“Do you like Dubai?”
It’s a simple question that diverts my attention from reading Divergent on my smart phone. Curous, friendly, brown eyes edged in a small dark face greets me in the rearview mirror of the taxi I am travelling in.
I am convinced I heard the question correctly, but it came as such a surprise I needed to hear it again.
“Sorry”, I said.
He repeats the question slowly, thinking I couldn’t hear it because of his heavy Pakistani accent.
A slight pause and then with much conviction, my reply.
“No.” And return my attention to the slightly annoying, sixteen year-old Triss fighting predujice and a guy named Peter.
“Why not?” he persists stubbornly. But his voice is without surprise.
I look up again, seeing intrigue and a smile. I turn and look out the window at the wondrous structures lining the highway. Towers of steel and glass and light. I pause and consider for a moment.
Why not? What are my reasons for not liking this marvel of human achievement, this Las Vegas of the Arab world. What’s not to like about a city that has everything…even a ski-slope for goodness sake.
No immediate reason comes to mind as we pass a Palm Jumeirah sign. Then I know.
“Because its fake.” I said finally.
The little Pakistani driver doesn’t seem satisfied. His petit, dark features beckons for a further explanation.
“I mean it’s not authentic enough for my taste. Its got no character. I prefer Muscat.”
Before he can challenge me again, I flip the table.
“Do YOU like Dubai?”
“No”, he said.
He continues in a rant about rules and working hours and expensive apartments. But the detail of his rant is lost in the maze of my thoughts. Then we stop at my destination.
A few minutes later I lean over a veranda looking at the impressive reflection of this modern wonder in the water below. Laughter and lively conversation buzz in the background. What’s not to like?
My reply to the cab driver echoes in my head. And then something clicks…
It is because I am alone. I always visit Dubai on business, on my own. It’s not that I don’t like Dubai, I don’t like being alone. And whilst impressive, this commerial center is becoming my monument, my constant reminder of my loneliness when I travel for my work. It’s not the city, it’s the loneliness.
Sorry Dubai for the blame and hatred mistakenly aimed at you. When I filter my own emotion I have to admit; you are pretty close to amazing.
Peter, Luke and Mark* (* actual names) met each other in a buzzling upmarket beach bar in the middle of the desert. An oasis of televisions, live music and beer. Paul, Matthew and John and the other six apostles were nowhere to be found. Probably fishing.
The three met in the Bruce Willis section of the bar. Where pecs, biceps, twelve hour stubble and weird hair were trying to impress high heels and plunging necklines. The obvious problem being that the ratio was totally skew. With 7 testosterone fuelled young men for every one girl. The poor ladies all seemed like a deer caught in headlights. Well not all of them. Other were enjoying the free drinks, but had this weird it’s-you-and-your-hand-tonight sparkle in their eye.
Peter, Luke and Mark were observing this mad scramble for attention from a distance, for two reasons: (1) Marriage and (2) Maturity.
Eventually observing the ridiculousness became boring and the woman screeching through a melody to the monotonous beat of a loud drum a bit overwhelming. It was rowdy and very loud. Conversation was basically impossible.
They moved one level up to the James Bond section of the bar and sighed with relief. The vibe was chilled with tables and couches scattered throughout. Mature people were drinking whisky and settling comfortably listening to the live band. Mellowness took over. There was a few girls dancing on a small dance-floor surrounded by more desperate men. They submitted more proof to the well-known fact that (1) White men can’t dance and (2) Desperation is never a good move.
Peter, Luke and Mark continued their discussion on the ignorance of youth and how it’s wasted on the young. The guys on the dance floor were totally oblivious to the fact that their dance moves resembled a man taking a piss against an electric fence. Way too much gyration of the lower half of the body. And flinging your arms around like a windmill in heat should never be considered cool. One must never consume that much alcohol. Ever.
What Peter, Mark and Luke didn’t realise whilst sharing their endless wisdom, was the copious amounts of beer waiters were carrying to their table. And the well known fact that beer causes people to grow younger.
