Riding the Slipstream

I find this downright disturbing. Nope… disturbing is too tame a word for this. This is fucked-up.

They may remind you of another famous pair of singers, the Olsen Twins, and the girls say they like that. But unlike the Olsens, who built a media empire on their fun-loving, squeaky-clean image, Lamb and Lynx are cultivating a much darker persona. They are white nationalists and use their talents to preach a message of hate.

It is heartbreaking that parents would use their children to further their own hateful racist beliefs. Beliefs they have been nurtured on since birth and teaches them to see Nazi Rudolf Hess, Hitler's deputy Fuhrer as a "man of peace who wouldn't give up." The Hanging Stranger (formerly Intern Andy) says it better than I can. Pop over to his blog for his unique take on events. More here.

You want to see a senior marketer go ballistic on a grey Thursday morning in Johannesburg? Dare to criticize the copy of the new ad campaign he is proposing. Why the peanut asked me for my opinion in the first place is beyond me, because it seems he did not want it anyway. The funniest thing about giving him my perspective is that he felt the need to vehemently defend his and force it down my throat as if I had agreed to perform fellatio. (Spare me the downright embarrassment!) . Most people I know, simply do not appreciate an opinion radically different to their own. I don’t, at least not when the option to disagree with me is not an option at all. Or perhaps it had to do with the questions I asked, “Is that not misleading to the consumer?” What exactly do you mean by the phrase… “, “Can you substantiate that claim?” There is simply no real integrity left in the marketing industry anymore. Greed has taken care of that. Ok… perhaps that is a sweeping generalisation, if ever there was one, but I am using it in the context of this morning’s incident. The ability to utter words or use a keyboard to type words on a computer screen does not make one intelligent. Hell, my 5 year old niece can do that too, and although her ideas can put a smile on my face, they still remain nothing more than the cute little notions of a 5 year old. Capice!? If our thoughts and opinions cannot hold up to a little criticism, then how sound was the reasoning behind it in the first place? Of course; I am the biggest hypocrite of them all. When it comes to this profession, I can and I will... LIE. I too succumb to the pressures of big business. Increase market share, increase volume share, increase net revenue, increase gross margin, increase, increase, fucking increase! I know what it is like to bend the rules, to reserve the use of certain words and images and play on their ambiguity when the occasion calls for it. I know how to navigate the ether between right and and wrong and how to stay just inside the boundaries. However, I'd like to think that I am not entirely without a backbone; that I have managed to evolve beyond the single-celled amoeba. When something is blatantly misleading and used entirely out of context, I would like to believe that there is enough integrity and honesty left in me to do the right thing. I do not mince my words, and regardless of what is going on in behind the scenes, there is no excuse for lies and poor execution. I am on a bridge-burning spree it seems. I have a few torches left in the bottom drawer of my desk, if you’d care to join me. I feel like torching the playground!

