Monthly Archives: August 2012

That’s Just Fuckin’ Shameless

It has blown me away, and not in that explosive kind of way, it’s more of the perverted filthy on-his-knees in a dirty bathroom kind of blown away and I loved every second of it.
To sum it up in one line: it’s about a drunk, useless father and the many kids that live like rats trying to get by in life as best they can.

What makes it watchable?

The humor. It’s really funny to spite the fact that I cringe every time Frank Gallagher, played by William H. Macy, is in a shot. The man is just repulsive and Mr Macy pulls off the best role I have ever seen him do, I am just flawed at his ability to make this character, this repugnant and repellant character, into someone great… No, let’s not go that far. He is completely watchable, like eyes glued to his every movement and ears pert, soaking up every sound that comes from his lips kind of watchable. The reason for this is because he made a person I could so easily dismiss with the flick of a channel into a human being that I believe exists in this world, and that grabs my attention, this man that is so far removed from the man I am and how he can become very relatable, and I find myself not sympathizing for him but wanting him to get up, wipe the puke from his face and get away with his shit, to only continue with his shit. So now the most important question is, do I even want Frank to clean up his act?

What makes it astounding?

As the season came to an end the three factors that make this better than anything else on television that I have been privileged o watch boils down to three great stories, the big sister, the little sister and the gay brother.
The Big Sister:
Fiona Gallagher, played by Emmy Rossum, is a compelling character to follow. I find myself wanting to feel sorry for her but the tough, strong and tenacious character that she is does not allow for pity. Not even from the audience. Fiona glues all these ratty little parts of a scrubby family together without being the mom. There is a mom. She’s not around much, but it’s better that way. Back to Fiona, she is tough, on herself and everyone in the home but I just love her the most. If I were a guest at the Gallagher home I would probably have been invited by her, so I like her.
The Little Sister:
Debbie Gallagher, played by Emma Kenney, is the most objective way of looking at the family in terms of any validity in their existence. She embodies the moral compass of this story but evokes this through the eyes of a child mixed with a sort of widened outlook on life. So why is she so astounding to watch, seems like she might be the boring part of the story. One reason, this entire season Debbie has been on the same path without emotion to really veer her off. But by the end all that build up of emotion that is accumulating in this little nine year old girl crumbles into one of the most honest and raw sob moment. And when I am moved by a television program it’s worth taking note.
The Gay Brother:
Why? For the obvious, he goes around shagging other guys. But he is young, so it’s not really the lascivious nature of watching these hook ups, it’s the idea that guys are doing things younger, and in my opinion at the proper age. He does things that I -sort of- did, only I was in my twenties. So it’s just interesting to see his development in his environment. Plus his hook-ups are always so scandalous. His name is Ian Gallagher and he is played by Cameron Monaghan.

What makes it memorable?

It’s unbelievable at sucking some of the strangest plot pieces out of nowhere, shocking me, embarrassing me, making me laugh and then drizzling the entire moment in humanity. This show s filled with humanitarian moments that surpass any other family related show before. Shameless transcends from white trash shenanigans to elegiac poetry that’s far more relatable than I care to admit to myself.


Lonmin, Lonmin, Lonmin.

Before I get into it I want to get you to think of something:
What if those violent protesters got through? What if the police did not open fire? Do you think those charging men merely wanted to talk, with panga’s, knbkirries and guns in their hands? And what effect would it have had on this country?


With violent protests breaking out in all parts of our country, I can’t help but be grateful that the unrest is somewhat a cloud of dust starting to dissipate because if those men had to get through, over power the police and start killing them, I can tell you it would have sent one message across the country “Take out the police!”, every town in our beautiful land would be under threat merely because it would look like the police are incapable of curbing the masses. To spite who is wrong and who is right. Basically, if those workers had the upper hand on the day of the massacre, it would not be the day of the massacre but the start of civil war in South Africa.

History repeating itself?

Some articles want to liken this event to Sharpeville, but in my minds eye there is a difference between a bunch of scholars protesting, chanting, dancing – fueled by the idea of Bantu education – compared to a bunch of men charging down a hillside with weapons towards armed police.
Then the notion of muti came to light. I get culture and that people have their traditions but at what point does a person turn around and say “Tradition is like magic, and the only place it belongs is in stories”. We are all brought up in a world where education s key to success. If you study hard and work hard you will achieve. Whereas traditional type of thinking, where drinking a special drink from a witch doctor will deflect speeding bullets, puts the idea that this group of people are easily swayed in terms of truth. This proves that the group of people we are talking about are not educated. So why is their education important? Because this massacre has quickly turned political, and a weak mind is a politicians playground. From the unions, to the ANC, and the Youth League, everyone is getting in there telling the remaining workers what IS happening and who IS to blame. Maybe if we want to look at a similar massacre then look no further than 1994 and the bloodshed between the ANC and the IFP, how is it similar to LoNmin? It’s politically driven.


