One last one

Incident. Some health nut was knocked over by a car when I turned the corner into Kloofnek. It seems the cyclist was belting down the hill at an amazing pace, and the inevitable happened. Some one turned into the road and its all history now. He survived, the cyclist I mean. He was writhing feebly on the road as I walked past. The faces were amazing, such still-lifes. At accidents its pointless looking at the centre of attraction, that is boring and all too real. Look at the different perspectives surrounding the mess, there you see it all.

Shock, obviously.

Relief, I often wonder why, is it because they don't know the person, or the person has survived, or it wasn't as bad as they hoped it was...?

Sadness, again obviously.

Glee, kids are just plain sick.

Anger, so futile in most cases and an inappropriate emotion. Accidents will happen, circumstance or our own stupidity, why get angry I wonder.

Stoicism, this one is the best. The know-it-alls, as if they have foreseen this exact thing. I got stopped by a shop owner wearing this one very well. He told me all about it, where he was when it happened, what he was doing and the time exactly. He even kindly pointed out the angry looking American customer who ran out of his shop to go see what was going on. He gave me a history of speeders down that stretch of road, and ejaculated an indignant "Something must be done about this!" I made all the right noises bid him goodbye after a decent amount of time and shuffled off home.

That cyclist just might ride again, people are built a lot tougher then we suspect that and fact that the medical people took only seven minutes to get to him.

I do go on at times especially when I can't decided what it is I should be doing. Hope it made your day shorter, that way I will know I did something positive today.

Another Life and Times hit...

Pic from Zapapedia (click! you will like this)

A bit of this n that

I went back to my treasure trove of old emails. I keep saying I have lived as my standard comment when I see the sort of words I share with peeps. Maricon! I love my life... what I have lived of it anyway; I wonder where its gona take us next... me, myself and I and everyone that knows us.

Here is a goodie... "I really do miss you, the slight of logic you used to pull on me in our conversations. OK maybe it was me missing the point intetionaly so I could listen to you talk some more... I could have been in love with the sight of your voice moving your lips over those words..."
Taken from 'World Famous Fitch' (Feb-20-03)

How about this one... "Don't you miss the hand writing of someone you know? I think of it as another side to someone I know... there is something exciting about words tumbling along a page, sometimes flowing, sometimes sprawling, but always moving. I was a great letter writer once, then people found out and demand became overwhelming... or I became lazy... I forget which."
Taken from 'This is Turkey' (Feb-20-03)

Ooooh... "Attention. There is one thing in life I am never too cheap to pay, and that is attention. I am generous with the quality. I lavish it for no reason on the most mundane or captivating of things and people. Oh I sometimes use it as a form of restraint on babies and like minded people. It works like a charm and costs me nothing."
Taken from the 'Space and Time" folder (Jul-15-04)

Filthy moment, only the best kind... "A bedside lamp between your legs, a frantic search for an elusive thread... stuff of legends. There must be more amusing anecdotes like this. Extraordinary things happening to ordinary people... if we bend it a little... extraordinary people happening to ordinary things. I like that better."
Taken from the 'Space and Time" folder (Jul-15-04)

Thankfully there is tons where that came from. Another time...

Pic by C

What I know

Right... one of those rare updates, and this one is worth it even if it is just to roast a few old friends and some new friends. The idea was to throw it up in the mag I used to edit, however... long story with no moral or good intentions so lets let that sleeping dog stay coma. It may even go a step further actually, hope y'all don't mind and I am posting faces and names... but the point of the exercise is to highlight how brand Botswana is doing amongst my contemporaries. Unfortunately I missed going to eKasi and I am sure it would have been an eye opener on many levels. And so with less ado I give you... The 1 thing I know about Botswana by some young creatives in Jozi.















VUYO - independent publishing professional
I don’t know much about Botswana I am very curious about it, but I have to admit to being semi-ignorant of it and its history. I know a fair amount about Botswana. One of the first things I learnt about Botswana is that the Pula is worth more than the Rand.