I would never have thought myself capable of blackmailing someone into doing what I want them to do. Let me rephrase that, blackmail is not something I would normally resort to in order to get someone to do what I want. I will threaten, manipulate, play political games and may even throw the odd tantrum. I have also been known to beg and plead like there is no tomorrow, but never have I used blackmail in order to get what I want. Until today. I am walking down the corridor at work today and I notice a whole group of people standing at the departmental secretary’s work station. They are all giggles and smiles. Not one for being left on the outside, I decide to join in and get to the bottom what is going on. It appears the official photographs of the conference have arrived and everyone was having a good laugh, reliving the 3 days we spent out there in the bush. There are lots of laughter and squeals of delight and exclamations of, “do you remember that?”, and, “oh, look at so-and-so”, and then there are the other “look at so-and-so”, if you know what I mean. The boss pulls me one side and hands me a photograph telling me, “It would be a shame if this one should fall into the wrong hands” With a puzzled look I take the photograph from him and lo and behold there is a close-up of the stewardess and I kissing. I think I went weak in the knees just looking at it. Hundreds of little rabid monkeys start running around in my head, trying to put together what my next move should be and what would happen if this photograph should ever come into the wrong hands. What is the fucking intention with calling me aside? Guilt is a hard currency and I do deal well in financial matters of the heart. Now I have told the gf about the kiss, but I have played it down for the innocent gesture it was. This photograph however paints a different story and it does not look good for me. It looks extremely intimate. I know they say the camera never lies, but whoever said that had no idea what camera angles, lighting and a close-up can do. It takes things out of perspective and I do not like it when things are out of perspective. I thank him for the picture and point out that if it is not too much to ask, I would like to have the digital master destroyed as well. He looks puzzled and laughs. He says he does not think it is necessary. It will stay between the two of us. I tell him that I think perhaps he misunderstands what I am trying to say. I want the picture destroyed. At this point the rabid monkeys in my head stop running around and things come to a screeching halt. For all I know he may have been joking with me. My gut tells me never trust a man who cheats on his own wife and I decide that the time has come to play hard-ball. I am not in the mood to kiss anyone’s ass nor am I going to explain my motives. At which point I take a deep breath and become extremely calm. I play my ace and say to him, “Look, we all have skeletons in the closet. To me it is this picture and to you it is JN and your early morning get-togethers. Let's just be grown up about all this and agree to not to do anything harsh, shall we?” The boss went white and for a moment there I thought he was going to have a heart attack. He: “I see. How long have you known?” Me: “Long enough to have ruined your life months ago if I had wanted to” He: “What guarantees do I have you won’t use this against me in the future” Me: “None…. But if you honestly think that once I leave here, I am going to look back over my shoulder wondering what you are up to, you have a seriously overestimated your usefulness in my life”. He: "Ok... so it's agreed" Me: "Yes, it is" And just like that, there goes my reputation as a good guy and I become a sleaze-ball. I honestly thought I had reached a point in my life where nothing I do now could possibly top some of the antics I got up to in my younger days.

There is a limit to the abuse any man can take. Really there is! Trust me. Take last night for instance. The usual suspects and I decide to go out for a few drinks. [Quick aside: what is it about a Thursday night that makes you want to go out, drink too much and feel like shit the next day at work? Why not just wait for Friday night?] Anyway, I digress. So there we are in this kick-ass bar and it is pumping like it’s the freaking Fourth of July. And we were having a good time. Beers and shots are flowing freely, like it should on a night when we really should be at home. A cute girl walks by our table and as she does so, one of my buds (The Grinch) leans in and he calls her over. He chats to her and it is obvious that the intention is to pick her up. Anyway, he has no luck and as she walks away her gives her a nickname, just loud enough for us to hear. He shakes his head from side in a somewhat oriental fashion and says, "Ciao to you too, Miz Tumbleweed”. I thought it was hilarious! Ok, maybe not! I don’t get out much these days. But have a few drinks and I promise you it will be funny. Anyway, let’s get back to the bar and the why we will never be allowed to go back there again. We decide to move to the back of the bar and play a couple games of pool. Things are pretty rowdy and jovial around the tables, when this one guy starts taking gibes at the Grinch. You know nasty little childish comments loud enough for his friends to hear who then has a good laugh. He is either a friend of Miz Tumbleweed or her boyfriend. Now the Grinch is a big guy, over 1.8m, large (think rugby player large) and not the kinda guy one messes with. The other guy, Weasel, is about the about half his size, but he has the biggest mouth south of the friggin’ Equator. He's like your neighbour’s pesky Maltese poodle, yapping away non-stop on a day that you have your worst hangover… ever. Every friggin’ opportunity he gets, he’s in the Grinch’s face. Mocking him, making snide remarks, taunting him. Basically, he’s an asshole and he's behaving even worse. A few of the others and I pull him aside a few time and tell him to let it go for his own good… but no such luck. Obviously old weasel has had a few drinks and he is now the bravest human on the planet and he basically tells us to fuck off. He’s got balls bigger than Superman’s and Batman’s put together. Alrighty, then… not a good image! A few rounds of pool and a good couple beers later, he saunters over to the Grinch, pokes him in the chest and says something nasty about his mother. The Grinch walks around him and carries on playing his game. The little guy, offended by the brush off, walks up the Grinch and pokes him in the chest… yet again. Oh boy! The Grinch punches the guy in the face… one single friggin punch! The little guy gets it right between the eyes. He keels over like Charlie Chaplin in silent movie and he hits the floor really hard. And he is out… just like that! He does not even move! Deep down in my chest I stifle a proud, Yay, Grinch”. Come on… the weasel came begging for it! Of course the friggin bar goes silent and comes to a standstill. Miz Tumbleweed comes running over and now she gets in on the action. Screaming and shouting abuse and trying to revive the weasel from his untimely nap. The manager and the friggin bouncers also make their way across the bar and everything turns into a one big hullabaloo. In the end we leave and the manager politely implies that we should not come around there again. Dammit! So much for a fun night at the bar. Isn’t it always the case though, the smallest guy will always, and I mean always, have the most bravado. Especially after a few drinks and even more so when there is a girl involved. And why in God’s name do they always take on the biggest guy in the group? Do they suffer from a David-vs-Goliath syndrome?

