03.08.2012 Meaty Beaty big and Bouncy (the Who)

so i think of myself as a rockin’ roll star that shnarfs heaps of blow, has loads of unprotected sex and can play air guitar like a raging mick jagger, but stick me in leather chaps, a cowboy hat, and holster me with a Smith and Wesson to face off with Clint Eastwood and ill run for the bosom of Heidi.

the dawn of Comrades had barely faded, my disappointment still sat in the in-tray of my years performance, and me and the Nerwiches were tripping billies back to King Shaka in our Chevrolay for the early eve jet-plane ride back to Jozi.

As the clouds cotton-balled over head, dauntingly grey, i pondered as i stared through the dusty window what it would be like to fly in blustery weather. But then the good Lord decided to rather put the fear of the roman legionaries into me by having a giant black Jeep unlicenced terrorising us en route to the airport.

Craig’s eyes growing large, rebounded off the rear view mirror, slapping me in the face as a busty blond in a red speedo. his calmness sturdy, his reaction slight. Radio silence.
 My head swivelled, staring back at the looming spirit behind us, at the charcoal asteroid hurtling towards our vehicle.

Darth Vader’s Death Star lurked, snarling to tear at us with its vicious stance, its grill gaping to swallow us. It’s tinted windows and blackened eyeliner, its drool a tracer line on the heated tar...
as i stared in astonishment at the aggression of the agressor, and as my physical wrestled my thoughts to the ground,  i pulled my loaded hand from my pockets, the back of my hand facing the deluge.. and gently raised my middle digit, extending it like a teen in a strip joint.

that was me triggering the red 'don’t push button'.

As the red overwhelmed the white of the eyes of our nemesis, Craig was forced to lassoo our jam jar and steer us clear of the bucking black stallion. As the enemy continued throwing the weight of his ride towards us, trying to rat us off the road, the throbbing veins bursting out of his forehead as an under pressure testicle, he left us in a dust trail. There is relief and Dani had calmed down to a panic.

OH Em Gee, it wasn’t over, the ripple of the earthquake had now sent a tsunami in its wake.
having thought we were safe, this pacman wanted my biscuit and no ghost was gonna stop him. Cutting through the traffic, splicing its DNA, the Blackness moved in cartisian motions, seeking us as a tracer bullet, eventually coming to a standstill, anchoring his behemoth behind us hissing for blood. my blood.

Stapled to our seats, looking forward. We were uncharged androids.

The roller coaster had just reached its pinnacle.

His door opens as a vacuum-packed meatloaf, steam swirling and out emerges this muscle man looking like a condom full of walnuts. He motions for our window. With his super reflective mirror shades, a disco ball of the ‘80’s, forearms like rolling pins and fists the size of fully grown pineapples he blurts in a foreign accent (probably from the Freestate). "you gave me ve sign, i hav witness'. I squeek back, 'i dont know what you're talking about, bru'. the bile now sharing space with my apple. 'if you pull signs like that you'll die soon.' And there i was, moments from a fast food knuckle sandwich, a side order of fright and soiled undies.

the two fighters separated, and so did Dani and Craig from me. I was in international fly space and no one was gona find me. My heart settled as a i sipped on a Fanta Grape, my happy place.

all this trauma because i judged a girl i was to be set up with by her Facebook profile pic.

I'm Not A Vegetable 03.06.2012

you run it cos it’s embedded in your memory like ones personality

you run it cos it’s history

you run it, cos it’s your everest,

you run it cos a nation's conscious says you can do it

you run it cos it’s instilled in you from the day you were born

you run it cos it tears at your emotion

you run it, cos you aren't a south african runner, if you dont.

the Comrades Marathon 

i’ve been here before, but nothing is the same but for the red eye reduction i’m experiencing. PMB town hall lurks, bathed in yellow light, it's ticking clock salvador dali-melting towards the gun and the start of the 2012 Comrades Marathon.

