In not what you’d really call a representative sample, I surveyed a couple of people I know about what they thought was the most common New Year’s resolution.
Almost 100% said, “To quit smoking!” with authority – as though they’d gone to the trouble I had to actually ask the population.
These days smokers are right up there with paedophiles and Crocs-wearers on the unsavoury list. In movies when someone cracks up a cancer-stick you just know he’s the one who’s going to betray the hero at the end. And when asking for a light you so often get a smug “Oh no, I don’t smoke” response, as though these people donate hours of their time each week to slopping lobster bisque into bowls in a soup kitchen.
When confronted about their discrimination against puffers, these Nazis will sincerely tell you, “Some of my best friends are smokers.”
I kind of gave up on resolving to change something about myself at the beginning of each year; mainly because I was always so pissed when I made the commitment I forgot about it when I woke up on the 2nd of Jan.
I think instead of promising to stop something – like smoking or aiming for pigeons with your car – it’s a better idea pledging to start doing something that will be for the betterment of mankind, the environment, or at least your self-esteem.
It doesn’t even have to be that serious. Maybe something small that will make you a less boring person or expand your horizons – listening to new music, reading more expansively, trying on women’s clothing for a change.
Or you could adopt the Fight Club theory that “self-improvement is masturbation; now self-destruction… well, that might just be the answer we need” and vow to let yourself hit rock-bottom so you can build yourself up into the person you want to be.
Either way, we shouldn’t let society, the surgeon general, or our mothers tell us what we should change in 2011; we should choose something that we want to do and do that instead.
Your Teeth Are Like Stars, They Come Out At Night
I reckon most people who say they’re afraid of clowns are just saying it coz they imagine it’ll make them seem quirky and cool. Pretending to be scared of something designed to make you laugh is the bluntest form of irony – a sign of a below-average sense of humour trying to be big and clever.
For those genuinely afraid of the kiddies’ icecream mascot at Spur – my deepest sympathies.
An old boss of mine was honestly terrified of clowns and rats, so I could only imagine if hordes of rats with painted faces and round, red noses busted in – but we never did get round to orchestrating that.
I know a girl who has a phobia of balloons. I’m sure there’s a proper name for it, but I couldn’t be bothered with Google today.
I don’t have any irrational fears, but I have to admit that the dentist makes me a bit uneasy. It’s not so much the pain or pulling of teeth, or even the judgement as he gazes down disgustedly at Beirut-in-my-mouth. It’s an uncomfortable feeling that’s hard to describe.
The problem starts with the attractive assistant. All men, whether in a relationship or single, want to impress the opposite sex no matter if they’re Jessica Simpson or Susan Boyle. It’s the basest, most shallow, absolute core of our fragile egos.
Having to open your mouth wide enough that a man’s hairy fingers can work around in there is like a cat exposing its weak belly. The reason women don’t find a man eating with his mouth open desirable is coz it’s quite gross inside – it’s like a big arsehole with fangs … not that I’ve peered into many arseholes, but… methinks I shouldn’t protest too much.
Anyway, your mouth’s open and she’s getting a good look at the biltong you munched over the rugby last Saturday, the saliva’s building up and you just know when you swallow your throat is convulsing disgustingly, and then once the dentist has done his thing she hands you a glass of that pink liquid and you’ve got to spit into the weird, metal, slurping funnel. Because your mouth is numb you can’t purse your lips in the right way and most of the slobber ends up dripping down your chin.
Not exactly James Bond.
Needles don’t frighten me, even if, as the pornstar said to the schoolgirl, it’s a gigantic prick, I just zone out and it’s over in a moment. But afterwards when it feels kind of like you’ve gone a couple of rounds with Mike Tyson, or taken part in an outrageous collagen experiment, I can’t help feeling ridiculous.
You can’t drink water without it pouring all over your shirt, and when you get home and check it out in the mirror it’s disturbing to smile and only have half your face react.
But of course, the most terrifying thing about the dentist is the bill. You can’t dispute it because you have no idea what went on in there – like sending your car into a mechanic’s and he tells you the doohizzle-nozzle needs to be removed so he can get to the carbo-percolator.
It’s then that you realise you’re the clown, but with your flobbery lips and spit-shined chin no one’s scared of you.
For those genuinely afraid of the kiddies’ icecream mascot at Spur – my deepest sympathies.
An old boss of mine was honestly terrified of clowns and rats, so I could only imagine if hordes of rats with painted faces and round, red noses busted in – but we never did get round to orchestrating that.
I know a girl who has a phobia of balloons. I’m sure there’s a proper name for it, but I couldn’t be bothered with Google today.
I don’t have any irrational fears, but I have to admit that the dentist makes me a bit uneasy. It’s not so much the pain or pulling of teeth, or even the judgement as he gazes down disgustedly at Beirut-in-my-mouth. It’s an uncomfortable feeling that’s hard to describe.
