Christopher Hitchens

A few weeks ago I came across a guy called Christopher Hitchens.  Its uncanny... because he just died.  While I only knew of him for a few weeks, it seems he was well known in academic and philosophical circles.

He's a pretty controversial figure, a lifestyle polemicist (I googled it: someone who argues in opposition) - having taken on the likes of God, Muslims, Mother Teresa... he campaigned for and against war, wrote many essays and apparently once got a Brazilian wax.

One of his books was 'God is not great'.  A controversial title if there ever was one.  So when I heard he had died I didn't have the usual sympathetic response, after all, this guy fought against things I stand for.

Thing is, God doesn't need to be defended.  That's so far removed from our role, even putting it in writing seems unnecessary.  It occurred to me that God might actually appreciate people like Hitchens; a guy who thought, and questioned.  It's unfortunate he didn't acknowledge God, but at least he must have considered it at some point...  I don't know, maybe not.

Moving house

Tis the seasons to be jolly, tis also the season to move house.  Having been a youth leader for a few years, I've acclimatized to getting couches and fridges (and anything else the Edge leaders leave lying around) through doorways.

Our move happened a few months ago, this time it was a friend... who specifically said I wasn't allowed to write a blog about this... Not sure why.  But to honour the friendship I will leave only vague clues.

An unexpected member of our amateur (only in remuneration) moving crew was friend X's new landlord.  What a legend, apparently an ex-Headmaster.  He quickly slipped into the mould of delegating tasks to teenagers, and while initially irritating, you can't fault a dude who spent his productive years in that position.  He also arrived with a handy trolley and enough rope to tie up an over-weight Mammoth.

As a guy, moving house comes with its own anxieties; a time when your knot-tying skills are put on show.  It can be an ego-boosting affair, or a bit of a downer, depending on the number of helpers with an agricultural background.  I enjoyed success at first, but had my ass handed to me on a plate after my granny knot was dismissed in favour of something more appropriate.

Breakdown

Sunday morning, en route a colonial morning of cricket at the Country Club... a lady broke down infront of me at Eric's Delicatessen.  She was at the front of the queue, and so we missed a whole green light as her car sputtered and jerked into the middle of the intersection and then stopped.

I've never owned an Uno, but my sister had two, and it was two too many when ranked in terms of reliability.  I pulled over to see what was up.  Having me pull over is definitely second prize; you basically get a hug and some company until someone with mechanical tendancies arrives.

The closest I got to practical assistance this time was a walk up the road to get some water for her bone-dry water... tank... tank.  Once her sister had arrived, I slipped away.

Service

I got my car serviced yesterday.  Picking your mechanic is more an art than a science.  Unfortunately you can't rate local mechanics on feedback from friends, because it's almost always bad.  My choice is somewhat limited, its either the dealership, or a guy called Graham in Gonubie.

My theory is that a dealership is more likely to replace than fix, and its unlikely that you would be able to chat to the offending mechanic who deprives your fridge of food and your kids of clothing for that month.  So I took the car to Graham.

The difference between Graham and the dealership; is that I got my car back soon after lunch... with a giant sandy boot print in the passenger footwell.  A footwell I spent Saturday morning cleaning with a small broom and a some wild sweeping. When Cath sends her car to the dealership it comes back glowing, but its on a service plan, so its a safe bet.

But I like Graham, and my car is feeling tight.  Now to go and make some two minute noodles...

Braai night

Monday is officially the unofficial braai night in Sandringham Road.  It's close on my favourite night of the work week, a peaceful time to sip a whiskey and kill mosquitoes on the deck.

Ryan joined us last week, I set about the food.  Turns out buying a whole chicken costs half as much as Checkers' Championship boerewors.  Their not-Championship boerie looks like it got left on the bench during the finals, so I left it in the fridge too.

One youtube video later; I'd turned my ex-Chicken into a flat-pack Weber ready bird.  I'm still not sure about the vent on the lid and its purpose.  So far I've narrowed it down to 'less smoke comes out the sides when its open'.  The open grid was filled with bread dough balls and an hour-20 later we were in heaven.  And all this magic for only R11.50 each.

Garcia Flats

Housemate Nic, catching me in a vulnerable moment last week, invited me to join him at Garcia flats on Saturday, for a games day with the kids/families who live in the area.

Garcia flats is a sprawling campus, with a number of blocks - probably housing a few thousand people (gross estimation).  But it's big, big enough to mute the ambient sounds of Camridge.  I use the term ambient fairly loosely there.

It wasn't the only break from my regular bourgeois existence.  In Cambridge, you don't get your face painted, you get a free temporary tattoo.

You should also be wary of an invitation to a tug-o-war competition.  The guys vs girls distinction loses some of its potency when you're up against one of the local Tannie's.  My pride and I got dragged across the lawn on Saturday morning; a blister the stinging reminder.

Our mini game of Frisbee went down well though, the kids showed extraordinary skills - no hidden joke here, we were really impressed.  Were it not for an awkwardly placed tree in the end zone, many more of my hammers would have been caught.

Le Concert

Looking for a decent movie on the New Arrivals shelf at Videoland (East London) is a tough ask.  Theres a whoooole lot of rubbish on offer.  Le Concert caught my eye.  It's like picking the wholewheat sandwich out of a tray of vetkoek and russians.  More healthy than you prefer, but really the only option.

Watching a foreign language film requires committment.  There's none of that 'get up and turn the kettle on' - infact, anything that occurs too far away from, or at a vector which prevents you reading the sub titles, isn't an option.  It's about focus, catching the sub-title and looking up quick enough to match it with the facial expression.

Good movie though; recommended for everyone holding a wholewheat sandwich.

Shampoo

I found myself at Game again.  As ever, I was tempted to ask a lady wearing a pink Sari whether she worked there.  I resisted the urge.

I was looking for a hair clipper, amongst other things; shampoo, deo, light bulb.  In my quest for the elusive hair clipper, I stopped for shampoo.

