please don't sue me

First of all I know that the chances that the person who made those lovely pictures I nicked off photobucket.com will ever get toread this blog are very slim. But you can never be too careful. Because chances are he/she is American and boy do those people love to sue (or at least that's the impression i get everytime I have watched Ally McBeal, The Practice or Boston Legal). In order to avoid a possible lawsuit I cannot afford (especially since I do not know where the funds for my next 2-minute-noodle splurge will come from) I am writing this blog to thank the person who make that picture... Dear Whomever made the lovely picture and put it on photobucket.com

I love you picture (s). In fact I loved them so much that I have been using them for my facebook profile picture. And now that I am feeling a little braver (don't know why). I am using one as the header for my blog.

As we learnt in that painful journo class. You must always credit your source. But you will admit that it is rather hard since you didnt give ur real name on www.photobucket.com. All I got to go on was a silly pseudonym. But I will forgive you for that. If you promise not to sue. Because you pictures are lovely. Yours' sincerely Neoscribes

turks wana get me killed

I met three Turks on the train. Or rather, I had no choice but to meet three turkish men on the train as they were the only white guys in the "3rd class" carriage speaking in a funny accent. Since this whole train strike steamerolled into it's second day. The train are a bit off-schedule. So if you are 3 white guys, smiling on a train full of blacks while speaking a funny language. So my beloved train goes swiftly from Stellenbosch (supposedly) to Cape Town but leaves all of us stranded in Bellville. Then it starts to rain and I do not have an umbrella. But the Turks have umbrellas, nice big newish-looking ones. They stand in Bellville next to me looking lost not knowing why the hell everyone is getting off the train and leaving them behind. They ask me and I explain that they need to catch a mini-bus taxi to Cape Town or sleep at the train station. Clever chaps. Because even though they speak little English, they decide it best to follow me since I seem like I know where I am going. What they do not know is that I have absolutely no clue and they make me nervous looking all "tourist-like" and might attract pickpocketers my way. But they are cute, smile a lot and the tall bald Turk with the blue eyes keeps asking me if I think he looks Russian. But they have an umbrella and I dont. So I keep smiling, nodding and walking with them because we are going to the same place. We get a little lost at Bellville station trying to locate a mini-bus to Cape Town. But this bit of info wouldn't have been obvious had you looked at my face, it said "I know where I am going and yes the Turks are with me but if you feel like robbing them, I do not know them". We get inside the taxi and I have to listen to them speak Turkish for the next hour or so and the other Turk (with the nice hair) keeps reminding me that they are "proud Turkey, not Russia". I just nod my head and point to the mini-tv and tell them to watch as the comedian is speaking Afrikaans and that sounds like Dutch. At this point, my geography fails me and I had assumed Turkey is somewhere next to Holland, kinda like SA and Zimbabwe are next-door neighbours. And to think I was the best Geography student in Grade 10 (sorry Mr De Jongh). We finally get to Cape Town station and I manage to convince the Nice-haired-Turk that this would be a good time to put away his Blackberry and stop speaking foreign because it's dark and they're not black so, really, it was for their own good. But baldi with the nice eyes (nice hair's friend) does not listen and almost had his cellphone jacked by a guy who strolled into the station after the near-robbery like he was walking into his house. So relaxed. Like nothing happened. At this point, I point the Turks to Adderley Street and simply go my own way for fear that they might get me killed. P.S i know I said there were 3 of them, the other one was a bit of a mute really. "Dont speake de Englishh"

photobucket...

Im addicted.

It is really silly because all I really do on this site is look at pictures and load some of mine in order to show them to other people.

A bachelor..

.. is someone, married or not, who does not in his or her heart entirerly understand why you would take a pizza our of a perfectly sound takeaway box and put it on a nice clean plate... the guy who wrote "i moved ur cheese" said that, I can't for the life of me remember his name now, damn he also said he once drank champagne 'so French it comes with it's own beret and goes "oh-la-la" when you open it' (this guy should have his own show surely)

Purses & murses

Isn't the title just beautiful? I am assuming that a murse is a male purse. Aparently since the swine flu panic, wearing a mask at Rhodes University is just as fashionable as having a purse & murse. But really talking about swine flu is boring. My medical aid doesn't even cover it. But then again, I deactivated that %$#* a month ago so I am guessing the government hospital doesn't cover it either. Well, isn't poverty just beautiful.. Anyway, back to purses. I went thru my purse a moment ago and realised how stupid the idea of having a purse really is. Especially when your perpetually broke. I cant put my coins in that large space made for a cheque book or R100 notes. Those little compartments made for cards are also pretty empty. I gave up trying to fill them up with every "free' card i could get my hands on. But even with a Clicks, Exclusive Books and Ster Kinekor movie card.. it still looks pretty empty. I do not have a credit card because my dad said it's the devil and I decided not to challenge this particular statement as he would eventually be the one who has to bail me out when I owe R8000 on a credit card and can't even remember what I bought with it. U know how easy it is for one coffee at Vida e Cafe a day to turn into a habit and the next thing u know... anyway, purses & murses for boys and girls huh?

the 2-minute noodles rant

seriously..

