Dick's Dig on it all

Mount aux sources

2009-11-22T05:51:00.002+02:00

Mount Aux Sources (review)
My idea of a camping trip was totally skewed. This weekends past trip, after consultation with the seasoned / Guru campsperts, was the essence of what hiking and camping are all about, and not anything near what I bargained for.
Guys bond when grouped together in situations of adversity where they are pushed out of their comfort zones and forced to admit, due to in this case a moderate level of pain, and fear, that they are in fact human and mortal, and not the supermen that they the rest of the time pretend to, or would like to be. This setting was perfect. Bonding did abound!

The mount aux sources, meaning the mountain of the sources, is where both the Orange and the Tugela rivers start. Its hard to fathom that the comparatively mild trickles of waterfall we did encounter would gradually build to raging province dividing rivers. Located just outside of Phuthaditjhaba, 350km from JHB, the area is sparsely populated, the mountains distinctly juggernautish, and grotesquely vast in their immensity. I have been here before, but my mouth still tended to gape a little longer than normal. This place is simply beautiful. Its peculiar though how beauty and harshness are often linked. This beautiful mountain was the same, beautiful, the harshness still to come. . . I feel like I want to own what I perceive, these deep cavernous, abundantly green gorges, these splashes of fog and sun kissed cloud, these huge cliffs this smell of freshness. My vision is full, the detail infinite, there is the soft luff of the wind on my collar and a quiet inner excitement to be ensconed in what I see. The sting of challenge :- A 20kg backpack for a stroll across the parking lot is a doddle. A 7km hike up ruggerd terrain. Also a doddle. Put the two together.. A doddles arse!Now add a 30m vertical chain ladder, include the fatigue of a 5km, 20kg carrying hike, a monsoon type downpour, some ridiculously close lighting strikes and some marble sized hail. You now have a recipe for a little fear. Then once you have climbed a chain ladder and are all pumped with adrenaline, smashed up with ice cold hail and soaked through to your undies, saddle up for another 2km to the camp site. Then set your tent up in the rain and enjoy the view.. Umm too much cloud not much view! But crack out the Brandy, jaegermeister and Windhoek. We have arrived and look. The rain has stopped!
In our campsite in our little rock seat pow wow, I laughed my balls off. I can’t actually recall what about, but between gas heated foot rocks, bravado, jaegermeister and camp defence strategies the time between the intermittent rain was side-splitting.

2.30am : The click of a 9mm and an opening tent zip… Mountain boys!“Hey, hey hey.. Look there, what’s that… WHO's THERE?”from somewhere in the close distance, “ITS VITO”“There, there, there, what’s that, shine the torch….. HEY WHAT's THAT MOVEMENT?” from the opposite side of the camp “IT’S CAREL”
5.30am : Sunrise. The weather has lifted and the view is indescribable. I am standing 10 meters from the source of the Tugela river. It winds and wriggles down through the valley and then disappears in the distance of the foggy twilight. Yesterday included. This was truly worth it.
Posted by Dick at 11:03 PM

The Camden hole

2009-07-20T14:20:00.000+02:00

What a weekend.

So I was in debt to Leigh, she had envisioned and organized a fun weekend in the Snowy Mountains and I had just rocked up for the ride with a credit card. There is always a double debt though. He who does the organizing, and he who drives the farthest. To drive 2.5 hours to spend time with someone is a big sacrifice. In South Africa in my Audi, with the open roads, where driving fast is a costly finable offense, but not punishable with loss of license, a long drive was pure pleasure. In Australia however, driving long distances is a tiring and boring experience. Everyone drives the same speed here. They all drive at exactly what the speed limit signs says. EXACTLY! The daring ones drive 5km above speed, and what rebels they are!! All the terrain looks the same. Blue gums and brush, blue gums and fucking brush.. And heres the problem.. The scenery never changes. A good simile would be a comparison to looking at a fairly ordinary work of art for 4 hours.

The cars, regardless of the fact that they are moving at 110kmph, never move relative to each other, nor does the scenery change enough to stimulate the senses. Its micro sleep accident death waiting at every lamp post.

Lets digress quickly. I am a huge fan of quality paintings. A good example would be a DaVinci like Virgin of the Rocks or recent to my experiences of art, examples that I viewed at the NSW artgallery, the Vive L’empereur by Edouard Detaille and The visit of the Queen of Sheba to King Soloman by Sir Edward John Poynter, that amaze me beyond my senses. As an engineer, detail is everything. The amazing focus and personal sacrifice that a 5 year 3.7 x 4.4m oil painting of imaculate and accurate detail, scale and color takes is a wonder to me. The Vive L’Empereur, and there are hundreds of similar examples, is a true work of greatness, born of love and passion.

So lets compare 4 hours of viewing a picture like this to 4 hours driving to Jindabyn... hmmm.

Jindabyn is a D-rate ski-town, as are the snowies for slope quality. Australia is known for beaches, water activity, and tanned babes, but I guess gets a gold star for completing the Summer - Winter activity possibility circle despite its shit mountains. Leigh organized getting us there, and a night in the most ebulliently, cute snow chalet. “Poofy with passion” is a good way to decribe the Smiggins hole lodge. Everything was furred up to create a feeling of warmth, and Paul its owner is so passionate about the quality of his business, that his employees had imbibed his service qualities, making the place a definitive breath of fresh air.

I needed to exert some effort into repaying my debt to Leigh. The extent of my imagination had conjured up a night in Camden with a movie, Bruno, Thai dinner and drinks at the Camden hotel.. A good night out by Camden standards. 4 cocktails into stage 3, and we are predictably woozy, our experiences current status.. horribly insipid. Enter Correy. Tall, and loud, and beautifully opposed to the average Australian personality. His crew was composed of some cute girls and a half Somoan, half Mauri miget with a Night at the Roxabies pink and black saturn long sleeve, a gap between his front teeth and a lascivious pelvic thrust as his only party trick. The girls thought Miget was repulsive. I found him cocky-funny and entertaining. Correy was interesting because he claimed to own the best pool players title of the year at the hotel and talked up big corona stakes pool games. He was perhaps drunk, and disoriented. He could not sink a ball, or help me to win a game as his partner in crime. His psychological stratagem, although entertaining were as effective. Perhaps he was just out to entertain and needed a good frame to work from.

The girls laughed allot, which means I did OK, my debt repaid.

Project 1. D-day. Where to from here.

2008-08-31T14:47:00.000+02:00

So its done.. 2 years of endeavor have come to its end result. This machine can now take some nasty smelling chemicals, mix and meter them, color them, and push them through a retro-fitted salami making machine, and into some beautifully decorated boxes. Off they will be whisked to the grimy hands of sweaty miners and their machines, and thrust up into the cold earthy tunnels of Australian mines, to hold firm rock and the trust of the feet passing beneath them.
There is of course a whole new can of worms spattered across this now newly worn table.. The dreaded break even. My hands are tired and worn sore. This sculpture hewn from a $5million block of figures in a bank account, has been molded into a detailed and precise moving and breathing machine. The lathes, mills, flames and voices of South African machinists, the frustration, anger, sacrifice, honor. The long hours. The camaraderie of smelly work companions, the songs, the swear words, the heart wrenching dismissals… And now this very small fledgling company, unfamiliar in minds of miners, must weather and rise in the seas of the capitalist world. Win hearts, and prove its worth. And soon, as soon as possible… Already it has enemies, mouths to feed, families to keep safe, hopes and dreams to support. What a bloody nightmare!! Part and parcel of this the game of life. It would bore us were it too simple!!

Its Winter and this time I’m cuddling down..

2007-05-21T22:49:00.000+02:00

Yes, around this time last year I was up Sunday mornings at 5am for a training cycle or race.. It was cool, but it was lame and I’m torn between the two personalities. Whilst in an unfamiliar but very comfortable and amusing alcohol buzz, Saturday evening, I receive two scathing phone calls requesting alcohol cold turkey and 5am toe numbness… Blunt as an irritated New Yorker I respond in the negative. It is quite bazaar really how I have turned.

Sitting in a hot Jacuzzi declaring how damn tough a dude can be while feeling starts to precipitate from knee to ankle after 3 hours in a 5.30am winter rainstorm, was cool. Shit did we laugh, enjoy the buzz and the camaraderie. We’d cook a breakfast rafter high, eat like kings in a rabid dog hunger and then lay back to hot cappachinos, sport and macho isms… but my game has changed… The trade… Alcohol, late nights and hang-overs..
I like sport and a body buzz, so throwing steel around in the gym with Hulk boy is the other trade off.. Immediately I picture two buff, bum spankers with cocky little pec size chirps and a disturbing image fetish.. And perhaps it is a bit like that, but I do get quite a kick out of it after long hours at the office. And then the girls.. Sorry ladies.. The caveman in me amuses me endlessly. It is somewhat pathetic how chemicals can seize reason from a perfectly rational mind.

