Growing Up, null and void...

We all acknowledge the somewhat conspiracy theory-sounding idea that somewhere in the world there’s a bunch of psychologists/psychiatrists discussing trends in human society off which a new buzz word can be created, thereby spewing forth copious amounts of money to be made by the ever increasingly evil pharmaceutical companies. Picture a dimly lit room, a circular mahogany table surrounded by grey bearded tweed jacketed geezers, pipes blazing in mouths thatched with yellow stained moustaches…

“I recently heard of a case where somebody felt the need to place a banana in their bum and sing the star spangled banner”.

“Brilliant, place it on record, we’ll call it Bananarama syndrome”

“All in favour, say I”

A chorus of “I’s” erupt. And so a new syndrome is born.  – Case in point is a recent study completed by Swedish researchers at the Karolinska Institute which found that creativity is closely linked to mental illness, um, ok? I know a lot of creative people, none of them feeling the urge to cut off their ears in honour of a whore. Wasn’t that syphilis the one painter dude had? I’m sure the creativeness had nothing to do with it. What I’m trying to get at is speculation is rife with regards to all these buzzwords; mid-life crisis is one practical example.

Does it really exist? How can we objectively identify a person experiencing this?

That’s just it though, isn’t it, it’s a subjective matter. Each individual would experience this in his or her own way determined by several variables; my opinion swaying towards wealth, health and each sub variable determined by the two aforementioned ones. The mere fact that we like to categorise certain of these traits pointedly indicates the fact that human nature dictates we label things we don’t fully understand.

I’d like to place another buzzword(s) on the table, start-of-life crisis. Yah, I know, it’s a mouthful, so let’s call it by its real name, growing up, those two words that we men have been infamously accused of not doing.

I’m not talking about the boyish things that never seem to dull our curiosity, like lighting the kak out of a huge bonfire (who can seriously withstand the call of those flames enticing us to throw more wood on me goddamit, or racing bikes/trikes/cars whether it be remote controlled or on your Xbox, or lighting a fart, or seeing who chickens out first on a bet, or playing touchies with your boep hanging over your speedo like a felled bloody hippopotamus’s head . No, I’m talking about commitment towards life partners/wives/friends, job satisfaction, personal growth, the fear of growing old,  the need to be needed and all the other so-called girly things we never divulge to anyone, by choice or otherwise.

I can only speak on behalf of myself and my experiences, but surely there are other guys out there in the same predicament.

We’ve all gone through it. You’ve recently finished school; you’ve been told you’re good at maths and accounting and so you decide that accountant sounds like a solid career move. Or your stickman won fourth place at the Goodwood Rotary club’s Arts and Crafts festival and you feel the need to be the next Da Vinci. You study for four years, have a few girlfriends, party, get on your parents nerves and eventually finish. Now what? You’ve got a massive student loan, all the theory (hopefully) and you’re rearing to go. You get a job at the bottom of the food chain and enjoy it at first because let’s face it; you don’t know what the world’s about just yet. Four years later you’ve paid off your student loan, you’ve got a steady girlfriend and recently moved in. Even conceded the purple curtains looks nice with the new bed throw, or whatever they call it. Everything’s new to you, and although there are bumps in the road, you’re enjoying the newness of it all. And then you reach the plateau. You start questioning things. Things that made sense previously now seem so alien you feel so utterly lost the newest Garmin wouldn’t be able to get you out of this funk. Where you previously measured your happiness by the amount you earned, the new car, designer shoes, amount of alcohol you could digest it now becomes apparent that you hate your job and want to become a trapeze artist, mime or a fucking bergie living in the hills of Table Mountain.

