2), stand and wait at the Customs office, sign another form. Told I would have to wait about an hour because they needed to go to Forward Air to actually inspect the boxes.

"But they are only personal effects" I told them. What I seemed to forget was that my form said my boxes originated in the Axis of Evil. And everything from that part of the world has to be checked with a fine-tooth comb.

So to help out the wonderful customs folks, I have decided to help them out a bit. Perhaps this will help:

Dear wonderfully-efficient customs officer, welcome to my boxes from the Axis of Evil. How very kind of you for taking the time I am sure you will. Before you check my boxes, perhaps I should give you a quick checklist of contents. Be sure to wear gloves:

Arabic souvenirs (including two daggers)
Several pairs of dirty socks
A coloring book
A model submarine
Fabric swatches
A bridesmaid dress
Half a bath towel

Don’t be alarmed, however, when you come across the following:

A flowering plant (not poisonous)
A light saber
A cattle prod (which unfolds into an ergonomic pillow)
Gas torch (dual usage as a reading light)
Marzipan scissors
Splatters of blood
A spear gun

Please feel free to help yourself to the following:

Melted chocolate
Water-purification tablets
Complimentary hotel shampoos & lotions
Perishable dairy products
Magazines more than two weeks old

While you’re scrounging around in my boxes, would you mind looking for the following:

My nail clippers
Knitting needles
My cigar cutter
Razor blades
My fake pilot disguise
Book about stem cell research

Perhaps you would feel better knowing that these boxes were packed by a religious official. The religion shall not be specified.

Unwanted guests

So you know how sometimes you get home after a really long day at work and the last thing you want to deal with is unexpected guests? This is precisely what happened to me two nights ago. I arrived home. And they were just there. Not one. Or two. But closer to one or two MILLION!

Tiny ants have taken over my home. They form a long trail along the skirting boards on the floor. They even have a marching band crossing my lounge into the kitchen. They are literally everywhere.

So last night I poured some Clorox (Jik), Pine-Sol and some vile-smelling concoction from the "danger" cupboard into a plastic bucket. I mixed it all together, poured in some hot water, snapped on a yellow glove, picked up the scrubber sponge and got to work. Because apparently a polite, "Excuse me, you've overstayed your welcome, please leave" doesn't work with them.

Die. Die. Die. They soon disappeared. Ha. That will teach you.

I woke up this morning. Apparently they're home-sick. All along the skirting boards. The marching band. All of them.

A friend of mine once advised me to take drastic action when dealing with unwanted guests. Bad smells. Giving them shopping lists. Little things like that to make them feel unwanted. Tonight I'll take a trip to Wal-Mart. Bad smells and shopping lists won't work on these critters. But a big ol' kick-ass can of Doom will.

If they don't pay rent, they need to get the hell out.

$600? Is that for the ENTIRE year?

So my electricity bill arrived. And was I ever shocked?! $600 (that's R4200 for those in South Africa). Um, what?

So I quickly decided to do an electrical appliance check. TV? No. DVD player? No. Electricity-sucking floor lamp? No. Then what? What on Earth could possibly be consuming so much electricity in my unfurnished home? Then it struck me, much like a brick to the head. I leave the airconditioning on during the day so my cats feel comfortable. Well no more, kitties! Sorry. Now I keep it switched off. Okay, so I leave the ceiling fan on - I don't want to get home and have to clean up dead cat.

But seriously, $600. Ouch. I guess it's off to Wal-Mart tonight so I can stock up on non-electricity consuming candles.

Oh, and just for clarification, that IS for the month, NOT the year.

You are welcome to Amerika!

So early today - or yesterday depending on where in the world you are - my young cousin boarded a metal tube with wings. In his suitcase was a stack of clothes, and I imagine some biltong and photos of family. And off he went. Destination? America. Reason? To attend college, of course!

I told his Mom to tell him to give me a call the minute, no scrap that, the MOMENT he landed. Come on people, it's a long flight, what all of 15 hours of crap airline movies and even crapper airline food. And it's not like the seats are designed with comfort in mind.

Design Engineer1: These seats look very uncomfortable. How about if we make them a little more cushiony?

Design Engineer2: What? Are you mad? Flatten them even more. The more flatten they are, the closer we can put them together.

Design Engineer1: But what good would that be for the international, trans-continental traveler?

Design Engineer2: No-one cares. We need to put more rows of seats. That means less cushiony. Got it?

And I am worried about my young cousin. All bleary eyed, staggering through customs & immigration, and they are not the friendliest of people. They sit around, drink coffee, send text messages, share an inside joke and then BAM! The sullen face stares at you.