LERATO - writer
Its god damn hot! There is a lot of sand, and there is no suburbs or hoods its all one thing... like a residential area.












VANESSA - advertising account executive
AIDS! My mother warned me,” Yoh ko Botswana o be careful ngwanaka, o be careful. O useh Choice! E seng ye perpole o dirise ya ko cliniking.” Other than that I have been reading books about it, its a huge expansive landscape.




GLADWYN - designer
Nothing! I know there are animals there and the desert. I know there is Gaborone. What I know about it is that there is no hoods and everything is like in the middle you know...?









SEBATHA – student bcom law
Botswana has the death penalty, interesting enough I also know that... I am not sure if its a rumour, but they throw you off a cliff. Tswanas don’t mess around hey, they don’t waste time or resources like that, they do it the effective way, they chuck you off a cliff. And I know the currency is pretty good... that’s what I know about Botswana.

ONTHATILE - photographer
I know that Botswana is safe, you don’t need burglar proofs and what not. So I heard you can leave your doors totally unlocked.


KABOMO - poet
I have done three festivals in Botswana, and not to dis my country, when you say poet poems to Botswana people you feel like they care about the work. In Joburg, sometimes you feel like they care about the hype around the coolness of poetry like, “O Kabomo is on stage, look how he is dressed, look how he is raising his hand.” So afterward people talk about everything else except the content. And every time I have come to Botswana the conversations I have with Botswana people after I perform its always questions about the content. "So you said this what inspired it; What were you thinking...?" And for me as a writer that’s the most beautiful thing ever so I love reading my poems to Botswana people. I guess that’s the one thing I love about it.

Yeah we love it too... don't we. Keep a sharp ear out for a special Podtape featuring sound bites from this snapterview. *hides

Bite me

True Love. This is an odd little story written by Anastina Goransdotter Lindal (now Zack). It is so natural to me I fell for it the minute I started reading it. I finally adapted it years later and have shot it, but never finished editing it. I showed a rough cut and that was it.

Sliding into second gear... the story is about a man and woman who seem to know each other and should by all means have a thing for each other but don't seem to know how to progress... and well they do end up falling for each other, but that first kiss is something so different my jaw dropped and my heart was in my throat. He bit her arm and took out a chunk of flesh and she completely understood it to be an unmistakable sign of his true feelings for her.

That my friend is the shit right there.. what is a motherfucking kiss anyway? It looks good in French films and bad in porn films, it is the first of our many mis-communications between or among the sexes that lead to the battle of... It is a form of greeting in many cultures, it is the approved signature for love and infidelity alike, it is the gateway for a million and ten different bad sexual encounters, it is the modern day Tower of Babel. What the fuck is in a kiss to signal the start of a relationship? Fuck all.

Imagine the day, the day you have to kiss the bank teller in order to get money out, and they say, "Uh-uh, you are not Lerato, who are you?" It will never happen, so what is in a kiss I ask you? I would take a bite over a kiss any day, deep, painful and bloody. Then I would fully understand the commitment I was making, and if I ever perchance "forgot", the beautiful and unique scar will always be there to remind me, even after death do us part. And so it goes...

Email excerpt - July 30 2004

Pic - Body art by dSetia

Flip it

Studio 83 dropped a Redirection issue and I took my time getting to it. Good thing I did, I feel I might have dropped every thing, fought with the wife, turned to a new chapter of my life after one last hug of our babies. Yeah man change is; a constant tinnitus buzz in your ear; that often times painful in some way necessity; the sun to the shadow of your frustrations; and it still just is. Oh and I haven’t even started reading the articles further then the pull quotes…

Weighing the life options for me is always a distressingly laborious task. Not for reasons you would assume, my life choices are abundant, my cup "raneth" over from the day I was born. Just picking one choice and liking it for is merits alone eludes me at every turn, there always seems to be one more nuance I can get out of the choices I make, and so I am never satisfied. I feel if I am to expand energy on a direction that I take it has got to give back and give back big. It has never been about money (well… until the first kid came) more about the sum total of what I intend to leave. That sum total is the stories I will tell my grand children… and maybe my own children if they have time for me. You see, my plan is to raise children that are independent. And you know… maybe I am taking it too far, by wishing for them to be so independent they could do a Mars mission and think nothing of the many years of isolation that it takes to get there and back. But also have no problem integrating when they do get back… so you know… take it as it is and make it work. My father went from the ox cart to the jet plane in one lifetime; there really isn’t a better story out there. But he never really gets to tell it… the choices he must have made. A world of lessons lives in those stories.