The problem starts with the attractive assistant. All men, whether in a relationship or single, want to impress the opposite sex no matter if they’re Jessica Simpson or Susan Boyle. It’s the basest, most shallow, absolute core of our fragile egos.
Having to open your mouth wide enough that a man’s hairy fingers can work around in there is like a cat exposing its weak belly. The reason women don’t find a man eating with his mouth open desirable is coz it’s quite gross inside – it’s like a big arsehole with fangs … not that I’ve peered into many arseholes, but… methinks I shouldn’t protest too much.
Anyway, your mouth’s open and she’s getting a good look at the biltong you munched over the rugby last Saturday, the saliva’s building up and you just know when you swallow your throat is convulsing disgustingly, and then once the dentist has done his thing she hands you a glass of that pink liquid and you’ve got to spit into the weird, metal, slurping funnel. Because your mouth is numb you can’t purse your lips in the right way and most of the slobber ends up dripping down your chin.
Not exactly James Bond.
Needles don’t frighten me, even if, as the pornstar said to the schoolgirl, it’s a gigantic prick, I just zone out and it’s over in a moment. But afterwards when it feels kind of like you’ve gone a couple of rounds with Mike Tyson, or taken part in an outrageous collagen experiment, I can’t help feeling ridiculous.
You can’t drink water without it pouring all over your shirt, and when you get home and check it out in the mirror it’s disturbing to smile and only have half your face react.
But of course, the most terrifying thing about the dentist is the bill. You can’t dispute it because you have no idea what went on in there – like sending your car into a mechanic’s and he tells you the doohizzle-nozzle needs to be removed so he can get to the carbo-percolator.
It’s then that you realise you’re the clown, but with your flobbery lips and spit-shined chin no one’s scared of you.
Zen and the Art of Doing the Dishes
My first job in England when I was over in 2003 was washing and polishing plates and cutlery for eight hours a day.
Sounds like a shitty job, and I suppose it was, but one benefit was it gave me a lot of time to think about stuffs. Not things like, “Why am I in such a kak job!”, but things like the meaning of life and why hippos are grey.
The three months before I was promoted were like a crash course in Zen meditation. I would totally zone out, focus on my breathing (and on the polishing), and sink into that calm, ethereal ocean of the subconscious. The only time I took a break was to go for a smoke or make chef a cup of tea.
Chef was a bit of a bastard. If the plates weren’t polished properly (on the bottom too) he’d send the lot back to be redone. The meditation made it possible to laugh about it on the odd occasion it happened, which kind of annoyed him.
The most basic form of meditation is to count your breaths. Inhale and count one, exhale and count two (in your head, not out loud), try to empty your head and focus on the in and out of said breaths, and if you get to ten without your thoughts trailing off then start back at one again – or start again whenever you find you’re thinking about Liz Hurley naked or how broke you are.
This training has since made doing the dishes at home a pleasure. Lucy does pretty much everything else, but she hates the dishes and cleaning the kitchen.
The fact that I have no problems in that department helps her to love me.
All I do is pop some Travelling Wilburys or Wrestlerish (a kick-ass SA band) in the cd player and zonk out – and before you can say Buddha it’s all sparkly.
I think that’s why so many rich people are stressed out and miserable; they just don’t realise the value of a monotonous, menial, mentally-unchallenging job.
It’s the reason lamas don’t give a… well, a llamas ass about money and possessions. They know something we don’t – once you’ve found Enlightenment you don’t need a fancy car to be smug, and you can laugh at all those rat racers perpetuating their own misery.
Sounds like a shitty job, and I suppose it was, but one benefit was it gave me a lot of time to think about stuffs. Not things like, “Why am I in such a kak job!”, but things like the meaning of life and why hippos are grey.
The three months before I was promoted were like a crash course in Zen meditation. I would totally zone out, focus on my breathing (and on the polishing), and sink into that calm, ethereal ocean of the subconscious. The only time I took a break was to go for a smoke or make chef a cup of tea.
Chef was a bit of a bastard. If the plates weren’t polished properly (on the bottom too) he’d send the lot back to be redone. The meditation made it possible to laugh about it on the odd occasion it happened, which kind of annoyed him.
The most basic form of meditation is to count your breaths. Inhale and count one, exhale and count two (in your head, not out loud), try to empty your head and focus on the in and out of said breaths, and if you get to ten without your thoughts trailing off then start back at one again – or start again whenever you find you’re thinking about Liz Hurley naked or how broke you are.
This training has since made doing the dishes at home a pleasure. Lucy does pretty much everything else, but she hates the dishes and cleaning the kitchen.
The fact that I have no problems in that department helps her to love me.
All I do is pop some Travelling Wilburys or Wrestlerish (a kick-ass SA band) in the cd player and zonk out – and before you can say Buddha it’s all sparkly.
I think that’s why so many rich people are stressed out and miserable; they just don’t realise the value of a monotonous, menial, mentally-unchallenging job.
