nonprophet.org.za

In same sense that there are two sides to everything, there are two sides to people and when choosing a suitable life mate it is important to note that we will find a good‭ mix of the things we can bear to tolerate and those that we can’t within that person.

The sooner‭ we realise that people never change and that as time goes on we will only become more tolerant of them and their quirks and habits, the sooner we can get on with living our lives.

Credit: Photo by Ali Khathoub

Here’s a repost of an article I wrote for Africans.co.za in 2004, seeing as we’re close to that time of year when we get to choose the ones who will lead us… enjoy:

It’s that time of year again, when we get to vote for the people who’ll be in the news for the next four years. Whether it’s dodgy deals, or sex scandals, be assured of something or someone crawling out into the open and making life in this country very interesting.

So what is it exactly, that makes us vote for the scumbags? Is it the promise of a “better life for all” or the fact that one poster looks better than another? Do the pompous poses on pole posters entice us with that fuzzy warm feeling that talks to our inner beast, or is everyone simply trying to “out-schmuck” each other? I think it’s apparent that we have some fucking ugly politicians in this country! Where’d all the goodlooking people go? Surely these people have advisors telling them what’s a great idea and what’s not, surely someone must have suggested that portraits on campaign posters aren’t a good idea! Unless of course these are the same people who don’t take any advice apart from their own, they surely look like the type, don’t they?

But lets just say, in a normal South African world, this is the kind of thing that appeals to the older generation. The kind of thing that gets 70 year old ladies sweaty in their draws and gagging to cast a vote for the kind gent in the grey suit with the goofy smile and really smart slogan in the hope that someday, while attending a rally of sorts, they’ll be whisked away, “backstage”, and be personally thanked, in kind for that matter, by the man himself, for voting for his party! Well, that’s a long fucking queue if you ask me.

You hear that so often nowadays, “the younger generation are the future”. Well it’s quite apparent, Mr. Politician, that you don’t give a fuck about yours! Someone has forgotten to appeal to the people who’d rather sit at home and wank on voting day, than spend their free day voting! Marketing anyone?

Considering the fact that potentially a youth vote could mean the difference between winning and losing: Get out there, do some crazy shit, bungee jump naked! Make a statement goddamit!

Personally I’d sooner vote for the sod willing to take a chance in getting me interested in his or her campaign by putting their own life at risk than the sod trying to tell me “the other guys are the crooked ones”. I say, “Are you a politician? Yeah? Well then you’re in no fucking position to make that judgement!” Come on, spend a day in the dodgiest neighbourhood, smoke a doobie with the locals. That’s the kind of interaction I want to see. That’s the kind of dedication to “the cause” I want to see!

And what if he gets robbed, mugged or gang-raped by a group of sweaty 80 year old grannies? At least he can’t be blamed for not being a part of the cultural heritage of the area. Take a fucking chance, will you?

Instead we’re given these nance-boy white-collar motherfuckers who can bearly string a sentence together, who have an inclination towards grey suits and crap ties or khaki shoes and whose idea of taking a chance is driving 70km/h in a 60 zone in a German luxury vehicle with airbags! These people have no idea what I do, no idea who I am.

The the least they could do is go the extra mile for my entertainment. The least they could do is something outside of their comfort zones. Entice me. The youth vote is all about getting me out of the house on voting day, making me enjoy leaving my bed.

I’m sure there’s a sector of the public that’d be keen on a free beer or two.

I’m not sure what the deal with these mounties are, but it can only come down to one of a few things:

• Given the ridiculous cost of petrol the City Council is trying to save a bunch by using hay fuelled vehicles instead.
• Due to the narrow streets in and around Green Point, law enforcement has taken to the pavements in vehicles perfectly suited for pavements (bicycles, anyone?)
• As 4×4 owners have gotten increasingly stroppy with officers of the law (largely blamed on the ride height of these vehicles), the City Council is employing new methods of bring these people off their high horses… so to speak…
• The guys in the picture are actually on probation / suspension and have to perform their tasks in a vehicle not equipped with the modern comfort known as air-conditioning (or seats, mind you). Power steering is an optional extra, depending of course on how often the officer in question goes to gym.
• In a bid to get Capetonians to stop looking at the mountain, the City Council has employed a pavement obstacle course for the unfortunate pedestrian or unwitting visitor.
• Jackie Selebi doesn’t appreciate a good horse joke. This is the penalty.

Have a safe Easter weekend folks!

A great number of years back, when I was fit, a keen cyclist and trained every weekend, there a existed a small shop in Hout Bay that sold pies of unimaginable diversity. It was called “The Pastryman” and was run by a friendly German guy and sometimes his wife.