"Purpose of your visit?"

"Um, I'm going to be attending college here."

*silence*

THUD as the stamp hits the passport.

GRUNT as the uber-friendly immigration officer ushers him forward.

Poor kid. Hope he calls soon.

Bonsaaaaaai

It arrived in the mail this morning and I was beaming like a proud father.

Finally, some peace and zen in my life. My lovely little Juniper something bonsai that shall be moving into my bathroom.

Tip of index finger to tip of thumb. Same on the other hand. Place upturned hands on knees. Back upright. And all together now .... oooommmmmmmmmmmmmm.

Where poor people buy expensive-looking things

Sliced bread. Electricity. Round wheels. And CB2. These must be the greatest inventions of all time. Okay, so CB2 isn't an invention as it is the most amazing idea in home furnishing.

No they did not pay me to say that. But a quick visit to their website will reiterate exactly why this must rate as the most amazing place to make your home look like you have style, like you live in the 90210 zip code. From espresso-colored beds, to white ceramic plates. This place was made just for me, I'm sure of it. And it's affordable. Well, sort of.

Each month, I scrape my pennies together and head over with a big glass jar.

"Please sir, may I have the ashton wall mirror with accompanying ashton bedside lamps? And I'll take the salt and pepper shakers. And the 8' x 10' lounge shag rug."

Prison Pen Pals

So there I was, putting pen to paper ... okay, I lie. I was typing letters to prisoners. Yes, the ones in prison. I feel sorry for them, so I write and let them know that the outside world still cares for them. I do not judge - unless of course they are charged with 1st degree murder, in which case my little pen quivers at the thought that Mr. Murderer over here might hunt me down when he gets out. Not a good idea, so I rushed off and got myself a PO Box. Ha. Clever.

But still, the whole idea of writing to someone who is convicted of murder, mmmm, I don't know how I feel about that.

But anyway, I wrote to a "lifer" - yes, that means he is in prison for life, no chance of parole. So, off I trot to the mailbox and send these letters off. Two write back. And then I wonder why the "lifer" hasn't. Did I maybe write something offensive in my letter? Did I have his address written down correctly?

Then it hit me, like an axe to the head. Take a look at the pic I have put up with this posting. Yup, that is on the postage stamps I have been attaching to the envelopes.

"So, how long is your sentence?"

"Life"

"Oh, you mean FOREVER?"

Oops

Building something

There are fewer times that a man feels more useful than when he is building something.

Nature has a way of compensating for this because place a man in a labour ward of a maternity hospital, and he is rendered useless. Ask a man his opinion on the colour and fabric of new curtains. Useless. But put something in front of him and ask him to build it, and he feels useful. In fact, one might say you’ve just made him king of the world. This is how I felt last night. I arrived home to find 7000 boxes lying out on my balcony. Ah, my bed had arrived. Along with 12 stapled pages of instructions. Pffff, who needs instructions? They are about as useless as directions. So I set about constructing my bed.

Place part A alongside part B and use the Allen key to screw in part C to part D. Then flip part B over and attach part Z to part T via part D. Not too hard now otherwise...oops. Oh well, useless chip of wood that anyway.

But I always find it fascinating that at the end of the building “king-of-the-world euphoria” process, one stands with one’s chest puffed out, admiring one’s handicraft with immense pride. And then that pride balloon is popped when one looks to the ground next to this masterfully-built thing and sees what I saw in the attached pic.

Yup, leftovers. A few part Fs just lying around. “Where’d those come from?” one asks. Maybe they were extras, you know, just in case you lost one or something. And that chip of wood that broke off? Not my fault, the wood is obviously inferior. I must contact the company and tell them that for $300 I expect better quality. Even if my newly-constructed bed only stands 10 inches off the ground.

Why I love Mondays

How often is it that one can say they genuinely look forward to Mondays?

Okay, that was a little over the top. I don't look forward to Mondays. But the weekly bribe of fresh bagels goes down really well. Blueberry bagels for those fruity types. Wheat bagels for those in need of some bowel movement assistance. Rat's ass bagels for those who don't really give one ;-)

But honestly, bagels and coffee go down VERY well first thing on a Monday morning. Especially when they're free - the bagels, not the Mondays (those are never free, you pay for them with Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and sometimes Friday).

Why most Americans suffer from a Cranial Rectum Inversion

Let's face it, this is not the most aware society in the world.

