UNDERCULTURE

Good
There was a Christmas party at Nicky Roote’s house, this weekend. And like all of Nicky’s parties, it rocked. It rocked so much, in fact, that I am still, only now, sobering up and recovering. I spent most of Sunday trying to piece together the events of that cocktail-filled night, while overdosing on cheap food, mindless computer games (Titan Quest is my new love) and terribly old movies. The photos that I’ve received have allowed me to update Steve’s, Wes’s, Fiona’s and Renaud’s pages on underculture. Enjoy.

And this brings me to an important note about throwing a house party: it is no accident that Nicky’s parties are amazing. She puts in care and love, and pays attention to all the little details. And that’s what makes the party. Really. It has nothing to do with the vast and gargantuan amounts of alcohol flowing like rain. Nothing at all. Nope. Nothing. It’s all love and care.

Merry Christmas, Nicky.

Bad
It looks like I have no willpower after all. I have succumbed to the malignant peer pressure of my “friends� and joined Facebook. FSM along knows why. As far as I can tell, it is like the Telkom White Pages, except that it’s a lot more difficult to use and a whole lot less useful. It’s like a website for technologically retarded.

Sigh. Search for me and add me if you want. I might was well revel in the social awkwardness of it all.

Ugly
My water got cut off because of a miscommunication between my landlord and the rental agency. I was going to write a long and angry rant about all of that but they (Rent-a-Lot) just called me and really impressed me with their efficiency and their willingness to come to the table. Shit. So, I’ve got nothing in the Ugly category for you.

The Celibacy Report
At Nicky’s party, I met a beautiful and charming woman. She had the most striking eyes and these sexy zebra-striped earrings. But, in view of the stupidly large quantities of vodka and champagne that I consumed, it is very likely that I didn’t make the best impression. Damn.

But the little episode did give me a great idea: a body double for when you’ve had too much to drink. So, you go out and enjoy yourself but, once you’ve gone over that magical line that separates the cool guys from the drunken idiots, your body double takes over. He’s trained in poetry and ballroom dancing and he’ll make sure that you live forever in the young lass’s memory.

But, if he’s me only better, he could usurp me… Hmmm… This may not be such a cunning plan. It’ll need some work.

Update [25 June 2007]: I feel silly.

It is clear, now, in the unforgiving light of day, and with the magnifying power of hindsight, that I really should have made a better effort to get the charming woman’s number. The best that I managed to do was mumble something suave and charming *cough*drunken and creepy*cough* and hand her my business card. I know. I know. That’s not a particularly good way of going about it.
And, of course, I am under no illusion, though, that she would have given me a contact number but, still, it’s nice to dream.

So… if you were me, would you try and get in touch with her. And if yes, do any of you happen to know how I could go about it? I thought I’d ask what you would do, since I clearly dropped the ball.

Remember: it’s only stalking if you don’t love her enough.

What follows below is an account of the strange and mysterious event of the eve of 15 June 2007. It is my hope that this testimony will stand as warning to all travellers. Even now, in the clear and warm light of the sun, I am unsure of what transpired, whether it was angel or demon that took possession of us, and whether we can ever, truly, consider ourselves moral beings since that fateful, moonless night…

All that we know for sure is that the two dogs will never walk properly again and that a police have officially opened a missing persons case for Mr. T. Talbit who was last seen with the donkey in the cabbage patch.

The evening began sweetly and without care as we watched the sun set on the nearby hills.
We dressed and prepared ourselves for the evening. Our escort, a set of nymphomaniac cojoined twins, arrived in good time.	Here, our party prepares. From left to right, we have Lady Nippleblossom, Sir Humpalot, Duke Von Rottencrotch, Lady Incontinence, and your humble narrator, Farmer Nonuts
It soon became clear that my escort was none other than the Saint of Timeliness, as can be obviously deduced from her clock-faced halo.	We arrived and soon settled into our surroundings. Sir Humpalot, however, insisted on telling everyone about his prowess handling horns and, pretty soon, he got to show us.
Moments later, Duke Von Rottencrotch’s attempt at hypnosis backfired as he discovered the true nature of Lady Nippleblossom’s name.	Our local guard was a very talented musician and could have easily become a worldwide star were it not for his inability to tell the difference between a flute and a chicken.
Now hypnotised and drunk, our good friend the duke found himself staring in awe at the miniature pixie servants bringing him shots of tequila.	Meanwhile, our local Scott guards continued to scan the hills for signs of danger and movement.
I only see three hands. Should we be worried?	Apparently, one of the Scott guards knows where the other hand is…
Sir Alec, whose birthday it was was accompanied by a comely and buxom wench. In this photo she tries to follow the sword-polishing instructions he laid out.	When we returned home, my brother, the duke, discovered and he now sported a full and lush head of hair which, fashionably enough, resembled a malign and very hirsute spider.
Much to my horror and dismay, I, too, awoke with a full head of hair and, unaccountably, a fully shaved crotch. I have reported this event to the police.They have the matter well in hand.	The only physical accident to occur was when the duke discovered the discomfort of a male chasity belt.

