-eND-: On evil wives and girlfriends

So

Some years back, our man -d- blogged a rather lengthy piece about Poker Night and the shit that comes along with it if you let it.

We've been playing comparatively regularly since then and it hasn't been without issues. One of the guys and the usually placid other one only narrowly avoided a punch-up at one of the games, which is what you get when you let the women stay in for the night instead of booting them out like the trash that they are.

Yes, I am still single. How did you guess?

To clarify: I have no problem with women. I am not a misogynist or anything remotely similar. I have a problem with people, particularly certain people, and in a number of cases these people happen to be women. Some women piss me off more than others; some in particular would be first against the wall if I ever came into power, but this is as far as it goes.

But there is one who really really really really knows how to push my buttons. More annoyingly, she does it effortlessly. I don't mean she does it without having to try, even though it's true; she just has no idea how irritating she is all the fucking time. ALL the fucking time.

Cue two weeks back, at another poker night. It is becoming more and more common for the WAGs to hang around instead of just fucking off for the night - what in the name of Chr_st is wrong with these people? Would it kill the womenfolk to all congregate in another venue to the men, who are trying to throw off the shackles of domestic life and metaphorically wage war on each other? In part this is because the newest of the WAGs is quite a keen player and so the others seem to think that this is an open invitation to a.) mooch around; b.) complain about everything; c.) generally get in the way and d.) not play poker.

I can tolerate all of that, to a point. But only to a point. Exactly why the women don't piss off for girls' night and go to a chick flick, or go clubbing, or go to a tea party or whatever the fuck gaggles of women do when they flock together - going to the bathrooom in groups, perhaps; I don't know. Just get out of my space.

The last straw comes when they insist on turning off the raucous rock soundtrack we were playing our poker to and want to watch a chick flick right there in view of the game, which means that any of the players who can see the screen get distracted and that leads to me threatening to punch them when the game is held up because nobody knows who's bet what and raised what and whatever. This is why somebody and that other guy got into a fight last time.

Actually, that's the second last straw. The last straw comes when one of the clumsy bitches, a school teacher, stubs her toe on the coffee-table and then demands that her fiance climb out of the corner, where he's wedged in playing poker and can't get out without making everyone move since the table has been shifted, to give her a hug to make it better. Then screams blue murder at him when he doesn't because it is logistically impossible. And g_ddamned irritating. And entirely fucking unnecessary.

She also has a crack at me when I casually observe that the stars all appear to still be shining and I don't yet see a rider on a pale horse, or three other riders on white, black and red horses, and thus accurately surmise that her toe stubbing is not in fact heralding the arrival of the Apocalypse and other such exciting rides and forthcoming attractions as advertised in Revelation.

Yeah, I can be a bastard. But only when people really deserve it.

It probably didn't help when I countered that I am not one of the kids in her class, nor am I her fiance, so "in short, remember that I don't actually have to put up with your crap, see?" before returning to my nice, cold beer.

That's -eND- for the win! Although since it seems the wedding is still set for next April, I guess we'll have to call it a draw.

-eND-

-d-: On disconnection

Message

This is an edited reply to an email from one of my best friends, also a -d-, in Oz.
__________________________________________________________


>>>Hey Dude

Yo

>>>Whasuuup! How are things going with you? Long time no hear.

Same shit, different day. You know how it is. I'm almost writing my PhD thesis full time, just wrapping up 2 mouse experiments which we think would give the whole thing a little more weight. I will be sooooooooooo glad to be out of the lab and not doing this BS anymore. Alas also wrapping up one or two other little in vitro things to better the error bars and repeats in some strains which looked shoddy before and now look better, so it's still very busy in that regard. Sigh!

And my family are getting on my nerves. I'm seriously considering not taking that job here purely so I have a reason to change my scenery. It would be perverse and stupid and petulant and deconstructive (destructive?) and possibly a mistake to do so, just because the offer is unbelievably good in terms of experience and future prospects, but I just might do it anyway just to give me some peace.

Between you and me I seriously think I'm having a mini mid-life crisis because I'm finding fault with everything and everyone, and it occurred to me the other day that the chances are probably pretty slim that EVERYONE else is at fault and am I possibly, just possibly, looking at this thing backwards?

All I do know is I need something inspirational (or drugs), and I need it sooner rather than later. And getting laid fairly regularly probably wouldn't hurt, let's be honest.

Additionally, I've fucked up my knee, somehow - nothing obvious. And my wrist is still screwed from that injury in '07, which the sports physician/surgeon guy said could take up to 4 years to heal properly, and the over-compensation there is repeatedly screwing up my shoulder and my co-ordination on that side, so I spend my days dropping things or knocking them over, which makes me nothing but a clumsy bitch. I've had sinusitis since June and been having sinutab/colcaps/Vicks for breakfast since August, even though the usefulness of the antihistamines has looooooooooooooooong since worn off.

I am losing weight like I have the Aids, for some as yet unknown (but not entirely unwelcome, unless it is the Aids, since I've been trying to drop a few kilos since 1995 without too much luck) reason. And I may have shingles, -B- has suggested, owing largely to some phantom pain in my chest skin. Yup - skin. Not in my chest (organs), not in the muscles, not the bones, not obvious bruising or even invisible bruising caused by something obvious like getting clubbed in the chest by something, just extremely sensitive skin which feels like it has a touch of sunburn for no reason, since I haven't been in the sun, and reacts to everything, Even the wind blowing against my shirt - not exactly uncommon here at the Grot - causes pain and discomfort. -B- reckons it's either a.) shingles - wait another week to look for lesions to be sure, but that's what it sounds like - or b.) a pulled nerve, which he suspects is more likely since it's more common, but the symptoms don't match 100% like they do for shingles.

Apparently shingles is treatable - yay - but is horrendously painful and debilitating and you have to buy acyclovir - Herpes juice - to fix it. And apparently you can pull nerves, sort-of, in much the same way as you pull a muscle, sort-of, in layman's terms. Who knew? Not me, that's for sure.

PS: I might have warned you that the last few paragraphs were a bit of downer. Have a retrospective swig out of a strong bottle of your choice - you've earned it. Hell, I've earned it.
>>>
___________________________________________________________________________


I realise now, x many months down the line, that nobody is getting this message after all.
-d-

-d-: On things which piss me off

The thing I loathe above all others is inefficiency by other people, particularly when they require efficiency from me first in order to do whatever it is they need to do.

I seriously, seriously need a holiday.*

This entry may well be revised, buffed up, made pretty and extensively rewritten in the coming days. But it's good enough, for now.


-d-

*Sniper's rifle, obviously

-eND-: On cockteasing, inadvertant

So

I have a thing for nudity. You've probably guessed as much from the content you've seen/read in here, so this shouldn't really come as a surprise to anyone who knows me or who has encountered me in either my real world or internet self. It's kinda just one of those things.

Nudity - I love it! Public, private, in/appropriate... it's all wunderbar. But don't get me wrong, here: I'm not a nudist. I may enjoy nudity, but the whole nudist thing is just silly. There are rules, people, and rules are what's important.

Rule 1: The Six S rule
This is the only real rule and this is when nudity is good. It's also when it's appropriate, even when it isn't. Each occasion and the appropriateness of nudity therein (marked out of a score of 10) are dissected in the context of 6S below.

1.1: Showering.
This is obvious; and it bugs me to no end when people shower at the gym with clothes on. Especially when I find them sexy and would appreciate a look. I'm a voyeur - sue me. Appropriateness: 10
1.2: Sex.
Do we even need to list this one? Yes, sometimes half-clothed sex is the shit, but that's not what we're discussing here. Appropriateness: 10
1.3: Sleeping.
Summer or winter, home or hotel, alone or with company, sleeping in the nick is one of simplest, greatest pleasures known to man. Appropriateness: 10
1.4: Swimming.
Sleeping with your knob out is all well and good, but swimming nekkid is teh bestest thing in teh evah, IDST. Appropriateness: 33. This segues rather neatly into...
1.5: Suntanning.
Yes, there is some merit in the mystique and inherent sexiness of tanlines, but if you're swimming with your cock out, there's no point in covering it up in between bouts of water, except of course with a hint of sunblock. Appropriateness: 9.5 (a 0.5 deduction because of the sexiness of tanlines)
1.6: Streaking.
I'm a veteran of this. Enough said. Appropriateness: 10. Appropriateness if you streak at a largely inappropriate event (wedding, funeral, granny's birthday): 165

The astute amongst you will notice that each of these words begins with S and that there are 6 of them. The even more astute amongst you will notice that except for actual sex (1.2 above, and one where uncovered genitals are fairly important in terms of getting the whole thing right), I have entirely managed to divorce the concepts of sex and nudity. *Gasp!* *Shock* *Horror* Are you listening, the moral majority?

However, things like playing tennis, hiking, cooking, having dinner, watching tv etc are NOT appropriate settings for nudity. Even though tennis has Serving, and cooking has things like Sauteeing and Simmering, these S's are not good enough to justify nudity. If you have to go out of your way to do it - like having to get undressed and then put on your hiking boots, as well as carrying a backpack and a large sun-hat; or having to put on tennis shoes, or having to sit on a towel to not dirty your couches - then nudity is not appropriate. This is where the nudists all fall down, and this is why some people find the whole thing taboo, because it strikes them as preposterous. "Cooking with no clothes on? Hrrmmph! Driving with no clothes on? Pfcheh! Playing golf with no clothes on? It's a stupid game even with clothes on!" etc. But apart from sleeping - the laundry costs, perhaps, if you must - there are no logical counter-arguments against the 6S rules.

So I have this thing for nudity, appropriate or otherwise, and as a result, I enjoy getting my kit off sometimes purely because it bugs overly sensitive people when I do. You want to see a bunch of guys squirm, engage the most reserved one of them in a lengthy conversation while you're naked. He won't know where to look, his mates won't want to pull him out of there because it's might be considered rude and is against the social norms. I'm good at that, smashing people way off their guard, and in a perverse way I'll admit I enjoy it. More covertly, I also enjoy it when other people are naked, so if my dubious actions help in that regard and might one day convince Mr Reserved that he could get naked somewhere with impunity, then everyone wins. At the root of it all, I do firmly believe in being comfortable in your own skin. Both -d- and I have that as Article 1 in the Constitution of the country ruled by -d-* and -eND-.

So I do the naked thing. I don't do it excessively - I'm not that guy at the gym who spends far too much time in the locker room, walking around naked, clipping his toenails and drying his hair with tackle out and being overly-generous when it comes to applying moisturiser all over. I am, however, that guy who is not shy in the shower and doesn't mind if the door isn't closed, and who is quite happy to chat to anyone who makes eye-contact.

Unfortunately, there are lot of people at the gym who take this as an invitation. My learned colleague is the bi guy who doesn't mind a bit of the c0ck; I am just in it for the eye-candy, nudity and camaraderie inherent in a locker-room environment. So I'm always a bit taken aback when something which is genuinely me being polite and friendly is taken as a signal that I am in it for some action.

This seems to happen more and more. Literally, in the preceding 5 days, in two separate gym sessions, I have been approached by three different indivuals misreading my general approach and hell-bent on getting some action. Two of them were fairly covert, and didn't pursue it when failed to respond; the other one had me concerned that I might well get molested if I took my eyes off him. I think it's fortunate that when we were chatting initially I casually mentioned that I have a Second Dan black belt (I try to work that in to conversations - sue me), which I suppose affords me some protection. It's not like I'm lying - I really am a 2 Dan, but I still get a bit nervy around some people.

So I guess that sort-of makes me the world's biggest cocktease, and nobody likes a cocktease. The question is, do I migrate my outlook to mimic the social norms and not chat to people in the locker room, and not ever let myself be seen undressed, preferring to do the contortions and gymnastics involved in trying to pull on a pair of boxerbriefs over a slightly wet body under a towel so nobody sees my footlong hotdog? Or do I just carry on but keep the guns primed for the day someone decides I'm not only up for it, but clearly also playing hard to get?