I look back on my life at any point in time and the one constant is the (excuse me) unchosen choices lying there for all the world like breadcrumbs. Maybe crumbs for our children to follow, bread crumbs for those I aspire to one day inspire, or just to remind me where not to return to. Its all the same, I shudder at what I feel must be the squandering my mom used to wag a finger about. I have been happy flipping it every now and again for no other reason but to see if taking a blind turn will lead me into a blind alley, it has yet to happen, there is always light at the end of my tunnel.

Yeah man, so flip (re)direction a la Studio 83… nice lynch pin, great time in my life as well. More choices have just come flooding in. And I again I am agonising. If its money, I am winning either way. Interesting stuff? Naturally. Interesting people? Obviously. Where to start, what to pick…


Pic Geraint Warlow

Jozi wet and mild

Here is one I prepared a little earlier... a late easter egg

Wet.

Easter 2010 in Jozi was overly moist in a way that only lazy dripping low flying clouds are capable of. It still wasn’t enough of a deterrent to visit the Golden Apple Maboneng. Rain really does give the city streets a warm clean smell (if the sun isn’t far behind the shower) or a melancholic grey tinge that sharpens the darkness lurking in each city’s concrete heart. Why does it even rain in cities, where seemingly the only thing that grows after the rain are the potholes? Digression…

What is African Art was the question de jour for no apparent reason. A two soul tag team went out to fraternise with the galleries strung along 6th and 7th like the most random set of hos in some arty/bourgeois red light district. Oddly many of these hos had taken the day off. I didn’t mind, but took it personally that Gallery Momo took the day off as well. It was a small comfort to read the novel “no parking” sign in the car park through the bars running along the front of the gallery’s property; “Parking only for Mercedes” or something to that effect. It was a nice touch of the playfulness I suspect can be found within the gallery, something I am sure to find out at some later date. The other message which I definitely got due to the upwardly mobile areas the Momo ho was situated in was that yes, actually if you can whip a merc come park here, and you damn well better be able to afford the wares. Why not, weed out the art freebasers like myself that just get high off the product (especially for free) and sometimes even forget to say thank you as we stagger out into the real world, high off of next level views.

So the galleries were mainly closed, David Krut’s book sellers were open, worth a brows, especially if the disposable cash is really handy, three doors down (or was it up) was some hubris on display, attached to two communists (Trotsky & Che, great name for an intellectual cafe dive thing, no?) a mirror, photography and some sort of smoky filter… best thing about the place was the sign at he door “Open” (Animals and small people allowed) I was the animal my co-soul a small person. Ha, ha, we should have turned back right there. Entirely forgettable. Then horror of horrors Goodman had also capitulated to religious/commercial holidays, no need to hate any further. JAG to the rescue, but Zoo Lake intervened in between.

Art was strewn around the Zoo Lake lawn in semi organised lines. Well, the term art is rather loosely thrown in to this piece out of politeness... first impressions and all. One was that the white art (landscapes, Cape Dutch rustic homes, Winelands vistas) were all so well famed (not the wood restraining the image) but the actual painting its self. Is the white view of South Africa so compact, so neat, so nicely walled in? It was enough to bring on a rant, one not heard by the purveyors of the framed wall paper. But you know one man’s art is another man’s god knows what. So honestly, let’s call it art as well, accessible art, the sort of art that is content to perpetuate your stereo types, give your insecurities a clean comfortable pillow to rest on. In short, the Zoo Lake art is accessible. Actually I can live with that, as long as it’s in the homes of my least favourite people and 3 star hotels trying at respectability.