Luke showed the first signs. He stood up unannounced, hands in pocket, and had this very unnatural swing in his hips. Mark and Peter should have realised immediately what was happening, but it was too much fun watching other people making asses of themselves. Maybe they didn’t really want to. But the evidence was clear. The three friends were growing younger. Yes, it didn’t lighten the dark spots on their hands or filled the crevices around their eyes but it was happening…
Mark was next to go. He sat back in his chair and lifted his arms high, moving them like anemones on the sea bed. In his mind he was matching the beat of the music. It seemed more like a deaf-mute musical number. Peter was laughing hysterically, until the band started playing that awesome eighties hit… And he was lost too.
The next moment all three prophets were standing, growling like a pack of hungry wolves, focused on the dance floor, and the promise of release.
All restrictions held together by their grey hair and perceived wisdom; fell off like melting snow in the spring sun. Landing on the ground with a loud POOF. It didn’t matter whether they could dance or not. It only matter that they had too. They were turning younger by the minute.
To cut a very long story short, Peter, Mark and Luke ended up as 23 year olds in the Bruce Willis section of the bar. Standing on a beach, jarring their fists at the DJ who was pumping beats into the Middle Eastern sky. They were celebrating. The night for being dark. The music for having a beat. The air for being invisible. They celebrated being 23. Being alive. Letting loose. And they had more beer.
Finally it ended. It was time to go home and they parted with enthusiastic high five’s and brotherly embraces. Never to meet again.
Peter woke up two hours later to catch a flight back to his actual home, but stayed in bed for a moment after the wake-up call came. Running through the nostalgia of the night before, trying to crack a smile. But Peter could only manage a silent curse as he swung his legs off the bed.
The problem was that the mind of the 23 year old was still stuck in the body of someone slightly older. And the body wasn’t impressed about the abuse he had to endure a few hours before. So it was going to be a very long flight.
1. If the girls of Dallas Buyers Club deserved an Oscar for their hair and make-up why didn’t they do something about Jared Leto’s hair? I know he’s a rocker, but clean hair never killed anyone.
2. Ellen was great in the beginning but ended up becoming filler entertainment as the night progressed. I get it, the show needs to be three hours.
3. Amy Adams is hot. So is Angelina Jolie. Nuff said.
4. Did anyone else feel sorry for Sandra Bullock? I mean the poor girl got so much recognition from the techies in their speeches and then she ends up missing out on the big one. Even though I do feel Cate was more deserving. Oh and Sandy’s hot too.
5. And what about all those speeches! Kudo’s to you guys. Inspirational shit. Especially the Lopez couple and Matthew and the Kenyan girl.
6. Bill Murray must be the coolest person on earth.
7. That Menzel chick surely has some pipes. Just a pity John Travolta screwed up her name in the intro! P!ink singing in that ruby slipper dress, AMAZING! Yes, she’s hot too, I love her. Like pizza. Darlene Love, belting out on her acceptance speech, stuff of legend! But what went wrong with Bette Midler? I had to remind myself this was actually NOT a cover.
8. U2 is overrated.
9. Kim Novak? WTF? Poster child for plastic surgery and my latest nightmare.
10. And finally Julia, Ellen wasn’t THAT funny.
All in all a very entertaining evening, except for the Novak girl…shivers!
And in some other serious Oscar news doing the rounds…
- Why did he shoot four times if he panicked? Doesn’t a gun hold six rounds? Why did he stop?
- Why didn’t he notice Reeva was not in bed when he got up?
- Why would any self respecting burglar hide in the bathroom?
- Why would he go towards the intruder instead of getting his girlfriend out of the house?
- Why was he watching porn on his phone with a girl like Reeva in his bedroom?
- Why did this have to happen to someone who is idolised by millions?
- Why does he have another girlfriend in the midst of his court case?
- Why do I think he’s guilty?
- Who will walk out the victor? Money or justice?
