Techno Challenged.

Ever since I was small I knew that I was destined for great things. I knew this because my mom used to say “You are destined for great things” I remember she would play me the song “We are Growing” by Margaret Singana, make me sit down and tell me that the song was about Shaka Zulu. He was a great leader for his people and my mom made no secret of the fact that she admired him. Then she would tell me that I must listen to the words of the song because they are singing about me. I hated that ritual of hers, but now it is one of the things that I miss the most. So I knew that I was going to be great. I can however say with a clear heart that my greatness will have nothing to do with technology. It is not that I do not like or do not appreciate technology. I work on the latest Apple Mac and I love it. However after working on it for a few months I only discover the i-tunes buttons on the keyboard. I think it is a combination of not being the brightest crayon on the box when it comes to technology and the fact that even though I love technology, it fucking hates me. But with all of this said and done, I am very impressed by the fact that I am able to operate this blog. I didn’t know if I would be able to do and now I have. So then a friend of mine told me about freewebs.  This is a thing on the internet that allows you to make free websites. Cha-Ching!!! Me and technology goes about so well together as me and giving directions. Don't ever in your life ask me for direction. I will tell you turn left while pointing right. Although this a problem that Paul is busy helping me with. Place you hands flat in front of you thumbs outstreched as if you were wearing mittens. The side that makes a Capital L, using your thumb and Index figer to make it, is left. Yes people do look at me very funny when I suddenly drop everything and stretch my hands out to find the L, but at least I am getting there.

So here is the first website that I have ever created. It is a work in progress and I don’t know if it will ever be done. It may not be the best site you have ever seen but you know what, techno challenged me made it. So I don’t really give a fuck who thinks what about it. I managed to do it, all by my lonesome.

Mwah!!

http://notrenlimphoenixtradition.webs.com/

The Circus

People are funny things. In the beginning of the year they wanted to know what books I read as if by some osmoses when I read a book it will benefit the rest of mankind. So on facebook I made a photo album and put up pictures of the books that I read there. Now, as if they don’t know enough about me already, they want to know what music I listen too as well. Is this an attempt to emulate me or what? Is there anything else that people would like to know? I use plain white two ply toilet paper, call it a little luxury. I don’t like the toilet paper with the pictures on them even though Paul loves it. I turn my back and when I look again paul has bought toilet paper with lady bugs or lavender on it and I want to flip. I understand that sometimes you can only get the toilet paper with the impression in it but then it still needs to be plain white and you buy one that has an impression that is not upsetting to the psyche. And yes it must be two ply. Three ply is stupid and One ply, one ply is never good, it’s either too soft leaving you with more in your hands than what you hoped for or too hard, leaving your ass harder than your 5o’clock shadow beard. I believe that your bathroom is very sacred. It needs to be a place where you can just sit and relax. Our bathroom is filled with things to look at. Fairies by the lot and of course my rubber ducky. Her name is Gena, she is pink and black and wears a spike collar. But with all the fairies you would swear that you are stepping into a scene of the movie Ferngully when you walk in. I was never a fairy fan, until I came out that I was gay. Not only did I realize that I had transformed into a fairy but also that I liked fellow fairies. Back at Ferngully all we need is the crazy bat character that is not all there…….thinking about it, Batman kind of fills that role. Shame that cat is not well. It’s not that he is two sandwiches short of his pick nick. He has all the sandwiches, but he is not hungry (unfucking likely since he always fucking eats) and the basket is missing. So he is desperately holding all the sandwiches hoping that they wont fall. Come to think about it all of our animals are a bit …………. Well we have a ball python that refuses to be a ball. He is more active than the candles in a nunnery. A Dumeril boa who is Gay and Emo. He kills from behind and the first cuddles his dead food for hours on end. Batman who looks like his father fucked a rabbit and Robin who fucks his brother Batman. I look at this some nights and I wonder how I ended up in the Boswell Wilky Circus. I joke with Paul and tell him that these ……traits are from his side of the family. But in truth my family, sjoe. I would not be able to write about them because there is not enough free space on the internet, and even if they had to scrape Google to give me space, you would not have enough time in one life to read about them. The only thing that I can say is that they are very weird, and coming from me, Ringmaster of the Circus, that says a lot. I have the sort of family that makes you go home, fall to your knees and thank some or other God for the wonderful family that you have and be thankful that you are not family of me. It provides for interesting times, but that is exactly the point, too many interesting times. 