Testosterone is a thief, and what self respecting guy is going to say.. “Get a book broad, the bicep curl is complex!”
The gym does hip-hop classes from 6.30 every second night. Its complex, very tight rhythmed break beat. Good Lord can some of those vixen dance.. In my world the most ordinary girl is reincarnated to goddess with tight rhythm and energy… Yes and so, perhaps I am easily distracted, but where strength, energy, rhythm, co-ordination and sexiness cross paths I find sufficient value to be a very happy little camper.

So Booze and Buff. It alliterates beautifully, is so sordidly clichéd, but I get to sleep in Sundays.
Reeno’s Birthday, engine covers, Black and white, black and white, black and white, my gracious lord.. Blue! JD jugs, American Jugs, Gee and allot of macho back slapping, RBVs.. a grope and a hickey.. some memory loss but a cell number..
Rocked home at 3, up a 6 listened to the radio till 9… Bewildered off to business lunch @ JCC, passed Peas as she entered.. Brushed off.. I deserve it. Invited to a salsa dance-off on Friday. I f’ing love Latin dance and was taught my first moves by central American spanish senorita’s (con no anglais) in Costa Rica. They found my boring and brash South Afican self and partners too interesting for their own good.. Ha Ha...
So for Friday.. hmmm.. Partner?? No! Fuck! Idea??? That number? Testosterone, Alcohol, memory, judgement?? Idea? Yes! Good idea?? ...?
Interesting times!!

Moms day...

2007-05-13T15:18:00.001+02:00

Not a good idea putting this here.. I am not a big fan of the soppy side, and my poetry is actually trite and not worth the paper it is written on.. A little creativity directed at a loved one does however go a long way to make them feel good.. Moms smile was so enormous and all for just 5 minutes of poetic inflection.

A little patronage to my Mom, for being the stalwart and standing tough against the onslaught of the powerful and sometimes misdirected anger of my Old man..
In the times that were tough, when Dad was so broke that your physiotherapy was paying for my school fees and khaki shorts, and all the times that the fighting hit fever pitch.. Like a Staffordshire bull terrier you bit down and clenched against the slack and whip and tenaciously held on despite the nastiness, difficulty and anguish.
Ha.. Its true she’s the shit!

So enough of the soppy stuff… It was my Birthday this Friday and as is the best thing to do on a birthday. I gate crashed some else’s birthday party.. The hulks, and stole a little of it for myself.. The Hulk is into his ballroom dancing, and all credit to him, he can rumba the hips of the average Joe into dislocation. I’m guessing he chose Rodizio’s because they host a ball room dancing theme with a show-off extravaganza and then a short dance off for a bottle of JC la Roux and apple sours. I gave a full bodied energetic attempt at it, but the Hulk won hands down. The fact that his girlfriend is a Springbok class practicing dance pro did obviously have a chunk to do with this prowess but non the less the dance floor in the immediate vicinity was smoking.. Span then stood up and offered congrats for successfully achieving another year of survival and presented sparkler illuminated fish bowls of decidedly large volume and toxic contents. My high school mates, of which Span is one, are a ridiculously great jol.. I can’t in actual fact compete with their ridiculous ability to consume alcohol relentlessly and through all hours of the night and still make it home alive, and have largely opted out of the clan.. time-wise. But big up. You guys win your paid dues in respect for the liver damage.
As would some fish bowl induced reasoning have it, we wondered hither to the Manslayer.
The beautiful bouncing boobs of quality babes with B was my first recollection. K’s high heels were however trying to embed their stiletto’s into her heels and my Second module completed Zulu exam would happen in 5.5 hours so no real debauchery was catered for.. OH and I had a rendezvous with the cops.
Every fucking time these days. If you want to party you have to do it properly.. The lazy SOBs of the SAP piss off home at 4. So you must if you want to stay safe leave at 4.30. 3.15am just doesn’t cut it. I was stopped twice. Once in Rivonia road and once after dropping K in Jan Smuts. And got the full treatment baring a body cavity search, but they did the same to my car, even checking the spare tyre compartment. The bazaar part was that the only drug I was smuggling was alcohol in my blood stream about which they seemed to have on a secondary interest. Mrs Lieutenant Ndlovu let on her intentions however in Zulu, with Baphuzisa Lo, to which I quick as lightning replied, Hay Khona, Abaphuzi, asithandi uma simatasatasa umshanyele. (Which in broken Zulu means :- We don’t like to drink when we are driving) fostering the largest, teeth exposing smile I have ever seen on a Saturday morning at 3.30 in the morning and giving us our gap to get home.
Zulu the next morning was suffering comparable to a 15km fast cycle climb spread over 4 hours.. But I came through miraculously, inspired and motivated by my 3.30am cultural connection and approbation. And the Rugby was fantastic athough without the crowd of Bulldogs to buoy my sleep diprived lathergy, I would definitely have slept though it.......

I told you so..

2007-05-10T09:25:00.001+02:00

Most people are arrogant skeptics until it is no longer possible for them to be. And rightly so I am too, but it is best when you are the wolf. The wolf in sheeps clothing was revealed yesterday when quotes came back for the manufacture of Dick designed machinery, and which unwittingly reduced estimated total project costs by 6%. Sounds like little, but on 20 large bars, heathen skeptics are miraculously converted to believers and smother you with attention and approbation which is f’ing irriatin since a job still has to be done with too few hours in a day…

Garter catching

2007-04-30T11:10:00.000+02:00

Most of the girls politely stand to attention as the bouquet is loaded and readied for the toss. There is a nervous shuffle then a general freeze as the symbol of probable love in happiness somersaults between the roof and our gorgeous bride. The lucky receiver, moves fractionally and then frowns considerably doing little as far as proactively is concerned, as with little fuss the bouquet lands squarely in her up turned palms. That was the case at this wedding, and I was thoroughly disappointed. Our bride and groom, Kelly and Brett are sports people, Brett has his springbok colors for the game, Kelly has her provincial colors. A large proportion of their friends are very talented and involved in sport and I expected the natural sport driven competitiveness of the crowd to at least snap a bra strap or two in a short lived savage bouquet wrestle.
The boys were boys however and a fair amount of argie bargie and grunting accompanied the merry opportunity for some competitive garter grabbing sport. The winner here would be endowed with a symbol of virility and male ego… Scratch, lunge, elbow, lift, grunt, grunt again. How is it possible that a silly little lace frill of material can bounce around a mass of waving hands and chaos like a well hit squash ball? As I in my inebriated merriment am scrimmaging the mass of this heightening grunt of chaos. But the frill chose me, and descended through the mass to me at the bottom. I won and am now the proud owner of a frilly combination of lace and elastic and little blue ribbons which ended up through sentimentality and drunkenness assuming the place of honor on my head as our crowd eventually passed out… We were very drunk!
Symbolically the garter is supposed to point to the next person to get married, which seems at my present situation to be the miss guided finger of fate, but it got me thinking and became a theme of discussion for the weekend. How do you get to that all important moment in your life when you stand in front of a group of people that signify your life and your values, your love and passion, and how sure can you be when you make that almighty promise to your maker that your marriage is actually going to last? I make the assumption that as a man, when you make this particular commitment it is one that is wrought in the steel of your soul and manhood and something you will cling to like your instinct to stave off death, or am I naïve in thinking that this is normal? To the frustration of many a woman, men seem to avoid commitment like the plague. I like to think that it is because the commitment when made is irrevocable and only really gets done once in this case, and so needs to be very well considered.
Lots of debating led me to the statement that you don’t marry a person, you marry their values, and after a little further consideration I stick with that. People are very prone to change unless their values are firmly pegged into the ground as the yard sticks of self definition and character. So my view is that when you marry someone for the right reasons, it is a declaration that they are simply the vessel which most closely carries the beliefs and values that you value most… But then capitalism.. The big C, the corner stone of our society, the character compromiser… Even Judas had good values until he was tested with cash, and in my practical opinion cash has to be a part of the overall equation. Most cash to minimum compromise of character and values! No one is perfect.. Love must just come first!
This becomes a very interesting and needed subject of debate since with so much divorce these days is marriage really a feasible option? As we climb up the ladder of success the money gets more, the distance to the obtain ability of dreams becomes less, but at the expense of time to loved ones..
I’m a romantic and believe I’m tough enough to fight the required battle which must be raged on the family, social and capital fronts. Brett and Kelly certainly are. They are equipped with heavy artillery.
So another ridiculously tiring and raucous wedding weekend. I have my bloody garter. All I need is my maiden….

Our Tripod looses a leg.

