To-do List 29.05.2011

a guy on the side of the road, his inards expelling energade blue, his body rejecting the unnecessary-this aint a scene outta afghanistan, this is the comrades marathon. when a lady's knees buckle, and her hubby grips her arms dragging her, her salted pained tears bouncing off the heated tarmac, emotion sprawled on the roadside, this aint road kill, this is the comrades marathon. the tightening of his calves, his chaffed thighs, he can't move, he's walking like a cowboy-this aint no john wayne movie, this is the comrades marathon.

way back when, when unions were a form of rugby code, people worked hard for a raise, or they went to a strip joint, the 31st of May was momentous. my psyche had video taped every sense i experienced on that day-the creamy chocolatey scent of milo, the dark dawn and its rising sun, the icey morning and our appliqued blankets,the nobby, wood cased sony tv as thick as a topdeck chocolate, chariots of fire wringing out emotion, and then ofcourse trying to catch a glimpse of my old man amongst 3000 lunatics

the early 80's burned into my spongy grey matter, like a cattle rancher's fiery brand to a bucking bull, the challenge of the 52 mile Comrades Marathon. 

after a tortureous 2010 32km Toughone that saw me having to explode in a paperless service station lavatory and having to use a lucky lotto ticket as paper work, i signed up for the ultimate human challenge. F*ck a 10 kay run.

the reality finally came and it was the 2011 edition that id signed up for. one of the greatest days of my existence - i wasn't at a desk, i wasnt pandering to bullsh*t,i wasn't doing time sheets, i wasn't pushing a trolley down aisle 10 in search of sunlight liquid,  i was on the road, the open road, and it was all ours. a journey between cities.

the start, Durban Town Hall, a mass of wiley runners, a din of stop watch bleeps, and nostril singeing voltaren emulgel. it's a vaseline greased hum of moving parts, it's chariots of fire and the cocks crow, its pre-run energy goo's, and masses of running shoes. its bonitas paper thin weather breaks, strapped knees, butterflies and bees. it is the beginning of the greatest ultra distance run. 

the route, a climb from Durban to Pietermaritzburg, the up run as its called, is a liquorice rope of undulations, heart crushing caverns, hamstring hammering hills, cramp inducing winding curves, roses for Arthur, a wall of fame and a distance which in itself can bring you to tears.

i had banked the mileage with my compadres Marty Gersh and Gary Ay, and it was the time, the time was now, to cash in.

my Nike Lunar Elites, dark deap sea blue, lumo yellow trim, flat as a snackwidge machine, neutral as vanilla milkshake, wide as an oxford road hooker to give my toes give, light, swift as flash gordon and beautifully simple, were the one's and two's id be donning. they had the girls screaming.

these all americans were gonna get me to dusk, or hopefully before then.

cowies hill was a trot, and then after 25 i hit it, the Wall, but this wasn't Pink Floyds. putting foot in front of foot was like walking with lead boots. my legs left me standing wandering. fields hill swoops upwards and onwards. i was pedestrian. my 'feet' felt like two balloons, pained to numbness.

with the crowds screaming my name, i was energised to move forwards. Russian bear hunter, 15 twitter followers, justin beaver-a gazillion. 

just then i felt like a pop star. 

the run was physically wrenching on my body, my hips as a rickety ship in battering seas, ached every step i moved. 

throbbing cramp, unhinged hips and aching arches pulverised my mind. the sinews of my muscles holding tightly onto my bones tearing to keep me together. the saltied sweat caked upon my brow was my body desicating. the crushing tar below- a sledge hammer to my soft tissue. my shedding weight and throbbing heart rate pulsing at a thundering pace. my thoughts flicking like flashes on an 8mm. the titans of my body- my mind and my heart battled relentlessly to keep me on the road, powering on. to walk became a pain and only running alleviated tightened muscles.

only a saltied spud, a sweaty jub jub and half a nana throws my energy levels upwards.

 

polly shortts- i thought the lumo, ball juggling shorts had gone outta fashion but their name sake was pretty much still there, i was between a rock and a hard place- the epic final hurdle, an uphill grind and then the glowing light of the final stretch. grass never felt so good, except while high watching part 2 of Lord of the rings-where was that old timer on the white horse galloping to?.

the red finish line banner was my elation, the conquistadore in me had arrived. 

the analogue, pixellated, yellow 10:48 was the most incredible figures after liz hurley's that id ever seen. a sight for my strained eyes. never before have i cradled so dearly a bronze medal. i never wore it to Pick n Pay the next day like some other guy, but i spit-polished it to a shine.

this was a run of many runs, of many emotions. what pride i had to nail this to the tree. as i chugged back an energade blue i said never again. but having given birth to such an experience, the trauma was forgotten. i'll be back.

i aint no patriot but when i'm dipping an ouma, or competing in the comrades marathon, i'm pretty sure i know i'm a south african.

from the roar of the russian bear hunter

1970's Corduroy 04.01.2011

No shop has the unappealing appeal that attracts so violently as the Abercrombie and Fitch store. 

Drifting through the slinky slick mall, the heavy, rancid arsenal of the A&F cologne managed to breach my snot-filled snout, and possess my grey matter. With a jolt, it had me snared by both nostrils, dragging me into the dark, cavernous store to be greeted by the foxy stereotypical blonde in a red plaid shirt and black cling-wrap jeans.