Not the same bottle, but yes... egg flavour.

I usually buy the cheapest option at Spar - J&J Family... because if it can clean a whole family then I'm on a good wicket.  They didn't have it.  They did have a cone shaped bottle of 'Classic Egg' flavoured shampoo though.  It was at that moment I knew I'd be writing a blog when I got home.

I didn't get shampoo.  I'm still not sure if Organics is girl shampoo, the Head & Shoulders is twice the price and the pink 1.5l bottle of 'Salon Grade' shampoo seemed a little excessive and I question which Salon exactly...  I'll be at Spar soon enough.

Police

I made a stop at the Cambridge Police Dept this afternoon.  My mission: certification.

It was pretty simple, there's a guy at the door who certifies things, all day.  The sign above his desk says 'Document certification'.

You don't need much to be a certifier, it basically comes down to one arm, mediocre eyesight and a pen.  You don't even need a desk, you could just press on the applicants back when you sign the paper off.  But can you handle it, the dude asked if he could keep the pen I brought, because he didn't have one.

All you government employees are at this point shaking your heads at my naievity... and yes, I realise that there are far more important things than ball point pens missing, but the fact that all this guy needed to do his job was a pen, and yet there was no pen, just blew me away.

It seems the arm of the law isn't long enough to reach the stationary drawer.

Multiple choice

Our semester test took place on Tuesday afternoon.  The original venue was double booked for an ANCYL rally.  Our class stood outside for a while, soaking up the spectacle.  Politics trumping education.  And running with the analogy, we soon found somewhere else to go and work.

Multiple choice questions are devious instruments.  At once rewarding the lazy and punishing the partially informed.  For the loafer they offer a wildcard entry into certified intelligence, while everyone who took some time to study is faced with having your partial understanding of a topic reduced to a stark '...i do, or don't..." understand this.

And then there's the mysterious MCQ paper marking machine; have you ever actually seen it?  And can you use a pen or not?  And why is the paper red?  It's like a warning "Beware, this will not be a true reflection of your intelligence... but it will be easy to mark, see you next year!"

Edit: Just this this article in the Dispatch http://www.dispatch.co.za/news/article/2183

Creche

Sunday morning found me knee deep in two year olds.  At times I was only ankle deep, largely due to the love/hate relationship toddlers have with gravity.

It was one of those moments you realise your trove of life experience counts for nothing.  Despite having actually been a toddler, I was at a loss.  When the first tears erupted I quickly passed the buck to Riaan, a helpful father who had stayed to assist with our 15 inmates.  There were only three guards.

One of the kids was advanced enoughh to put sentences together.  Rather than be impressed, it made me wonder if he ever gets bored with the gaping responses of his peers.  Will he become a psychopath?... misunderstood.  Who knows.

What I do know is that that is a beaver.  And that is a Walrus.  And that is a cricket.  And that kids choose books with cardboard pages over cheesy American sing-along DVDs.  Hardcopy for the win.  Once the animals books made an appearance I was set.

CMH

I finally made it out to visit Cath's office this weekend.  Not sure why its taken me so long, possibly because its  unlikely I'd be able to say "I was in the neighbourhood and thought I'd drop in...".

Cecelia Makiwane Hospital.  Better known as CMH.  It feels like you're in a boarding school, thats in the middle of some sort of out-break.  The yellow brick walls don't exactly say hygiene either.  Infact, you could well mistake the hospital for anything other than a hospital, until you don your clean boots and skate through the flourescant theatre.

I wondered whether theres a special ward for staff injured in 'clean boot related' accidents.

On a sobering note, it was an eye opener to see family members wheeling people around on stretcher beds because there aren't enough nurses to help.  A stark reminder that we are still 3rd world.  On a lighter note... the grin on the mothers face after crashing her son into the casualty door.

Tree

I was standing on the deck this week.  We only have three rooms in our flat, excluding bathrooms... which oddly, would make it six.  Sometimes I just like to stand and stare out over my kingdom, coffee in hand.

This tree got me wondering.  What is the story behind this ode to pruning?

Perhaps the previous resident was a minimalist.  Unsatisfied with the frills and lavishness of leaves, pursuing simplicity?

Or is this the calling card of the Sandringham Road (not Epsom Road) peacock?  - I will pillage your possessions as I have robbed this tree of all it held dear!

Is it some sort of navigation beacon, or a asherah pole of the lesser known lower-Vincent-Illuminati?

A domestic dispute? "Im cutting the tree down!", "No you're not!", "Fine, Ill just prune it then..."

The result of a GroupOn 'Tree felling voucher"?

Satellite

26 lumps of NASA space craft smashed into earth this weekend.  NASA asked that, should you find a piece of the 6 ton satellite, you shouldnt touch it, because it might be sharp.  And its theirs... hands off communists.  Chances of a piece hitting you are 3000:1, so make sure you're in a crowd.

Sunday morning, after a night staring at the ceiling counting segments I decided the time was right for a run.  I'd pieced together a route the night before, for the first time venturing into Beacon Bay.  I've never lived on the other side though, so many assumptions were made about distance.
I'm now intimately aquainted with everything you can see in Beacon Bay if you're staring at the ground; car mags, small dogs, verges, storm water drains and the wall I leant against while refuelling at the cafe where the N6 arrives in Slummies.

Vincent

Life wasn't overwhelming enough, so Nic and I decided to break camp and head for higher ground, and lower rent this month.  We now live in Vincent.  No longer do I risk a runner-homicide on the trip home along Beach Road, the new route affords little opportunity to kill anything, although that doesn't mean everything in Vincent deserves to live.
Enter the mini-circle user.

Admittedly, mini-circles are the stupidist, least thought out traffic device ever cemented into the tarmac... which is saying a lot.  However, they do exist, and choosing to ignore their unique rules, doesn't do anyone any favours.  Least of all people living nearby who frequent the circle.  Me. I do. I live nearby.