Sunday's sermon was - Forgive Your Enemies. Toward the end of the service, the Minister asked, "How many of you have forgiven your enemies?" 80 percent held up their hands. The Minister then repeated his question. All responded this time, except one small elderly lady. "Mrs. Jones?" ; "Are you not willing to forgive your enemies?" "I don't have any." She replied, smiling sweetly. "Mrs. Jones, That is very unusual. How old are you?" "Ninety-Eight." She replied. "Oh Mrs. Jones. Would you please come down to the front and tell us all how a person can live ninety-eight years and not have an enemy in the world." The little sweetheart of a lady tottered down the aisle, faced the congregation, and said: "I outlived the Bitches."

I’ve been tagged 5 times(!) in the past 3 months and have NOT taken up the challenge on any one of them. I apologise to all those ppl who actually thought I am good at this sort of thing. This makes me a bit of a spoil sport, don’t you think? So in order to redeem myself, I have decided to take up Andrea’s challenge to disclose 20 random things about myself and tagging as many ppl as the time (in minutes) it took me to complete this. In no particular order; 1. When I was in kindergarten, I slapped my teacher because she wanted to kiss me on my birthday. 2. I once got lost in a supermarket and screamed like a banshee until my mother came to find me. 3. I once hid in the girl’s change-room at school so I could see them getting undress. 4. My favourite drink is Vodka Martini. 5. I rode a camel when I visited the pyramids in Egypt and could not walk properly for a day. 6. I have never been hospitalized. 7. My mom’s entire ladies tea club saw me naked when I was 18. (Do NOT even ask! I mean it!) 8. I can drink an entire can of Coca Cola in less than 10 seconds. 9. I hate spinach. 10. I threw up all over date at my Matric dance. 11. I love my Playstation and have over 50 games. 12. I sang the solo in Oliver Twist when I was in primary school . 13. I cannot stand to hear Celine Dion sing. 14. I worked behind the bar at a strip club to earn extra money when I was at university. 15. The first time I got drunk, I was 13 years old. 16. I once fell out of a tree and landed in a river and nearly drowned 17. I was a prefect in high school. (How's that one for you?) 18. I am a hyperactive adult. 19. I parachuted out of an aeroplane in my second year at university. 20. I have a killer smile. My tags: (and no pressure guys) Total waste (Revenge, mate. You threatened to send viruses to my home pc) Buddess (Call it curiosity?) IITQ ( I know you are going to hate doing this... all in good spirit) Michelle (I want a few surpises!) Rielle (You are the latest person to stumble onto my blog) Terri, Del, Lucy, Ekapa, KN, cec1del, Omid, PB... I am letting you off the hook (this time)