2007-04-23T11:27:00.000+02:00

Weddings are cute. All this soppy emotion, joy and festivity rolled into a neat little bundle, with a copious amount of alcohol to amplify the atmosphere and provide the possibility of a superbly good time.
Moogs and I have been through allot in our time as friends, and Cape Town and Simmos wedding were the ingredients needed to stir up and re-conger some long not thought about mad times.

I met Simmo, all 7 foot of him, as he shuffle stamped his way out of a snowy blizzard of the outback, buck-toothed, hick Ski resort town of Crested Butte and into my hostel. His greeting was as enthusiastic as any you could hope to receive on a quiet, routine desk watching shift, and when coupled with a unintended head butt to our entrance hall chandelier, the accumulated snow in his hair which poofed and then sparkled in the window filtered rays of sunlight as it fell to the floor, and his seldom heard in America South African accent, the stage was all his as he made his big entrance into my life and spluttered a hello.

Anton’s balance was terrible, and his cornering worse. He has however a good capacity for courage, which relative to his natural inability could almost certainly not lead this enthusiastic wannabee snowboarder to a good place. He was as friendly and as bizarrely interested in setting himself up for character testing and adventurous situations as Moog’s and myself and since we had to teach him how to snowboard and give him at least a thimble full’s chance at impressing one of the local hick females, he unanimously became our third musketeer with prospects of post ski season travels through central America starting with Mexico.

Last night, at the wedding, I met a close time-old friend of Simmos by the name of Chris. Our trip , according to Chris, changed Simmo somewhat and set him up for this very situation, his marriage, to which we had just bore witness. Chris claimed that in just 5 short months of nomadic dick directed wandering around Central America, Anton had in fact been transformed from a nice shy guy, to the super confident chick slayer that had landed him his wife, and the smashing love of his life. What a laugh. Body shots and drunken booty grind dancing at coco-labombo in Cancun, arterial foot wounds, 2km off shore kayak barracuda fishing, Moog’s 2.5m near death head first superman dive from a rain soaked American bought and 10000 mile driven 85 Jeep roof rack, sleeping in hummocks in Mexican roadside coconut grove jungles, being taken hostage but 100 panga wheelding Guatemalans…. 5 months of post varsity, naivety and lust driven madness.

We formed the perfect tripod. My ridiculous ambition to prove my right to my over inflated naïve ego Moog’s ability to believe in and support my absurd reasoning, and then spice things up by taking the Mickey out everything just as shit started to hit the fan, and Simmos ability to panic just enough and at the right times to let us realize that what we were in fact doing was really stupid and could permanently maim or result in us living in a Mexican prison for a really long time. It was the perfect balance for some unbelievable time and experience …

The bride was a goddess, and with the memories of good times in my mind I look on as the tripod strength is reduced again to two, and with no lack of emotion either. Anton courageously takes his leave from our adventurous little crew into real manhood with a big croaking frog in this throat a touch of contagious viral and moisture creating red eye in this eyes. The woman by his side is unbelievably beautiful and endearing. Good luck to you my firend.

Stupid little drunks....

2007-04-11T22:29:00.000+02:00

I’m Standing in the youth marauding, humid and musk flavored beer tent of my old high schools contribution to Easter rugby festivals. It is great for the soul… The shiny legs of another 18 year old could be super model just reflected a spar of light into my dazed eyes, some little fucker has bashed half my beer down my front as he with physical animation describes how cool it was at like the f’ing Zone or something on Friday, and one of my bald school buddies, with his wife (I must now be old) just caught my eye and is expecting attention despite the fact that I have been waiting at the front of this heave of human cattle squashed up against the bar for 20 minutes… the falsetto melodies of an R&B song “reminisce sometime” jump into my head…. No! I will not go there. I am so happy to have moved on from the fresh out of high school days ….

I am 18. Yes, now I remember… Hmmm, this place is actually cool. I finished school but 8 weeks ago and have been pissing my life and my mother’s money down the drain on beer for the past 8 weeks. My life is a bit of a blur because between having somehow organized barbarians (a traditional stripper and beer, fresh from school - unleashed on the world debauchery) at my parents house WITH THEIR PERMISSION; the post stripper, neighborhood postbox cherry bombing, and resultant next morning parent imposed neighborly responsibility, the naked Durban beachfront busking and a run in with the cops. The 4 man down, squealing pygmy, tiger nightclub drink-off and 4 man alcohol poisoning and…. run in with the cops… we are rockstar matriculants, lets trash this hotel room since we are so cool because we play guitar and the chicks next door can hear us if we jam loud enough, and run in with the cops….. Then the prestigious start to my higher learning with enrolment in Engineering at the University of Cape Town…. and Barneys and a real definition of what it is to get drunk. The wonderful I have not a care in the world and drunken score sessions and getting dumped by the high school girl, highlight of your life to date, and staying so inebriated that you didn’t even think about your loss.

And where did it bring you… Back to this very spot… The St Johns College Easter rugby festival. Sun bleached surfer bum hair down to my shoulders and the blazed “the answer to the world is in marijuana” look in my eyes. Here I stood, happy and as dumb as hell.
Surfing and playing the guitar are at this time my chosen spirituality, and the path to what will me my inner sanctity, the real meaning of life and the perfect woman’s heart. Lectures?? Well I didn’t miss too many of them. Responsibility and my old man’s voice lingered like a fungal growth in the back of my head… they still do. Hard work?? That’s the only thing my old man taught me to do well, and now with its clash to my new found spirituality it is as functionally detached as my weed glazed eyes. Lectures are a place to rest from the mania. A place to seek succor from the devouring social beast. How in retrospect did I actually manage it all in 4 small years?

Time is the greatest teacher. These little runts are no-where. Yes that runt is bigger than me, but look I don’ t even sway or dribble on myself. I love his enthusiasm. I relate to it. I was here just yesterday. Eyes and arms wide open embracing the world. Their first wiff of real freedom to do whatever they want and then fuck it all up a bit…

10 years out of school.... No regrets, and better place to be!

Emigrating friends, with a little party on the side.

2007-04-02T12:26:00.000+02:00

Hi Dick, I just wanted to phone you to gloat a little about our weekend past. Thanks.” –Cell message from Snow, Sunday night.

It’s a darn shame that so many of my intellectually gifted friends of the same age cannot find sufficient opportunity in South Africa to warrant etching out a young career here. I think white males of good education can do well in SA, and everyone you sticks around lands good jobs eventually. The problem is that the majority of my peer groups ambition is huge and there are just better opportunities overseas, so goodbye to more friends.

Adue Butch and Chance. To celebrate, a homely Chinese meal of superior class at hydepark’s finest. My moment of the evening, when after laughing at the waiter / owner who in broken Chinese English recommended to everyone at the table that the crispy peking duck, conjure yourself plate buffet was in fact ya da best, at R250 a person and the most expensive dish on the menu by margin of R70, and persisted despite our continued criticism, looked on in a gawkingly horrified state as Moogs half jokingly, half seriously lifted my skewered chicken wing and asked him in audible range of our table of 14 and half the rest of the restaurant whether it was in fact rat. Moogs is a man of superior class, and the moment was pricelessly funny, but everyone was trying to crawl under the table. I wonder if Moogs’s, urine flavored cranberry sauce was any good.

News café, Fredman drive and then Taboo, with Majoritos and jagerbombs as encouragement.
An undulating, heathing and cavorting mass of black mirth and festivity and 6 white people, us, to diversify things a little. Taboo is I guess, this was my first time, a place where outside of the big advertised parties and the palms, the black elite of South Africa spend their Friday dollar, and somewhere between the high frequency hip jolting and gyration and whiskies and the antics of a gay hair dresser, the only other white guy in the club, who somehow knew JM, and could dance as explicitly as some of the hip gyrators, I found myself really appreciating the atmosphere. In fact, dare I say it. It was more entertaining than any of the larney white clubs I’ve been to. These dudes know how to party and it’s an honest down to earth, dirty dancing type of vibe. The Hip hop is heavy, but the underlying feeling was that the people are friendly and open and pretention is limited.

Evenings with some sort of conclusive ending, round things up beautifully and Snow and I found ourselves appreciating the view from the 15th floor of the Michael Angelo hotel at 4 in the morning. 4 Chinese or Korea or Thai or something girls who had mirthfully antagonized the males of our group, innocently asked for a ride home which was denied until the Michael Angelo was mentioned. We figured it was a must see. I rated the hot one 9.5, Snow gave her 9, and her frown a 7 when we timeously took our leave to head home for bed. I have Zulu lessons starting at 8…

Big T and the Simmo bros are single now too, and so the possie and the partying going grows.

P.S. congrats to Peas.... She won like just about everything!

Sweet distractions.

2007-03-25T08:33:00.001+02:00

Post relationship depression is hanging from my balls like an angry gremlin. Sitting on the coach can give a gremlin an opportunity to get a better grip, or worse a choke hold... Now anyone who knows a little WWF will realize that when this happens you need to tap out.

