Intoxicating Observation

I'm an impartial observer. I watch, analyse, judge. You could be completing your daily dues, but I'm filling my day by monitoring yours. I just spent the weekend in Darling, participating in a massed tightly organised wannabe Woodstock, and using the self-neglect of others as a personal field of knowledge and entertainment. Motherless metal-heads, intoxicated indie-kids, hippies floating so high above the ground, they've lost all feeling in their toes and misplaced their motor skills. All fell victim to my particular vindictive brand of savage self-indulgent unvoiced mockery.

You don't even have to see to observe, such is the beauty of this past-time. One can watch with one's ears; eavesdropping it's called in polite society. I was lucky enough to hear one smashed cider-coated nugget of homosexuality yell across a barren camping ground at what can only be assumed to be a fellow partaker in the joys of gayness, “you're not even gay, you're asexual. Bitch.” apparently androgyny is the new douchebag. Hoorah for glorious new ways to insult and hurt! Had I not listened in on such a conversation, this revelation of modern mockery would have sailed passed my world like those itchy thingies off a plane tree do when they fly through the air. If they hit you though, they make your life an irritational hell. This guy's insults made a brief period in my night an irritational hell. I hmm'd and erm'd for at least three minutes, contemplating the degree of cruelty that must, inevitably have been dealt his way to provoke such an outrageous attack.

Another moment of observational bliss came when a friend, tweaked on what can only be a bubbling brew of MDMA and Swaziland's finest, airplane launched herself into our tent, only to come smoothly in to land on top of myself and my bed buddy. She lay still, arms outstretched in a giggle-provoking Superman stance over us, eventually mustering up enough linguistic ability to say “I love you guys. You know that? I love you. Can I kiss you both on the head?” After which a touching ceremony of tenderness and affection unfolded, resulting in two very sloppy forehead kisses and leaving our canvas cave with a residual feeling of warmth and contentment. Who needs to take the stuff yourself, when you can so easily reap the benefits of such concoctions from the users around you?

Another point in this immaculately entertaining weekend came when a girl, adorned in neon flashes, dreadlocks and an almost fanatical devotion to trance music, elevated a giant plastic daisy above her head, only to twirl and brandish the messiah of all fake flowers like an expression of her own enjoyment. Her other-worldly smile, vacant and vapid eyes, and indigenous aboriginal dancing inspired thoughts of happiness, love and acid. I don't need a cap of the aciduous drug to feel its effects, I simply need to watch, and fully understand what it is to be off my tits. She gave me my high without meaning to, without selling or me buying, but in the perfection of observing.

Kids came from far and wee (goat-footed and balloon-wielding) to participate in this festival of daisy-inspired music and movement. I watched them shovel fist-full after fist-full of authentic butter chicken down their munchie-mad gullets. I laughed openly at those spinning, arms out and heads back, on fields, oblivious not only to those around them, but themselves in any state of existence entirely. I watched those that knew all the words to the songs bursting like bubblegum from the main stage speakers. Band after band over-exerting themselves beautifully, sweat pouring from each front-man in turn, the stage springing forth rivers of salty talent. I listened to every passing conversation from the safety of my tent, laughing at the stupidity of some, the humour of others, the drunken state of many. I watched it all, drinking it in, absorbing every second, convinced that one day, when my memoirs are being penned, I may not have many stories of myself, but others, them I can write about. Their stories and lives become my fix, my obsession.

I don't ever have a desire to understand the context within which a ludicrous statement is made. I want only the statement, the action or reaction, the one-liners that make an observers life worth further observation. And so it is that on this note I leave you, pondering the agendas of others. Possibly sending you out on a maiden voyage of not self-discovery, rather a discovery of the people around you. People who's lives can bring you joy, tantalise your humour switch, inspire thought, and rile up your bile duct. There are others out there you know. Others like you, who think and feel and live. Go see.

