Life Hijacked the Train

In the age old tradition of responsibility shirking: "I'm not making excuses... BUT". And its true. Life as it occurs, by whatever measurement you may subscribe to (sundial, watch or simple guess-work), seems to fight against routine. Should your life settle into a routine that is as predictable as a train journey, life will rally and rise-up against the tyranny of this occurence.

Life is the railway bandit that will always stop the train!

For instance, blogging tardiness is as a result of the following:

1. Quitting my job

2. Running round in a panic wondering why I quit my job

3. Getting 6 new jobs to replace the void created by the lack of first job

4. Nervous breakdown due to overworking

5. Sitting at the computer blogging about the last 6 months

6. Lather, rinse and repeat

In that time, life has been the opposite of a train... it has been a rollercoaster. Any twist and turn that came my way, seemed like part of the ride. And, oh what a ride. When I was younger, I remember riding a corkscrew ride at the biggest amusement park I'd ever seen in Malaysia. It went round and round and it felt like my senses were on fire. If I screamed anymore, endorphins would've blown out my ears.

When life is taking you on that sort of ride, it's not time to reflect. It is time to grab the bandit by the balls, possibly steal his horse and ride off into the sunset. I will, however, be at the next station to get back on the train because you can't chase the horizon forever.

Isn’t the English Language Great?

This is a statement of fact not a query. This a love song to that all encompassing, trade-promoting code that enables communication, commerce and chagrin (when you say something really embarrassing and people just stare at you blankly, or worse, you say something stupid and people understand and think you’re as stupid as what you’ve just said).

English is a brand of the British Isle’s inadequacies and overcompensation for small parts, like the amount of land they got out of the deal when continental drift happened. Their raft kept getting smaller and smaller. And as they watched arable land drift toward America and Africa and the icy wastelands of Russia, the pale angry people with small genitals decided that they would get their own back.

Step 1, learn to share this slighted feeling (as just recently named at the time) through the spoken word. Step 2, refine previously aforementioned word into a language. Step 3, make said language one of the most difficult languages to learn. Make words have meaning depending on their position in a sentence, make up other sentences that have no relation to those meanings. Confused? So is a Czech-y when you’re trying to explain that cats and dogs are not actually precipitating. Step 4, take this farcical mess on the road. Superimpose it on the rhythmical tongue of the uneducated savage, thrust it upon the natives and reform them so that you can borrow bits of the land you formally had, or at least your homo-ancestor with knuckles dragging.

Once civilized, the world will bear the brand of the British inadequacies. We will dilute it and bring to it such words as: babbelas (hangover), howzit (hello), moegoe (George W Bush), redonkulous, bootylicious etc. These words are wonderful, a vast improvement and make our yoke easier to bear. Just ask the people of Jackson, NY, all 1700 of them have just declared English their official language. After this much time one would think that ship had sailed... AND we know the Americans don’t really speak English, but let sleeping dogs.

This feels a bit like intellectual masturbation, so I will take a coitus hiatus.

The Greeks know best... Clash of the Titans

Everyone loves a hero… everyone except Hollywood. The insecurity of movie producers is starting to clash with the art of story telling. Thanks to focus groups and too little therapy to deal with issues with their parents, they manage to ruin one of the oldest stories told.

In 1981, it wasn’t enough that poor Perseus (and I say “poor” in a yes, fine, but not really because he’s a demi-god and all) should go face the unface-able Medusa but the producers and script writers of the original had to invent two new gods, Calibos and mommy/sister-dearest to meddle in his journey. What? Is there not enough hardship and struggle to face the Gorgons, monster siblings who included the three-headed Hydra (Medusa’s sister), the Chimera, and so on? This is obviously so concerning that present day, Perseus was hunted by Hades. I know Hades, and he isn’t concerned with a silly village or feeding off fear. Hades is happily sitting at home, lording it over the souls of the dead, with wife Persephone, who takes a holiday every year to bring us Spring. Bitter and grudging, I think not.

The tale of Perseus has been remixed with the attempted coup of the Titans, for no good reason and doesn’t do them justice. Originals gods should always be given their due respect, the Atlantians found out the hard way. The so-called Clash of the Titans, doesn’t even feature a single Titan, and the Kraken is Scandanavian.

