This is not a re-run of an earlier entry. I am in fact - and surprising the living fuck out of everyone while at it, mind - seeing someone. And have been for very nearly three (3) months.
It's even going fairly well.
There have been a couple of horror stories on the way through, post the gf and pre the bf (yes, a bf, for the 1st time ever) and these might get written down and detailed along the way, as much for the sake of posterity and sentimentality and an acknowledgement of how I got this far along as for the shits and giggles and warnings contained therein. But for now, I think I might have a certain level of contentment, a softening of heart, and even a suspicion that maybe I won't be a Lone Wolf forever and I might even be good at not being one.
Watch this space (tbh, I need the traffic! This place is a tomb).
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Friday, July 22, 2011
It's time once again.
Anniversaries of difficult things gone past, easily remembered because they coincide with my mom's birthday. It's been a shit time for the last three years, but I'm feeling a little more optimistic this time around.
At least, I am for now. Ask me again on Monday.
Last year it felt like there was a conspiracy against me. I met my ex-gf exactly a year ago today; the Anniversary happens to also coincide with her birthday, and let's be honest - you get your heart broken twice, on the same day three years apart, and then meet someone on that day whose birthday happens to be that same day. I mean, you couldn't make that up. It was an unfair start, for both of us but more for her, and it fucked out big time in the end.
But I learned; I learned a lot, about me and other things, and people. Not nice things about me, no; a difficult and unpleasant realisation, that, but I will sack up and admit it and then own it. Not something to be proud of, not by a long shot, but something to acknowledge frequently enough that I'm aware of it to the point where I'm actively trying to not do it again.
Overkill, perhaps. But probably also necessary.
This year I will drink with it. We will sit across the table from each other, a steely glint in the eye, not quite friends but not entirely adversaries any more. We'll go back a long way by the time this is all done and dusted, and who knows when that might be, so until I can beat the damn thing I might as well join it.
Monday, July 04, 2011
Little over a year ago, one of the Wives leaped out of her car as we arrived back to back for a party at a friend's place, and started yelling quite excitedly at me on the driveway.
-o-: What's your type?
-o-: What's your type? You know, your type? What is it?
-d-: My type?
-o-: Yes! You know. What is your type?
-d-:Okay, what does she look like?
-o-: Don't worry about that! Just tell me your type.
-a-: Easy, baby, the guy has just arrived and is tryi-
-o-: No! You sshhh! He's telling me about his type.
This carried on for some time. In the end, I beat it out of her that I was apparently on the shortlist to be the proud - and fortunate - recipient of some old-World Romanian matchmaking.
It didn't work out. Fast forward 5 months and I told the lucky then-gf (it had got that far) about the bi part, and although she took it well things were never quite the same. I think she thought I meant a drunken fumble that one time, you know, because "we've all done things we're not proud of." At which point I *might* have got a little vocal and said things like "actually, I'm not ashamed. Just because I don't broadcast it from the rooftops does not make it any less a part of my identity." I later made the mistake of trying to explain it all in a tongue-in-cheek email complete with colourful Kinsey sexuality scale chart, nicked from the Wik, which went down like the proverbial 5 dollar hooker.
A month later I had checked out of the relationship mentally; a few commitments and other delicate circumstances meant I only checked out physically three months later; 8 months in total since this thing had begun.
So now three months have passed, and I find myself wary of the dating scene. I learned a great deal during My Time With The Gf, a lot about other people but an uncomfortably large bit about myself. I discovered that I'm selfish, and that I object to people getting into my space and -even more than that - into my limited free time. I don't like having to consider other people all the time when I'm making elaborate plans like where to stay and when to travel for a wedding in a far-flung location to simple things like which nights I want to go to the gym. I learned that I've been single a long time and although I am a jack of all trades, I am unbelievably good at being single; should it ever exist, I reckon that Olympic gold medal for singledom is mine for the taking.
But mostly, I discovered that this is all a defence mechanism; being cranky about change, being set in my routines, objecting to being considerate of the significant other, is all to cushion the blow of heading home alone again and again after a night with friends, of being unpartnered at weddings and birthdays, being the odd number 5 or 7 or 9 when booking at restaurants. Although I'm very good at being alone, I'm also very good at feeling lonely.