And so JAG, barren as hell JAG. So barren there was a scrawl on some of the bare white walls. Apparently it was a discussion on whether the scribbles were art. Yawn, move on. George Mahashe perked it up a touch. A touch. Photography is always beautiful however the setting maybe robbed the exhibition of impact. It wasn’t an experience if the Kwa Leboa ambiance was so contained; it was a goldfish bowl of Mahashe’s life. Frankly I so longed to be there in the moment, and not take a glimpse, maybe I just think that the thousand words spoken by Mahashe’s photography needed a context, and it wasn’t to be found on the barren white walls of JAG.

An ante room was filled with every day objects that Africans used… they had now donned the mantle of art. Eh? I guess if you are an archaeologist in the future looking back at say Twitter, you could find a reason to call it art. Why not? The headrests of a range of Southern African peoples qualified. The attire of a sangoma, walking sticks and even hair combs all were now boxed as art. JAG what are you saying about these anthropological, social, and actually functional implements, tools and objects? Given enough time for change to happen and the use of an object to become obsolete… we can now have art? It is human to beautify, and so a simple headrest can be made more pleasing to the eye, but the previous owners didn’t use the headrest on special occasions just because it was better carved then they aware a decade before. Now several decades down the line…. Art happened to the headrest. W-O-W.

Shabba Kgotlaetso gets a shout out for revealing himself fully. That shutter bug isn’t interested in manufactured beauty, life head on is more his forte. He made beautiful along with all the other contributors to the WORKSHOP NAME series of images. Over all the predominance of photography, rather drained the senses, and the range was too focused on documentary imagery. You know the fact of life presented as is. I tend to do galleries to get an idea of how life could be, I already know how life is. Nandipah Mntambo is a gorgeous woman always, sometimes a mind blowing artist as well, and those hands, get out! (NEWS FLASH! This is an utter gush, deal with it.) The one image of hers dancing with an imaginary bull in full matador regalia is a moment in time… it made me wish I was the bull. The lack of dust; the intense focus; the flare of her nostrils; and actually her powerful thighs in the tight matador attire…. all the wrong conclusions drawn together to frame a perfect moment in time. Made my damn day, wish I had seen it last not as I entered JAG.

Ghandi Square is the most. A real ordeal for the senses, ordeal in that it was all so beautiful and unexpected so right yet so wrong more so after a day of disappointments jostling with pleasant surprises. One street away a building demolished out of a long row of tall buildings looking like a missing tooth. Late afternoon sun, caressing the buildings sheltering the square one last time before it dipped, painted an urban romantic tapestry. The constant busses (albeit murmuring under Easter’s calm) and foot traffic, Ko Spotong blaring its existence to the entire square, simple, loud, unapologetic, nice. Yeah ne…

Mild.

Hey, Shout out to Flo for making it all possible.

Its a Celebration Bitchez!

The perfect war cry to the perfect debauchery. The somewhat callous line was allegedly said by Rick James as portrayed by Dave Chappelle in one of his comedy skits where he dramatizes Charlie Murphy's embellished recollections of living in the shadow of his brother Eddie "Mr-Fuck-you-man" Murphy. Rick James lived for a little bit longer and we enjoyed him all the more for it because of Dave Chappelle’s all the way across the line hilarious skits.

Now its Lolly Jackson's turn; although his success and triumphs may be considered a tad sleazy the man did drive a Lambo and had the speeding tickets to prove it. Unfortunately his high profile life came to a violent end, the reasons are as yet unclear… however a large cross section of society commemorated the passing of his life… ok, the more giggle worthy bits. The celebration, if you will, of Lolly Jackson was carried out in an increasingly common way, by lampooning the still steaming corpse online. With a name like Lolly, or a surname like Jackson and a profession like owning Teazers, it was a match made in comedy heaven.