What made this particular pie shop different from others was that here one could get puff adder, giraffe, porcupine, elephant and the ever popular crocodile pies. I must point out that we’re not talking about pies that merely resembled the animals they were named after, like a box of zoo biscuits but instead were made from the meat of the unfortunate animals which somehow managed to cross the Pastryman’s path.

Training for the Argus Tour entailed cycling from Montana, near Charlesville on the Cape Flats, all the way along the N2, getting onto the M3 near Mowbray and then all the way into Fish Hoek past St. James, Simon’s Town, Noordhoek, Sun Valley and then finally Hout Bay. Occasionally continuing through to Camps Bay via the old Chapman’s Peak (before you needed a permit to avoid being crushed by a falling boulder). This was fairly tough 100km which covered the majority of the distance the official Argus Tour covered and was by no means a picnic, that is unless it was lunch time.

I usually found myself in Hout Bay around 12:30, just in time for lunch which consisted a Pastryman pepper steak pie and a Coke. That was until I tried the crocodile. Yep, healthy eating indeed. Especially for someone putting in as much effort as I was in the saddle. Mind you, the crocodile wasn’t bad, I go as far as to say “it tasted like chicken”, which it really did but pepper steak remained a favourite.

Hout Bay locals would stop by all time during our little chats to pick up their orders or either porcupine, puff adder or an assortment of venison. Needless to say that he was quite popular and had clippings from his numerous appearances in different publications pinned up around the shop. People literally came from all over Cape Town to see what the legend of the Pastryman was all about. Tourists included his modest pie shop and bakery on their list must see places and would have paid for the opportunity to tell all their friends that they’d eaten elephant while in South Africa, let alone an elephant pie.

Then all of a sudden it all disappeared. Closed. Not to be heard from again.
No more tourists, no more crocodile pies, no more lunch. His wife had mysteriously disappeared and reports alleged that she may have ended up in a pie herself. An unsettling thought. As a result his business tanked and tour groups no longer stopped at his store. The legend had become infamous once more, but for different reasons this time, though they both included exotic pies.

The legend of The Pastryman is one that is mostly forgotten, even now, searching the Internet for information turns up nothing. It’s strange that such a prominent business and an even more well known personality could have disappeared like he never existed, let alone his wife.

Do you know what happened to the Pastryman? Or his wife? Ever stop in Hout Bay in the 90’s to grab a croc pie at The Pastryman? Hit us up in the comments.

Music has been around us for as long as we can remember. It was there to console us when we were rejected by that guy / girl we were trying to get with. It was there during the happy times, and the downright shit times.

Right now, Paolo, across my desk from me at work is swearing at his monitor, (more likely his dodgy code) while listening to Tiesto. Me, I’m listening to the sound of the aircon, it’s a constant sound that’s keeping me grounded in my thoughts, but that’s besides the point. Music has been pretty much a constant in most of our lives, made possible by the fact that your hearing is pretty much intact and lobes on the side of your head do a good job of propping up a set of headphones. The music we consumed in our childhood is the music that shapes us. We’ll always refer to “our” music as “classics”. Strange? Ask one of your parents which music they listened to while growing up…

If your life had a soundtrack consisting, say 14 tracks, songs important to you for whatever reason… what would those tracks be? Can you list them? Why not hit us up in the comments!

Here are my 14 tracks, in no particular order:

1. Starship – We built this city
2. Billy Joel – We didn’t start the fire
3. Luther Vandross and Janet Jackson – The best things in life are free
4. Simon Harris – Louder than a shotgun
5. Neil Sedaka – Oh Carol
6. Skeelo – I Wish
7. House of Gypsies (aka Todd Terry) – Samba
8. Basement Jaxx – Where’s your head at
9. Jungle Brothers – I’ll house you
10. Skunk Anasie – Secretly (Armand Van Helden’s remix)
11. David Bowie – China girl
12. DJ Jazzy Jeff and The Fresh Prince – Summertime
13. LL Cool J – Momma said knock you out
14. Mel and Kim – Respectable

* Streaming audio clips by cduniverse.com.

Most of our personal history is inherited from our folks at some point, though mostly over dinners or lunches and other family gatherings. Some of the time it’s embarrassing, like when your folks bring out the pics of you with an afro as a kid or the buckteeth you rocked in Sub. A (Grade 1). Apart from these, there are other events in your life that can only be related to you by your parents, things you don’t know or were too young to remember.