Then there's the peacock.  Yes, we're in Vincent now.  Vincent, home of exotic wildlife.  Gone are the mundane Border Colleys, miscriant cats and greyish/brown doves of Nahoon.  Nic and I have each spent time trying to pin point the bird's location, thus far vexed by the echo in dip we're living in.  But when we do find it...

Genesis

06:00 - Aaang Aaaang Aaang Aaaang...
06:00:01 - Fumble for 'Snooze'
06:00:04 - Wait for heart rate to return to safe operating levels.
06:04 - Stumble through to kitchen, put kettle on
06:05 - Return to kitchen, lean on cupboard and bend into fridge to get milk
06:07 - Lift kettle off stand before it explodes (kettle no longer stops when it boils)
06:09 - Fumble in cupboard for ginger biscuits. Retrieve two.  Return to bedroom.
06:10 - Sit down on bed.  Pull blanket over legs and stare at lap.
06:10:15 - Stick ginger biscuit into mouth.
06:10:20 - Chew biscuit.
06:12:00 - Slurp coffee.
06:12:10 - Dunk leftover half of biscuit and put in mouth. Chew.
06:12:20 - Dunk second biscuit.  Put whole biscuit in mouth.
06:12:25 - Feel regret over having eaten second biscuit so quickly.
06:13:00 - Slurp coffee.

And so it began.

Mornings - the less verbose edition.

And now, using less words following reader complaints.


I don't like getting up.  When it's dark I want to be in bed.  Sometimes I do - but it doesn't mean its easy.  I avoid all humans till 8am.  Ask Nic... he knows :)


When it was cold, it was even harder.  I hardly ran these last 3 months. Fail.  Now I spend 10 minutes negotiating my release from bed.


The plan of action:


The easy win.  Every now and then I just get up.  So I usually just mumble "OK, Let's go running"... in case its one of those mornings.


Isolation.  If I'm still lying bed, I talk through each of the excuses keeping me there.  This can take time, depending on how creative I'm feeling.


Go Time.  Once I've run out of excuses, and have woken myself up through the inner turmoil, I have about 15 seconds to roll out of bed and put the kettle on.

Mornings

I'm no morning person.  Depending on the definition, you might be fooled into thinking that seeing as I managed to leverage my ass out of bed, I might quaify for membership in that most despised clique.  But then I can't handle conversation before 8am and would rather remain unengaged.

Winter was tough.  I had logged an impressive number of morning runs through autumn, unfortunatley my resolve didn't have the legs for the month of June... then July and then August.  My bad.  This has lead to a lot of heavy debate at 5 in the morning (albeit only once a week).  Between me and my less keen inner man.

Methodology.

The easy win.  There have been a few moments of unforced discipline in the last month, so first stop is a simple 'OK, lets go running'.  Unfortunately, this remains an unlikely solution.

Isolation.  Phase 2 is a movement to isolate this run as a vital inclusion into my weekly excersize, and a systematic dismantling of all excuses put forward.  Seriously, I do this.

Go time.  Once I have motive on my side, the crucial 'Actually getting out of bed' moment arrives, and failure to act within the window of opportunity can be game-chaning, read game ending.

Escalator

Having spent a great evening, enjoying the company of Bambla, Phat and a large smoked chicken sandwich - we headed back through the mall, to find our cars.

Hemingways Mall is on a lean diet.  Escalators to and from unimportant, unused parts of the mall... like the parking lot, are switched off after dark.  Escalator temporarily stairs. Sorry for the convenience. (Hedberg)

There were two escalators, an up and a down.  The down escalator was on.  Technically, we could have used the 'up'... since it was infact a Swiss flavoured stationary, but we headed for the mobile down.  Only to be met by a man running up the down.  A rebel, excersizing... apparently... and enjoying is right to shun convention.

In fairness, it was after 9... if you're looking for a thrill in East London... or anything open, you have to work with what you've got.

Corenza C

I took a sick day today.  Things took a downward turn on Friday when I woke up with a scratchy throat.  Far be it for me to whine, after a weekend of feeling below average, I'm definitely on the mend.

I've had great success in the last few encounters with sickness by allying myself with Sinumax.  This time around, I took Cath's advice and went with Corenza C.  C for vitamin C I think.  Thing is, I had all this time on my hands, and my experience with this new pill was unlike the heart pounding, highly strung pseudoephedrine induced Sinu-coaster... so I wikipedia'ed the active ingredient in Corenza.  Phenylephrine.

It seems to have risen to prominence after 'they' discovered that pseudoephedrine can quite easily be reduced to crystal meth.  Thus its become subject to regulators and drug companies have switched to phenylephrine to sidestep them.

However, time being aplenty, I then googled 'How much does crytal meth cost', and someone suggested around $100 a gram.  While my 120mg Sinumax tablets cost about R35 for 10... and thus using ridiculous extrapolation, pseudoephedrine is about R40 per gram.

So maybe drug companies just did the figures and discovered there was a 'premium pricing' alternative, which in many cases is subject no legislation... hard as society may try.

Potato and Leek

Last night's soup evening with another cell was another capacity extending moment.  I'd scheduled a double batch of Potato & Leek after work and a stop at Spar... and then I offered someone a lift.  All with a 7pm deadline, in Abbotsford... which in local terms is a full-on roadtrip.

It would have been fine, except we don't really do kitchen equipment at May Street.  So my two and a half litres of soup was being transported in a 2.5l pot.  You do the math.  Simple division should suffice.

I set off with my 2.5L Potato & Leek G-meter.  It was an eye opener.  Each remotely sharp bit of braking was punished with a slap of soup onto the tray.  Mighty good call on the tray.  I imagine that spilling that much liquid potato would be literally the 5th or 6th worst thing you could spill in your car; beaten only by paint, motor oil, a barrel of pilchard juice or the full contents of a government officials' bladder.  After a staff party.

Learners License

I hit the home straight today.  The last step to getting me back on two wheels legally was Learners License; the Trilogy.