Wheatless Existence

My bones shake, rhythmically knocking my kneecaps together. Thud thud clap thud clap clap thud. It begins to hurt. I can feel my heart beating in my ass. The wooden chair I sit on becomes a torture device, tightening to the pulse of my ass-heart-beat. My hair sprawls spider-like and sweat-drenched across my pursed lips, my creased forehead, my adamant, set face. Slowly, meticulously, I lift my head, release my lips from their sphinctered pose and say, “No.” The cheeseburger glares back. Animosity and strife rippling through the very sauce it's drenched in. It threatens to consume me, as opposed to the more socially acceptable adverse.

To fluff out what must be an agonising confusion for you, dear reader, I'm allergic to wheat. Have you ever tried a rye-burger? Don't. It's god-awful. My life exists with anguish, awkwardness and a constant, painful yearning. Every muffin becomes a crude Larson-esque Attila-the-bun character. Every hammy, pineappley, cheesey, phantasmagorical pizza slice slaps me across the face, jeering. Taunting me. Each noodle winds itself around my very heartstrings, squeezing, imploring me to perform my basic human right and eat the godly substance that is flour.

Sure, it's easy for you to tell me that I'm over-reacting, you apathetic wheat-muncher. This isn't a woes-me rant. It's a “try and see where I'm coming from, living with this most evil of all allergies” rant. Totally different. Imagine a life without butter-drenched naan bread, jam-filled doughnuts covered in puffs of sugar, waffles, sweet, glorious waffles, suspended in golden, sparkling pools of maple syrup, capped with billowing, voluminous peaks of soft, white whipped cream. Now tell me you don't feel a slight twinge of empathy.

Yes, there are substitutes. Yes, they taste practically the same. Yes, they cost give-or take nine times the price of regular wheat flour products. Yes, I'm a student and am in no way going to throw away precious drinking money on rice flour. (I probably would spend my drinking money on rice flour, if I was afforded the opportunity to have such a thing as drinking money.) The point is, despite the fact that there are a million wheat-free alternatives to choose from, I want the original. I want the waffles that give me headaches and stomach cramps, it's a discomfort that I've always associated with waffles. No pain, no gain. No waffle, no pain. (This is the point where I begin to concern myself with the state of my mental health.)

O.K, so I'm stubborn and ridiculous. I get it now. Once written down, I see that I've got to either perform acts of thievery to sponsor my rice-flour habit, or accept that I'm going to feel ill every time I succumb to the dreaded desire for wheat. Bite the bullet, not the cheeseburger. Suck up the situation and not the noodle. Find something worth ranting about.

I felt it. It was here.

I passed May this year in foetal position. My shivers of fear shook the very desk I hid beneath, my left eye twitched out S.O.S in Morse code, my stomach shrank to the size of the metaphorical fist clenched around it. Grievously aware of my toes remaining permanently curled, I devised methods of pulling off ringletted toenails as a trend. 1 month till the dreaded World Cup. The pillars of security hoisting my national pride were threatening collapse, crumbling at the edges like a Marie Biscuit.

I lived all 31 days of May with the fear. What happens when our country is flooded with every race you knew about, maybe even a few you didn't, and every single one of those unsuspecting travellers gets their wallets surgically removed from the safety belt-like contraption constricting their torsos? What happens when the first German tourist gets a gun to the head whilst cruising in his rental Beemer? He may not understand the hollered words, but the gun I'm sure he'll get. He'll spring from the vehicle like a cuckoo bird, watching his car insurance speed away up the foreign freeway.

I thought of the wrong kind of striker. Not the one trying desperately to bend Jabulani, the one with a placard, a war-cry and a vicious forearm. I mused on unfinished roadworks, dysfunctional airports, loud-mouthed arrogant, ignorant adolescent politicians. I was pre-emptively embarrassed for South Africa. I woke up cringing every morning.