Re-reading this last bit, I'm also a master of wallowing is self-pity, it seems.
Anyway, moving on - I'm looking. Not looking for a relationship yet - too much else to worry about for now - but not going to fiercely resist should one look like it might come along, something I've done for the last 5 years and then some, and ironically, something I should have done on the driveway that day just over a year ago. We learn these things the hard way; optimistically, I suppose as long as I'm learning something it can't be all bad.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Friday, March 19, 2010
Thursday, January 07, 2010
I swear to G_d that I am going to find the cretin who created this one, the system\g-923-321231-blahblah\driver.exe bullshit one that lives on flash drives, and when I do I swear to G_d I am going to walk up to him, all nice and smiling and friendly and then I am going to kick him as hard as I fucking can in the balls. And when he stops vomiting and his eyes stop watering and he's able to breathe properly again, I'm going to do it again. And again. And again.
And again. I will have him in his poes, as we say here in the South.
You've been warned, you fuckwit.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Gads - a year has passed since I wrote this and would you believe the fucking thing stil isn't finished?
Someone please check to make sure that procrastination isn't in the 10 commandments or anything like that otherwise I'll be heading down to the place where the heat comes from all around instead of a nice warm sun suspended happily in a calm blue sky and people scream all the time rather quicker than I might have already imagined.
Okay, so it's the first entry in ages, and it's not much (see comment re procrastination above) but to be fair I did have rather a lot of wine last night at the annual Secret Santa Christmas Dinner thing which we've done for the last couple of years and I'm feeling it a little this morning. The wine was a dubious dry white which other -D- found, one of -M-'s dessert whites, a sketchy bottle of faux champagne (alcohol free, aka Grapetiser) and my rather good, rather lush Landskroon Cab Sauv 2006, the last one of those on the shelf at PnP in Plattekloof.
I was a little worrried since there were hundreds of the 2008 Cab and one single, solitary '06, long since out of production and out of stock. Although I pounced on it, there were no prices on the shelf which makes me think it had been out for some time and the pessimist (you mean panic-pants haha -eND-) in me immediately wondered if someone had poisoned the bottle and snuck it back onto the shelf like ill people sometimes do. So it was with some trepidation that I opened the bottle last night and had a sip, trying very hard not to spill any on my uber-wow! nice new white pants. Hey, they looked good. And I got to break out my white undies to go with them, since I never wear white undies unless I'm wearing white pants, since they don't stay bright white for more than about 4 wearings anyway.
So I'm not dead yet; nor is anyone else who had some. I guess perhaps my worry was a touch overzealous. We'll find out for sure later on when we commence the 19th Annual Christmas Movie in silly hats (#1 being Hot Shots! back in 1991; other classics have included LotR: FotR; Titanic; The Nightmare before Christmas and others; duds have included SurvivingChristmas, Deck the Halls, Elf and other similar "family fare") which happens to be Avatar in 3D which I am looking massively forward to. Still, fact remains - the song isn't finished.
Bah and humbug. Oh hey - it's Christmas!
Tuesday, December 01, 2009
Remember, kids: when driving in the stifling summer heat with the fan/AC blasting away attempting to keep you cool, gases emitted from your nethers are likely to be blown right up into your face with not-exactly hilarious results.
This has been a public service announcement from your friendly neighbourhood ninja.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
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.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, February 13, 2009
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.
*Sniper's rifle, obviously
Tuesday, January 06, 2009
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.
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
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
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
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...
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)
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!
*He'll be the VP, of course.
Monday, December 08, 2008
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.
*6 inches, rounded upwards.
Monday, December 01, 2008
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.
Friday, November 28, 2008
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?
Friday, November 21, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
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.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
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.
Monday, November 17, 2008
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.
*My PhD work involves a mouse-model of human malaria.
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.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
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.
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!
Monday, August 18, 2008
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.
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!
Monday, August 11, 2008
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.
Monday, August 04, 2008
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.
Friday, July 25, 2008
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.
Posted by -elNinjaDiablo- at 12:56 PM
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
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.
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!
Friday, July 11, 2008
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.
PS: Can't you, can't you trim like I do? /Filter
Monday, June 30, 2008
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.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
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.