Been a while, hasn't it? Roundabout six months  since my last update by my count;  a considerable stretch by anyone's books, that.  However, fret not, for the whys or whens aren't important; suffice it to say though that the enforced sabbatical was indeed a fruitful one.And contrary to popular belief and what appears to have been shamelessly contageous rumour-mongering on the part of decidedly idle minds with equally laxatated tongues, it was not i that was responsible for the provocation of the Icelandic volcano that ground the world's entire aero-transport system to a shuddering halt for all of two glorious weeks earlier this year. However much  i would love to claim the credit as my own.

Which brings us quite smoothly to the purpose of this here post;- a candid look back at the Top 10 people and events that-in my view anyway- helped make the last 10 years the most gripping decade in living memory. And Lord Almighty was it ever an eventful one. Incidentally, our first entry happens to be none other than the chaos-in-a-cauldron created by none other than my volcanic lava from another mother- (our likeness is nothing short of striking)- the Icelandic heavyweight champion of the world, "The Big Easy".

10. Volcano disrupts picnic plans. How ol' Eyjafjallajökull (gesundheit) failed to clinch TIME magazine's much coveted 'person of the year' over Facebook head honcho, Zuckerberg is quite beyond my level of comprehension. For a fortnight the wheezy, old crocker set transportation back 120 years, forcing  millions of travellers worldwide to find simpler, alternative means of getting to point "B"; with millions others deciding the effort was not worth leaving point "A" in the first place. 



The continuous flow of lava and accompanying cataclysmic explosions set off a series of events incomparably much more impactful in their gravity and significance, and that deserved much more recognition;- recognition that was rather diverted  to the heralding of the inventor of an online social media utility that makes it easier for people all around the world to "poke" each other. But just so we're tuned in on the same wavelength, my contention is not that Zuckerberg made TIME magazine's person of the year. It is simply that he made TIME magazine's person of the year for 2010. Capisce? Bene.


9.  The Great Recession.  The buzzword of which the average Joe really didn't know the exact definition nor technicalities concerning the economic phenomenon, but like the roll-off-the-tongue name of some venereal disease,  simply knew that whatever it was, it wasn't good. 

A financial crisis that claimed collapsed housing markets, stock markets crash, economic hardship, exponential unemployment figures and retrenchments, and slumped consumer confidence on a worldwide scale. It was the stuff of Steinbeck-esque lore, which in all honesty wasn't too far off the mark, as the crisis was being readily compared to the Great Depression of the 1930s.


8. The day the sky fell. One of those, "where were you when you heard?" events. I'd just ambled languidly into the dorm television room and turned on the telly just in time to see the second plane slice into the second tower and the instantaneous bright orange flash of the ensuing explosion. i remember wondering whether the guys at CNN had already made a computer animated representation of what had happened to the first plane, until the news anchor clarified that it was a second plane. And that it was live. And that this was real.

i remember the dorm room filling up slowly until it was packed to capacity, everyone watching in stunned silence; the occasional nervous murmur, comment or restless shifting of sneakers from the crowd breaking the silence the anchor had trouble filling. i remember going home to my appartment shortly afterward and spending the rest of that day, evening and night camped in front of the telly watching the events unravel, the towers come down, the people run,the smoke chase, the sirens wail. Little did we know that this numbing moment in time- on a decidedly curious date- would mark the beginning of the end of the world as we'd known it. Although come to think of it, i think  we all had a pretty good idea where we were headed.  Just that it was too terrifying to think about.

7. "It sounded like a train wreck". Before Boxing Day 2004, the last time most of us had come across the word  "Tsunami" was probably in a geography textbook, back at highschool. And having witnessed the utter devastation, death and destruction that it had left in its wake, the irony became apparent afterward at how "by-the-book" the phenomenon had indeed been. 

Human suffering  has always been heart-wrenching to witness, but it somehow seems exponentially more so when it occurs around the festive season, as this one did. The first reports filtering through were of a massive earthquake of the magnitude of about 9.2 on the Richter scale, somewhere off the west coast of Sumatra in the Indian Ocean. A few minutes later, the news came through that a tsunami alert had been issued. A little while went by before the first reports of a couple of hundred casualties were broken on the news. i remember thinking that, granted the loss of human life, a couple of hundred was thankfully small, considering the size of the earthquake and tidal wave the experts were bandying about. i couldn't have been more wrong. 230, 000 people perished in 14 countries; the single biggest disaster in recorded history.

6.Yes. I Think We Just Did. A very tiny, minute and infinitesimal (really, it was that small) part of me felt somewhat sorry for both Hillary Clinton and John McCain during the course of that presidential election of 2008. Because it must have been slowly becoming apparent to them that they weren't just running against a  juggernaut  of a candidate supported by most of the Democratic and, as we would later find out,  the majority of the American electorate; but, by all accounts they were indeed running against the entire world. From the bustling streets of Kinshasa to the teeming coffeehouses of Budapest, there was but one name on everyone's lips;- "Barack Obama". Let's face it, the public has always loved the underdog in ANY race or matchup, let alone a presidential one for that matter;- but what was special about Obama's race was its ludicrosity. Its implausibility. Its improbability. Its IMPOSSIBILITY. Until ofcourse, he made it possible. And won it.

If just the mere candidate matchups themselves weren't enough to draw you into this most intriguing of races (a former First Lady, a septagenarian Vietnam vet and a wet-behind-the-ears lawyer with an African name), then the soap-opera of events that plagued it throughout its course definitely would have. From videos of sermons of former controversial pastors coming out of the woodwork; to "mis-spoken" speeches flowered with dramatic descriptions of non-existent memories of coming under fire on a Bosnian runway; to a campaign volunteer making up a story of being robbed, pinned to the ground and having the letter “B” scratched on her face in an apparent "politically inspired" attack, this was without a doubt a race like no other in history. And lest it be forgotten, its culmination afforded us a chance to witness a moment we never thought we'd experience in our lifetime. And on that day- visas, greencards, nationalities and trade barriers aside- one would have been forgiven for thinking that the whole world just might get along afterall.