The opening ceremony did nothing to untangle my tweaked nerves. The off-key singing, awkward presenters, general-all-round awful music sent spirals of sickness oozing down into my finger tips. I held tight to my shuddering knees, curling closer into my human doughnut of safety. Regretting my decision to be in this country during the Cup, I resignedly watched Finding Nemo instead of Bafana's first game. However, I remember going onto Facebook at one point on the evening the game was on. Shockwaves radiated through my brain. We drew. We actually nearly won a game.

Suddenly a new dawn opened for me. This could be so much more than a mortifying experience for our country. We might pull this whole thing off. After choosing Spain as my team, I began to watch. Obsessively. Soccer dominated my mind and controlled my movements. Hells if Spain didn't pull through for me. The buggers won the whole damn competition. Pride flaked off me like dandruff.

Despite my initial pessimism, (a deadly understatement) I supported, I screamed, I blew a goddamn vuvuzela. I strutted my stuff on the fanwalk, ate Prego rolls the nights Portugal played, wore orange for the first time in my life when Netherlands crumpled Cameroon. I became a global patriot.

Don't get me wrong, I'm never going to be the happy-clappy type, sitting around a camp-fire, melodiously belting out my very best Kumbayah. But I supported. I did my bit. Just waiting now for the bit the world's going to do for me. I'll be here if you're looking for me, World. Waiting. (awkward cough.)

Humane Kindness

I dislike people. I dislike their smell, their words, their arrogance, their inherent meanness. They swarm and conquer like ants. They pounce unsuspectingly on a downtrodden earth, forcing it into submission with disease and an imposition of humanness.

The word “humane” distresses me. How supercilious of the human race to create a word meaning “goodness” and “kindness” and yet turn it into a reflection of the very beings who created it. On my stagnant journeys through life I've met more humane hamsters than I have people.

Eddie Izzard, reigning god of comedy and commentary, eloquently portrays the perfect scenario of the evil that doesn't exist in animals. His “Evil giraffe” skit brings tears of laughter to my eyes, and, simultaneously, enrages my over-worked bile duct. A dog takes a biscuit and is called a “bad dog.” The dog looks inquisitively up at his owner and says in a voice that would make James Mason proud, “Who are you to judge me? You human beings who've had genocide, war against people of different creeds, colours, religions. And I stole a biscuit? Is that a crime?” The owner proceeds to give his dog another biscuit. Between snorts of laughter, I find myself seething with anger after watching this scene. Why do people think that in desecrating the world we live in, we somehow have laid some kind of claim to it. Who are we to call a dog bad for stealing a biscuit? It's us who need to be slapped a few times around the face with a rolled up newspaper and sent, tail between our legs, to an afternoon in a kennel.

I'll admit that I've tried this method with people. Neither my sister or the now ex-friend appreciated the treatment very much though. Whilst we reprimand our animals for their badness, they frequently show more humanity than we ever could. There's a clip on Youtube that could wrench the guts out of even the most hardened criminals. It depicts a dog being hit by a car on the highway. None of the drivers stop for him. He lies there, crumpled and broken while the assholes in their sedans drive passed, content in their hybrid, air-conditioned, gass-spewing pouches of vehicular safety. Another dog, who witnessed the dramatic hit from the pavement, puts his own life on the line to cross the bustling highway to retrieve the injured dog. He places both of his front paws around the patient and drags him to the safety of the pavement. The “humanity” encased in metal speed passed, oblivious to the miracle enrolling on the tar outside. Tell me, who was more humane? The rescue dog, who saved the life of the other on his own munition, or the drivers who ignored the whole scenario?

I've considered convincing others to no longer refer to anyone being humane. Rather, try “hamsterane,” “canine,” even “frogane.” Anything but humane. We need to stop bigging ourselves up, inflating our already Zeppelin-like heads, hero-worshipping, pretending that the sun shines out of our every orifice. We do not rule the world, we're just labouring under the misapprehension that we do. Viva la era of caninity. Dogs, I will follow you into the vicious throngs of battle.

