Why I won't be moving back to South Africa

Today I was browsing the iol.co.za site - it shares news from the various regional newspapers. And unfortunately, it's filled with stories like this one.

Yesterday, there was an article about a birthday party that turned into a nightmare at a restaurant in Durban. Another told of a man who raped a 12-year old girl and then forced three of her male cousins (all aged below ten years) to rape her as well. Stories like this rip out my heart, they fill me with sadness and anger and when my family ask when I'm moving back to South Africa - the land of crime - I don't know how to tell them nicely that they're out of their minds.

I'm not moving back. And it would take a major event for me to go back to visit.

It's sad. South Africa is such a beautiful country. But when crime tarnishes that, it's difficult to return to that once-beautiful reputation.

Crime is spinning out of control down there. The upsetting part is not that it's happening, but rather that people are becoming used to it, they just live with it. No-one should have to do that.

Red means stop and green means go

You have to be a complete moron not to know that you stop at the red light and go at the green.

That said, I might bite my tongue next week when I trot off to the local DMV (Department of Motor Vehicles) for my drivers' license. Oh boy, this should be fun. I've been driving for about 11 years - okay, illegally, but still. And as it turns out, I need a license to drive on the streets here - and to get credit and auto insurance. Go figure!

So I have printed out all 64 pages of the driving bible and will be spending the next few night studying furiously so that I can pass this blasted test. I need to get wheels so I can get around. I am sick and tired of being confined to the office or my apartment. So DMV, here I come. Smile, be pleasant and put on your best "I'm foreign, but I know the rules" voice.

I don't know why I need to get this license thing though. With the way that people here drive, one would think that obeying the laws of the road were optional. Wish me luck.

Let there be (expensive) light

So the task has arrived. I need to furnish my new apartment and one of the joys I anticipate in the process is, "It looked much bigger when I first saw it." Ah yes, famous last words.

While trolling through various furniture websites, I happened across this rather beautiful lamp. And trust me, this sheet of glass doubling up as a lamp comes at a price. $500!!! So instead, I have been trolling the cheaper websites because I don't have open buckets of flowing cash - although I really wish I did. That would definitely help me out.

So, a few sofas, a few beds, and I think I may have narrowed down my search. And if my cat decides to tear stuff apart, I'll tear strips off of her. Life ain't cheap babe. Knock over the $500 lamp and it's lights out for you kittie!

iLove iHop

I'm a sport so I'll give you one guess where I had dinner last night.

And the best part is, it's open 24/7, and just down my street (then to the left and about a mile down that road). Good food, and cheap ;-) Just as well, pay day is only next week and i'm already on my pennies.

Wipe your feet before you come in

I love it when people do that - when they kindly remind you that death is watching you, lurking around like a fart that won't dissipate. Gee, thanks for that.

So today I came into work late. Five minutes into checking my emails, I was rudely jolted back to the living with my office phone ringing. It was some insurance woman asking me to meet her on the second floor. So off I trotted, mumbling under my breath.

As soon as I arrived there, she immediately launches into this whole thing about cancer and not leaving my loved ones to pay funeral bills, and accidental dismemberment and gory crap like that. Damn woman, ease up on the depression would ya? I opted out of the cancer insurance and took the accident insurance. Apparently, if I lose a finger, they'll pay me $500. Cool.

Then 20 minutes later, just when I'm settled at my desk looking at some Asian porn online, I get summoned into the boardroom. Uh-uh, what did I do now? Nothing, apparently. There's this dude who is telling me (and 20 other people) that the new retirement age is 75. 75!!! Does anyone out there know of ANYONE aged 75 and working in advertising?! No. I didn't think so. So with the living crap scared out of me, I paid 110% attention to what he was saying.

Two hours later, I stifled a yawn.

Blah blah blah blah blah. Yes yes, death is knocking. Let him in, but tell him to wipe his feet before he enters, and take his coat and sickle.

My newest relationship involves brothers & sisters

Three brothers and two sisters to be exact.

Somehow I stumbled upon this new ABC series, you guessed it, "Brothers & Sisters". For lack of another word, it's fukkenbrilliant. I'm hooked.

It's rather like a soapie mixed with a drama and some romance added in for good measure. And no, it's no sappy. It's really interesting. It does to me what I try do to consumers every day: it evokes an amotion. Whether I chuckle, snif, or cheer for the baddie, it involves me.