So back to the stuff that people want to know, the most recent, as I said, is that people now want to know what I listen to. I am not sure how knowing what I listen to wil enrich their lives and I have decided, because I cannot see a point to it, I will simply say that I listen too music that moves me. Music that has the power t make me shift whatever emotion I am in and make me settle into a new state of being.

I will say that the current song playing on my I-tunes is ‘Dear Mr. President’ by Pink. 

Mwah!

Toilet Humour

As daar nou een ding is wat ek nog nooit verstaan het nie is dit mense wat lees op die toilet. Ek het dit die eerste beleef baie jare gelede as klein kind to ek by my oom en tannie gekuier. Hulle het in 'n groot huis gebly, wat my as kind laat dink het dat hulle baie ryk was.

Dit was a sondag in die skool vakansie en hy, my oom, het winkel toe gegaan die oggend om die Rapport te koop saam met 'n lys van dinge wat my tannie nodig gehad het. Ek het by die tafel gesit en prentjies geteken, iets wat ek nou nog doen. My oom kom by die huis, hy sit die sakke in die kombuis en verdwyn in die gang af. Na my prentjies klaar is voel dit soos twee ure wat al verby is en ek, opgewonde oor my kak prentjies, soek my oom om hom te wys. My tannie se net dat hy sy koerant gaan lees het. Ek wil weet waar want sekerlik kan hy n minuut afstaan om te kyk na my kuns en maak of hy daarvan hou. Nee, verduidelik my tannie, hy lees terwyl hy op die toilet sit en 'n nommer twee maak.

Drie duisend vra en situasies vlieg deur my kop op dieselfde tyd en my tannie mos dit op my gesiggie sien want to sit my sommer aan die werk om haar te help met die kos. My mamma lees nie op die toilet nie en sy hou baie van lees. Sy kan n boek in ‘n aand klaar lees. As kind al het ek snaakse dinge kon sien, diere wat op n snaakse manier aan mekaar vas sit boud na boud, tannies wat in koue aande met kort rokkies op die straat staan, mense wat dood is, maar iemand wat op die toilet sit en lees, dit was vir my heeltemal wilds vreemd.

So paar maande later is ek by die huis met 'n maag wat bitter kwaad is vir my en dit smaak my ek spandeer meer tyd saam met die toilet as wat ek al ooit saam met enige ander wese spandeer het. Ons leer mekaar ken en op die aandring van my maag word ek en die toilet beste vriende. Teen dag twee en 20kg later onthou ek van my oom en sy koerant lees. My klein liggaampie is swak en heeltemal ontneem van enige water. Ek is moeg oor ek te bang is om aan die slaap the raak, sou my maag ontplof terwyl ek droom. Op 'n routine kuier na die toilet kry ek toe gedagte om my skool lees boekkie saam te neem.

Nou tot vandag toe is ek maar net die tiepe mens wat nie 'n boek kan neersit tensy ek nie op die einde van 'n hoofstuk is nie. Ek moet 'n stop punt he en kannie net in die middel van 'n blad besluit om die boek neer te sit nie. Daardie dag was dit amper die oorsaak van my dood.