During the latest version, gifts appear ubiquitously all over the show, which eventually aid Perseus in his quest (but its not actually a quest because focus groups must think that’s lame and they all have daddy issues, so let’s make it an act of revenge), and they couldn’t even get those right. The real Perseus never rode a Pegasus because he had winged sandals from Uncle Hermes. And Hollywood-Perseus would’ve been embarrassed should he have realized that he had been jipped. The shield is supposed to be a gift from Athena, not some crackly scorpion shell. Poor guy. To be fair though, Hollywood was too busy undermining the heathen panoply of Greek Gods to get their story straight.

Perseus, who actually dug being godly (and who wouldn’t) was actually taking the Medusa head back to the guy (Mommy’s new boyfriend who challenged him to bring the head) who had asked for it. Yes, Danae is actually alive and well in Greek mythology and not aiding Sam Worthington’s daddy issues. En route, he sees Andromeda tied to a rock, ready for sacrifice to Poseidon. And as one does when one sees a damsel in distress, takes up her cause. And they all lived happily ever after. So happily, in fact, that Heracles (better known as Hercules) is Perseus and Andromeda’s great-grandson.

I like to think that the film producers set out originally to climb a mountain of epic-ness, which went horribly awry. They had a training montage, with epic close-ups. They had an epic before shot with a mentor, followed by a crescendo in epic musical tones. Epic monsters and epic actors shielding a bastardisation of culture, story and daddy angst. I like to think this because if Clash of the Titans is actually a stab at cheap Christian propaganda, I would laugh at the irony of damning faith and belief at the altar of Dionysus.

If you’d like to know how wrong it went, click here or here for the facts.

(Love is) The Tender Trap

How many times have you heard your mother say, “In my day...”. Yes, yes. In your day the world was a better place, pollen didn’t make you sneeze ‘cause the snuff was blocking your nose, one never got cold ‘cause we were drenched in fur and one never got sore ‘cause The Help did everything for you. Today, the world is a dreadful place. We suffer from black lung from fossil fuel (a modern invention of bad taste), your eyes and nose never stop running thanks to allergens such as bread, milk and other staples that keep the Third World alive, day to day. Is it true? Have we really gone backward?

You see a pair of laughing eyes, and suddenly you’re sighing sighs. Ah, the golden age of Crooners, the All American song book with black and white men illustrating every page, who weren’t exactly hot... but no lady could decline. We’d sip a Jack or a Johnnie out of a Stuart in a smoky leather lounge. Its a grayscale fairy-tale of Hollywood proportions.

Love today, its in full colour. I know what I want, when I want it. It has got so bad, that a friend of mine courting a psychedelic student was informed over their first acquaintance coffees together, the number of children, the size of the diamond and the year of the Wedding (which is not in the Chinese calendar, if you know what I mean). My mother was horrified. But this is the multi-hued romance of the 21st century. If you don’t want what I want, let’s not have a drink in a smoky bar and waste each others time. Women have lost the art of the tender trap.

We’re honest, brash and brazen. We don’t accept drinks for fear of spiking, we won’t accept rides cause we drive better than you do (my insurance quote says so) and I will not be wasting my time with you, unless you submit to my demands immediately after meeting me. We’re not dating, we’re taking hostages!

Did my grandmother have it right? I don’t think so, because even if she was right, I have the right to vote. I also have the right to earn more money than Dean, which is something Debbie Reynolds never achieved. And although Debbie got a kiss, a wink and a smooth smile, she never got her name above old blue-eyes and the boys. So no, we’ve come a long way. I for one am not going back, because although we could’ve smoked guilt-free with the Marlboro man, we would have died a painful mucus-y death alone, never knowing the joy of a Rat Pack Tribute concert with your true love by your side. We may not have romance, but we have Double Income No Kids.

South Africa's Extended Wine Route

There is so much written about wine routes and the grape, as the vine comes out of its hiatus in the boxes of Mitchell’s Plain and Autumn Harvesting. The vino is definitely on the comeback trial. What started as a couple of kids on a roadtrip became an exciting and classy sojourn into the Extended Wine Route of South Africa.

*Please note: This article has been sanctioned and authorised by management (aka Snobby {Phd})

Day 1:
After 2 weeks of careful planning (and unplanning by my beloved who will always rail against the institution of order) and 3 days of insane rushing and purchasing of useless items all labelled Just In Case and Will We Need This?, we pulled out of PE, at 6pm. Suddenly this was all a bit much and we had to overnight, immediately.