Okay, so Brothers & Sisters is all about the rather well-to-do California-based Walker family. They own a small company called Ojai Foods (pronounced OH-HIGH) which is on the skids. Dad recently saw the bright white light at the end of the tunnel, And left his family behind to deal with his mistress of 20 years. Ouch.

Anyway, the Walkers are a family like most others and the show teeters around those nagging little social issues people like so much to ignore; such as gay marriage, politics, infidelity, the war on terrorism, relationships, drugs, infertility and Republicans. It's like a giant stew with carrots, onions, salt & pepper, some cabbage, water, beef cubes. And it all brews together quite nicely. Very much like the case with Cheetos, I'm addicted.

Now, strangely enough, ne of the Executive Producers of this show is Ken Olin (of thirtysomething fame - remember the series based around the advertising industry in the late 80s?). Turns out in real life Ken is married to the woman who plays the mistress of the family's father. Ken also starred in a few episodes of 'Alias' - along with the character Arvin Sloane. Mmmm, "Arvin" is back, this time as the wife's brother.

Ah nepotism, a family business.

Orange fingers everywhere

You know how like when a like heroin addict is like high and like strung out on like heroin? That's how I feel with my Cheetos ;-)

For those of you in S.A., Cheetos are like Nik Naks. Orange cheesy fingers of sheer addiction. They are delicious and trust me, once you start, you can't stop. And our agency has packets and packets of them in the snack drawer. So if you could see my MacBook's keyboard (and pen and phone cradle and coffee cup handle) you'll see little spots of orange - but they're not the little spots which are removed with just a light dusting, oh no.

These orange cheese spots need to be licked, sucked, and scraped off with teeth. Sounds kind of violent, but it's not really. Because at the end of the day (or the end of the packet as the case may be), it means a few more morsels of orange cheesy spots for you.

Delicious. Addiction in an orange bag. Grab yours today, the government hasn't banned them - yet ;-)

Did I have a kid and someone forgot to tell me?

So there I am, minding my own business (as I do so well) and this arrives in the mail.

Big and official, in a brown manilla envelope. So I open it and inside are these forms - for BIRTH REGISTRATION. Did my parents forget to register me when I was born many moons ago? Did I black-out and father a child? Stranger things have happened, but none have confused me as much. I was like, WTF?

Anyway, confusion aside, these papers will see the inside of my black wire-framed waste paper basket. I have no use for them - yet ;-)

So, SOuth African Consulate-General in Los Angeles, thanks for tracking me down like a wild animal in the veld, but seriously, don't you guys think your tracking abilities might be put to better use in, oh I don't know, stopping corruption in the Department of Home Affairs back in Pretoria? Just a thought. But thanks for the birth registration papers.

I roared and I roared and finally ...

I arrived home at the unGodly hour of 9pm last night.

No electricity. What a surprise. Four phone conversations with the friendly folk at Nevada Powere later and I felt just like this bear. I was ready to rip off heads and roar loudly to announce my annoyance and displeasure.

"Mr. X, they will be there within the hour."

Within the hour comes and goes - as does my patience.

"Mr. X, we are trying to get them out there, but people with outages have priority" - at which point fire started emitting from all my crevices. "Trying" to get out here? The only thing Nevada Power was "trying" was my PATIENCE. And people with outages have priority? Oh no, excuse me, let's clear this issue up people. I hadn't showered in two days. TWO DAYS. I honed. Like a local after a stick fight.

Anyway, after roaring like a bear, I decided to go to sleep at about 1:30am. It was shortly after that that I was rudely awoken by bright lights. Aaah electricity.

In my excitement, I stripped down to my naked carcass and ran for the bathroom. SHOWER TIME BABY! Um, yeah, not so fast my bru. It takes a few hours for water in the water heater to actually get warm :-) Brrrrrr, well at least a cold shower is good for one thing.

Left in the dark

So will the friendly folks at Nevada Power keep their word? I'll find out at 7:30 tonight.

I've just moved into my new apartment. Nice, carpeted, clean - and dark. Apparently, one needs to call the friendly people at Nevada Power a year in advance to book their services. Must be because they are so good at what they do. Anyway, last night I didn't shower. And that's nasty. Because I sweat. And it's hot here these days. No lights to see where I'm going *BOINK* into the wall.

And no electricity means no airconditioning. No airconditioning means apartments stays warm. Staying warm when I'm already buzzing from my own body odor is not usually good. So I called them up today and begged and pleaded and put on my best "Oh please help me, I'm foreign!" voice. They said it would be on by 7:30 tonight.