Now there are far cries for a pay increase to R12500 and to some degree I feel this is a ploy towards international media because that kinda cash is a pipe dream for some educated people of south Africa, myself included. And the idea that a miner can earn that, makes me think twice about finishing school and going to university. If that is the salary then I should have been in the mines at sixteen. Why? I work my tits off to earn two thirds of that every month.
“But they have families.” And then I here far cries that the workers support more than just themselves, well, unfortunately life style choice should not dictate ones pay. One should not live beyond ones means, and this includes having a family. To have children and then burden society with your lack of skills as a provider is insane. If you can’t afford a child, don’t have one. But I seem to veering off the point. The point – that cash increase is unreasonable. And if other workers across the country see that Lonmin might get this increase, what do you think will happen to all the workers across the country?

What about me?

I am disappointed. Disappointed that South Africa is still the same place it was twenty years ago. Sure the presidents skin colour has changed but the fact that power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely still rings true regardless of the colour of your face. People with money think of one thing, more money. Greed my dear readers, greed pertains to only one race – the human race. So to some degree I hope that Cosatu will loose some of their power as with the ANC. Not that I want either one completely dissolved but a healthy competition, even in sectors such as unions, there will be a spread of this so called power and each individual will get closer to having a party or union that really reflects that said persons personal ambitions in life, for himself/herself and the country.

The point.

Let’s stay out of this one, stand back like spectators because there are two groups to blame, and if you are reading this I can pretty much assume you are part of neither one of those groups.

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Chapter Two

The Mosquito.

Location: Johannesburg
Date: December 2012

It buzzes around…
It seems so harmless.
It nuzzles into my skin and extracts some blood.
It seems so plain.
And with one swat It no longer exists.
Beware the home of the mosquito…
Fevers of yellow and dengue.
Harmless little creature? But you are Its prey.
Easily squashed. Easily squashed?
Take care, you, the man that does not see the risk.
For the waters are clear and clean and free to drink.