That’s the crux of the problem I’m trying to get at. We all know we need to grow up, but what are the criteria? And then it hits you; square between the eyes adorned by the newest Ray Bans: That horrible sinking feeling of knowing you’re measuring your life against the same fucking rules you strived to avoid while growing up. How do you measure the level of happiness against all the other criterion of growing up? Easy. Seems you give up. Seems you start giving in to societal pressure by first buying a house and car you can’t afford, having a baby you adore but really can’t afford either and wish you’d made a safer world for, taking pictures to reminisce about later in life and eventually sit on that veranda of your coastal retirement home in a South Africa so fucked up not even a Bill Gates donation will make a dent in the national debt. Thank you instant gratification culture, we owe you, big time…

Lists - An Aberration

Walking through a local supermarket one o-so-blissfully spent Saturday afternoon (yes, sarcasm very much implied), Satan herself, otherwise known as my girlfriend on less friendly occasions shouted from the cheese aisle, “How much are we on?”. Enter the human calculator. I had one beer, not so much to wreck a car, but get one bloody small calculation wrong and you were in for a far worse time than trying to claim from your insurance. “About R 550 babes, give or take”, (take-a-lot - copy write infringement not meant, promise), whispered into my left sleeve, an old man walking by sniggering at youth’s stupidity. “Help me”, whispered much louder.

“Are you sure that’s correct?” a warbled shout’s directed towards me from between different packets of shoulder and lean bacon, take your pick.

“How would you know anyway, you forgot the list?” I parry. Immediately realising my mistake, I start formulating an exit strategy only to realise the futility of it all owing to the congregation crowded around the ’past its expiration date’ sale display. Shit, foiled by my own stupidity. Why’s everything gone so dark all of a sudden?

Typing here with two fingers and a slightly off-centre nose, I’m pondering the usefulness of a list. The futility thereof could quite ironically be proven by making another list, but hey, let’s not tempt fate here. My medical aid’s already depleted as it is, and I’m no Mike Tyson. Ask my half Portuguese half Coloured girlfriend. Surely you get the point after the previous sentence. So now I’m left with two quite glaring character flaws to face. Number one; is sarcasm the correct way of handling any situation. Number two; should I ever, EVER in the history of all mankind dare try to criticize a list surely to be forgotten somewhere in the mysterious realm where all single socks are left.

Fuck it, you only live once anyway. And who’d want to give up sarcasm after living with it as a long lost brother for most of your life?So, as a last request/parting gift/last will and testament, please find below my list pertaining to the futility of the latter (ha, try to figure that one out. Dammit, idiot, shut up)

1.       If ever found in the possession of a list, and you’re a male, call Myth Busters. Men are hunter gatherers, why on earth create a list. You think Homo erectus made cave paintings of which buck to hunt first? I think not.

2.       If you realise your lady companion has forgotten her meticulously created list, at all costs, do not flaunt this fact. Homo erectus was smart enough to go hunt so doing getting out of the cave, don’t get ensnared in this 21th century trickery.

3.       Buy neither a special book for lists nor a black board for making notes. The book will only be forgotten in some dark recesses of a cupboard and the black board will only be used by humorous friends depicting penises or vulgar terms (He-he. Ahem, sorry) – reference to the Homo erectus cave paintings and the blackboard fully implied, really…

4.       Lastly, only to emphasize the stupidity of a list, I’ve created a fourth point without a point.

Lists are lifeless, soul-sucking activities only reinforcing our predisposition towards creating order in a life so full wonders; why in the hell create a stupid list in the first place. Enjoy life, live it to the fullest, play Russian roulette with the expiry date of your milk and dare I say it, forget a condiment or two once in a while.

White picket fence, and all that jazz...

Sure there are certain individuals who’d love the opportunity to open their front door first thing in the morning, walk down the paved walkway picking up the paper whilst shouting to the neighbour, “Lovely weather we’re having George, isn’t it”. (The latter being an American version, the South African version would entail us first putting on a bulletproof vest, letting loose the five Pitbulls and three Rottweiler’s, deactivating your house-alarm and finally kissing your family goodbye before even leaving the safety of your house - This of course being the scenario if all the South African media these days is to be believed. All in all a very good way in ensuring you, to quote Kellogs, got it all this morning. Which brings me to my somewhat forgotten point. (I knew I had one somewhere).

And may I add, HA! Got you with the misleading heading didn’t I. 