I feel like I'm an old hand at it now, but things got off to a rocky start.  The examiner walks you through 4 demo questions, just to make sure everyone knows how to do a multiple choice test.  More on that later.

Question 1:  What is the most important rule on the roads?
a) Dont break the speed limit
b) Be careful and courteous at all times
c) Keep left as far as is safe.

She prompted her class for the answer and I confidently said B, while literally everyone other person in the room said C.  C was correct.  It was a little awkward.

Fortunately I prevailed.

I chatted to a father - waiting for his son to write, while waiting for our marks.  He proudly told me his son had been driving around that morning by himself.  Sans-license.  I should probably have a problem with it, except some people who passed needed help understnding how multiple choice works... so I'm going to let it slide.

Stuff

I watched a skit by a comedian called George Carling once.  It was called Stuff.  I suspect it was a little on the foul side, but he made some good points.  Humans collect stuff.

Following a recent windfall... of stuff... from Dad's house. I went to Game to source some plastic chests to replace the haphazard box collection (aka cockroach funfair), in my garage.

While I was at the shops (Game), I noticed a lady pushing a trolley down the aisles.  She clearly wasn't an employee... but, she was wearing a bright pink top, pushing a bright pink trolley in Game.  I was "this close" (thats pretty close, Kietsphat) to asking her if she worked there.  It would have been epic.  Sensitivty caught me unfortunately.

I found the plastic containers (black).  The sticker on them said "Addis... Our black is green".  George made a great point in another skit... he said, "We worry we're killing the world with plastic... the world isn't going anywhere... We are!"

Meatloaf

Putting food on the table isn't as easy as studying for a degree, finding a job in a competitive market and then putting in 9hrs a day behind your desk... you also need to decide what to put on the table.

I find myself in this vexing position twice a week, and while housemate Nic is an entirely accomodating person-who-eats-what-i-cook, I need to eat what i cook too.

I've seen them before, I've even done that thing where you pick something up and judge its quality by shaking it up and down to see how much it weighs.  Caught in the tumult of last minute menu planning, I grabbed the Spar meatloaf and headed off to find an accompanying carb.

Kudos to the marketing department, their openness and synchronised deception is noteworthy.  Had they called it beef loaf, or pork bread... the butchery's hands would be tied... had they not covered the meatloaf in cheese, an astute shopper might have noticed the unusual combination of dead animals contained within.

To make matters worse, while I was manouvering our meat-bonanza out of the oven it slipped... bounced (unusual for a meat) and then lay wobbling on the vinyl floor.

Nic summed it up well - "That was... ok... I wouldnt serve it to... anyone else"

Licensing

The licensing department. Where hopes and dreams are crushed, hourly.

I may soon have to pay rent for my square meter at the bottom of Oxford Street. Fortunately I'm going to make a killing on licensing & registration consulting. There can't be many registrations tasks I haven't tried my hand at these last two weeks.

I've tried renewing and selling trailers and cars... held in an estate; registering and road worthying a motorbike... with an expired license... without a valid drivers license... which isn't yet in my name. Bam. I'm becoming one with NatIS.

When tackling a system, all you need is the right inputs. Which would be palateable if most of the inputs weren't wads of cash. I will persevere.

I'm getting addicted to seeing people run into the brick wall of documentation. At least 1 in 3 victims (applicants) queue for 30 minutes, only to discover that they need 2 ID photos, not 1 (today), or that they need a road worthy certificate to license their new car (also today) or that they shouldn't have filled in section B (last week). It's like watching an accident happen in slow mo.

Most unsettling is that no one gets angry. People come expecting to fail. Not entirely dissimilar to watching idols. I may try singing for the clerk when I head back on Wednesday.

Tomorrow I'm breaking the monotony with a trip to the traffic department for a roadworthy, with a side of learner's license application.

Hyundai Accent BGZ 311 EC

The end of an era.

The Hyundai just left my drive way. It signals much needed progress in my fight against motor vehicle admin. But its not without some sentimental mourning.

It was the first car I picked myself. In hindsight, I made the decision without much knowledge. Infact, it highlights the relative ignorance that someone can operate in, and enjoy a fair degree of success. It makes me wonder what I'll look back on in 5 years and shake my head at.

The Hyundai has taken many roles. It became the mascot for Team Hyundai. An aptly named squad. United by its Navy'ness. Megs, Wingwoman, Cat and Se'... we'll need to re-evaluate our unity.

It took me to Port Alfred for a weekend with good friends; Stu, Mole, Kietsphat & Jamo and got us home safe - despite one massive pothole on the way back. I remember driving the whole way with all the windows down, making those Rebecca Black wind dolphins for an hour an half because I couldn't hear Dean.

Its been ghost ridden. True story. We danced while it rolled.

Mandy left her mark, the front door still opens funny. Your legacy lives on Kemp :)

Its been hand braked turned. Quiet about that one.

It's more recently been to Hogsbck for an awesome weekend of coldness, sherry, more coldness, and to discovering a great friend Pete.

It took us to Matola for the last holiday we had with Mom. And I remember clocking in at 140 with revs to spare on the way there.

It ferried Cath and I on our first date, fortunately it was dark and didn't advertise its cancerous skin condition.

That reminds me, I top speeded it at 170km/ph.... on a private road... not a public one. Heehee.

I took it past the 200 000km (not ph) mark. My planned celebration failed because I lost track of the mileage and probably passed the iconic mark en-route the Spar to buy a chicken burger.

And now its getting its body redone by the new owner and will come out looking better than ever, a well deserved 3rd wind.

Car wash

Having screwed up vast tracts of admin and car maintenance with my trusty Hyundai, I'm hell bent on keeping my new wheels in good condition. I've resigned myself to upkeep costs, and I'll get the paperwork done correctly if it kills me. Or a government official. Depends.

I feel particularly satisfied when it's clean. It's not just the car either, I feel like I've made progress when something which was dirty... becomes clean. Seriously cheap thrills. But you got to take the easy wins sometimes... keeps you in the game.