Pushing his lovers naked body up against the glass door, Emmanuel glared down at the Tattoo that enveloped his lovers back – A tree. The water ran down the bronzed skin that bled with the black outline of a huge baobab tree. Its branches stretched out towards the shoulders edge – like it’s reaching up to the sun. They then curled around the triceps and stretched down the arms. The thick trunk twisted and curled down the middle and at the base roots shot out, clasping out toward a pert ass. Their bodies thrust in perfect unison but soon as they began to speed up, to a gallop, they suddenly started to slow down, until they climaxed, together.
Emmanuel remained in the shower, Jerome hopped out and began to rub down the water that remained on his smooth skin with a towel. While Emmanuel preoccupied himself with lathering up his head with shampoo and working it to a thick foam he wasn’t able to notice Jerome stare at him, perplexed, as if he had so much he wanted to say. Jerome rubbed the towel up and down his ripped stomach, like a zombie, as though he was zoning in on something else, something bothering him until eventually he opened his mouth:
“I can’t do this anymore. You fuck like a champion, admittedly. And I really do love you… but I can’t stick it out anymore. I think there’s a problem”
“What are you saying to me, Jerome?”
“I’m leaving. I’m leaving tonight, if I stay we will just talk and fight and cry and inevitably have some amazing sex… but I don’t want to ride this ride anymore. We are not made for each other, forever. Don’t you feel that too? I mean, your Tattoo hasn’t grown since I met you Emmanuel.”
Emmanuel did not blink. He did not move. The thick shampoo ran down the side of his head and eventually, as some of the soap started to creep into his eyes, he blinked and wiped it away. He stepped back into the water to rinse his head. Emmanuel was momentarily calm, he moved his head from side to side shaking the shampoo off. Once all the foam was rinsed, he reached out to the glass that hazed the view of Jerome and swiped it clean then wiped the excess water from his face:
“So, what was this? One last great fuck? You used me Jerome, you’re disgusting.”
“Babe, don’t call me disgusting. Don’t make this ugly…”
“UGLY. You’re the ugly one. Your black heart, pumping tar… don’t you dare call me your fucking babe.”
“Look, I’ll be out of here tonight. Just calm down. Don’t behave like a child.”
Emmanuel finally turned the water off and stepped out of the shower. Jerome passed him a towel, but Emmanuel reached for another one.
“Don’t even bother. Take your time getting out. I don’t care. I’ll give you till the end of the month,” Emmanuel said while leaving the bathroom.
After years with Jerome it’s all come down to this childish behavior. The truth was that Emmanuel’s feeling the end of the relationship too, but still unwilling to admit it. Emmanuel and Jerome were both the same age, and as their thirtieth birthdays pulled around the corner they felt the urge to run free. Owning a business together didn’t help.
Jerome’s Tattoo was a tree, a fully formed one at that, but totally devoid of colour at the time. He did not know the tricks to enlightening his Tatt. Emmanuel’s Tattoo had started to develop from an early age, along with some fierce colour. First as a long strand that stretched from the middle of the back of his neck towards the back of his right thigh. Then suddenly a different looking strand – in the sense that it was a little rougher with a slightly perforated edge – stretched from the same starting point out down the back of his arm. By the time Emmanuel was in his late teens the back of his body had six defining, bright green tendrils stretching out. All different but no leaves attached to any tendril to spite the fact that he only assumed what it was a plant. His Tattoo might be a plant – maybe a creeper – but what creeper? It stopped growing long before he met Jerome, to spite having one of the most impressive foundations.
Emmanuel was just too scared to untie himself first. He knew how special and rare a tree was and he wanted to hold onto that. But unfortunately he’s the one who was let go of ,so with the agony of rejection he pulled an impulsive move and headed out of Johannesburg on an… adventure?
He’s thrown everything in the back seat and left before Jerome had even started packing up. Should he have stayed and fought a little? Did he give up too easy? Was he walking away from the only man he really ever loved? But all those questions would not be answered as he beat the traffic, racing out of Jozzie town. Instead, driving would consume his thoughts. And a few mindless hours in the car fly by, as easy as blowing feathers off a table, before he arrived in Bloemfontein.
Not knowing what to do or where to go he reached back for his bag, and his iPhone. He had left it off for the entire trip, out of fear of dealing with a phone fight, so he switched it on and waited for it to get a signal. He searched for the nearest Tatt bar, finding the one and only, copied the address and pasted it into his GPS, before making his way to it. Once he arrived he waited in the parking lot for a few minutes, contemplating what he’s doing.
“Just go inside and find a place. Come on, Manny, you can do it” he said to himself as he stared into the rear view mirror. He rarely referred to himself as Manny, but always found it comforting to say when he sensed doubt.
Nothing was ‘Tatt’ obvious from the outside of the bar, except for the flag that waved gently from side to side almost calling him to come in. He was hesitant; Emmanuel had not been cruising on his own for a long time. He’s been so dependent on Jerome that he didn’t know who he was anymore. And that left Emmanuel with ideas on whether or not he was capable of going back, back to a time where he did everything for himself and by himself. Could he even remember such a time? But he refused to believe a man fuelled his confidence.
He entered the bar and stood at the entrance for a while, taking all into surveillance as his eyes panned across the room. Everyone seemed a little worn out and tired but the site of a brand new face entering the bar was prevalent in the atmosphere as everyone either stood or sat up straight to take note.
Emmanuel’s a very attractive young man. In his late twenties with a toned yet stocky build. He looked like a little Mediterranean He-Man, with jet-black hair and soft brown eyes that complemented his olive skin. And as he stood at the entrance, with his Spanish Island come Israeli Militia looks, he seemed to be a foreigner amongst the Afrikaans faces in the bar, and they were all instantly drawn to him for that mere fact. He immediately thought:
“Maybe finding a place is not going to be nearly as difficult as I had imagined.”
Emmanuel stalked off to the bar, “Single whiskey and water please” he asked the bartender.
“Bells or Jamesons, Sir?”​
“Jameson, please. How much is that?”
“Twelve rand, Sir.”
Emmanuel paid the barman and began to scout the area again. Trying to make eye contact with the other patrons in hopes that he’d find something a little attractive to try and hustle. But most of the men look the same. Not that they were bad, but he was looking for a Bougainvillea in the maize fields.
Emmanuel seemed so out of place. Maybe he was the Bougainvillea? So the men wait for him to make a move, which in turn makes him more nervous about initiating anything. He’s aware that it’s all up to him. The longer he waited the more the men began to pay attention, the more he wanted to run. Searching for some sort of comfort – like a blanket – he reached for his phone. Looking at his various apps, it hit him, Grindr – Facebook for Tattoo guys. If nothing else, it would be easier to cruise that way. He waited, it loaded other Grindr users – closest appeared first – he waited some more, then scrolled down and glanced at the faces. He’s not logged on long before he gets a message:
Bloemman79 ​
– Hi?
…so he replied,
– Hey.
Bloemman 79 ​
– I think I can see you…
Rick 9+
– Oh, really. What am I drinking?
Bloemman 79 ​
– It looks like whiskey and water…
Rick 9+
– Come say hello then…?
Emmanuel sat for a while too afraid to look around for what might actually be coming his way to say hello. Then a blonde, which was not usually his type, very tall and lean, a pretty boy, approached him:
“Hello, I’m Bloemman. Nice to meet you?” He stretched out his hand and the flabbergasted Emmanuel, without thinking, reacts by stretching his arm out. He doesn’t say anything, merely stretched his limp hand out. They shook hands for a few seconds too long when Emmanuel realised how retarded he was behaving, “H…hhhhello. I’m Rick but really my name is Emmanuel. Nice to meet you…ummm, bloem… I assume you have a real name though?”