Aforementioned attests to the resilience of individuals staying in SA, so I thought we could have a look at the daily trials we as true blooded South Africans go through and see the lighter side of things – this also serves as a serious list for any foreigner deciding to stay in South Africa

1.     Morning excursions to work:

•  Be sure to make a shopping list before leaving home, you never know when you may need a disco ball, black rubbish bags, Super-rugby shirt, car chargers, fuzzy dice and the like – all conveniently available at any traffic light near you.
•  Shopping list complete, make sure to tuck it deep into your pockets and not your wallet, the latter has a mysterious way of disappearing.
• As a side note, thorough stretching is highly advisable, for reasons we’ll get to later.

2.     Getting to work:

• By now you would’ve cursed four taxi drivers, two idiots from Gauteng (no offense guys, illustrative purposes only <cough>) and five scooters zipping past your sensible light-on-fuel sedan in the morning traffic, making you contemplate alternative modes of transport you could use. Unfortunately the bus services are on strike, the trains are delayed with three weeks due to cable theft and the only substitute is the taxi driver you wanted to kill five minutes ago.
• Chill, relax, and if all else fails take up smoking. (Taking a nip out of a nondescript brown paper bag usually gets you a couple of frowns so this is not advisable unless in dire need)

3.     Parking in the city centre

• If by now you’ve made it safely to your destination, managing not to murder anybody in the process (and not being murdered yourself for that matter), give yourself a well-deserved high five, well done sir/madam, well done.
• Now for the tricky bit. If, like me, you’re one of the unlucky sods who will never be a manager and therefore don’t have a designated parking space, the stretching mentioned above should come in handy right about now. (To quote the movie Zombieland – “Limber Up”)
• Not only do we have a long walk ahead of us, we should also be looking out for that proudly South African creation, the car guard (politically correct term: Parking Attendant)
•  Be vigilant, they could be anywhere. Once spotted, eye contact should be avoided at all costs. Diversion tactics should be employed here, anybody with a girlfriend/boyfriend/husband/wife should be fully knowledgeable and no further descriptions should be needed, right?
•  Useful hint #1: Keep a number of five cent coins in your pocket. If unintended contact was made, empty pockets of all coins. And run (Eye of the Tiger on your mobile phone playing in the background).

4.     Making your way towards your place of  work

• Useful hint #2: If you’ve forgotten what it is to be a South African, it’s hot, mostly all of the time. Therefore, after your earlier run a handkerchief is advised for those prone to perspiration.
• Useful hint #3: Quoting Robin Williams imitating Mike Tyson, “I’m on Zyloft, so I don’t kill you motherfuckers” Dead right, so, Zoloft or Prozac, your best friends when dealing with a typical South African boss and co-workers without the need to consult your nearest sangoma.
• This being South Africa with corporate policy, theft and such you’ll likely have an access card to get into your workplace.

You’ve forgotten your access card in your car or at home trying to remember all the above, haven’t you? As your washing machine would so all-knowingly say, rinse and repeat.

And so ends the first part of the inaccurately called ‘White Picket fence, and all that jazz’. Stay tuned for the next more accurately entitled, ‘Surviving South Africa: Part Two’

Siblings – A Mother’s bane

Whilst pondering the folly of crossing a mother on the warpath, or pre-warpath for that matter (not that there’s a big difference for the initiated offspring of harassed mothers everywhere), I came upon three conclusions:

1.       Idiot, don’t do it, don’t even THINK about it

2.       Idiot, if you were stupidly brave enough to try, run, FAST

3.       Idiot, if point 2 or point 3 don’t work, plead stupidity, possibly retardation where viable (always ensuring you never, EVER, implicate your mother as the cause of the mild retardation)

The event that triggered above musings was a quite traumatic exchange with mother dearest a while back. Any thought of beating a hasty retreat before any kind of confrontation was crushed once hearing the tone of Mom’s voice. Suffice it to say, the language used by both parties during this interaction would’ve be frowned upon by sailors. The conversation fairly lacklustre at the start with gems such as, “How’s the weather your side” and “How’s Grandpa’s hemorrhoids” it became increasingly one-sided as conversation progressed. Eventually escalating into a situation with me holding the receiver a metre away from my already punished ear, and Mom rather vocally reliving a story featuring a passed out younger sibling (brother in this story’s context, insert your own for easy reference) being found in his/her *you get the point by now* car the morning after he’d popped out for a quick, note the word ‘quick’, drink with friends. Flashbacks close to what I’m sure veterans of Vietnam experience fleetingly whoosh by, been there, done that, got the tongue lashing and head bashing from Mom. Then a new thought occurs; pure, exquisite wonderful joy. 

