Wednesday, November 17, 2010

School year end Hols

Yes well the end of year school functions are coming in fast and furious. Tomorrow my 9 year old has a cultural day at school and has decided that going as a zulu (yes we in that area of the world) is just the thing to do. First they have to get dressed up in the cultural dress and then bring a plate of sweets for that culture.




Now dressing up as a Zulu girl should not be that difficult. As you can see its really just a lot of layers and beads. But my problem lies in the sweets. There is no reference to a traditional Zulu Sweet.



So I am going to improvise and make everybodies favorite: Koeksisters !!!!.

I think that I can get away with that as its sort of the Zulu/South African Fusion thing going. Ummmmless there is someone out there with a better idea on Sweet Zulu treats.



Then the other child has a Rock n Roll party on Saterday night. That means parents get roped in to do Decor and Dinner. I am on decor so we are tieing ropes and spraying colors on plastic sheeting, fitting lights, adding dukebox and bleachers to the Assembly hall. So by Sunday this should all be over and we can all take a break, That is till the last day of school arrives and Holidays turn happy calm homes into places parents want to run from. Till later then.

Monday, November 15, 2010

If you ever lose a file.

Part 2 of eating yourself

I am reposting this from Jacvan tail. Scary Insane, gross , yet intriguing too

Reflections on eating oneself - part 2 of 3


Sat 13 Nov 2010, 18:04

32 Comment(s) Report Abuse Up until that point I could convince myself that not a single moment was truly real, but the THUNK of the hand hitting the sink… Man, it hit me right under the ribs.

Buddy looked up at me.
“Come around on Wednesday,” he nodded at the sink. “We’re having stew, and some red wine.”

I left my new shoes lying in the puke on the floor and squelched out of his place in my socks. By the time I made it home, I already knew nothing would stop me from going over there again on Wednesday.

His house was crowded. People were sitting on the floor, leaning against the walls, drinking, smoking, talking, laughing. Those who couldn’t find space inside had spilled out into the small garden. It was quieter here, but not much. And everyone seemed to be talking about Buddy and The Hand. They all had their opinions and explanations for their opinions, and reasons for their explanations.

Buddy let them talk.

“It’s good for them,” he said. “It makes them feel needed and useful.”

We were in the kitchen where Buddy was awkwardly adding some more stock and herbs to the stew with his one hand. Baby potatoes, carrots, aubergines, and of course the hand – deboned –were quietly simmering. It smelled surprisingly good.
“I didn’t know you had so many friends,” I remarked.

He snorted. “Friends, huh? Some I’ve met on blogs, others in the bar or at the hospital. We get along fine but it’s usually very superficial – I think they’re really here so that they can go home and tell their family and friends about this poor guy they’ve been supporting… Oh, hell, that’s life, eh?”

I helped him to carry the big pot to the table in the dining room. Buddy banged on it with a ladle, and the people stood closer.

“You are here to share in my pain, in my misfortune,” he said. “You are here to tell me to look on the bright side; that this too, shall pass, and that I will come out of this a better and stronger man.”

He looked around. Some of the women were wiping tears from their eyes.

“You are here because we share a precious bond – the bond of having being hurt, of knowing that we will be hurt again. Most of you carry you scars on the inside, but…” he paused, and then held his stump up high, “I carry mine on the outside.”

I looked around. Everybody was looking at the reddish-purple stump as if in a trance. Buddy let the silence swell.

“But!” he roared into them. “I will not let my pain, my guilt, or my regrets consume me! I will not allow them to gnaw at me through the years! I will rip them from my flesh, and swallow them! They will nourish me instead!”

Some heads nodded sagely. Others looked down at their feet, and I suddenly wondered how many of them had puked all over their shoes the way I did. And then I wondered what Buddy had done with all the shoes, but the clang of the ladle on the pot again, pulled me back.

“Come,” he said quietly then, “come, and share in my pain.” And he held out paper plates to stretching hands.