Tough questions - I'd appreciate an opinion. Someone's going to freak out about the cocks up top, though - chortle!

It's 2009 - hooray!
-eND-
*He'll be the VP, of course.

-d-: On songwriting, the perils of

So

Some years ago, back when I was feeling creative and all that, I wrote a song. Well, no, that's not entirely true - I wrote half a song.

I banged out the chords one afternoon in 1995 or thereabouts, and I put together the first verse and the chorus sometime in the next few days. I left it at that, until some weeks later when I half-heartedly wrote the second verse. I left it at that, expecting to present it to the band and letting them come up with the rest.

We all know what happened to the band back in '06.

Some years later, I mentioned it to -s-, my most serious bandmate. I played it for him and everything, and I think he was impressed. He writes pretty well, for the most part, but that's another story - he and I founded the band and still occasionally knock out a tune here and there when the mood takes us and we are in the same town simultaneously.

Like, say, now.

Back in April, he invited me on a road trip, driving his newly acquired 1960s Alfa-Romeo back to the sleepy seaside hamlet he lives in these days. There were plans afoot, but for various reasons - mostly issues on my side, let's be honest - it didn't happen. We were both bummed, but that was the end of it. He has since invested in a few things to allow home recording to a fairly good standard, and part of the tour was to spend a couple of days recording a song. So we were both a little put out that the road trip and subsequent thing didn't arrive.

He arrived back in Cape Town in October on a 3-month training stint - the joys of becoming an anaesthetist, eh? - with home studio in tow. Now, he said, we could record the song here.

Great idea. What song? I had ideas of things I wished we'd played in our band days, and I had a list as long as -eND-'s cock* of ones I thought we could cover.

I didn't know it was my song, the one I half-wrote back in 1995, a verse and a half with a sort of chorus (and a fucking awesome bridge, written later, it must be said). I'll admit I was flattered and amazed he'd remembered as much of it as he had since I'd played it to him literally once back in the day, but immediately the panic set in.

The band was supposed to finish the song. The band finished; the song remains the same - incomplete. I've had ideas over the years, but nothing concrete enough to put pen to paper and say "this is it. This is the alpha and the omega of the song. It is now cast in stone" or anything even vaguely similar.

We have started recording the song. It has changed somewhat, and also has been born at the same time. I say that because on Day 1, -s- asked "what's it sound like?" and I began playing it for him on The J, my old battered red electric Epiphone, and he said "I know how it goes, what does it sound like?" referring of course to the arrangement.

I had no idea. Was it loud, or soft? The band would have decided as we played it over the years. What it ballady or more REM/CountingCrows/GinBlossoms angsty or PearlJam intropectivy or AliceinChains dirgy? The band would have decided, as we played it over the years. Was it an 80s hair-metal arrangement, all strings and soaring chords, or more sparkling Hey There Delilah simplicity? The band- you get the picture. Alas, the band is gone. Gone, but not forgotten; still, gone.

On Saturday, after seven weeks of fannying about, we laid down the groundwork of what is probably the second verse. It's all new, been buzzing in my head for the last 3 weeks or so. The old second verse is in the bin. There is also finally a set of lyrics for the bridge, but we'll have to see how far we get with that. Trouble is, we've been at it for seven weeks and -s- leaves in another four, back to the sleepy seaside hamlet. I don't suspect we'll be done by the time he goes, and that's a worrying prospect.

Still, we'll have to see. It's taken some thirteen years to get this far; a few more weeks can't hurt, I suppose.

-d-
*6 inches, rounded upwards.

-eND-: On the Mirror in which You Can See Yourself Piss

So

Years ago, plural, waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay back in the 90s, I went off to the small seaside town of Hermanus for a break with some friends. I was about to enter my 3rd year of university to graduate, and it was a trip we'd planned for some time. It was New Year and the plan was to see it on the beach.

A mate of mine and I both nearly drowned that afternoon, caught in a riptide after inadvertantly drifting out from between the flags set up by the lifeguards on the beach. That's the problem with having shitty eyes - you lose sight of the flags and get caught in a riptide and have to get fished out of the sea by a lifeguard, because the guy you're with, your oldest friend, is not a strong swimmer, and you've been fighting the riptide for so long without realising it that you've not got enough left in the tank to pull him to safety with you. That's another story, perhaps for another time. Either way, we were rescued and both felt very stupid afterwards, and I still do. I owe the Hermanus Surf Lifesaving Club, an entirely voluntary organisation, a donation of some sort.

We went home after that, to the little granny flat we were staying in, for a shower and a change and to get ready for New Year and all it entailed. And it was in the bathroom there, dear readers, that I was introduced to The Mirror in which You Can See Yourself Piss, as dubbed by the guys I was there with.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, it was a mirror. A small mirror. Not a hand mirror, but only probably 10 inches long and 6 inches wide. It was standing on its 6" side, at an angle, on the cistern in such a way that basically you looked into it as you took a pee. More than that, you got a good, solid, close-up view of the underside of your cock and, depending on whether you use your fly or pull everything out as both of us do, your hairy (well, they were back then, at least) balls as well. And also - of course; hence the name - the stream of piss sallying forth on the next stage of its journey - next stop: sewers.

I'm no stranger to seeing myself wee. I mean, every time the average guy goes for a wee he gets a look at it, at least for a time, while aiming. Maybe most guys look away once they're sure they're hitting the target - wherever you might aim at; the drain, the little sewermints if you're at a public toilet, the water if you're using a toilet and not a urinal, whatever - but I tend to watch mine most of the time. So I've seen myself pissing tens of thousands of times. Girls don't get to do that, I don't think. If they do, I've underestimated the lot of them. Not that watching yourself wee is a wonderful, life-affirming experience or anything like that, but there is some comfort in it, I find.

But there is a lot of discomfort in seeing yourself wee upside down, because it really does your wiener no justice. Looking at a mirror reflection is always odd; you can always pick up subtle differences when you look at a mirror since the left-right inversion is noticeable to the brain and nothing ever looks proper. Some things are very slightly different and just leave you with an idea that there's a disturbance in the Force, like when you meet the twin of someone you didn't know had a twin but you can immediately see it's not 100% right. Other things in the mirror are radically different and cleave your conscious in half. I was at school with a guy who at 18 standing next to me in the locker room looked 10 in the mirror, a real baby-faced image of himself, and utterly confusing to me.

It occurred to me then that the penis is not necessarily the most attractive thing in the world. I've seen a lot of cock - I'm a dude, so I've seen mine gajillions of times (my one is awesome. I love my one); I've had 32 years on the planet in which I've been to 4 different schools and locker rooms, spent time in sports clubs and locker rooms, been a member at three different gyms and their locker rooms, been at university with its locker rooms, and seen a lot - a lot, I'm talking a HUGE amount here - of p0rn, so I've seen plenty of cocks in my time. There are good looking ones, there are ugly ones, there are fat ones and thin ones and straight ones and bent ones and long ones and short ones and any multitude of combinations of those as you go along, but I suspect they all look ugly in The Mirror in which You Can See Yourself Piss. I know mine did, and as mentioned previously, mine is awesome. Mine is the penis equivalent of the FHM Hot 100, near as I can tell.

There are plenty of other Mirrors in which You Can See Yourself Piss. The unit next door to mine at work has big bathroom cubicles, with basins and mirrors in each cubicle, and you get a side-on view of yourself as you do your thing. My mom's offices are likewise; so is the karate club. I encountered another one somewhere over the weekend, which is what brought on this entry. All of these afford a similar view of the Main Event, but none such a view as the underside of things from the original Mirror.

-eND-

-eND-: On not getting killed by The Secret

So

Following last week's run in with The Secret, I have been trying very hard to bend the universe to my will. It has sort-of worked, in parts. Sort-of. Not enough to say for sure that is genuine, though.

Having said that, I'm using the broken-telephone version of The Secret, aren't I? I haven't read the book, I haven't watched the DVD, I haven't attended any seminars on the thing. All I have is 1-nut's interpretation of it, and by his own admission he's not the brightest bulb in the store, so... either way, it's Tony's interpretation of the thing which he's explained to me, both of us buzzing on either wine (me) or nicotine (him).

So who knows if what he's told me is even correct and that he hasn't got it wrong? Him and his little bro -J- have been using it for the last few weeks with mixed results - they haven't let, say, not winning the lottery deter them - I always think this should be the acid test of things like this. The Secret, fortune tellers, mystic gypsy seers, carnival future-predictors - someone use it to win the lottery and THEN I'll be convinced.

I did mention that I am an Olympic-class skeptic, right? Thought so.

Anyway, I've scored with parking the whole week, got a nice undercover one every day, but not again in my designated bay which I chose last Thursday. Tony claims to always get the bay he wants at work these days. However, I haven't concentrated on it quite as hard as I did that first night and day when it paid off, so I decided to go balls-to-the-wall and put all my effort into it. I concentrated my arse off Wednesday night, I asked The Universe for the bay - still feeling kinda goofy doing that, it must be said - and the whole way in traffic yesterday I thought positive and concentrated on visualising myself driving into the bay, all victorious and conquering-heroesque, marching bands playing as I arrive, crowds waving, people throwing flowers and underwear and fainting and all that jazz.

I concentrated so hard on the bloody thing, speeding along, that I failed to notice the car 4 cars ahead slowing for a u-turn at the only place you can do one on the winding mountain road. In addition, the car behind him didn't notice and had to stand on his brake, the large Jeep in front of me had to stand on his and I left what can only be described as a long and I'd like to add fairly impressive set of skidmarks as I fishtailed towards impending doom. Only my last-millisecond decision to begin to change lanes bought me the necessary extra time and distance (oblique lines being longer than perpendicular ones, as any fool knows) and I stopped a mere penis' width away from the Jeep's large and sturdy rear bumper. No harm done, so no foul, technically, but I'm not sure how I'm supposed to give my full attention to all the twats on the road and remain upbeat and positive and concentrate on The Secret.

I mean, I'm fairly sure The Universe shouldn't try to off you if you ask it for a parking bay, should it?

-eND-

-eND-: On The Secret

So

Last night, a whole bunch of us from the karate club got to have dinner with the 2008 World's Best Mayor and leader of the official .za opposition party, the Democratic Alliance. We were there as the office-bearers of the karate club and being given an award for social and community service.

Our good mate, Tony, of 1-nut fame, is the club chairman, so he actually got to go up to receive the award and have a quick chat to Mrs Zille and the rest of us got to be all A-list and socialite and shit like that at the swanky do, which lasted about 4 hours. I'm not sure you plebs know about any of that sort of lush stuff.

It was kinda dull, it must be said. Too much about politics, too much about communities and community spirit, too much about togetherness, unity, brotherhood and all that nonsense. Yes, it's all important, but it did kinda go on a bit. There was even a prayer at the end - that bugged me.

There was also food - very sketchy - and wine - very cheap - but it's the thought that counts, right? And the spirit in which it was given. After all, I did get to chat with the woman who just might steal the 2009 and 2014 elections and be our president, although the chances are slim. But ut was afterwards that things got interesting.

There's this documentary thing, right, called The Secret. It's probably been on Oprah, or Ellen, or something/one similar. Apparently it's all about the power of positive thinking and bending the Universe to your will. Okay, that's not true - it's about being at one with the Universe and understanding how to get what you want from your connections with it through the Law of Attraction.

Stick with me - my story gets better.

I may be a professional bastard, but more than that, I am an A-list skeptic. You think -d- takes life with a bucketful of pinches of salt? You haven't seen anything yet, people. I am a world-class cynic, more doubting than Thomas, and about as jaded as a green figurine from the heydays of feudal Japan. Tony and his brother have been on about The Secret for the last few weeks, and I tease them mercilessly about it all the time.