The National Anthem and Chariots of Fire resonate against the tepid architecture, my buried patriotism leopard crawling its way from the innards of my emotion, revealing itself in my blubbering eyeballs, and the clanging of my vertebrae as my spinal column strums a shivering chord.

the cannon ruptures the silence of the dark blanketing a humming Pietermaritzburg.

The run hurtles into the sticky night. The landscape the ugly sister no-one wants to take to the ball.

The running is controlled, no sudden moves and we don’t blister the tar with our pace. the blustery wind tears at our fleshy skin, ripping caps off bottle tops. The ‘down-hill’ rolls upwards, and the sugar cane is sweet.

The run is at ease, i wasn’t settled. I knew what was coming.

i ran with a beaming mug, the glint off of my pearly whites attracting thousands of screaming fans. I acknowledge the crowds, and find nothing sweeter than orange segments, it’s juice bursting as a fun fare in my mouth.

I saw the school kids functioning in their own way, happy as a yellow smiley face rolling on the floor not worrying about carpet burns.

Heading over Drummond, i missed Dudley Moore...totally. did he come back with some cheap Brand to strike me. I was now on the Dark side of the moon and this was really supposed to be me, a Rolling Stone to the finish. Alas.

Physically i was rock steady- It was my mind that had purchased a ticket to some free-love rock fest in the raging 70's, but it was my body that wasn’t invited.

Hillcrest, with her jaws-of-life, her school goers, extracted giggles out of me, and i loved the tree lined plushness and then i hit it.

Berlin had one, the Palestinians should’ve just painted theirs, squash is against it and Robert Frost Mended one.

Faster than a grand prix car stops, so did my legs.

as i watched the minutes tick over as a train station clock. 9:59 was erased. 10:59 morphed into 11:00, the bronze train, id missed it. i was staring into the abyss, staring at copper.

my heart hung limp from its caged cavity, my eyes overflowing as a kings goblet, my head  limp un-tethered by the puppeteer of success.

i have legs, unlike pistorius, i’m uninjured, unlike christopher reeves, i’ve all my organs, unlike Jeff Darmer(he had more). I’d completed this epic journey. Two sides of the coin, i had it in the bag. You scratch my Back, and i yours. I have a trio of medals and i’ve only run two.

You can't always get what you want
You can't always get what you want
But if you try sometimes you just might find
You just might find
You get what you need 

The Russian Bear Hunter 

Many Oysters, No Pearls 16.02.2012

Like a thunderous swarm of bees, the rescue chopper, its rotor blades severing the silence of the tranquil valley, blistering the misty morning air it needs.  the river's skin broken by the vibrating down draft and the slick edge of the synchronised paddlers blades. the piercing canoe, leaving a trail in its wake. Spectators littering the hillside and the breaching bridges, supporting, seconding, assisting. Camera men sit precariously on slippery rocks hunting the drammatic shot. A murky mist rises from the saddle to reveal a frothy chocolate-milk whipping river that cuts a wound through the body of the Pietermaritzburg landscape leaving a cavernous valley of emerald greens and dusty soiled reds. the terraced land a formal geometry in an organic setting. the cliffs dotted in pastel painted houses, roofed in corrugated sheeting.

This is the drammatic setting.This is the Dusi Canoe Marathon

the Pope-ellis’ farm. here we bunkered in. the farm house bursting with seconders, supporters, former champions, current champions, olympians and runners.

from here we would sling shot our way to the race and back. this was our respite.

 

The 3 day gruelling challenge is set into motion as the cannon blasts 'Maritzburg to notice.

Suddenly the quiet landscape, trade and local football is interrupted by the hum of paddlers. the freedom of the ‘city’ is theirs. 

Guts clad in iron, our canoeists, Shaun Ruby, with a heart the size of a coconut pumping oxygenated blood like a texan oil rig, his upper body, powerful, built strong as a turbine,commands. He knows this river, he understands it's undulations, it's ripple, it's rocks. He's the driver, powering, captaining the canoe, guiding it through it's easiest path. the river is ebbing, it's flowing, it's dynamic, Ruby knows it.