Let’s remember that the tragedy is not the fall of a hero, but the death of a beautiful young woman in her prime. My heart goes out to both families who has to live through this court case, that is definitely going to drag on for a very long time…
Sugar and Spice and All things nice. That’s what little girls are made of. But let’s not forget about oestrogen. The hormone that scares the hell out of every living man.
We understand that daughters are the Achilles heel of every dad. It’s the weak spot in the armour of parenting, where the smallest hug is a lethal knife that penetrates into your heart and make the greatest warriors fall.
The best way to describe raising this lethal mix of sugar, spice and oestrogen, would be being locked up in a cell with the personifications of intrigue, interest, exhaustion, hilarity, love, passion, empathy, frustration and a few other unpronounceable characters. Our daughters keeps us dazed and confused for most of the time. Manipulating us with the greatest love known to man and a father’s twisted sense of protecting them against the cruel world.
As any father would happily admit, MY little Princess is the most beautiful girl in the world. She’s the sweetest little complicated piece of work you’ll find south of the equator. Because she’s unpredictable. And once that hormone starts surging through their bodies, fathers just stand back, for there is no sense in trying to find any logic in their behaviour. It’s like trying to understand how planes stay up in the air or why Kanye West is famous.
It’s good to know that this is an ancient mystery. As long as little females were born, fathers were trying to make sense of the confusion and exhilleration and love that took over their lives. The first people to document their experiences were Hans Christian Anderson and the Grimm brothers. Cleverly disguising their comments as fairy tales.
It’s dusk. The sun is rising lazily in the East, throwing a warm glow over the darkness below. I step into her room, watching Sleeping Beauty lying in a circle of blond curls, serene and peaceful. And I have to wake her. I’m scared. I walk closer and touch her face. I call her name softly. Twice. She turns her head and groans. I see her blue eyes, sleepily locked on mine. And I realise that I’ve just woken Malificent.
I leave the room quickly.
I pour the coffee, anxiously looking down the corridor for her to exit the room. Should I dare call her again? I decide not too. As I finish the coffee, the girl from Brave walks out of her room, with a bright pink blanket in tow. Her hair is all over the place. She walks past me and slumps in the sofa. Takes the remote and with the happy disposition of the Wicked Witch of the West, scans for the Disney Channel.
She finally locks onto the 17th repeat of some Disney show. Like Aerial sitting in her cave day-dreaming about having feet, whilst cuddling a fork in her little cave surrounded by all the thing-a-ma-jigs she’s collected. Lost in her own little dream landscape. And I find myself sipping coffee and staring at her. Seeing her composure dissolves whilst sipping on her hot chocolate. Until she finally cracks a smile and Cinderella starts chatting about the things she needs to do today.
But then we need to move. She needs to get dressed and eat and brush her teeth. All those things cruel parents expect of their kids. Like Rapunzel locked in a tower, forced to tie down her wild curls in a ponytail of sorts. And she shifts momentarily into a grumpy Snow White, receiving no recognition for all the hard work she has to do everyday of her life.
A few minutes later little Red Riding Hood exits the bathroom, all skippy and jolly, ready with her basket of school books and a lunch box, eagerly waiting to get to school and share another amazing day. Our own blonde Dorothy, eagerly waiting to meet the Wizard of Oz. And off she goes.
Then the anticipation starts. For we never know what the Wizard will tell her. If it’s good news, Dorothy clicks her red heels and comes home with hugs and kisses and so much laughter that the whole house shakes. But when the wizard tells her to go to hell, she basically does and returns with enough fire and brimstone to make dragons squirm. Like a very pissed off Fiona.
My princess (with the help of Oestrogen) has the determination of Rapunzel, the sweetness of Snow White, the adventurous spirit of Pocahontas, the stubbornness of Merida, the curiosity of Ariel, the work-ethic of Cinderella, the beauty of Aurora, the sensitivity of Jasmine, the wisdom of Mulan, the love of Belle and the kindness of Tiana. And I’m powerless.
What else can a father do with an ambush of hugs? Or when she clings to me like she’s never letting me go? Or when she cuddles in my lap and treats me like her very own Prince Charming? What can I do? I’m weak. I’m stuck, motionless under her spell. And I want to stay there forever. Her hero.