Anyway, after shotgunning two glasses of wine at the bash, Tony and I were having a chat outside, that sort of weird, philosophical shit you can spout with your buzz after a few drinks and cigarettes. We got on to The Secret.

Now Tony's a nice guy. He's not a bright guy, by his own admission, but he's genuine and sincere and I have a colossal soft-spot for him. No, this is not a he-crush or bromance - he's like a little brother to me. So we chatted, and I challenged him, and we chatted and I challenged him, and he gave me a few pointers and sent me on my way to put The Secret into action as we were walking to our cars.

"Start with something simple - like, I don't know, do you have your own parking bay at work or do you have to get there early to get one?"

That's a sore point - at my office, there are thousands of bays at 8:00am and none left by 8:02. Then you have to park in the sun and get into a hot car when you go home, and with no a/c, and 60 minutes of traffic ahead of you, it's no fun. Even if you try -d-'s tip from yesterday, and I do all the time. So getting a nice bay undercover is something close to my heart.

"So just picture yourself getting the bay you want, and ask the Universe for it, and you'll get it."

Chortle. "Sure." I was getting my knob out at the time to have a piss, up against the fence bordering the football pitches, because public nudity is one of my favourite things and also because I needed a piss.

"No, seriously."

Snort. "Sure, no problem."

He looks at me. Tony has a look when you're trying his patience, and he's a guy with a looooooooooooooooooooooooooong fuse. I got that look last night, while peeing up against the fence of the football club. "Just try it. See what happens. Picture yourself arriving at work getting the bay you want."

"Right. Picture myself getting a bay."

"No, not a bay. Pick the one you want, and visualise that one. Ask for it, and think positive."

"Right." Cock back in pants. "I'll let you know."

So, I thought about the one I wanted - in the second block of bays, 12 in all in two rows of 6, and I wanted the one which is in the back row, second from end. I asked the Universe for it, feeling like a colossal cock, and I thought positive the whole time in traffic this morning. To prove him wrong, I left late and got to my office at 8:18.

Would you believe me if I said I got the second bay from the end, in the back row of the second block, and that all the other bays undercover were full except that one? Of course you wouldn't, because The Secret is fucking hippy nonsense.

So it must just be coincidence then, right? Because I did.

I'll be doing a lot of thinking this weekend, that's for sure.
-eND-

-d-: On traffic, surviving

So

On a hot summer's morning, sitting in traffic with the temperature supposed to reach a good high of 32 Centigrade, here's a helpful hint: it sometimes* helps to turn your fan on full-blast and aim the air vents down the legs of your boardshorts.

It helps even more if you happen to be wearing loose boxers underneath those.

I feel like I'm channeling -eND-. That can't possibly be a good thing.

-d-
*always

-eND-: On more crap tv

So

There's very little to watch on .za tv on a Sunday, particularly in the morning. There's all the various Jesus stuff, obviously, and occasionally there is something watchable on Discovery or The Beeb, but that's only occasionally. It's frightening that even with our satellite dish, there is very little which I find watchable whenever I'm parked in front of the IQ-sucking tv.

I believe it was The Boss who observed that there were 57 channels with nothing on. I'm rather fond of him and I quote that little bit fairly frequently. As a result of a complete lack of anything approaching generally good on radio, I find it ironically amusing when his recent hit Radio Nowhere gets airtime. Good bit of social commentary from the man, I thought, and no more
acutely observed than in the two things which are supposed to be the mainstay of information and entertainment.

That's another story, though; this is just a bitch about tv, and its 57 channels with nothing on. One thing there is, though, is DeafTv - programming for deaf people.

Fair enough, I thought, the first time I chanced upon this bit of "entertainment." I watched it for a bit, then it lost what tenuous grip it had on my butterfly-on-crack moderated demand for viewing pleasure and I surfed on to bitch about something else.

I chanced upon DTv several times and saw several aspects of it as time passed. They seems to focus mostly on the deaf environment and there is a lot of deaf politics on there as well, usually with uplifiting stories peppered about the place, and is not terribly entertaining. I saw this a few times before it occurred to me... do deaf people really want nothing more than to hear (er...) about other deaf people?

I mean, do people with lung cancer just want story after story about lung cancer, followed by lung cancer news and then the politics of lung cancer in that someone was unfairly dismissed from work because s/he had lung cancer and how the human rights people got him/her the job back? Do people with AIDS want to only hear about AIDS? It seems gay guys are more than
happy to only hear about other gay guys, judging by the occasional gay lifestyle magazine I've browsed, but do the deaf only want that as well?

I suspect that if I were as deaf as a post and I had two hours a week of viewing aimed solely at me (in that it's entirely simulcast with someone signing in the corner and it has subtitles), I think I'd rather have a signed-and-subbed Bruce Willis movie, or a stand-up comedy routine, not some dull quasi public-access nonsense. It's supposed to be entertaining, after all. Especially if I had to get up at 6am to watch the fucking thing.

Fuck you, DeafTV.

-eND-

-d-: On tv, crap

Sunset Tan - anyone watch this show?

Last Monday night I dialled in the wrong number on the satellite receiver and found myself on Sunset Tan instead of BBC Prime for sketchy Graham Norton. Ordinarily I would have just checked out of there because it is complete shit, from the absolute bottom of the biggest barrel of shit, but I did witness an unbelievable exchange between a client and the salon team which I managed to stomach about 30 seconds of before bailing in disgust.

A sequence of events followed, thus:
1. This woman came in for a spray session, and asked if they could also do her dog, a Maltese poodle, afterwards so the two of them "would match." She had the dog with her.

2. The human Barbie doll behind the counter actually said "no problem" and fuck, she meant it.

3. The quick-thinking manager guy (not sure why they have a manager on duty; the place always seems deserted) said it couldn't be done, because the spray-tan was designed for skin and wouldn't stick on the dog's fur. Not sure whether he thought this would be the only line of reasoning which the client and Barbie would actually believe and could thus rescue the poor dog, or whether his genuine concern was that the procedure might not work and to hell with the well-being of the dog. I'll go with the former, because I'm feeling unusually generous.

Either way, I was gob-smacked.

Now, I'm no bunny-hugger - in fact, I am a vivisectionist* by trade (gasp! etc); so these observations are not coming from a left-wing greenie hell-bent on saving the wildlife, and especially not for a loathsome Maltese poodle, the most pointless dog on the planet - but even I was apalled by the client even considering it, and more so by the Barbie for intending to go through with it. If the manager guy had been absent, this already ridiculous poodle would have been spray-tanned and who knows what might have happened next. Tho whole idea that people can not-think like that and still wilfully and persistently exist in public, inflicting themselves on other people with impunity is beyond disturbing to me, and so far from reason that I can feel my blood pressure rising just thinking about it.

In addition, I have questions about this show:
1. Who greenlights this sort of dreck for tv, anyway? It's a spray-tan salon; hardly the sort of business which immediately conjures up images of workplace tension and an interesting premise for a reality series. However, there seems to be more tension in there than in any office anywhere in the world.

2. Why do so many people spray-tan when they live in the perpetual summer of Los Angeles? Is that fake-tan yellow now more accepted than actual melanin in skin these days?

3. why does every cut-scene in the show feature footage of various LA county beaches, where everyone is getting a natural suntan from actual, you know, sun?

4. Exactly how synthetic are these people? I've seen entirely fictitious soap opera characters with more depth to them than the allegedly real lives of the denizens of Sunset Tan; and I've had action figures as a boy which are less plastic.

5. Where do they get the names of these women, anyway, the Playboy Book of Baby Names? They all sound like they come straight from porn - Janelle, Erin, Keely, Holly. You're not fooling anyone, you know.

There have been some really good reality drama shows, in my opinion - things like Lads' Army and Ross Kemp in Afghanistan, which blur the line between reality series and simple documentary; there have been ones which were both insightful and informative while remaining entertaining, like Amish in the City; and then there's this sort of faux-MTv bullshit along with Gastineau Girls and that contemptible Kardashians programme to go hand in manicured hand with the actual MTv bullshit like The fucking Hills.

I don't know how you Angelinos, Californians and Americans feel when you encounter this gross vacuosity from your fellows, but I was embarrassed to even be part of the same species as the two women under discussion here. In all honesty I'm not exactly au fait with all the ins and outs of Revelation, but I'm pretty sure that it must herald the breaking of the seventh seal or something similar.

In short, it was a thoroughly convincing thirty-second argument for the use of a suitcase nuke somewhere in the vicinity of downtown LA. I imagine that right after it aired, God got onto Google to see if Noah has any living descendants in the shipbuilding industry.

I sincerely hope you can all swim. Except the people of Sunset Tan.

-d-

*My PhD work involves a mouse-model of human malaria.

-eND-: On failing at living unbuttoned

So

There's an ad campaign for Levis 501 jeans, called Live unbuttoned.

Apparently the ads are all quite sexual, and - depending on your viewpoint - disgusting/morally reprehensible/irresponsible/pick an epithet. I've only seen one of them thus far, and I can't really tell which of the four punted on the Levistrauss.com page it is. I suspect it's probably the first one, Unbreakable, and I'll admit the tagline grabbed me more than anything else.

I'm all about getting your kit off. I think everyone - old, young, black, white, thin, fat, ev.ery.one. - should get their kit off from time to time, and a bit of expression/titillation (viewpoints, eh?) via an unbuttoned jean-pant (as we might say in the north parts of the south) surely can't be a bad thing.

However, according to the head honchos at Levi the idea is to live unburdened by convention. Free of inhibitions, or something. A little research has just shown this, you see.

Prior to this I've just tried wandering around in my new 501s (happy birthday, me, for September) with my top button undone - even right this very second, right now as I type this - and, as a consequence, having my arse hanging out all day since I appear to have lost some inches on the old butt. Great success, I thought, but apparently I've sort-of missed the point in there somewhere.

Guess I'll have to rethink it all.

-eND-

-eND-: On orgasmic peeing

Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeehaw!

You ever one of those pees where it builds, and builds, and you're too busy to sort it out, and it builds up more and more and there's so much pressure and it keeps building and eventually you realise that you're actually this close to blowing your bladder out through the back end of your spine and you bolt for the bathroom and drop trou and have a pee so good, so explosive, so fantastic and unreal and everything that you realise that in fact it is possible to enjoy a piss more than an orgasm?

I just had one of those. It was here at work and everything. I feel like I need a cigarette, and I don't even smoke.

So... a piss which is better than an orgasm, and not in a kinky, fetish kind of way. I'll admit I just don't get that kinky stuff - plain ol' sex is plenty good enough for me, without any urine or anything else involved AT ALL. Perhaps it's my conservative upbringing. Or perhaps it's because I haven't had enough sex to tire of the vanilla stuff.

But still, a piss which hits harder than an orgasm? I suppose it depends on your personality. I, for example, am a quantitative kind of guy - I believe in numbers, and stats, and tangible shit like that. As a result - should I even be sayingt his here? - I kinda rate my orgasms. Yup. They get a star rating out of 5, and only with half numbers between, so there's no 3.2 star money shot. There is a 3, and 3.5, but nothing else between. A good, orgasmic piss can easily reach 4.5 stars and rarely start below 3, because otherwise it would just be a plain ol' piss, wouldn't it?

All numbers being equal, a 4* piss is better than a 3* spaff. Of course, a 4.5* orgasm, the good, toe-clenching, knee weakening kind is better than a 4* piss. And yes, before anyone decides to argue, you can indeed get a 0.5* or 1* orgasm. We've all had them - you usually have to work hard for them, because your heart or your head isn't in it at the time, and when it eventually rolls on through you're kinda left with a slightly bewildering feeling of "...oh. Well, that's that, then." I often find myself looking around after that to see if there's any of it anywhere which perhaps I might have missed in the sheer unexcitement of it all.