Mmmm, and GWB said the war would have been over by now.

Stay tuned.

Come on everyone, let's go sloughing

I don't know whether "sloughing" is an ye olde English word, or if it's something people do at Christmas. Either way, it sounds really cool.

So I discovered this Kiehl's brand a few months ago. And I love it. Partly because they DO NOT TEST ON ANIMALS which is very important in my world. But also partly because their packaging isn't all pink and lacie and stuff, so a guy doesn't feel embarrased walking out of a Kiehl's store.

And they have super cool product names as well.

Yerba Mate Tea Something

Facial Fuel

Amino Acid Shampoo

Foaming Non-detergent Washable Cleanser

Mineral Muscle Soak

and my personal favorite .... Superbly Efficient Anti-perspirant & Deodorant. Nothing overstated or anything. And this is just the men's range. I think I'm going to stock up soon. Simple. Understated. And it works. The Body Shop is so last year.

But I think my number one reason for being such a devotee of Kiehl's is that not only do they make pre-shavers for men, lotions for women and even pet shampoo, but they also make CONDITIONERS FOR HORSES!!! Well that just floored me.

How to be creative

I am sick to death of hearing this statement. Can creativity really (and I mean REALLY) be taught? Ad schools around the nation suddenly sit up in defense mode.

"OF COURSE IT CAN" they claim. Would you expect them to say anything other than that?

You can't teach someone to be creative. Picture it:

"Um okay, first, you need to open your mind."

"With a hammer?"

"No numb-wit. With relaxation, open your mind, let it flow."

"What should I be thinking about?"

"Just keep it open."

"You mean like a 24-hour store?"

No, no people, you can't teach someone to be creative. Can't you teach someone to be artistic? No. You can either draw, or you can't. Sure, an art teacher can HELP you improve your technique, but she can't teach some embicil who can't draw a stick man to whip out a paint brush, plonk on a beret and voila, Pablo P.

Pffff, talk about blowing smoke up people's asses.

What makes a home sweet?

Maybe it's a sense of nostalgia, but recently I've been thinking a lot about home. And that's really unusual. Not because I'm some cynical old fart but rather because I'm not sure I really have one.

Is a home that place you grew up in? Is it a sense of protection & warmth & love? What if your parents no longer own that home you grew up in? And as your siblings grow and get married and find their paths, do they make their own homes? Or is a home simply the place you go back to each ight after after work?

I don't know the answers. I'm merely putting the questions out there.

One of my sister's asked me if I was "coming home for Christmas". Am I? I don't know. "Who's home?" I wanted to ask, but she would merely brush that off as me trying to analyse everything.

There's a song that says a home is where you hang your hat, where you lay your head. I like that. But isn't a home also supposed to be a place of love and warmth, of laughter and tears? At the moment, I'm still in limbo. I'm staying in a hotel. I move into an apartment next week, an apartment I hope to try and turn into a home. But as I sit and wonder what that is exactly, I'm left pondering a little more.

Are hotel toiletries made by midgets?

Okay, try imagine it if you will. You're standing in the hotel bathroom, looking into that huge mirror, and staring back at your magnificent physique - as I do from time to time - and some things appear bigger. No, not that (mine IS naturally bigger), I was talking about the shower curtain.

But anyway, you happen to glance to the right and you see two itty bitty snow-white hand towels (or bath sheets to a midget) neatly folded on the metal bar.

You peer over to the left and you see an itty bitty bottle of 2-in-1 shampoo & conditioner, and an itty bitty bottle of lotion. Alongside them are two itty bitty cakes of soap. Were the toiletries in my hotel bathroom made by midgets?

I tell you, the midgets are taking over. But let me tell you a thing or two about these itty bitty midget creations.

First off, don't ever believe something that has "shampoo/conditioner/shower gel" on the label. All these three things are supposed to do different things. How on earth can they all work together? As for the itty bitty soaps, well, smear some of that stuff onto one of the itty bitty super thin face cloths they have nicely folded over the side of the bath and then wash your face. Easy does it. Don't forget behind your ears. Back of your neck. Good. Now splash off the excess soap with water.

Done? Good. Look into that huge bathroom mirror. See that taut face looking back at you? That's yours mate! Welcome to the world of soap so strong it is able to pull your face so tight you're able to lick the back of your neck.

Too tight for you? Try using some of that itty bitty lotion. Easy does it. Feel that burning sensation? Some would say that means it's working. Personally, I'd say don't put that cheap shit on your face mate. It's burns doesn't it? Silly boy!