5. T.I.A One thing about underdogs is that it's not only a pleasure to see them succeed in the face of adversity and pre-perceived challenges, but to see them succeed WELL makes that support all the more worth it. Such was the story of the first ever football Word Cup on African soil. The usual "it can't be done", "they're not ready to host such an event", "it's too dangerous, tourists risk their lives by going there" and all sorts of condescending remarks and negative commentary were flying around on the eve of the most watched tournament in the world. 

And ofcourse, as we all now know, the biggest humble pie in history was also served to all doubters by the end of a most magnificent showcase of The Beautiful Game. This time, it WAS for Africa, and no amount of negativity was going to steal the Mother continent's moment in the spotlight away from her..

4. "Long live the King. The King is Dead." From the very first time you saw him donned in a slanted black fedora, shimmering silver glove, ankle-length black trousers,  sparkling white socks and an open, fluttering shirt; to the moment his glittering coffin was wheeled away from his own tributary memorial service, you knew you were privileged to have lived to witness a magnificent human being use his God-given talents to all of his ability.


Misunderstood, adored, persecuted and inspiring, Michael Jackson truly encapsulated the star we'd all grown up with, and for whatever you might've thought of him, the King of Pop he surely was.

3.The day the universe shook-We thought we'd witnessed the worst of Mother Nature just six years earlier with the devastation of the Tsunami, but she surprised us when she reared her ugly side once again early in 2010- this time in Haiti. An earthquake, 7.1 on the Richter scale razed nearly all buildings on the Caribbean island to the ground, killing more than 200, 000 people and leaving millions homeless. 

Although the miraculous stories of people being pulled out of the rubble alive, days (and in some cases weeks) after the quake hit served to give the rescuers and waiting family members wisps of hope, the overall picture was a bleak one at best. Entire families, neighborhoods and communities had been wiped out as Haiti experienced the second worst natural disaster in recent  memory.

2.A true heroine & an addict for freedom- The fight for freedom has borne many faces throughout the history of man;- from David to Joan of Arc, from Martin Luther King  to Ghandi; and from Lumumba to Mandela, the rights of the meek, disadvantaged and oppressed have been fearlessly spoken for by heroes who put their personal safety aside for the greater good of their people. In 2010, the face of freedom belonged to the Burmese heroine. 

Kept under house arrest for years by a brutal and  oppressive regime after her party , the National League for Democracy won a landslide election in 1990, her non-violent protest for freedom and democracy for all the people of Burma, and those everywhere searching for that most basic of rights, saw Aung San Suu Kyi finally released. 






1.And in my # 1 Moment of the Decade; The Chilean Miners. Sometimes, all you need is a feel good story to garner a better perspective on the challenges you face in your own life. The story of 33 Chilean miners trapped  2,000 ft underground  for more than two months before being rescued presented that perspective in all its powerful resonance. 

The ultimate tale of adversity, pain, helplessness, perseverance, hope and triumph played out on screens across the world as the rescue mission saw each miner make his way up the narrow shaft in the claustrophobic, yet appropriately named "Phoenix" capsule, the world holding its breath tentatively as each second ticked torturously by. They were nameless miners from the other side of the world, but they represented humanity's perpetual quest to survive, no matter what the circumstance.

Happy New Year everyone! Let's hope the coming decade is even half as exciting as the last one was. Good Luck, God Bless and Godspeed.

Good Luck, God Bless & Godspeed.

Having one's head stuck between the burglar bars criss-crossing the tableau windows of one's lounge isn't the most ideal way to spend one's sunny school vacation morning. Especially not when there's nobody around to proffer a Samaritan hand in aid; as the folks are at work and the nanny's in the kitchen fixing up one's French toast and hot milk brunch and can't hear one's desperate boyish squeals...er... grunts as one tries to wriggle free, courtesy of her banshee-inspired attempts at keeping up with the sounds of Abba's "Dancing Queen" blaring through the stereo speakers at full volume.

 
 Half a brick of butter, a bit of strategic and carefully executed prying and maneuvering of my headless body by the nanny (bless her vocally un-blessed soul) and a bruised ego later (it wasn't particularly amusing in the least that during the entire extraction procedure, a bunch of construction workers laying bricks at the next door neighbor's driveway downed tools and, amid guffaws and body-raking laughter, made their lardy rear ends comfortable in order to witness the humiliating spectacle), i was free.

They'd been the cause of my predicament in the first place, those construction workers. Could you blame me though? Aged 5, the world was still fresh, new and pregnant with unimagined possibilities. Realities yet to be discovered (especially those of a loud, muddy and JCB-ish nature) were deliciously interpreted into cause for adventure by the 5 year old mind. It was a fearless and thirsty mind, that one; ready to sponge off of anything that would expand its realms of knowledge- real, imagined or otherwise. It dared to explore. And explore it did when it sent my head through the bars on a reconnaissance mission on the noisy goings-on of the next door neighbor's driveway that summery sun-kissed morning; but alas with no proposed plans of how exactly to retract said-head back through said-bars.

 It is a decidedly human thing, exploration; is it not? From the moment we push forth from the warm, umbilically attached enclosure of our first residence, we're gripped by the urge to explore and discover everything about our new address in all it's weird, wonderful and horrific make-up. And it is thus from cot to country to continent to constellation; that we discover in order to comprehend, and ultimately conquer.

Our insatiable curiosity has landed us further than we've ever been in our history. Currently, there are two mobile buggies, Spirit Rover and Opportunity Rover taking a jolly Sunday drive around the surface of Mars and beaming us back signals of their extensive geological analysis of Martian rocks and planetary surface features. All the required preliminary setting of the table, of course, for the much- anticipated main course of landing the first pair of human size 10s on the surface of that planet. At the astronomical (sorry, i had to) total cost of $20 billion, it won't be a bag of chips in the least bit.


 Don't get me wrong, my intention is not to deride the importance or, indeed, the relevance of scientific developments such as this obviously will be. The time, effort, sweat and countless balding scientists' tears will ultimately benefit humankind. A task as elephantine as sending the first human crew off to the red planet would obviously require the invention of the necessary technologies to accomplish such a feat, which- as evidenced by our previous forays into the the mysterious black yonder that is space- will create a spin off of said-technologies into our everyday lives.

i need not remind you of such simple and taken-for-granted pleasures as freeze-dried food, cordless tools, ATM technology,water purification filters, microwave receivers used in scans for breast cancer, remote robotic surgery and heart defibrillator technology (a mere handful from a large vat of 1500 other space program-inspired technologies).