Still, today's work orgasmic pee was a solid 4* affair. Sadly, that's a score whitch is better than any O I have managed of late.

-eND-

PS: No picture for today's entry. -d- had a complete pissy about the pubes; can you imagine what he'd do if there was a picture of a dude in mid-O up top his precious blog? Chortle!

-d-: on The Games

So

It's that time again... it's a leap year and it's summer and that can only mean one thing: Olympics!

I do so love the Games of the Olympiad; and I absolutely adore the Olympic movment. What I would do to be in there, somewhere... I'd seriously consider selling a testicle, to be honest. It's one of the few things I can fully buy into, absolutely 100%, body and soul. I love everything they stand for, and I love that for just a few days we can shift our focus from the shittier aspects of our lives and our world and be inspired.

Assuming Russia doesn't invade Georgia at the time, mind. But that's a whole other issue. /eND

So we're at less than a week remaining, ten out of sixteen days now just a series of memories, but oh what memories they are! I don't need to list them, of course - history and Sky News and the wonders of The Wik and the rest of teh interweb will do a far better job than I ever could - but wow - so much of inspiration from 74cm of flat Philips CRT screen and a live satellite feed.

Well done, Beijing. Let's hope that after The Games have moved on, China continues to open her doors to the world and, most importantly, to her own people. I try to avoid the politics for the most part, but... well, in this case it's not so easy.

From Athens 1896 to Beijing 2008 to London 2012 and beyond - salut!

-d-

-eND-: On doing stupid shit.

So

It was Saturday, and I had a long, hard day at the karate club. We worked our arses off at the annual 12-hour endurance training marathon, 6am to 6pm, and it was fucking macho. More macho than three Hell Nights in the middle of a boxing match, that's how macho it was.

I then rather stupidly went to a party. Stupid because I didn't think it would be a good idea to go, but you can't sniff at the chance to meet new, interesting people and it was a themed party so I got to go in costume. What could possibly go wrong?

I went as part of an army foursome - three soldiers and a Hello, Field-nurse. I got to wear the actual uniform, in mothballs from 1976, of the actual driver of the actual former Minister of Defence, whichever one it was back then. It was awesome. I looked good. I had an ill-fitting beret and tight fuck-me pants and everything. We had ratpacks and everything. My ammo-belt/backpack thingy with its complicated clips to make it looser even had an old, green toilet-paper roll in it, with actual government-issue 1976 vintage toilet paper still on it, lots of it, and everything. I didn't have a gun, though, so... well, too late to fix that now, at any rate.

According to the Wik, searching away in the background thanks to the Moziracle (see what I did there? Mozilla + miracle? No? Not even... no, you fuck off) of tabbed browsing, it was Die Groot Krokodil himself, former State President PW Botha, who was Defence Minister back then. Who knew, eh? The army uniform I borrowed was in the presence of stoic greatness or tyranny, depending on whose side you're on.

So I went to the party. It was okay. I met a few people, and spent too much time with one of them, who got the wrong idea and apparently tried to kiss me. I don't remember her doing that, but apparently she did. I know I was ticking from knocking home five of a six-pack of Hunter's Dry cider, and probably high from a combination of dehydration, alcohol and sinus decongestants (the don't-mix-with-alcohol sort - great success), but I don't remember "physically blocking her" as she puts it. She did get almightily aggrieved halfway through the night and suggested I should go home, which I did, and that was probably straight after the alleged physical blocking. I suspect she swooped in for a snog as I turned away to look at something else. I suspect I knew she would do that, which is why I went in the first place against my "better" judgement (hah!), and I suspect that I know she tried and I did inadvertantly block her by turning, although I only realised immediately afterwards from the look on her face what had happened.

So - and this is compound stupidity, even more stupid than going to an event I shouldn't have gone too, fetting drunk when I shouldn't have because of the physical dehydration of 12 hours of exercise and the drugs I was taking - I drove home. Drunk. Not exactly my finest hour, and not even close to being a good idea. I don't remember much of it, except panicking the entire time that I would either get pulled over, locked up and raped or pass out and crash.

Fuck. I got home somehow, thanks to G_d who I don't even really believe in most days, but fuck me if I remember the drive. I do remember switching my phone to Walkman mode so I'd have something to sing to to keep awake, and worrying that the battery would die leaving me powerless in the event of a crash, but nothing else.

I googled drunk driving to try to find a suitable picture to adorn the top of the post, but even I got tired of the carnage by Page 3.

So... who's a cunt? Yup.

-eND-

-d-: On belonging, a sense of

It's shit to be an immigrant.

I know so many of these people. Such is the way of the world at present, it seems, for everyone to strike out to seek their fortune away from home, just like they used to in all those Brothers Grimm fairy tales.

You have to watch out for the big bad wolf, of course, because he's a bastard, but that's not the point. The things which tend to knock you down as an immigrant are the ones which on paper are not the big bad wolf; in much the same way as a terrorist has exactly the same number of arms and legs as you do and is usually not obviously hell-bent on destruction to the point where s/he can mingle with society and have everyone say "Hi terrorist!" every time they walk down the street.

When I was younger, during our Civil War way back in the late 70s, my mom took us to see a dead guy. Of course we were told he was a terrorist; they thought themselves freedom fighters - I guess that's all just spin, one way or another. But she took my sister and I, both under the age of 5, to see a dead guy who was not on our side. He wasn't all blown to bits in an airstrike or from a tank or anything like that - he'd probably been shot in the chest or something similar - but he was very dead. The reason being, she reasoned, to show us that we weren't looking for zombies or werewolves or space aliens, that terrorists were people like us.

Whether or not that was to prove a point that they aren't monsters and are people like us - with feelings, dreams, desires etc - or to remind us that we aren't looking for anyone who is obviously different to us is still unclear. I like to think it was the former, but there was a war on and so I suspect it was the latter. I'm not going to judge.

The worst part about being being an immigrant is the integration. At first, you point out that you're a filthy foreigner (even just culturally foreign, or from as far as away as out of town) so that perhaps people overlook what to them might be your lack of common sense, for want of a better term. But in the end - and we're all guilty of this - it does become an us vs them situation. And in the end, you, the immigrant, is always left out in the proverbial cold.

It's diffcult to leave unless the circumstances really do force your hand. Leaving, to me, always implies a sense of failure in himself from the leavee. It's even more difficult to come back home, though - I've heard so many people find every excuse under the sun as to why they came home when the simple reason is that they failed over there too, and better the devil you know.

The worst part of coming back home, though, is if you've been successful over there. You've done well, you've integrated, you've prospered, you've got married or had children, you're part of the furniture there, you're practically local, even the natives have forgotten you hold foreign citizenship.

But you haven't forgotten.

And then you end up in a kind of limbo - where you're back Home now, and you left There because you didn't belong there anymore and you really wanted to just come Home, where the heart is, where you're From or where you Grew Up or Enjoyed your misspent youth. But you don't belong Here anymore either, because times have changed and people have changed and of course you have changed, too, because we all change. That's one thing which won't.

I know so many of these people. I am so many of these people.

-d-

-eND-: On reflection, and grieving, and moving on

Okay

So, it's been a year since this did a complete number on us here. I was expecting someone to have written something about it, but it seems it hasn't happened. At least, not yet.

I can't imagine he forgot about it - difficult, since it's the day of another friend's birthday, so the two events - unfortunately - will always be connected now. And I know it's not been far from his thoughts, as with other events occurring previously. Not in the last year, anyway, but having your long-term plans irreparably pulverised into dust which is then obliterated is going to sting for some time.

And it's going to scar. And tissue oil can fuck right off, because that mark isn't going anywhere anytime soon.

I really wish he'd posted, you know. I purposely avoided writing anything this week, just to leave it all open and available and... unencroached upon. Yes, I think that's a good term to use. Not that I had anything of substance to note down anyway, but I don't feel that's the point - if I had something, I'd have waited. I'll admit, I'm a little beyond pissed that someone kinda blew us off here.

There has been reflection, I know that. I was there for some of that, a lot of it, and it's something which is frequent, frequent to the point of obsession.

There was grieving, and no mistake. If nothing else, I suppose you could never deny the boy didn't have a heart, not after all that.

The question is, can someone have already moved on? I'm not convinced.

I think you might wish for it, but I suspect that G_d is playing dirty on his turn.

-eND-

-d-: On earth, coming down to

A good grounding is important. I don't mean grounding as in foundation, although those are clearly necessities - a lot of the issues I ended up fixing when I was tutoring kids in physics and chemistry were basically a result of bad grounding in maths. But I don't mean that kind of grounding. This sort of grounding is the down-to-earth kind.

It's good to come down to earth once in a while. It's as necessary as keeping your head in the clouds for a bit each day, even if only to help you make it through your waking hours. I believe in that, and that people need to do what makes them happy and whatever is it which gets them through. Even though I have no religion, I understand how people can have a symbiosis with it, and that it can be the balm of the masses and get people through tough times and help them to appreciate the good ones. Tough times are a good grounding in themselves.

My favourite way of getting down to earth, though, is to walk in the rain. You see people running, people with umbrellas, people doing whatever they can to get out of it with minimal damage, but I just get wet. I love the rain. The power that it has, the life it brings... Rain doesn't discriminate, either. Rain, like death, is a great leveller. It rains, you get wet. Everyone around you gets wet. Where the clouds are, it's wet. You can only avoid rain by relying on other things - you ever realised that? You cannot avoid the rain on your own. You rely on a structure, or a membrane, or a shell of some sort, all produced/provided by something or someone else. There is no way for Man to not get wet if not for that something else. And if that structure, or membrane, or shell fails, you get wet. End of.

A vivid memory from my youth is skinny-dipping in the rain, back when I was a kid in the mid 80s growing up in Harare, Zimbabwe. We were at some family friends for a party of some sort, and my sister and I and the hosts' kids were the only kids there. Me and -A- got along really well; his little brother -D-, wasn't there. My sister and his sister were elsewhere in the house. We swam in the afternoon, and that evening it began to rain. I was about 8, -A- closer to 12, I think. Immediately, he said "we need to swim naked in the rain. Quickly, before they won't let us out." I wonder to this day if he is still as liberal now as he was back then. We bolted out of the house and into the pool, telling our folks on the way we wanted one quick swim before it got dangerous. In the pool, our pants came down - mine just down; his off. I wasn't brave enough for off then - and we did two quick laps. It was pissing down when we got in, and once we'd done the naked thing we got out quickly, because one thing all .zw kids know is not to fuck around in a Harare summer thunderstorm, especially in a pool. Rain will bring you firmly down to earth; lightning will put you into the ground.

And as much fun getting wet in the rain is - and I'm all for splashing in puddles and that as well - possibly the best grounding you get from rain is watching it batter the outside world from inside a warm, dry space. It's a good way to get a bit of perspective when you're in the middle of some unnecessary self pity.

-d-
EDIT: An entire entry dedicated to pubic hair? Dude... And mentioning mine? Dude! And really... can we not clean up the image a bit? I mean... it's a cock, FFS!

-eND-: On pubes. Yes, pubes. What?

Gentlemen, please trim!

Every day, the urinals at my office are cleaned. It might even be twice a day, I don't know. But every time I go in there for a wee, there are pubes all over the bloody things. Long ones, grim ones, and altogether eeeuw ones, stuck to the ceramic bowls of the individual piss-pots in their grim, gooey glory.

Now, because I am completely shameless, I'll tell you that this particular DevilNinja prefers to keep his own ones short, and I understand this is a common trend these days. Apart from two mates of ours, though, I can't say for sure that its true. One of our mates and I both trim the bush with scissors, and then clean the bag and its fragrant, lush valleys to a shiny, hairless gleam with a razor; the other guy says he just does an overall trim with scissors. My esteemed colleague -d- is in that scissors-only-with-hairy-balls camp too, and he'll bitch that I'm telling you this. He will also wonder how I know, since we've never had this conversation. Chortle!