“Ja, my name is Francois.”
“Can I buy you a drink?”
“Ja that will be nice”
“What do you drink?”
“Same as you will be fine”
“Bartender… another Jameson and water please.” Emmanuel turned back to face Francois to deliver a corny line, “So, do you come here often?”
“Not really. I don’t live here, but occasionally I come to town for a little bit of fun, although tonight seems a bit dull. Well, until you walked in here” and Francois grinned at Emmanuel.
“Well, I am glad I can perk you up then. Hopefully I can get you up even more…”
“Where are you from? You are obviously not from around here. What are you doing here?”
“Looking for someone like you” and he grinned even more with a subtle addition, a slight lick across the top lip. Emmanuel was pulling out all the stops, all the cheesy one-liners in hopes that it would guarantee him what he was looking for. He was hustling to the max, he didn’t want to leave a credit card trail nor did he want to splurge through the cash he had. So he was working it more than he ever thought he could. And just as he thought he was being overboard, overtop and maybe overkill, he goes all the way, “Want to get out of here Francois?”
“Ummm, ja. Sure!”
“OK, first things first, what Tatt do you have?” Emmanuel probed.
“A Snake…”
“Is it in color…?”
“Ok, where are you staying?”
“Lily Guesthouse in the North. Shall we go there? The room is mine, so a guest wont be a problem. I usually do it just in case,” now Francois is the one with the naughty giggle – he’s taken the bait, hook, line and sinker.
“Great. Lets get out of here. I’ll follow you.”
Once they arrived at the guesthouse they run off straight to the room. Surprisingly, they submerged themselves in deep conversation with rich subject matter rather than submerging themselves deep inside each other. They spoke for hours, nothing personal however not superfluous either. They shared wonderful things while going through the complimentary wine left in the room. Then they began the ex talk.
“Have you ever dated a Bird?”
“Ja” Francois replied, “My first boyfriend had a huge bird burnt on his back. It wasn’t a fantastic bird, just a Shrike, but the red patch on the breast was so bright. So very bright.”
“My last guy had a tree…”
“What…?” Francois got a little excited at the idea.
“Yeah, a tree. A huge baobab.”
“Do you know how rare a tree is? Actually, what do you have?”
“I don’t know yet. It’s a plant though.”
“Show me…” so Emmanuel took off his shirt and turned his back on him. “There is water at the base. Did you know that?”
“No… Is that a bad thing? The water. Is it bad?”
“You are going to have to wait and see what comes out of it. Water gives life you know. But I cant see what your plant is either. That means you’re hiding something Emmanuel… Do you know that?” François looked over at Emmanuel, awaiting a response and he noticed that Emmanuel was getting uncomfortable.
“Ummm… yeah, ok. This is getting a little weird…” Emmanuel said.
“Maybe you are right. Lets just relax and enjoy the wyn”, they cling their glasses and have a sip.
Once the empty wine bottle’s rolling on the floor, so were their clothes. As they knelt on the soft rug, face-to-face, clutching each other, Francois ran his fingers down Emmanuel’s spine towards his ass, slipping his finger through the pert cheeks.
Emmanuel grabbed his hand “Ehhh, my ass, its kinda off limits. Cool.” And he pulled Francois’ face closer and carried on kissing him.
Emmanuel woke up first the next morning and was planning on leaving before his pick up wakes up too. But Francois woke before he could even get close to the front door, “Don’t leave just yet sexy, we can have some breakfast before you carry on running. Really man. Relax a bit.”
The fact he used the term ‘running’ was priceless, Emmanuel felt instantly more relaxed. They went for breakfast in the little kitchen of the main house and parted ways. Then Emmanuel carried on running. With the road out before him, he felt like he could go anywhere.
He didn’t know exactly where he was driving. Emmanuel had no real plan in mind and figured he’d just follow the sun.
The sun beamed down on his body in his topless Jeep and he loved it. The rays tingled as it heated his skin, tanning it slightly with every passing moment. So many times he felt like it’s all coming to a crashing halt but the sun was constant. And that consistency was a reminder that no matter what may occur, after the rains, things always return to something a little normal, a little calmer, to something more or less the same as it was before.
​As he drove down the long, straight and, what seemed like, endless road in the open and vast Karoo, he’s plagued with thoughts of the love he’s so clearly running away from: Is there a fighting chance?
Gently in the sky, an eagle soared above his head, he noticed the beautiful bird and started to feel a connection as the wind blew through his hair. It’s the feeling of open-air freedom. The bird probably felt the same rush of airflow over its head while it drifted through the sky. The bird swooped down and snatched up a snake slithering at the edge of the road, ahead of Emmanuel.
Do I even love him still?
The bird battled to control the snake as it tried to regain height, and the snake fell back to the ground wriggling all the way down. It bounced as it hit the floor, as though it’s just a rubber toy, immediately scrambling for some sort of cover. Emmanuel slowed down to better witness the scene: Nature was happening before his very eyes. The bird soared around before it seemed to hover over a particular area. Scouting it. Or marking it? But the eagle was fastening in on a particular zone. Emmanuel couldn’t help but feel that he wanted the snake to be caught. He wanted to see the slithering little fucker come to its end.
What do I even want…? What do I have to give?
And the bird swooped down, grasping the prey in its claws. The vicious dance of predator and prey had come to its end. And with that Emmanuel carried on driving towards the sunset.
​As the sky started to fill up with all the different sprays of orange, pink, magenta and a deep splash of blue, Emmanuel realised that it was time to think of the next place to stay, he’s hardly going to be able to use modern social networking to bump uglies with a stranger in his B & B bed for the night – he’s too far out to rely on modernized life. Putting hustling aside for the moment, he took out his phone. Opening the StayCloseApp, he’s able to find the nearest place to stay that closest meets his needs and requirements – price. With a great signal he managed to get the number of a quaint little spot called Gardenia Guesthouse. One quick cut and paste before a phone call is made and in no time Emmanuel was booked into the Gardenia Guesthouse and on his way there. Another cut and paste to GPS and he’s on route.
​The guesthouse’s nestled next to the Orange River in the middle of the Karoo. The sound of croaking frogs were overwhelming and the air’s still hot from the relentless sunshine, mosquitoes were buzzing about like crazy as a result. Emmanuel swatted at the bugs near his face like an insane person, feeling them occasionally going up his nostrils and tickling his ears.
“Will you please just take me to my damn room and away from these bugs” he snapped at the woman dealing with his check in.
“Sure sir, sorry about the nature. But there really is nothing I can do about it. Your bed is fitted with a mosquito net and we have sprayed…”
“I still don’t understand why we should stand outside talking about this.”
“You are right sir. This way”
As they walked to his room Emmanuel realised that he overreacted and was probably taking out his frustrations on the poor girl working late because he arrived late. But he thought it best to remain stern; figuring that once that first impression’s made it’s permanent, and in this case staining. The woman showed him the room and left very quickly. Removing his clothes even quicker, Emmanuel flopped onto his bed and fell asleep straight away…
​…Stumbling around the pool table he can see many faces.
His lover returns to him and passes him a drink…
“They think you are very sexy”, he says.
“I think you’re sexy”, Emmanuel replies.
They kiss…
Emmanuel woke in the middle of the night with tears in his eyes. It’s the first time he felt it. The loss. He struggled at first to get back to sleep, instead kept himself awake wiping the tears that persisted. Soon enough he’s lying on his back drying his face of any salty water residue and drifting off to sleep…