No, that's not my intention at all. It is, however, my intention to have you ponder the following; - to have ventured so far away from home would imply that we have discovered and thus, as is our nature, conquered all there is to be conquered of home. Correct? The average length of an adult skull is around 21 to 22 centimeters. The average width is about 17 to 18 centimeters. In terms of circumference, the average skull of an adult measures 54 to 57 centimeters. And lo and behold, within this shell lies the frontier we have barely begun to understand, let alone conquer.

  You see, ladies and gentlemen, for as much as we can claim to have conquered everything on good ol' Mother Earth; the same (shock upon horror) can't be said of the human brain. For at this very minute, 90% of its latent potential is still to be accounted for.

 Though it does makes you wonder... what is 90% of infinity?

 
Hm...

  

Feud 'Fore Thought {Entry Two}

i'm not the biggest fan of reality television. In fact, i'd go as far as to profess my absolute loathing for the genre. i find it abominably boring, pretentious, devoid of any entertainment value whatsoever and just about as intellectually stimulating as a bowl of cooking lard. It's not for my lack of trying to watch either. i did try. Really, i did.Once. And if i could find a way to claim back that wasted, soul-depraving half hour of my life in its entirety, believe me i would've done so. A long, long time ago. i can't for the life of me recall what show or indeed which episode therein had so instigated a reaction in me so much akin to that of the turning of one's nostrils up in the presence of a decidedly toxic and stomach-curdling pong, but suffice it to say that it had from that moment on turned me off of the purgative genre for good. Thank God, the ancestors and good genes for a brilliantly pedantic pair of nostrils.

One might deem it rather unjust to base an all-encompassing opinion regarding an entire genre upon a brief half-hour's sitting, but to that critique i offer a short rebuff: it may walk like a duck, it may look like a pheasant, and it may very well run like an ostrich too. But by Jupiter it sure tastes like chicken. You see, once you've seen one (reality shows i mean, not the fowl),you've seen them all.

One can thus imagine my gack-shock-horror just the other day when i had the torturous misfortune of having to sit through what would be my second half-hour lost entirely to yet another piteous attempt at entertainment by a so-called reality (humph!) show. Be in the firm knowledge, however, that the experience was involuntary and totally out of my control, and is the main reason behind my continual and fervent belief in the tactics of successful remote control concealment when leaving your throne in front of the television;- entirely necessary precautionary measures done in order to avoid what can only be described as a domestic coup d'etat to wrestle away control of the aforementioned remote by marauding female siblings or sub-plotting other halves. Alas, short of taking it with you to the ablution facilities, there are only so many places one can hide a remote that haven't already been discovered and scavenged by the band of rebels.

It was following one such incident that i made my unpleasant introduction to Dr. 90210. For those as intentionally ignorant of the genre as myself, this show is a series that focuses on plastic surgery in the wealthy suburb of Beverly Hills in Los Angeles, California and features interviews with the patients, semi-graphic footage of the surgeries, and before and after footage of the patients. The episode i was forced (you might ask why i didn't just do something else while waiting for the rebel scavengers to vacate the throne room, but it's very hard to find a patch of drying paint to watch, however much i would've loved the experience) to sit through, focused on three individuals- two sisters and an additional lady, each seeking some sort of aesthetic surgery to have performed about their person.

The one sister, a slender high school student of about 17, has already had a nose job done and is now looking to have her breasts enlarged.Still well below the legal drinking age in most countries, but wise enough beyond her short years here on Earth to know that self-esteem and pride about one's appearance don't come from within one's self, spirit or soul, but rather in the form of a face-masked man in green loose-fitting slacks and a shiny, sharp scalpel. Somebody hand her a medal, please.

Her older sister, who can't be her senior by any more than a couple of years, is overweight. Nothing a bit of exercise and nutritional self-discipline couldn't fix, you ask? Please perish the thought, what year are you living in anyway, 1995?? No, think more along the lines of a wonderful buffet combo of body shaping liposuction, Abdominoplasty ( tummy tuck), breast augmentation and gastric by-pass surgery (hold the fries and onion rings though, thanks).All this in one sitting, of course.

You might well enquire about the girls' family's thoughts on this. Their mother is an anaesthetist at the clinic where both girls are having their restructuring done. Oh and she's perfectly fine with them wanting work done on their bodies so early in their lives. No problem with it whatsoever. Why should there be? It's not like she's their moral and conscientious compass in life or anything. Go figure.



The last patient in this episode is a lady who, if there were a spectrum graphically displaying the extent of absurdities relating to cosmetic surgery (1 being "minimal" and 10 being "extreme"), would be perched comfortably under the number 100. She apparently has an addiction to cosmetic surgery (otherwise known as BDD, or Body Dysmorphic Disorder) and doesn't know it yet. She's been under the surgeon's knife dozens, upon countless of times, and still finds something about her body that she doesn't like and wants changed. In fact her parting scene involves her talking to the camera (us) about her last cheek implants that went wrong and made her look like E.T., oh and by the way, she wants work done on her pinkie toes because they're too "chubby". Right. Somebody clearly needs to be phoning home for help. Or Dr Phil, if the line's busy.

By the time the end credits rolled up, i must admit i'd taken pity on these three individuals. Maybe it's because i realised that however stupid i might have thought their reasoning behind whatever decisions they made to go under the surgeon's knife, they were sculpting their bodies not for them, but to what they thought we wanted them to look like. "We" being society. So, effectively, they were victims of their own society.Victims of society's barbaric view of what a beautiful human being should look like. And if that weren't enough, we commercialised, packaged and glorified the entire process of the ugly duckling turning into a plastic swan into one high-gloss, 30 minute show (minus commercial breaks).

Just the other day (roundabout 186 BC, to be absolutely precise) the Romans would throw people they didn't really fancy into the arena of the Colosseum and watch as hungry lions made short work of them. The difference between now and then? We've evolved, you say? We've changed, you quip? We're not like that anymore, you retort? Not likely. The human being hasn't changed for thousands of years. Given the right environment, we're still as barbaric as ever. The difference is that today we can throw the word "television" behind anything, and it instantly becomes something that we can accept. Something we can adapt to. Something we can enjoy.