A small Zeo, many years ago

Soos enige mens wat iets wil emuleer wat hulle nog nooit self gesien het nie het ek reeds in my brein uitgewerk hoe so 'n kuiertjie sal werk. Ek het my boekkie laat rus op die toilet houer, my broek af getrek en gaan sit. Voette raak skaars grond. En oor ek nog 'n klein seuntjie is moet ek mooi sit anders is daar 'n probleem.  Ons praat immers van daai jare se sub A seuntjie op 'n outydse groot porcelyn pot in Duncan straat. Dit het so vir die eerste minuut heel goed gegaan. Voel steeds swak maar hier sit ek soos 'n groot meneer en lees my boekkie op die troon. Stadig bekruip daai reuk my en my swak liggaampie wil vlou word. Ek sien sterre en besef dat dit was nou nie die beste van idees en hier moet ek uit voor hulle vannaand my dooie liggaam op die pot ontdek. Maar soos mens mos nou maar is as jy in 'n gejaag is het my balans verloor en alhoewel ek net 'n klein bietjie agtertoe kan gaan het ek bewys dat mens kan en dat jy dan kan vas sit. Boek in die een hand en toilet papier in die ander spartel ek my bene in die hoop dat dit leverage sal gee om my los te maak en op daai oomblik was ek bitter bly dat ek reeds op die toilet was. Ek het so paniekerig geraak dat dit smaak my iemand het 'n kraan in my maag op gemaak en vandag spoel ek my derms ook af in die toilet se dryn. Ek het na 'n lang tyd en baie gespartel los gekom. Meer gedehidreer as ooit tevore van die storie en dan nou die sweet ook, oor bekommernis van my laaste lewendige ure op die pot.

Tot vandag toe nog kan ek nie lees op die toilet nie. Ek verstaan ook glad nie hoe mens dit doen nie. Dis vuil en onhigiëniese. Jy stap in by badkamers dan staan daar rake met boekke en tydskrifte, alles van Huisgenoot tot die nuutste Loslyf. In die een hoek is daar n beker met wat vanoggend vars gedrukte lemoen sap was. Nou verwag die mense wie se huis dit is dat jy aan daai glas moet vat waar iemand reeds het hulle kom gevlekte hande aan gewerk het. Nee sies vok man. Visse sweet nie en die toilet is nie n kuier plek nie.

Mwah!

Translation

I sometimes wonder why we do the things that we do. What makes the human mind tick. But one of the things that fascinates me the most is the names that we give things. Like who decided to call a tree a tree? Why can a tree not be called a sock? Yes sure the name tree now means brown thing with green leave but who decided that and why? Similarly, who decided on the translation, or is it just that some person in another part of the world also just happen to name the same thing by a word that sounds more or less the same.  Now this is where things get interesting. 

Translated words.

English is a much older language than Afrikaans, which is my mother tongue. When I look at translations from one to the other, I seriously want to know what the fuck, the founders of Afrikaans was smoking? Jesus, have you seen some of the translations? So what I am going to do here now is give you some English words, the Afrikaans word for the same thing and then translate the Afrikaans directly to English

Horse – Perd - Horse

Leopard – Luiperd – Lazy Horse

Cheetah – Jagluiperd – Hunting Lazy Horse

Dragonfly – Naaldekooker – Needle Cooker

Butterfly – Skoenlapper – Shoe Ragger

Gearlever – Rathefboom – Gear Handle Tree

Armadillo – Iettermagog – What the fuck!!! I don’t even know what that would be.

Riaan Cruywagen

On SABC 2 (which is a Television station in South Africa) we have a newscaster that reads the news in perfect Afrikaans. I hardly ever know what the fuck he is talking about. I really just have no idea what he is on about most of the time, so there is just no point. The funny thing is that this man has been a newscaster since 1976 when T.V. first came to South Africa. To top it all off old Riaan Cruywagen (born in 1945) still looks exactly the way he did in 1976. No where can you find photo’s of him without his wig and make-up. I am sure that 1, he looks so different that even if you did walk past him on the street you would have no fucking idea or 2, they cryogenically freeze him after every broadcast just to do it again tomorrow night (which seems to be pretty much what most people think). To give non south africans an idea of this mand legacy, he is our Chuck Norris. Watch, when I am 66, his current age, he will still be reading the news at age 104 and he will still look like he does today. Riaan we commend you! You Rock Man!