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Chapter One

In hopes of receiving some constructive criticism, I am turning to you.
Here starts the journey of my first Gay Novel (although it is my first novel, to spite the man on man action) and I do believe it has the power to cross the lines from gay fiction into what I like to refer to as straight friendly.
It’s almost three quarters of the way in, so all comments, emails, rants and raves will be carefully noted and appreciated.

Here’s to the love of all things weird and wonderful…

>The Beginning?
Location: Cape Town
Date: February 2013

Emmanuel’s running down the street at full speed. His heart’s racing faster than it’s ever raced before. His mind’s filled with things he never could have imagined…

Doof-doof, doof-doof, doof

He can feel the road beneath his feet with every pounding step he lunges forward and he knows exactly where he’s going. He’s glad that it’s so early in the morning, the streets are empty, encouraging him to pick up the pace…

Doof, doof, doof, doof, doof,

Straight down Darling Street, zooming past the Edwardian buildings towards the outer edge road, the last street of the city. That will lead him to where he needs to be. He doesn’t slow down. He’s running as if he’s a man with blood on his hands, and when he looks down, just to be sure there’s no blood, he can’t believe he’s holding a gun. Still clutching it in his right hand. But he can’t remember taking the gun out. He can’t remember where he even found it. He knows he used it but did someone get hurt? Emmanuel can’t remember.

Doof, doof, doof, doof…

Going right up Buitenkant Street, he races with all his might up the slow inclination towards his destination…

Doof doof doof doof doof doof

And in no time he’s nearing Roeland Street, one left turn and a few more meters and he’ll be where he needs to be…


Emmanuel doesn’t slow down; he sees his destination ahead, even though his back is in pain. His shirt’s sticking to the fresh scab that is starting to form, as if his entire back was grazed on a tar surface. The blood seeped out and then clotted.