Up front, let me say I am definitely not against the pubic hair. In fact, I rather like the idea. It stirs something primal deep within the DevilNinja and I'll fess up I get a thrill when I see a few hairs sticking up over a waistband of some sort, or blurred through the glass of the showers at the gym. Not so much when it's creeping out from under the legs of someones undies, though, but oooh! Is it true that most guys are opting for some topiary currently? I couldn't really say.

I know there are some guys at my gym who definitely take it all off down below and are proud to show it - amusingly, it's usually the guys with the hairiest chests, which makes them look kinda goofy IDST. Several others you can tell through the shower glass are completely shaved but prefer to keep that under a towel at all times. This occurs through a variety of ages, too. If you read online polls - I love online polls, particularly the sketchy ones - it seems everyone from age 13 up is shaving themselves bald, but I see enough real people who clearly don't to dispute that statistic - just goes to show, you can't believe everything you read on teh interweb. I'm beginning to suspect that the people who reply to online polls may be entirely fictitious, as undoubtedly are a lot of bloggers who are most probably ghost-writing lives they wished they were leading.

Anyway, I know that hairs do just kinda fall out on their own. However, I'm fairly sure that the shorter ones don't; or perhaps they just don't fall as far. I do know that I have never seen a urinal covered in pubic stubble, that's for sure, which I suspect says a great deal. So gents, for the sake of all of us, and particularly for me, your local DevilNinja, please trim!

Thank you. This has been a public service rant.

-eND-

PS: Can't you, can't you trim like I do? /Filter

-eND-: On Finals, sporting and otherwise (but mostly sporting)

So

Last night was the Euro 2008 final, held in Vienna. I've never been to Austria, but I do know an Austrian (annoying. G_d, I'd love to punch her), and several of my mates have been there and apparently it's all lovely and that.

Anyway, it was Final night, and -d- usually does a slap-up binge for Finals. He's had several big ones over the years, usually the night of the Champions' League final in May, and I seem to recall a World Cup '98 final, but for various reasons, this was the first one since Arsenal lost to Barcelona back in '06.

So, he cooked. It took bloody hours, because nobody cooks with as bad time management as -d- does. He cooks well, when he cooks, but as with everything in the world of -d-, it's all so fucking orchestral. Seriously, his cooking is all like the 4-disc editions of Lord of the Rings - nice, but perhaps all in all just a tad excessive, because surely the 2-disc editions are enough.

Yes, I do have all three 4-disc editions - so what? Fuck off, all of you.

-D- doesn't cook often. He claims there are only a few things he cooks well, and that may be true, but it is a good mix of things. He does a mean curry. Given a good quality piece of meat, he is ace at steak. His quiche is faultless, largely thanks to his sister's recipe, and you wouldn't believe what he does with a few sheets of phyllo pastry, even as a black-belt karate guy. He does an especially lethal thing called Tomato Goodness - a sort of pork sausage/chorizo/potato stew riddled in crates of spicy tomato and onion which I swear to every G_d out there I would get naked and swim in if given half a chance.

Last night's menu was lottery stuff, though - little phyllo things with a variety of cheeses, caramelised onions (from Men's Health), three different styles of chicken (tomato and roasted pepper, Indian-style with ginger, cardamom, cumin and cinnamon, and sticky with rosemary) and sundried tomato all thrown together at random. He calls it called lottery stuff because you wouldn't know what you were getting until you bit into it. Add to that a bacon and onion quiche, and a three cheese and tomato quiche, also lottery style, and it was really good, it seemed, because everyone ate until it was all finished.

Spain won the game 1-0, which was a nice surprise, Every tournament they look fantastic on paper, but usually bomb out halfway through, usually to unfancied opponents. Of course, I had money on the Dutch, who crashed out to the Russians, who were annihilated twice by Spain. I then put my prediction on the Germans, because they are good at nicking finals 1-0. So I was wrong there, too. Gads - I haven't picked a major winner since Euro 96, when the Germans nicked it 1-0 from the Czechs.

Onwards to Beijing! I don't actually intend to move away from the tv except to go for a wee for all 16 days.
-eND-

-d-: On benefits, friends with

Okay, so I know the Yoda-esque way of titling each post is going to fall flat at some stage, and perhaps this could have just been written as On friends with benefits, but I'm sticking with it for now. I'm feeling a little contrary today, possibly only to be perverse, but I'm not particularly bothered about it.

Not yet, at any rate.

It never rains till it pours, does it? Here I am, at my advanced age, with a handful of one-nighters under my belt and nothing approaching a real relationship ever in my pocket, with the real possibility of two (2) actual people who just might want one waiting in the wings.

Neither of them is H. That still burns, by the way, almost a year later. I'm trying to look on the bright side, and play my preferred role of Devil's Advocate - something I am almightily good at, I would like to say - but I haven't yet convinced myself that this is all for the best.

In addition, neither of them is Claire, the Claire of On Loss. That also burns, in particular because one of them is a Claire.

This Claire got her own post a few posts ago, and is persistent. In a way I'm grateful - it's nice to be wanted. In a way I'm put out, because this is getting too intense. I've been friendly and polite, but she is trying too hard to force me around to her way of thinking, and I'm not sure that it is ever going to happen.

Then there is K, a biokineticist I have known for a while after she did some work on me some years back. She is best mates with a fellow PhD in my Division, and I found out in the same week that I met other Claire that she is keen on me, and a subsequent meeting/dinner/drinks thing was set up. It was a disaster, but possibly a salvageable one - this is another story. Point is, I didn't have to do any work here - I have a stalker in new Claire, and a secret admirer in K. This can't be a bad thing, can it?

Anyway, new Claire was starting to get the message that this was not going to happen - I have yet to mention K to her, incidentally, which I know is going to bite me in the arse sometime soon - and switched tack. "Let's be friends."

I said I thought this was a good idea - easier for me and less desperate for her. A few days pass before I get the next text message.

"Don't you rather want to be friends with benefits?"

Now, the last time I checked, this meant fuck buddies. I am down with the idea of fuck buddies on paper, just like Communism is a fabulous idea on paper. But I think both fall flat in practice.

Fuck buddies can only work out if both parties remain emotionally disconnected. There can't be any demands, any expectations, and suggestion of a change of pace or anything like that. Given my own need to interact with people at every level, could I pull it off? Possibly, but it would be an ask. Could Claire pull it off? I'm guessing no, judging by what's been said before. One, she's way too keen on me, I think (arrogant? Moi?), and two, the ex-boyfriend remained a friend with benefits until fairly recently when "I wanted more, he didn't" which I think says a great deal.

Just so you know, even though I have asked, she has yet to clarify exactly what her definition of friends with benefits is. Could be I am going off in the wrong direction here, but regardless of what she means, I don't think we can pull off friends with benefits.

I can imagine people reading this and shaking their heads and telling me I'm a fuckwit for not going for it, but as far as possible I am going to stick to my guns, here. Could I do with anything approaching semi/regular sex? Of course I could. But I think this has disaster written all over it.

Hey ho
-d-

-eND-: On arb encounters

"Heavy on the lungs, bru, heavy on the lungs."

This peculiar sentence, combining a single, arbitrary, repeated phrase, was my sole interaction with some dude at the gym the other day.

I think he was complaining that the steam room was too hot - which it was because the other clients at the gym are cunts who can't fucking read - because I went in there about ten seconds after he did, and he left about ten seconds later, this being his parting shot.

You ever wonder how your interactions with people, however short, however arb, affect them? I mean, this ^ little gem - heavy on the lungs - has been bugging me for a week now. And there's a brief interaction of my own with a random stranger which bugs me, and which I always feel bad about, from New Year's Eve 1995. I think about at least once a week on average.

So it was New Year's Eve and we were in the small seaside town of Hermanus, about 80 minutes from Cape Town on the south coast. We'd arrived that morning, nearly drowned that afternoon, and we - along with everyone else there - were heading down to the beach to see 1996 in in style.

In style = drunk. Such is the way of things - Hermanus and Plettenberg Bay are where the Capetonians head when you need to get pissed on a beach. Also, it is a place of debauchery, the beach at midnight on New Year's Day, because everyone is drunk and everyone snogs everyone.

Seriously.

I think that's why we were going up for New Year's, when in reality we could have headed up there for three days at any stage in the preceding or proceeding month while we were on varsity vac. But the booze and spit would flow more copiously on New Year's Eve than any other day on the calendar, so that's undoubtedly why we went.

I was 19 at the time, and largely inexperienced in all these sorts of things, for various reasons. At that stage, I'd only been really drunk (and it probably wasn't even that drunk anyway) once; and snogging random strangers - as much as a deam come true that may be - was never really something which I was in to, probably because the opportunity had never presented itself.

Nevertheless, there we were. The plan was to have a great time seeing 1996 in, with either the booze or the hint of something regarding sex being the catalyst. Of course, that was the plan of everyone who was there, a number I would assume in excess of five thousand people.

It was pissing down, even though the sun was blazing 6 hours earlier in the middle of the African summer, so that probably explains the low numbers. Apparently these things are usually bigger than five thousand people, or so I'm told. Either way, it was busy - we parked about a fifteen minute walk away and had to trek through the rain, cooler-bag full of booze (well, a six-pack each) in hand, down to the party on the sand. There was music playing, people everywhere; basically, you find a place to park and drink and wait for midnight for the kissing (and probably some fucking for the luckier ones) to ensue.

I realise now more than ever writing this how ridiculous this sounds, but I was only 3 months past 19 sexless years at the time, so cut me some fucking slack, okay?

So it's about 9pm and there are four of us walking down to the beach, 1 2 3 from left and me as 4 on the right. And we encounter four girls walking back up from the beach. Nobody says anything. It occurred to me twelve years later that perhaps they weren't having a good time, which is why they were leaving, but I thought nothing of it at the time except perhaps what my three companions were also thinking: hey - chicks!

We pass. Nobody says anything.

At the last second, our #2 is the catalyst and pushes another of our four, our #1, smack into the girl closest to us. Yes, it was a stupid idea. No, I have no idea what possessed him to try something to patently ridiculous to get something started, because it is infinitely likely to fail and get anyone any action.

Our pushee reacts, with an annoyed "Stop it, man, [name]!"

The girls react; the one who got body-checked says, "piss off, you arsehole!"

I don't know what possessed me, either, but it was out before I realised it and before I could stop it. It was out before I could even think about it. Only two of our four would have said it, because the pusher and pushee rarely swear, and when they do they still keep it clean, and I know it wasn't #3 who said it, so it has to have been me. My finest hour.

"Hey fuck you, you bitch!"

Silence. We don't stop walking. They don't stop walking, except that one of the other three grabs hold of the one who was body-checked and forces her to keep walking away from the beach.

Away from us. From me.

Ten seconds later, the bickering starts - #1 angrily confronts the pusher, #2, who plays innocent and dumb. The third calms everyone down by also pointing blame at #2, thus tipping the balance. I stay quiet; everything is settled.

Nobody comments on my vicious response to the girl. I'm glad of that, because I am horribly embarrassed by it. Look, I'm no angel - I swear. I swear a lot. I swear a lot and more now than ever before but it's always about things and rarely at people, and only at people who deserve it.

I don't think she deserved it.

12 years have passed, and still this haunts me. A chance encounter, a one-in-a-million event, and that's the only impression she was left with - four guys, long-haired, walking in the rain and one of them assaults her physically while another swears at her. Five seconds of violent interaction, of ships trading fire in the night. What if it really fucked her up? What if it really screwed up her confidence? I know it probably didn't - there's a more than excellent chance she doesn't even remember the night - maybe they were pissed, too. Still, the fact of the matter remains: I am not a cunt. I may be a professional bastard, but I am not a cunt. I was that night, though. And I don't know why.