Steve F,an elongated skeletal structure, braced in tensile iron muscles, taut, to take him from 0-100 in 3 seconds. zero percent body fat but for the Gu he digests. he co-pilots, the terrestrial wingman, he is grounded and will catapult the pairing along the portages.

the seconding team, punching way above their weight category were my family for the weekend. 

oom Terry Ruby, a ball of magic putty hatched from a plastic egg bouncing off the walls, thinking, strategising

Mama Ruby, a supportive rock, outside she looks calm, inside she's chopped liver, thoughts and dinner ideas. she's the guide ropes, anchoring the buoyant Ruby's

Ced ruby. so passioned, a grenadilla squirms.he knows and he wears Shaun on his sleeve. and Rudy, he's paddled this river, he's the cutman you want in your ring.

the Kwazulu Natal heat exhausts the land. evaporating, desiccating
Pre-race day prep. we arm our paddlers with water bottles, ice cubes and drip bags. coca cola dilute,energy mix and gobby goo their fuel. the whole nine yards, we're packing their heat, their bullets of energy.

Careering down to the dam, our red Ford double cab, a projectile. puncturing interception points along the race route. It's a race for positions to refuel the athletes. 

Post race day and we check the boat for scars, for gashes from the days brutal onslaught. our gladiators are ready for another days sun rise, another days ebb and flow.

Ernie Pearce Weir, i'm tweeting and the lads are unseen, Mussons for a good view and, Cabbage Tree Portage with only but seconds to cool and hydrate Team Ruby

Marianni Foley, and they dip under the bridge. they hold 6th, cementing it. The Blue Lagoon and they're on the payroll.

the Dusi is 3 days of gruelling punishment, of muscle rupturing pain and endurance.
it's rapidly gushing volatile water, this you cannot bottle.

i rung out my sweaty socks, and a portion of the river gushed on the floor, my sneakers soggy as a marie, i left them out to dry on the patio. the dry stain lingered.

my day to steer will come

Night of the Jackal 28.12.2011

staying in jozi in december is akin to gouging your eyes out with a used soup ladle .whatever any body ever told you about the 'chilled vibe' loves watching tv series every day and ratting themselves in malls.

with napolitana sauce dribbling down my chin and a stray strand of spaghetti betwixt my teeth, Shimshon Heifer offered me a front seat on a vacation you can't get at flight centre(cos they never return emails and their deals are never good and they never beat the price)

taking a leaf outta burt reynold's book, i Cannonballed it to hoedspruit, i saw acacia trees, velskoene, khaki shorts and 1,5 litres of coke in glass bottles.

Ingwelala, a tongue twister if you're swedish hugs kruger so tightly you can see it. the Heifer home is a round rondawel,it has no corners, nor does it have any fences, its off the grid. gas heats, gas cooks, and gas'll singe your brows if a hyena walks by.

as we sat drinking beer and munching chutneyed chips, beams of light pierced the darkness as bullets penetrating a still pond. the growl and crunch of hurried landrovers, toyotas and rangers busted the peace. hand held lights criss crossed our fire protected space as frenetic as a light saber battle between siths. the radio crackles to life .'unit 16 we have lions'. we pivot and there they were. 6  pawed their way only a pole vaults length from our centre of gravity, we hurtled towards our truck, ignited the ignition.and holy canoli we were on their tail. not in my life as bear gryllsian as its been have i witnessed such.

The journey continued to explode and game was in abundance. 

with tal beef jerky twersky throwing out his iron anchor, it's hooks tearing at the tar, bringing our hulking vehicle to a screeching halt, there in the thicket the prickled radar ears, dirty darkened face,  black inked mottled body, lurked a wild dog. 

With Heifer at the helm of the rugged, tested, 4 by 4, its rubbered tyres crushing the entrails of the earth. the terrain was easily negotiated. 

a spotted beast, looking sexy as lindsay lohan in leopard print. she dangled from a skinny emaciated bare tree unsure that it could support even itself.

she aloft in a blue sky, her viscious gape, her serated mouth, sharper than a shogun. she pawed her way downwards and then she was gone.