Ubernormal Activity

I sat in front of a big black box for almost three hours yesterday. My mind was blank, numb, mush. My legs seized up from the weight of my body crushing down on to them. I didn't move. I sat, mesmerized by the flashing imagery before me. My mouth hung open, not slightly, but wide enough for dribble to trace its way around the crevices of my mouth and down into a safe nestle on my chin.
My hair stuck up like a cruel Don King impersonation, my hands lay abandoned somewhere near my lap. My eyes widened, drawing parallels to walnuts, dinner plates, bush babies. I breathe erratically, in, out, in, in, out, gasp, in, out. I shudder, I twitch, I smile mischievously. I relish every minute of it.

I am an undercover horror movie junkie.

Every fright stings my nervous system with piercing jolts. Adrenaline pumps through my veins like a power surge, increasing my heart beat, shaking me to my core. Every time some unsuspecting victim gets his head sliced off by an axe-wielding maniac, I let loose an initial nervous giggle, followed a witch's cackle. I savour each blood-curdling scream, appreciating every organ explosion with gusto. Ah, nothing beats the sweet smell of fear in the morning.

My penchant for the gory is shared by millions. We like to instil a safe rush of adrenaline, we enjoy the thrill without the possibility of hurting ourselves. Watching horror movies is the equivalent to a kiss from your great aunt Martha, It's going to terrify the life out of you, but at least you know that at the end of it, you'll be unharmed, if a smidgen shaken. It's the injection of excitement that we all crave in our mundane lives. We grow fearful everyday of he pains and terror around us, yet we still put ourselves through the Exorcist every few months or so. Is it to ensure our livelihood? Are we scared that, without our exasperatedly pumping hearts, we are empty, devoid of life? Do we watch them to prove that, in fact, we can take the fear? That we are stronger than we let ourselves believe?

Whatever your reason may be for scaring the bejesus out of yourself, horrors can teach us a few important life lessons:
Never clench your teeth during a particularly nasty scene; something WILL happen that will result in you swallowing parts of your own cheek.
Don't think that it's a good idea to stroll through your house in lingerie without a weapon if someone has called to tell you that they are watching you; you will die a dismembering death.
Refrain from all forms of paranormal contact activities; someone you know WILL get possessed and kill off the rest of the family, one by one.
Don't take showers in motels. Not under any circumstance

These are all relevant and important facts of life, facts that we would be unaware of, had we not witnessed them in movies. This strikes the conclusion that a bit of fear can bring a lot of assistance to the watcher. So go ahead, make your day, watch your horror, live longer than the sissies who don't.

Spidergirl

Picture this: You're lying in bed, trying to squeeze in a few grunted snores before work. You feel a searing pain next to your right eye. Your eyesight blurs, your face feels like a sewing machine base, your jaw locks and you start to feel woozy. Imagine my disappointment when this melodramatic pain turns out to be a spider bite not of the radioactive type.

The doctor confirms the worst, not only will I experience a list of symptoms of less than peachy discomfort, but I will not be able to climb walls with my new poisoned blood. Dreams of shooting webs from my wrists are banished. The possibility of swooping through the streets of Cape Town, taking out bad guys and accumulating mass appreciation, is dispelled. My heart breaks.

“Are you sure?” I tearfully ask the doctor, already designing my red and blue Lycra suit in my mind. “Just your average, everyday Button spider bite,” he responds, more concerned with my disappointment than my condition. My feet are heavy as I leave his mint-green office. My heart floats precariously in my throat. Gone is my opportunity for mutant fame. Relinquished are my delusions of radioactive grandeur. Doomed am I to a life of normalcy and apparent Yoda impersonations.