It's said that Americans are only interested in what's happening here, between New York and Los Angeles. And sometimes they like to read about the scuffles that take place between the ever-friendly INS people on the border with Mexico. But why is it that when you ask an American about what he thinks with regards to the political instability in the Middle East, or even, hell, AIDS in Africa, they have their heads firmly planted right up their buttocks? Do they think that with their head up there, they won't be able to hear me asking that question? Or is it more a case of they don't want their blatant ignorance to be exposed?

According to my other good friend, urbandictionary.com, the expression to have one's head up one's ass means: 1. The condition of being absolutely oblivious to surroundings 2. Acting like an asshole. Personally, I believe most Americans fall into both 1 and 2 at some point. On the home front, for example, most remain oblivious to the goings-on around the world. China? What is that? Mexico? Yes, the 53rd state. They have their own problems to deal with. Idol banter from neighbors. Picking up the kids from soccer practice. Deciding with microwavable meal to eat tonight. And then you get the American tosser who saves up for years during high school and college, buys a backpack and decides to "do" Europe.

It's this American that falls into urbandictionary.com's 2nd explanation.

Have you ever had the misfortune of meeting an American abroad? No? Just sit down in a cafe somewhere and listen for the loudest person in the room. Chances are, he/she will be an American. If you can't find one in your cafe, take a short walk to the nearest Burger King/McDonald's/Starbucks. Americans are terrified to try anything new so they tend to congregate around familiar settings. Quite stupid really because then Ossama and his lads have a better chance of making them targets when they're all huddled together like cold sheep.

My favourite favourite 'head-up-his-ass' American is the one who walks into a shop, wants to buy something and asks the shopkeeper the price. When the shopkeeper replies in German (because we are, after all, in Idstein - a small town in Germany), our American friend, in all his ignorance, shouts at the shopkeeper and demands he speak English "like we do in America!" If his head wasn't already so far up his ass, I would have personally shoved it up there myself. What a douche bag. Thrashings for you, tosser.

But don't get me wrong. Not all Americans abroad are like this. Take for example the wonderful young Oregonian I met in Turkey. She was a little quieter than her counterpart in Germany, but still that swang came ringing through, and when asked if she was American, she appeared to be a little nervous, bit her lip, then declared, "No, I'm Canadian!" Thrashings for you, you liar! As if that's not bad enough, those poor Canadians get such a tongue trashing from those heads-up-their-asses Americans for not being as good as them, but all of a sudden, they're in Europe and they discover that the rest of the world LOVES Canadians. And absolutely ABHORES the ignorance & arrogance of Americans. So how convenient, "Oh, I'm Canadian." Yeah right. Canadians aren't loud. Canadians actually know what the hell is going on around the world. And Canadians DON'T have their heads up their asses.

End of rant.

I said a LAMP, not some regurgitated swamp thing

When one goes shopping for things to fill one's abode, what exactly should one be looking for?

I'm sure as hell convinced that it's not this monstrosity. While browsing online at various stores' websites, I stumbled - quite literally because I would not have simply sauntered in - upon a place selling lamps.

"Mmmm, I could do with a nice floor lamp," I thought to myself. "Not a big one, mind you. A nice sized one. Wooden. Preferably chocolate in coloring." And so the search began. Tulip-shaped lamps. Thick-based steel lamps. Cloth lamps. And then ... this lamp. This, this THING that looks like it was dragged kicking and screaming from some Georgian swamp. Who on earth would consciously want to place this hideaous thing in their home, much less their lounge?

Honestly, there's simply no accounting for poor taste.

Thankfully, I managed to find what I was looking for. Beautifully finished chocolate wood with a beige cloth shade. Perfect height. Imperfect price. $300 for a lamp? Are they mad? Do they not realize that for $300 I could get a pair of Swedish twins to swing on a tampeze? Naked. Above my bed!

Perhaps I should just move into someone's garage and sleep on a futon. Or overcome my fear and loathing of all things ugly and move in with my grandmother. Not that she's ugly. But like so many elderly people, she likes to surround herself with all things old. Do they do this to remind themselves to 'Cape Diem'? I mean, after all, death is knocking on the door with his rather narly knuckle.

Would someone please let him in?! But turn the lamp off, he's not very attractive!

The results are in ....

Ladies and germs, the results are in. Long live The Loerie Awards! This weekend in the sleepy town of Margate, KwaZulu-Natal, the results of The Loerie Awards (basically, the South African equivalent to Cannes/Clios) came in. And the winners in the print/newspaper section are:

GRAND PRIX: Lowe Bull (Cape Town) for Independent Newspapers / Cape Times - Hiroshima, 911, JFK, Soweto Uprising









To check out the work of the other winners, go to: www.theloerieawards.co.za