Almost any murder is just too much, even though in this case with the reported facts it was probably a logical conclusion to Lolly’s larger than… err life... well, life. Apparently 15 bullets fired into the victim, and a rather humble choice of getaway car from the victim’s extensive collection, followed by a call to confess to the murder (or claim the resultant notoriety, Gianni Versace anyone?) Who could blame the Twitteratti, it was news, it was fresh, it was hashtag worthy and actually it had to be dealt with somehow.

Yes the man was a father, husband and successful business man, allegedly with philanthropic intentions as well which went beyond finding a warm place for women to dance half naked for money. Now that the masses have masticated the topic enough for one night’s entertainment and strange dreams; cooler heads now have a few hours to compose the rest of the hard cold facts for a sober start to the day tomorrow.

It probably doesn’t look good for South Africa in a minor way (which will please the lazy swine who waited for the absolute last minute to get tickets for the World Cup 2010 due to a few more tickets which will probably become available due to this latest brouhaha) however Lolly wasn’t the only person to go down in a violent way today, lets not forget that.

It is a reminder of what lies out there just beyond our computer screens and the information superhighway, and an unfortunate but very relevant high profile reminder to people elected to prevent these sorts of situations that they still have a lot of work to do. So maybe Lolly’s last lapdance for 15 pieces of lead wasn’t in vain.

Music Is

During one pointless summer back in 2003 music stopped being about the moment and started being about the history it made. With the sick ass peeps dragged in from all corners of the globe by Redbull I was experiencing something new musically every single waking hour for better than 6 weeks. Obviously I couldn't cope even though I was pissing Redbull at one point in the wakeful madness. The whole period is one warm glow in my musical memories, nothing too specific... but...

Snippets:-


While in Marvel Street Bar I saw a hot hot Italian woman, turned out to be a one time producer for that now old skool fashion & style show on MTV, Stylissimo (remember that?) It was surreal watching this glamed out gal get down on ALL FOURS at Marvel during a killer moment in an already killer set. Out of nowhere an old bali tried to mount her right there on the floor... then the music switched and everyone regained sanity. I almost tripped over my bottom jaw as I turned to see who was doing this to the peeps on the floor. P Nice... he didn't even crack a smile.


Quote "...It's... it's... it's like he raped his mother or something..." Brandon trying to describe the patently unique way that Markus Wormstorm creates his music.

Upstairs at The Lounge there was a sliver of dance floor, back then anyway, I have no idea what it looks like now... but that doesn't matter. So I overhear some one, who obviously was responsible for the sound there, tell the DJ not to turn up the bass too much. So the DJ nods in response, first track on and the damn floor is vibrating to some murderous drum n bass. The DJ, J Da Flex, obviously doesn't take too kindly to being told what to do when he gets on them decks. Nothing blew that night but it was a scary nice feeling dancing on that floor and feeling it sag rhythmically. Or on numerous occasions feeling my skin vibrating with the bass bin.

Quote "This one if for my grand mother!" Torsten getting me and about three other people to do gangster poses for pictures in the toilets.

I walk in from my bedroom at 6AM to find about seven people gathered around our battered coffee table. These two European journalists suddenly threw down a gang of drugs and proceeded to babble on about how they were shocked at their own greed "because it was sooo cheap!" Cape Town DJ's and artists don't let that shit slide. By the time the Table Mountain cable car opened for its first run up the mountain, the contraband had see flames and peeps were lined up to take in the sights... minus the journalists who allegedly gave up after buying everyone a ticket up the mountain. I went back to my bed, ba peka makgoa.


Quote "..." (utter silence) when I suddenly switched to Swedish in the middle of an interview with Erlend Øye in a glorified spaza shop across the street from Sutra during a live broadcast on Spectrum 91.3 (the Redbull temporary radio station). Dude stepped out into the street and back into the club shaking his head in disbelief thus ending the interview. (Swedish & Norwegian have enough similarities for them to be understandable to both nations)




Quote "... ya know they just ain't gettin it bruv, ya naa meeen?" Tim Westwood whispering aside to me about the confused reacton he got when he played a clip of him in a huge SUV and some party scenes from some random club night in the UK somewhere.