I'm perfecting the system too. Following a presumably heavy night, tenant Greg took out the only tap within hose-reach of the driveway. All washing has thus reverted to the bucket system. Fortunately not that bucket system; clean water is on tap. If I follow the right route around the car; roof-bonnet-side-boot-side-wheels... I can get by in 3 buckets and a splash to wash my feet.

Then I get to drive around and make people believe my car is a true reflection of my tight ship.

Fest: Navigation

More on our trip to the Arts Fesival.

Grahamstown is a small place, its the sort of small that makes you believe you'll always know where you are, and that maps are for sissies.

In the same way that Grahamstown's dimensions are comforting, Pete's choice of car turned out to be a bit misleading too. Once I realised that I was infact disorientated, I decided to follow-that-Polo to the next venue. We were pleased to see that Pete et al had waited for us a short way down the road, en route the next show.

This appreciation vanished like the puff of a leather goods salesman's pipe in a strong wind, when the Polo pulled over and an old man climbed out. It seems this old man and his equally advanced travel-mates had lead us astray. Literally.

We then confidently set off in a general direction, in search of the Victoria Theatre.

Finding your way around a foreign town involves an element of voodoo, and in our case feelings and hunches were the only tools we had at our disposal. I think someone even said "im sure its down here, it makes sense". Hows that for precision navigation.

Fest '11

The Grahamstown National Arts Festival. Its that time again.

I'd never class myself as cultured. The only stuff I read regularly is nytimes.com and Aljazeera. I really enjoy music... but I'm only interested in the melody, and while I play the guitar, I still don't know which string is which. True story.

After our trip to the Fest though, Im beginning to think none of that matters. What really struck me this weekend was the fun aspect. Two of the three shows we watched had as much to do with 'appreciation of the arts' as my high school's 'Cultural Week' (a week which only succeeded in highlighting how little culture existed.).

I was inspired by ordinary people, comfortable infront of a crowd, having fun and getting paid to do it, not to mention the standing ovations they won.

Holiday Club

Smudge

Last night our cell helped out at the Stirling Baptist Holiday club. A carnival was staged for the kids, and leaders were paired up to run various stalls.

Adam and I were tasked with selling Smudge. We weren't actually selling it, the kids got some tickets that they could redeem for games and food. But the principle of limited resources satisfying unlimited desires still applied.

In order to out perform the other volunteers we applied some fundamental marketing strategies.

Sales floor:
What matters most in any retail situation is not the quality of the product, rather the appearance of your store. Anyone who's eaten at Spur can verify this. Thus we pillaged some traffic cones and an umbrella to outfit our store in an intimate, yet edgy atmosphere.

Market competition:
Our product was good, but for some reason the kids insisted on investing in games which didn't guarantee return. We approached the market with various slogans, like "You won't always win at carpet bowls, but you always win with Smudge". and "Do you have an ailment?... Because we have the cure" - emphasizing the obvious psychological (if not dietry) benefits of Smudge.

Mobile advertising:
A must-have in any modern day marketing strategy. Unfortunately, due to the complete lack of infrastructure... from internet connections, e-commerce facilities and a critical lack of 'small children with cellphones'... we instead took our store mobile, and hawked our goods through the carnival grounds.

Unfortunately the only available auditors were actually running one of the other stalls, but I'm sure if an impartial judge were present, we would certainly have taken a sweet victory.

127 Hours

I generally avoid movies which are anything other than entertaining. Call me narrow minded but there are other opportunities to be challenged and stretched emotionally everyday, they needn't make themselves visible when I'm vegging on the couch.

One recently snuck by in the guise of a man-movie night. 127 Hours. Now that I think about it, I also watched Blood Diamond on the weekend, largely for educational purposes. Back to 127 Hours. I won't spoil it for you, but its enough to say my bum still clenches when I think about some of the scenes.

In aid of this triumph of human spirit, Ive decided to change my entry to the longer of the two runs this weekend, in the Katberg Eco Trail Run series.

Lunar Eclipse

Am I the only one who felt a bit let down by this week's Lunar Eclipse?

Albeit, I don't have much to compare it to, but aside from being unusual, it wasn't nearly as exciting as the prospect of our pizza cooking in the oven.



The guy in the video says, 'if... you saw the moon had gone an eery shade of red, you musnt be alarmed'. Which raises another point, if a red tinted moon would ordinarily alarm you, its likely you wouldn't have seen the moon at all... You would likely be incapacitated infront of the TV watching the BBC Newshour report on unrest in the Middle East, Iran's nuclear program, riots in Greece and an eColi breakout in Europe.

Our pizza was tasty, a gourmet creation.

(Check out the video here email subscribers.... http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pFaYyhaaCPU )

Flood

We had some epic rain this weekend. There was no warm spell to introduce it, it just rained like crazy for 3 days.

Everything facing upright which resembled a bowl flooded. Including my car's foot well.  Emphasis on well. Turns out the drainage system has a crucial design flaw, but nothing that couple of hundred bucks and a big heater can't fix. And possibly some newspaper.

In chaotic times, news travels faster than it should. I received reports that the sluice gates at Nahoon dam had been opened, only to be told that the dam has no sluice gates. That particular question remains unanswered.

On a positive note, the flood did provide alternative entertainment for the weekend, and had it not availed itself Im not sure what we would have done to entertain friends visiting form the Cape. Flood-damage sight seeing has something going for it.

Check out a wicked video by @kyllcs here http://www.pixelperspective.co.za/4/

C.O.R.

Humans are generally poor estimators of cost.  My uncle recently advised us not to spend money fixing up the house before we sell, because buyers usually under-estimate how much it will cost to renovate, and so rather them than you.

Turns out car buyers find themselves in a similar state of denial, and if not financially, then definitely in terms of how much time it will take.

My gorgeous car, which I have already developed a deep attachment to, has continued to vex me.  Ive since missed the road worthy date and will be paying the South African government another few hundred bucks while I wait for mechanic-Graham to sort out the inside drivers' door handle.  It decided, with an air of indifference, to simply stop working on Saturday morning.