Binoculars were radars scanning the skies for feathered projectiles, winged raptors and technicoloured fishers. another existence scours our skies. i now know it.

My unknowing eyes as magnifying glasses, had branded the spongy matter of my brain, leaving a scorched blackened image of unseen animals, never to be forgotten.

The Kruger journey had laid itself down, its carrion lying awaste nibbled at by our vulture-ous thoughts.

My tazz on full throttle was a hollow-point bullet turning swaziland into a fading blur. after a 12 hour jorney, and having sung my whole entire reportoire to myself i landed gently in the ramshakle, simple sudwana bay.

the bear that is Big Al Crouse greeted us, his cherry cheeks and saskwatchian sized mits hugging us like grape fruits.

this was a dive trip, i don't dive, but i came for the boat ride. "its a small world after all' was not the theme song.

half zipped rubber suits, the two buxom girls bursting as seeds from fresh fruit. we dreamed of Ursula Andress. they were our dive partners. this was no Disney excursion. 

our rubber ducky commandeered by a bleached rubbery aussie, tossing the divers over board like ribs off of a barby leaving me holding tight before i was set bobbing alone in the deap blue.

as a lettered wine-bottle i heaved in the undulating seas.my viewport,all but an opening through my gob sprawlled goggles. the vertigo left me gasping, clambering for a railing. 

there in the abyss the coralled sea bed, life swimming pastorally and the carbonated bubbles from the divers below. my pulsing body settled, my breathing found structure. i could breath through the straw.

This was a journey unimagined, a journey of new sights and experiences. 

Never stop seeing, never stop doing. 

The roar of the Bear Hunter, grr raaah raah

24.12.2011 Skirts and Roller Skates

so there's me, the biggest dog lover in the world. i have a picture of me and my dog on my phone, i have a pic of me and my dog as my facebook profile, i even have a pic of me and my dog in my wallet.my twitter pic, is of me and, well, my canine... i love my dog and ill show you pics oh him, and ill call him my best friend, i love him.

with a windhoek in hand and a carcinogenic boerie on my plate i agreed to look after the house that Dave built. it was an awesome house. face brick cool, pressed ceilings and a plunge pool, timber creaking floors, steel frame windows and a super sun deck.
i saw the arcade games and the pinball machine, i saw the bigscreen tv, i saw the books, i sensed the uncapped internet and i saw the beers in the fridge and my eyes turned to candy floss. 

i was living the dream. this would be my december holiday....and then there were 4-two dags and two cats, and this holywood romcom turned into a nightmare on elm street.

Sophie and dexter, beagles of buoyant disposition. bouncing off walls like rubber balls, no surface too high, no object too tough. they're rolling, they're fighting, theyre loving me like i was a rubber bone. 

i wade through the air, thickened by the flotsam of their hair, my lungs furry as a bear. they're on the bed, they're on the couch,they're missiles seeking a patting hand. 

their gobby tongues lapping me like i was a lolly pop. a bowel expulsion so dastardly, my cerebellum scarred, my short term memory erased.
They're at the gate. their pink red tongues stalignites. their eyeballs toffee apples, bulging to see, ears radars focused to hear, their legs slinky's waiting to pounce. they're all over me and not since that award for full attendance in primary school have i been this feted.

this is a story about a boy and his dog

i love you sparky  

the russian bear hunter, masterswordsman and savoury toothed tiger

Huckleberry Fin 24.10.2011

Al Gersch spoke to someone that knew someone that did the Hoerikwaggo Hike and they said: "no f**king walk in the park!"

and then i bought hiking boots.