Photos courtesy of Michael.

Good
We attended the Medieval Banquet on Friday and, as every year before, it rocked. We got very drunk on ridiculously cheap ale (Forrester’s Draft if memory serves me right) and got to eat with our hands. The only down-side of the event is that we were robbed in the cleavage competition. Apparently there only only two ways to win that: You either have to bribe the king, or you have take a Jersey, file the horns off, hide the tail, and bring that up to the stage. Go figure.

A most awesome, talented and clearly rocking young lass from PWOT is getting ready to put up her site. I loved it so much that I thought that I’d link to it here.

Lastly, I want to offer a huge massive WOW and a congratulations to Brad and Robyn, both of whom not only had the massive, massive balls to partake in the Comarades marathon, but actually finished it. Fucking well done, guys.
Bad
Winter is officially here. The weather’s turned to shit. It’s cold and miserable. My dogs have transformed into sleek, dry hounds into stinking mud-sponges. It’s only 4 months or so until it’s warm again. Where do we go drinking until then?

Ugly
So, yesterday, full of enthusiasm and thirst, I pop over to my local Spar to buy some delicious snacks and some wine (I was entertaining a young lass and needed some wine to have my wicked way with her). I was shocked and irritated beyond measure to discover that they don’t sell wine after 17:00 on Sundays.

I honestly thought that this sort of legislated religion was done away with. I cannot believe that these sort of arbitrary moral rules are still in effect. Why the fuck couldn’t I buy wine? Is alcohol bought on a Sunday more dangerous? Does the wine mysteriously become poison after 17:00 on Sunday? Is this some sort of evil reverse transubstantiation? Is it just to prevent non-Catholics from accidentally drinking the blood of Jesus on Sundays? If the answer is no to all of these questions, then why the fuck is the government regulating this? And why are the shopping markets tolerating these sort of arbitrary, petty and completely irrelevant rules?

All I know is that this law must be done away with as soon as possible. Someone is clearly meddling with our affairs.

The Celibacy Report
I think that it is time for me to start laying blame at the feet of Port Elizabeth women, once again. Where are you hiding?

And I’m not talking about the drunk and misguided drifting from man to man in Barney’s Lorraine either. In fact, I talking about the terminally baggage-ridden, the liars and deceiving game-players, the unbearably ugly, and the vacant cardboard cut-out vapid hordes.

I am talking about women who are able to hold a conversation and can actually operate as autonomous individuals without carrying a chip on their shoulders about proving themselves in a man’s world or creating vast deceptions to accommodate their damage egos. Do such women exist in Port Elizabeth? And, if so, where are they hiding? I have a plethora of intelligent, well-adjusted males who are all asking the same question.

Good
I have been made one of the moderators of the MyPE forums, Port Elizabeth’s only real local chatting spot and best pro-Port Elizabeth website (even if they do uses little penises as ranking tools - I am looking forward to mine). I don’t know what they want with me, but we’ll see. The one thing I can tell you is that they can’t argue for shit. I’ve called myself Picaresque and I’ve been told to help out with their book club.

I found a date for the medieval banquet. Nobody panic! See you guys there. It promises to be a winner.

Bad
Yes, yes. I know the PE Report is three-days late. Sorry. It’s been that kind of a week. Maybe I can make it up with this drawing I did (it’s a hotdog self-portrait):

I had to attend a Toastmasters meeting recently (not mine, someone else’s). It was presided over by a Alternative Health Practitioner. Her name was Nutt. I kid you not.