It’s the reason lamas don’t give a… well, a llamas ass about money and possessions. They know something we don’t – once you’ve found Enlightenment you don’t need a fancy car to be smug, and you can laugh at all those rat racers perpetuating their own misery.
It's Not Personal, It's Monopoly
It’s like a tree stump in your gut.
Like someone has shoved a great big boxing glove down your throat and is punching you from the inside of your stomach.
It’s kind of like one of those sandworms from the movie Dune is eating its way out through your belly button.
Losing at Monopoly is an excruciating thing.
I’m not talking about having lost – when it’s all over and you’re packing up the board – but sitting in front of a fifty and a couple of fivers, with all your properties mortgaged and glaring red hotels on everyone else’s squares.
This is probably one of the most depressing moments of anyone’s, of any age’s, life.
You shake the dice like a schoolboy in the bushes watching the girls’ netball practice, mumbling the number you need to land on Community Chest or Water Board, closing your eyes as they bounce across the Free Parking money, only to be one move away from another round’s respite.
Landing on your soon-to-be-ex girlfriend’s Eloff Street, you’ve got to fork out what might as well be a hundred billion Rand and the freshly-plucked hairs from the inside of your left ear.
You know you can’t come up with the money, but you look glumly from side-to-side at your lot as though there’s a pile of hundreds you might’ve missed.
Oh, ha ha, it’s just a game, the winners always say; but then why does it feel so kak to lose at Monopoly? It’s not a poker game with real cash! Sure, it might be worth more than Zim Dollars, but you can’t buy as much as a night with a Wynberg Main Road Tranny with it – believe me, I’ve tried.
Robert Kawasaki – or whatever the ‘Rich Dad, Poor Dad’ guy’s name is – says you should play Monopoly with your kids a lot because it teaches them how to manage money and ruthlessly fuck over their friends. I played my fair share of Monopoly as a kid and it didn’t do squat – I’m terrible with money!
I think it’s so depressing because being on the Monopoly skids feels real!
It brings back those memories of emptying your piggy bank to buy a loaf of bread and a tin of sweetcorn for dinner, scrounging through jacket pockets for coins to buy a couple of single cigarettes at the corner café, and closing your bank account to get the last R50 so you can buy booze and a piece of rope to get pissed and hang yourself.
It’s a terrible toy; designed to make you feel like a loser.
I always preferred the Mad Magazine Game, the point of which was to lose all your money… funnily enough, I was always very good at that.
Like someone has shoved a great big boxing glove down your throat and is punching you from the inside of your stomach.
It’s kind of like one of those sandworms from the movie Dune is eating its way out through your belly button.
Losing at Monopoly is an excruciating thing.
I’m not talking about having lost – when it’s all over and you’re packing up the board – but sitting in front of a fifty and a couple of fivers, with all your properties mortgaged and glaring red hotels on everyone else’s squares.
This is probably one of the most depressing moments of anyone’s, of any age’s, life.
You shake the dice like a schoolboy in the bushes watching the girls’ netball practice, mumbling the number you need to land on Community Chest or Water Board, closing your eyes as they bounce across the Free Parking money, only to be one move away from another round’s respite.
Landing on your soon-to-be-ex girlfriend’s Eloff Street, you’ve got to fork out what might as well be a hundred billion Rand and the freshly-plucked hairs from the inside of your left ear.
You know you can’t come up with the money, but you look glumly from side-to-side at your lot as though there’s a pile of hundreds you might’ve missed.
Oh, ha ha, it’s just a game, the winners always say; but then why does it feel so kak to lose at Monopoly? It’s not a poker game with real cash! Sure, it might be worth more than Zim Dollars, but you can’t buy as much as a night with a Wynberg Main Road Tranny with it – believe me, I’ve tried.
Robert Kawasaki – or whatever the ‘Rich Dad, Poor Dad’ guy’s name is – says you should play Monopoly with your kids a lot because it teaches them how to manage money and ruthlessly fuck over their friends. I played my fair share of Monopoly as a kid and it didn’t do squat – I’m terrible with money!
I think it’s so depressing because being on the Monopoly skids feels real!
It brings back those memories of emptying your piggy bank to buy a loaf of bread and a tin of sweetcorn for dinner, scrounging through jacket pockets for coins to buy a couple of single cigarettes at the corner café, and closing your bank account to get the last R50 so you can buy booze and a piece of rope to get pissed and hang yourself.
It’s a terrible toy; designed to make you feel like a loser.
I always preferred the Mad Magazine Game, the point of which was to lose all your money… funnily enough, I was always very good at that.
Voldemort is an African
A guy was arrested last week with a bucket of body parts – an old man’s head, a baby’s torso, and arms and legs from another infant.
These were to be sold for muti.
People in Europe and America will be shocked by such things, but here in South Africa the story was on page 5 of the paper.
In Angola, albinos are hunted because sangomas – witchdoctors – pay big money for their limbs, which are believed to hold magical qualities.
The Oxford dictionary defines muti as a Zulu word that means traditional African medicine or magical charms. It specifically means African medicine using body parts.