But that’s why raising a girl is not a fairy tale, for you’ll fight to keep the dragons and witches at bay, until her real Prince Charming comes and steals her away. And I’ll have to let her go. I’ll have to open the door and release my Princess… Just like Hans and the Grimm brothers warned us, all those centuries ago.
But for know, she’s mine. All mine.
In public. Where people could see me. Where I had to fake a sneeze and use a blanket to blow my not-so-runny nose. For it wasn’t just sad-movie crying. I was full on tears-running-down-my-cheek embarrassing crying. With the wetness running over my 12 hour stubble and ending up in the crevice of my neck. Captain Phillips made me cry like a little girl.
I have to thank a few people for this little awkward moment on the plane. Thank you Luke for suggesting I watch the movie. Thank you Paul Greengrass for directing it and thank you Mr Hanks. Thank you for forcing open the tear ducts of my eyes at the end of the movie. Thank you for shocking my conscious mind into an abyss of sadness and empathy. Thank you for doing all this, whilst sitting on a plane in broad daylight, in clear view of several other passengers. Thank you. Very. Much.
Luke suggested I watch the movie, which, by the way, I had no intention of doing. The premise of a violent abduction doesn’t sit well with my -made-for-superhero-movie-brain. And the whole based-on-a-true-story hook did nothing to encourage my desire of spending three hours battling through boredom. How wrong was I?
Not only did Paul Greengrass manage to deliver a showcase of anxiety and tension I barely lived through. He turned on-screen characters into real people. Turning a version of a story into a bird’s-eye view. Allowing us to see people we know. And how they hate violence, how they fear death, and who those who has a strong enough desire to live, can turn into the heroes we all dream to be. And it happens slowly, in front of your eyes, like pealing an onion, layer by layer, exposing the courage every human has and the moments in life that causes that hidden courage to break through the surface. It’s an achievement of the will to live, but also the malice of money and desperation.
And these two polar opposites are carried by the anchors of the movie. The two Captains. Tom Hanks delivers a mind-numbing performance as a man who’s placed under every person’s worst nightmare, and who, in those desperate moments fight for his life, continuously. It’s intense. As intense as the performance of Barkhad Abdi, who as the Captain of the Somali Pirates, brings an earth-shattering, chilling performance as a man who has nothing to lose. A khat-chomping novice, who doesn’t want to botch up. Like the novice actor who earned an Oscar nomination for this performance. (And where the hell is Tom’s?)
But it’s the final moments of the movie that rips your heart out of your body and leaves it bare and exposed on a cold metal slab. Seeing Captain Phillips losing it doesn’t allow for any different emotion. Paul Greengrass took you on this courageous man’s journey. He takes you through the darkest moments, the desperation, the despair, the hope and fears of a man on the verge of death. A man’s who life is a fragile piece of porcelain in the hands of four slightly unstable, but desperate men.
And once the Captain’s safe, once he realizes it’s all over and he is going home, he loses control…All control. Throwing all composure into the wind. And for the first time in the movie; this courageous man turns into a human. And it breaks your heart. Tom Hanks forces you to experience the shock, the resolve, the absolute loss of control of this Captain. You see the moment when he realize that he is going to be alive after all.
And that’s riveting. And it’s scary. And it’s raw. And it stays with you for a very long time.
And it’ll make you cry. Like a little girl.
Remember this? If you don’t, then The Bangles is probably a reference to jewellery, MacGyver is a miss-pronunciation of McGruber and Mr T is NOT a member of the A-Team.