We drank beer outside under a makhuhla tree and smoked. Buddy had finished a large helping of his stew, and seemed content to just sit and stare into the night.

“So,” he said after a while, “why didn’t you eat? It was a damn good stew if I must say so myself.”
I shook my head. “I don’t know where that hand had been,” I joked.

Buddy smiled. “You remember that waitress with the ass to die for?”

I nodded.

“Well, the night before you and I went to the bar, she had asked me to walk her home.”
He took another swig of beer, lit another smoke.

“She asked me in for a night cap. I followed her in. We were jawing on the couch when the front door opened and this bouncer guy walked in. He walked straight over to me, knocked the glass out of my hand, and pulled me up by the hair.”

Buddy squinted at me through the smoke.

“You have all these thoughts flying through your head, much like those coloured ping-pong balls in a lotto machine. It’s always the one number, the one thought you didn’t think of that comes up.

“Her name is Cheryl,” he sighed. “And she came over to us when he called her. She had this sly smile, and I remember her teeth seemed very white and very big.”

To be continued.

Saturday, November 13, 2010

Scary Stories

I found this post here. Ugh, cant even imagine the thought of this. What kind of life defeat do you need to to resort to this....
Reflections on eating oneself - part 1

Fri 12 Nov 2010, 18:02
I knew this guy once. We hung out for about 18 years before he finally ate himself to death.

I had gone to a bar with some friends one evening. We had ourselves a great time. In one of the booths there was this guy who sat by himself, patiently drinking one two-finger brandy after the other. He didn’t look around much the way people do when they’re alone in a bar. Eventually I had to go and get rid of the excess beer and found him at the urinal, quite unstable and pissing with some difficulty.

Turned out he didn’t have a penis. He was also missing three toes and an ear. But that he told me about a week later when we met up at the bar again – his favourite, and just about only hangout place.

After a long contemplative silence, he finally started talking. He told me about the disappointments in his life. He told me how, after each setback, he would choose a part of his body to cut off, and then eat. Given that he was on his 9th or so brandy, I didn’t give his ramblings much thought. Guys say weird things under the influence. I should have listened better, I think. If I had given him any credit, I might not have puked all over my new shoes that night.

Shortly before closing time the waitress came over to take our last orders. He ignored her, didn’t look up once. She was ordinarily attractive, nice smile, tired eyes, sweaty strings of hair in the nape of her neck. But she had an ass to die for. And she knew it. She didn’t walk, she sashayed, voluptuously. I got a martini, drinking buddy another brandy – a four-finger this time. Through the years I learned it was his tell – the give-away – when he considered divesting himself of another apparently unneeded body part.

As the waitress swung back to the bar, he leaned closer over the table and whispered conspiratorially, “I’m cutting of my left hand tonight, wanna come see?”

“Sure,” I grinned drunkenly.

“Well, bottoms up then!” He winked at me and picked up the glass in his left hand. He looked at the light falling through the glass, twisting his wrist this way and that. He pensively stroked the cold glass with his thumb, and then with a quick flick he poured the brandy down his throat, got up, and made for the door.

I had watched his little tour de force with a mouth hanging off its hinges. The damn guy had actually been saying goodbye to his hand! Eloquently, too - if one can say that about moving fingers. My martini went down the hatch, the olive caught between my front teeth. I followed him out into the cold night air. He was already a few meters ahead, his missing toes no impediment to his rush to get home, and cut, cut, cut.

He lived in a semi-detached house a few blocks away. The rooms were Spartan with no personal knick-knacks on display. He flicked a switch, and opened a door in the hallway. A sterilized neon light shone on a flight of stairs leading down to the basement. It looked like an operating room – which it was. IV units, gauze, bandages, syringes, scalpels, scissors all neatly packed away in glass-fronted cabinets. An operating table, a drain, a sink, scrub brushes and anti-septic soaps. It was all meticulous and sickeningly efficient.