A report by Under The Same Sun reveals that if the body parts are taken from a live victim, it is believed the screams enhance the muti’s effectiveness or magical qualities.
Muti is said to solve anything from money troubles to health issues, and body parts are traded across African borders for large sums of cash.
Muti is big business.
This evil underworld is, obviously, incredibly secretive; but earlier this year it was discovered that “you get just R10,000 for coming with a person”, Simon Fellows, project manager for the Mozambique Human Rights League, told the Argus in March this year of information received from the sister-in-law of a victim in KZN.
The sister-in-law said that the person’s eyes, nipples, clitoris and tongue were removed.
"Based on the accounts we received, there is internal trafficking and cross-border trafficking, but it is difficult to establish where the body parts are going. There is talk in South Africa that witchdoctors come in from outside." Fellows said.
There is a UN Protocol to Prevent, Suppress and Punish Trafficking in Persons, but this barely covers organ trafficking. The Under The Same Sun report states that “in essence the protocol prevents human trafficking in the event that the victim is alive and the purpose of movement of that victim is to remove body parts. The protocol does not cover the issue of movement of body parts that have been removed without any… coercive elements…”
This problem does not have a legal solution. At the risk of sounding ethnocentric, this can only be solved through a massive change in cultural beliefs, and with so much anti-Western sentiment on this continent it is not something overseas human rights organisations can tackle – the change must come from within.
These were to be sold for muti.
People in Europe and America will be shocked by such things, but here in South Africa the story was on page 5 of the paper.
In Angola, albinos are hunted because sangomas – witchdoctors – pay big money for their limbs, which are believed to hold magical qualities.
The Oxford dictionary defines muti as a Zulu word that means traditional African medicine or magical charms. It specifically means African medicine using body parts.
A report by Under The Same Sun reveals that if the body parts are taken from a live victim, it is believed the screams enhance the muti’s effectiveness or magical qualities.
Muti is said to solve anything from money troubles to health issues, and body parts are traded across African borders for large sums of cash.
Muti is big business.
This evil underworld is, obviously, incredibly secretive; but earlier this year it was discovered that “you get just R10,000 for coming with a person”, Simon Fellows, project manager for the Mozambique Human Rights League, told the Argus in March this year of information received from the sister-in-law of a victim in KZN.
The sister-in-law said that the person’s eyes, nipples, clitoris and tongue were removed.
"Based on the accounts we received, there is internal trafficking and cross-border trafficking, but it is difficult to establish where the body parts are going. There is talk in South Africa that witchdoctors come in from outside." Fellows said.
There is a UN Protocol to Prevent, Suppress and Punish Trafficking in Persons, but this barely covers organ trafficking. The Under The Same Sun report states that “in essence the protocol prevents human trafficking in the event that the victim is alive and the purpose of movement of that victim is to remove body parts. The protocol does not cover the issue of movement of body parts that have been removed without any… coercive elements…”
This problem does not have a legal solution. At the risk of sounding ethnocentric, this can only be solved through a massive change in cultural beliefs, and with so much anti-Western sentiment on this continent it is not something overseas human rights organisations can tackle – the change must come from within.
It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like Christmas Sucks!
I’ve never really had a definitive view on Christmas. Some years I walk around with a gormless, smiley expression, like I’ve been smoking rooibos tea again; and some years it just doesn’t seem like Santa’s going to come at all.
Almost everyone I know is broke already even though the first prezzies haven’t even been bought yet! I think for a lot of us it feels like January, but without the added depression of another Earth-shattering family dispute.
Unless every uncle and auntie pulls out all the stops to remind your mum or gran about how badly that childhood slight emotionally scarred them a hundred years ago, it just doesn’t feel like Jesus was born.
Even the Testament-wrestlers get upset! Banging on about how it’s all so commercial and we should remember that if it wasn’t for God there’s be no turkey sandwiches on Boxing Day – like we all don’t know already and just thought it was a funny coincidence that Jesus was born on the 25th.
I’d almost forgotten, but was reminded last night when I heard a guy in Woodstock singing a Christmas song. Something along the lines of, “All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth removed.”
You can sing miserable old hymns all year round, but December is reserved for the more up-tempo but equally depressing Cliff Richard or Elvis track… I lie, of course; I love the Elvis Christmas cd – it makes my bad dancing seem contrived and not merely genetic.
And it’s always interesting to browse music shops and see which artists are hard up for cash.
I think the last, dying breath of any musician is the Christmas album. It might have seemed like a good idea at the time, but there’s nothing that says ‘uncool’ like singing wholesome, happy, holiday tunes. This is the age of Emo – Santa’s got to be a dirty, old man or serial killer.
You can also tell it’s Christmas because shops have got spray-on snow in their windows. In a country that wouldn’t know snow if it fell from the sky, we’re so dying to be American that we fake it for December.
But I think fake happiness over the festive season is better than the alternative. If anything, it’s more of a cliché to be a Grinch.