Just in case you were wondering, i've got a different opinion on reality television to what it was before i'd watched that episode of Dr 90210. No, i still loathe the genre.

But now more than ever.

Pedantic Nostrils & Plastic Swans

Some twenty-odd years ago, a little boy of about 7 grabbed a black umbrella off the hat rack in the vestibule, ran up the stairs to his room,clambered through a window and onto the railing of the veranda , unfurled the large umbrella open, and - brandishing it high above his head in one hand - jumped out into space. Give or take a week before that, he'd been spotted (by a nosy-good-fer-nuffin neighbor no less) tying a rope around the uppermost branches of a Jacaranda tree and swinging off in full vocal rendition of a tribal ululation, clad in nothing more than "...what appeared to be Scooby Doo..."- (to damnation, i say, that no-good neighbor's eye for detail and even more-so, her feeling of moral and communal obligation to rat on one to one's parents)- "...undergarments". Barely two days before that, he'd been standing in the backyard with a makeshift cape (later to be identified and confirmed during a rather painful disciplinary spanking, as mum's best table cloth) fastened around his neck, his hands fisted at his waist, feet wide apart and staring brazenly at the sun in an apparent let's-see-who'll-blink-first showdown.

 A couple of Mary Poppins-Superman-Spiderman-Tarzan-Huckleberry Finn- inspired gaffes were about as far as the effects of television on my development as a kid went. No broken bones (surprisingly) , but in their place a lifetime's worth of stories, bookmarked in all the scabs, scars and bruises i sported proudly; much like the pins, badges and sashes of an old general in full military regalia. Television-inspired violent conduct in our day amounted to the occasional staged post-kung fu flic mass fracas involving all the lads in the neighborhood or in the playground at recess; or the McGyver-glorifying attempts to build a nuclear submarine out of planks of wood, fire crackers, dental floss, super glue and chicken wire.

i suppose the lads and i followed some unspoken rule or code as to how far towards the border between the realms of make believe and hard hitting reality we could take our copycatting, concerning what we witnessed on television. i'm almost certain we were pretty much cognitive of the basic differences between the two. i'm positive we knew when Wile E. Coyote kept coming back from a fall/an explosion/getting chopped up into slices/disappearing underneath a large boulder , that it was really all make-believe? That it couldn't really happen in real life? i'm convinced we knew that when Rambo rattled off a couple of shots at the enemy to send them screaming and sprawling off a cliff edge or off the roof of a building, that all that 'blood' was really only just ketchup? That upon the scrolling of the credits at the end of the movie, we'd find out that 'Bad Guy #1' actually had a name and that he wasn't really dead, after all? But that the same couldn't be said of those other people on the news,y'know, the ones covered in white sheets or zipped up in black bags at that school?

We were 7. Grown kids, we were. Of course we knew the difference between fantasy and reality. Just as much as i'd known the difference when- as a seven year old- i'd grabbed a flimsy umbrella and jumped off a balcony 26 feet up with the expectation of floating and steering myself to wherever the wind would take me; or as i swung around from a frayed, knotted rope attached to the branches of trees the height of buildings in the full belief that i was the king of my very own patch of jungle; or when i did permanent damage to the photoreceptors in my eyes by staring down the sun in my cemented conviction of my invincibility as an underground superhero.

And so, when an eight year old goes to school one morning with a couple of loaded handguns in his backpack in preparation for that day's exciting game of cops and robbers at recess, of course he deserves our benefit of the doubt that he knows full-well the difference between make believe and reality. After all, he has it on good authority that the presents underneath the tree at the end of the year will have been delivered by an overly-obese, jolly good Samaritan of a man dressed in a red coat and hat with a long white beard. He's also seen that on the telly, by the way, but he knows for a fact that the jolly, fat man is real. 

He's pretty sure he is, anyway.

Scabs, Scars & Tangy Ketchup

i've got mixed feelings about the death penalty. It's an uncomfortable topic to talk about- one of those you don't bring up at a dinner party, right along with religion, politics and the real reasons behind Uncle Bubba's showing up in a D&G evening gown with matching snake skin handbag and Jimmy Choo heels at the family reunion last spring. It's one of those topics (not the Choo heels, the death penalty i mean) that there's really no right answer to, and equally one of those it seems awkward to have an on-the-fence opinion on.Almost as awkward as it does not to.

Today i hear a convicted killer, one Ronnie Lee Gardner (why do the famous killers always have treble-syllabic names?), 49, was executed in Utah, US.He'd been on death row the past couple of decades for killing a lawyer on his failed escape attempt from a court house, where he was already facing charges over another murder- that of a barman. Not a particularly special case, not even considering his request for his preferred mode of execution-that of death by firing squad. Apparently he'd made this request before this particular mode of execution was banned in the state.

Now, see, this is where the awkwardness creeps in, for me. "Death by firing squad" is banned in the state of Utah, in favour of the lethal injection- much like all US states where the death penalty is in use (35, as of October 2009). Only Oklahoma still offers the firing squad as an alternative, and i doubt very much that this will be the case in a few months' time. Now, why do you suppose this is? Cutting costs by saving on bullets? Hardly likely. Try: a more humane way to die.

  That's right. You committed a heinous crime in the denouement of which you happened to extinguish two human lives, thus we're going to punish you in the most severe way afforded to us by our high positions of authority as bearers of the sword of justice...and smite away yours too. Only...um... in a more respectable...uh... humane and... er...merciful way. Instead of shooting you to death, we're gonna inject you with a lethal cocktail of poisons. It'll kill you softly, y'see? You won't (you shouldn't) feel a thing. You should be thanking us, y'know. We're doing more for you than you ever did for your victims.
 
i dunno bout you lot, but this fence feels like it's getting wobblier by the minute. Funny, the vultures seem to be keeping their balance pretty well...