Do you really think that midgets have the budget to put quality moisturiser in those itty bitty plastic containers? Don't be daft. Next time you travel, pack your own. You won't wake up the morning after with that burned/shocked Michael Jackson look on your face.

It's 97 degrees fahrenheit (35C) today, so why the heater?

Because our office airconditioning makes it feel like Canada in the winter, that's why!

I'm freezing my tiny tooshie off here people. So I did the unthinkable. I took a small heater out from the stationery cupboard on the 2nd floor and plugged it in under my desk to keep my little transporters warm - I wear flip flops to work. So far it's working. But it's odd. Hot as hell outside. Cold as Canada inside.

I just hope no-one finds out. We're not supposed to have these things on in here. Apparently they trip the electricty! Oops.

David Hasselhoff, as you've never seen him before

You've seen him strutting his manly stuff in a Speedo on Baywatch, but you've never seen him like I saw him this past Saturday night.

A friend of mine bought me a ticket to see The Producers, a musical showing at a hotel/casino/resort/cesspool of sin for my birthday. So I went. And I enjoyed it. But David was, how shall we say, a little camp.

So after watching my childhood hero (remember him at Michael Knight in Knight Rider, with his super-cool car, Kitt?) swap his watch for a lifesaving buoy in Baywatch and then again for a crown and a limp wrist in The Producers, I'm left rather disappointed and disillusioned about life in general.

Don't get me wrong, he put on a good performance. But there's something about seeing my hero in a dress that just ... I don't know, can't describe it. Anyway, go out and see it for yourselves. You be the judge. But for now, MacGyver has overtaken Michael Knight as my #1 all-time childhood hero.

People, some airline etiquette is required

After my recent flight from San Francisco to Las Vegas, some airline travel etiquette needs to be established. Here are a few suggestions that I believe will make everyone’s life easier, so pleaseS pay attention:

Rule #1 - Security. Yes, it’s a bitch. Yes, the TSA employees they hired from the nearest clinic for the terminally stupid are an insult to anybody with a hint of gray matter, but come on. Throw the rest of us a bone here:

You’ve been standing in line for 45 minutes. You finally get to the table with the little gray bins. Now is NOT the time to hold up everyone else in line while you take off your six earrings, your 20 bracelets, your 14 rings, you necklace, your watch and anything else you KNOW DAMN WELL will set off the alarm. The time to do this was sometime during the previous 45 minutes when you were standing in line complaining about how slowly the line was moving. Take all that stuff off and throw it in your carry-on BEFORE you get to the table.

For those of you with laptops, yes you need to take it out of the bag. The 8 signs you passed while standing in the aforementioned line weren’t kidding. Have it out, put it in the bin and move along.

Rule #2 - Potty breaks. With certain exceptions, potty breaks are denied within the first ten minutes of flight. It’s your own damn fault you decided to wait in line for 15 minutes at the airport’s Starbucks for your daily non-fat double chai extra-tall cup-of-crap instead of taking care of business (and by therefore compounding the problem). If you’re that bad at time management, or set your priorities such that you can’t take two minutes out of your busy day to take a leak, then it’s your own damn fault and you can just hold it. Exceptions would include: (1) you’re in an aisle seat, (2) children, or (3) you have a baby with a poopy diaper – and yes I can smell it. Yes EVERYONE within 10 rows can smell it. Feel free to do what you got to do but PLEASE don’t ignore it.

Rule #3 - Bitch. If I’m unfortunate enough to fly 'bitch' (aka, the middle seat) then I automatically get both armrests. It’s called making the best of a bad situation. I don’t care how much you spent on your ticket – and if you had that much money you would be up there in 1st class with the rest of the I’m-so-important-I-need-a-curtain-to-shelter-me-from-those-coach-plebs.

Rule #4 - Assumptions. When airborne, you need to make some assumptions. For those of you seated behind me, you need to assume that I am sound asleep in my chair trying to get a little sleep before landing in Las Tacky Vegas. This means that you are NOT to use my chair to pull yourself up out of your seat, shaking it violently as you struggle for balance. I realize there isn’t a lot of room, but the solution is simpleS use your armrests, slightly turn your body, and use YOUR chair for balance. If works for me, it can work for you.