All pics www.redbullmusciacademy.com

Its bigger than... a crush

Minding my own damn business like I do (well... as much as Twitter will allow me to) I came up on (and I love that niggerish phraseology) THIS, I got to say it was with much appreciation that I went through it. A reason to look into the culture of other countries again... OK, Western countries to be more specific. To me the Afripop mag blog update was "The World According to 30 Zimbabweans" Nice, tight, and it made some damn sense. For once it wasn't some peeps bitching about a personified political reality, nor was it some other country gleefully reasserting the "third worldness" of Zimbabwe. Nah man these were world class players doing their damn thing on stages of all kinds in all kinds a places. Aite so Afripop is more about the arts then, say, straight politics, so there wasnt a politician amongst the artists. All the better! At least with really great artists (and I suspect the 30 up on that list fit the bill) you can trust that they don't lie to themselves.

I was pleasantly surprised to find a high school crush up on there, Chipo Chung, daughter of the then Minister of Education of Zimbabwe (Fay Chung) when I was doing hard time at a private boys school over there. My father felt that I needed "toughening up"... I am still wondering what that meant.. err so yeah, anyway... obviously this girl with the Asian persuasion so to speak was different from all the other girls we would get a glimpse of for whatever reason, be it a debate meet at school dance or some rugby meet somewhere. All the boys schools had sister schools that would cheer for them and visa versa; more importantly to stock the school dances with more desirable flesh. Honestly I can't recall ever saying anything intelligent to Chipo, but I do recall a group (can't we call a band of prepubescent boys a "grope" cause that's all that is on their minds 24-7) of us always trying to get a glimpse of this one girl, there were others but hey, you can beat her whole thang.

If only we could have recognised so many things back then... Like the fact that Chipo's mother, Fay, was a no nonsense woman from what I recall, so obviously the daughter was the confident sort, never mind the fact that boys are quite literally pussies at that age. I never saw any negative evidence of it on Chipo, but I know from my boarding school experience being different could be a back handed curse if not an open handed blessing... something that varied from year to year. Girlfriend was just 'aite from where we were crouching. So ya you know if we had recognised a gang of things in the hormone haze of those days... I would be typing a different sort of reminiscence about a girl I didn't ultimately know, and had actually forgot about until today when I discover that she is making a difference much like her other did (and still does) in her day.

Big up Afripop from dredging up a rather pleasant memory in its innocence, big up Chipo not so much for being one of my many frivolous crushes, more for inadvertently making that list "personal" for me and big up life you twisty mofo. I love living this thing.

The Hof (pronounced oaf)

“All culture is dynamic and all human cultures are creative. If all cultures are creative then they are all equivalent - there is no objective, empirical way to measure creativity. How can one culture be superior or better if they are all invention; they're just different that's all.” - The Smiling Lion

This little excerpt from a rather deep (and much longer) lesson about race and colour and all things related is about all I can put out. Long story. Anyway this is all the response I need for some random letter that this false priest of Afrikaners anywhere, Steve Hofmeyr, penned a few weeks ago.

I failed to understand how this guy would sink lower past Malema’s level in direct response to Malema’s entertaining (and yes at times disturbing)points of view. Then Chris Baron from Sunday Times gave this Hofensive Afrikaner an opportunity to make an even greater mockery of himself and boy did The Hof (pronounced ‘oaf’; silent H dontchaknow) go for it.

There is a nice bit of Afrikaans poetry for The Hof; Voetsek jou moer!

Since that is officially off my chest I can move on... faster.

Procrastinistian

Procrastination is a true religion, one with minimal effort on the believer's part... probably why it is so popular.

Believe that! We are still not learning our lessons and yet we are still underachieving to a spectacular level, it fascinates us. And no put away the self help note book, no lessons are gona be taught in this missive. We just wanna show off today...

So Lique is the sweet part of Mirangelique, and Mirangelique is taking shape... All legal, registered with the Tax Man, Company Registration, now working on registering with a market. Not to worry, Mirangelique will do a striptease sometime soon just so you know what its all about.