Snow :- " I have a beautiful 15 year old in green lingerie wrapped around my tongue, come over"

What a foundation layer for a raucous party of booze and merriment. Johnnie Walker green label and with gentlemen like Big T and Snow.

Out of respect for my past relationship I don't want to indulge in any shenanigans for at least a month, which perhaps sounds a little on the gay side to any of my red-blooded male comrades, but that's the deal. Through some covert information gathering I establish that Peas has been at the cricket, which would most definitely mean booze.... 1 + 1 = 2, meaning that thereafter due to the alcohol dependant nature of my peer group and the entertainment requirements of cricket watchers, more booze and party would be required and the destination would most likely be Manhattans.

Running into your ex when you are both a little pissed is not a predictable situation. You are both on an emotional low, and this other person was in the near past the solution to your emotional well-being, which can either bring hatred and anger - Being smashed by a half filled quart of beer in rowdy crowd by a girl, would leave a huge gushing, gash in my pretty boy forehead, and the opportunity for any bouncer with his 3 steel ball swinging pendulum mental processor to make a decision on whether my head needed to be placed under his 4 inch Kempton park rubber heal.. repeatedly. That is scenario one. The other is that the pheromones of 1000 horny youngsters, the gaudy rush of 7 jagerbombs and two Johnnie walker greens, reverses the logic of any decisions you both might have just 6 days previously made and you end up in a sexual death match on the slippery, leather clad seats of your small sports car or the toilet cubicle of an overcrowded, vomit fragranced bathroom, which could probably lead back to scenario 1 and the Kempton 4-inch boot soles. Either way, I miss her but need to stay away.

"Strip clubs" - Big T, you are a genius. He is he just hasn't realized it yet, and is thinking with his other little genius tonight. We definitely won't find Peas there, but no.....

So off to FTV and SuDaDa and Taboo with the strip clubs as a possible way-point of secondary importance.
My relationship had kept me from a boozey night-life, which I have in many ways missed. It clashes horribly with weekend work and 5am cycles, but fuck I'm lonely now, so drown this repeated wining, slap an exaggerated smile on my face, and that dull alcohol induced blurr in my eyes and let me bellow loudly, fake my in-ability to dance and fondle the hope of this twenty two year old, gym obsessed, eye candy being interested in me in a months time when I start nurturing my mojo.

Great night boys. I only dribbled once in Zulu class the next morning, and it missed my notepad by a good inch. Snows babe is still away, and next week we are going to hire a limo! Any nubile young examples of great attitude and enthusiasm are cordially invite, no carnal activities required.

2007-03-19T10:03:00.000+02:00

No judging and no reason to. She is awesome, cool, funky, out going, loud and creative and I hope she doesn’t cut me totally from her life, which I expect and perhaps, depending how you slice it, deserve. I came, I saw, I enjoyed, but am different from what she ultimately needs and deserves, and although she hates me now, ultimately she will thank me because she is now open to something better, which I know she will get.
In the ensuing competition to be the next man in her life, which I know will be pretty rough and tough and hotly contested since she is hot and her views and personality are popular, well respected and marketed, I wish all : luck; honesty and care, especially Peas ;)
I haven’t felt this emotionally drained and tender ever…. I am such a baby.

AARGus

2007-03-14T12:46:00.001+02:00

It starts in your legs as a mild burn and slowly builds over three hours to an in capacitance of muscle fiber to respond any more to the nervous impulses sent by the brain.
Passing rider : “ Come on boet we are almost there”
Me : “ Tell my bloody legs that mate, they are no longer listening to me - Come on turn you lazy meat skewers”
The last 10km are always the worst. Every pedal stroke is both a painful physical and mental exercise. My only competitor is the nasty clock, and it is ruthless. I’m crying out internally with Anguish and pain, I only have 5km to go and my speed has to be 30km per hour to achieve my time goal. 1 hour ago that was easy. Now with all my will power and the burn in my legs and chest and neck and head the best I can do is 28.5km/h.
The closeness of the finish has buoyed all my neighboring rider’s will-power and they are all going around 40km/h leaving me in their desolate dust. If they still have that much strength at the end, they clearly haven’t pushed themselves as hard as I have. Their times will be better, but their potential to training time is lacking.

Team Results

Dick …3.21.35 – 1 min 35 seconds behind goal

Uncle Guy – 2.57.36 – Under the 3 hour goal, and the 29 best SA rider over 50. He is pissed off, he wants to be top 10 in South Africa.

Dick Adams… 3.02 – improved his time by 11 minutes from last year. That is monumental, but since he is still behind the King. Oom Guy, he pretends he is pissed off,. I can tell however by the extent of his swagger, that he is ecstatic.

Tim, the gazzel :- MIA with bulharzia. Tim is my cousin, and built for endurance sports. We are still waiting for him to crank his gas pedal, and think he can get into the sub 2.45min category of the top 250 cyclist in SA.

Pappa G :- Meditating at the foundation, but newly into the side and aching to
Attack Dicks times.

Moogs :- MIA with girlfriend.

Peas :- Still not really in the team, but showing lots of competitiveness , character and some capacity for a little suffering. She should be there soon.

The world of the mining salesman.

2007-03-02T09:12:00.000+02:00

I have been to Steelpoort, Lydenburg and Polokwane in one day. There are not too many other people out there who can claim that, and why the hell would they want to?
Remove the gold, and platinum from this region and my understanding of a reason for someone venture out into the North of JHB African savanna becomes and enigma, but then add naturalist tendencies (that little hippie gene in us all that at some stage lived in a dark cave and grunted) and reason returns. I must admit that Limpopo is quite beautiful.

Fast cars, high speed, pot hole dodging (in Afrikaans a slag-gat – death hole. On the road to Steelpoort they get to half a meter wide by a foot deep!), expert truck overtaking with phenomenal distance and speed perception. Laser and radar jammers. They are cunning, cool, argumentative, entertaining and dedicated. Come to Modikwa boet. We’ll show you how to sell a bolt!

So I build and engineer plants, a more in depth explanation would infringe upon a secrecy agreement, but these plants supply the means for miners to proceed into the depths of the earth without the fear of 30 ton blocks of rock crushing their skulls. So as to improve my understanding of what it is I actually do this for, I figured it paramount to climb into my mining helmet and boots and venture down into the cavernous mining world to watch one of the machines which requires about R15 every 5 minutes of my companies products as fuel for its work.

Down there its dark, the smell of Ammonia is thick and burns my eyes, I guess that’s from the blasting, there’s water everywhere with the sound of huge pumps buzzing to pump the water to the surface and keep that water level from rising. Please lord may the monkeys at Eskom not get excited and push the wrong button again, I could drown.
So the sales legends have me stand around down in the bowls of the earth, and watch the workings a bit. They do their song and dance, kiss some arse lay praise to the kings of Rugby, boerewors and sakkie jolling, swing a spanner tighten a bolt, shout some funnigalore. I take a photo count to ten, bobs your uncle I look up and the boys have sold 38k of a new product valued at R67 each. Perhaps this 30mins of work was worth that 4.5 hour drive, and slagggat created flat spots in my suspension. Tallihoe bitches. I am enlightened this has given me ideas. That machine is worth R10bar? What the fuck? Perhaps we could build it for 5 J. I need to start off home. Dodging those potholes in the dark will kill me.

So was up at 3am home at 5pm, 9 hours of driving, a had a near fatigue induced accident, despite the 3 red bulls and 2 coffees, a tub of ma Karolinas pad potjie curry (the tannies in Polokwane can cook!) 2 new friends and some good ideas. Modikwa and the Limpopo. Thanks for a good day. Not likely to be back soon though!