Rule #5 - Do Not Disturb. If I’m wearing headphones, listening to my iPod, it’s code for “please leave me the hell alone and don’t try to engage in conversation.” I don’t care how excited you are to be visiting your 19-year-old niece who lives in Sin City. I don’t care how pretty she is and that she’s working as a legitimate dancer as some 'upscale gentleman’s club’.

Rule #6 - Parents, control your kids. I’ve traveled all over the world and I know how incredibly boring even a short flight can be. However, a cramped airliner is NOT the place for tough-love. If your kid is throwing a tantrum, GIVE THEM WHATEVER THEY WANT – PERIOD. If your child is kicking my chair I WILL say something – and not to the child, but to YOU.

Rule #7 - You finally made to your destination. Congratulations! Don’t stop. That is to say, you just walked off the jetway and are now in the terminal - KEEP MOVING. Every single airport I’ve been to in this country has signs posted everywhere, so if you aren’t quite sure where you need to go, simply walk strait ahead to the far wall and figure it out from there. Stopping at the jetway door or in the immediate vicinity creates a hellacious roadblock that the second half of the plane has to navigate around. Some of us actually have the ability to walk and read at the same time – no problem if you’re not one of them, just please don’t slow those of us down who can.

Thank you and have a nice day.

WTF???

Idiot Breaks Into Glue Factory To Get High - And Winds Up Stuck To Floor!
Monday December 22, 2003


Desperate Bill Henderson broke into a glue factory in search of the ultimate high, and 12 hours later stunned workers found him -- stuck to the floor!

"I've seen dumb people in my life, but this guy takes the cake," says Florence Mabely, a glue-viscosity tester at the Durable Fit Glue Company in Sydney, Australia.

"He was covered in contact cement from head to toe. We had to pry him off the concrete with shovels and a crowbar like he was a slab of linoleum tile and all the time he was squealing like a stuck pig.

"He was screaming and hollering, 'Don't hurt me! Oh, God, just don't hurt me!'

"I kept telling him to shut up or I'd super-glue his mouth shut and scrape him off the floor with a fork lift."

Henderson, 19, told cops he occasionally sniffs glue to relax and hallucinate and decided that the glue factory was a good spot to pursue "a massive high."

He said he sneaked into the 65,000-square-foot plant through an open window and made a beeline for the blending room, where industrial- strength glues are mixed in giant stainless steel vats.

The room is vented by an array of 12 oversized exhaust fans to protect workers from volatile fumes that in low doses can make a human hallucinate and feel giddy, but in higher doses can cause brain and organ damage and even kill you.

Henderson told police he turned off the fans and took several deep breaths -- "huffing," in the parlance of addicts, who usually breathe glue from a paper bag with its opening held tight around their nose and mouth.

"I seen visions of Jesus and the devil and a space alien with a big head," Henderson told police. "I also seen the King of rock 'n' roll -- what's his name? Elvis? And somebody else I can't remember... it might have been Michael Jackson or that other singer, Kurt Cobain."

It's not entirely clear what happened next, but this much is known by police: Henderson knocked over a 500-gallon vat of gooey contact cement... and slipped and then rolled in it."

big. BigGeR. BIGGEST.

I took this pic with my cell phone while waiting at the Cable Car turnaround in San Francisco. Now before I receive a spate of hate mail from the general public about how wrong it is that I put this pic up, easy tiger. Put down the fries and step away from the cheese burger!

To gag at an overused phrase, obesity is a BIG problem here in the U.S. People eat when they're depressed. They don't have time to cook, so fast food joints are in - and apparently so are calories. Odd considering that this is a nation which offers non fat milk, more gyms than Starbucks stores, organic food stores, diet this and diet that. If that's the case, why are there so many whales beached up in the cities?

Not cool people. It's scary. It really is. A few extra pounds? Grrrr, it's padding. A 100 extra pounds? You belong in a water tank.

Trust me, "Fabulous" it isn't

Since arriving in Vegas on Sunday afternoon, I have seen more than my share of beer-gutted, "wife-beater" vest wearing trailer park trash walking through the lobby of the hotel where I shall be living for the next six nights.

But these men are not alone. Oh no. They are walking hand in hand with hot pants-wearing 60-year old mutton dressed as lamb. You know the type. The skin on her chest is so badly leathered through years and years of sun bathing that the wrinkles that lead to her cleavage form another Grand Canyon. These are the women who have over-processed hair, high arched eyebrows and wear blue eye shadow. Yeah, THAT type.

Anyway, they have taken over my hotel. In full force. Beer in one hand, cigarette in the other.

I must be in the twilight zone. That's the only explanation.