My girlfriend has one of those fancy hand-held Braun multi-mixers. You know the one with all the attachments that allows you to use it for all kinds of things around the kitchen. Quite a nifty piece of equipment, I would say. I haven’t actually used it, but she says it is nifty, so I believe her. Actually she does not allow me to go near it, so I watch from a distance while she does all of those crafty things with it. Whipping and slicing and dicing and chopping and grinding, etc. I am so getting one for myself! Anyway, the damn thing broke and no longer working. So I offered to look at it for her. I mean, what are boyfriends if they can’t do things for the women in their lives? Plus, taking things apart, fixing it and putting it back together is bloody macho, if you ask me. If I were a girl, I would want a guy who knows his way around appliances. Like MacGyver and all the other friggin' guys who walk around in overalls and carry big toolboxes with all sorts of tools and shit in them. A real man’s kind of man! ME: Do you want me to take a look at it for you? It may be something small and it may only take a minute. GF: Honey, does that mean you are going to… well, open it up? ME: Ya well, I kinda have to see what’s inside, you know. How else am I going to see what is wrong with it? No more than a quick look-see. For all you know it may just be a loose wire. GF (sounding kinda nervous): Uh… you know what? I just remembered. (lotsa giggles). It is still under guarantee. Yeah, I only bought it a few months ago. Perhaps I should take it back to shop and let them have a look at it. Wouldn’t want that guarantee to go to waste, would we now?! (more giggles) ME(disappointed): Oh ok… if you say so. Where’d you buy it? GF: At Boardmans. The one at the mall… close to the optometrist. ME: Oh good! Well, I drive past the mall every morning on my way to work. I can drop it off for you. It’s no big deal; I’ll drop it off at customer services. GF: Thanks… so nice of you. Lemme get you the guarantee and the till invoice. (Kisses me on the forehead). I leave her place soon after and take the doomed appliance with me. As soon as I get home, I think to myself, “What if I could actually fix it?” There is no harm in taking a eensy-weensy look inside. I’ll keep all the screws and pieces together and put it back together exactly the way it was. Every hook, pin, screw, nut, bolt, gear, spring, bushing, staple, clip, clamp, strap and wire. So, I take out my tool kit and open the little bugger up. "Hehehe… who’s you daddy now?" I mean, really, what is a guy to do? On the drive home , it was just sitting there next to me in the car… calling out to me in that seductive nymph-like voice,

How could I say no? I had to do the honourable thing... see what’s inside. Besides, just think how happy the gf would be if I brought back to her the next night. Like new. It is now in a million little pieces at my house. I tried to put it together again, but when I was done, there were a couple a screws left over and I did not know where they were supposed to go. Also, there is a distinct sound, kind of like the sound a coin makes when falls onto the floor, when you give it a slight jiggle. I know it is not supposed to do that. Dammit, they don’t make things like they used to. So tonight, straight after work, I am going to the shop to buy her a new one. I have already phoned ahead and they have the same model in the exact colour. I am so lucky! I may even buy one for myself. Yeah, and best I don’t mention the whole taking-the-appliance-apart episode to her. She would never understand. I’ll just put in a plastic bag and throw it in the trash… quietly. Still I can’t help thinking what an achievement it would have been had I been able to fix it up and put it all together. Given my track record, I would probably never experience a moment so sublime this side of eternity. (Sigh) [Haloscan (grrr...) is on the blink and you may not be able to make any comments.]

• Uno. Back from the Cape and for the first time in all the years since moved to Johannesburg, I felt a little sad about coming home. There can only be two reasons for this; 1. I am getting older and this freaky nostalgic streak that has played havoc with me for the past 2/3 week has not run its course, or 2. The nostalgia trip is over and my alter ego, the chitster had such a party down in Cape Town, he did not want to return home… ever! I have come to realise that I am a bit of a whore and that I like living in excess. Well, I am not a whore in true sense of the word, but I think you get what I am aiming at. Hehehe… even I have morals and there are some things I just would not do. It is astonishing how free-spirited and easy one becomes when one is away from the things that normally ground you, such as family, gf, work etc. And that is exactly what happened when I met up with friends and acquaintances from my not-so-tame past. I slipped into my Cape Town skin in no time at all. We really had a lot of fun and I felt a bit like a tourist with ppl taking me around to “show’ me the city. Funny actually! Anyway, the trip was a big success business-wise as well. I have signed the papers, negotiated the perks and salary and will leave the company at the end of this month. I start my new job on the 1st of December. I guess it truly is a case of all's well that ends well.
• Dos. Yesterday evening, I got pinched on the butt by an old woman at the supermarket. Yeah, my sex appeal is at an all time low! I needed some provisions, so I stopped at the friendly neighborhood Spar on the way home. In the breakfast aisle, just as I reached up to take my favourite cereal from the top shelve, someone pinched my butt. I looked around and there was no-one around, save an old woman of about 70(?) years old, complete with blue rinse and a cane. Assuming that it could only be her, I told her in my very best school boy English, “You really shouldn’t be going around supermarkets pinching people’s butts” To which she replied, “lighten up, kiddo. I am 75 years old. There are very few things I can do at my age, which would not involve breaking a hip or ending up in traction. And pinching your butt is one of them” I had no reply and all I could do was shake me head and smile at her. It felt dirty and almost sexy at the same time… yikes! I wanted to say that I would be more than willing to slide into shackles and cover myself in dark chocolate the next time I see her. Somehow I don’t think that comment would have been well received.