At the office party the other day, a colleague mentioned that he was born on a farm in the Eastern Cape. He mentioned the name of the farm and it’s approximate location, relevant to other common landmarks and towns. Even though I don’t remember what they were right now, I do recall thinking about this and how it applied to me. What was my personal history?

Well, I was born in Medi-Park hospital (now, Medi-Clinic, located in the CBD), in Cape Town on a Tuesday at just after 6am in the morning on the 26th day of July in 1977. My parents were living in a suburb on the Cape Flats called Surrey Estate which is a small neighbourhood just outside Athlone along Klipfontein road…

Do you know where you were born? I’d like to know… Why not post it in the comments? Or send me an email.

I’m not one of these people, like my Dad, who can argue the front, back and side of a political view. I have no inclination nor interest in politics of any kind (which includes those associated with family gatherings and the like). Who needs that shit?

As a South African living in the 80’s I know enough about PW, to know that he was one of the last big sticklers for Apartheid, a stifler of democracy. But now that he’s gone, other politicians can’t react quick enough to get a good word in.

As the news of PW Botha’s death has filtered through the media, we hear more and more reports from politicians, opposing politicians at that, now jumping on the “What a great guy he was” -wagon. Everyone and their dog is making releases to the press expressing their sadness of his passing, yet just 10 years ago, couldn’t wait to “bust a cap in his ass”. Hypocrites.

Maybe it’s a testament to just how two-faced politicians are, regardless of their side of the fence.

I played at a 30th birthday in Milnerton last weekend. Here are few things I learnt from that experience…

• Everyone has a favourite song
• Everybody expects to hear their favourite song upon requesting it with the DJ
• Everyone expects the DJ to have their favourite song and also find the time to play it during the course of the evening
• Just because you’re chums with the person footing the DJ’s bill, doesn’t mean you can request shit…
• There are a significant amount of people who still love Tina Turner’s music…. surprisingly.
• If your boyfriend’s a crack-smoking loner musician without a day job, please don’t let him play (his guitar) at your party… despite his best intentions. His set will probably be depressing, sucking the juice right out of the party, and you’ll more than likely end up crying.
• I get paid regardless of whether you have a good time or not, though it does make my job much more enjoyable if you do.
• Belly-dancing is the shit!

Here are a few snaps from the evening:

Summer,

It’s a beautiful day in the city today, definitely more than the reported 20�C. It’s this kind of weather that makes me hate day being stuck inside an office, 14 floors above everything else, with the chair I’ve been sitting in for the last 4 hours, now a permanent part of my body, attached to my ass.

The job’s still good, got loads to learn although I have learnt a crapload in the 2 and a half months that I’ve been here. It’s amazing when looking at my projects list, the great number of things I’ve done while I’ve been here.

Anyway, I can’t wait till you’re here so we can spend time on the beach doing nothing, talking with my peeps, listening to happy dance tunes, making vodka cocktails and wearing shorts.

See you soon,
jk

I was awoken this morning to the sound of a thousand birds all trying to talk at the same time. Much like crazy bustle I encounter these days on the early morning train rides to work. Though, honestly, that hasn’t happened much… catching the early train, that is.

I’ve decided to brave the South African rail system despite all the unpleasantries that people have mentioned to me regarding safety and well, safety. It’s the primary concern. Of course no one will tell you what the benefits are, they’re probably all taking the train secretly themselves, hogging the wealth as it were.

For starters I get to work earlier, and most of my previous colleagues will vouch for this, I’m not one for getting to work ontime, let alone early. I’m also saving a crapload of cash as I’m no longer filling up the car on a weekly basis. Incidently I’m also saving the cash I usually tip Zolani the petrol jockey. This counts as I regard myself as somewhat of a good tipper as I can’t find any other reason why he’d beat his colleagues in a sprint to my car, dive-tackling anyone who dares to get there before he does. This on it’s own is a huge cost-saving. Also seeing as I’m driving less, the car is also saving wear, if you really want to count cents and then there is the occasional benefit of excerise if I am indeed late for a train.

All saved, I get to take the train with a good cross-section of the South African population. Businessmen, nurses, mop boys, black kugels and common criminals all use it. Some out of necessity, some because they saving for a large electronics purchase. The bottomline here is that it’s cheap, and at least 60% safer than it used to be when I was still studying.

The secret to avoiding being dicked with is simply to “act like you’re supposed to be there”. If you start acting all cautious and shit, you’re asking for someone to relieve you of your cellphone, wallet, shoes, etc. Even if someone does want your stuff, they’ll need to find you alone and not in the presence of some security “official”. That said, it’s reasonably safe.

It’s a real alternative to beating the high cost of petrol in this country and at R20 per week, the only thing cheaper is walking.