"Heavy on the lungs" is a comment I'll remember for various reasons. One, it was so completely arbitrary; two, because the dude who threw it my way was built big like a small truck, with a shaved head and three, it was offered with an easy, open smile. The sort of smile which says "here, have this, even if you don't need it. And have a great night." That's a comparitively pleasant bit of recollection, unlike having your last three hours of 1995 ruined.

-eND-

-d-: On being decisive, and the inability thereof

Recently, I had a haircut.

Okay, it was nearly 6 months ago, the first time, but in terms of memory and muscle memory and stuff like that, it was recent.

My hair was long, for a while, and then longish for the most part. I started growing it when I was 18, and it was never not short enough to be tied up in a ponytail until 6 months ago. It was last cut short in December 1994 when I was just 18, and was then long through December 2007. At its longest, it was halfway down my back; its shortest just off the shoulders. Since as early as possibly 1999, I have been threatening to cut it short. I threaten to do that every summer, and every summer I don't. So this time, I decided to not think about it. I said I was going to cut it, I looked for a suitable style - no point in looking like a tit - and I cut it, in the space of about six days.

I cut it short, short so I could have spikes like I did when I was 11 and spikes were the shit the first time around. I didn't like the cut - my dude left it too long, I thought, and it couldn't spike properly, but I suppose it did suit me so I dealt with it for three months before cutting it again. Same style, just much shorter. Now I had spikes - great success.

So my hair was short for the first time since I was a freshman at varsity, and was as short as it had last been when I was 12. It occurred to me before cutting it that I officially had no idea what I might even look like. They tell you most guys are grown by 18, but there is still a lot of change happening. I look at my mate Brian whom I saw when he turned 32, and he looks way different to when I saw him last at 29. His face has changed, not hugely but noticeably, and his body has changed a bit. He's still the same guy inside, sort-of - there's been a lot of reinvention going on for Brian since as early as 2001, when he fell in love, but that's another story - but he does look different. And now I look different. My gray - and there is enough of it - is much more noticeable, but everyone tells me I look so much younger.

And hotter, allegedly. Hah! Younger and hotter - I have heard that so many times that I am sick of it.

"Why is he sick of it?" I hear you think to yourself in bemusement. "What a nitwit!" Wrong. The reason I'm sick of it is because nobody acts on it. I have never ever had a queue of anyone lined up to my front door, probably because I looked older and colder with my long hair. However, I have not yet had a queue of anybody lined up since the haircut, either, so what gives? Younger and hotter can fuck right off.

If I do indeed look younger and hotter, and you think so, put your money where your mouth is. And put your mouth on my cock. Thanks. Don't keep telling me that. If you are unavailable, feel free to point me in the direction of some of your single friends, or the ones who are not single but looking for a bit on the side, I'm not fussy. Oh wait - yes, I am.

Cue the other night, when a girl who seems to know me was chatting to me at work. I know her only as a customer of the store - the joys of working part-time retail, eh? Stupid petrol price - but she seems to know me. It turns out she works with Wim - him again - and her name is Claire (another BIG issue, since On Loss is about Claire). We make small talk, since the store is quiet, then out of the blue...

C: Are you dating anyone?
-d-: Pardon?
C: Are you dating anyone?
-d-: (Wary) ...no, not at the moment.
C: Would you like to grab a cup of coffee some time?
-d-: (Panicked)
(A few seconds pass)
-d-: (Flailing desperately) You do know I'm much, much older than you, right?

So I turned her down, it seems, and probably offended her horribly in the bargain. Because she is older than Wim, and is only four years younger than me, which shouldn't be a big deal. This is an unrecoverable situation for two reasons:

1. The gap between her asking the question and me offering any sort of answer was far, far too long. A whole bush-full of tumbleweeds could have evolved legs, learned to walk and trotted through in the time it took me to come up with some sort of lame shit about age.
2. Who insists that a 4-year age gap is too big a gap after the other person has said that it isn't to them? How shitty and lame does that sound at the best of times, anyway, an older guy turning down a younger girl?

My situation is, to me, complicated. To everyone else, it is not that complicated at all. What is true is that I need to concentrate on my work so I can finish my PhD and get out of the house and out into the big wide world, and having a significant other is a distraction, however welcome, that I don't need. What is also true is that I'm not sure I can afford one right now. What is also true is that I don't have time - I am at the university 6 times a week, and only have two nights a week not accounted for by work and karate. I need to cram my family and several, unintegrated groups of friends and everyone into those remaining two nights, and to have to find space for a significant other is a bit of an ask. That aside, look at it from her side - who wants a 1-day-every-second-week boyfriend? It's not fair on her.

There is of course one other thing, and this is probably the most telling of all; the bit about being a bi guy. Nobody who is real knows that bit; only people I have yet to meet in person who may all be entirely fake personae out on the internet know. As that fictional sod -eND- alluded to, and I suspect he may be right, I'm still not always 100% sure myself of where that will end up. And I'm not sure that it's fair on her, either, if she doesn't know. And I'm not sure I want to tell her, or anyone yet. Actually, that's not true - I want to tell everyone. But I'm not sure how they'll react, and I don't like to gamble with anything other than money. I'm not sure where that puts me on the fucking-coward scale, but I'm trying to not think about it. Another distraction, trying to finish PhD etc.

So that's my story. There's probably a moral in it somewhere. The current take-home message is that it's important to get Wim to make profuse apologies on your behalf at work the next day, which he did.

Stupid times.
-d-

-d-: On a leave of absence

Nasal, huh? Cock.

It's been 287 days since my boy Wim inadvertantly blew me out of the water. It's amazing how a tiny titbit of information - mentioning that someone got married - can do so much... damage is probably too strong a word, but I haven't yet thought of a suitable synonym. It's not Wim's fault - he's a good guy to have on your side, I reckon; while you could easily do worse, you may struggle to do better than Wim. I realise this more each time I chat to him, which is about 3 times a week via email or karate at present.

Still, 287 days it is, and 287 days it was, and I think that -eND- is probably right, in part, with his various assessments of the situations. Except "nasal." I'll dispute that to the death. What he is right about, and I will be the first to tell you that I think he's also a good guy to have on your side, is that something which turns out to be major is not something you ever entirely get over. We live this sort of thing from day to day, and some days are good or very good or excellent or ace, and some just aren't. Either way, I'm sure that the events of 24 July 2007 will always shape and mould everything else I do, sunconsciously or otherwise, from now till they cremate my body when all is said and done.

I'm thinking forward, though. I'm looking ahead. It's important to not dwell in the past. Remember it, certainly, and learn from it, and be inspired by it; but keep on living in the present and always be mindful of the future. If life truly is what you make of it, then you need to make something of it. If not you, then who?

No, I'm not all that good at philosophy. I think it shows, but I am going to give it my best shot, something I should have done ages ago.

So that's my story. I'm here now, back after 287 days of not being here. I've been here in that time, but always left the mouse floating over the New Post button but not feeling anything was worth capturing. We'll see how far we get, but I do have a need to get back into it, so here I am (rock you like a hurricane etc).

About the blog... well, I sort of like what -eND- has done with the place. Red has always been his thing. Mine is blue, not because I'm colourblind, but because it is blue. He's the one with the shitty eyes.

I'm also not going to bitch at him, not yet. I suspect he'll pop in later and read with surprise that I have written. I'll leave him to stew for a bit. Undoubtedly in the end he will blurt it all out anyway in a drunken ramble - he always does - and then I'll let rip. His curse, and blessing, is that he doesn't mince words. This makes for the occasional interesting ice-breaker when he blunders around social events just being himself. He's had a few gentle swipes at me in here, as well as passing on a little more info than I might have myself; I suspect I'll get pissed enough eventually down the line at something to return the favour. Fear of death is always much worse than Death itself, right?

Suck on that, you loopy fucker.
-d-

-eND-: On -d- and -eND-

Okay

So, here in a nutshell is a little bit about the way of things in here. There are two of us. You can see it there on the right, where it says "Contact us" See? No? I meant there on the left. Sorry.

See it now? Good.

So... hi. I am -eND-, or elNinjaDiablo, the DevilNinja. My stuff shows up in a cool pinky-red-crimson colour. You can tell from my use of colour that I am not an American. Maybe you spotted that, maybe you didn't; either way, I am not one - well spotted (if you did)!

I will now put on my -d- hat and post as him. He isn't taking my calls or emails at the moment; guess I am on the shitlist or something. No matter. It would help if you could read this next bit with a sort-of barely-concealed irritation and general weariness. I wouldn't go as far as saying read it in a nasal voice, although it would be hilarious if you did.

Hi. I am -d-, or Jennan29. This whole thing was my idea. I eventually extended the invitation to -eND-, for better or worse, back when I was Jennan29 and not Jennan31 which is what I should be calling myself these days. I have been writing since the good old days and distant climes of Jennan27, actually, and I do think I am rather a smart-arse, just because I am cleverer than everybody else. Did I say cleverer? I meant better. Better than everybody else.

I am too, you know. Some may call it arrogance, but if being truthful is arrogant, then I am fine with the label. My posts show up in this rather insipid blue colour. Well, I call it blue when it is clearly green, but that's probably because I am colourblind. I am also not a Yank. *sigh*

Did you manage the nasal voice? Good! BAck to the task at hand.

So, the housekeeping is done. Each post has an author attached to it and has been colour-coded. His posts are tagged with a -d- to start; mine with an -eND-. His are green, mine that nifty red I was on about earlier. Perhaps in time you'll earn to recognise our writing styles and be able to spot one of his without the colour-coding - good luck with that. I've known him for years, and I still can't distinguish the two. Still, if you possess mad skillz, perhaps that's something you can work on as a game you can play with yourself. Or another one haha. NEver mind.

blah blah whatever. It's Sunday and I'm bored. Busy, but bored.

-eND-

-eND-: On times, the changing of

First up, I'm taking my name off the preceding post, On H, or as I will refer to it from now, the H post. -d-, aka my co-author Jennan29, forgets that I don't know many of the people he was at school with, since I wasn't always around back then, so that's part of the reason. I do know H, though, but...

More importantly, it's his story. I gotta tell you, that whole H thing really hit him, hard. Wow. I've never seen someone in such a mire of distress before, even from people who have suffered a death in the immediate family. That H thing smacked him for six, the poor chap. He may be bisexual - his claim, not mine; I'm not sure what he is and I'm not sure if he is sure, either, to be honest - and I suppose the sheer sense of loss during the weeks it took for him to un-knot himself mentally regarding the whole H thing proves that there is something in there which ties him to an interest in women. Time will tell, probably. We'll see.

He'll bitch that I'm telling you all this - I don't think he's been in here in weeks, so it may take a while for him to notice that I've posted. I think I've only done two since we started this thing some time back. But he'll be pissed that I'm talking about H, that I'm talking about him in here in a deeper sense than I might when I chat to other people in person about him, and that I called him on his sexuality. Right or wrong, I don't know. But when he invariably does bitch, it's probably because he hasn't had the sex in ages. Not that I can talk, mind, but I think I handle it better than he does. He'll be pissed that I told you that as well. Heh.

Still, when he does bitch, someone please remind him that we decided to put it all out there when we started this thing back in '06 (even if this is my first contribution in ages. So sue me). That was the whole point. He'll try to claim the moral high ground, of course - he always does, but if you've read any of his meanderings you'll see that quite quickly - and be pissed off for a few days, but it will all blow over. It always does. At least, it always has previously. I'm not sure that we'd get to the stage where it doesn't. No guarantees, of course, because there never are, but I'd put a hefty sum of money on it.

