tony soprano 20.05.07

Oh crikey, it's been a couple of months.
Like a ray barb through the heart I've been energized into exploring the landscape that is South Africa.

I witnessed over-grown 18 year olds, looking like chickens on steroids play in the local easter rugby festival at st johns college- a college, immaculately designed on a ridge dividing Jozi into north and south.

along with lil mikey razzo, i experienced the wrath of inebriated small town folk, loaded up with booze, skimmed stones, rode rough quad bikes till our jeans stood up on their own and ate hake in the trout fishing capital, all in the wee town of dullstroom.

I let my golf game slide a slippery slope and instead got sunburned like a gas- torched peppadew, suffered lex lutherian megalomania on crushing termite mounds, was confronted by large man-munching gorillas and soiled myself at the prospect of bumping into one of a gazillion indigenous snakes as featured on the snake chart of South Africa, kicked my kit off and plunged toes first into the string of pea-pod like pools and allowed the gushing Lipton's ice tea to wash the red dust off of my parched African lips. This was all in a day on a hike with the lyrical Jingles, the Chuckles chocolate ball that is kev and a peach, dijan, in the red earthed, rocky landscape of the Magaliesburg.

Li'l dan and I traversed every Spar and every petrol station that Roodepoort has to offer to navigate our way to the Roodepoort botanical gardens. There we saw the lesser spotted black eagle and her two eggs, and were denied the right to toss Frisbee.

And then just as I thought the bloodied graze on my knee that was my nature experiences was about to clot up, along came this past weekend.

Alice, invited me to lecturer Heinrich's, Thabaphshwa. It's a massive farm set betwixt the hills of potgietersrus, spotted with wandering cattle. the camp we crashed at, 'kanniedood' is a hut perched on the rocky face of an outcrop, isolated from humanity, electricity, pizza delivery vans and jehovahs witness knock-on-door conversions.
It was only two days so we needn't forage for fruits, nuts and berries. It was all carnal, grr, raah. The undulating landscape was our bedroom, the cool breeze was our ventilation, a bamboo screen was our lavatory protection, the roar of baboons our morning call and the sunrise our eggs, sunnyside up.

I barbequed chicken like no Nando's slave could. the big bird lay flat pack against the grided fish grill, and simmered over a low coal as I punished my windhoek draught and lemonade. I was keith ffloyd.
Gazing upwards, the African evenings are a wonder.
The night skies are a sensual, gorgeous Claire Forlani in a, glittering, sequened, turquoise evening gown.
Shooting stars blitz the heavens, is it a bird is it a plane or is it kulula.com? everyone is an astronomer when the stars come out-the 'milky lane' was splendid in the autumnal sky.

The final day left us without water, and monkeys on the rampage. We were in a situation in which 'we coulda died.' But my pig skinned water bottle was my swiss army knife.
I'm still getting to grips with nature. I do believe I'm a city boy, but I think beneath the chocolate coating, the sprinkled almonds and the nougat, lies a caramalised nature lover.

Anyhoo all my fans, Albert Einstein once said, 'life is like a bicycle- In order to keep balance, you need to keep moving.' Johnnie walker confirmed this.

Stay cool, be cool
The dan Ger, russian bear hunter, master swordsman and soon to be action figurine. safari khakis sold separately.

paper cut 28.04.07

29 the of april was a wee man-eating two-tone bee to a sticky koeksuster.
Like a geologist scrubbing rocks, and picking cavernous caves, so I've been searching the crusty cracks of this sprawling megalopolis to expose my serotonin.
Christie, a wee lad who I worked with in londres strums the lonely bass in his rock band called 'Bonsai'. Bonsai are gathering fame not from being picked, probed and clipped by mr Miyagi, but rather by their lyrical, sunny side up expression of afrikaans rock.
I hadn't seen the kid in a well rounded 8 months. He was gigging with his lads at back2basics- a live gig venue splashing out greasy grub on wooden décor. It's as cheap as east London chips, but lively as a punctured lung. It's perched just left of the energized centre of the cbd at the far end of the bowling lane that is over looked by johannesburg's two premier universities. One as liberal as a hooker and one formerly governed with an ironic fist.

Bonsai belts out rock in the trekkers tongue-afrikaanse. I hadn't been exposed to much of this genre of rock, rather close to a doughnut's worth. this was the eve that the radiation that is afrikaans rock would turn me from a green banana into a ripe one.
This Bunch of good lads, the guys that'd invite you over for a barby on a Sunday and share their smokes, dressed in Sunday's premier best, got me jumping and foaming at the mouth. Although the lyrics were alien to me, I was there to greet the wee li'l green men with open paws.

Foto na dans,the main act, robed in black skinny jeans with jewels breaching the boundaries of zippers, were bigger than the stage. Trying to fit these four pimpled skinny teens onto that raft of a stage was like trying to squeeze a t-bone steak through a straw. Their groupies were everything they weren't-blonde, sexy, lolly pop sucking sweet apples ready for the winter harvest. The lead with, a popsicle stick of a body and an oversized cotton ball for an afro, lead his charges into afrikaaner rapture. This was no boer vs british, it was the fight for the royale cause of rock n roll, Afrikaans rock.