Do not be naive.  A car which arrives with a COR, especially one from the AA, is worth it.

Bus Ride

Big news in my my world right now is that I bought another car.  Yes, I have retired the Hyundai.  I have mixed emotions - the Hyundai has been an honest companion.

carrier of choice

In order to get my paws on the new wheels I had a gauntlet to run, or ride... a bus trip to Graaff Reinet.  I wonder what the saving rate would look like nationally if you had to do a 7 hour bus ride before you could spend more than 10 gorillas.

Surprisingly, we left on time.  More surprisingly, I was quite enjoying myself... until we hit Queenstown.  The chairs are pretty comfy, and the window is big.  In Qtown we filled the bus.  My travel partner became a Somalian dude, who, from what I could make out... didn't speak English, but had taken a 2 hour ride on the back of a bakkie to get to the bus.  Hectic.  We're blessed to have cars.

A lady attempted to sell me a mielie at one stop... hawkers are fair game on board it seems.  While tempted I decided against it, budget concerns cited.

In hindsight it was pretty uneventful.

Tundra

Its. been. so. long.

Fortunately, I took part in my first ever mountain bike race.  The Kenton Extreme Eco Challenge.  I had to do something positive with the experience.

courtesy of jannes.

I don't own a bike and the sourcing of one went something like, "Kyle, do you have a bike?... Uuuuh... yes, it has two wheels. Great, can I borrow it?'

The Tundra, as it became known, developed legendary status on the weekend.  We actually beat some people, which I loved.  All I had was pride and a mild determination to live up to Lance's opinion 'Its not about the bike'.  It remains to be seen what Lance could have achieved on the Tundra, but the principle holds.

No regrets though.  It was good to do something tough.

At one point I lost my mind slightly, I had 2kms left to go in soft sea sand and I got owned by a wave.  Yes, a wave.  I think I shouted something Truman'esque.

Ag Show

I went to the Ag Show at the BEC.  That's short for Agricultural Show.  On one hand its supporting local business, I walked away with a tasty jar of pickles (Debbie 076 654 9155), and there's probably a committee of people lying on couches around town, breathing a sign of relief that the 2011 show is finally over, after months of planning.

On the other hand, I can't help but wonder if this is just another white, cultural thing.  Another thing whites do.  If you interrogate anyone who enjoyed their visit, you'll likely discover they what they really enjoyed was the crowd, the walk in the sun and their koeksister.  Is a full-scale fair the best possible vehicle for getting people into the sun, eating koeksisters and chatting?

Would a 'koeksister, en jou sister' day in the park not have the same effect.  Or, 'pancakes, and handshakes' at the beach.  Or a 'give me 20 bucks and i'll talk to you outside, here eat this' day.

Ultimate death match suggestion: Second hand book seller vs. sunglasses salesman.

No dumping

While cutting through suburbia on the way to the hairdresser yesterday I discovered a sign.  No Dumping.  A testament to community optimism.

The sign was on a light pole, on a pavement, in a completely developed corner of Vincent.  I'm staggered that enough people dumped their trash on that man's lawn that he felt it neccessary to put up a sign.

Dream with me for a second.  A builder has 2 tonnes of building waste to get rid of.  The tip is far away, deep within the 'hood (aka Amalinda), it's late and he wants to get home to his wife.  He decides to ditch his rubble en route HQ.  But just as he begins shovelling... he sees the sign.  Realising his error he re-clamps the tailgate and commits to making a more suitable arrangement, or at very least, to finding another lawn.  Really?

I don't think I'd be able to sneak that one past if I took a tramacet.  And you can sneak a lot past me when I've had a tramacet.

Mouse (Continued)

The next episode of the mouse tale unfolded this morning.  What I never mentioned was that a second mouse had taken lodging in our kitchen and could be seen dashing across the floor whenever you walked into the room.

It was cute for a while and I assumed we be able to scoot it out the door at some point, but last night CP and I decided enough was enough and got down to some serious trap building.  The idea was we'd try a new design every day until we nabbed the critter, taking the opportunity to entertain ourselves with creative custom-rodent-nabbing-machinery.

I had a number of designs running through my head; involving a small 'room of mirrors', large pictures of cats to make the rat back peddle into a toothpick and CP was ready to mix an evocative female-mouse call to lure the refugee.

We deployed our firsy trap at about 10pm, a simple one-way-flap-trap.  More than that, we researched the prefered mouse diet and laid out an enticing spread.

And so it was with a degree of dissappointment when I discovered a mouse tail, a subtle electric buzzing noise and a mild smell of burning mouse coming out of the toaster at 6:12 this morning.

Mouse community 0 : Toaster 2

Mouse

Out of sight, out of mind is an apt description of our digs' garden.  Specifically the path running behind the house, used exclusively by tenant Greg.  The only time I ventured through what had become a wild and terrifying secret-garden'esque tunnel was to locate miscellaneous items that Celine, the domestic vigilante, had hung out to dry.

A man was hired.  He was given time, a machete and apparently loose guidelines on what a socially acceptable time to start chopping on a Sunday morning is.  Note to reader, its not 07:30.

In a seemingly unrelated venture I got down to making a snack after Church, only to find my slice of bread obstructed on entering the toaster.  Obstructed by a par-cooked field mouse.

Theory goes; our indigenous (unconfirmed) eco bonanza in the pathway had become a favourable habitat for mice.  Subsequent remodelling resulted in our house, ne toaster, becoming a safe-zone.  The mouse is just lucky rodent society doesn't sport a version of the Darwin Awards.

Complacency

It's easy to become complacent, and every now and then something you've taken for granted disappears and you find yourself clasping the coffee bottle between your knees trying to get the top off with one hand.

this isn't me.

I went in for a glorious try at Frisbee on Thursday evening, putting in an akward dive in the in-zone to catch a pass.  Alas, I hit the deck, without the prize in hand and snapped my collar bone.  Had I caught it, it would have been totally worth it.