It occurs to me, in this game of mental chess of -d- vs -eND- which the two of us have been playing since the day we met, that since I've pipped him to the post he probably won't bitch about it in here. I'll get it in the neck out in RealWorldLand, the whole sun/rain/pollution realm outside the interweb's countless bits. He'll come across to you, the reader (if there are any of you out there), as a squeaky clean nice guy, and all this I've written will just look like slander by comparison. Not that I'm too worried, I'll point out, because I am a bastard, and I don't really give a flyer. Not now, and quite possibly not ever. You can all go fuck yourselves.

Either way, I'm off the H post. It was a tough time, but he'll get over it. Not completely, I don't think, but enough to keep on going. Do we ever really get over things which hit us hard? I don't think so - it's always going to be in your subconscious, and I think this one in particular will play itself out again and again before our man -d- eventually shrugs off this mortal coil. It keeps him awake some nights, he says. It might, but he's under a lot of other pressure, and I suspect it's a combination of factors, really, which keeps him awake nights.

In other news, there will be housekeeping at some stage. His posts will show up in the default blue-green colour; mine will be red, I think, or something so you can tell at a glance who said what. Easier, in my opinion, and I quite like red, so that's that. If this is red when you read it, it means I've figured out how to do it. As the old joke used to say, what's black and white and red all over? A... oh wait, ours is black and blue-green and red all over, which doesn't really fit the punch-line. Never mind.

So... hit us up. Leave a comment. Let's network, people.
-eND-/elNinjaDiablo
PS: This labelling system is tiresome

-d-: On H

H was my first real crush, years ago. She was the first girl to move me, to really rile up those butterflies that start fluttering in adolescence. I can truly say that, back then, I loved her for her mind more than anything else. She was tall and skinny, with angular features and a way out laugh, (which I seemed to draw from her almost effortlessly back then). She was just... something else.

She had a dancer's grace, it seemed to me, and a razor-sharp wit. She embodied poise, elegance and intellect. She had High Society written all over her.

She's one of three women I'd drop everything for in a heartbeat. If she phoned me up, right now, and said "let'd run off to Vegas and get hitched," I'd be on the 3pm out of Cpt to catch the connecting flight to the States with an e-ticket to McCarran attached to my credit card. Seriously.

Alas, she was one of those girls who always had a guy. She was never single for more than about 3 days, it seemed to me. As soon as I heard she'd broken up with someone - I always heard these things via the world's longest, most-delayed grapevine - that would be old news and she'd have moved on. Guys were queueing up to be with her, and rightly so - clearly they were all as captivated by her striking looks and otherworldly intellect as I still am. In fairness, the reason she was never single when I was - oh, wait... - was because I always found these things out months after they happened. So my imagined lengthy romance just never happened.

Cue today. One of my karate boys emails round a couple of amusing photos of me as a kid he found on FaceBook. "Why aren't you on FaceBook?" I just never got around to it - FaceBook, Flickr, Myspace, none of those. He found the photos on H's page at FaceBook.

I haven't seen her in ages. The last time was probably 2000; maybe even 1999. She's never far from my thoughts, though. We spent a day bunking lectures in undergrad because we ran into each other on campus and hadn't seen each other for months and chatted for like 3 hours. We both missed our lectures and I was late for my prac. To say we've lost touch would be the understatement of the millenium. I've punched her name into Google a few times a year and come up short. Everyone I know who has seen her recently has no contact details, apart from they ran into her while they were in London. She's kinda been off the radar. I did have visions of looking her up one day and getting a hit, and today, apparently, I hit paydirt, even if it was in a somewhat by-the-by kind of way.

We were only ever really school friends - never went to each other's houses, nothing like that. We didn't run in the same circles, not even by a long shot. I eventually went to my 10 year reunion with the express purpose of seeing one person only. She didn't come; nobody knew why. It seems she kept up with very few of my classmates.

I write back to Wim, mentioning how I'd run off to be with her before you could say "Jiminy Cricket" and asking how he knows her. He and I went to the same school, but years apart, and I know she taught there for a year in between stints in London, but I was sure she'd left by the time he was there. Not so - she taught there again for the whole of 2002, which perhaps explains why she didn't come back for the reunion in 2003 - chances are she'd only just left. She didn't teach him, though, but she taught his best mate. The reply from him really clobbered me.

"She's married now, sorry son." I'm 8+ years older than him, and he's calling me "son." It took a second or two to sink in, and I've been thrown since. I am currently living with a pit in my gut, a weird sensation I've only felt four or five times before today. By the third time, I had figured out what it was.

Genuine sadness - that sadness which exists beyond mere melancholy, far past that bit when you were young and misunderstood, when the world seemed to be against you, where nobody actually got it. Far past the bit where your universe seems disconnected and out of sync with everyone else's. It's even beyond the spectrum of depression. It's that bit where nothing makes sense, where what's happened to you seems like mere vindictiveness on the part of whomever runs this world and the next, where you feel like you have been unfairly knocked, not just down a notch or two, but right back to the bottom, where you will never recover from. Beaten, not just into submission, but into oblivion.

The bit where you know that this is a Consequence, not Fate. This is because of something you did, or said, or thought, and it has come back to you one trillion-fold. And there's no workable way around it.

I am wearing a sunshine yellow t-shirt, but I feel as black as the rainclouds pissing down outside my window. This is one of those events which will change the world I live in.

My soul is bruised, burned, battered. Beaten.

This match is over.

I have lost.

-d-

-d-: On humility

I just regaled my Honours student with the rather amusing and bemusing tale of the Horrendous Blood Pressure Incident of 1999.

It occurs to me now, several years older, wiser and more jaded, that it was probably at that time when I felt most humbled by anything. There was the near-drowning and subsequent lifeguard rescue - long story - on a packed beach on a summery New Year's Eve afternoon back in 1995, but that didn't so much humble me as finally strip away those last few shreds of bulletproof I still wore in my late adolescence. The BP incident hit much harder than that, perhaps because I was really only an onlooker in the near-drowning, and I would have got out, but the BP incident... well, that was mine and mine alone.

I guess to a point the BP incident was a reminder of mortality, a rude awakening to it and a nasty shock to an otherwise fairly comfortable system, but I think it's the one thing which really has affected me deep down. It bruised my soul, if you like, and those bruises don't tend to fade that easily.

195/120, in case you're wondering. Substantially above the expected 120/80 you would find in a normal and otherwise healthy 22 year old male. Interesting, from a medical point of view, because nobody had the first fucking clue what was wrong with me, and nobody had the first fucking clue after 6 weeks of exhaustive tests.

Kidney function. 24, 48 and 72 hour urinalysis. Test for pheocytochroma aka adrenal gland tumours. Cholesterol. Full blood counts. Chest x-rays - not sure what that was for, but they did it. Specialist kidney man poking and prodding about my bits and pieces. 24 hour BP monitor, with a little machine which inflates every half hour and does a reading. A complete ban on caffeine, and I love coffee, so that sucked. Renal clearance using Tc-96, radioactive technetium, to see how long that took on two separate occasions. An ultrasound, which was probably the most hideous thing I've ever had to endure. Everything else was humbling; I think it's the ultrasound that threw it all for me.

I can look back on it now and have a bit of a laugh, but the ultrasound was a big affront to my dignity. Perhaps it's my own fault for not finding out what to expect beforehand, but the whole procedure was a nightmare. One, they were woefully unprepared for me - neither the technician - a pretty young nurse, who did her best to put me at ease - nor the consultant - a surly radiologist, very bored looking with fucking abominable bedside manner for a doctor - really knew what they were supposed to do. Presumably having a 22-year old, scared, white boy, way out of his depth and wearing only his undies threw them for a loop as well and it seems they couldn't really make head or tail of the instructions on the referral letter. Two - the rooms were being renovated, so I had to change in a cubicle on one side of the area into a gown way too small for me, probably the size of a tight t-shirt, and then walk back through the chock-full waiting room full of pregnant women to the room where the ultrasound was being done in the tiny gown. These days that probably wouldn't bother me, but it did back then and I have never forgotten it.

The actual ultrasound was also kinda crap. I had to take off the gown in front of the pretty nurse - had I known, I'd have worn boxers instead of bikini briefs, but that's another issue - and lie down on the bed. She took her time, it seemed to me (although she probably didn't) finding me a towel to cover up, but it kept slipping off and so - and this freaked me out big time - she just slipped my undies down a bit and tucked it under the waistband. All in a day's work for her, no doubt, but I was getting surprise after surprise and having a pretty girl essentially running her hand through your pubes and over the base of your cock is going to disorientate anyone. I may be an exhibitionist at heart, but that's when everyone is at arm's length. Then the puzzlement (is that a word?) of the referral letter while she tried to work out what needed to be done. "Why are you having an ultrasound? Are you sure this is where you're meant to be?" Then the actual procedure - it's not like you see on tv, with a happy couple looking at a foetus on a screen as they lovingly and gently roll the ultrasound machine over the lady's belly. It's not like that at all. For whatever reason - probably the depth and the size of the kidney within the cavity relative to that of a baby - they jam that fucker right into you, right in the soft spots. Over and over and all over the place, you come out of there feeling like you've been pummeled in a boxing ring.

Then Captain Surly comes out, grunts a bit, asks curtly what you actually want him to do since the letter isn't clear, and then repeats the procedure (everything except the hands in the pubes part). His touch is much harder than the young nurse's, and he shoves that thing into you like he's digging for the Treasure of the Sierra fucking Madre. I was in there for about 45 minutes in all. After all that, he pissed off and she's left to wipe the gel off me and give me back Barbie's gown. When all was said and done, I had to go back through the still crowded waiting room to get my clothes.

I cowered in the changing room cubicle thing, hid there for 20 minutes, dressed but not wanting to come out, away from the curious pregnant women until someone brought me the report. Then I bolted out of there.

I can look back on it now and laugh, but at the time I really did feel violated. My mom asked how it was and I just told her it was fine. I'm a big strong boy, after all.

They didn't find what they expected there, and so I had more tests. The only other one I recall was an ekg, since they were particularly worried that the consistently high BP would lead to left-ventricular hypertrophy, or an enlargement of the left ventricle of the heart. Essentially, the ekg would let them know how long my bp had been that high for - big enlargement, been high for a long time.

All of that was inconclusive. Each of those tests revealed nothing about the cause of the high BP. On the plus side, it did show everything else to be normal, so that was a relief. In the end, I had to up my exercise quotient and cut out salt, and would you believe it, that did the trick. After a week, I was back to 125/82. They didn't want to medicate without finding a cause - the guy in my unit who managed my case said "if you were old, we'd medicate. But you don't want to be on chronic chemotherapy, possibly for the rest of your life, without knowing why." It made sense.

It was all very surreal, and to a point, thrilling. The unknown, right here in my own body, with even specialists, plural, stumped. The head of the renal unit at the university has no idea what's wrong with me, and he's an expert - I was going to be the subject of a paper in the Lancet at the rate we were going! But at the same time, it was quite scary. People drop dead from strokes all the time; even worse, they end up in wheelchairs, and a high BP brings that possibility so much closer. The worst part was also the aforementioned best part - nobody knew why, and nobody could fix it. And anything terrible could happen at any time. It's that part of it which brought the humility.

Years have passed, and I get my BP checked every few months. It's all been spot-on each time, which has been a huge relief. Every time I see a sphyg, though, I feel my pulse race and butterflies swarm in my gut, even if just for a bit.

-d-

-d-: On putting the "why?" in D.I.Y.

So

Following the entertainment by the sharp end of Nature at the local unofficial nude beach, the time officially came to put the oft-aforementioned tiles into their new abode; to whit, one bathroom floor at chateau moi.

To cut a longish story short (for a change) there is a reason that people pay other people a gigantic amount of money to do construction work. While I am still morally opposed to paying the earth for something I could actually do myself, I'm not sure we should be taking the work away from a.) someone who needs it, and b.) someone who can actually do it.