The people who hate this time of year are probably the same people who hated the World Cup or anything that forces them to see other people happy. Not liking Christmas is kind of like not liking puppies and kittens.
Just think of it as a good excuse to get pissed, eat a lot, and bring up that time your brother played Wrestlemania with your favourite teddy and snapped its head off… I’ll never forgive him for that!
Almost everyone I know is broke already even though the first prezzies haven’t even been bought yet! I think for a lot of us it feels like January, but without the added depression of another Earth-shattering family dispute.
Unless every uncle and auntie pulls out all the stops to remind your mum or gran about how badly that childhood slight emotionally scarred them a hundred years ago, it just doesn’t feel like Jesus was born.
Even the Testament-wrestlers get upset! Banging on about how it’s all so commercial and we should remember that if it wasn’t for God there’s be no turkey sandwiches on Boxing Day – like we all don’t know already and just thought it was a funny coincidence that Jesus was born on the 25th.
I’d almost forgotten, but was reminded last night when I heard a guy in Woodstock singing a Christmas song. Something along the lines of, “All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth removed.”
You can sing miserable old hymns all year round, but December is reserved for the more up-tempo but equally depressing Cliff Richard or Elvis track… I lie, of course; I love the Elvis Christmas cd – it makes my bad dancing seem contrived and not merely genetic.
And it’s always interesting to browse music shops and see which artists are hard up for cash.
I think the last, dying breath of any musician is the Christmas album. It might have seemed like a good idea at the time, but there’s nothing that says ‘uncool’ like singing wholesome, happy, holiday tunes. This is the age of Emo – Santa’s got to be a dirty, old man or serial killer.
You can also tell it’s Christmas because shops have got spray-on snow in their windows. In a country that wouldn’t know snow if it fell from the sky, we’re so dying to be American that we fake it for December.
But I think fake happiness over the festive season is better than the alternative. If anything, it’s more of a cliché to be a Grinch.
The people who hate this time of year are probably the same people who hated the World Cup or anything that forces them to see other people happy. Not liking Christmas is kind of like not liking puppies and kittens.
Just think of it as a good excuse to get pissed, eat a lot, and bring up that time your brother played Wrestlemania with your favourite teddy and snapped its head off… I’ll never forgive him for that!
Love and Stuff...
I think every one of us, at some time or another, whether going through a hard time or lending an ear to a mate’s hard time, has spoken the words, “Relationships take work!”
This is as true a theory as E=MC… I don’t know how to put the little 2 above the C, but you get my drift – but just because you can spew it doesn’t mean you understand it.
You hear people saying it when their romance has marinated for a few years and now the fire has gone and it’s getting boring. Maybe there’s kids involved and a divorce is seen as unwise, maybe you’ve been in the relationship for so long it would seem like a waste to end it, it would seem like giving up, and now you feel it’s time to start putting this ‘work’ in.
The main problem with this theory is not the formula itself, but the fact that most people don’t understand the variables.
I think it’s Vince Vaughn’s character in the film ‘Made’ who says, “Show me a beautiful girl and I’ll show you a guy who’s bored of fucking her.”
Rosie O’Donnell in the Nineties classic, ‘Beautiful Girls’, says it a bit less crudely: “No matter how perfect she seems, it’s gonna get old. That’s why there’s gotta be something more going on over there other than the physical.”
Men in this respect are fucked. I know guys who place more importance on whether their mates think their girlfriend is hot than their own feelings of attraction towards her.
Women are just as ridiculous. Some girls stay with a guy even though he treats them like shit.
Then when their relationship starts turning to dust they bang on about how they just need to ‘work’ at it. You know, try and put in some effort to make the other person feel special.
The thing is that if it seems like work then you might as well throw in the towel. Your relationship is not your job. It’s probably more akin to a hobby, but that doesn’t really do it justice either.
Making the other person feel special should be something you want to do, not something you feel you should do in order to save a crumbling tower of what was once infatuation.
And this ‘work’ should be something you do constantly, not just when it’s all going pear-shaped.
I get annoyed that whenever I buy flowers for my fiancée the till-jockey over the counter asks what I’ve done wrong, as though that’s the only time men buy flowers. How does he know they’re not for my sick granny, or my mum on her birthday, or, God forbid, just because I love my significant other and want her to never doubt it.
It can be hard to be with someone for years and have ‘in love’ turn to just ‘love’ – there is a big difference. And quite often ‘in love’ turns to ‘attachment’ and you don’t even realise it; but it does sometimes happen that the relationship becomes like a favourite sweater – it’s old and tatty, but it brings back so many memories of good times that you don’t want to get rid of it.
You've got to then either get to a Sexpo and give it another bash, or get out!
You can have all the bungee-jumping and extreme ironing, but the most dangerous sport ever invented was love. If you’re not willing to risk injury then stay away from it.
When you’re in love with someone you’re always insecure. And you should be every day thinking of ways to make that person know it and try with all your might to keep that person in love with you.