Doof…doof doof…doof…doof…doof…doof, doof…

Slowing down as he reaches the entrance, but on the door it reads: “Open From 08h00 – 17h00”.
He doesn’t know what to do and for a second he thinks that the entire running saga was futile. He’s out of breath, a few hours too soon, so he places the gun in his pants, figuring it best to get out of sight. Not really wanting to hold onto it, the fear of who might find it keeps him from tossing it. Emmanuel walks to the side of the building and waits, out of sight, for U-Store to open its doors but as he crouches next to the wall – with a gun holstered on his belt – he realises he looks way suspect. Moving back to the front, he sits at the entrance – facing the store, not the street, just in case someone is following him or looking for him. This way Emmanuel could conceal his face, without startling the first employee to arrive. And he waits to collect his car.

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Hey piggie

Research, it’s how we learn about the things we need to know. I recently came across an article reporting a woman’s unfair dismissal for bringing food to work that was not halaal. Now do I really have to point out the discrimination here? Whats next forcing employees to convert? And the idea that a boss knows what the chick flipping the chips out the fryer has brought for lunch sounds like creepy crazy communism. Further reading I find out that KFC is in fact a Islamist vibe. Ok, all good but what is the deal with Halaal food? What makes it so special?

Halaal, from what I can gather, can be translated, as closely as possible, as meaning permitted or lawful. It’s not about blessings or prayers or some holy man sprinkling water anywhere. From what I understand the animal is basically kept the way I would imagine organic livestock is kept. Free to roam, graze, a somewhat happy life for what is essentially just food for us. So yeah, I am all down for that else why am spending the little extra on organic (well except wine, organic wine is cheap and fantastic-balls) goods every month.

The slaughtering method is also better. A few tests measured the pain an animal slaughtered the Islam way and then on one slaughtered the western way, and the Halaal method proved to be kinder to the animal. Ok, so cool stuff, I dig that too, show my food my humanity before I take its life.

So at the end I realized that I would bye Halaal food in the way that I buy organic food, I agree completely with the method.

However, then I came across a section on how evil pork is. Admittedly I don’t eat pork other than bacon, no gammon, no chop, no steak… No pork product other than bacon. Now all that is said about the filthy pig is true to some degree, the severity may be over exaggerated a bit, but this one section just made me piss myself out loud…

The pig is the most shameless animal on the face of the earth. It is the only animal that invites its friends to have sex with its mate. In America, most people consume pork. Many times after dance parties, they have swapping of wives; i.e. many say “you sleep with my wife and I will sleep with your wife.” If you eat pigs then you behave like pigs. We look upon America to be very advanced and sophisticated. Whatever they do, we follow after a few years. According to an article in Island magazine, this practice of swapping wives has become common practice in South Asia

It made me laugh for so many reasons, because pigs love group orgys, Americans are all busy swopping wives after dinner parties and Muslims all of a sudden care about woman. And never mind that the piece on pigs started off by saying: to non-Muslims and atheists that even they could reason with logic, and the reasons for not eating pork is logical.
Pig orgy…? Logic? As if dogs are monogamous.
Then by the end they really hit the nail on the head by finishing with…

This proves that the more science advances the more Islam is shown correct as a religion of God.

… Since when do Jews eat pork, and correct me if I am wrong but hasn’t the Jewish ideals been around far longer than the Islamist? Just saying, if the science around the filth of pork proves a religions theory was right then isn’t it the first one to cross the finish line wins?

So by the end there is one thing left to ask, how does KFC manage to give all those chickens a “happy” life. In my minds eye a mass production of food requires a massive supply of product, where are all these chickens running around so free… Something smells fishy…?

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My First Gay Sketch Pad

The sun is coming out to play and slowly the pencil makes it’s way back into a draw, awaiting the first summer rain pour, and this is what I am left with. A bunch of ruff sketches of men from various Men’s Health ads or articles. Amazing just how queer Men’s health can be in it’s praise for the Adonis male build.







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It’s a Beard, all Men can grow them.

Fayaaz Kazi, twenty seven, was murdered on Monday night in Ventersdorp outside a Chicken Lickin outlet after a fight broke out between him and two other men.

“Two white people… they called him [Osama] bin Laden in Afrikaans because of his beard…and then they called us kaffirs,” Mahmood told Sapa by telephone on Wednesday.”

Based on his appearance he was called a terrorist and, as I assume, he stood up for himself yet was met with more than just a fight between stupidity and humanity, death.

Last month I wrote a post on another hate crime in South Africa, Hate Crime where an argument over sexuality also ended in death. Another woman was attacked but “luckily” survived. Which is just a branch off of a hate crime that has plagued our beautiful country for far too long.

Gang-raped, beaten and stabbed 25 times, she was the lesbian activist and football star whose murder blew open South Africa’s hate crime epidemic.
But more than two years after the death of Eudy Simelane, the government has done nothing to halt the barbaric sex attacks dubbed ‘corrective’ rape.