However, once upon a time, when kids were still kids and sex and drugs only belonged to the Hippies, Tramps and Heavy Metal Bands, all those innocent eyes were glued to this Disney series. Eagerly anticipating the weekly, random adventures of Gummi, Gruffy, Sunny and Co. What made it such a great show, was the fact that, with the help of a little gummi-berry juice, these bears became even greater versions of themselves. Semi-super-heroes. This enabled them to outwit, or technically out-jump, all those stupid, awful trolls, who shared the forest they lived in. And then, if you’re not hooked already, the few humans who were fortunate enough to share in the sweet taste of the gummi-berry juice, gained super strength. Yes, it was that awesome…
What is a little known fact is that the creators of this series, got the idea after attending a frat party. They were seeing all the students bouncing around from having a beer or a glass of wine or both or several and then, WA-LAH, the Gummy-Bears were born. We all know that most alcoholic beverages has the potential to create enhanced versions of ourselves, whilst serving the dual purpose of dulling the boredom of modern day life. And people. But just like the gummy-berry juice, once the user has too much of the al-co-hol, there will always be disastrous consequences.
Our subconscious minds are programmed, believe it or not, to do its utmost preventing us from making a total ass of ourselves. It’s a built in form of self-preservation. Unfortunately alcohol doesn’t help this cause. At some point al-co-hol becomes the formaldehyde cloth over your mind, forcing your inhibition and brain into a comatose state. And in most cases, just before it’s lights out, your brain will have a final attempt at screaming the warning of ”DON’T HAVE ANOTHER ONE!”, which will be ignored by two out of three sane, contributing members of society. And then all hell will break lose.
When you hear that final scream echoing through your slightly intoxicated state, remember that one jug of gummi-berry juice too many, might imply the difference between:
- A happy, bouncing, funny individual or a clumsy, stumbling, sad little idiot.
- A party-animal everyone loves or an animal that ruined the party for everyone.
- A thought provoking philosopher or an annoying, mumbling fool.
- A romantic Don Juan or a flaccid, crying baby.
- An awe-inspiring night with the hot chick or waking up next to Joan Rivers.
- Having an opinion about work collegues or telling your boss to fuck off and take his job with him.
- Joking and laughing about the 20 bucks you lost to the one-armed bandit or explaining to your wife why you lost the house in a game of poker.
- Cracking a joke with the bouncer about his big biceps or lying in hospital because of his big biceps.
- Being an excellent dancer or lying flat-faced on the concrete floor, wondering how the hell you got there.
- Waking up with a light buzz and some bags under your eyes or wondering what you said to Thor that made him use his hammer on your head. Seventeen times.
- Waking up feeling like you’re about to die or waking up wishing for it too actually happen.
- Waking up, smiling at some of the crazy things you did the night before or waking up with a tiger in your hotel room and an ugly tattoo on your face.
So next time you attend a function in the presence of gummy-berry juice, it might be wise to establish some internal locus of control, thereby preventing you from going back the next day, apologizing to the host for the couch in his pool and collecting the kids you forgot.
For alcohol is an evil ogre. Whilst you handle it with respect; nothing happens and both of you will stand, laughing, leaning on one another having a jolly good time. But as soon as you start slinging abuse and showing obvious disrespect, well, that is when the same ogre will take your bottom jaw, pull it over your nose and blow so much air up your ass, you’ll be floating away just like that poor frog in Shrek.
Just saying. And now we have no more excuses.
The writer has no personal experience in any of the adverse effects of alcohol, and only writes his theories based on research. Well unless you exclude the face-plant episode and the mumbling fool and the…
Yes. Three letters. A simple word. With a monumental implication. A confirmation, a sign of a positive attitude, providing permission to millions in ever household in every country of the world. It’s probably been uttered on the moon.
And sometimes it’s used, just because it’s the polite thing to do.
Son has a Playstation. He plays online, frequently. Well, until we stepped in and began limiting his playtime during the week to an hour a day. Yes, I know we are heartless parents, without consideration for the necessity of our children to improve their technological skills and social interaction. That’s a different post.
