Beardy Man

Hy husband and "Moe", the school-yard yard bully from Calvin and Hobbes, have this in common: overactive pituitary glands. Their mutant master glands insisted that they would both start shaving as soon as they went onto solid foods.

Because I only met my husband when we were in our twenties, I was not privy to any childhood trauma he suffered as a result of his premature beard. Moreover, any trauma on the time line of his folicular development I feel has been felt purely by me. Guys with beards seem to be respected by other guys. Unless you're Zach Galifianakis.

Before I go any further, I would like to point out that I do not oppose the beard. I harbour no resentment towards it. When I first met Louw it was his incredible hair that I was drawn to. He had thick ropey dreadlocks and a trucker moustache. In a matter of days I was putty in his hands. What I did not know back then was that this moustache would roam around his face, morphing its form as the fancy took him.

In the 6 years we have been together, he has sported lamb-chop sideburns that Elvis himself would have whistled at; the aforementioned trucker 'tache; an ill-conceived stalactite that grew straight from his chinny-chin-chin and was repeatedly bleached and dyed green; a fu-manchu; a full beard that saw nary a razor nor pair of scissors for nigh on a year and finally a neatly groomed but equally impressive full-facial shrub of which the crowning glory was a gleaming moustache with 2 inch curls on either end.

My issue with facial hair can be summed up by Peter Parker's uncle's cautionary words: "With great power comes great responsibility"

I have lost count of the number of times I have seen other men coming up to my hub and saying "DUDE, doooooooooood, that is the most incredible/phenomenal/impressive/amazing beard/moustache/set of whiskers I have ever seen. Can I touch it?" In these exchanges, my human grows calm, maintains eye contact and graciously accepts the compliments - in much the same way as a cat, sunning itself on a window seat, will accept a brief and respectful belly rub.

Now that the "great power" element of my husband's facial coif has been established, we must discuss the need for "great responsibility". This issue raises itself in times of feasting, and kissing. Sometimes the two do not exclude each other. He says one of the reasons he married me was for my high absorbency, but I feel he sells himself short here. His beard, when dunked into a litre jug of beer, can leave the glass half-full (or half-empty if you're a dour douche) when raised up again. What I object to is when once raised from the jug of beer, the beard leans in for a kiss. The pressure applied in this kiss leads, every time, to me sporting a beery beard smeer down my front. As I am sure you can imagine, in all scenarios and with all food types, while this is a real boon for the dabber it is not ideal for the dab-ee.

Of late, I have taken to packing a light lunch and a headlamp when searching through the undergrowth of my beloved's face, for the mouth I long to kiss. I fear that the local fauna and flora that thrive there may not always welcome alien lips, so when I have located his elusive smoochers, I plant a quick one, and retreat as fast as I can so as to avoid predatory or defensive attacks.

I cannot explain how good it feels to get this off my chest. You will only truly empathise with me once I upload photographic proof* on my husband's mandibular anomalie. Until then, rejoice as I do when he disappears into the back garden with the electric shaver, muttering threats about "takin' these moustaches out back to shoot 'em".

*possibly because of interference brought about by the wirey nature of his bristles, I am having a heck of a time uploading this enlightening proof.

Cinema Vietnam

I saw this poster for an open air movie festival in Franschoek and liked it so much that I took it. I feel a bit bad about that, but not bad enough to go put it back up.

I will totally be going :)

http://cinemavietnam.blogspot.com/

Dog Fonts

This made me chortle.

(My dog still totes defies categorization though, in terms of both breed and font. He is looking at me now, in that way he does when it's half past 5ish in the pm)

Saw it here: http://www.thepoke.co.uk/2012/01/12/if-dogs-were-fonts/ .

On the Road

I wrote this after a particularly harrowing experience while on the road with my husband and his mum. 

This is my husband trying to swallow the Space Needle in silent protest of the unabashed douchery of the US customs officers.

After finally checking into a double-bedroom motel suite in downtown Seattle, I lay down on the carpet and kicked my heels around like Jim Carey. We’d made it. At last we were in the picture postcard home of such influential forces as Tom Robbins, grunge [arguably], Jimi Hendrix, Bill Boeing [as in 747], Jerry Cantrell, Ray Charles, Quincy Jones and Ted Bundy. 

For you to understand the child-like glee I felt at finally having arrived in a cheap motel suite in Seattle, I have to back track. The joy-feeling was bigger than live music and bigger than science fiction. It was bigger than American sized shots – and they are pretty large. It was a deep, visceral joy that was like drawing breath after drowning.

We were there on holiday, taking an extended road trip around Canada and the northern states of America. We all piled into one brave and brawny Canadian RV: my husband, his mom and I. We call his mom the Silver Fox. She is an achingly beautiful woman, short and vague, but with a firm jaw and a wide smile. She has a penchant for bargain shopping and (possibly because of this) lives in Canada, in a small town, much like South Park, that is nestled deep in the butt-crack of the Rocky Mountains. The Silver Fox sponsored our getaway; it was her belated wedding gift. 

The downside of taking a road trip through Canada and America with your mother-in-law is not that you’re with your mother-in-law - although that does add a soupçon of teenage rage and frustration. Oh no. It’s crossing the U.S. border. 