Cocktails & Barbedwire Fences

i'm baaack! Aye, t'is following a heroic escape from the halitosis-infested jaws of death that i currently address you- alive, super-charged (well, save for- the occasional sniffle and sound-barrier-shattering phlegm-powered wet cough {bet that's the last time you eat a chicken mayo & avocado sarmie while reading this blog, eh? *wink wink* heh heh}) and raring to get going on my World Cup adventures in South Africa. i fought this particular bout of flu tooth, nail and fistfuls of pills, and won.Or rather more like football (anyone who persists in calling it "soccer" {*vomit*} should be shot) won.

 That's right, i'm off to see the greatest show on earth- the very one i've waited the best part of two and some decades (read: my whole darned life) for. This year's edition also happens to be the most memorable in the competition's entire history: for the soul-gratifying reason that it will be the first ever hosted on African soil. You see, this is one of them moments in your life you want to make sure you experience live and direct, in order to update your mini- library repertoire of personal life stories that it is inevitable your snooty, we-don't-take-crap grandchildren will ask about in the not-too-distant future. If, in the future, you do NOT want to come across as just another foggy old toad that reeks of snuff and vanilla-scented denture glue to a bunch of snotty-nosed upstarts, then i advise, good folk, that TiVo-ing and PVR-ing the biggest and most significant never-to-be-repeated-again events of our lifetime is not the way to go.

The little buggers will tackle you from behind, pin you down and force you into various contorted positions of submission, before clinically picking and extracting a story (the ransom, and only condition securing your release) from your past and from the cob-webbed and dusty recesses of your octogenarian mind. Your grand-spawn won't want to hear about something they could just as easily experience by logging on to the first video site that comes up on the net. No, dear chap (and chappette), forget the flesh and bone, they'll want to get right at the marrow; the stuff of which only intimate and personal experience is made of; the substance.

They'll want to know first-hand about what it was like to be crammed in the stands, surrounded by a seething mass of humanity from all corners of the earth, of all creeds and races all screaming and shouting and exalting in pure unburdened euphoria at the wonderful spectacle that is the beautiful game; they'll want to know what it was like to blow on the "vuvuzela" and add to the collective spine-tingling drone of a hundred thousand angry bees quashed into a jam jar; they'll want to know why you couldn't hear for days after.

They'll want to know what it was like to sit next to a complete stranger and not share a single word between yourselves for an entire game, but hug and pound fists with each other, slap backs and cry tears and leave as firm friends,yet still not know each others' name, and in all probability, never see each other again; they'll want to know how, in all the jumping and shoving about, you lost a contact lens and watched the remainder of the game with one eye screwed shut and the other open and darting around like a pin ball; they'll want to know what it was like to scream in joy as the first goal went in and choke immediately afterwards as you received a timely reminder of the hot-dog baguette with Dijon mustard, pickles, deep fried onion and hot garlic mayo rammed halfway down your throat; they'll want to know how hard your stranger-friend slapped your back to dislodge the half-devoured guilty suspect...only to allow you enough breath so you could both continue screaming in wild, boyish joy in seeing your team take the lead.

They'll want to know. And from my contorted position on the floor- my octogenarian bones creaking in hapless submission- i'll smile, nod and give the cute but naughty little buggers what they're burning to hear. Simply because, ladies, gentlemen and members of the panel, i was there in 2010. i was there. And i did it for them.

A Hundred Thousand Bees In A Jam Jar

So, like, i'm sick.Not mind-in-the-gutter sick (however hard those who think they know me personally will try and have you believe) but bed-ridden-throat-feels-like-people've-been-putting-their-cigars-and-cigarettes-out-in-it-i-feel-cold-oh-so-cold-can-somebody-hold-my-hand-i-see-dead-wombats-i'm-so- gonna-sue-that-so-called-doctor-for-mixing-up-my-meds-with-those-meant-for-the- zoo sick. Yes, it looks (and certainly darned well feels) like i'm currently under seige; an attack from the insurgents of the armed wing of the Orthomyxoviradae Party of the RNA virus clan, otherwise known as the Influenza Movement for Autocracy (dude, don't ever say you don't get edjumacated from reading this here blog). It's a serious attack and these guys brought all their heavy artillery. Diplomacy's long gone out the window and they mean business. There'll be casualties here yet.

So yeah, i'm on a strict overdose diet of Flumel, Cal-C-Vita, Halls, Strepsils, Vicks VapoRub and an anonymous, raggety box of oversized pills i found at the bottom of the "sick box" that look like the stuff you'd take in order to survive a nuclear fallout (there's a partly faded set of numbers printed on the back that ends with "97".Not too sure if that's the manufacture batch number or the...?...nah...couldn't be the "best before" date...could it?? Regardless, they've proven effective in knocking me out a couple of times, but not before sending me swinging from the chandeliers in total, unencumbered bliss and euphoria).

There's only one thing this miserable marriage of circumstances (bed ridden and fighting for dear life) is really ever any good for, and that's the chance afforded to abuse your extensive dvd movie collection. And a monstrously impressive collection- if you'll allow me the plaisir of a moment on the soapbox to indeed declare- dear earth folk, is what i most certainly have. My collection spans genres and eras any self-respecting movie buff would weep tears of unabashed joy for and tip their hat at in respect and sheer incredulity. I can sit here and confidently state that as we speak, i own 10% of Hanks's new Porsche, 15% of De Niro's condo at Martha's Vineyard and also have a hand in funding the relaying of Gibson's inch-perfect kikuyu grass lawn this summer.

In truth, the reality reads more like: 50% of Lú's kids' annual tuition, 70% of Chiang's debts to the loan sharks who've threatened to hold his family as collateral and 85% of the expansion costs to Xiao's cramped two-roomer, so he and his big family can get a feel of what it's like to live like human beings for the first time in their lives. Ofcourse, my extensive movie collection never began as a humanitarian gesture towards anyone by any means, (and neither is it now to tell the truth), but rather from my megalomaniacal hunger, birthed out of my love for the medium.

