Monday, December 7, 2009

Last night I died and went to Indie Rock 'n Roll heaven

That sparkly K was on stage last night!

Last night I went to my first legitimate big concert - The Killers live in Cape Town. Wow. Just wow. I wish I had a video of the entire crowd waving their arms from side to side in unison to "This is your life" or a recording of everyone singing "I've got soul, but I'm not a soldier", drowning out Brandon Flowers.
There is something so powerful about being part of something in that way. For their finale they played "When you were young" (one of my favourites), and at the very peak of the song the band was showered with sparks from the roof of the stage and I actually got a bit teary! The whole crowd was mesmerised.
Of course, we did spend an hour and a half trying to extricate ourselves from the parking lot afterwards, but considering that some people did that for three hours, I can't really complain!
It was totally worth it.

Monday giveaway!

I don't usually post about this kind of stuff, but I am just dying to win the Romance Pin from toujours toi - to find out what on earth I'm on about visit Daily Bits of Beauty

Thursday, August 6, 2009

A DIY project

Something I've always wanted to try is Red Velvet cake. Apparently it's been around since the 1970s, and its distinctive red colouring is a result of a reaction between buttermilk and acidic vinegar in the ingredients. These days, red food colouring is commonly used to achieve the same effect.

There is a kind of glamour about it though, and I'm thinking that with the long weekend coming up I'll try to make my own. This is the first year that I have a properly functioning oven, so it may actually be a success!

An interesting story about Red Velvet cake - Wikipedia reports a story about the Waldorf-Astoria hotel in New York's "secret" RV cake recipe: a woman eating at the restaurant was so impressed with her slice that she asked for the recipe - only to discover later that she had been charged $100 for it on her bill. Outraged, she sent the "secret" recipe to her friends as a chain mail in retaliation.

Tuesday, August 4, 2009

A 'real' professional

Well, it's Day 2 of my new job and I've spent approximately all day amusing myself on the internet.

I'm working as a copy editor for a media company that produces two magazines and several contract titles (i.e. the in-house publications for a few companies). Because it's the beginning of the month there is very little to do: most of the articles haven't come in yet, so I've basically been sitting around for the better part of two days, waiting for stuff to do. Don't I feel all grown-up and important now?

This grown-up thing is going to get pretty old pretty soon, I think. Leaving home in the dark and returning in the dark is a novelty that has already worn off.

Thursday, May 14, 2009

How 22 year olds have fun in Cape Town

This afternoon some of my friends and I are going to Sexpo, a sexuality and lifestyle expo at the Cape Town International Convention Centre. I went last year, so there's a good reason I'm going this year.
I enjoyed it - mostly for the fact that I was a little bit in awe of the whole thing, but probably not for the reasons you think. Sure, there were human size penises and boobs wandering around, and strippers poledancing, and vibrator demonstrations and all of the other things you'd expect to find at such an event.

What I love about Sexpo though, is that all of these naughty things are taking place in an atmosphere which is welcoming, educational, and friendly. Nobody made me feel dirty for being there, the whole experience was very matter of fact and normal. The shop assistants, many of them normal-looking women, were friendly and helpful. The clientele ranged from just-turned-18s who looked a bit nervous to be there, as if someone might throw them out at any moment (wait, maybe they weren't 18); people my own age, middle aged couples, old couples, gay couples, interracial couples, and also lots of friends (probably not family).

I had expected to be made to feel like a complete fraud for going there and looking at these things when I had nobody with whom to share them, but one of the overarching themes of the exhibitions was, as one brand of sex toys puts it, "love yourself".

That's something everyone can learn from.

Thursday, April 23, 2009

Election overload

I am breathing a sigh of relief today, when, once the results are out, hopefully we can put all this election crap to rest. I look forward to a time when something else is the first item on the news again, and we can all get down to wrapping our heads around the fact that that shiny headed creature with an uncanny talent for hauling himself out of trouble is our new president. Biko must be turning in his grave.

Tuesday, April 14, 2009

The Good Samaritan

The other night when I was out, as I was leaving the bathroom, a girl behind me reached towards me and tucked the label of my dress back inside the garment; it had obviously been sticking out.

I was so touched by this gesture of kindness from a complete stranger, and from a girl, no less, because at nightclubs the usual form of female interaction is something between latent competition and outspoken derision.

It's a tough, scary world for us girls - betrayal and disappointment lurk around every corner. We would do well to stick together and look out for each other - God knows there are too few decent guys to do it for us.

Wednesday, April 1, 2009

Missed the boat

With the number of people I have reading this blog (i.e. one, that is, Twanji, who only pretends to read it because I pretend to read his), I have a feeling that my posts here are more private than the things that I write in my journal at home.
Well, if I kept a journal, that is.

But it feels good to write again, I'm kind of hoping that exercising the muscle will bring back those mad skillz I had back in Varsity. I was putting together my writing portfolio for a job application last night and found myself saying, "Damn, girl, but you can write!", and I think I might have lost some of the magic.