For guys it’s not that difficult. If you’re in a relationship already all you really have to do is make the person you love feel like the most gorgeous, most important girl in the world.
I’m in love with Lucy because, aside from being the sexiest creature that ever lived, she inspires me every moment. And I try hard to pay this back by channelling that inspiration into ways to make her feel beautiful and special.
And because of everything she is, I really don’t find it all that hard.
This is as true a theory as E=MC… I don’t know how to put the little 2 above the C, but you get my drift – but just because you can spew it doesn’t mean you understand it.
You hear people saying it when their romance has marinated for a few years and now the fire has gone and it’s getting boring. Maybe there’s kids involved and a divorce is seen as unwise, maybe you’ve been in the relationship for so long it would seem like a waste to end it, it would seem like giving up, and now you feel it’s time to start putting this ‘work’ in.
The main problem with this theory is not the formula itself, but the fact that most people don’t understand the variables.
I think it’s Vince Vaughn’s character in the film ‘Made’ who says, “Show me a beautiful girl and I’ll show you a guy who’s bored of fucking her.”
Rosie O’Donnell in the Nineties classic, ‘Beautiful Girls’, says it a bit less crudely: “No matter how perfect she seems, it’s gonna get old. That’s why there’s gotta be something more going on over there other than the physical.”
Men in this respect are fucked. I know guys who place more importance on whether their mates think their girlfriend is hot than their own feelings of attraction towards her.
Women are just as ridiculous. Some girls stay with a guy even though he treats them like shit.
Then when their relationship starts turning to dust they bang on about how they just need to ‘work’ at it. You know, try and put in some effort to make the other person feel special.
The thing is that if it seems like work then you might as well throw in the towel. Your relationship is not your job. It’s probably more akin to a hobby, but that doesn’t really do it justice either.
Making the other person feel special should be something you want to do, not something you feel you should do in order to save a crumbling tower of what was once infatuation.
And this ‘work’ should be something you do constantly, not just when it’s all going pear-shaped.
I get annoyed that whenever I buy flowers for my fiancée the till-jockey over the counter asks what I’ve done wrong, as though that’s the only time men buy flowers. How does he know they’re not for my sick granny, or my mum on her birthday, or, God forbid, just because I love my significant other and want her to never doubt it.
It can be hard to be with someone for years and have ‘in love’ turn to just ‘love’ – there is a big difference. And quite often ‘in love’ turns to ‘attachment’ and you don’t even realise it; but it does sometimes happen that the relationship becomes like a favourite sweater – it’s old and tatty, but it brings back so many memories of good times that you don’t want to get rid of it.
You've got to then either get to a Sexpo and give it another bash, or get out!
You can have all the bungee-jumping and extreme ironing, but the most dangerous sport ever invented was love. If you’re not willing to risk injury then stay away from it.
When you’re in love with someone you’re always insecure. And you should be every day thinking of ways to make that person know it and try with all your might to keep that person in love with you.
For guys it’s not that difficult. If you’re in a relationship already all you really have to do is make the person you love feel like the most gorgeous, most important girl in the world.
I’m in love with Lucy because, aside from being the sexiest creature that ever lived, she inspires me every moment. And I try hard to pay this back by channelling that inspiration into ways to make her feel beautiful and special.
And because of everything she is, I really don’t find it all that hard.
Is Bad News My Inspiration?
My mother-in-law loves tea! She more often than not makes an entrance into a room with the words, “Anyone fancy a nice cup of tea?”
Having just returned from snowy, old England I can understand it. The temperature hit -5 while we were there and in Scotland the snow made it impossible to get anywhere.
It warmed my heart when, back in Cape Town, someone said they’d had nothing interesting to read since I’d been away and had missed my rantings.
“I haven’t read much SA news on holiday,” I told him, “so not much to complain about.”
It was kind of odd to watch the English news and have the majority of “Top Stories” feature the weather, but I must admit it made a nice change to Zuma’s infidelity, Malema’s racist rantings, and post-Fifa depression.
I think about ninety-five percent of conversation in England centres around the weather. Not even the student riots featured, and they’ve been smashing up buildings and throwing fire extinguishers around.
Pink Floyd guitarist Dave Gilmour’s son was arrested for his antics – always nice to see a rich kid looking out for his hard-earned Trust Fund. Apparently he was photographed trying to set a fire outside the Supreme Court, and “causing damage to the Union flag on the Cenotaph in Whitehall”.
If only attention-seeking was a crime…
Despite all the violence, Home Secretary Theresa May ruled out the use of water cannons.
I could only imagine our cops strapping on the riot gear and pumping them full of rubber bullets. It probably wasn’t physical injury she was so concerned about, but sympathy for the poor soaked students getting the sniffles from the cold.
I didn’t get the sniffles! My healthy, sun-drenched South African genes kept my immune system from throwing in the towel.
I did, however, get fat… or should I say fatter.
Not my fault. My mother-in-law is what is commonly called a “feeder”.