  A brief digressive lesson. It began as a Tale of Two Cities: Hollywood and Piracity, dealers in trade of one of the most sought-after and powerful drugs in the world: Audio/Visual Entertainment. Hollywood had ruled the roost for years in terms of supply. No problem with the demand, that was always going to be there, right?; the miserable junkies were continually (and increasingly) hungry for more of whatever was churned out. That meant Hollywood could do what it wanted with the price of its stock, and exploit that advantage it did. Of course, Piracity looked to get in on the big money and get a cut of the sweet and profitable pie. It saw its chance when it tuned in to the fact that the junkies weren't as loyal to the pure nature of the drug as was previously perceived. Piracity discovered that the junkies would settle for a lower quality replica product if it was offered at a lower price. Hollywood's exploitation had had its toll. It'd turned a large majority of its market away and towards its sworn enemies. End of lesson.

  Hollywood has lost out big time. US$ 244 million a year's worth of big time. It's a shame really, because the solution's so stupidly simple. i'd honestly prefer to buy the original higher quality product (and boot loads of it too) if it were at a competitive price to what the Piracity product is offered. The gap in prices couldn't be more stark. For the cost of one Hollywood product, i can get 24 of Piracity's. It does, however, mean risking quality issues that range between the near-perfect, to having a man-shaped silhouette hobble across the screen mid-movie and also having dvd blurbs that read like the following example, found on the back of a Piracity copy of The Sum of All Fears:

...If the Earth would be exterminated, you have to use the remaining time? The United states a keen astronomy students in Europe inadvertently discovered a new comet, did not expecthuge comet Earth billowed into North Korea has come in one year would hit the planet, human destiny is at stake. In order to avoid mass hysteria, the U.S. military blockade of this news, but after all the media expose, then United States President Baker (Morgan Freeman) to plan a dangerous space mission, from experienced astronauts 'small fish' (Laoboduwa) leader in an attempt to detonate...

Well, you get my drift. So Hollywood, there you have it. You've heard our call, it's up to you to heed it. But until you do, Piracity's going to be a way more popular destination to visit. Horrendously misspelt road signs and all.

**DISCLAIMER- Like, dude, what's going on? i took one of those nuclear fallout pills mid-blog and got knocked out by a Muhammad Ali-esque haymaker. Next thing i wake up to find this random, anonymous dude sprinting out my house, my blog finished and published and helicopters hovering outside with bullhorns blaring something about getting on the floor with my hands on my head and that it's the FBI?? This had better be a nightmare... or a really, really bad movie.

What's In These Pills, Doc?

A light inner-city subway train has an average maximum speed of 70km/h, with total passenger places of 275 (54 seating & 221 standing). It has a start up acceleration of 1.2 m/s2 and weighs about 250 tons.

A three-wheeler pram, better known as an "All Terrain Pushchair" sports a gas-sprung mechanism which allows it to unfold with one touch, a lockable, double front swivel wheel, large rear pneumatic wheels, all round suspension, an adjustable soft-touch rubber handlebar, adjustable multi-position front-facing and rear facing seat, adjustable leg rest, and an all around weight of about 12.2 kg.

The average six month old human infant weighs 8.2 kg and is 81.28 cm in height.

The math is clear cut, but the reality continues to defy all logic and scientific explanation. Let's cast our minds back to an incident that occurred a little less than a year ago,-Friday 16 October 2009 to be precise- at Ashburton station in Melbourne, Australia. A day as normal as any other until, as the CCTV footage testifies, a mother waiting by the platform for the arrival of the train with her baby boy in a pram momentarily takes her hands off the three-wheeler pram's handles and fails to notice as it slowly edges towards the tracks.

Too late, the mother suddenly spots the baby carrier picking up speed and rushes forward with outstretched arms to try to save her young child, but the pram tips over the edge of the platform, sending the baby slamming head first onto the tracks below and into the direct path of the now oncoming train. The 250 ton train, customarily slowing down for its approach to the platform, slams into the pram at 35km/h to the horror of the baby's mother and the shocked onlookers, dragging it 30 metres beneath the front carriage, before coming to a slow and agonising stop.

The boy? Well, he escapes with nothing more than a slight bump on the head, and none the wiser-nor could he care less, mind you- about what's just transpired. He probably also wouldn't have given two shakes of his rattle to know that all the odds-scientific and mathematical combined- were fully stacked against him surviving the ordeal. And the mathematical probability of the very same incident occurring again with the very same outcome? That would be in the "near-impossible" stack of calculations, wouldn't it? Well, it did. 26 May 2010, Melbourne Australia, yet again. This time a 15-month old escapes with facial bruises and minor cuts to the head.

The formulaic bases of mathematics and the sciences are grounded on the tangible. In essence, anything intangible cannot be calculated and therefore cannot exist. And so any funny talk about mysterious protective forces-call them guardians, shepherds or whateverhaveyou- assigned to ensure the welfare of children is pure balderdash. Old wives' tales over snuff and hot broth. Simply insane. Maybe so, because every human being comes with a date of expiration, much like a can of corned beef: when you're off, you're off.

What i think the old wives' tales suggest however is that sometimes, just sometimes, the expiry date on the can is somehow changed and postponed to a later date, with a little help from somewhere (something?), and that this phenomenon is mostly evident around children. Shucks, who are we kidding?. It would, however be interesting to find out what the mathematical odds and probabilities would've been for each of the following wives' tales, just for interest's sake...

2 January 1995- A dazed 10-year-old girl with a broken arm emerged as the lone survivor of a plane crash in northern Colombia in which 47 passengers and five crew members were killed.

21 August 2008- Three children aged six, eight and eleven survived the Madrid air disaster, which claimed a total of 153 lives, in what rescue workers have described as “a miracle”.

30 June 2009 -A 14 year old girl was plucked from the ocean off the coast of the African Comoros Islands, the only apparent survivor from a Yemeni airliner crash that killed 152 people.

13 May 2010- A Dutch boy is the sole survivor as more than 100 die in a Libyan air crash.

And then again, maybe science requires a tangible bunch of feathers scattered around every site as hard evidence, in order to even remotely consider the impossible. Or maybe, just a mug or two of hot broth will do.

A Feather Or Two & A Mug of Hot Broth

The Sir Aleque Turkey Mayo on Toasted Rye, Please

Is it just me, or is there something exceedingly greasy (sorry, couldn't resist) about the developments around the oil spill off the Gulf Coast on the eastern seaboard of the US? In case you're a revolutionary social recluse and have been stuck in your cave and living on tofu and grilled insects in a bid to live as detached and as far away from civilisation as possible for the last couple of months, a brief recap.