I have possibly mentioned this before - in this world, there are planners, and there are executors. I have fallen into both camps at times, and have one foot firmly in one of them at other times, but when push comes to shove, I am a planner. I am a good planner, an excellent planner most times. I am fucking brilliant at stepping back to see the big picture and as good at stepping closer to see fine detail, I can envision grand things in my head and convert ideas on paper into fully 3D images in my brain.

I am a planner, first and foremost. And a troubleshooter, and in some cases, a troublespotter. I can predict where things might fall flat - part of the big picture I mentioned above - and begin to see and expose flaws in any scheme almost immediately. This makes me a bit of a bastard when it comes to willing suspension of disbelief which they are so fond of in advertising and b-movie making, but I offer no apologies for it. I am a planner.

I suck at execution. I'll map out a circuit diagram for a hardcore amplifier and supervise the building of it; just don't expect me to be competent with a soldering gun. When it comes to execution, I am superb at making a mess. On the plus side, I know when I'm making a mess, but my general heavy-handedness and lack of precision means I can't properly fix it. Small fiddly bits and things requiring a bit of patience don't tend to get on well with me, and that is the depressing truth.

I had resolved, however, to Give It A Go when it came to the tiles. I had already long decided that Now Was The Time and I was going to get it right. Those guys on tv always make it seem so easy - Holmes on Homes and Extreme Makeover Home Edition and those sort of things - and they also make a point of TELLING you how easy it is.

Fucking liars, the lot of them.

Maybe it becomes easy when you've built your 5ooth cupboard. Maybe it's a cinch when you've laid ten thousand tiles. Until then, call a professional.

It took 2 hours to completely balls up the operation in the bathroom. Enough glue to last the entire space and still have change barely covered half the room, for one, and the floor is, it turns out, not exactly level. The walls are not exactly square, either, and the plumbing is not exactly gold standard. Cutting tiles with an industrial strength NT cutter blade is not nearly as efficient as just using the sharp kitchen scissors, and the glue sticks to fucking everything, including the glue-spreading stick, but is not all that keen on transferring from the spreader to the concrete floor, the filth.

I'm not 100% sure, but I think I may actually have said "fuck!" quite loudly in front of my mother during the two hours in the Inferno. I shall write to Beelzebub and request that our bathroom be considered as the 10th circle of Hell.

I've been scraping glue bits off myself for the last 40 hours now, even after 2 long hot baths, and I'm still finding stickies all over me. The floor looks acceptable, but still bits of glue keep squeezing up between the tiles, and it is sticky sticky sticky at the moment and in need of a damn good scrubbing. It's also only half-done while we wait for a guy to come and level it, which is happening this afternoon.

So DIY is not my thing. In fact, the only sort of DIY I've ever been even vaguely good at is the penis kind, and in all honesty even that hasn't been that much fun in recent times.

Bah humbug.

-d-

-d-: On nature au naturel

So

This is a long entry, and I could probably cut it down quite a bit if I wanted to, but I'm not going to for the sake of completeness and because a bit of background is never a bad thing.

Following a good crack at going large at Big T's dodgy Big Bash Friday night - and dodgy it was, that's for sure, but my good mate -eND- did predict that - I awoke to a Saturday which had dawned bright and sunny, and most surprisingly, since it is Winter Solstice this week, warm.

Warm is good. I can do warm. I'm very good at warm. It's perfect beach weather.

I could hear rumblings down the passage regarding the erstwhile Bathroom Renovation Project. It's not nearly as cool as it sounds; nor as well-planned. In essence, there was a clogged pipe and after much physical labour and also consternation, the floor was dug up and the pipes replaced. This involved also replacing the toilet.

Plans have long since been up in the air as to what was to happen next. Tiles for the floor? If yes, ceramic, stone or vinyl? If not tiles, a sheet of Linoleum? We've wondered about this often over the course of time since the pipe clogged and never really got beyond that. Welcome to my family and me and our wonderful world of procrastination.

Cue this week, when my mother remembers she is having people around on Thursday and she told them last time it was being done the following week. This was last June. This is why you shouldn't tell lies, because there comes a time where you will be caught. Anyway, a quick discussion resulted in mother and son - me - heading out to Parklands/Table View to the series of gigantic homeware/hardware everything-under-one-roof DIY-and-professional emporia which exist out that way; to whit, one Mica hardware, and one MassStores Inc t/a Builder's Warehouse (and formerly De la Rey's Hardware "1001 building supplies under one roof").

We came up short at Mica. They only had rubber tiles, and that just was not going to do the job. They referred us to Builder's Warehouse, which was just around the corner, as I recalled it.

No.

Just around the corner, then around the circle, then back down to the West Coast highway. Hang a right, trek north, hang another right at the almighty new private hospital and it's just off the new shopping center there. Not far, really, but I wouldn't want to have to walk it.

Get in there, find what I need. Report back to the car - severe arthritis means some days my old mom cannot walk large distances - and make a decision. Decisions are easier made these days with cellphone cameras, because you can take pictures instead of having to describe colours and designs. Display pictures. Choose a colour, go back in, buy. Also, paint and a roller. Then back in for tile glue, because I don't know these things and didn't realise these weren't self-adhesive.

Come out, trek home. It's pretty far, all in all - you realise when you look from the various locations for various landmarks and realise "wow - we're miles and miles away!"

Get home.

Proudly display new tiles.

Expect critical acclaim, which seems to be taking its time to be offered in my direction.

Get told they're too dark and I need to go back and get the lighter ones. I assumed this was my sister talking - she hadn't come with us - and was annoyed.

Got even more annoyed when I discovered that in fact it was my mother who now thought they were too dark. She had been there, and made the decision herself. Even when I brought the tiles back to the car - when we discovered that there was no built-in adhesive and I had gone back in to get some - and she'd had a good look at the sodding things and again at the picture of the lighter ones and still commented that the tiles and the carpet were almost identical in colour and still decided they were the right ones, they turned out to be the wrong ones, so Muggins - me - had to go back.

Back to Table View, where the mutton dresses as lamb, and where the kids prey on the adults. Where all the bad people go when they live.

I'd kinda shot myself in the foot, saying on the way home that if I did need to go back I would move my gym session to earlier and do the 2-birds-1-stone thing, since my gym has a branch in TV, right across from Mica where we went first, so I couldn't really kick up too much of a stink. I did anyway, though. I bitched and moaned and then shotgunned some lunch and got my swimming gear - still the dubious grey/black Speedo as mentioned in the pH entry of mid-May; no, it has not been replaced as yet - and thought about a route. Yeah, TV is not far away, but it is so much sub- and urban sprawl that you could piss between stop signs and traffic lights. What should be a 10 minute drive becomes 25 minutes of stop-start bullshit.

However, there is a quicker way - head west instead of north, take a quick short-cut through the industrial area to Marine Drive, which becomes the West Coast Highway and basically runs right past to the almighty new private hospital mentioned above. Conveniently, the West Coast Highway runs right past the good beaches in Cape Town. In particular, the unofficial nude beach and cruising spot.

And the weather, surprisingly for June, is warm.

2 + 2 usually equals 4, and it did in this case. I would shun the gym-swim for a beach swim, and a nude-beach swim at that. I didn't get into the sun as much as I should have around Christmas time, and the weather is not exactly beachy until early October again here, so any opportunity for a bit of a tan should not be sniffed at. Nor should any opportunity for exhibitionism. It all made sense.

The trouble with the beach being an unofficial nude beach is that sometimes there are whole families of people on it who are not expecting you to shuck kit, since it is actually illegal. Nobody really wants to get thrown in jail, so that's always a worry. Especially since it is a cruising spot.

The trouble with it being a cruising spot is that it has a reputation, and there are always furtive characters loitering in the dunes looking for like-minded individuals for a bit of action. I'm not going to judge, but I really am going there for the sun and the sea and not any sort of random sex and so any unwelcome advances are just fucking irritating, especially when the perpetrator is persistent and assumes I'm just playing hard to get. Also, it is all very obvious - you get there at any time and there are a few cars parked there, but nobody on the beach. Just guys in suits, or jeans, fully dressed, standing randomly half-hidden in the dunes and occasionally rubbing their crotches if you make eye-contact. For anyone running on the beach, it all seems very highly dubious. Although I have shucked kit and got naked there about ten times in the last year - and 2006 was the first time I did that, in case anyone was wondering - I have seen less than 5 other naked people there; and maybe 3 or 4 others looking like they were actually dressed for the beach (apart from the runners and occasional aforementioned families). As I said, it's all very dodgy to the casual observer.

Anyway, I went there. There were plenty of cars, and the beach was fairly busy. The dunes were full of random thrill seekers, all fully dressed. I stripped to my boardies, as usual, and went looking for a place to get fully naked, but there were too many people who would take it as an invitation. I left after about 20 minutes, without having dropped trou which is disappointing to the exhibitionist in me, trying to avoid the guy who kept putting himself in my line of sight whilst rubbing his bits and pieces. He was much better than the guy further back, though, who was at full mast through his zip and stroking, but that's another issue.

That's when I saw it.

The Dunes Project is ongoing in Cape Town at all the beaches to the north of the city. There are protected areas, and regions of the dunes where the vegetation is unique to Cape Town and is on the verge of extinction, so there is a lot of plant stuff around for a sandy wind-swept swathe of beach. There are shit-loads of birds, lizards and insects all over the dunes, and quite probably some snakes as well, so you take your life in your hands at the unofficial spot, because it is in between 2 very popular, resort-style beaches with stalls and lifeguards and changing rooms and stuff, but not at the unofficial spot. There are also a hell of a lot of molehills - not always easy to spot in the dunes because of all the sand there already.

So, with crotch-rubbing guy about 15 feet behind me, I sense a movement about 5 feet ahead and quickly stop, trying to place it. I realise it's sand moving, and suddenly, a mole leaps out of the molehill it's just built and attacks some of the ground cover foliage there. Everyone thinks moles are cute, and some of them are. Here in Cape Town we have a protected species of cute little tunneling mole - you get long, raised tracts of sand marking its passage and not big molehills with the cute little endangered tunneling mole. We also have the not-protected species of big, fuck-off, unloveable, ugly molehill-making mole, which is what I was faced with. The thing is the size of a small cat, or possibly a large chihuahua, so not exactly huge, but not the sort-of "aw, cute!" little fluffy rodent everyone thinks of when they think of moles. Not like a field mouse, or hedgehog, or shrew - this thing reeks of tetanus and panicky aggression, in particular around its almighty teeth, currently laying into an entree of protected succulent of some sort. It sees me - probably smells me, since their eyesight is not good and bolts back into its hole. I wait. I don't really want to go forward and inadvertently tread on it, or have the tunnel collapse and have it take a chunk out of me in self-defence, but I also don't really want to face Crotchy behind me, either.

Ten seconds pass and it leaps forth again, huffing, puffing and scrabbling around. Now I can actually see the teeth and they are long and sharp. It makes the Alien look like it's sporting a pair of granny's dentures. Again it detects me and disappears. This time I took a step back and casually glanced around. Fortunately, Crotchy wasn't paying me any mind, which was fine. With another sudden explosion of sand, the mole attacks the shrubbery and this time makes off with a large amount of it. As quickly as all hell broke loose, it was gone. The next thing, it was shovelling sand back up the tunnel, presumably closing its front door to me.

I waited another minute or so, then carefully went around the area and headed back to the car, then did the drive up to BW to replace the tiles. On account of having cut my beach visit short, and not hitting the mighty Atlantic at all in a semi or completely unclothed state, I even managed a swim at the gym on the way back, even if it was the TV gym and not my usual spot.

Still - the sharp end of Nature. Interesting stuff, I thought.

-d-