Day 2:
Take 2, we moved away from the comfort and coolness of the coast and headed inland en route to Howick via Umtata. Bungee jumping fans, extreme ironing boarders, base jumpers, would have loved the road between Bisho and Kokstad. A treat, if you are inspired by bloodlust and road rage, not recommended if you are a vegetarian.

After Kokstad, the crazy Toyota drivers disappeared. Snobby’s blood pressure plummeted to a level that wasn’t going to blow blood out of his ears. And we made it safely to Howick, navigating through potholes that are more at home in the Grand Canyon then anywhere else, we made it to Cloud 12 (assuming there’s only up from Cloud 9).
Day 3 – 10:
BLANK

Kidding, family fun on the golf courses, in the area which are majestic and have a tendency to swallow balls whole, bush golf, fine dining and delicious breakfasts. Special mention goes to the Piggly Wiggly for one of the best breakfasts in the country. Their claim of the Best Cappucino, however overstated, and pretty vague as to how they won this title, on what criteria, and against whom, is fairly good and received the Snob Nod.

There were 3 very young vineyards that we visited. We were snooty and judgey and bought bottles of Beyerskloof, Fat Bastard and Chocolate Block, but to be fair the wine had floaty bits in it (the local brand not the Block). However, in a couple of years Lion’s River/Curry’s Post is going to be a gem for wine lovers and they are already making killer Grappa. Take that Platter.

Day 11:
Looped the loop around Lesotho, phenomenal views and a great drive (pothole dodging breaks the monotony at times). Almost ran out of petrol, due to the lack of petrol availability, but that’s what happens in the 3rd World, I guess.
Day 13:
Into the Swartberg, at the beginning of Meiringspoort, we found the greatest camp site, which I will not name, otherwise you’re going to steal our spot. But I digress. No cell signal.

Day 16:
Calitzdorp! The Wine capital of the Karoo. Wine tasting available wherever you stop, with air conditioning (with 45°C in the shade) they really do trap you and funnel the stuff down your throat with their friendly service.

We made stops at Boplaas, De Kranz and The Calitzdorp Coop. And Platter’s got it spot on, the De Kranz Tawny and Vintage ports are fantastic and Boplaas’s Shiraz/Cab Sav blend is divine with olive notes but Platter missed the cheeky Merlot at CC which is tasty, dirt-cheap and a keeper (in the Sanan Random Ranking system, Killer is higher than Keeper).

We also spent New Year’s with Saarkie. An experience to say the least. Snobby got a cap signed by the band!

Day 19:
As we drove into Cape Town we realised, our car was full of some of the best wine our country has to offer, we were hungover and our wallets were tired. So we drank Marguerites, drove go-karts (Snobby got beaten), and turned tail and stumbled home.

Moral of the story:
We now have a wine rack!

The very best generation

In the late 1900’s some of the greatest, gifted and most tormented souls of the world gave us music to rearrange our hearts and stomachs. We were all touched and scrambled. Year on year they defined their art, and when they were done, rehabbed or gone (RIP Lizard King), we drink nostalgia through “The Greatest Hits” series, generally released on birthdays, anniversaries and Jewish holidays. For instance, I have three Queen albums: The Great, Greater and Greatest Hits (The Platinum Collection). This implies two things: firstly, they were always great, but they got better with age and secondly, does it really matter? I mean, it’s Queen for heaven’s sake.

But along with the tragic death of the truly original is the dawn of the “The Very Greatest Hits”. We’ve added a “very” to emphatically point out to the buyer that this is it, this is the benchmark, after a long career spanning decades, the Hits have been refined to the crème de la crème of what is Musical History. Right? Wrong. We’re not talking about Clapton, remastered BB King or the Knopfler brothers, oh no. It’s “The Very Greatest Hits” of… Britney Spears.

What have we come to? Britney Spears is not even releasing the very average in music and yet she can make a profit on the very greatest of mediocre and trivial hits. At 28 years old, she’s been responsible enough to drive in the world for barely 10 years and she has a LONG way to go on the list of things to do before you turn thirty. To put it in perspective, this 28 year old is asking +/- 65% of the world which is older than her, to trust that she has made a serious contribution. I was brought up to respect my elders, and expecting the Pink Floyd generation to buy your drivel is a slap in the face of those who came before you.

Having thought about it, I’m not surprised. We let (and far worse, actually buy) 12 year olds chronicling their “lives” in autobiographies, Exhibit Miley Cyrus. It should be mandatory that any teen autobiography’s title is prefixed “The first chapter of”. We do give our top awards that recognise a life-time of achievement to a 19 year old, acknowledging her musical contribution as greater than Keith Urban or Kenny Chesney, who have spent nearly a combined 35 years honing their craft.