Mwah!

Some Riaan Cruywagen Jokes

http://coda.co.za/blog/2006/03/09/riaan-cruywagen

R.I.P. fakeness

Just before I start this entry let me state that yes this entry is sparked by the recent, yet unexpected, death of Amy Winehouse. No I was never a fan of hers. Her music, even though different was never exactly to my taste. I always liked her crazy style and look but her music never did it for me. Paul on the other hand has always liked her. It was however inspired by her death, the fact that I do not want to have happen to me, what has happened to her. By that I do not mean the unfortunate thing of her being a struggling or misunderstood musician who at age 27 dies (I am certain suicide to reach the fame of 27's club) to join the likes of Jimmy Hendrix, Janis Joplin and Kurt Cobain. I am talking about the false attitude that death always brings.

14 September 1983 – 23 July 2011

Now that Amy has shed her mortal body and has moved on to springs of acid, hills of cocaine and fountains of booze in the eternal afterlife of substance abuse, everyone suddenly has only wonderful things to say about her. I don’t fucking get it. A few months ago she was still the crazy crack whore slag who couldn’t handle her liquor. The broad you didn’t invite to your birthday party because she was gonna upstage you by all her fucked up antics and people will call her a boozed up wench the next day.

Some of thise headlines used to be:

Amy Winehouse 'Blacks Out After Drinking Sessions'

Amy Winehouse Booed At Comeback Gig

Amy Winehouse Enters Rehab...Again

Amy Winehouse Stumbles Her Way Through Russian Comeback Concert

And these were the nice things they had to say. Now the cow is six feet under and people cannot stop talking about her 'greatness'. I am sitting back and looking at them thinking you two faced cunt. A few months ago you couldn’t stand the broad, but now that she is dead you telling people how wonderful a person she was and how close you were.

Now the people are saying:

"We are deeply saddened at the sudden loss of such a gifted musician, artist and performer."

My point to all my ranting and raving is that even though she is now dead, and my the ferryman also guide her soul to the underworld, I don’t have to now suddenly like her. And that is my fear. I am a pretty outspoken individual, wonder what gave it away? I tend to stand my ground and say how I feel. I don’t like to beat around the bush and I speak from the perspective of personal experience and understanding. But a lot of people don’t like me for that reason. Ever since I was very little my mom used to say “If you don’t want to hear the truth, don’t ask him” It doesn’t bother me that people don’t like me. I am not on this planet to be liked. I am here to journey on my quest. If I can help people along the way, great. If I piss off people along the way, great. Mostly people only get pissed of with me cuz I had the guts to say what they think, or some such bullshit. So when the day comes that I join Amy in the springs of acid, hills of cocaine and fountains of booze in the eternal afterlife of substance abuse, I don’t want some slag to stand up at my wake and tell everyone how wonderful I was when in fact she hated me. If you didn’t like me, then please still come to my wake and tell everyone what a cunt you thought I was. Just because I am dead doesn’t make it ‘bad’ for you to still not like me. So until the day that I do permanently lay down my head, I will carry on to make your day or piss you off. Just remember this entry when I enter the eternal sleep.

Mwah

I dedicate this to Paul

Sonnet #18

Shall I compare thee to a Summer's day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate:

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

And Summer's lease hath all too short a date:

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,

And oft' is his gold complexion dimm'd;

And every fair from fair sometime declines,

By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd:

But thy eternal Summer shall not fade

Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;

Nor shall Death brag thou wanderest in his shade,

When in eternal lines to time thou growest:

So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,

So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

Mwah!