• Tress. Ok… I know this one is a little old, but since I was in Cape Town last week, I did not get time to blog my feelings on this. So here goes… (Warning: If you have not seen the movie Layer Cake, you may want to stop here and move on to the next blog). DANIEL CRAIG How do they justify choosing him as the new James Bond and more importantly, why the fuck do I actually care? (Shrug) It is one of those unsolved mysteries that ranks right up there with the re-election of Dub’ya and why Charles cheated on Diana with Camilla. I, like many people around the world, asked the question, “What the fuck is up with that”, when the announcement was made. Claim to fame: He is the guy who banged Jude Law’s obscenely gorgeous wife, Sienna Miller. Yet another unsolved mystery to add to his resume. Of course Jude was also short-listed for the role of 007, so in actual fact Daniel screwed him over TWICE. Nicely done! His movie career: I honestly only remember seeing him act in 2 movies; Tomb Raider and Layer Cake. Tomb Raider to me was all about Angelina Jolie so Daniel’s role in the movie is kind of a blurry to me. Which brings me to Layer Cake (without the cream filling). If you did a 180 degree about turn and mouthed the phrase “wtf” while doing so, well then I have illustrated my point. Absolutely, in my humblest bloody opinion, one of the worst drug films ever made. Ok… perhaps Daniel's acting in the film is NOT the worst I’ve seen, but why is his charater in the movie called XXXX? The scene where they shoot him in the chest… thoroughly enjoyed it. Shows you how much I like the guy. I reckon we will have to wait for Casino Royale to pass proper judgment. Is he even remotely good-looking? I leave that up to the ladies to decide.

(I am going to snap out of this “serious” mood one of these days, I promise!! Geez, I am even starting to scare myself.) Watching a relationship fall apart is like drinking cheap whiskey, too sharp and plain nasty. There are casualties all around and it is not necessarily restricted to the two people involved. My friend Mike and his fiancée are heading for a break up as far as I can tell. And I am sick and tired of sitting around while waiting for it to happen. I want them to end the relationship already so that all of us can have peace and go on with our lives. It is like watching a train wreck that happens in slow motion. We all know what is about to happen so why not fast forward to actual collision and skip the multiple angles and gory details. The worst part of the relationship breaking up is the not one of them has told us what is going on. So I can’t bloody walk up to him and ask him to let me in on whatever is happening. All the signs are there and it is killing not only the two of them, but the rest of us as well. Take last Saturday for instance. We are over at their place. Everything looks ok on the surface until her cell phone beeps signaling the arrival of a text message. Before anyone has to react to the sound, she grabs her phone and disappears into the house. You look over to your mate and you know that he knows that sms did not come from her "granny" who lives on the other side of town. She is seeing someone else. You know it, he knows it; In fact, the whole bloody world knows it and we all make as if nothing is going on. You look over to your gf and recognise the look in her yes. It is the same awkward look you have in yours! She re-joins the campany about half an hour later. You know she’s been on the phone with someone all that time, because you heard her giggling and laughing when you went inside to get ice from the bar. The atmosphere is so thick you can make a triple-scoop ice cream out of it. Your girlfriend makes up an excuse about having to go home and you leave soon after. When you get home, you call up your mate and ask him if everything is ok. He says not too worry, they are dealing with it. In other words, "butt out and mind your own feckin’ beewax". Nice. If they are dealing with it, then why do I feel like he just poured me a glass of cheap whiskey? Don't think I'll drink it. I'm not that desperate for alcohol, after all...