Although corrective rape is a hate crime, rape is not necessarily a hate crime under the law. In terms of psychology, the offenders of hate crimes and rape derive from the same place – A profound inability to see another person as a human being. There is a difference between a man that breaks into a house and steals the home theatre system compared to the man that breaks into the house and rapes all the women in the home and then just leaves.

The Point?

I’m trying to link up all these different little acts of hate and showcase them as one huge problem, the only difference is the person being attacked. HOWEVER, all the victims I have mentioned are South Africans. As are the perpetrators. So we as South Africans must admit that this is part of our society and we are committed to changing it, it’s where we begin to eradicate this senseless and savage crime.

So what I propose to do is grow a beard. Grow it as long as I can, like a Muslim, for the obvious reason, it’s a beard plain and simple and the idea that a man can be killed from a cumulative series of events that started with some beard taunting is completely outrageous. And there is always more to a person than the appearance he gives.

At what point will I stop?

The aim is to get twenty people to physically ask me, “Yo, Bro, what’s up with the beard?” then I can tell them the story of Fayaaz, Thapelo and Eudy so that their deaths will not go in vain.

The fact is that men are the ones responsible for these crimes and not that I don’t think hate resides in women, I am just yet to see a woman actualize her hatred in a way other than verbal. So it is up to us men to stop. So I encourage any of you reading this to grow a beard, get to twenty people too. And if you are a woman reading this, remember that these criminals all have mothers some have sisters, aunts, daughters, wives or girlfriends, maybe get that man that is so close to you to understand what a hate crime is and get him to grow his beard – it will make the world of difference.

Regardless of race, creed, culture, sex and sexual preference we all have the right to live in spite of whatever others choose to believe and destroying things we can’t understand has to find an end at some point. And it’s not misunderstanding that needs the cure, but our attitudes, it’s the inability to want to understand that pushes the hatred to such volatile proportions.

Here’s to some hairy days.

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Ray-Ban: Great Ad, Great Brand.


Something that has proved the test of time – in fact par the filthy smoke bellowing habit aviators have been the longest relationship I could keep. And unlike the benefits of smoking or the reality of men, the relationship shared with my shades is somewhat healthy. Hell it’s something I could commit to.
Once this pic was delivered to my inbox I couldn’t resist, it begged me to dive into volt Beta (being the more recent years, three or so) to find some great natural Ray-Ban product placement shots of my own.




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Malva Fool

It’s a simple enough dessert that warms you up. But I have never known how to make it. So finally I went on search for a recipe to make a malva pudding:

I took two thirds of a cup of milk and mixed a teaspoon of bicarbonate of soda.

Then I added a cup and a third of self-raising flour. Along with that I threw in two teaspoons of fig jam, a pinch of salt, two eggs, a teaspoon of butter and a third of a cup of sugar. Splashing some caramel essence in for some fun. Poured it into a greased oven proof dish and slipped it into the warmed up square box @ one eighty degrees celsius.

Left it in there for close to twenty five minutes.
But five minutes before that I warmed up a cup of (each) water, butter, cream and sugar.

As soon as the piping hot sponge came out the oven I drenched it in the melted sauce.
Let it sit for a few minutes.

Then dug in and gained the extra kilos to see me through the rainy cold.

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Douche Recovery: Admitting the Hate.

Over the last 3 months there have been at least 15 attacks on gay people in the Northern Cape. In the most recent attack Miss Gay Kuruman winner 23 year old Thapelo Makutle’s throat was allegedly cut so viciously that his head was almost completely removed after an argument with 2 straight men about his sexuality.

This is the front page article of Exit Newspaper and how can it not be shocking. But sitting at my desk with a view of the ocean I feel somewhat removed from the entire incident, and that is partly where the problem comes in for me – that it’s over there. I have been prive to enough bashings but none to such a severity, in my case I was slapped around or on the odd occasion punched till I bled. But here Thapelo was murdered and his genitals were still cut from his body and shoved in his mouth (which is gross evidence of the underlying hate). So why is it worse in some places than others?

Some might want to blame the wave of Traditional Healers opting to alter the constitution to best suite them. However, I was present at the 2008 Pride in Johannesburg CBD where bricks were hurled at us from some ten floors up, shattering on the floor sending a chard in the air slicing the neck of a young lady in front of us. Therefore I cannot blame recent animosity on recent activity, alone. It’s been around for a while but it’s only getting worse.

The problem is that the constitution is a written thing and therefore, taking emotion into account, is a thought out and logical concept. So to spite the fact that the law is there to protect us, it really on serves to bring justice and let’s face it, isn’t prevention better than cure. So the idea is there, yay, but the feeling somewhere along the line is not.

so what happened is that equality comes up as more of a suggestion rather than a society, our society’s, ruling on how we should behave and tat each other. So when will this elusive equality be instilled?