Having had my ego blunted by the preppy ice-cold assistants,

I emerged, exorcised, shimming like a preteen lady gaga fan with two new sweaters and a shirt.

Blowing all this cash on a red plaid button shirt, a free rock gig at the Lincoln centre was music to my ears. 

The Lincoln Centre, hosting the Big Apple Circus’ candy-coloured hexagonal volume, sits beautifully on Amsterdam Avenue, inviting a crowd to mingle. On this night, unlike all other nights, the debauchery of the ‘Rock and Roll Circus’ was about to soil the red carpets and turn the big top into a heaving rock orgy.

 The main liners, with intoxicating substances submarining through their veins were the greasy long haired guys in clown suits in the front row. But it was the headliners that the crowd were amped to witness. 

On the bill this fine night the So So Glos, Pharmacy and Voxhaul Broadcast would precede the hard hitting Japanther.

Strapping myself into this roller coaster ride, a euphoria-injection was administered allowing pure rock bliss to wash over me.

 the So So Glos hailing from the vibrant streets of Brooklyn, New York decked in black skinny jeans, 12-eye doc martins, pencil thin ties and suit jackets were the caffeine kick that got the crowd bouncing off the walls of this rock n roll asylum. As if the lead singer’s spunk tasted sweet as honey, the crowd lapped this band up, clambering on stage and huddling around the four-some. The audience moshed as rain dancers in the Australian Outback, surfed the sea of hands and throbbed to their melodic beat. The band with their Killers-esque ear-easy tunes played the crowd like a fifth instrument. This is definitely a band that left my innards barely riveted to the bone structure of my body. 

 

The mc, a screaming queen with bandied cowboy legs, a horses mane for a hair piece, and enwrapped in a pink slinky 80's cocktail dress, looked like a sweet and sour Chinese spring roll, encouraged the crowd to screech for Pharmacy.

Dressed in corduroys, knitted Christmas sweaters, polo necks, turned up jeans and loafers, Pharmacy strummed their Fenders, stroked their ivories and whistled a melody. Reflecting the Swedish poppers, Peter Bjorn and John, this quirky trio offered pleasant folksy rock not suited to a sex scene in a Hollywood movie but rather to the closing scene of a surfer movie.

For fans of the screaming 60's, this band would sit dandily next to the Beatles or the Beach Boys.

Letting intermission slide without tucking into a vegetarian hot dog would have been sacrilege. Being so hungry, I scoffed it without chewing and as it burrowed its way through my food canal, I could hear it drop into the cavernous bowl of my stomach with a thud. To moisturise my parched, cracked lips I guzzled down a half litre of black-tar tasting dark ale made in the back garden of a Brooklyn-ite. Having satiated my hunger and thirst, it was left to rock to fill the musical gaps.

And then the world as I knew it changed. From LA, Voxhaul Broadcast burst onto the sunken stage. The crowd huddled in a semi-circle around the band, and the photographers sat perched like snipers awaiting the defining shot. David Dennis, the lead singer, tall, slight, asymmetrical hair, bedecked in leg-clinging jeans and converse sneaks, blurted out hard hitting lyrics with a voice that could have toppled Babylon and lung capacity that could have inflated the Hindenburg. A confident command of the stage allowed the limelight to beam directly on to him pushing his band members in to the recesses of back stage darkness. 

Although catchy poppy beats, it was his voice that left the angels upstairs playing air guitar solos.

Once Voxhaul had un-screwed their high hat, rolled away their bass drum and unplugged their Marshal amps, the Circus turned into a zoo. 

Japanther, a metal rock band launched onto the stage. Their lead singer, with his Krusty the clown cotton-ball of an afro and top-hat, looking Slash-like, incited the crowd to rock violence. The groupies, heaving from the constraints of the seating area, burst onto stage like a splattered melon engulfing the band members. The mosh-pit was carnage. Fist fights broke out and it was the Rodney King show all over again. A voice, a godly voice over the PA, urged the crowd to recede.

After barely 3 tracks of finger callusing metal rock, the show nose-dived like a lead zeppelin. The effects lights were doused, the audience dispersed and the dial on the rock station had moved to a snowy silence.

i walked out of there, stuck my hands in my pockets to avoid frost bite, swiped my metro card and jumped on the '1' train home. What a night. New York’s gnarly back had reared itself once more, invigorating, energising me, sending my creative juices in to a cocktail best served on crushed ice.

‘the Russian Bear Hunter’

Sickest Night of my Life 28.12.2010

Manhatten, 

a doughie batter, poured gushingly on a heated waffle maker, the gridded imprint, thats Manhatten

a regular organised rectilinear base on which creative energetic chaos bursts as a ruptured bladder. 

the city is a candy store of excitement, of play ground fun, of yoga mats and lycra tights, of running shoes and yellow cabs. its a megalopolis of shining lights at the ends of concrete caverns. its a culinary delight of hoola hooped sized pretzels, greasy pie and coffee cups

in the midst of the overload sits an island of respite, of blissful harmony.

Carnegie hall, a heavy set brick clad monolith on the outside, a volume as light as an aero chocolate on the inside. an island of sombre sobriety.the pinnacle of the classics.