The Itie connection

2007-02-21T10:28:00.000+02:00

“No! Mafia type personalities do not only reside in the mafia. There is some connection simply between the Italian persona and the perception of Mafioso”. I have been there. These guys rock.
Donald Trump step aside. I present Frank Calandra, a.k.a the Mafioso Itie, mining tycoon of the US.
So its family business, owned and run. Frankie at the top his son Tony one rung down and the leading contender for the top spot, then there is Paul and Michael the cousins and Jack the much hated and negative business acumen owning brother who still claims 50% of all dividends and does nothing but sits arse prettily perched on a horse stud farm in the Cresson Valley.
Frankie, the king pin is revered, respected, loved and feared. When Frankie speaks, people listen. His intensity is deep and his mind never wonders far from business. These guys are now our partners in business. Good, because they are unbelievable sales and marketing people and we are unbelievably good technical and cost saving factory creating people. These Ities know how to woo their customers, they know how to woo there business partners, they know how to woo their favorite restaurant’s matradees. They are the kings of woo and capitalizing on the positive result of wooing.
Frankie : “ So guys, its been a hard week, tonight being Friday night I need to look after you boys. I’m taking you to Morton’s, the best steak house in Pittsburgh. Tony and Jamie will collect you in the Limo at 7.30. Dress nice OK”
Dick : “ Frank that sounds nice” (note : Never seem too impressed, it diminishes your value)
Frankie : “And tomorrow for your last day before going home you are going to need a Limo to take you to do some shopping. You need to get some stuff for your ladies. Then you need to spend some time at a place of class. I have a table at the La Mount, the same Limo will take you to diner there, its all on me. I will send it at around 10am”
Now Dick is a bit of a sucker for special attention, and the Limos in the States are seriously flawless and beautifully luxurious inside, so this idea sounding really extravagant but am thinking that if this is how Frank does business, I will go with the flow”
Trevor to Tony aside “Tony, you guys are spending too much money on us for nothing, its embarrassing”
Dick to Tony aside. “Tony the Limo on Saturday sounds great, but extravagant. It really isn’t necessary unless you insist”
Frank following lunch: “I changed my mind about the Limo Saturday, come with me into the bank, I’m giving you a cash present”

Now I’m green at this whole wooing of your future business partners thing and like to maintain my independence, which to me means replaying all debts quickly so that I don’t need to kiss arse. I think I will repay my debts to the Calandra’s by being good at my job and providing the requested requirements on-time and below market price, and I think that these guys need me, but this is new territory for me. So I respectfully protest saying I have been treated respectfully and that my mere involvement in the joint venture is prize enough… Frank considers my words
Frank : “O.K Dick, you are a good man but I must give you something, here's $500 dollars”
I wonder how much he would have given me if I’d kept my mouth shut.
So instead of a Limo the corporate driver took us shopping Saturday. Saks on 5th was our first stop. $1500 was entry price for the shop and Cashmere, and Louis Vuitton clash with my eye brow color anyway. Frankie clearly things I earn shit loads and am worth lots, which is good, but Macys on a 70% winter season sale is more up my street.

Sweet-talking and Snowboarding.

2007-02-12T00:43:00.000+02:00

America, America, how patriotic you all are, how huge stuff is, how loud you are, how corny your bloody jokes, but your service is great, your janitors smile and whistle, and your city planning was done by someone capable and not BEE. Everyone is so un-unique, raised by the TV, but the babes that don’t eat MCie D’s are hot, and dance like horny nimphos and one last thing the best of all the snow that this land gets, is cold but immense, and slippery when cold ho-ho, ho-ho, ho-ho. Let’s go boarding!!

I’m being chauffer driven everywhere in a huge seat heated Audi A8, staying in an on slope Swiss style chalet, with direct access to the ski slopes. My host is an unbelievably charismatic businessman with a playboy centre fold wife, and get this.. A slobbering and snorting couch-trained bull dog of compromised intelligence called Henry. Times are amusing, but I miss SA. diversity. In South Africa, our people have more spirit and not always the one normally accompanying brandy.. Many of our people have suffered, all of them have seen huge change. We as South Africans are generally humble, wise and tough.
“S.A you rock and I am upset I haven’t brought my Zulu queue cards with me so I can practice talking to you. I miss your huge black Zulu’s who I fear and respect, I like to respect their strength. The Blacks, African Americans, here are clowns. They talk too much, too loudly, and walk with a limp. I bet if they came home to your hard, harsh land we could scare them. We could scare all these people. We scare me!”

16 hours of upright sitting, is not in my opinion, despite extreme tiredness, a possible way to sleep. I prefer to skip sleep all together on planes and accept the high levels of crankiness, tongue and mind unsynchronicity and disco-ordination which result until the new world to which I need to adapt gets dark. A day later, I still unfortunately feel stupid and although the boarding was good, a little more Co-ord will be very well received as I cracked my arse bone in the half-pipe and again whilst attempting a puny little kids kicker.
My hosts have left. Henry the bull dog, apparently snorted and nuzzled them all of last night and since babe-Jamie had forgotten all her underwear and was suffering a mild cold, a less than great nights sleep pissed her off too much to allow her to unleash her playboy ness upon the slopes of 7springs, she must’ve pulled up her Triumph supported boobs and zipped up her Louis Vaton handbag quietly this morning because in dragging my business connection homeward with her I heard nothing, and woke up alone in the chalet. I am now king of the Chalet… but need my queen. I wish Pea had come to the airport. I would have put her in my suitcase.

A brief Update

2007-02-06T15:24:00.000+02:00

New Job and week one comprising an attempt at the facard of the perfectly motivated, unbelievably valuable employee, in preference to the reality of a state of comparable direction, and blurry haphazardness. It’s a new job. I take this as normal!
The panic has however diluted my focus on blog world which, as Peas reminds me, is a dismal display of a well-founded respect and love for literature, and one's personal involvement therein. Much sexual fulfillment is also incorporated into this value somehow, and I therefore reinstate my more focused blog world involvement at the brief expense of 10 minutes in my business world.

A weekend of cricket, cycling, wakeboarding, and then Monday a traffic beating scheme involving repeated 5.30am morning departures for gym and the resultant gym work thereafter, have left my body brutalized by lactic acid and stiffness. Add to that ice-skating (Pea and my secret little shared hobby) and the resultant falls (it happens alot when I ice skate) with the lactic acid and stiff muscles, and you may find your fall and shock absorbing efficacy will be slightly reduced.
Then fall once too often, lose your fall and shock absorbing capabilities all together and smash your poor little face into the ice with no regard to the meaty bits like lips which unbeknown to the pain they might suffer dutifully hang there.
Bleed like a sluice gate, blood seems to spread better on ice, and then finally fulfill your lifelong ambition of being Bubba for the remainder of the week. All smiles... Shit… No smiles, that slits the scab! Pea definitely had a good time though!

Mount Aux Sources (review)

2007-01-30T23:03:00.003+02:00

My idea of a camping trip was totally skewed. This weekends past trip, after consultation with the seasoned / Guru campsperts, was the essence of what hiking and camping are all about, and not anything near what I bargained for.

Guys bond when grouped together in situations of adversity where they are pushed out of their comfort zones and forced to admit, due to in this case a moderate level of pain, and fear, that they are in fact human and mortal, and not the supermen that they the rest of the time pretend to, or would like to be. This setting was perfect. Bonding did abound!

The mount aux sources, meaning the mountain of the sources, is where both the Orange and the Tugela rivers start. Its hard to fathom that the comparatively mild trickles of waterfall we did encounter would gradually build to raging province dividing rivers. Located just outside of Phuthaditjhaba, 350km from JHB, the area is sparsely populated, the mountains distinctly juggernautish, and grotesquely vast in their immensity. I have been here before, but my mouth still tended to gape a little longer than normal. This place is simply beautiful.

Its peculiar though how beauty and harshness are often linked. Beautiful woman are always the hardest in challenge. This beautiful mountain was the same. I feel like I want to own what I perceive, these deep cavernous, abundantly green gorges, these splashes of fog and sun kissed cloud, these huge cliffs this smell of freshness. My vision is full, the detail infinite, there is the soft luff of the wind on my collar and a quiet call of challenge.

The sting of challenge :- A 20kg backpack for a stroll across the parking lot is a doddle. A 7km hike up ruggerd terrain. Also a doddle. Put the two together.. A doddles arse!
Now add a 30m vertical chain ladder, include the fatigue of a 5km, 20kg carrying hike, a monsoon type downpour, some ridiculously close lighting strikes and some marble sized hail. You now have a recipe for a little fear. Then once you have climbed a chain ladder and are all pumped with adrenaline, smashed up with ice cold hail and soaked through to your undies, saddle up for another 2km to the camp site. Then set your tent up in the rain and enjoy the view.. Umm too much cloud not much view! But crack out the Brandy, jaegermeister and Windhoek. We have arrived and look. The rain has stopped!

In our campsite in our little rock seat pow wow, I laughed my balls off. I can’t actually recall what about, but between gas heated foot rocks, bravado, jaegermeister and camp defence strategies the time between the intermittent rain was side-splitting.

2.30am : The click of a 9mm and an opening tent zip… Mountain boys!
“Hey, hey hey.. Look there, what’s that… WHO YOU?”
from somewhere in the close distance, “ITS VITO”
“There, there, there, what’s that, shine the torch….. HEY WHO’S THAT?”
from the opposite side of the camp “IT’S CAREL”

5.30am : Sunrise. The weather has lifted and the view is indescribable. I am standing 10 meters from the source of the Tugela river. It winds and wriggles down through the valley and then disappears in the distance of the foggy twilight. Yesterday included. This was truly worth it.

Farewell to dick. Lets climb the Mont Aux Sources.