In retrospect we should have known what to expect. We had heard the stories. 

The Fox has an olive skin. She also likes to wear bindis and long flowy purple things. Once she was detained for hours because a “barely literate” U.S. border guard misread “South Africa” and took her in for questioning because it was South Korea that is the problem child of the East… right? Hah! Misread and misinformed, the officer stopped just short of loving her long time in one of those back rooms no-one ever speaks about. 

This is just one of her many horror stories. Understandably, our dear Ma has an obvious loathing of the U.S. police force. Given the opportunity - and a glass of red wine – she will indiscriminately tell anyone about it, at length and with no regard for propriety. 

There are few things more nerve-wracking than hearing your sweet, salt and peppered, 68 year old mother-in-law mutter "They can't even fucking read" under her breath while, not five feet away, a humourless homeland security officer struggles to sound out loud the syllables in her passport. I sweat cold at the memory. The Fox’s “inside whisper” has the same resonance and subtlety as a bingo announcer’s. Subsequently we found ourselves inside the border post’s “waiting room”. 

My husband has an interesting collection of passport photos. The earliest is of a bright-eyed young chap, full of promise and calcium. The next in line was taken when he was in the throes of a Marilyn Manson and Cannibal Corpse flavoured adolescence. Missing one eyebrow, sporting dyed-black hair and staring belligerently into the camera, he really owned this one. After growing up a little and spending more time listening to The Clash and Rage Against the Machine, he posed for his third pic, the U.S. visa one. I thought his belt-length dreadlocks were quite fetching; the border guards thought he had a kilo of heroin stashed in his rectum. That, coupled with a four-year old “Minor Misdemeanour Charge” involving a Montana spray can and an epic stencil of “Mr T” at a ski resort in the Rockies, meant that we were in for a looong wait. 

Ironically, I was the only one they didn’t call in for questioning. My misspent youth, though noteworthy, must not have made it onto their radar. Not that I’m complaining – there are some horrors I can live without. 

Three hours later we were back in the van. Our surround sound was a wounded silence. The Fox was so subdued she didn’t even point out the Costco signs. I have never experienced such rage. The realization that, in that situation, travelers have absolutely no rights What. So. Ever. leaves one feeling weak and violated. Bitter and barely contained. We lasted about two minutes without speaking before we exploded like wet spitting cats. Like vulgar sailors we spouted forth such crude language. Although the Fox has been living in Canada since 2000, she swore like a bergie on a bender. Afrikaans is by far the superior language to cuss in. My skoonma se mond! 

Several hours later, and after much derisive conversation about putting the world to rights, we crossed the bridge into Seattle. The lights almost instantly soothed our jagged wounds. The indescribable feeling of being where your heroes have been, oh it is balm to a hurting spirit. Signs advertising the Battlestar Galactica Exhibit at the Science Fiction Museum (I know!) and EMP (Experience Music Project) didn’t hurt either. 

 I discovered that although the world is cold and hard and square, and although life is a very soft shape, living is made easier by the existence of grunge music and science fiction museums. And American sized tots - could the imperial system win points for this one? 

Now you understand why I was so giddy to arrive in an underwhelming motel suite in downtown Seattle. From the window I could see the Space Needle shining up the sky, and at most, the customs officers on the way back into Canada would say something along the lines of: “Ooh hi folks. Soooo long as you doon’t have any avocadoos back there, you can move right along noow.”

Bliss.

Dear Reader

Sooooo, here's a link to an article I wrote last month, for Muse Magazine.

http://museonline.co.za/featured/dear-reader/


I was so excited about seeing Dear Reader play again, AT LAST, in Cape Town. Pity that the venue didn't put much effort into hosting the show, but you can read that review in next month's Your LMG.

I am heading out in a little while to interview Tombstone Pete for a feature. I'm pretty excited, he is an incredibly interesting human.

Meet Tombstone Pete

Tombstone Pete is a Cape Town based musician who does unexpected and mind-blowing things with his guitar.

Here are two clips.

The second one is 11 minutes long (I know, I know), so if you like the craziness Pete is pulling off in the first -shorter- clip you may want to settle in for a while. The second clip has the added bonus of illumination, so you can actually see what this human is doing.

Tell your friends.

Dr. Indonya's Original African Bangalala Brooks™

I gave my beloved hub a pair of these for Christmas:

What is so great about these, you foolishly ask? Stop flailing your hands about in despair, sit down and pay attention. Besides the magnificent fabric in which your loved one's junk will be ensconced,  it's the packaging they came in that will make you happy.

Proudly South African, and available at Big Blue, these Bangalala Brooks come with added mojo. The different designs are supposed to imbue the wearer with such fantastical good fortune as "romantic attraction", "extreme good looks, muscles, a man's beard" and, my personal favourite, the ability to "forget prison".

They even include endorsements by Superman, Mr Jay Zuma and Richard Branson. A Mr Tshepo "Hummerman' Modiso had this to say: "Bangalala Brooks gave me the confidence to change my life forever. I own a fleet of Hummers and know every celebrity by first name basis..."

Unbelievable!

The ones seen above are "THE STRONG ONE - The Strongest Mix". Totes want to collect them all.

Go here to see the other natty designs: http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10150384349395790.614689.282513915789&type=1