How do i get to Carnegie Hall?. i rolled into the irish pub, chugged back 3 pints of happy hour beer, then in the slush of post snow blitz missiled my way down 8th avenue, trippled jumped the muddy puddles, danced the traffic light, moonwalked the zebra crossing cut back 3 blocks and skidded onto 57th and 7th. if only i stuck with the piano lessons and practiced, things mighta mighta been easier.

the New York String Orchestra had just begun. the gentle sounds of harps and violins settled my racing heart, gentled my thinking brain, untied my knotted muscles, set my spine to dangle as a string of pearls and disengaged my rocket-being.

New York city is for the eyes, but a concert at Carnegie is a gift for the ears. 

the Russian Bear Hunter, a little late but never too
go on give this a scratch and sniff http://www.travelstart.co.za/blog/blogger-experience-contest  

I prefer instant coffee 20.12.2010

a man's tongue on a bus shelter pole would be difficult to remove because of the icey cold conditions here in New York city. the cold, as it frosts itself through the cavernous avenues, cuts you in half like an icey blade through steak, is painful.

it made only sense for me to be google-red-drawing-pinned to the yellow orange pink glow of a corner shop dunkin donuts somewhere around 3rd avenue.

my jibblies so cold they were like frozen grapes and it would be only a cafwee, medium size, a jelly donut and a glazed donut that woulda alleviated any post traummatic stress. on paying for the goodies i yanked out of my bankie bag, a 50 dollar note, crisp as morning dew. as im about to hand it over, the pakistani behind the counter sees the biggness of the note and pokes his finger at the sign above the donut tray which reads 'we do not accept cash amounts larger than a $20 dollar note.' i say 'gsus, what do you want me to do?' i fondle around in my levis 501's to look for a smaller note and nothing emerges. he tells me, 'use ATM', and im like, im not drawing cash for a $3.57 dunkin donut order. agitated i am.

anyways im caught now between a donut and a hard place and i neeeed them donuts. i then hand over my credit card and the deal is done. meanwhile a wiff of bacon wanders through the air, my nostrils flaring at the contagion, and as i turn to my left i see a pig ordering a cuppa. the copper fumbles in his navy blues for cash but can't produce the goods. so the cashier says for him not to worry, it's on the house. the copper with his big gun, and walkie talkie and flashy badge and octagonal shaped hat and acting all NYPD Blue, brooklyn-accents his way to saying he'll get some cash from his cop car, you know, the one with the red and blue lights that goes woo woo?. the cashier is insistent and choons the pig not to worry. the pig grips the joe and ducks. im there stunned thinking, gsus, what the fudjimori just went on?. i then pierce the cashier with my jelly eyeballs and dead pan i blurt out....im undercover.

without any haste the cashier's assistant had a donut happily wrapped and bundled into my donut bag.

from a russian bear hunter playing cowboys and injuns

Mile High Club Sandwiches part 2 19.12.2010

Having alighted the plane in New Yarrk City with my kotch stained Levis Button shirt that has a collar, i made headway for a bus to philadelphia-the city of brotherly love, the sweaty cheese steak and Rodin's Gates of Hell.

my portal to the city of Philadelphia was always 30th street station, a beautiful edifice with excessively high ceilings and plunging light shades. her exuding royalty, her body adorned in golden signage, in romanesque filigree and fine detail. her sexily curved wooden waiting benches, and glossy floor enhance the waiting traveller's experience. her rounded bulbous brass clocks tick time travel. she harbours a powerful, godess-like statuette as her focus. her fluted columns, are a mark of a stately woman, she sits upright, she sits proud, she is the guardian of the city.

me, my M&M's and a bot of Dr Peper came to know that station. since, we have parted ways.

having my senses become romantically involved with the station, i came to and accepted a ride with an unafiliated taxi driver. 

as i danced across the sheeny shiney floor heading for a taxi. a black guy offered me a ride in his limousine. i said 'ow much you gonna charge me?.' and he said, 'its 9 dollars.' and i was like, 'i can get there for 7'. deal is on. finally my senses flew back into my head through my ear and i questioned the driver as to whether he was an identified taxi. clear as day he wasn't by the look of his beat up ol caddy. anyways, i threw all caution outta the window which didn't roll down so well, and jumped into his blue-rope lit limo. but just as i put my head down to climb in, i said 'you aint gonna jack me, are you?'. he chuckled sheepishly, when i told him id survived johannesburg bare knuckled.

I did my first run in Philly about a week comma 5 ago, the temperature a cool 32 degrees fahrenheit. it was incredible. the air so fresh, so crisp. the goose bumps on my legs bursting outta my skin, my lips a dry river bed. the landscape background palate brushes of grays, light grays, blackened blues and deeper hues. the mangled figured trees and the charcoal rippled river. my breath pulling me on to try catch it as it heaved, propelled me. my heart aching beating, an unrythmic flow until i got warm. my ears a fiery inferno, my nose, a reindeer's red. my fingers, frozen crab sticks. my blood trying to pulse itself through the frozen pipelines of my body.
 that was one of the greatest 7 mile blitzes i've done. it was incredible, it was exhilarating. i needed to share it.
that same day things fell apart.
it ended with my red philies cap strewn on the floor 

Rocky punched meat here, he ran up the museum stairs. the fresh prince had his sitcom. Bruce springsteen, the Boss wandered its streets, Tom Hanks died of Aids and Brett Angel baked baguette. 
the russian bear hunter added to the city's story telling

from the memoirs of a russian bear hunter

Mile High Club Sandwiches part 1 16.12.2010

so every now and then one sets out on a journey, a journey of discovery, a journey that could change one's existence. one hopes one doesn't return with a missing frost bitten digit, heat stroke or a stained white tshirt. one also hopes that every now and then a blog entry need not be scripted, that a journey need not be a story, but that they walk into the sunset..i hoped this would be that adventure, but then some kid puked on me.