To enhance his experience, Son bought headphones and a mouth piece with his pocket money. He needed this piece of equipment to enable him to communicate more effectively with his mates online. And to reduce the noise level from the study. And to prevent his Mom from freaking out when the hen discovers the ostrich egg lying in the nest. Which is an analogy for the excessive swearing used by some of the delinquents who shares the web with our innocent Son…
It would be stating the obvious that Son’s hearing is pretty much non-existent to any outside noise when he uses those damn headphones. Unless it’s my voice. He reacts with a quick ”Yes Dad” almost immediately. It seems impossible, but it’s quite logical. My voice is linked to some weird central nerve in his subconscious after numerous atomic sized explosions in the study; as a result of his inability to react when hearing my voice. Like a lab rat programmed to run through a maze after being shocked in submission for continuously picking the wrong route.
The only problem with his reaction, is that it only is a ”Yes Dad.” It doesn’t matter what the question or statement might be. I could suggest that he wipes his butt with poison ivy and then run naked down the street. His reaction will remain the same. And that adds a new level of frustration to the sanctuary I like to call home.
(It has to be said that when the tone/pitch of my voice is slightly higher then he reacts with ”Yes Mom.”)
One evening I was
complaining venting my frustration about those headphones that is causing the slow demise of my sanity. I was about to suggest that we take them off and shove it up his… When she calmly interrupted me by saying I do exactly the same.
“That’s preposterous!” I roared, whilst quickly scanning a few files in my head, ensuring my innocence of said statement. The scan came back clean, so I forged ahead confidently. “When do I ever do that? The only time I use headphones, is at the gym, alone. How can you compare that with what Son is doing.”
I thought I had it in the bag, but here’s a lesson. When your wife makes an unexpected comment like that, the best would be to shut up and not be your cocky self. Don’t try and be a man. Just back off and walk away. (Which I didn’t do…) Because when it comes to woman and arguments, here’s a fun fact: You’re probably wrong. Most of the time.
Still relaxed, my lovely wife took a slight breath and something changed in her eyes indicating to me that I just stepped in it. My goose was not only cooked, it was about to be served with some mint sauce. I stood defeated, waiting for her reveal, which came quickly and calculated:
“It happens when you watch TV. And then you don’t even need headphones. When your eyes are locked on that screen, a hand grenade can explode in your lap and you won’t even flinch. I might as well not exist. You turn stone deaf.”
I immediately held up my hands, threw down my weapons and raised a ginormous white flag, for in that moment I pictured the scene. I’m sitting watching anything, then I hear a voice, or rather, I think I hear a voice. A voice that’s not from TV-Land. It resembles a vaguely, familiar female voice, slightly agitated. Then I say quickly: “Yes Dear?”
Every. Single. Time.
I could only tell her how much I loved her, before walking away cursing…quietly, off course.
I write. Sometimes I write crap. But fortunately for me, I have a delete button. I know crap when I see it. Ok, maybe not all the time, but then I receive a minimal number on my like counter and it becomes my indicator to distinguish between what is and what is not. Crap I mean.
I am perplexed how some writers get away with publishing some rather awful atrocities of the written word. Things that would have got them burnt at the stake a few centuries ago.
My hate of 50 Shades of Grey is well known, but this post is specifically relating to another one of my passions. Music. And how some lyrics are just damn awful, but for some reason, when it’s combined with a catchy tune, no one seems to notice.
Take this song from Clay Aiken for example. I don’t have anything against the guy, but the song, Invisible, well, words can speak for itself. Here’s some snippets from the song’s lyrics:
What she doin’ tonight?
I wish I could be a fly on your wall.
Are you really alone? Who’s stealing dreams?
Why can’t I breathe you into my life?
And the chorus:
If I was invisible
And I could just watch you in your room
If I was invincible
I’d make you mine tonight
Isn’t that just plain creepy? Don’t agree? Well picture this:
A few girls sit at a bar, seemingly minding their own business, but really scouting the room for talent. They spot the group of four guys at the other end of the bar. They flirt, like most woman do. The spokesman for the group aka Square-jaw approaches the girls. He makes eye contact with Blond-girl, because they have all the fun. Chemistry explodes like a science project gone wrong. Square-jaw offers to buy them drinks. They accept. They urge him to invite all his mates over. A slam dunk evening. There’s chilling and talking and even more flirting. There’s anticipation of some action later. Then Square-jaw moves in with his final move, turns to Blond-girl and says in a raspy voice: ”I would like to be inivisble and watch you in your room all night, just like a fly on the wall.”