  Following an explosion on BP’s Deepwater Horizon drill rig on April 20, which incidentally also killed 11 workers, the resultant oil spill is courtesy of a severed underwater riser pipe, which has so far gushed out 910, 000 gallons (12,000 barrels to 19,000 barrels of oil a day) of gunky crude oil (i suddenly have this inexplicable urge to visit the fish 'n chips kiosk), forming a giant slick that extends 29, 000 miles in the ocean . This has in turn closed down about 63, 000 miles of coastland along the Gulf, affecting the livelihood of thousands, as well as causing an enormous environmental calamity in what is already being coined "the worst oil spill disaster in America in 18 years" (yet another record to keep the lads down at Guiness occupied for a while)and that is likely to affect the region for decades.

Let's digress a tad. Mistakes and accidents are bound to happen. Some are unavoidable- such as speeding off from the gas station with the gas nozzle still attached to your tank in a mad rush to catch the final episode of The Sopranos ( er...a friend's cousin's aunt's dad... apparently...*ahem*) - and others not quite entirely avoidable, but with the right contingencies, preparation and foresight, definitely somewhat so. And just in case you're wondering, the BP oil slick disaster falls under the latter. End of digression.

 In a set of farcical attempts on BP's part to plug off the gallons of crude oil pumping out of the fish 'n chi-...er...pipe (one of which comprised dropping a four-storey cement building on top of the whole darned show and calling it a day, just in time for the Seinfeld reruns on the telly)- something has become glaringly obvious to me.

Nobody knows what the huckleberry finn they're doing.

 Not BP. Not the experts. Not even Chuck Norris. Which brings us to our conclusive and very, VERY disturbing question. What else are we increasingly likely to be dependent on in the future of which, in our rush to develop, have in all probability overlooked a few "minor" details? "Nucular" [sic] energy , anybody?

 Now, about that greasy craving...

Want Fries With That Oil Slick?

A thousand apologies for the slight delay in posts (oh c'mon it hasn't been that long, and in any case the wrinkles give your face character). This has been a very enlightening week for me. Aside from marking the 1 week anniversary of this blog yesterday (what, no marching band?), the last seven days have been very eye-opening to say the least. And now comes the age-old problem (as old as time itself, really) where the putting together of words, lines and paragraphs based on a mere 26-letter alphabet in order to describe an experience-or a set of such in this case- will fail miserably in doing them any justice.

But then again, we must try, n'est-ce pas?

Suffice it to say that somehow, i was gifted the chance to experience the most important stages of an entire human LIFE, micromanaged into a brief few days. New Life, in the birth of a colleague's second child; Love, in being a groomsman to a good friend as he married his partner; and Death, in being stuck behind a hearse in a morning rush hour traffic jam.

i say "gifted" because it actually really did feel as if i'd been given (for a greater reason currently unknown to myself) a comfy front row couch (with remote in hand, of course) to the phases of life without personally having to directly go through them. Far from being a sedentary channel surfing role though, as i was required to toggle through the raw emotions and feelings that came packaged with all three channels.

Whatever reasons for, whomever from and whatever lessons learnt, it's safe to say that i'm definitely the wiser for it. A bit like going through the age of 0 to 90... only without the wrinkles, but with all the knowhow. By the way, i lied about the character-face-wrinkle thing. Might want to invest in some avocado and cucumber dip for that.

Now, what say you we get on with some channel surfing, hm?

Wrinkled Couch Potatoes

Before we go any further, let me state my position, loud and clear. i love animals. Whether glistening deliciously while twirling lazily over an open fire; or marinated with spices, rum and aromates before being diced up and skewered and then broiled over charcoal; or my favourite yet, seared and encrusted with Dijon mustard, garlic and rosemary flavoured bread crumbs and served with spiced garlic-sauteed baby potatoes, creamed cauliflower and a sweetchilli salsa, the very fact should be under no doubt whatsoever that i love my animals. With a passion.

  Right, now that that's out in the open, let's get to the real business at hand. Sometime this past week, the news came out of Las Ventanas, Spain that a famous Matador- one dashing (and currently needing an over-subscription of aspirin and an adjustment to his Facebook profile pic) Julio Aparicio- had been gored by the bull he was engaged in a bullfight with.

  Now, this normally would come as no great surprise considering the risks involved in trying to play "What's the time, Mr. Wolf?" with an 1100 pound (500kg) raging bull. One could easily see this as an occupational hazard, much like i would consider the papercut i received in the office Monday an occupational hazard (and a darned painful one at that). Note, i said "normally". Because what happened to Mr. Julio "i might need stitches" Aparicio was anything but.

 Julio (silent "J" everyone, it's Spanish) had the misfortune of having said-bull tell him exactly what time it was. In a moment we can only put down to a loss of concentration, Señor Aparicio slipped, whence-upon Señor Bull spotted an opening in his tormentor's defences and rammed a razor sharp horn up through the chin of Señor "this can't be good" Aparicio, where it then proceeded to penetrate his tongue, pierce the roof of his mouth- thus fracturing the jawbone- and end its brief but now world famous journey out through the mouth. And just as quickly as it went in, the bull yanked it out.

Now, if it sounds as if i'm cheering for the away team, in this instance "Team Bull", well then you're very much correct in your assumption. Why, you may ask? i invite you to read the following brief excerpt: 

" before the fight, the bull is enclosed in a dark box (pen), which has the effect of terrorizing him. When released and before he gets into the ring they (the bull "fighters") nail a sharp harpoon into his back. An animal previously abused, manipulated, shut up in darkness and in pain then runs galloping into the arena with an apparent furious attitude. Actually, when the bull enters the plaza, he is a frightened animal, desperately seeking to escape."

Oh but wait, there's more:

" to kill the bull, the matador traditionally has to thrust all three feet of his sword near the vertebrae to damage the heart or a major blood vessel. This is only in theory and almost never happens. The usual is that the sword can only manage to reach the lungs and the animal slowly agonizes and drowns in his own blood; after several attempts the bull is still alive, dying, moaning piteously and vomiting blood. Finally, the bull is stabbed with the puntilla ( a little dagger) in an attempt to sever his spinal cord. If the cord is not severed but only damaged, the bull is not really dead, but in some degree of paralysis and is dragged alive and conscious . Even if the cord is severed, the head of the bull is still 'live' for a few minutes, so he perfectly feels the pain when the ears are cut off. The bull is never completely dead for the second act of the carnage in the backroom of the bull ring, where the bull is quartered."