Flying on emirates is kind of cool, although because it's as cheap as chips in brighton south london, one gets the sense one's just another quarter chicken on the griller waiting to be basted. entertainment is buxom though and although its difficult to watch the tv when your knees are plugging up the holes of your nostrils and the fat bastard from Karachi in front of you decides its time to have a nap during dinner time, the service and the servers are deeligthful.

Emirates definitely is concerned about the face it portrays to the public, and that 'face' has super model status. 

gone are the days when you're flying SAA, you shift uncomfortably in your aisle seat, blushing, while the air-hostess whispers, talks or rather offers you a coolie and tosses you a bag of salty nuts, she locks her eyes upon yours, your bottom lip begins to tremble, and the drool, it begins gushing from the side of your mouth. she then leans over to pass a drink and snacks to the window-seat person, and you just crumble like apple pie from her scented skin wavering through your nostrils, and from her curvature bursting from her buttoned top, causing the sweat to well upon your brow.

then she moves on, pushing her stainless steel coke and snack filled machine and as she passes you, you lean over just to get a touch of her skirt...hmmm. 

emirates i do salute you and your bevvy of gorgeous babes:). fly emirates.

anyhows im at 30 000 feet, im engrossed in the steven spielberg and tom hanks produced epic miniseries, the pacific, when i feel a cold chill down my arm, down my back. i take no notice. but around me there's activity, swarming activity. i look down and there upon the carpet is a pool, a swirl of what seemed to be tomato puree, a soup of sorts. my eyes shoot upwards to the gorgeous airhostesss..our eyes lock...uh..., i look to her tray but i don't see any bowl of soup, nor do i recall us having soup and then my eyeballs slowly begin filtering out the hostess, she slowly begins to blur, the foreground begins to recede and the background, although out of focus, emerges. from being a snowy, bad reception, the background comes to the fore, and reveals the image of a podgy wee black kid with pig tails in a pink knitted sweater, the blurriness becoming more vivid. my eyes then pan around and settle on her chubby little pie hole, her knitted sweater and the gobby goop dribbling from her chin and her... kotch stained jumper. at this point i nearly shot an aneurism (got that from an ER episode) Oh my word i wanted to gag. i actually wanted to hooch on that fat lil bastard kid, pay her back. i cant even look at a bed pan, and now i have fall-out sprawled all over me. 

the air-hostess rolls up and begins throwing down this disinfectant powder, its like hiroshima. i throw my shirt off and head for the bathroom, topless. she offers me a pyjama top, but can't find one. she offers me laundry service, but they dont have it.

thank goodness touch down was in a few moments.

and so this little episode, this little horror picture show would begin the beginning of the end for a trip to philadelphia....

end of part one

a russian bear hunter in a frosty land

Slice Oh Cheese 11.08.2010

cruising through the heated streets of New Yark in none other than a pair of sneaks, cushioned for walking pleasure. they talk to me and this is what they say. "adi dassler was his name,his brother was a Puma, german engineered they were.david beckham kicks balls with them, steffi graf looked foxy in 'em too, they have stripes,3 in all, flaming, flash gordon red,they have lungs,theyre dimpled. i'm going too fast ,strap me in, velcro will do the trick. white,is it a colour?,antarctic white, hide and seek in the snow,'i can't see you'. 8 and a halfs, theyre just snug.apples and pears, they'll run me up of stairs.i see a leaf,its been through the shredder.best remembered through the revealed acronym 'all day i dream about se...uh i mean sport'. theyre adidas, and theyre great. wish you could see them".

these sneaks buffered me from the sticky,sweaty, sewer-stenched streets of    new york. the heat of a new yark summer is a brewing experience. the burning tar, the rise of vapour from the bowels of the earth where the trains screech, peoples body warmth, the basting lamb meat-a sacrificial offering to the lunch time suits, the subway grip bars sticky as honey buns, sweat stained arm pits and clingy shirts pulse the heated glow of a coal furnace. as i evaporated my bodily fluids, a trail of salt strung behind me, it was time to replenish, to unleash a gush of Dr Pepper. i popped into a drug store, purchased a cool bottle of berry-brown freshness and strolled over to Washington Square. there i crashed on a wooden bench looking out onto a fountain with kids prancing, birds lounging and hipsters in tight denim shorts, plaid collar shirts and ferris-buellers-day-off sunglasses playing cool. with a forceful grip i took hold of that soda pop cracked its coil open and as its bubbly energy welled inside it began excitedly bursting all over the show. while the caramel coloured fountain of fun exploded all over me, a fat ginger haired guy wearing a new york yankees cap, a wife beater vest and shorts had a chuckle and said 'i hate that sh*t'. 

the sugar coated sweetness was all over me. i'm an M&M

from a sweet russian bear

yours in candy coated goodness

TurnPike 23.08.2010

so i got me safely to Baaastin, although staying in the ghetto is always riveting, i've emerged alive.