I also have a feeling that I should have started this years ago, in the heyday of the blog, when all of our new media classes were devoted to the blogging phenomenon. But in this, as in most areas of my life, I have been a late bloomer.

Wednesday, March 25, 2009


There’s something about being a young person living in a big city that requires you to do all sorts of stupid and unsatisfying things with your Friday night. Leaving school, I had this foolish idea that the years of peer pressure were over, and that arriving at varsity or work on a Monday morning didn’t have to prompt an in-depth discussion of the weekend’s pursuits. Even more na├»ve was I, it seems, to imagine that the absence of an answer involving clubbing, drinking and dancing (preferably on the tables) would be met with anything less than a scandalised silence, and the awkward enquiry, “Oh, were you sick then?”(the implication being that surely nothing else could explain such an oddity).

The parameters of acceptance change as the years pass. First and second year of varsity are generally of the “How drunk did you get?” persuasion, whereas third year and well into the working world appear to stress the quality rather than the quantity of drinking (meaning that it’s where you got drunk and with what, not how much, that counts). No longer content with the boring yet reliable fun that is offered by our staple club diet, we venture further afield, shelling out exponentially larger sums for cover charge as we go. The more exclusive the establishment is reputed to be, the better.

To my dismay, however, I found myself the unwilling participant in one of these endeavours one Friday night not long ago. I was persuaded due to the occasion being a friend's birthday, and because she had taken the care to organise a guest list, without which our chances for getting in were, at worst, highly unlikely, and at best, possible provided we part with a cover charge equivalent to my weekly grocery budget.

Our night at this particular version of cool begins well enough: my companions and I arrive at the entrance while my other friend, the birthday girl (and more importantly, the one with the guest list) is already in deep conversation with the bouncer and the hostess. A word on hostesses: These creatures only exist in the parallel universe that is the cool club. Is it a job requirement that they be blonde? (Doesn’t this have some kind of nasty employment equity implication?) Being politely cruel also appears to be part of the job description, along with the thinly-veiled sneer and haughty attitude. I think the idea is for them to exude an air of sophistication that says, “I’m so cool they actually pay me to be here.”

Anyway, snapping out of my ruminations I am delighted to see that my friend has made progress, as the tiny blonde rolls her eyes, sighs, and beckons for us to come through. Standing on the other side of the ropes from the entrance, I make the ill-conceived suggestion that they simply unhook one of the ropes to let us through from where we are standing so that we don’t have to go all the way around, prompting an incredulous “no” from the waif, who looks like she might have a coronary at this impudence. Don't I know the rules? We practically run upstairs lest she change her mind about letting us in.

Once inside, I am surprised to find that the club's clientele is not nearly as sophisticated as they'd have us believe in the queue. For one thing, it's surprisingly empty, considering the block-long waiting line, and for another, none of these people is nearly as pretty or well-dressed as you'd expect them to be. For the most part, our fellow clubbers appear to be a good few years younger (and in some cases, a good few too many years older) than we are. Most of them are wearing an air of reverence, like they can't believe they actually got in here, instead of the expression of weary disdain you see on socialites in the papparazzi photos from posh clubs in New York.

Well, our status as guest list members and hence VIPs (according to the stamp on my wrist) grants us access to the VIP lounge upstairs. Maybe if we head up there we can get away from these imposters. I lead us over to the entrance to the lounge, show the bouncer my VIP stamp and make my way upstairs.

It is definitely cooler up here, there is way more seating, as well as a private bar so we don't have to fight with the riffraff to get a drink. What is distressingly strange about this oh so effortlessly cool lounge area, is that there is practically no one in it. There are a couple of guys at the bar who look up hopefully when I wander in - they have the same expression as the only patrons of a restaurant seeing a passerby stop to pick up a menu. It's that look that says, "Please, please come in!"

Except that we can't, apparently, because when I turn to point this oddity out to one of my friends, I find that none of them is there. Returning to the entrance, I find the birthday girl embroiled in a heated argument with the bouncer. It seems that when he saw that it was not just me going upstairs to the hallowed empty halls of the VIP lounge, he suffered a small-scale heart attack, from which he recovered quickly enough to deny everyone else entrance. Apparently he absolutely cannot have too many people in the VIP area, and apparently five is too many. Dawdling at the top of the stairs, I am torn between rejoining my friends and taking advantage of the impossibly empty bar. My conscience gets the better of me, and I reluctantly go back down the stairs.

After one R50 drink, we're all pretty much over it. On our way out, one of my friends asks the woman who takes the cash what the VIP stamp means if it's not to get us into the VIP area, to which he gets the enigmatic answer, "You need a stamp to get in, but sometimes you need more than a stamp." What does this guy want, sexual favours?

That was our awesome Friday night, as young carefree city youths are supposed to spend their Friday nights. I would have had more fun playing scrabble with my cat. Save your money, kids. It's so not worth it.