I am seldom satisfied with the present. I am always looking out for something better… for greener grass, sunnier skies… and now that summer is here again… skimpier dressed women. Most times however I find myself blissfully hiding away in a state of mushy nostalgia longing for things that could have been. Other times I am constantly making plans, scheming, plotting, and playing out the future in my mind. Of course not all of my schemes come to fruition. Some are farfetched, others are just plain silly and ludicrous. Yet even though I fail and make mistakes, I rarely regret my actions or the time spent on doing what I did. Time is only wasted when you learnt nothing. I have a little box labeled “Chitty-isms” and I look through it every time I need a good laugh. [Clarification: it is a mental box and not an actual physical one] Talking about growing up. A friend asked me a while ago who I would single out as the most influential person in my life. For the life of me, I could not think of anyone in particular! It was kinda disturbing at the time, as if having a role model is something any normal person would have. It's one of those questions you feels you should have the correct answer for, and I don't. But then I got to think about it for a little bit. I think I take bits and pieces from the various people I come into contact with (whether I meet them personally or read about them in books or magazines). The people I idolize and admire aren’t necessarily the people I school my life and actions on. They shape my peripheral vision and are add-ons to what is already there. I have however come to realise that much of my life up to this point has been centered around the women in my life. My childhood, my adolescence, adulthood… defined by my utter and lifelong dependence on women. It is a strange realisation to come to and I sometimes wonder if that is normal. It is the truth nonetheless. Should I have had a greater dependence on my father? I do not know. I cannot remember a time when a woman did not plays a pivotal role in my past, my present and what seemingly is my future. I am not saying that I schooled my life on female values or that I am incapable of taking care of myself. There is however a strong thread of female dependency that runs though my entire life… the operative word being, dependency of course. There have always been, still are and always will be many strong men in my life too. There’s my gentlemanly, yet stern and ambitious father. My uncles, the mates, teachers and the football coaches. These guys shaped my belief in the value of my own life, my strength and self esteem. Yet, my dependence on the women in my life makes up for a large proportion of who I am, intellectually and spiritually and how view I ppl around me. I remember the women in my life with nothing but gratitude, my mother, my sisters, the teachers and all the girlfriends that shared my life at some point . My dependence may be my downfall one day. Until then … I guess I’ll enjoy the ride. I think I’ll call me mom and tell her I love her.

Let’s all hop aboard Chitty’s Flashback Express for a minute, shall we? The year is 1990. It is my first year of high school (standard 6 / grade 8) and I am 13 years old. Puberty has just started to kick in and I am drowning in a turbulent sea of my own hormones. I love my newly-discovered freedom and the manchild I have become! 1990 is the year I come into my own and discover what it takes to be cool and popular at school. It is also the year the Chitster is born, and I begin my lifelong quest of finding myself in embarrassing situations. There are two things that stand out in my first year of high school, apart from the fact that I sucked at school work, especially science.

1. The amount of time I spent (as most teenage boys do) trying to look cool… and the amount gel I put on my hair every morning. Hey, a cool guy needs cool hair… so don’t mess with the freakin’ hair, ok! Aramis Hair Gel, yuk… that is what I used. Every day I would walk to school with my head swathed in a cloud of Aramis. You could smell me coming a mile away. What was I thinking back then?
2. And then there was SHE. The girl of my dreams. Every morning when I saw her, my heart would jump out of my chest and hide in the farthest, darkest corner of the classroom. She is perfection personified. There are no words to describe her beauty, her perfection, her radiant smile. I am in love as only a 13 y.o. could be. Completely, utterly and with a savageness that ravages my soul. My nights are without sleep. I write long letters, but I never give them to her. I have an image of coolness to uphold and she can never know.