so last night me, Di Caprio, Jack Nicholson and Matt Damon hung out at some irish pub on Union street. we drank 2 dollar pints of Miller Light, i was barely aware that it was even beer. the big lcd screens showed the patriots playing football. we weren't bothered, we were just catching up. in the back ground, the rolling stones filled the air waves followed by pink floyd's, 'comfortably numb'. great sound track to a great city. in my back pocket i pulled out a polaroid pic of the gold domed building that sits in the city centre of Baastin. the one that hovers just above the Baastin commons gardens, a real green retreat for a city dweller. i took the pic that day.although it was a little bent, crumpled i showed it to Matt. its the exact domed building Matt has a view of from his apartment. anyways we all went back to Matts apartment and listened to the Beach Boys and Patsy Cline on his quarter of a million dollar Makintosh sound system. it was reverberatingly awesome.

having left the lads, i returned to my hostel, where in my room i was greeted by 3 Bangladeshis. i realised quickly enough that this wasn't a scene from Slumdog Millionaire. since that took place in India?. the next day after a restless sleep cos those said bangladeshis were up all night talking cricket statistics, i notched up easily my 15th Subway Veggie sandwich experience on the great hallowed turf of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. now what an institution. the campus sits in the city, it's sprawling, it's huge. it harbours some great pieces of architecture including eero saarinens segmented auditorium, his chapel, an alvar alto curvilinear residential block,and IM Pei school of Design. but then where all have created beautifuly downplayed non-ego driven edifices , there frank gehry goes pleasuring himself on MIT territory. Frank was it really necessary?

sketching my way through much of the university, i see this janitor, he looks just like matt damon,scrawling on the chalkboard. so i shout out, 'will, good grief will, what are you hunting for,the theory of relativity?'. anyways i decided not to bother him and left him while he chalk dusted himself. not long after i left Baastin did i find out that that same janitor won an Academy award. astonishing. thats MIT.

the sun still hung by a thread in the blue sky, so i figured i could squeeze in one last destination. Harvard. turns out it was orientation week. all the juniors beginning their lives in Big school. i have no doubt one of these kids will cure AIDS or make contact with alien life. fingers crossed.

Baastin, apart from one day was awash in rain. while trudging the soaked cobbled streets, i noticed a guy in a wheel chair, his wheels smooth as custard, struggling to wheel himself up a slopey hill. i thought, gsus, i gotta give this oke a hand. 'mate can i give you a push?.'he graciously accepted.so i pushed the ginger(if being in a wheel chair was so bad, G-d went and gave him orange hair and freckles) up the hillock. i felt this rather rewarding and for some reason gave myself credit. 

that eve while holding up another irish pub, i was sat by a single empty chair.i offered to shift for a couple from LA-a radio DJ and his Petron-tequila crazed wife. said DJ says to the barmen, 'get this kid a beer, he doesn't allow me a word in edge ways. we get chatting, the night goes on and they move on, but before that,they drop some green backs on the arm pit stained bar, enough for another beer. enjoy the night bud.

ain't it crazy how things revolve, and i'm not talking revolving doors.

on friday 27th August i 'Departed' Boston

from a far flung lad in america which is like a scene from hollywood which is like the movies which is like a reality show on mtv

the russian bear hunter

Ghetto Blaster 12.08.2010

washington deecee,
having booked passage upon the wifi accessible, plug-in-your-ipod boltbus, i was in the state capitol after 4 hours. sat next to this lawyer, mike. he gave me his calling card, offering his services should i be in trouble with the feds. i just munched my M&M's.
after finding my bearings, which were as round as those chocolate coated peanut M&M's, i made headway for the hostel. now on a map, the distance between things looks kinda small and so i figured id walk the mileage. after sweating like a cotton pickin labourer, being drenched like a dog in a car wash and having noticed quickly that the demographics changed from milky white to cappucino to all black, i realised that i was in the capitals ghetto.welcome to dc
DC, designed with a straight rule and a rubber,has barely a curve.
the capitol hill, which offers a free tour, something free in the usa.....oh and slaves, sits at the centre of the city's cartesian grid, the 'centre of the universe', with the rolling green hills of the mall extending, binding that huge column 500 feet high, a pin prick on the bubble blue sky, to forrest gumps reflecting pool to the gargantuan lincoln memorial, its a phenomenally awesome patriotic expression of the nation's ego.
perpendicular to the Mall the white house on its green checkered lawn with the black president sits looking south across the Potomac river. the theme of the Nation, its memory, and memorialisation continues in this vast envelope with the beautiful, engaging Vietnam War Veterans Memorial by Maya Lin-2 black granite walls embedded with the names of fallen heroes cut the earth in the shape of a V, and the statue riddled war scene of the Korean War Memorial.
being boa constricted by the grid, i made way for the Arlington cemetery a dominoes box of the fallen-open to the doors of tourists. JFK's grave site, the Challenger and Discovery astronauts, the forgotten war heroes, and Jacqui Onasis, all their memory embedded in the manicured lawns of the cemetery.
the museums and art collections that line the Mall are a vast resource of information and history. here they harbour some serious odes to mans endeavours and artistic masterpieces.the holocaust museum, as many as i've been to, always pluck on the fender that is my heart, the aeronautical and space museum was simply a phenomenal walk and visual explosion of man pushing the envelope.
staying in a proper ghetto, when i get on the bus i feel like i'm in a spike lee movie, i never knew there was another million man march.

the clusters of excitement are limited here in dc. if you stray off the tourist path, well you're in the precipice of nothingness.
i've walked my feet to blisters and i have asked, is america a reality, it all seems so hollywood, did america achieve all that they have, did they place a man on the moon, is this all real, or is it all stanley kubrick?.