Observations since Thursday:

• Shoe laces are a total cost.
• It gets light at about 5:45.
• I'm not as mentally stable as I like to think I am.
• Predictive text has a way to go.

Life is balanced though, in tough times the medical community grants you special license to partake in things ordinarily reserved for addicts and the homeless.  My Tramacet may have negatively affected social interactions but its been fun spending time with my new friend Charlie the unicorn.

Mutton

We didn't cater for our weekend away in Port Alfred.  Instead, we arrived. Then we went shopping.

In keeping with the theme of our holiday, when we'd stocked up on bread, we went hunting for meat.  There was a vague menu plan;  that we'd eat at least 3 times a day, and we'd braai when it was dark.

Nic and Jay returned with a herd of old sheep neatly packed into a jumbo mutton bonanza pack.  I voiced my approval and we went looking for less-essentials.

Alas, our meat megaload turned out to be a wolf in sheeps clothing.  The not so nice parts of an old and sinewy wolf... to be sure.  But these are just life lessons, filed alongside the invaluable chicken-pie know how I've gleaned in the past three years.

All the ladies in our lives will be pleased to know, that the over-riding sentiment, following Sunday night's supper was that girls definitely up the ante when it comes to meal times.  That said, all that time saved by forfeiting salad, a decorated table and a table... meant we made the build up to round one of 2011's MotoGP in Qatar.

Fishing

My shiny new fishing rod has been gathering dust, lying in two pieces under my bed since I got it in Feb.  But a man-weekend of braaing, fishing and farting in Port Alfred promised an opportunity to get it wet.

Jay organised a barge for Saturday and we set out, for what looked like a week judging by our supplies, down the Kowie River.

Like other skillful hobbies, people in the know make it look easy, and noobs make it look impossible.  I, fulfilling the role of the latter, quickly pulled a lead in the 'Kraaines' award race.  Defn: When your neatly rolled fishing line erupts into a ball of unimagineably intertwined mess.

But fishing is everything I dreamt it would be.  Which isn't much... infact, its largely standing on a boat, or a shore.  Second only to floating on your back in the river.  Verified.

I was pleasantly surprised that I'm not that squeamish.  Everything else about fishing is quite pleasant, but baiting your hook with a variety of dismembered sea creatures pretty much makes up for it.

Snorkelling

East London is outdoorsy.  No debate.  Most popular item of clothing in summer: a Surfer's Challenge t-shirt.

So when Frisbee player Brad pitched snorkelling in the river just below the Highlander, the opportunity to experience a niche outdoor acitivity was too much to resist.

I'm guessing we were enjoying a low tide, because water was in scarce supply in the lagoon, 2 Frisbee fields worth to be exact. We found a channel running along the rocks, with genuinely inviting, mediterranean looking water.

Snorkelling equipment is awesome.  It's like it was specifically designed without the human face in mind.

I was standing in the pond, up to my chin, watching some minnows nibble my toes.  Picturesque indeed.  Cath and Brad were dissecting the snorkel-mask connection mechanism.  Once the space invaders were ready to rock... bottom... I acted as bait while they gasped and splurted around me.  Snorkelling catch 22... you look ridiculous, but if you laugh, you drown.

When I finally got underwater it became clear, that it wasn't clear.  Strangely cloudier with goggles in place.  But on the other hand, you can get a lot deeper, and when we decended into the trench we discovered a satisfying collection of, albeit grey, fish.

Highlight of the trip:  Watching the snorkellers do pool monsters.

Japan tsunami

I'm not sure this deserves a whole post, but Ill try and make it count.

My desk job, and liberal internet access mean that I've been able to track events in Japan, from the initial reports of an earthquake, to footage of the tsunami devastating the island.  Its tragic.  If you haven't had a chance to check it out, go have a word with IT and see if they'll give you access over lunch.

I am genuinely speechless, the task at hand is unimaginable.

But Japanese spirit is strong, and I have no doubt they'll pull through.

However, this disaster has revealed that there is a group of people with no hope.  Lost... beyond help.

- Alwyn, a News24 reader suggests "All this is mother natures payback for the dolphins,whales and Rhinos"

I woud have passed it off as some idiot who's outlook onlife is pinned on his daily pimple count, but then someone said it infront of me!!

Thank you world.  You have once again called my bluff.  Back to the drawing board.

Fish fingers

In an attempt to streamline our meals, and eat a litle more salad, and not cook everyday, our digs now cooks together, or rather, one person cooks for everyone.

The challenge of putting something desirable infront of your housemates twice a week is proving difficult, and I found ymself clutching a pack of fish fingers, in desparation, in the Spar on Wednesday evening.

Thing is, I remember fish fingers being about an inch wide, solid, filling... mainly big and chunky.  I haven't eaten them in ages.  Years. Maybe even a decade.  I picked a box of 12, 4 each... plenty.

Alas, not so.

What a let down! Spindly, diet fingers, no substance, no inch-wide'ness... I could have eaten the whole box. Faux-fish-fingers.  Not cool I&J, if all the Omega three you're adding means you can't fit enough fish in the finger... then lets check our priorities.

On a positive note, there were suspicions that the fingers were made out of shark.  A careful analysis of the ingredients brought clarity.  That said, Im sure shark fishing is a high risk business and getting less shark for your buck is a more palateable cutback.

Geocaching

The internet is a pervasive creature, taking ground daily into our lives... first it was the restuarant menu, then scrabble word checking...

But as much as is available, living in East London, aka the tech-bunker, means we have to be content with qualified access to all the web has on offer.  So when Jay discovered geocaching, and then discoverd a trove of sites within easy reach of a Slummies local, we couldn't resist.

Geocaching works like this.  I hide something, give you the GPS co-ords... you go find it, leave a note in the container (cache), and then brag to everyone else on geocaching.com, about how you actually found it; giving cryptic advice to future treasure hunters.