I could talk to all the other girls in my class, but not to her. Yet in all this time, I know… one day she would fall in love with me. I had five years to fulfill my dream, and nothing, was going to get in my way. But infortunately, something did... I got in the way of myself, and that which I wanted most. By late 1990, puberty goes into overdrive… full throttle (pardon the pun). I am dating my first real girlfriend, and it is also the year of my sexual awakening. (A little too much info, I know, but I have to paint the picture, so bear with me!). I am Mr. Self Confidence impersonated. I am drunk on testosterone, and all of the things that makes a young boy of my age tick. Suddenly, winning her over is no longer my only goal. There is so much to do, so many new things to learn and to experience. Eventually, the two of us become friends. Yet, I always felt like she was the one that got away and, perhaps, a part of me never gave up on the noble dream of there being an “US”. High school ends, we all go off to university, I leave Cape Town and move to JHB and I never see her again. Flash forward to 2005, Saturday morning, a week ago. I am in Rosebank. I park my car on the side of a busy street, and walk across the road to a CD store. It is a hot a spring /summer’s day. As I reach the other side, someone calls out my name. I stop and look around. And there SHE is. She looks just as she did all those years ago. Perfection! Suddenly, I am 13 again. So many years have passed... and at the same time so many have not. I feel awkward as I walk over to say hello to her. Wow, what are the odds of this happening? Dream girl and I meeting on the streets of Johannesburg. We start talking and catch up on old times and recent events. We laugh at the silly things we did way back then. It could not have been more than 10 minutes, but it feels like an hour. All of sudden, I notice a hand appearing on her shoulder. It is a man. I did not notice him coming up behind her while we are talking. On his right hand is a little boy, no more than 5 years old. She introduces us. Her husband and her son. She mentions their names but I can’t hear what she says. We shake hands and I smile, but I feel trapped… and foolish. I can feel the heat rising in my chest. The crystal ball that is my teenage heart… shatters. I look down and see a million broken pieces scattered around my feet. For a brief moment, they reflect the bright sunlight with blinding intensity and then... they are gone. We say our good-byes. I think she said something about keeping in touch and “we must get together soon”. I say, “Yeah, of course we must do that”. Inside… I know we won’t. I won’t call nor do I want to see her again. I walk back to my car, the CD shop completely forgotten, and sit there for about 5 minutes reflecting on what had just happened. I pick up the cellphone and call my gf. I ask her if she wants to come over and have dinner with me at my place that night. I’ll cook. She laughs and says ok, but she’ll bring the desert. I look back across the road; to the place where my youthful dream was shattered. I realise it was never my dream to begin with, just the silly notions of a 13 year old boy. I start the car. Suddenly, there's the faint odour of Aramis hair gel in my car. A residual memory. Haha… Damn, I spent a lot of time gelling my hair way back then. Some things never change. Reality and fantasy aren’t meant to meet. Not on a sidewalk in the suburb of Rosebank in Johannesburg. The odds are stacked, the bases are loaded and reality always wins.

On the subject of what she likes most about me, the girlfriend retaliated that I am a charming arsehole. I kid you not! Harumph!
Until that very moment, I have never even heard of a charming arsehole, but she says if there ever was such a thing(?), I would be the poster boy for it. (can you taste the sarcasm in this one?)
Ok… I flinched a bit, well quite a bit, at the mention of the word arsehole, but she assures me it is meant in the nicest possible way.
I laughed, as boyfriends always do, and mentioned that I thought it was kinda cute, although I had no bloody idea what she was talking about. I am never quite sure when it comes to these things and what the correct response should be.
I have given up trying to understand the subtle nuances of the female’s use of words and language. Ask any guy whose girlfriend has ever referred to the colour pink as "peach blossom " or to brown as "the colour of sun-ripened dates " when they talked about new tiles for the bathroom. I was of course completely unaware that the colour spectrum has moved into realm of fruits and other things of a vegetative nature.
Whatever happened to dear old ROYGBIV, I ask you!! But there you have it folks (and by folks I mean men), colour as we know it, no longer exists. [Don’t get even get me started on such statements as, “White is the new black]
Personally, I can think of a myriad of words to describe myself, the majority of which would include the words stud and hunk linked to other words such as charming, debonair, smooth and sophisticated. Apparently none of these come to mind when the woman I care about, thinks of me.
So when my girl calls me a charming arsehole, I bite my lip and assume she knows what she’s talking about. I smile my cutest smile and pretend that she means that I am charming in a somewhat rogue-ish, bad-boy sort of way.
Let’s be brutally honest here, most guys are arseholes anyway, so a charming arsehole may just be a step up on the evolutionary ladder.
For the briefest of moments I thought it was a game. I wanted to play along and call her something along the lines of feisty vixen, saucy bitch or something equally enigmatic. But then I decided that this is one game I am not going to win and gave up. What with me not being able to speak womanese [(n): the official language of the species native to the planet Venus], I am at a distinct disadvantage.
I may also seriously jeopardize my chances of having sex in the next ten years and that was there was the clincher.
I am charming arsehole… hear me purr!
Uhhhh…. you think perhaps the episode with the air hostess may have had something to with it?