 You like? i knew you would. By the way, Señor Julio "i'm thinking of being a cruise ship lounge singer now" Aparicio is recovering well in hospital.The reports i've consulted so far state that "it is not clear what happened to the bull". Hopefully it's gone to a place where people appreciate animals. Like i do.

I Might Need Stitches, Señor

i was stuck in traffic this morning. Big deal, you vacuumed the cat and fed the carpet as usual, you might say. And yes, it might very well have been the usual garden variety, rigmarole morning everyone else and their dog experiences of hair-raising stunts and near-misses only ever witnessed at a fender bender race track, coupled with the customary language so richly dense of slander and motherless profanity of the variety only ever heard at Drinks & Bingo Night at the local senior citizens rec club - had it not been for the fact that i was stuck in traffic this morning behind a hearse.

There's something about the presence of a jolting reminder to our finite-ness (if that word didn't exist, it does now) that transforms the earth citizen. Throughout our varied species, our behavioural change regarding mortality goes according to our beliefs and customs; but change it does, nonetheless. An elephant will stand over the body of a dead loved one, gently rocking back and forth as the other elephants in the herd caress the mourner with their trunks.Chimps will hold deathbed vigils, and mark the moment of passing with a cacophony of screams and wails, or alternatively a deathly silence (pun in no way intended) depending on the deceased's mode of passage into the unknown.

This morning i witnessed the usual seething mass of horns, screeches, engine revs, fist shaking and livid vocabulary of a morning rush hour traffic jam effectively reduce itself to a deathly silent (pun by all means intended) , makeshift funeral procession. Whether it was in a show of respect or acknowledgment of the close proximity of the aforementioned jolting reminder or indeed in fact both, i'll never know, but the effect was certainly tangible.  Call it fiddlesticks and rhubarb, but there are only so many other ways you can try and explain a silent traffic jam. And none are very convincing.

The entire scene may have lasted all of 5 minutes-a fleeting moment in the context of a busy working day- but as the hearse turned into another road and went on its way- while behind it the bustle and noise of traffic resumed just as suddenly as it had stopped- you got the sense that everyone that had been a part of that makeshift procession, all protagonists of an unscripted play,was left with the same profound and unspoken, yet unexplainable resolve. 

That we were going to make something of the time we had left.

Fiddlesticks, Rhubarb & Traffic Jam

According to a Population Reference Bureau guesstimate, the number of people who have ever been born, ergo, who've lived on earth since the "beginning of time"(a cosy tea-party for two roundabout 50, 000 BC) until the present day, is a mind-fumbling 106,456,367,669 (i'd hate to see the water bill). To those of us who break out in hives at the sight of figures, that's 106 BILLION people, give or take a few hobbits. It's a pretty interesting- mayhaps complex- set of calculations by which they arrive at this figure, but worry not,it checks out (you good old abacus, you ).

Now here's my brain fodder to chew on with your cud: Let's say we added up all the people who've lived since the beginning of time until the present day, what we now know to be an amazing 106,456,367,669, right? Now, suppose every one of those people asked of themselves at least ONCE in their lifetime what the meaning of life is-and had their own version or idea of what it is- you'd get about 106+ BILLION different answers, still with me? So, to date that's 106+ billion answers, and yet none is exactly the right one... ergo, we're nowhere closer to knowing the meaning of life.

Amazing when you think about it, really. How the closer we think we've come to answering the riddle of the universe, the farther we get from the answer... and the harder the questions become. i don't think life is supposed to be figured out, really...the figuring is rather in the living, think you not?

The one true certainty of life is that it begins, and that it ends. In-between we have the freedom of trial and error, learning and choice. i guess the lesson we learn through living is not to live your life always trying to look up and catch The Maker out with the puppet strings in His hand. The rules read pretty clear and simple actually: to play your show out till the curtain drops, and pride yourself that you gave it your best shot. Standing ovation, or not...

Feud 'Fore Thought {Entry 1}

As i write this,  a black family currently resides in the White House, the UK effectively has two cooks stirring the broth, scientists in the US have developed the first ever synthetic living cell and the Fifa World Cup is  to be hosted on African soil for the very first time. 
And as yet, i am also reminded of the fact that my bacon rashers did NOT develop wings  this morning in a dramatic splatter of runny egg yolk and tabasco sauce to fly off my plate, out the window and off into the distance; nor did i require to yank on a pair of  holy (scuze the pun) wooly socks and a knitted jersey as the breaking news broke across all  major networks that hell hath indeed frozen over and the resultant chill might send a cold front off into the west, but for the most part it should remain partly cloudy and warm across most parts.


There was a time in our collective human history when just the mere suggestion of the occurences in the above opening line would have in all probability gotten one hanged, drawn and quartered, or  even less humanely, laughed off as the offshoot ramblings of a rapidly declining mind. 

Kind of eyebrowraise-worthy when you think that in our present age, hell must surely freeze over just about every other day (including Sundays and public holidays) what with all the neverinamillionyears-ness that goes on today. So much so that the earth citizen has become numb and detached to anything already seen and done, with customary t-shirt duly acquired. Extremism's quickly become a cliche that one hardly looks up from one's bowl of cornflakes to acknowledge. It's become "so last week, daaahling"! That and all the other "isms" with it.

 As quick as we are to manufacture (and brand)  the proverbial storm in a tea cup, we just as easily slot back into our human tendency to find order in randomness and chaos and just get on with it. With life that is. Yes earth citizens, we live in revolutionary times. And contrary to the poem, the revolutions are being televised, mind you. If you can find somebody who cares long enough however, then by all means you deserve a branded t-shirt of your very own.  Wish we could pay you more fanfare and ovation, but that's a sign of our times, my friend.  A thousand apologies if we've rained on your parade. Pass the cornflakes, will you?

Welcome to the S.O.O.T. It's nice to have you here. 

Flying bacon and wooly socks