From a russian bear hunter with blood shot eyes

Couch Surfing 16.08.2010

new yaark yankees.

when you're in america, you gotta eat greasy grub like an american, you gotta drink soda pop like an american, you gotta laugh at americas funniest home videos even if it aint funny, like an american, and then you gotta indulge in its favourite past time, baseball while getting ice cream shmeared on your face, pretzel bits in your hair, beer on your shirt and a hot dog down your gullet.

with an eleven dollar ticket in my hand, this was me being a yank.

it was the New york yankees vs the Detroit Tigers that was printed in black on my self-download ticket.(i printed the tickets in black and white). 

as i rolled off the D-train there it was. a modern day colliseum, a newly built edifice to the biggest baseballing franchise, a diamond in the rough of The Bronx, a marketing giant, a neon sign big and drawing enough energy to power up addis abbaba, hues of blues and whites, and the typical hum of a big game event. this was Yankee stadium.

as i skirted my way to the nose-bleed seats, there stood before me on the concrete walkway an oasis of light,the ark of the covenant, a fully kosher hot dog stand. i had to. i had to buy the dog, a 6 dollar dog. having gripped my dog in one hand, i pivoted to walk away. and then, like a kung fu kick to the head, i turned leprechaunous green with sausage envy. i glared noticingly at all the other hot dogs around me. all the other dogs were foot longs dripping in sauer kraut, creamy mustard and fiery red tomato sauce, all looking like 1945 ally submarines waiting to blast the living daylights outta the germans while mine, yes mine was all of a puny 6 inches. quickly i averted my glance to stare at the blond with the big breasts and i realised what i had in hand.

this dog was coloured to perfection, airbrushed to look gently brown, and smooth as a russian engineered V rocket.this dog was there to inflict excitement on my taste buds, to make an assault on my very senses that were craving this simple protein/ carbohydrate tangoing duo. my mouth dripping in excitement took hold of this rocket ship to be pulped giving my pulsing blood an all american roller coaster ride. its soft consistent texture delighted me. this synthetically engineered sausage, with squirts of sachet tomato sauce was rapturous. it filled no gaps in my hunger, added no nutritional value, but it was blisteringly awe-some.

the 4 hour beer drinking, hot dog shovelling, ice cream scooping, lets-go-out-to-the-ball-game singing frenzy lacked serious excitement. like sinisterly watching a mosquito land gently on your flesh, piercing your skin to begin draining you of your blood, while you gently hang around till the wee bastard is all juiced up, flexing your muscle to watch a surge of blood burst the little critter to smithereens, but being irritated that the lil critter beat the trap having buzzed away at the last minute denying you a sadistic experience, thats...baseball.

from the western exploits of a malnourished lad

the russian bear hunter

Toffeed Apple 03.08.2010

Brooklyn Nooo Yaaark.

the sun baking hot, the tar a gummy liquorice. the airconditioned 4 train, in its shimmery shiny chrome skin, me, danny brawler, and gena g skidded out to Burough Park.

Borough Park is one of like a thousand little Jerusalems barry peppered around New Yark city. here its a wee lil shtetl where yiddish is probably the first language, pita and shwarmas the local delicacy. and if you listen closely you could hear the theme track from fiddler on the roof. here we rolled in the sweetness of apple sauce and burst into song at chocolate pastries. we tucked ourselves in the comfort of shlurpy mess-on-your-sunday-best falafels, and yiddished our way into popularity.the day was dusted for the D&G show and it was time for me to soak up more.

i caught a train down the road to crown heights, centre for the lubavitch jewish community and home to the late lubavitcher rebbe. the number on his door, 770. here in the streets, the black hat hovers, the black coat billows in the fresh breeze, and push prams cut grooves in the side walks. and in the background alicia and jayzee are shootin' hoops on the ball courts. i asked the locals if anyone knew fitz speigelman, and lo and behold i had a crowd of black hats scouring their 'berries for his contact details.

another day in paradise.

coney island, a once playground to the stars, a place of leisure, a place of fun. roller-coasters, candy floss, toffee apples and shoot-the-freak entertainment. all images that'd spring delight and excitement in a kids eyes. that was in the late 1800's.

coney island harboured this sorta mystery for me and on coming to new yark city it was sure to be one of my many destinations.

as the throngs of people burst outta the D train from manhatten i got the sense that i was back in south-end-on-sea up in the UK. from african americans, to russians, to chinese, to hispanics, to neon sign plastered strips, this was surely the periphery of manhatten. it was a culture shock i didnt quite expect and it was a view through a pin hole of what one could see outside of new york city.

all of a sudden the people swelled to xxxl, the russian talk threw me back to vodka swirled moscow, the american drawl placed me in that oprah winfrey movie, the colour purple, the hand ball courts threw my mind to ghettoised america and the people i saw at the edge, probably just wanted to fall off it. and thrown in amongst all this oddity were religious jews pushing prams, strolling, enjoying a sunday out and playing hand ball with the mexicans.

the promenade was full of take-out joints, dripping in fried goods, candy sticky and heaving to the sounds of led zepelin and the eurythmics. oversized cartoon characters holding hotdogs bobbed the skyline, the beaches full of bathers and frisbee throwers. the pier, strewn with fishermen in wife beater vests, stained to the chest and the pit.