The car alarm, it's red flashing light, the flicking red light on my laptop battery, my george forman's red light, the blazing red light on the remote control, and the buzzing red light beneath my mouse. my heart's telling me ive received a BB message, but my brain's telling me my burgers are ready.

it was the blinding red light which the Bear Hunter, growl, Marty, man machine with a heart the size of Secretariats and a taste for bbq'd meat, Big Al and his clima cools and dar-win with his hi tecs that didnt last, needed to escape.

to have sea salt caking around your nostrils, to have the scent of fyn bos swirling through your nasel passage,tickling your brain, to have the weight of canned tuna upon your shoulders and a water bladder bouncing against your back, to have the charcoaled, oranged lichened rocky outcrops, canary yellow and ice white starry eyed proteas paving your path is to experience the outdoors. our experience would take us from the southern tip of the Cape towards thee mountain. 75 kays, lets light that match.
This is the Hoerikwaggo Trail.

Day One and like an Angry Bird we were catapulted to Cape Point. our facial hair liberated and sprouting towards the sunshine, the load on our shoulders untwirling. here we took photo ops and pee'd over the edge, we laboured,then we walked. the going was tough, but we soldiered on.

we hugged the coast, one foot in the Indian, one foot in the atlantic. we got sunburnt and blistered. the hike was long the day was short. we thought we were halfway when we saw ay canon, alas the wrong one. we ran outa time.
Our tents were pitched at Slangkop, beneath the beam of the light house. we chugged beer and Crosby Stills and Noshed biltong. it was surreal.

Day Two. Noordhoek beach, 7kays of it. the ocean, the chrystaline blue sky , the white blinding sand. the brightened light creasing our eyes.
as we strolled, sticks in sand, we popped blue bottles, eyeballed mauled stranded seals, did a fashion shoot at the ship wreck. took a wrong turn. and then we hit the wall, the rock face that is chapmans. we had no where to go, but up. we were sniffing around for clues,looking lost we ate naartjies. we began the ascent up the steep chapmans peak, leaping upwards over rocks, our ankles as wobbly as warmed up twizzlers but for our sturdy boots. 

we heave ho'd-  there were no dwarfs amongst us nor a princess at the top just a weathered german in sandles with half a bott of energade. the wind whistled and blew and huffed and puffed,it became a little nervy, testing our vertigo. we never left anyone behind, just my stick.

up atop, as the clouds moved in rapidly, swirling as a cigar blower plays with the smoke, it looked ominous but we sat and we ate. tuna, peas, cheese, please. the day was not over.

we dropped down into the saddle, we rode it hard and then before we knew it we're on the ascent up noordhoek peak, we sweated as swedes in a sauna but for Al and his clima cool. silvermine was our resting spot. dry toilets and a hot shower.

Day 3, the fog hankered around us, it was icey and without google maps we were lost. from ours and the mountains vantage point, we had hout bay as a reflection in our irises. the custard yellow proteas and a pallete of greens enveloped us. we walked straight into a tv tower that had landed from nowhere. we thought we were goners. we were so off the path we were beating a new track. not even the parks board knew where we were. as the sun broke through, we bumped our heads on olives, we saw the light glistening off of the grapes in constantia. finally as our knees were about to crumble like soggy marie biscuits, orange kloof tented camp docked into the harbour. we made it with daylight minutes to spare.

Day 4 and as we started out of the blocks we were heading in the wrong direction. our compass, a bergie with all his teeth, made sure we were throwing our darts at the right board. Doryn, always in the landscape view of my camera lens held the rear, chaito in the vangaurd seeking snakes. "gsus, snaaake". we shouted "OMG" and jumped over it. it was small but in our heads and in the story we tell, it grows every day.

and then we were lost again.
the hills were gruelling and the gorges devilish. the damn huge mountain dam, chain ladders and lost english folk. we ascended the table. we heard lots of "norf", "free" and "yeahs".thought we hiked to North London.
the final descent, platteklip gorge. we gorged ourselves on dry fruit and old english mustard chicken sarms. and then like a skittled pin rolled down to the base. 

and as we dropped back into jozi, the vibration jolted my heart back to pace, and the red flashes erupted. call me

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