A hard slap echoes above all the voices and music in the bar. Silence looms as everyone stares unabashed. Square-jaw sits shocked with his palm clutched to his cheek as Blond-girl frantically tries to get her phone our of her purse to dial 911. And the poor guy only quoted a song.
To the lyricists…What were you thinking?
Then there’s a song from the 90′ties, Rhytm is a dancer as sung by Snap. I know it might not have been the best decade for music, but at least we didn’t have big hair, shoulder pads and neon socks. Check this out:
New, touch it, taste it
Free your soul and let it face you
Got the beat what you wanna
If the groove don’t get ya the rifle’s gonna
I’m serious as cancer
When I say “Rhythm is a dancer”
No, I didn’t make this up, and Yes there’s nothing to say about this. Referencing cancer in a pop song is as bad as referencing Hitler in a Jewish folk song.
To the lyricists…What were you thinking?
In the same decade every man’s naughty schoolgirl fantasy became public viewing, courtesy of a certain perky 16 year-old aka Britney Spears. The song *let’s all sing it together* was Hit me Baby One more time. I’m convinced that there is absolutely no need for posting the lyrics.
Is it just me or is there something seriously wrong with that hook of the song? I’m still wondering where were all the Woman’s Right Organisations when this song came out? Was no-one paying attention? Did Chris Hemsworth attend the conference shirtless? Was there a chocolate fountain? An open-buffet? The silence was deafening, even though this sentence seems more fitting on a t-shirt made for Rihanna as a gift to Chris Brown. Or maybe a quote from that literary masterpiece, as spoken by Anastasia Steele, while bended over with her knickers lying around her ankles and Christian Grey standing behind her, with a whip and his jeans that was hanging from his hips just perfectly.
To the lyricists…What were you thinking?
I have no doubt that there might be a thousand better examples of the point I’m trying to make. I believe the lyricists responsible for these crimes had to be under the influence of copious amounts of alcohol and the producers were just plain stupid for letting it slip through. And the artists, well they just do as they’re told by the label, is that not so?
Writers, please think, before you write, before you publish. We are messing with other people’s minds here! Don’t just jot down every single piece of you-know-what that enters your imagination, that’s what common sense is for. And if it slips out, well make sure you don’t repeat the insanity. Always remember that with great power comes great responsibility.
And for educational purposes I will add the clip of Britney’s song, that just seems wrong…yet right. And if you don’t agree with me, then promise you won’t sing along.
I workout six days a week. I take a few supplements. I have no excuses. I need all the help I can get.
I bought a new “fat burner” recently and started incorporating this product in my daily fitness/diet regime. It’s required to minimise the effect of demon donuts and other pitfalls/temptations that I encounter daily. It’s about achieving balance. And needing assistance, as my metabolism doesn’t seem to be able to operate on its own anymore.
The first time I took the prescribed dosage I was feeling mildly light-headed at the gym, and being a man, I was filled with pride, looking at the additional discs I was putting on the edges of the bar. I felt strong and awake, which seems odd, but at 05h00 in the morning, my eyes might be open but I’m definitely not awake. My personality only kicks in around nine. So with the extra 5 kg in each hand, I was looking at the other buff twenty-year-old dueche bags with a true, but unintended Mr Bean expression.
The second time I took the prescribed dosage later in the day, I was feeling heavily light-headed at the office, and being a man, I thought I was going to die. It has to be said that one capsule looks like your basic suppository, only less lubricated and bigger. I’m also now fully equip to be a drug mule and swallow condoms filled with cocaine, that’s if my current career plan doesn’t pan out. (Which is to rule the world, off course…) The trouble is that the prescribed dosage is four capsules, and I was wondering what kind of sadist it takes to develop such big pills.