It is times like these when I wish my parents didn't give me the "be what u want to be" speech after I finished high school. Which led me to choosing to study to be a glorified ambulance-chaser (journalism) and which has somehow morphed into tree-hugging somewhere along the line. The messed up thing is that I love my job and I would seriously do it for free. THAT IS A PROBLEM!

Because now poverty is my friend. I am a poor tree-hugging writer. I live on 2-minute noodles, I doubt that there is a flavour that I haven't eaten. A quick facebook research (ahem status update reading "if i have to eat another pack of 2 minute noodles, i will flip") amongst my journo friend revealed that we are all pretty much in the same boat, living off 2-minute noodles, toast and lots of sarcasm.

Somehow, I finally understand what Ndumiso Ngcobo meant when he said something along the lines of "writers are treated only marginally less important that paper ink".What the parents should have done (which is what I will do to my offspring should i decide it necessary to pop a few) is to say: "no, no daughter of mine will end up as a starving writer" and gave me a mathematical sum to solve. Something difficult like those solve for x type.. No hiphop/pop/rock music in the house. only classic music to calm me down. Mozard, Beethoven and on a good day i can listen to some symphony ochestra or something but certainly none of this progressive, in you face music that will pollute the mind with lyrics that make you want to pen something down. Just calmness, violins, pianos, harps.. Every single birthday, as a friend suggested, get the same present. No cuddly toys, just maths set, sodoku puzzles and the Thessaurus Two weeks without a TV the first time you get 80% for an English essay.

Really that would have helped. I would be a miserable scientist somewhere at NASA but my paycheck would ensure that i never had to see another pack of 2-minute noodles again. Gosh I hate 2-minute noodles and my cupboard is full of the stuff. Goodness. Hapiness is overated anyway, who needs a job that they love anyway?

Staceyann Chin - my heroine

I am not quite sure what qualities one needs to have to be a groupie. If hip-hop videos are to be believed, I had to have stalked this woman, slept with her (or at least have that at the top of my to-do list) been to all her shows and so on. Clearly being a groupie is expensive and since I had never heard of Staceyann Chin before in my life, I do not qualify as a groupie or is that a stalker? ok, look I will just call myself a huge fan and ignore the fact that I have only seen her perform once. Once was enough. I went to the Cape Town leg of Urban Voices mainly to see a friend of mine perform, and she never disappoints. You see, I do not really think I am "cultured" enough for the poetry crowd. Half the time, if I sit there during these intervals or before a show, I really have no idea what these people are talking about. Discussing authors I had never heard of and basically going all pseudo-intellectual on me. I always try to avoid them and just park myself in the theatre and wait for the show. Anyway, back to Staceyann, from the minute she came onto the stage with her huge afro and tiny figure I knew I was going to like this woman. Then I found out through the intro that she was a lesbian activist, had bucketloads of attitude and a "womanist/feminist", then she immediately registered in my brain as a real life superhero. (hence the picture). Her poetry is accesible and she speaks about women's issues that I could identify with like your period, rape, religion, sex etc. For example, she asked "why hasn't anyone invented a machine to suck out the blood yet?". Her stage performance is a bit of a mess, throwing papers around, reading from her memoir, walking around the stage or demonstrating (while sitting on chair with one leg almost on the floor) how she almost fell into a pit toilet when she was young. She is hilarious, thought provoking, interesting and entertaining. And all this I got from seeing her at the Baxter theatre for about 30 minutes. But like a real groupie I absolutely had to have a picture taken with her after the show, and I did. In case you're wondering. happy Woman's month to all the ladies reading this...

late again

You have no idea how excited my broke-ass was when I found out that the train would be costing me round about a R100 bucks a month to get to Stellenbosch from Cape Town. I think I even did a little dance at the station after I was told this wonderful news. But as is always the case in my life, this excitement only lasted for about three days. Because, you see, it took only three days before I was late for work. Can you imagine being the new guy in lilly-white Stellenbosch amongst the "conservation" crowd and then arriving late for work?? Well it is not a good feeling. They all sort of shrug and whisper "Africa Time" under their breath. Ok so I made up that last bit. So since I have started here I have been late every single week for at least one day. Either a Wednesday or a Friday. The consistency baffles me. Like today, as was the case last Wednesday I was actually early for my train. Last Wednesday I watched my train chut-chutting past me and today, well... I just happened to get on the first one on the platform which happened to be the wrong one. I should have known when the people started singing charismatically that that could not have been my train because on my train the people are always sour and they do a lot of PDR (public display of reading). So being the only one PDR in a carriage of singing and preaching commuters should have served as a warning sign, but alas. I ended up in a place called Kraaifontein instead of Stellenbosch. All this would've been no sweat for me since I was sharing an office with the others non-office having intern/student types. But my boss had a bright idea that I should share an office with her. Which means that I have to do a walk of shame in the morning past all my seniors (who are always early) to get to my office. Shit! I think I need a car.