One day, after a gigantic slice of bacon and egg pie followed by enough cottage pie to house a family of six with a garage and braai area, I got a serious case of stomach cramps and dodgy tummy syndrome.
“He’s from Africa,” Lucy lambasted her, “that’s more food than they see in a year!”
The food in England is cheap, not as expensive as we poor South Africans think. In fact the only things that seemed more expensive were houses and cigarettes. All of the pubs we had lunch in charged 5.50 for a meal and a pint.
But I suspect it’s maybe just Cape Town that’s expensive. Over here in the tourist capital of SA it’s all priced for pommies and yanks, leaving us insignificant mountain-dwellers to hunt our own food – not so easy considering city wildlife pretty much only includes rats, pigeons and Long Street locals.
I have to admit in a strange way it’s nice to be back in SA and pick up the papers and see all the violence and corruption. It follows that Chinese curse we all know from the movies: “May you live in interesting times.”
If anything, we live in an ‘interesting’ country. I’m sure I’ll have something to complain about soon enough.
Having just returned from snowy, old England I can understand it. The temperature hit -5 while we were there and in Scotland the snow made it impossible to get anywhere.
It warmed my heart when, back in Cape Town, someone said they’d had nothing interesting to read since I’d been away and had missed my rantings.
“I haven’t read much SA news on holiday,” I told him, “so not much to complain about.”
It was kind of odd to watch the English news and have the majority of “Top Stories” feature the weather, but I must admit it made a nice change to Zuma’s infidelity, Malema’s racist rantings, and post-Fifa depression.
I think about ninety-five percent of conversation in England centres around the weather. Not even the student riots featured, and they’ve been smashing up buildings and throwing fire extinguishers around.
Pink Floyd guitarist Dave Gilmour’s son was arrested for his antics – always nice to see a rich kid looking out for his hard-earned Trust Fund. Apparently he was photographed trying to set a fire outside the Supreme Court, and “causing damage to the Union flag on the Cenotaph in Whitehall”.
If only attention-seeking was a crime…
Despite all the violence, Home Secretary Theresa May ruled out the use of water cannons.
I could only imagine our cops strapping on the riot gear and pumping them full of rubber bullets. It probably wasn’t physical injury she was so concerned about, but sympathy for the poor soaked students getting the sniffles from the cold.
I didn’t get the sniffles! My healthy, sun-drenched South African genes kept my immune system from throwing in the towel.
I did, however, get fat… or should I say fatter.
Not my fault. My mother-in-law is what is commonly called a “feeder”.
One day, after a gigantic slice of bacon and egg pie followed by enough cottage pie to house a family of six with a garage and braai area, I got a serious case of stomach cramps and dodgy tummy syndrome.
“He’s from Africa,” Lucy lambasted her, “that’s more food than they see in a year!”
The food in England is cheap, not as expensive as we poor South Africans think. In fact the only things that seemed more expensive were houses and cigarettes. All of the pubs we had lunch in charged 5.50 for a meal and a pint.
But I suspect it’s maybe just Cape Town that’s expensive. Over here in the tourist capital of SA it’s all priced for pommies and yanks, leaving us insignificant mountain-dwellers to hunt our own food – not so easy considering city wildlife pretty much only includes rats, pigeons and Long Street locals.
I have to admit in a strange way it’s nice to be back in SA and pick up the papers and see all the violence and corruption. It follows that Chinese curse we all know from the movies: “May you live in interesting times.”
If anything, we live in an ‘interesting’ country. I’m sure I’ll have something to complain about soon enough.
Nathan Casey and the Boring Blog Post: Part One
I’ve found myself in the probably-not-unique position of simultaneously loving movies and hating them at the same time.
This came to me one afternoon after watching the seventh Harry Potter instalment. You know, the one they’re making in two parts because, “the story’s just too big for one movie!”
Bollocks.
The reason, as everybody knows, is because now that the franchise is coming to a close they want to milk it for every last penny, cent and rupee possible.
On one hand this is not so bad. If you’re a fan of the angst-iuos boy wizard then an eighth part will make your wand stiffen. But on the other hand it’s kind of disappointing to know that the billions they made from all the other movies just wasn’t enough.
Despicable.
They’re doing the same for the Twilight movies. Which, again, is wonderful for washing powder manufacturers rubbing their hands together over the millions of panties that’ll need laundering, but excruciating for all the nice guys who agree to sit through the torment with their girlfriends.
Call me a grunting male stereotype, but the fact is I just don’t get the Twilight flicks. Women swoon over the vampire guy because he “so romantic and intense”, but the truth is most women would soon find him either boring or exhausting. And surely a guy who’s been alive for 500-odd years would think twice about marrying some chick he’s only known for a couple of months.
Nonsense.
A film that I haven’t seen on principle is the ‘Smurfs vs. GI Joe Movie’, aka: ‘Avatar’, aka: ‘Pocahontas in Space’. I’ve read the plot synopsis and a couple of reviews and it’s pretty much ‘Dances with Wolves’ in 3D.