2007-01-26T07:56:00.000+02:00

I am touched. No, really I am. The boys of the NCM engineering department have organized, through me and for me, a rough and tough and dirty boys camp out event in the Drakensberg this weekend in celebration of being boys and as a farewell for yours truly.
Now this place in the Drakensberg called the Mont Aux Sources (it took me about five tries and equal minutes to spell that word right) is conveniently located roughly 350km outside of Joburg and sets itself up as the perfect location for a proudly South African bonding experience.
Our group, 11 strong, is beautifully diverse with Afrikaans, Potchestroom farmers come Johannesburg fitters, Kwazulu-Natal surfer boy come graduate Mechanical engineer, larnie sandton yuppie come IT introvert, and "What is a hiking boot and tent, and why do you white boys need to camp on a mountain when I have a house on the ground?" token black guy Sipho, whose sentiments, despite my love for nature, I do somewhat agree with.
The setting, classic SA surviver, with the possibility of huge temperature and weather variation and bite, the chance of hostile encounters with boot stealing mountain people and the guaranteed encounter with the flipped personalities of my come drunk comrades once they have had their way with the copious liquor supply I have been charged with collecting and making available at the fantastic altitude of 4000m.
One of the 11 man party, Eugene :- 47 and general manager maintenance, born in Bloemfontein on a wheat farm where he developed a knack for Engineering maintenance, and brandy consumption through the continual breakdown and repair of this Dads Masiferguson tractor, has in confidence, following my gesture of having got him an entire bottle of KWV 5 year old brandy for his personal consumption, guaranteed me protection from the boot stealing mountain people. He has promised to pitch his tent directly next to mine and sleep with his revolver under his pillow just in case someone should try to steal my boots. I’m worried that Eugene, my boytjie, who at the NCM Christmas party managed to party his eyes through blood shot to off purple, is more likely, as the brandy coaxed hair of the dog grows on his tongue, to mistaken the cold steel of his revolver for water, and end up shooting the only mountain man we are likely to encounter on the mountain, himself. All respect to my man Eugene though his intentions are sincere and heartfelt
My tent is the same tent I had as a 7 years old. Even back then, prior to moth feasting, I think I remember it leaking in the rain. My Boss predicts zero temperatures and a 75% chance of rain. He claims that last year it snowed at around this date to a depth of 6 inches and that on his way up at around the same time, following the thaw, he encounted two helpless looking sods limping down with no shoes… The infamous boot stealers! That got Eugene excited again.
Rob predicts that we will be above the clouds Sunday morning. That sounds pretty wicked, and the makings of a good photo or two.
Lets hope that my tent doesn’t get rain drenched in sub zero conditions. A weekend in cryogenic freezing is not my idea of all that and a bag of chips.
So remember to watch out for boot stealing mountain people.
If you think you see them, check for Jagermeister in either of your two hands. If Jagermeister is present. Drink long and deep and look again..

Being a ladies man, a dicks interpreted definition

2007-01-23T23:06:00.000+02:00

After getting home and settling in, the need grabs me to have a second look at a book I read 3 or 4 years ago called Sophies World. Its an easy to read story compilation of famous philosophers and philosophies. Its heavy reading in a light setting, and remarkably entertaining but educational. But I can’t find it. I hate not knowing where shit is. I eventually find it on my digs mates bed side table, right next to.. wait…. “ The complete idiots guide on how to please your woman”. Ha, Ha, fagboy!
Now my digsmate (who will be reading this post) is, I must honestly say, a pretty cool dude. I’ve never seen him long without a reasonably large queue of ladies becking to his call, so this book must be the result of him have lost his mojo or dropped a really heavy weight on his satchel at gym or something. Enough contemplation though, this is way too bizarrely interesting to over look, so I sit down and open the book at the marker.

The flower and the gardener, The Dragon slayer, check your flower power, Mr Potatoe head, Mr “Yes dear”, and Mr Little black book. Hells bells, this is one seriously critical and in-depth analysis the brotherhood of man. What this lady author, Eve Salinger, thinks a complete idiot man needs to understand and perform to keep his woman happy, is like the holy grail of relationship maintenance. And, how in heavens name have my parents lasted 30yrs?

The flower and the gardener.
Guys, yip that’s you. You are the gardener, and if your little flower is going to remain, ie not get dug from your little garden, your garden had better be fertile. So get your gardening tools ready. Thou shalt Woo, thou shalt Adore, thou shalt Talk lots, thou shalt build her esteem, and thou shalt restore her. You, the guy, are the gardener, and if that sounds a little too one sided, Mrs Salinger very eloquently states that, “it is”, but that all good things will come to those who garden thoroughly, and that what goes around comes around… OK, I guess that means wicked monkey sex…. Eventually! So how long does a woman’s flower take to grow?

The Dragon Slayer.
No gardening isn’t enough. Once you’ve clipped the hedges and watered the daffodils, its off to the figurative dragon slaying classes. She needs boldness, she needs strength, she needs sensitivity, but not subservience. I guess that means she can’t tell you how to nurture her in the garden (well she can, but if you listen to her, that’s subservient, and then you fail as a dragon slayer). Similarly, if you the gardener spend too much time in this garden and inevitably not enough time learning to slay the big nasty dragon, the tax man, and Audi financier, you will end up frazzled, steamy, mince meat, and the result will be that your garden now goes to shit. Fuck! Therefore for the dragon slaying knight wanna bees I conclude. Don’t go gardening until you know how to be a slayer!

So how’s that flower power? And can you slay dragons?
According to Mrs Salinger its a pretty hard task being a relationship capable guy these days and if you are a :-
Mr Potatoe head - the coach loving, unflinching, change immune, lump of a guy.
a, Mr “Yes dear”, the passive aggressive, I agree with you but am shagged it I’ll act on it guy, or a Mr “little Black book” – the commitment-phobe, who flirts too much with other babes, despite his current babe. (That’s a huge no,no). You are an arse-hole and you deserve to be single and lonely.

OK food for thought!
My Digsmate claims he aquired the book for the sections entitled Ultra-Orgasms, and the Tantra Mantra… But that’s for next time!

Ducking and dodging the long arm of the law.

2007-01-19T12:42:00.000+02:00

Fat lot of use this Friday is, I have to work Saturday too. In preparation for the Saturday slog, and in trying to squeeze a last bit of labour from the engineering shop employees, I make a mad dash to the industrial hardware to pick up the necessary hardware for the job.
Now I have a reputation for driving a touch to the reckless side. I personally don't think its reckless, I think I have an abnormally good reaction time and judgement of road conditions and the unforeseeable (that's called drivers gut feeling), but accept that, as a result of the scratch marks in my door panel handle and the muffled squeaks of fear I sometimes hear above my courage enhancing rock music, sometimes I drive a bit fast.
I consider traffic fines, declarations and accolades of my commitment to motor sport. I don't actually dedicate the hours that some supporters do to the commentator monotones, and high rpm screeches of broadcast motor-racing, but when it comes to paying tribute with costs in high octane performance fuel, tyres and traffic fines. I am seemingly one of the biggest fans.
In South Africa at the moment and recent past there has been all sorts of here say flying around about jailing of motorists for outstanding traffic fines. I tend to ignore here say, in fact I think my words, on hearing that the NCM, very sweet and lovely 43 year old, accounts lady had been thrown in a meat wagon and carted off to Johannesburg central precinct for an outstanding fine, were "Na, won't happen to me!".

Well it did. Today! The world is round and all dirty scoundrels get their just desert.

I have cleverly managed to evade the crafty piggies for the accumulation of roughly 23 fines in time and allot of encounters. Caught between conscience, greed, and laziness and my need to meter the odd dosage of adrenalin into my blood stream. I refuse to drive slow, I hate slow drivers, and I refuse to pay my fines until the summons's arrive. Actually I don't refuse to pay the fines, I just couldn't dream of paying such a large installment at any one time to the fuckers that impinge upon one of my most exhilarating of hobbies, and watch them gloat in disgust and disbelief with a waging finger as I sorrily (but I'm not sorry) rephrase, angrily, no fucked-offedly handed over such a large wadge of my hard earned cash. I therefore wait for summons's, and hope that the issue of arrest warrant on-sight rumour that I've heard is nonsense.