The raggedy rag doll trumpeter, keyboardist and squealer, flung his mopped melon so hard I thought it'd pop off and bowl him an impressive 360. His blood shot eyes raged in fury, and bulged out of his head. Their industrialized rock made the iron ore manufacturing process look like a chocolate bar purveyor. These dudes were poets clad in cast iron battle armour. frenzied, their energy exhausted carbon monoxidous rage.
My Afrikaans is like the part population of iraq-sheeite, but I needn't 'praat die taal' to dig these dudes.

It was a cracker of an eve in which I had too a revelation. My new choice of brew is Windhoek. Sorry amstel it was all you my friend but then you shoved that blunt rusty meat cleaver through my heart.
stay well , be cool all my far flung, short sprung friends. from the scratchings of a Dan Ger ous lad.ole ole

rubber ties never break 23.03.07

I dropped back into jozi and all is pretty cool. My lungs have adapted to the altitude and my blood has cooled down. my toast pops up after 3 minutes, gently toasted to a fine crispy crisp. The peanut butter melts just like I like it-from the centre outwards to the four corners of the crust. I munch my corn flakes just before they get soggy and the coffee takes 2 and a half sugars to leave its drinker sweet. I walk to the tv room and all is fine. I continue thinking of the next opportunity to do some scratching, I feel that no time can be wasted. Yip, it's true, the Big Cheese holds the griller, the George Forman griller, and when He wants us grilled, He 'flicks' the 'on' switch. So I need to take every opportunity that falls me merry way.
A round of golf cancelled, the key to my office so fat it couldn't fit into the key hole and hillary rodham clinton's autobiography. This was the borsht of Sunday morning the 16th and it was only 8.30 am.
The 14th hundred hour had rung its chime and Berger was waiting at the haloed gates of the home of Transvaal cricket, the Wanderers cricket stadium-a fortress of invincibility. A form of cricket has engrossed the masses in these parts and I'm not convinced, it's gross. It's called pro 20/20. 'You call that cricket?', I enquire. Pro 20/20, is a feckin abomination of the old age imperial game of sticks, bats and balls. It's an absolute corrupt form of a gentlemanly game. Vissie calls it 'soek and moer.'-another name for garden cricket.But I loved garden cricket-grass burns, broken windows, grazed knees, WWF aggression, red juice drinks breaks, neighbourly meetings and ball searching sorties. But even this form of the game didn't have a time restriction. One had to grind out an innings, or bowl a consistent line and length taking into consideration the mole hill just off leg stump. Only at the fall of the sun when ball sight was restricted or your mom called you in for toasted cheese snack-wedges would the game be called off. These were real concerns. Pro20 20 you have nothing my friend.Aside from the 'cricket', the day was a ripper, for as berger explained it, 'it's the only time jo'burgers get out in public and consume loads of booze'. It's our sandy beach and we love it. The game ended and I walked home numb. Instead of killing bob woolmer, maybe they should have beaten the guy who invented 20/20.
Back in jozi, I tend not to breach the ten kilometer radius that surrounds my house, largely cos I find all that I need is within the 'golden circle'-fresh milk, oven baked bread, my place of work, the tv remote and my mom's spaghetti bolognaise.
Anyhoo Saturday rolled in like Hymie and Abe's Sunday morning game of bowls- slow, dry and not much room for action replays. But then I spoke to Tal about Saturday night. tal had exhausted me while eating a dry mint icing cup cake, about the fact or non fact that there is loads of sheeite to be done in jozi. one just needs to be the carrot top from CSI New York to find it.He'd been gnawing on my left calf, chewing it to the bone demanding that I head off on one of his rendezvous' and so, short of my calf catching gangrene, I obliged.
The venue was the Red Room. it's red 'cos the lighting is red(I noticed the energy saver light bulbs, niice), the 80's Carpeted wall is plush red, the ceiling is, well, red, and I wore a red Tee. and it's a whopping 30km out of my 'safe zone'. Thank goodness I didn't need a schengen visa for this excursion, I just needed a tank full of cream soda-unleaded Iraqi jet fuel. My Toyota tazz was going to take me to the far ends and beyond.
The red room probably once featured as the dining hall/ bar of the road side s*x motel in which it sat with its cheesy terracotta tiles, strip timber ceilings and wooden bar tops. It's tacky and stuck together with chewing gum, but that's rock n roll, and I love it.It's a rock, indie venue stuffed like a meaty blintze with tagged teens, leather pipes and greasy metal junkies. The music ranged from the 'scream-your-lungs-out-of-their-ribbed-cavity, to the slow melancholy of radiohead, to the bash-your-melon squeals of pearl jam. I sat alone propping up the bar, sucking on one of the last locally brewed Amstels ever, awaiting Tal, the craziest yid I know and his side kick, robin's, (no not batmans' robin) imminent arrival. The Prodigy mix was spinning and so we wiped the parquet floor to a polished amber glow with our slides, jumps and moonwalks. It was a sickly tiring experience. I quite enjoyed the journey to the unknown and hope to do it again.
Well my friends far and oh so wide, ill leave you with a cracking quote i saw on the side of the road on a johnnie walker advert.'i'm a slow walker, but i never walk backwards.' abe lincolnfrom the scratchings of a content laddan, middle name GER