Final Flight

The first time I flew was in 2007. Since then I have flown a lot of times. This does not include in my moer flieg. I have also discovered that I simply love flying. I love the feeling of landing and I also sleep very nicely on the plane. 

In 15 days I will once again be flying. This time to Durban, a city that I have never been too but have heard so much about. Not all good things. Humid, mostly.

Be that as it may I am going to dedicate two of my students and hopefully to set up the Durban branch of my Tradition. But those are not the issues that I wish to talk about. My student in Durban, a lovely woman named Cathy is counting the days until I am there and she has planned an entire schedule of things for us to do. I am really looking forward to it and I am sure it is going to be very exciting. Visiting museums, markets, places of Indian interest, clubs and so on. Cathy is beside herself and very excited to finally meet in person.

I am flying very early in the morning of the 5^th of August. When everyone else is still in dreamland I am on the plane. Which is already a worry for me. You see when I wake up, I am not awake. My body may kind of be functioning but I am so not awake. It takes me about three hours to get there. So in theory I will be awake on the plane. ……….. You are forgetting that I love to sleep on a plane and me being still sleepy, this will not be a problem.

Now I think I may have briefly mentioned in the past that it takes quite a bit of Avon foundation and powder and various other hardware tools to make me look good in the morning. But this is in and of itself a very long process. It would be like for God to rearrange the cosmos and I do it every morning. Keeping this in mind and the fact that when I sleep I drool and I toss and turn. Normally I sleep on Paul’s shoulder and I think that he is by now used to having a soggy left shoulder. Now I have to go on a plane, so early that not even God has woken up yet, try to stake awake so that my face doesn’t stay behind on the airplane seat and look wonderfully fresh to meet this wonderful student of mine for the first time. I told her that we have to go for coffee immediately. We can do it on King Shaka airport or anywhere, where I can just sit, and have a nice cuppa coffee. All of this however I can still stomach.

Here comes the crux of the matter. Part of my love for flying is based on the adrenalin rush that is caused by the thought that at any moment in time anything can go wrong with the plane. I have never flown without someone close to me being there. The first time I flew I had my good friend Andi Graff with me. And every flight since then has been with Paul. There has always been someone there to talk to or to keep me occupied so that my mind does not have to linger on the thousands of things that can go wrong while in flight. Call it my Prozac. However this time, there will be no Prozac. I have seen movies like ‘Flight Plan’, ‘Passengers’ and ‘Final Destination’ and the myriad of other movies with airplane problems. I have just about always known someone that works with or on the airplanes and heard all the horror stories of things that could possibly wrong. From engines dropping to windscreens falling out to wheels snapping. Windows falling out, passengers holding on to their seats with nothing more than their false teeth to prevent them from being sucked out. People getting stuck on the toilet (which by the way I have never used on a plane), the list goes on. If it was only snakes, I could handle that. Wont mind actually, but people die on planes and they don’t even know that they are dead. For all you know, you could be dead right now, especially if you have been on a plane before.

The point is, I go off my rocker, I loose what little rationality I have left and I start to think of all kinds of weird scenarios of what can happen. I start to think what will happen if one of the engines fail. Can the rest take us all the way or will they only takes to the exact location of the crash. I bet you we will be there before the paramedics. And through all of this I am not thinking about myself, who at this point will be sweating like a pig on the plane while breathing into a brown bag kicking into the seat in front of me. I am thinking about the poor asshole that has to sit next to me, who has probably flown 10 000 times yet for the first time is also shit scared due to me. Not my stories, scared of me who is practically foaming at the mouth. Maybe I should party the night before, but so much so that I am still drunk the next morning. Or take some porn with me on the plane. Just something to relax. I am sure, no I hope that it wont be that bad, but you never know. So lets all hold thumbs and light a yellow candle for Zeo early in the morning of the 5^th of August. And when you see a shooting star, wish that it were not the damn plane falling. If all goes well I will meet my student not looking like an electro shock therapy victim.

Mwah!