Black sheep no longer I naively think, I voice my honest and less than unbiased opinion that younger brother should be punished, severely. How dare he? My poor mother, sickeningly worried about younger brother, his whereabouts unknown and for all we know he may be in Pollsmoor locked up and entertaining our local 28’s (for those not in the know, go check out the link, yes, seriously; http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pollsmoor_Prison). Punished to the full extent of my mother’s wrath, he should be locked out, car keys taken away, shit; keelhaul him if you have to. (Well maybe not the last one, I mean that seems a tad harsh and he hasn’t been a bad brother in any sense of the word). Following my tirade, and yes, exasperation worked into this ‘not so subtle’ little charade to bring the point home, I recall the subsequent piece of wonderful diatribe coming from my end of the phone…(receiver unconsciously brought back to an inch of my ear –stupid me, I know)

“Are you insane (insert poor underperforming older sibling’s name here), he’s my youngest son, how dare you insinuate that I could possibly be such a bad mother as to lock him out. In all honesty I’m deeply disappointed in you. Your younger brother has always been a kind and nurturing boy, you know he’s sensitive. I think I’ll hang up now before I say something I regret.” 

Or something to that effect, I forget the details. 

What the hell just happened? Wasn’t I the good son only a few moments ago?

Christmas shopping, thou art a heartless bitch

Before the wittier of those reading this point out that the inevitable time of year is only upon us in a few more months (nine to be precise), I’m merely using this opportunity to remind them of the horrors that wait. With this focal point deeply embedded in our minds my ever-so optimistic friend and I have solemnly vowed that we would not be caught with our trousers down - again.

So, with an air of righteousness we set out to rectify our past errors and work out a plan of action early enough in the year, similar to those used by the soldiers used in guerrilla warfare. I won’t go into much detail, suffice it to say graphs, long lists, pie charts and timetables were involved. The culmination of all this planning?  As the youth so eloquently phrase it nowadays - EPIC FAIL.  

Christmas being a time of Boney M songs played so often you feel like taking the first purchase you’ve made in an over-crowded mall and sticking it straight up the most anatomically unviable area of the nearest shop assistant. A time of sales so unbelievable you’d sell your grandma in order to obtain the knife so sharp it cuts through Malema’s ego. And averting these infuriatingly unfruitful attempts at marketing was priority number one, well, that and trying to avoid the heaving, heavy breathing, excessively sweating (no white Christmas for us in here in wonderful SA), mass of bodies we have become accustomed to during the holiday season.

After many attempts at self-motivation and even more evenings of delving ever deeper into the Christmas budget for that absolutely bloody last beer, my now less-than enthusiastic friend and I were horribly reminded of our fate when chatting to our respective girlfriends. As every self-proclaimed manly man should know, the most dreaded question imaginable by the feminine gender would be the “Do you know what you’re buying me for Christmas sweetie, it’s a few more months away” question. Gasp, splutter. Well, this question or a statement referring to a broken french letter (obscenity removed here for fear of harsh retribution). You decide. Back to the topic at hand though, finding ourselves in the uncomfortable position of trying to understand the female mind and hoping we find the right lie to placate their predatory psyche, the answer invariably would be, ”yes, but it’s a surprise!”. Panic stations. Phone up friend, friend starts babbling, crossed lines, swearing, more panicking and eventually calm confidence as we decide that we are manly men after all and we do things sensibly. Christmas is after all a couple of months away, to quote the tall one from Top Gear, “How hard could it be?”

No Christmas shopping done yet, skip to the 24^th of December, D DAY. As Homer Simpson so eloquently phrased it, “Doh!”

It’s time, we decide, to put our long suffering plan into action. We agree to meet at a communal drinking spot and brace ourselves for the onslaught. After mollifying ourselves with some Dutch courage, it’s off to the battlefield. Jumping into my sensible light-on-fuel car, we arrive and park in a sensible spot near the back thwarting those circling vultures all looking for a spot right next to the entrance. Not only does this sensibly lessen the amount of petrol we use, but also has the added benefit of preventing oneself from dying of apoplexy. (See what I’ve done with the word sensible there?)