We got some preliminary logo designs the other day (yes drool, we did) and we have to say Miss Lepang Ferguson is MURDERIN it. It just wouldn't be fair not to show you what we're talking about... we'll let your eyes bleed a little over this.

OK, we're done with showing off, next destination Gettin' Mine. Whoop! Whoop!

To Tweet is Divine

Its been all about twitter recently, so I am having a twipipheny of sorts. Something has become revealed. It is the shared consciousness of faceless personalities. The freedom to really link with a mind irrespective of its flesh and bone sheath. Unfortunately we have a conduit that is quite lifeless, only the interaction makes it seems full of life... the crackberry, laptop, desk top or humble bottom of the range cell phone. The fancier the platform though and one could start to believe that the conduit can take on a life of its own.

Say you are on a much fancier platform then twitter... you know Google Buzz comes to mind... is it not just a striped down Google Wave...? Meanwhile Twitter is a stripped down form of email... and... there we go getting side tracked by the issues beside the issue. So, fancy platforms aside, how ever we may feel about them, the point is we communicate with fewer barriers. The fact that there are hand held devices that facilitate the flow of information means we never need disconnect from the collective consciousness until we are physically asleep... until someone comes up with a way of putting our dreams on the Internet while we sleep... or worse switches off our ability to sleep.

Recently on a little rural trip to see the inheritance the previous generation shall be leaving for the current generation, information about what I was doing was flying thick and fast. Unfortunately it was only a one sided flow of info. New info coming in all the time from out in the field. All text unfortunately but somehow still relevant. The overwhelming realisation of the responsibility about to be placed on our shoulders as the current generation, was made easier by being able to fire off bits of info to minds unseen, yet ready and willing to receive and share the experience. This unseen but very much tangible collective, reachable one text letter at a time offered the same reassurance that some may seek through divine inspiration. That reaching out to the universe for some form of comfort in the form of an answer has become the new religion. As we send that tweet trusting blindly that someone will hear our message... and if I had a blackberry someone would have answered me.

I had lunch

Twitter is a beast. Any kind of beast incredible, intelligent, insightful, informative, instructive, indispensable and any other "in" you can think of. So I met @brownbeads and @sungodess in person. Both were "strangers", @brownbeads less so becasue she had a familiar face, we had definitely been near nodding terms. You know when you can nod at a stranger because you see them so much. I picked up where I left off from the twitter conversations as is my nature, I mean why be a Tweeple and then be a @someoneelse when you meet tweeps in real life. I distinctly got the impression the ladies held back a little. But that's ok. It was only lunch. I am damn sure I was not what they had in mind. But that's OK, I went with no expectations... well other than that @brownbeads was a cutie... turned out she was a real cutie, one with brains, basically she was... is beautiful.

And so we had lunch together... we talked, like you know really talked. None of the innocuous, "Whats the weather like where you come from" jive. We undressed a local business man... OK I did, we trashed one or two people. We lamented this and that. Agreed on a thing or two. One thing is we are officially in a social circle of sorts. We will take steps to widen our other circles to include the three of us... which I dread but you know how it is, you feel you must dilute certain relationships to be able to digest them. And so Andreattah Chuma is about to officially launch herself into the tricky recorded material market. I just tweeted the ladies "@brownbeads & @sungodess what y'all wearing. Lets coordinate 4 this listening thang. I wanna make an entrance like some pimp daddy. Yes? No?" Lets see if they just keep it Tweal. Lunch was a celebration, two scoops! Celebrating Life (yes Gladwinner, you!) Taking it all in. Seeing what 140 characters can add to a person's life and frankly, it was a great celebration.

Twitter makes me realise how dumb I am every day - @sungodess

Yes... but it was a coincidence - @brownbeads (question was, Are your panties also pink? She had on pink shoes, nails, and top... but the toe nails were red... ho figure?)

Now I just have to cull some real life "friends..."

Got to keep it tight in 20turn.