Lieut Mandy Ndlovu:- "Whe iis yo lysense, Se."
My explanation was long, full of creative excuses but a bit pathetic so more or less"I don't have it".
Lieut :- "Whyee don't yu hav eet".
Dick :- "I just told you Lieut" , and then go through the whole thing again but slow with emphersis on the fact that I am a very law abiding citizen and this stuff never happens to me.
Lieut :- "Fife hun-dread fine for yu for thet Se".
Dick :- "Ya, ya just hurry up I'm late, hence the no license like I explained."
Lieut:- "I.D?"
Dick :- " Oh Fuck, here we go!"
Lieut:- " HEY ZOGBETA WENA! "
Dick:- " Sorry, sorry not you, #79083199300082"
Long pause as she presses it into her cell phone. My car now stinks. I've been farting like a murderer on the electric chair.
Lieut:- " Hibo, Eish, Eish Eish " head shaking " Seven thou, 8,9,4 in traffic violensations, 17 fines"
Dick :- " Wow, I have more than that at home....." (and go silent, head forward, eyes down. SHIT!). Time passes like an eye gouge.
Lieut :- "Hamba"
Dick " ...... "
Dicks car "(What ever a wheel spin in written like)".
I did feel a little rude in retrospect as I watched Lieutenant Mandy Ndlovu shrink, all steamy looking ensconced in rubber smoke in my rearview mirror, but the adrenalin made me stupid and I do live to drive another day...

Lesson 1 of the story :- If the warrant hasn't been issued by a court, ie you have responded to and paid summons's, your bum is safe from the ripping sound of jail.
Lesson 2: Rather spend R3000 on a radar detector and Laser jammer than R9000 on your bad habit and lazy cops salaries.

Anyone for Bunnychow?

2007-01-17T17:34:00.000+02:00

Dick :- "What in Gods name are you eating. It looks like cat!"
Anne :- "Its Bunny"
Dick :- "You're yanking on my pleasure stick!"
Anne :- "No its a delicacy"
Dick :- "It once was a small kids cuddly and fury little dream pet, and that stringy little carcass doesn't look like it has enough meat on it to feed an Ethiopian"
Anne :- "It is white meat and very low in fat, and tastes a bit like chicken. You want some or are you chicken"
Dick :- " Two servings please!"

So I sit down for lunch in the normal friendly atmosphere of the NCM canteen with Anne D'Amico from procurement. I know Anne through Vito who is Anne's brother and works with me in engineering. Now I'm I'd like to think a peoples person, and my interactions with people is linked with my pigeon holing of personality types secret and coveted little hobby. No two personalities are ever exactly the same but I often spot similarities which I can match to others.

When I met the D'Amico's, I discovered that this family and its personalities dissimilar to any other I have ever even remotely encountered. I used to win the industry prise at junior school. I think that means you are the keenest little bean. You may be retarded but you try your arse off and work really hard. Now Vito, if duracell ever needed an human example outside of the perverted pink little bunny, has the positivity and energy of 10, and a work turnover which puts my industry levels to shame by a factor of 5. It is actually ridiculous.

Often at 7.15 am, on the rare occasion that I am actually at the office before Vito, am greeted by the Vito solo chorus sent by God himself to bless the earth. The windows rattle. The MD, the Head of Engineering, the head of Quality and the head of logistics and there team are all well within earshot. I cringe / smile and internally piss myself and mutter a good morning.
Then that's it for my viewings of Vito for the day, with the exception of a vague blur and a dust trail as he moves from task to task at lightning pace. He does sometimes hit a speed bump, normally after putting in a few consecutive 1am 'er, and then lies prone in the middle of the engineering offices floor looking as dead as a two week old hippo carcass. We step over him. He deserves the rest.
All the D'Amicos have the same attitude to work and are always bubbly, seemingly ambitiousless, and have a general care and concern for everyone. We have 3 of the family in the NCM family and as a little twist to my intricate understanding of them, I discover a family taste for Rabbit or Bunny, which ever you prefer.

(I do not necessarily agree with this line of business, but on analysis I can't see how I could consider it different to chicken or beef farming.)

Bunny farming is lucrative business. Ever heard the saying "fuck like rabbits" that equates to good production when there are 12 bunnies per litter, a gestation period of just 6 weeks, and a time to harvestable (harsh I know) of 8 weeks. On 2000 female mother bunnies (you only need 25 males to service this bunch, the horny fertile studs) you are looking at 24 000 bunnies every 3.5 months, so 72 000 a year, and at R30 per kg, that will give you a turn over of R2.1bar per year. As far as I could ascertain that's low production, as there is more than 3 container loads of demand per month from overseas, with a selling price of R70 per kg. Space requirement minimal, about 30 Sq meters required.

So open mindedly I gave the rabbit a try.
Taste analysis :- I couldn't really find a difference between the rabbit and chicken.
Nutritional analysis :- Is white meat and low in fat so a valuable substitute to chicken.
Personal ethics analysis :- Would hazard to say that I don't buy into the deal, the D'Amicos can stick to their taste for rabbits. I once had a rabbit, his name was Tom. I fed him carrots and dug holes with him in Moms bird Avery. Out of respect for those memories. I decline.

Singing the overdose-on- exercise Monday blues.

2007-01-15T22:34:00.000+02:00

Shit its 7.00pm, and apart for a brief 2.5hour period, where the tasks which make up my job, and a large part of my life, seemed to seamlessly flow together and create some semblance of productivity, the day has been utterly fucking useless.
That’s what you get when you are overly ambitious and think parties, booze, late nights out with your sexy girlfriend, and then training for a fucking half-iron man, can somehow all fit together. Its because I'm a man and need to be tough, but holy shit balls its 9am Sunday morning I’ve been up since 4.45am I’ve cycled 75km and then got off my bike and run 6km swore on my sole that I wouldn’t walk and now my quad is cramping up into what feels like serious constipation and I have been running like one of those, “it’s a miracle, he’s 127 years old and not dead” guys would run, and bugger me backwards, I have to ride 90km and then 21km in this race in 3 weeks time, not enough to train properly, I am so sore. FUCK! But at least my Oom and Cuz have the same pathetic look on their faces! You funny mad, crazy bitches I love you, and then when we stop the endorphins are gonna whisk us away to bubble land for 5 hours… aaah good times, or not!

So Monday wasn’t the best. I’ve resigned, and I will set to flight in two weeks from this, my present existence. I’m done, I’ve spent my time in the shit mines of engineering, I’ve mined my shit. Yes, I get paid a professional salary, but half of what I contribute is added to the amount I spend, and because I got such a large budget to spend on improving the return on this companies bottom line, that constitutes experience and experience is critical to getting personal credibility and recognition, so you’ve got that, and that’s enough, so fuck off and be happy to work ridiculous hours and to get no gratification, verbal, financial or other. Yours sincerely the MD ;)

Yip. That more or less sums up my understanding of how my present company considers employees. Fuck-ups, no fuck-ups, beautifully and accurately completed cheap projects or half hearted, loud mouth sub –contracted out 5 times more expensive projects? No difference. Your only reward is personal gratification and experience, and as I raise my middle finger to the figurative big kid on the beach who liked to bash down my beautiful beach sand castle, and see a semblance of panic in his booze reddened eye, and hear the words, “You can’t leave, we actually really need you”, I figuratively have a jovial piss my pants internally as I turn my stern expression towards him and say “ I will really miss this place”, I am a black hearted liar, but I do wonder. Perhaps I will. But fuck introspection!

So my jet pack is primed and my arse is aimed at the MDs door. I have just 2.5 weeks here til the new adventure. So provided I don’t build up too much methane in my alimentary canal, I should make a squeaky clean, respected departure without blowing my o-ring.

Being a man, a Dicks definition.

2007-01-10T18:29:00.000+02:00

So whats the whole deal with macho, being a man, being tough, no pain no gain, and big boys don't cry! Hmmm quite a mouthful and a modern day woman's nightmare. These days, I hear, its important to be in touch with your sensitive side, your feelings, and my favourite.. Its OK to cry!
Naaah, not a Chinese chance at a 4 inch ball hair in my opinion! No don't get me wrong, all you lovely ladies out there that I love and respect.
Yes those things are important, but being a man, the big tough macho dude that could wear some cowboy chaff protectors and spurs, walk spread-eagle like he's been riding all day on an angry rhino or because has a set of balls as large as watermelons (ready to be passionately deflated on you... Oh baby, oh baby), must come first. Sure a little listen time is critical, sure a cuddle here or there is great, just mind the poeff line. Our goddesses, the ones we love and worship, can always push you towards the poeff line. Push, push push, and if you don't catch yourself, re asses and beat your chest a bit, or figuratively let forth with a large paleolithic, Cro-magnon screech..Then, Oops, shit, next thing you know you're a fucking poeff and now you have no self esteem, no mates, nothing, you're just a poeff!