Despite my normal diagnosis I spend the days post-bite in a state of constant alertness. Every bout of pins and needles inspires my imagination to greater fantasies of flight and fight. I see myself manically pummelling a backstreet rapist, pulverising a knife-waving mugger, bringing a car down upon the empty head of a gun-toting hijacker. The more I think about these prospects, the angrier I become. Why couldn't I have become a spider-mutant? Why couldn't I kill and maim every evil-doer in Cape Town? It hit me at this point. It wasn't the radioactivity that I desired, rather the revenge I sought from these criminals.

How odd that my justice button was pushed by an insect bite. Trouble is, now I can't seem to turn it off. If you happen upon a red and blue-suited woman, swinging from a balcony in Long Street, possibly stuck and suspended by a broken piece of garden rope, maniacally threatening all bad-guys and yelling for medical assistance simultaneously, it may or may not be me. Criminals, you have been warned.

Hacked

In this world of technological advancement, each of us believe ourselves to be moguls of internet magic. We are not. We are morons of the magic. For months now I have commanded my Facebook page, my gmail and my Blog like a true pro. I have sailed my ship of technology through rough seas and sun-bleached skies. I have danced in the very daisy fields of computer literacy. I have managed to lose all of my information to a douche of a hacker.

Whilst trying to access my email last week I received the heart-stopping message of doom, “The password you have entered is incorrect.” My palms started to sweat, my brow furrowed, my buttocks began to clench rhythmically. Steadying my quivering hands I tried my Facebook account. Once again I was told that I had entered the wrong password. Concerned that although this was a different password to that of my email, Facebook too had blocked me from entering. After four cigarettes and a glass and a half of Old Brown Sherry I had built up enough courage to throw caution to the wind and try my blog. DISASTER! I was once again denied access.

What could I do? My very existence was compromised. Several people referred to what had happened to me as “identity theft.” Are we in such a sad state of technological advance that losing email and Facebook accounts now constituted you as being indentityless? Who was I? Had my life lost it's meaning? Was I still allowed to introduce myself as Kelly-Paige or did I now have to find a new identity? “Nice to meet you, I'm Kelly_Paige22@hotmail.com.”

One account couldn't be reinstated without the consent of the other. Nothing could be rectified until I had Google convinced that I was the rightful owner of my account. Google hated me, told me that I “did not seem to be the account holder.” How did they know? What could I do to sway their vote? Was my hacker, at this very moment, pulling the Google strings, telling the Google geeks that they in fact were the honourable members of my prestigious Gmail?

After much toil and trouble, days of frustration, several unnecessary tearful fits from the people I threw things at in my frustration, and the completion of one very crystallized bottle of sherry, I managed to recover my gmail. Celebration! My life has been recovered. My existence has been reinstated. My identity has returned. I have been reconnected to the world. My life is back on course. How very, very, sad of me.

Prove to me that you're hardcore, show me your ink.

Gone are the days when just prisoners and society's drop-outs desecrate their bodies with symbolic representations of their killings or gang-related misdemeanour's. These days it's become socially acceptable, even expected, to coat yourself in an ink disguise. Without a tattoo you are considered a jock outcast- forever exiled to the realms of decency and dweebness. You are considered a sissy, an over-achiever, a wife-beater-consuming coke-sniffing pop-music-loving commercial junkie.

Mothers nationwide frown upon new piercings, tattoos, haircuts that inspire images of awkward poodle shavings. They forget that time breeds change. As the decades have swum passed trends have developed, broken, sustained and switched into new categories of existence. What was once considered as a badge for the screw-ups has now evolved into a broach for the trendy. We wear our ink proudly, showing it off with a pompous confidence that proves our alternative coolness, our separation from the over-crowded commercial society we dwell in.

Problem is, in trying so hard to be quirky and alternative, we've spread our influence, taking over the top spot in the race for majority acceptance. We no longer hold the minority, we seep into conventional society, declaring our difference all the while dominating the populace. Despite the irony of this situation, we remain a proud gaggle of human existence. We continue to inject ink into our skin, we pierce and stretch any appendage that can be located by a plastic glove-wearing sadist. We strut like peacocks, flashing our decorations like Christmas trees, glittering like proud glow worms.