at first sighting this lil kinda-island scared the begsus outta me, but slowly as i walked its path i began to enjoy its oddity, its strangeness, its freakiness, its absurdity, cos afterall this is where excitement lies.

from the trailings of mesmerized lad

the russian bear hunter

 

Rise of a Beigel 27.07.10

ah what a day, after waking up sweating like like an olive in a desert,i got myself up early, and made a bolt for the Metropolitan museum of Art. the museum sits on two floors, and i have no idea how many square meters it consumes, but its like a wee megalopolis. anyhow it sounds rather strange but i get kicks out of antiquities, well primarily the greek and roman stuff,afterall i was a latin scholar. here too i rubbed shoulders with the kandinsky's,the cezannes, the monets, the mantes, the van goghs. the list is as big as a new york deli side order menu. huge.

after walkng this place for hours and by the end of it needing the walls to hold me up, it was time to get some suunshiine and a beigel.yea thats what i said, a beigel. Matt Ai suggested that for my first beigel experience it has to be Beigel Stix on 53rd and 8th. i entered under the glowing red neon sign, rolled up to the intimidating counter, pulled out my wee book in which matt had scribbled exactly what to order-lox nova, thin cream and an 'everything' beigel, and i just sat breathing up against the counter glass ,drooling like a puppy dawg. i grabbed the beigel in its bag, and made headways across town. while strolling, my body shaking, pulsing, at the excitement, like an archeologist unearthing the origins of man. i unbag the beigel, unwrap its tinfoil outter shell and peel back the wax paper, as it is revealed to me, it bursts in to colourful life before my very eyes.the seeded bun like a rocky desert terrain, the 15 layers of salmon, glowing pink, soft, tender, the massive red tomato slice, all sitting tightly between two thin layers of the creamiest cream cheese my taste buds had ever surfed. i took a bite, the cheese shmearing its self all over me, the salmon as tender as a fresh bruise, the bun fresh and warm.in my hands the beigel was simply uncontrollable, but i took the upper hand.and wow it was good.

so im scoffing this thing down, loving it like the first season of Friends, and as im crossing town i pass by the MoMo gallery, its like 7pm and theres music bursting outta its seams. i see a girl standing by, looking all summery and i ask her while my mouth is full o beigel, how the hell do i get in there. she choons me its invitation only but if i want she'll squeeze me in somehow. so i tell her not to worry, i gottta finish this bite of heaven,the beigel that is and ill sort myself out (getting into the gallery that is). she says just act confident and youll be in like princess leiah with han solo.anyways in my sneaekrs, shorts and tee i roll up to the counter.the lady at the desk tells me its invite only, so i tell her im the kinda guy that gets invites to these kinda events. i tell her im famous. she asks my name, i choon her the russian bear hunter. there and then she googles me.she shows me a pic of some guy thats just elephant-shot a bear.i say yeah thats me.she's like 'OMG'. her friend aint buying it so they call the manager.i tell her i blog, and she's like, 'wow,you blog?', im like 'whatever', she checks the blog, the manager checks 'my' bear hunter pic.he says 'no'. but the sweet girl behind the desk gently slides over a ticket when no ones looking, shebam im rolling with the big cheeses of New YArk city.

free drinks and im happy as the ending of a hollywood romcom.

a corker of a day in Noo Yaaark Citee

bobbing for apples 25.07.10

sunday a day out.i steered my adidas sneakers to the american natural history museum. im not too sure why, but new york is pretty damn intimidating, it kinda gave me stage fright.i contemplated lingering at home under the air cooled atmosphere eating pretzels having been too afraid to step out into the world.

where do you begin to bite this fruit of a city.how do you approach it, how do you pounce? and hence the beginnings started well in the beginning when the world was created and Mcdonalds popped up on every corner.

so the history museum gives one the opportunity to pay whatever you wish, so its normally a hefty 20 dollars, but i had set my mind on 5 bucks.anyhow im in the cheapo queue and some poncy outta stater asks me how much im gonna give, so i tell him a 'fiver'.so he's llke 'whats a faiyver?'.its funny cos his wife got it. anyhow this f*ckin ponce tells me that 'know one in these parts knows what a faiyver is'.anyhow i kept my mouth shut thinking this oke was a total baseball head.

anyhoo i decided, f*ck him im paying 3 dollars, and with that i rolled in.

as i tried to read everything in this museum, trying to be interested i kept being followed by this smell, this scent of grandmas old flat in killarney, you know, that musty old smell that grannies have. anyways i smelled my pits and smelling like a fresh can of AXE deo, i realised that it was simply the teradactyl next to me. did i really need to go to this museum?

after 5 hours scouring mummies and old mexicans, penguins and dinosaurs ,ancient asians and prehistoric africans, rubbing rocks from space and rocks from the rockies it was time to head out side and take a sweet stroll through central park. there i cracked open the all too cool can of dr pepper and unbagged a stash of pretzels. im an all american.

this park is absolutely phenomenal, its vast, its green, its pleasant, it has runners and cyclists and walkers and talkers. its got frisbees and soccer, lollies and pretzels.

having greened my pants on the emerald lawns it was time for me to meet up with bochy, the blessed one. together we followed this dude to a bar in amsterdam avenue that sells beer for 3 dollars-the cows had come home and pigs could fly. but after 15 pints i could still remember high school calculus.(not to be mistaken with high school musical)

having asked for local knowledge on a fine slice of pizza pie, this college kid leads us to Freddies, a little dive entered below street level run by these like porta ricans. a real sweaty place only cooled  when the coke refrigerator was opened. that lil triangulated wedge of ecstacy was the sweatiest tastiest slice of life i've had in a long time. i knew this was the place cos here on the wall i shared a moment, another(after wall street) moment with michael douglas and the great Sopranos.ssssiiiick.seems like michael douglas spreads himself thin.