“I’m an orderly at the provincial hospital,” he explained over his shoulder, as he scrubbed himself down.

I leant back against the sink. Looked at this guy. Looked him up and down, and tried to comprehend how a trip to the bar could have turned into this.

He snapped the latex glove on his right hand. Pulled a tourniquet tight over his biceps. He filled a syringe with anaesthetic and injected it into the sacrificial limb.

He whistled while he waited for his hand to lose all feeling.

Repulsed, yet dying of curiosity, I leaned closer.

Everything he needed lay ready on a tray.

He picked up a scalpel and made the first incision – a half moon over the top of his hand to leave skin for a flap to close the stump. The cut remained white for a second before the blood welled up thickly. He lifted the flap, somewhat clumsily, and held it away from the rest of the hand with a clamp.

I puked when his hand finally dropped away from his arm, and he chucked it carelessly into the small sink.

Up until that point I could convince myself that not a single moment was truly real, but the THUNK of the hand hitting the sink… Man, it hit me right under the ribs.

Buddy looked up at me.
To be continued.


Waiting to see the next instalment with much angst...

Thursday, November 11, 2010

Delfi Greek Restaraunt

http://www.wininganddining.co.za/kwazulu-natal/durban/morningside/delfi
I am not a big fan of mass produced chain restaurants that just churn out food. I also do not always like to go to the 'Now ' place that every trendies is trying to get into. Sometimes its good to go to the old places you pass alongside the road, or to the places people tell you of and you never really get to try. We went to this place last night, often passing by and wondering what it was like inside.

Wow.  What good food. From outside it does not seem like much but inside it is warm and cosy and pale blue with low llighting.Paintings, (not just photos) of Greek street scenes are on the walls. Now I love Mediterranean food. Greek, Italian, Moroccan, Spanish and even a little Turkish. So we ventured out to this place and were greatly surprised.

We shared meze platters of Dolmades, Phyllo cheese triangles, aubergine and feta wraps, tasty olives, the nicest tomatoes wedges. needless to say these disappeared so fast.
Friends had Moussaka and a Prawn kebabs, My wife had lamb chops which said were the best and I had the special of Pastichio. This was exceptional, pasta was tasty not just pasta. i am sure that they flavour it while cooking it. Subtle herb flavours came through and to say the least it was the nicest I have had in a long time.
Our wine complement was Hartenberg Sauvignon-Blanc and we ended with Coffee and to keep with the scene, Uzo capped the evening. Thanks to the staff at Delfi we had and amazing evening. We will definatlybe returning.
Address:
386 Windernere Road
Morningside
Durban

Interesting..? Career

Found this an interesting read:


All You Need To Know About Web Designers




Infographic: All You Need To Know About Web Designers by Tech King

Tuesday, November 9, 2010

Santa Joke

Santa Santa was very cross. It was Christmas Eve and NOTHING was going right.


Mrs. Claus had burned all the cookies. The elves were complaining about not getting paid for the overtime they had while making the toys. The reindeer had been drinking all afternoon and were dead drunk. To make matters worse, they had taken the sleigh out for a spin earlier in the day and had crashed it into a tree.

Santa was furious. "I can't believe it! I've got to deliver millions of presents all over the world in just a few hours -- all of my reindeer are drunk, the elves are on strike and I don't even have a Christmas tree! I sent that stupid Little Angel out HOURS ago to find a tree and he isn't even back yet! What am I going to do?"

Just then, the Little Angel opened the front door and stepped in from the snowy night, dragging a Christmas tree. He says, "Yo, fat man! Where do you want me to stick the tree this year?"

Saturday, November 6, 2010

Exhibition preview

Exhibition preview

How awesome is this lady's art. Mineke Reinders has some great paintings here. Love the colors, and in many the nostlgia. Really, really like.

Friday, November 5, 2010

So here is to new beginnings.

AS it says above. Have had to start again now and will do it a little differently. Till then it will be a little blank here


Till Later then