I knock our separatism, yet still sign up for it every time I add to the growing list of baubles that adorn my body. I like it, we all do, that's why we partake. We give ourselves a sense of tribal recognition; connecting through sight with others of our kind, nodding in the direction of one we respect, sending our mutual condolences to those, like ourselves, who are outcasts. ([sic] all irony.) We “creative types” with our “alternative ways” and “trendy traits” will undoubtedly become a generation of child-rearing awkward misfits who were once cool, yet now are left with daily momentos of the folly of our youth.

None of us are likely to ever don a suit, we choose careers that allow for individualism, fearing the future and what our adornments will mean for it. Bring on times and their changes, I vow to retain my difference, to be an ageing hippy, to defend my tattoos to the end.

Metrosexual tables have turned

The ethereal fairy-like beauty next to me opens her mouth and lets out a burp that'd make windows shatter. It echoes throughout the quad-like rooftop of college, bouncing off the walls, vibrations moving the very concrete we sit on. She muses silently for a while before querying “Do you ever feel like the person you are in your head is not the person everyone sees you as?” Two of us stare at her, surprised, yet in awe of her vocal projection and honesty.

I'm attacked daily for my chipped nail-polish, my vulgarity, my mercenary-like swearing, even my ferociously unfeminine appetite. I have reached a conclusion though- sitting with my girls over a hurried lunch break- one burping, one picking her teeth with her nail, the other sitting legs wide and welcoming, that we are still the ladies we need to be when it's appropriate, but mostly we're all just slobs when it comes to crunch time.

Gentlemen. Never fear, most of us will keep our disgusting qualities to ourselves, you'll never have to bare witness to the profanity of true girl-speak. (shoes, shopping and hair cuts have never come into this type of conversation.) We blurt the unimaginable to each other. We discuss the coarse reality we live with. It gets nasty. We become uncivilised, repulsive even. If only I could crack open this Pandora's box of indecency and show it to the world of men. All bets are on you'd have a lot more respect for the women in your lives, you may even fear us and our boorish speak that'd outshine yours any day. Luckily, this is a feat that will no longer have to be performed- girls like me have been showing ourselves for far too long to backtrack at this stage.

Our friends have been shocked and emasculated by our talents and yet, still, we soldier on- dispelling myths everywhere of little-white-glove-wearing darlings you may think you know. Guaranteed there are a lot of girls who manage to maintain perfection, I applaud you. You wake up every morning, repaint your nails, straighten you hair, lather your face in a swamps worth of gunk, don your pretty-in-pink sweater and set off for your day of mystery-maintaining madness. I must send these girls a warning- you're on the out. We're the new metrosexuals and we're here to stay. Got to go now- i have an evening to get to and need to do my hair.

Tucking the Tackle

He lifted it. He tucked it. He moulded it back into the crevices of his tightey whities. He removed his genitaliated hand from his waistband and shook my own freshly washed one. I gagged. He was unfazed, riding on the confidence of his ultra manliness.
Consider this image; a blonde Betty-Boop sashays down the sidewalk. With all the sensuality to kill a horse she moves with the grace of a willow. She stops, unabashedly plunging her left hand, merlot nails and all, into the depths of her peel-on, peel-off jeans. After groping, grabbing and readjusting for a time she yanks her hand back into the fresh air she walks in. This tells me that it doesn't matter how attractive you are, how confident, self-assured, uncomfortable or itchy, no-one, not anyone, should fondle their own genitalia in public.

This division between the socially acceptable and the straight-up verboden ignites the question of why (oh why) do men still partake in this crude, neanderthallic practice when they would be outspokenly adverse to the idea of a woman doing the same thing. Yes, we get that when your tackle begins to tackle one another it becomes uncomfortable. We sympathise with your awful situation and daily woes. Yet empathy stretches only so far. Your practise is indecent, unhygienic, often sweat-fuelled and smelly, and just damn gross. Public bathrooms, now there's a place for you to find refuge for your aching bits.