I realised too late that one of the main ingredients of this supplement was my old friend, Caffeine. And he came barging in through the front door like he owned the place/body. Twenty minutes after swallowing the four pillow cases, I had a slight buzz. In time the buzz escalated to a full-on out-of-body experience. I had a serious craving for Ritalin and would have chewed it down like popcorn, for my leg was shaking uncontrollably without anyone tickling my nipple. Or is that stomach? Anyhow, I was convinced that Scotty has in fact ”Beamed me up!” It also dawned on me how David Blain is able to levitate. My caffeine/blood ratio would have made any Columbian coffee lover proud. At the last minute I opted out of phoning Starbucks for supplementing their coffee with my piss, as it might have been too strong.
I didn’t want people to cause havoc in the streets.
I remember once as a student, we were enjoying bottomless coffee at a café, waiting for a concert. (Not sure why we didn’t have beer) The effect was the same. My hands didn’t feel like my own and my retinas refused to do what it was supposed too, i.e focus. In fairness, it must have been quite difficult as my pupils were the size of space itself.
After failing miserably at any attempt to sleep last night, I finally arrived back in my body this morning. It was good to have my brain back in my skull. It was even better to have my legs under control and I’ve never appreciated being able to see properly, as much as today.
This is not a debate on supplements, for I know there are a million people who are probably shaking their heads right now, thinking how irresponsible I am. So, for those critics, I just want to say that I have reduced my dosage this morning. I might be addicted.
First off, isn’t this video inspirational? Doesn’t it just make you wanna get off your ass and grab a broom?
Don’t get me wrong. I love sport as much as the next guy. Focus, Concentration, Tension and Motion are all elements highlighted by this video, the same things I’ve had to endure in some of the strenuous activities I’ve participated in. Like Backgammon and Pictionary. But that doesn’t qualify it as an Olympic Sport, now does it?
Where I come from being skillfull with a broom doesn’t really constitute an Olympic athlete, rather a housewi… let me quit while I’m ahead. This post is about Curling, which is not a reference to what my daughter does with her hair when she wants to look pretty, it’s the Olympic sport.
My first reaction to Curling was hysterics, as I deemed it another entertaining skit on the Olympic Games by the team of Saturday Night Live. Imagine my utter astonishment when I realised that it is actually something people in the Northern Hemisphere, not only partake in, but also consider a sport. But who am I to judge? It probably takes countless hours to perfect the scientific art of sweeping. And even more time to get the hang of the weird skiing technique required for exquisite curling. You know, the one where you drag one of your legs several metres behind your torso. I’m really surprised that there are no reports of raptured you know-what-I’m-implying, whilst attempting to do that split-in-motion-thing. And then the face. The concentration face, or as it’s called in my house: Constipation.
Curling has been around since the 16th century and originated in Scotland, which is the same country where men wear skirts, by the way. And it became an Olympic event in 1998. It’s similar to shuffle board, or not, depending on your point of reference.
My question is this: How challenging or entertaining does an activity have to be for it to be considered a sport? And even more so, qualifying as an Olympic Sport?
In the Southern hemisphere and some parts of Europe there’s this a thing called Rugby. It takes teamwork, skill, hours of training, peak physical conditioning and ball skills to forge a winning team. It’s highly entertaining and people, mostly men, will schedule game viewings and/or live attendance, months in advance. It’s big, take my word for it. And it is not an Olympic sport!
I am keen to understand what arguments were used to convince the decision makers to include Curling on the roster for the Olympic Games. I’m not even sure how a commentator would go about trying to make the event sound exciting. And what happens after the Games, do we consider the gold medal winning team of Curling to be in the same league as Michael Phelps or Usain Bolt? Can we expect some endorsements from Nike or Adidas? Wait, what about a reality series?
Maybe it’s just the intensity and degree of tension, concentration, focus and motion that’s required in this specific event that I don’t fully appreciate. You know those qualities supposedly NOT present in other non-Olympic sports like cricket or baseball. Maybe the secret is in the sheer spectator value, all the excitement that’s generated…seeing women using a broom.
And then not being a witch about it…