So how would a Dick assert himself as North of the poeff line. Well tough, loud, machinery, couragey type competitive stuff is all you need. Its basic. Let me give examples.
If you live in Kempton Park, and you have a larger, shinier free flow exhaust than Jan Kobus van Lambering, A it makes more noise, a tick there, B it is connected to machinery, tick there, and C it apparently makes your car go faster so you need courage to prooove it, tick there. You earned 3 anti-poeff points. You are the man, get a mullet!
If you live in Lens, like da dude Mike Naiker. Then you'll need to throw in a whole lot a shit. When it comes to bling, the Lens boys are King. If your Earth-quake sub-woofer speakers don't make your back wind shield shake, and the base in face can't be heard from at least 500m down the road. Sorry you're a poeff. If your suspension leaves your low profile customized carbon fibre bumper more than 2inch's above the tarmac, your Noise boys free flow is single outlet, unchromed and without branches, your low profile mags, racing steering wheel and gear level conversions aren't momo, (you get the point here) You need to sort it out, else.... yes you're a poeff.
If you live in the Free state, you need to be eating lamb chops and boerewors for breakfast, you need to have been able to drive a Masiferguson tractor since four years of age, and intricately understand the art of cow bumping, which involves rubgy tackling cows at night with enough force that you knock the 500kg beast over! (this is why Vrystaat beef is so tender, its a pre-death meat tenderising process)

Everything entertaining comes a little tongue in cheek, but all you men out there, don't be a poeff. Poeffs don't get laid!
All you girls out there, support a little anti-poeff behaviour it will release the Cro-magnon that you want between you thighs ;)
And most importantly, don't be a Dick or quote one!

First day and resignation hitting the fan

2007-01-08T14:29:00.000+02:00

Back a work. Is a real drag when you resigned a week prior, everybody knows and everyone wants an in depth explanation of why, where you are going, and my best, and always dribbles out as you are trying to escape the interaction. "You getting more money?"
I sometimes say "4 times more, and this company really isn't market related". I then watch anger. All the small things the individual doesn't like about the company all creep out.
I'm everyones confidante, and if I were to go and tell the MD how many individuals are considering resignation too. He'd shit his doondies.

Result is I'm semi-detached in this place. All the new projects are flying around, and the only thing coming at me is. "Oh, so you're leaving us!" With a smile on the dial... Fuckers!

To keep the brain on engineering while everyone else has work and I feel like a lost cow in a bullybeef factory, I've been playing this. (The brain strainer) Now all you aspiring engineers give it a try, its a touch more involved than the standard drivel internet game, Globalspec, an advisory body I used to source ultra quick high tolerance bearings for box cart racing sent it as a new years gift. Get 2000k in points and up and you are a mac Daddy Mec Eng in the making;) http://www.globalspec.com/BrainStrainer/

Kalkys and the molotov cocktail.

2007-01-06T16:08:00.000+02:00

Renowned for fantastically fresh fish. Kalkys of Kalk bay harbour will collect the catch, fry and serve within 4 hours. All the ethnic culture and views of a quaint, traditional fishing harbour, the sweet sounds of the oil-can guitar and banjo 2- man band, the sweet smells of sea fresh fried fish, and chatter of 100 fish satisfied faces. A strictly pleasant way to start a Cape afternoon.

R30 will get you half a kg of fried fish with chips, the atmosphere is good, the que not too long, and the banjo players are in tune.

15minutes waiting.. We're almost at the front. Bloody hell, this place is pretty warm, but just 4 people to go and then I can get some ice tea while I wait out my order. Peas is being all cute too.,, Bless!

20 mins.. Paid, I have my receipt and have finished my ice tea. These sweaty fish cooking harbour folk, aren't very responsive to my boyish friendliness, and banjo boy number two is singing so close to me I can smell the breath passing between his toothless jaws.

30mins.. The rather obese, fury lip, berg babe behind the counter spares a spike of anger at my repeated request for my order. Peas pipes up "435", loud and proud, you go my little squirrel, I love it when she talks tough... i think peas's shirt is getting visibly moist around the pit area. I shall however remain mute.

40mins.. Fuck it you dribbling, bridge ogre. Give me anything, I just digested a kidney, and why from Gods good eye ball are you moving like a sloth, you are not a retard, I think. This chick should move to Knysna.

Molotov cocktails :- In the period pre WW II , Vyachelav Molotov a Soviet politician in charge of foreign affairs claimed on a radio broadcast not to be bombing, but supplying food parcels to the opposing fins. A crude incendiary device using a glass bottle containing an accelerant (petrol or the like) and rag stopper extended outside the bottle to double as a fuse, was the Finns weapon against the Soviet Red army tanks in the conflict. And since Molotov claimed to be dropping food parcels instead of bombs, they named their device the "Molotov picnic basket". Later becoming Molotov cocktail.

In my eye melting rage, all I'm thinking is how neatly a molotov cocktail would smash through the rear window and its contents dash across the chiseled concrete floor like an hot curry eating Indian to the toilet bowl after some gunpowder curry tikka masala, and how all the frying oil would help with the crappy ogre shack to spectacular bonfire conversion.

Its a shame that such a well located service (unbelievably fresh cooked fish), in the most idyllic of a traditional harbour locations, can give such a shite service.. Molotov the fuckers!

Departing from pleasantville.

2007-01-04T11:17:00.000+02:00

This place is great. Perfect little houses on perfect little waterways. Everyone has a perfect little boat two kids in the front yard, and Mum and Dad perched perfectly on their prefectly in fashion designer porchwear. Come to Theason island in Kynsna people its perfect and I;m gonna miss this place.

Best part of the day was when, while cruising through the pleasantville waterways, Peas having been exposed to too much salty sea air and the lilting rock of the speedboat decided to transform herself to the Scurvy "slightly nuts" pirate, (I think its in her gens and the right conditions brought forth the beast).

4 BARs on a pleasantville house, 650 Jets on the Mastercraft wakeboard boat, 250 Jets on the unbelievably well engineered mastercraft pulley lifting system for boat bottom barnacle removal, (only cool part of this place) American flags, 3 of them (huh?? this is South Africa you nutty yank) 40 Jets x 2 on Silicone bedroom, pleasure- pillows or boobs, and two because that's you many babes beefcake had out front while he barnacle removed (He must be from Utah where you can have more than one wife, because there where kids around and both babes where too cuddly with beefcake) And a Jolly roger flag, (you know skull and cross bones) which pushed us over the edge.
"Excuse me sir", in pea's high pitched, growling pirate voice. As we casually rounded the corner in Hell fire jack, a 5Jet, battered 2Jet repaired and reconditioned beauty of a watercraft (exaggerated, but comparisons are paramount here)
"How do you know when you're a Pirate", pointing at the jolly roger. Muffled laughter from Dick and Big T, and I think M let one rip. Beefcake flexing, and trying to not look confused and interested.
"You just AAAARRRRR", from peas, and everyone lets rip. Beefcake is confused, a ting red (I didn't notice sunburn earlier). There is spittle in the corner of his mouth and he's not de-barnicling his beastly boat anymore just watching us and trying a pretend smile. The awkwardness could be sliced thick with a cutlass as we drifted too close to his jetty nearly crashing. Shitttt! What a start to a Pirate day!

FOR MORE NEWS ON THE DAY, PLEASE CHECK PEAS'S BLOG, shes's pulling my ear, we need to be somewhere.
P.S Do chicks Pooh, I've been following this babe carefully at a distance and haven't managed to ascertain with certainty. She'd put on a equal amount of weight to the food she ate if she didn't right.. Something is amiss!

What are dashgings for?

2007-01-02T16:14:00.000+02:00

A dashging is a item I just came across in this crappy excuse for a internet cafe come clothing, marijuana and insense store I dropped peas at to do her blogging. Knysna is full of these places. There wasn't enough space for all the hippies in the Knysna forest so they overflowed onto the roads, and to prevent the fuckers getting run over the police forced them to the pavements where they settled, and with time there shacks evolved into businesses.
It must be true, because although the arsehole behind the counter claims this is a broadband connection. My girlfriend gets over admin faster.

I am not a negative person but I do hold grudges. I was here at this same shit hole last year and the arsehole that runs the place asked me to pay R20 per print for 6 prints and that anger still lingers as some toxic chemicals at the back of my brain for that fateful day when the world will turn and run a highway / byway through his settlement come business place.. That seemed like something peas would write so a good start to my existance as the Engineering Blogger.. Dicks Dig on it all -- Not what peas wanted, "Dick between peas's thighs", but still cool! Clean, clinically disiplined and to the point. Dick doubles for my name, and dig is assoicated with large hydraulically controlled earth moving machines which is what engineers dig (huh, 2 digs one line. That must count for two points huh peas?)

So a dashging? I swear, thats the name hanging from it, and I haven't had the courage to ask what it is, but it looks like something you could use to smoke pot with and simultaneously pleasure yourself with. Looks like there are some Kynsna forrest happy mushroom compartments along its shaft to help your arsehole halucinate (maybe this is why the Knysnaians live away from civilization, I can't think of another reason).. This place is called the flying parrot and you can call Johnnie, the hippie come settler come business chimpanzee for further explanations... Learn some chimp first thugh, the guy seems retarded! 044 786 996