I implore all men, boys and in-betweeners, keep your private plunders to yourself. Find a safe place, behind closed doors, blinds or fences, make the necessary adjustments, regroup with the rest of the world. Remember, it's just a hop, skip and a touch from public fondling to indecent exposure, guaranteed arrest and paedophilia charges. Refrain men, I beg of you.

Gingervitis

There is a terrorist in my neighbourhood. He stalks members of my family, prowls the perimeters of my house and, when emboldened, will find his way into my lounge to pick a violent, bloody brawl with my eldest child. His name is Nibbles.
Nibbles is a ginger savage who didn't get enough love in his kitten-hood and feels the need to project his pain onto Harvey, my grey and white spotted fluffy ball of joy.
Harvey lives in fear of this menace, opting to spend his time hiding behind couches, in cupboards and under coffee tables to avoid an attack.
Every morning I wake to the piercing scream of my cat, only to rush bleary-eyed downstairs where i find him cornered by the maniacal tiger. I launch a 3litre jug of ice water at Nibbles, soaking him nose to tail-tip with the freezing liquid, quietly praying (as only an atheist can) that he won't be coming back again. Repeat process the following morning. Ditto the day after that.
It's been four months of feline fury that my family has had to deal with. Rushing Harvey to the vet once a week for sprained ankles, rabies shots, bandages, therapy.
My main concern is that the owner of the cat (Mrs X) feels nothing for what we go through every day. "He's an angel at home!" She exclaims, a reassurance that we are in fact bonkers and have not dealt with her beast day in and day out for far too long.
This is my question: Do I take out the whole X family or just Nibbles? They're renting for Christ sakes,they don't even belong here!
I'm not sure if I need a paint-ball gun or a bulldog, either way, I intend to "deal" with Nibbles just as soon as I can get him on his own. No-one messes with my boys and gets away with it. No-one.

Put a plant on my head and call me cool. Please.

Lady Gaga. The name strikes fear into my raging bile duct. Her music is repetitive, her melodies unmelodious and her musicality non-existent. Yet, for some indeterminable reason, she's famous, considered outrageously talented and wears small children as hats. Pa pa pa pokerface papa pokerface. I'd like to, with a large, pointed stick. We are a society of followers, kneeling at the altar of obscurity.

Whatever happened to the music being of the most importance? When Joe Cocker performed at Woodstock, the most exciting thing about his performance, visually, was his t-Rex hand, hovering outrageously next to his left shoulder as he belted out some of the best music this world has heard. (granted that's a biased opinion but this IS my blog so if you don't appreciate my opinion, tell it to my foot.) Jimi Hendrix, granted, had an afro, wore tie -dye and painted daisies onto his guitar, but his performance was about his music. “All along the Watchtower” needed no bells and whistles, it needed no lace and frills, it was devoid of Kermit-the-frog outfits and was not left wanting.

Surely this is simply an expression of the extent to which pop music leaves much to be desired. The music played on radio is prototype after prototype of the first disastrous tastes of Popular music the world was exposed to way back in the medieval times. I speak, of course of the 50's. The unwavering chord progressions that are held dear to the hearts of all pop music writers have been exhausted. I don't care how many electro beats and voice manipulation you add to this music, it still sucks. I implore my readers, do not be fooled by the pretty, shiny outfits. You are not a moth. Listen to the real music and the Cool will come.

Indecent Approval

The desire for approval is a basic human instinct. We listen to the music we should, wear what we're told to, think as we've been programmed to think, even live as we've been instructed to live. There's a fantastic Gary Larson cartoon that depicts a man standing in front of another saying “So, YOU'RE the 'they' in 'that's what they say!'” This ethereal “they” is the entity sending out instructions into the world, telling us how to live our lives. The problem is, we listen to him. We cooperate, and in doing so, are seeking approval from everyone else. To conform, no matter which social group you hold dear, plays a vital part in your quest for acceptance.