What really made me howl with cynical laughter was the Director’s Cut re-release with an astonishing nine minutes of extra footage! It’s already over two and a half hours of explosions, what extra bits of revealing character development or exposition could we possibly get? The highest-grossing movie of all time, but that just wasn’t enough.
Greedy.
But I haven’t seen Avatar because something about it disturbed me almost as much as while watching the second Narnia movie (another me-being-a-good-boyfriend mistake), some guy in the back row started shouting something about how Jesus was coming back and we better all get our act together (true story).
I know that C.S Lewis was a card-carrying, door-knocking God-botherer, but as deluded as Christians are I thought it was on another level entirely to think that the production of Prince Caspian was more to prepare us for the Second Coming than to make a Dawntreader-load of cash.
Amusing.
I was uneasy about Avatar when people freaked out over me not having seen it. And I mean “freaked out” suicide bomber style. Grabbing-your-collar-to-shake-some-sense-into-you freaked out!
People almost writhed in agony when I said I wasn’t that interested, telling me it was the greatest cinematic achievement since The Godfather, Taxi Driver, or possibly even Steamboat Willy!
My theory is that for something to have such mass appeal by definition means it can’t be that deep or thought-provoking because, realistically, the majority of people don’t have such depth of thought.
Don’t take it personally. I’m not implying that by enjoying Avatar you’re a dribbling idiot, but you have to admit that the ‘message’ was nothing new.
But here I sit not having even seen the masterpiece. Who am I to talk?
As it happens someone gave us a copy of the film gratis, just so’s we’d watch it. So next time I sit here you might find me a changed man, longing for blue skin and a bar-brawler’s nose.
I hope I am pleasantly surprised, and not disappointed by just another special-effects laden, cash-generating turd.
Unlikely.
This came to me one afternoon after watching the seventh Harry Potter instalment. You know, the one they’re making in two parts because, “the story’s just too big for one movie!”
Bollocks.
The reason, as everybody knows, is because now that the franchise is coming to a close they want to milk it for every last penny, cent and rupee possible.
On one hand this is not so bad. If you’re a fan of the angst-iuos boy wizard then an eighth part will make your wand stiffen. But on the other hand it’s kind of disappointing to know that the billions they made from all the other movies just wasn’t enough.
Despicable.
They’re doing the same for the Twilight movies. Which, again, is wonderful for washing powder manufacturers rubbing their hands together over the millions of panties that’ll need laundering, but excruciating for all the nice guys who agree to sit through the torment with their girlfriends.
Call me a grunting male stereotype, but the fact is I just don’t get the Twilight flicks. Women swoon over the vampire guy because he “so romantic and intense”, but the truth is most women would soon find him either boring or exhausting. And surely a guy who’s been alive for 500-odd years would think twice about marrying some chick he’s only known for a couple of months.
Nonsense.
A film that I haven’t seen on principle is the ‘Smurfs vs. GI Joe Movie’, aka: ‘Avatar’, aka: ‘Pocahontas in Space’. I’ve read the plot synopsis and a couple of reviews and it’s pretty much ‘Dances with Wolves’ in 3D.
What really made me howl with cynical laughter was the Director’s Cut re-release with an astonishing nine minutes of extra footage! It’s already over two and a half hours of explosions, what extra bits of revealing character development or exposition could we possibly get? The highest-grossing movie of all time, but that just wasn’t enough.
Greedy.
But I haven’t seen Avatar because something about it disturbed me almost as much as while watching the second Narnia movie (another me-being-a-good-boyfriend mistake), some guy in the back row started shouting something about how Jesus was coming back and we better all get our act together (true story).
I know that C.S Lewis was a card-carrying, door-knocking God-botherer, but as deluded as Christians are I thought it was on another level entirely to think that the production of Prince Caspian was more to prepare us for the Second Coming than to make a Dawntreader-load of cash.
Amusing.
I was uneasy about Avatar when people freaked out over me not having seen it. And I mean “freaked out” suicide bomber style. Grabbing-your-collar-to-shake-some-sense-into-you freaked out!
People almost writhed in agony when I said I wasn’t that interested, telling me it was the greatest cinematic achievement since The Godfather, Taxi Driver, or possibly even Steamboat Willy!
My theory is that for something to have such mass appeal by definition means it can’t be that deep or thought-provoking because, realistically, the majority of people don’t have such depth of thought.
Don’t take it personally. I’m not implying that by enjoying Avatar you’re a dribbling idiot, but you have to admit that the ‘message’ was nothing new.
But here I sit not having even seen the masterpiece. Who am I to talk?
As it happens someone gave us a copy of the film gratis, just so’s we’d watch it. So next time I sit here you might find me a changed man, longing for blue skin and a bar-brawler’s nose.
I hope I am pleasantly surprised, and not disappointed by just another special-effects laden, cash-generating turd.
Unlikely.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)