Ugly
I have this friend, Apocalyptic Librarian, and she’s been on and off the dating sites recently. In one of her recent emails, she told me about her experiences so far. Her review was eloquent and beautiful. I thought I’d share it with you (the names have been removed to protect the innocent):

I’ve also been busy changing my profile a little bit on the dating website, as I was getting about 40 messages a day from the country’s most ineligible males: married men looking for a regular fling while on business trips; horny teenagers incapable of writing a sentence not containing “LOL”, “OMG U R HOT” and “!!!!!!!!”; ageing Casanovas verbally flaunting their mega-wallets, presumably as a distraction from their fossilized manbits; and every permutation of the dull, shallow and inarticulate - THE AVOIDANCE OF ALL OF THE ABOVE BEING THE EXACT REASON I’M ON THE FUCKING SITE IN THE FIRST PLACE! Still, I must say that it’s all been most entertaining. In the space of 2 weeks I’ve:

Told myriad anonymous males NOT TO WRITE TO ME IF THEY CAN’T FUCKING SPELL - perhaps a bit petty, but the ability to write denotes a minimum intellectual level that I’m too pompous to ignore;

Had to let a sickly sweet and gentle soul down in as nurturing and unrejecting a way as humanly possible while still telling him to fuck off (OK, so I have GUILT);

Bemoaned the fact that a hulking Aryan hottie is stringing me along while making excuse after excuse for not getting together, inspiring well-meaning female chums to quote passages from annoying “Self-Help” bestseller He’s Just Not That Into You (have now blocked the esteem-basher’s e-mail);

Met a strange and exotic hothouse creature who sketches anthropomorphic meat by-products.

OK, that’s FUCKING IT. If they don’t stop playing Robbie Williams on the company’s Muzak station, I will run at full tilt towards the nearest eye-level coat hook.

And today she adds

Someone I have now blocked from contacting me insisted on describing how much his “Mini-Me” would like to meet me. In a context completely unrelated to an actual cloned dwarf sidekick. A felon describing his mastubatory fantasies to a random female on the Internet is apparently the modern version of an obscene phone call. I am years behind the times.

The sad and gentle person who I “dumped” after 3 dates has just sent me a long and rambling manifesto of excuses for his perceived inadequacies. Note: HIS perceived inadequacies. Thanks, Mr Clingy - I now feel like Lady Macbeth wringing my whiskey-soaked hands.

The Celibacy Report
It’s been quiet on the celibacy front… too quiet… I will ferret out some gossip.

Good
I had a good night out on Saturday. We went to Castro’s and Barney’s Lorraine, and then went to Tapas and Toby Joe’s, at the Brookes pavilion. I hadn’t been to that nefarious hellhole in quite a while and had, in fact, sworn never to set foot in it again. Well, I’m glad I did, it was a pleasant experience. The music was passable and most of the people were friendly. It was as good a place to drink as any.

It’s a pity that my fucking toothache lanced its way into my skull and made me seek the comfort of my couch and painkillers.

Soon… Soon, my precious, I will be free of this pain…

Bad
We went to go and see Pirates of the Caribbean 3 on Friday. I am glad to see that they got the formula down pat: They only need three films to move from a snappy, funny, exciting premise, to a long, rambling and completely irrelevantly lost piece of back story exposure. I call this matrixotitis. It’s contagious, beware: Spiderman has it, the X-men have it, and FSM knows that Star Wars has it. You may be next.

Ugly
A friend of mine, who shall remain nameless, recently attended a braai in which she was “mortified, embarrassed and shocked� (her words, not mine) at the staggeringly racist and bigoted rants that were being spouted forth by a couple of guests. When she suggested that they stop, she was glared at and ignored. And I could only nod in sympathy. It still amazes me that people can so bloody-mindedly retarded has to think that just because the people around are white, that they will automatically agree with you bigoted or racist remarks.

If you are going to engage the topic of race, politics, reparations and cultural conflict, fucking engage it, then. Don’t just spout off the same tired propaganda dressed up as polite braai-talk. Don’t just repeat the same urban legends dressed up as personal anecdotes. Fucking engage with it. Start by doing some fucking reading first.

The Celibacy Report
I got quite drunk on Saturday night and I ended up SMSing an ex-girlfriend. I have no idea why I did it. In fact, if you were to ask me today, I wouldn’t have even be able to reply: “it seemed like a good idea at the time,� because I know for a fact that it wasn’t.

No, what makes this weird is that it wasn’t your usual middle-of-the-night drunken SMS, which we’ve all fallen prey to once or twice. No, I have no idea why I did it. I wasn’t expecting an answer. I just did it for no apparent reason. I can’t even say that I rightly miss her, because I know she is happy and in love with her new guy and I wouldn’t want to disrupt that. And, it wasn’t a booty call since I wasn’t in a particularly horny mood either. God forbid if she actually replied or called back, I would have been speechless, because, let’s face it, the SMS was completely content-free.

I blame the massive amount of painkillers and booze. Maybe I’m developing multiple personalities. That would be cool. Maybe my other personality has cool super-powers. Let’s hope so.

In completely unrelated news, I have put my profile back on the local dating website. And so has my brother, for that matter. We’ll see what comes of it.