The battle that ensued was bloody, and for those who are already bored or who suffer from ADHD here follows the highlights.

One memorable moment the by-now lethargic friend of mine was next to me barging our way into Clicks, the next he was engulfed by a tide of vampire slash werewolves all disguised as woman, children and the occasional dad lagging behind moaning about some sports event he was missing. Eventually in the store, I felt like Rambo or rather James Bond trying to achieve the impossible and find the ultimate gift. Would the Jamie Olivier cookbook actually be used? Should I rather buy the fancy mop that cleans the toughest of stains, or the 20^th generation twister chopper? I was quickly wrenched out of this reverie as two scrummaging housewives came flying past vying for the last soap on a rope two for one. Screw this, I thought, a fancy box of chocolates would have to do. The exit strategy was no less if not harder. I eventually found my now limping friend in rather bad form trying to chat up a Christmas tree. After wrenching him away from what he took to be either Heidi Klum or his high school sweetheart Martie, we powered our way through Santa’s little helpers with the gusto of two long distance runners with a bad case of dysentery. Once out in the cold night air, we inquired about each other’s injuries, mine as a result of a scuffle with a toddler trying to claim my box of very expensive chocolates, his a badly aimed housewife’s flying handbag aimed at her neighbor trying to steal the last box of  Ferrero Rocher. In later years we’d ascribe these injuries to something more believable like a rugby injury, or perhaps alien abduction.

My friend, by now fully awake after a generous helping of something very quickly stashed back into his trousers,   turns to me with blood dripping from his lip, and before he opens his mouth I know the question forming; ” Same time next year?” 

To quote Malcolm Forbes as an after-thought; ”A positive attitude may not solve all your problems, but it will annoy enough people to make it worth the effort”

Telemarketers, Oh joy unbounded

It’s six o’clock, you’ve just returned home from another kak (that’ll be directly translated to shit for our truly English friends) day at work, the call you received earlier long since forgotten between compiling the latest spend report for your technically challenged boss and balancing your smoke breaks and lunch. You throw your keys on the counter, briefcase next to the dining room table and crack your first beer. Relaxing, you make your way towards your bedroom, kicking your shoes in a perfected Naas Botha drop, your first shoe landing close to where your girlfriend will more than likely bitch about its proximity to her side of the bed. It’s when you remove your cell phone from your pocket you remember the call. 

“Yes yes, I understand you’re doing your job, and I’m currently doing mine, so if you really want to make the sales pitch, phone me after five, when I’m home!”  Sounds familiar, doesn’t it? In the hope of the telemarketer not phoning you back, you take the friendlier route in telling them they can phone back at a more appropriate time. The question remains though, when is a more appropriate time? 

Thinking the said telemarketer has certainly moved on by now annoying yet another Joe Public, you decide to have some ‘me’ time. Between your lactose intolerance and the poor state of the work’s ablutions, going to the loo at work not being first priority. Only being human, you require some stimulating reading material during your ‘me’ time. This being said, you’ve been banished from the on-suite toilet to the guest toilet by your girlfriend, and this being the guest toilet there’s no motivating/inspirational cream/hair product labels to read. No worries you think, I’ve got Sudoku on my phone. Brilliant, who says only woman can multitask? Without being crude, concentrating on not spilling your beer while playing Sudoku and simultaneously having ‘me’ time is no mean feat. Score one for the guys. 

Whilst taking a swig from your beer, finding that illusive nine across in-between blocks three and two, you at first don’t see the incoming call. Got the nine you think, pressing enter. O shit, call answered.

“Hello sir, you’re speaking to Tshepo Piet Naidoo from Modacell, my colleague forwarded the lead of earlier and I would like to inform you that you’ve been preselected for a wonderful package including a free cell phone”

“…Crap”

“No sir, I can assure you this is a legitimate deal”

“No, I said I’m having a crap”

…poop poop poop… (The dial tone of an ended call, not what’s happening in the bathroom I can assure you)

Really for fuck's sake, when is an appropriate time?