after catching a cab, a frikkin yellow cab, typically driven by some guy from new delhi we rolled into Brandys across town on the east side (got the lingo down hey).its a wee piano bar, open mic night it was and gees like it was awesome.

the waitress after cheesily offering us drinks, grips the mic like a lolly pop, her flaming red hair glistening in the bar light, her green top glad wrapping her torso, her skinny jeans, like a scuba suit, and her black heels polished to a mirror conducts the piansist and begins to belt it. her lungs powerful enough to have turned the winds. her vocals squeezed tears outta my eyes, it was mesmerising. that eve not a single singer couldnt sing, pure freshly squeezed talent dripped from this bar. thats new york

sweet melons what a night, it ended in miss waitress singing a lady gaga tribute, i want your 'vertical stick'.

as i caught the polished chrome train back home with bochy, i knew i was a seed in the great apple.

from a scurvyless lad

the russian bear hunter

Hooligan Juice 12.06.10

i always believe, yes i do, and i suppose the wizard of Oz just made it reality, but if you do click your heels 3 times(or your adidas boris beckers in my case) and you wish real hard,dreams do come true. and so the colourful life i lead just turned HD- i'm talking high definition.

this weekend on friday eve, i get a ring on the ol nokia hand held blower. its the berndawg offering me a ticket to Engeland vee USA for one thousand rand. im like 'no dude, its just too large'. 2 minutes later, after bernie held the okes nuts in his hands gently crushing them like soft grapes,the seller agreed to a face value R560.00. and lo and behold the red sea parted and we, that's bern dawg, bernie middle brother from middle earth and me moonwalked over to Rustenburg.

Rustenburg a wee lil town like 200 kays north of civilization harbours the Royal Bafokeng Stadium as well as a housing complex called Little Italy. the only thing rustenburg has thats italian is possibly an old worn alfa giulietta tyre from the early 60's used as a kids swing. 

anyways the story goes like this. The Bafokeng tribe purchased land having sent its troops to work on mines to earn money to make such an investment. this land near Rustenburg happened to have one of the largest deposits of platinum in the world. you could just imagine how hysterical this tribe musta been.gsus. they probably sacrificed some poor kid.

although this humble little stadium sits in a rural settlement, quite a change from a stadium in say Berlin or in Barcelona, it still bubbled like a pre teen zit waiting to explode all over the the bathroom mirror.

as we arrived, i sessioned a car bar of green heneikens, cos i knew, yes i did that mister Shwet Splatter (sepp blatter), would rape and pillage my pocket like the meat eating vikings to some unsuspecting vegetarian tribe out in the andes.

as i drank my dutch brewed excuse for beer, bus loads of mcdonalds and coke drinking americanos began to roll in. the Americans, looking lost, trying to find lions to ride, just seemed outta place in this shebeen strewn drag leading up to the stadium. theyre like cartoon characters these yanks, can you even take them seriously? as a yank screamed 'Aaaammeeriiica' , a whole pancake stack replied 'F*ck Yea" in glorious unison, alluding to that great flik, Team America. 

the poms loud and berry red, shirtless in the icey cold, decked in liquor jackets ,the red cross of saint georges pasted across their chests had arrived to make haggis out of american body parts. i wouldnt run to these okes if i needed a band aid.

while the hoardes continued to drink inside the bowels of the stadium, i felt i needed to batter my liver in fermented barley and hops just a couple more times. at R30.00 a pop my heart missed a cupla egg beats, and i nearly swallowed my nokia phone. but when the wave of euphoria washes over you, you just jump in and start swimming.and so i forked out 60 rond.sorry starving ethiopians

as i looked around me , the hum, the buzz and the euphoria of a big stage football match sent the hair on my back standing up, piercing through my 3 layers of tshirts, i simply stunned myself into disbelief.

entering a big stadium is always dramatic. you rise up the stairs looking out towards the landscape, then make a turn into the tunnel beneath the seats, the tunnel is dark but for the light at the end of it, a window, or a snap shot of whats taking place opens up to reveal artificial bright light and a heaving crowd, music over the PA and raucous excitement.its simply wow and a feeling that never dies. i sat alone, well with out any one i knew, but i found myself in and amongst the beer swilling, flag waving ginger americans. they were an animated bunch, they sang great footy songs, waved a flag i couldnt believe id be seeing in our home country, ate sweaty boerierolls and said things like 'caar' and 'yaeh'. it was an absolute gas.

i watched some of the greatest players on that green checker board field. rooney just couldnt make magic, well england on the whole were just shate.and then one blunder by one wee lad and every britisher wants to pop his eyes out with a blunt toothpick. its riveting stuff. it wasn't the greatest footy match i've ever seen. but the reality of seeing the greatest down here in the South was pretty mind blowing.

that very next morning as i walked the golf course having slammed my drive deflouring the virgin fairway, i thought to my self, 'gsus dan, thats one helluva life youve lived'.

i went onto double bogey the hole 

from a city stewing with all the excitement of a teen groupie at a Take That concert

the russian bear hunter