We’re awarding our acknowledgement, and our cash, not to the people who give us the very greatest contribution, but rather those that smack us in the face with lights, smoke and mirrors. The Very Greatest are turning in their pissed-on graves.

Feel Like a Natural Woman

Ah, an eggcorn. One of those precious gifts given to us by the English language (for those of you who don’t know what I’m talking about an eggcorn is an idiosyncratic substitution of a word or phrase for a word or words that sound similar or identical in the speaker's dialect. The new phrase introduces a meaning that is different from the original, but plausible in the same context ("old-timers' disease" for "Alzheimer's disease"). Made popular by the porn industry of the 90s, with such horrific contributions as Weapons of Ass Destruction, Bend Over like Beckham, 28 Lays Later, Shaving Private Ryan, you get the picture. But I digress.

You’d think there are only so many flying eggcorns of musicals and show tunes that can be worked into a cabaret? This turns out to be one of those great misconceptions we labour under as proven by Mile High with Cathy Specific, a musical comedy that features the classics Strangers on a Flight, Singing on a Plane, sung by Queen of the Skies, South Africa’s favourite air hostie, Cathy Specific. A fantastic script and support team deliver irony, double entendres, puns and naughty words that leave your inner child blushing, but the adult you have become feels all the better for meeting this phenomenal woman… played by Brendan van Rhyn… which really got me thinking: Is the best woman I can be, a man?

I’ve long maintained some of the best women in the world are all drag queens and Barbra Streisand impersonators be damned my theory was confirmed. But I don’t think it has anything to do with that pesky y chromosome at all, cause its what’s on the inside that counts (of course). As Cathy showed me last night, if you look with an eye of appreciation at every detail of a woman’s movements, expressions and reactions we are all beautiful creatures. Our little physical imperfections, like Adam ’s apple, chiselled chin, a minus one rib and 5 o clock shadow really have no impact on our radiance as females.

The *ahum* larger issues, almost 2m in height, also seem completely irrelevant. Though, a very large woman, Cathy’s wardrobe is tailored to perfection, showcasing assets and cleverly diminishing blemishes (and stubble). Women have disregarded this classy option in favour of the let it all to hang out like we’ve never had a biology class approach. Not a one of us knows why we do this exactly. Some experts allege that we do it because we’re showcasing our unique selling points, which is really like judging the quality of milk by the top of the cow’s udder.

But the best thing about Cathy, is that in this world of ambition and the sidelining of generally feminine virtues in favour of stronger, firmer, more hard-lined qualities, she celebrated her womanhood without taking herself too seriously. I never thought a man would restore my feminine energy, but she has. She reminded me, that as a woman, I shouldn’t take myself so damn seriously. Its not a grave affliction to be woman, it’s a gift and a joy.

Thanks Cathy. Bravo

My First Blog Post!

For some time, I have meant to do “the Blog thing”. Rama (South African margarine) mom’s are blogging their fave recipes and glorifying their position of Minister of Domestic Affairs by connecting with other equally bored unemployed women with active reproductive organs, we read about Pookie the Pugs newest trick: lying in the sun and sleeping (seriously, I own one, I know, ALL they do is sleep-eat-sleep-ablute-attempt to eat something inedible-doze-repeat), the hippies are even doing it (sorry, TreeHugger love it, but it must be said, you do have an overwhelming affection for hemp items), which brought me to the conclusion, I may not bake, but I’m online-addicted therefore I may as well give it a bash and in the now-immortal words of Jeremy Clarkson, “I mean, how hard can it be?!?”.

Uno problemo
Then came the biggest stumbling block of all... the First Post. What to do? Are you supposed to make a statement, aren’t you supposed to have a mission, or at least a general thrust? If you have answered YES to any of the above, I have failed dismally. I have gone with the “It’s not a NASA launch, it’s only your virginity” theory and am just getting this out the way.

What’s in store, then? Well, I’ll definitely plot the extended wine route of South Africa, as soon as I have consulted with my oh-so-posh-and-refined resident Snob on the hots and nots. This must be done, as we have just returned from 3 weeks of bliss and the draining of more grapes then Dionysus at his cousin’s wedding. And we swear, wine is making a comeback! Theatre updates, musical activities as well as oblique cinematic references, of course. So – a cultural nutshell for closet Liza Minnellis.