We may have been a little ambitious; attempting to hit 3 sites in our Friday lunch hour. Equipped with a suspect cellphone GPS and a naive amount of enthusiasm, we returned empty handed.

Things we did find:
A trove of cigarette stompies
Two wasps nests
Some would-be muggers, who couldn't speak highly enough of the view from their lookout (read dark corner out of public view) over the Nahoon River.

Questions left unanswered:
What does a cabbage tree look like? (another cryptic clue)

Driving Range

2011 has brought with it a range of new hobbies.  Some of them, golf, have entirely shallow roots - in this case, career advancement.  Phase one of my foray into golf is a weekly trip to the driving range.

I can already tell that assimilating myself into golfing culture is going to take some serious humility, and not exclusively because I'm clueless.  Rather, the staff at the Mercedes Benz Driving Range in Nahoon (East London) have an unfortunate manner.

But the wheel turns.  One minute you're being cheeky, the next you're standing 100m away from me picking up balls... hovering in my kill zone.

Ironically, and not entirely surprisingly, it was the act of backing off on the power a bit - to avoid hitting the ball collector - which allowed me to hit a beauty thath ended in him dishing out a birdie of his own.

My pride, and skulls, in tact... I left feeling positive - a massive improvement on last weekend's visit to the range.

ICT services

On Thursday, following an attempt to log on at the Fort, to retrieve some lecture slides from the intranet, I had a run in with the ICT department.  ICT services the sign announces, ambiguously.

Turns out I didn't exist on the UFH admin system, or at least the part which allows you to log onto the intranet.

Today, after being referred, I ventured into the Registration Enquiries... room... queue.  I got another copy of my Proof of Reg and returned, with renewed energy to the ICT office.  This time she just added me onto the network.  So. Many. Questions.

So many things I wanted to say.  But there was no time, because I had a date with Accounts; in the basement.  Mission: account statement.

Three times I had to play the innocent white guy, caught in the admin crossfire.  A guy who couldn't stand in that ridiculous queue because he has to get back to work.  To bring home the bacon.

When I left the office I announced that I was going to kick some ass at the Fort.  Yet I returned with the taste of ass on my lips and with the paper I needed in my bag.  Seems like it was draw.

Surfers

Last weekend, about 4000 people... myself included... stood scantily clad, staring down a road... which would soon prove to be too narrow, at the start of East London's favourite running race, the Surfers Challenge (Marathon).

Don't believe the lie that you can run the whole way, or that its a pleasant run because of the scenery.  If you intend on bagging a t-shirt (which lets be hoenst, is the only reason people participate), then its a tough slog across a variety of surfaces, few of them pleasant.  That is until Gonubie of course.  The main reason they included the Gonubie river is to get people to stop and prepare for the adulation.  Crowds of deck-chaired citizens line the streets, armed with hoses, beers and miscelaneous sprinkler systems - eager to spot someone they know.

I actually love the race.  Run.  It's unlike any of the conservative local club runs, where you have to care about your time, or who you beat.

I spent the first few kilometres running behind a blow up doll, cellotaped to a dude, who it turns out I know quite well.  Small world.  I saw my Aunt, work mates, met an old school friend and managed to beat my bosses.  Alas my sisters boss beat me.  But, I got a shirt, and was able to avoid the unenviable 'XXXL' fire sale just before the cut-off.

Police

Just when you think you won't have much to write about, you find yourself at the local police station reporting a crime.

I was off to a good start, the queue was only 1 person long, which is seriously aenorexic for a government department.  Of course, if the queue doesn't move, you may as well be standing outside, in the parking lot.  Fortunately the incumbent got all of his papers certified and I was suddenly speaking to an officer.

The local station looks nothing like this...

I wondered if the customer service people are actually cops, or whether their peers make fun of them, and do they have guns?!  How far would you have to push them while making your statement before they used it?  If I as a citizen had a gun while I was there, I may have used it... Maybe they have guns because citizens have lost it while make statements.  Who knows?!

After a confession that the only reason I was there was insurance related, I left. The calm assurance of a case number by sms, my prize.

Down Town

Festivities over, Kyle and I headed down Oxford Street again on Friday, to investigate the infamous Eastern haunt, China Town (still unconfirmed).  It was open, and there were more cars around to back up the promise of the curious, cavernous, roller door.

Every now and then a nation reinforces every negative stereotype you may have of it; when Julius gets behind a microphone, or Steve Hofmeyer gets on stage.  China's tourist dept took another hit last week as we entered their only un/official local ambassador.

The blue print for a store within the China Town complex (read warehouse) is apparently standardized.  You need a stool, a cell phone and a Mandarin speaking assistant.  When it comes to merchandise, fear not, just rack up whatever you've got.

Highlight was the electronics... room... old school TV gmaes (with 3D graphics... allegedly) for 80 bucks, portable DVD players, radio/mp3 and other... things you can plug in... or stick flash disks into.

I picked up some mementos from our trip, a 'Security' cap and two fortune cookies, which I paid 3 Land for.

China Town

While a lunch break is an unfortunate partner for accomplishing chores, in a town like Slummies you can still accomplish a lot in your mid-day down time.  Yesterday I convinced Kyle to come adventuring with me to China Town.  The sign is in Chinese... it may or may not actually be called that.

A short trip across town, sandwich in hand, and we found ourselves in the expansive parking lot, in hindsight... it was an expansive but empty parking lot.

We made our way into the warehouse like shop, its really not a shop, and walked through isle after isle of bulk packed food.  Strangely, I had expected much 'Made in China' type knick knacky stuff... but all we found was 5 litre caterer grade mayonnaise and 12 packs of coffee.

Turns out, China Town is not the only store bordering that car park.  There's also a wholesaler.

Destination reset, we made our way toward the Mandarin homeland, only to be told that its Chinese New Year, and they'd be open again on Friday.  It was deserted, roller doors shut tighter than the North Korean border.

Directions; straight down Oxford Street, right into Park Avenue at St Georges Presbyterian.


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