Hate is an emotion and is very much part of us the way love is a part of us. But how we use these emotions is the important factor, or is it a case of our emotions leading us? If we do not control ourselves we allow our emotions to grow into something uncontainable and down right crazy. Just think of a time you were so in love yet all your actions were just crazy. Does that mean that the love is not real? No, it means you can’t handle that kind of emotion, you are not mature enough. And maturity comes from understanding.

I hate guys that don’t want to sleep with me. I hate guys that try.
I hate men who objectify women. And i hate women who refuse to objectify men.
I hate smoking sections… Anywhere. I hate it when a disgusting smoker cant sit through dinner without a smoke. I hate it when you tell me smoking is disgusting, with your Big Mac in one hand and a super sized coke in the other. And I hate that I smoke.
I hate capitalism.
I hate car guards. I hate petrol attendants. I hate those bitches that work behind the till in the grocery store. I hate fat traffic cops. I hate thin chefs. I hate waitrons with long hair. I hate hairdressers with none.
I hate Bollywood, it’s just too damn much. And what’s up with the over the top film in a place of such gross poverty? I hate big budget films. I hate Transformers… Every single fucking one of them. I hate that Fox woman, even I want to fuck her she’s so hot.
I hate a blaze of heat without a way of cooling down. I hate the cold and the constant struggle to find some warmth. I hate those single giant clouds that hinders me from having an otherwise sun filled day. I hate a grey cloud-covered sky without a single damn rain drop.
I hate fat that whines about their inner beauty. I hate muscles that can only talk about food, what to eat, when to eat and how much.
I hate Idiots that say “oh, no thanks, I don’t drink”. And I hate hearing the moron that cant handle his booze shout out at everyone obnoxiously.
I hate it when you speak to me in a language that isn’t English. And I hate your thick accent when you speak English. And I hate that I can only really speak fucking English.
I hate ignorant whites who complain too much and do too little. I hate arrogant blacks that do even less. I hate bossy women. In fact, sometimes I hate all women – oh, hey, guys, let’s help out with that whole feminist movement, equality is great, only a women has proved she can do everything a man can do, behave like a heartless cunt. I’m waiting for the delightful change feminism was suppose to bring about. I hate waiting. I hate spare time.
I hate advertising.
I hate adverts that push the happy family myth especially on late night television when those happy families should be fast fucking asleep. I hate stupid ads that rhyme or have some lame ass fucking jingle.
I hate that the world is changing so fast.
And I hate it when time seems to stand still.
I hate you for reading this and agreeing to anything I have had to say because I hate myself for being a douche bag and focusing on the hate.
Why not write a piece on the things I love… Because I would hate that

So when you look at hate, it is prevalent in all of us whether we admit it or not. The latter usually ends in the person acting out in spite of the denial so what’s the harm in simply saying it out loud, or writing it down? But the critical difference from being a person who feels to a criminal who acts is how we choose to release this hate. Even when I re-read it, it sounds crazy but as logic comes back to my head and my years of maturing come into play, it is evident that acting on any of what I just mentioned would not only be wrong but incredibly stupid. And life is far too short for stupidity.

As my brush up with the LGBTI news continued I came across a story that really takes hold of the problem in question and brings it in from over there, to right under our noses. And these two incidence are all in the span of a few weeks of each other… Tell me it’s not getting worse?
In Johannesburg, the Carlton Centre, a woman was beaten senseless by three men working in the centre as security guards. The men beat her because she kissed her girlfriend, and what seems to be popular consensus in the black community (from rural to urban) is that lesbianism can be cured through brute force and often rape. Now the security company, Protection Services, has threatened to countersue Mtshali (the woman beaten senseless) for allegedly scratching one of the men during the attack. Even when the police arrived the women were harshly recommended not to press charges. So here we have security guards, men paid to protect and trained to defend or attack, using their skills on a woman for no other reason than their own stupidity? But who is the one to deal with the after math? Mtshali. And why should we, as the LGBTI community, have to deal with the straights inability to feel compassion or have some tolerance?

So at what point is enough enough?
The law is behind these people, behind us, but for some reason the constitution seems more and more futile, just words on a piece of paper. At what point will someone, not from the LGBTI community, stand up and say “No, this is not the kind of behavior I condone in a country I call my own.”
Where are our leaders? because your ignorant, cruel and heartless people need some leadership!
What can you do?
Stopping the hate starts with you. Admit that you hate, even just a little, it’s ok. But it’s not ok to make that emotion a reality, not only for yourself but for anyone who might be involved in your heat wave of hate. Then you need to speak out about hate you come into contact with. Let’s all take a leap into 2012, homophobia is so old school and hate crimes are a disgusting display of the lack of forward thinking a progressive and developing society needs.

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