Friday, May 26

is you is or is you aint my baby

I've always loved Nat. I'm not blogging much of interest at the moment because I'm haunted by a terrible patch of 'relationship' neurosis. This happens often - hence the name of this blog - and before you all jump up in consternation, I am seeking professional help for it and one day hope to be Normal. And then turn grey.


Lately there's been much talk about one-night stands and having a shag simply because it's something fun to do. I'm terribly overwhelmed by this. I've never had a one-nighter myself. Just very short relationships.

But as we all head off into the weekend, I would like to know some opinions from the floor (and feel free to post anon. if this is all a little too spicy - write as you or as your alter-ego, I don't mind) - do you one night stand? Do people actually just want to shag or is everybody - deep down - looking for someone to pat and kiss them and call them bunny?

Tuesday, May 23

Trampoline Boy

Another phrase for your pleasure. This was a collaborative piece with Mostlyblue and myself at the Woodstock Lounge on Saturday. All hail the Trampoline Boy.

Trampoline Boy n
A boy or man used as an emotional/sexual rebound to soften the blow of the demise of a serious relationship with another partner. My trampoline boy is really sweet but he's becoming too involved.

Friday, May 19

Thursday, May 18

Nervous Conditions

A friend sent this to me yesterday. Apart from the fact that this woman is sickly, the juxtaposition of her skeletal frame against those of the large black ladies is thought-provoking.

A book by Tsitsi Dangarembga, Nervous Conditions, is one of the few to discuss - amongst a myriad of interweaving themes - the affects of anorexia on African women.

At one point, one of the lead characters is taken to hospital for her illness. The doctor sends her away with the comment that "black people don't suffer from this white disease".

A while back The Guardian ran a fantastic article on this problem - anorexia and its growing prevalence amongst African women. I wasn't able to find it, but a search on their database brought up over 500 articles mentioning anorexia, with over 30 posted for this year alone.

I found this article instead. Some parts of it read like a 19th century book on 'the negroes':

'Dr. Brooks said experts traditionally had thought that "anorexia and bulimia didn't happen to black, Asian or Hispanic women, that they were somehow immune."

could write more about this, but i'm tired and i'm meeting bordello for coffee. so. good bye.

Tuesday, May 16

Because you're worth it

I think I should probably have added my reasoning behind this little lovely. In discussion the other day with a mate of mine about his take on lipsticks and the like, I was once again filled with the sudden inspiration to scoff at the ridiculousness of elegant facepainting.

Now I've certainly had my days of base and blush. I moved - thankfully - away from the whole sticky mess quite a while back. And just so's I don't unpset the whole the applecart too much, it's not make-up itself that I direct any sneer at.

It's the belief that there is grace and refinement attached to the process of covering one's face with costly lacquers and powders. That painting one's nails and striking the perfect balance between shimmer and sheen is somehow indicative of one's personal worth as a woman - or man for that matter.

The fetish of make-up has been divorced from its historical reasoning. It's purpose made out to be something other than it is. Instead of being an indicator of the terrible sophistication we like to pride ourselves on, make-up at its most basic level is nothing more than the war-paint, the shamanic ritual of otherness, the preening mating dance of tribal ritual.

All this civilised stuff we spend fortunes on, and the sentiments are still the same - to be more, not less, in the eyes of foe and Fate.

Monday, May 15

Uit sy kassie

I was more than amused the other day when I walked past this little gem.
The beautiful ambiguity of it is enough to bring a tear to my eye.

And look how happy he is. Pulling at his tie, cracking his makeup, upsetting his toupe -
Hy's net so MAL! Is dit omdat hy uit sy kassie is? Ag genugtig Riaan, ons is so bly dat jy nou lekker saam kan speel.

Anyway. To round this all off, the website says this of their cover:

"Nie net is Riaan ‘n ikoon van Afrikaanse televisie nie – hy word deesdae gereken as Suid-Afrika se eie Chuck Norris."

So he's out the closet AND he's the new Chuck. Am I the only one that thinks the editor of should be fired?

Friday, May 12

The Eyre Affair

This has to be the best fiction I've read in ages. Billed as a 'silly book for smart people' it plots the heady adventures of Thursday Next. What makes her adventures all the more exciting is that they take place in a world (like ours but dimensionally squiff) where literature became the lifeblood of the people and a Prose Portal can take you into the narrative of any book you give to the Book Worms to mull over.

It's a brilliant fight of fancy - I laughed, I cried, I wanted to be Thursday and visit Rochester. She saves the day, the book, the world and, of course, gets her man.

Jasper Fforde is the dude for Pratchett fans who don't like reading Pratchett.

Wednesday, May 10


Seapoint is full of strange people - lots of old Koogles (what is the correct spelling for that?) clawing on to their glory days of beehives and bright lipstick, Jehovah's Witnesses handing out pamphlets of hope and happy lambs, toothless bums lying on the grass smelling like shit and booze - that sort of thing.

The other day I walked past a woman that was having a full on conversation with herself. I watched her walking towards me, lips moving, furrowed brow. I looked for bluetooth contraption hanging off her ear, thinking that she was perhaps in deep discussion with some significant other, but there was nothing. Just her and her self. As she walked past me, she caught my eye and instead of stopping her conversation kept right on talking to herself.

Ha ha, silly bat, thought I and forgot about it. Until today.

You see, there's this thing I do - and I'm sure many people do it also - which I like to call dialogueing. It's when you're unable to vent the stress of a relationship and instead of actually verbalising your problem to the actual person involved, you imagine possible conversations - including utterances, rebuttals, subtext and - if you're really getting into it - expression.

Usually I do this in my head.

Today, walking along the passage to our neat little garden with the red door I found myself in a loaded conversation, full of projected shock and fatalistic endings - perfect, in fact for the likes of a soapie. I was getting really involved with the course of my created revelations when I suddenly stopped. I'd been doing this all out loud.

It's a problem I think that needs to be addressed. Not the fact that I dialogue, but the fact that I don't realised I'm doing it out loud.

I wonder now how many times people have walked past me, staring and saying to themselves - silly bat, take your meds.