I've made decisions in the past based on what I believe would make me more likeable to the general public. Step forward if you've never been there. (Not so fast Mr Malema.) This insatiable desire disconnects you from your pre-programmed person. But why not? Why should we not want to be liked, even respected? Surely to be approved of would allow your life to be easier, allow you to go further? Where is further? Is it the next rung in the social ladder? The corner office you always wanted? Reaching the next spiritual level? Heck, is it hosting the best god-damn Tupperware party your neighbourhood's ever seen? What ever 'further' may mean to you, I'd like you to stop and consider this: Are you content?

For fear of overwhelming my reader with question marks, I'm going to refrain from rhetorical questions and make a few unjustifiable statements; statements I've come up with based on nothing more than what I've seen, what I've done, and my infuriating tendency toward assumption:
We will lead others on simply to satisfy the need to be desired, no matter how we may break them down in doing so.
We seek approval in all aspects of our lives.
We hunger after the appraisal from others, without which, we believe ourselves to be not a 'loser' but simply 'lost'.

I conclude this rant without any meaningful conclusion to speak of, hopefully though, I leave you with a greater understanding into my confused and ever so twisted mind. The onus is on ourselves to stop seeking approval and to ultimately be content with our own choices.

Accepting Adolescence

Uncompromised Inconsideration

Flee the fight
Man the trenches
Buckle down
Contradict, counteract

A fresh supply of hate to the head

Inappropriate pugnacious properties
Propel the peace to non-existence

Worship the uniform
Genuflect to jesus
Lie to yourself, to morals,
To your twisted treacherous cult

Face your brother
Vicarious anger blazing,
Forfeit questioning
Content with chaos

Lose it, find it, keep it, resent it

Your warped and mangled mind, desolate of meaning



The disconnection of the youth is a thing to be feared. Children obsess themselves with worthless information, moulding their minds into broken pieces of ideas whilst prohibiting the further development of growth and worthy stimulation.

'Children' is a term I use loosely, defined as people of all ages with more capacity to develop and gain a greater understanding of the world they live in. You may be a thirty-six year old, living in your stylish apartment, waking up promptly every morning at seven to hit the the gym, following your work-out with a swift breakfast, donning a suit and making your way to your office cubicle where you bludgeon your day with meaningless woes and stresses. Your greatest annoyance in your low-carb life is the cat alleviating himself against your priceless sofa. Your greatest accomplishment is your pending promotion. Your favourite pastime is girl-hunting. You get manicures, use moisturiser and pluck your eyebrows. You are vapid. You belong in the realm of adolescence.

Don't get me wrong, I don't believe that I'm any better than you are. I find myself at a crossroads in life where I could accept that the universe that I belong to is worth more than a haircut or I could accept that vacancies are a part of my coping method in dealing with the outrageous amount of information that I'm forced to swallow daily. I've chosen a comfortable blend between the two. Whenever this world becomes to much to handle, I switch to vapid-mode and Hey Presto! I'm saved from a wandering mind, vicarious pain and suffering, and the need to stimulate my poor, confused brain.

This ability to switch makes for a weak race. As world colonizers, dominatrices and dictators, we have a responsibility to each other. “To each his own” should never apply. Stop avoiding the inevitable. Grow up. (She tells herself, irony rife in her mind.)

No. No-one wants a piece. Promise.

Who gave the permission for this ad to be made? they should be strung up by their under-active testicles.
This is a blatant example of sexual innuendo shoved into an advertisement by creatives lacking in creativity. Just show me the packet of Dentyne. It'd be enough!
I love the analogy. You want her and her perfectly-formed ass? BUY DENTYNE! It'll get you laid.
Show people tangoing if you must have a sexy couple. It would make the ad relevant and slightly more subtle. Don't embarrass yourself by telling the world how little action you've been getting.