image.paul.clark.

what is trouble?
Well, Albert and I will discuss this in the 2nd issue,
because, I said so. Albert’s going to write the next one.

This would not have been possible without the brilliant dirty mind of Albert van Zyl.
Thank you to the contributors, who all gave us their material, for FREE.
Anastasya, for her amazing art and illustrations.
Gabi and Dave from ESP, thanks for letting me burn your parking lot so I could shoot my
cover. Kelly, Skinz, Kat, Zeno, Mikey, Ryan, Jacque(I didnt know you were in Running With
Scissors!), Jade and Grethe, are awesome.

Why Rian van Heerden....

I first fell in love with him when he was still part of Tuks FM, and he had a rooftop party on
Menlyn Shopping Centre(featuring Sarongas still! 2001!) and he went on stage and announced
that the only we could only get away with this mad party, cus he has the chief of police in his
VIP room, and I thought, “I like this guy:)”. Thanks for working with two kids on a project you
know nothing about, and the entertaining facebook status updates.

Enjoy.

Paul Clark.
www.paulclark.co.za.

p.s. trouble is young, but will grow strong.

We’ve already planned half of issue 2.
Subscribe.
for letters(incl. hatemail), suggestions, comments, contributions,
anonymous cheque deposits and lawyers letters email us at....

4 troublepost@gmail.com
Adding gum to my shoes before I set off to the mall
is a delicate procedure, later on I wind up at a festival
that makes me feel safe yet I am unaccompanied.
usias tic
Unexpectedly I am being run after by three enth
men with metal poles and I find myself on the run as
though my existence depended on it…leaping on cars,
offer ed
bringing traffic to a standstill and in time bein g
a lift by a female and her son…”just drive!” I utter
e or a
wheezing, sensing as though I’m in a nigh tmar
in
motion picture. The woman and her spawn are not
tions .
the least apprehensive, they don’t even ask ques
Meanwhile I am awkwardly press ed betw een what
possibly wasn’t the tightest backseat I have ever been
you, you
in, not even able to cry out a despaired “than k through the sliding door while loudly announcing
saved my life!”
I get to my home, well the house I exist in, in this
particular vision and I decide to take a bath. The tiles
are a sour pink and I stretch out almost horizontal with
just the section of my bony shoulders out of the wet
breathing steadily and feeling peaceful yet again.
d and
Three Gonubie acquaintances blast in intoxicate
generously take over the undersized area with just
sufficient gap for them to stand up let alone drop
down drunk. I cover myself gigg ling and
asking what on earth they think they’re
doing but not feeling too abashed as
we are brotherly close and they carry
on as if I were part of there saga. The
next instant all three of them are in
the tub, I’m still tremendously
are
bemused and they
contentedly in
Faraway.
We are currently full to capacity in my chalky
indigo Volkswagen retro kombi ready to attend the
festival once again, I’m most likely an hour or so
away from catching up to their plane of inebriation
although indecisive as to whether I’m keen to lose
myself or fearful for my life and my reputation. I
catch a peek to the driver’s seat to see an old school
friend messily mumbling and trying to start up the
car, he looks back at me and beams one of those
smiles one does when you know them so well that
your gut vomits backwards and your core starts
pondering the worst case scenarios. I jump out
“I’m driving, fuck this shit!” Standing speaking to
Justin is difficult and he repeatedly reassures me that
he’s okay…his smile is wider than the Fish River
Canyon and his stability would make Bambi look
like a Rock star. They take off laughing leaving me
in the street feeling like I’m the kakkest person on
the planet and my conversation is as interesting as
sitting in an exam room with another 2 hours to go.
I turned to face the house. It was an uncertain
and confusing hallucination between a
snake and a sort of pit bull that were both
disrupting a small defenceless dark haired
girl. She seemed more or less drugged by
the power of a canine/reptile. She was in a glass
room coiled up so as to try and defend her self
knowing very well that she couldn’t, no matter
how hard she tried. She was completely and utterly
infant against two times two fangs and poison.
The canine was being enticed by a man to keep
at the frail innocence. The cobra was defending
itself from her delayed unsteady movements.
Her attempts at getting up with each strike and
every mauling caused her to collapse in a pile of
humiliation and disadvantage. She was dedicated
to damage.
5
6
 7
title: the kids playground game that never made it
artist: dirty floor aka paul clark
Albert: You are one of South Africa’s most renowned
golfers. Why golf and not rollerblading?
Rian: I have always been attracted to smaller balls.
It is always more difficult to fit big balls into a hole.
Rollerblading used to be fun also, although the blades left a
few unpleasant scars.
Albert: Do you collect anything weird? Like marbles or
comic books...
Rian: Comic books. Especially the early Batman ones from
the 80’s.
Albert: My friend was once on crack and then he said
that South Africa is the closest you will ever get to hell on
earth. Do you agree, or do you think he was on crack or
something?
Rian: It’s probably the crack…or his lack of visits to the
Sudan.
Albert: What is the weirdest (non-
sexual) experience you ever had with a
Albert: What is the
non-fan? longest you have
Rian: I was called a baboon once and
then spent weeks trying to find the ever worked at a
fellow again, to present him with a
lovely book all about baboons. Signed
radio station?
by me of course. I became quite a Rian: I think it was
baboon expert in the process.
Albert: Do you think that the “typical Tuks FM. I worked
Afrikaner” with his blue Hilux (sic)
bakkie and rooi rokkie will ever accept
there for about
gays in this country? four years. Mostly
Rian: Some of them are gay
themselves. Statistics and experience because I was the
have taught us that. So in public
probably not…but ooooo in private…
station manager and
Albert: How does it feel to be punched couldn’t fire myself.
in the face? (Note that this is my first
“how does it feel” question.)
Rian: I haven’t been punched in the face but I have been
slapped a few times. I quite like it on occasion.
Albert: I did my research pretty well and know you are/
were a presenter at OFM. I used “were” because (please
don’t be offended) I know you don’t last long at a station.
What is the longest you have ever worked at a radio station?
Rian: I think it was Tuks FM. I worked there for about
four years. Mostly because I was the station manager and
couldn’t fire myself.
Albert: According to Facebook you are addicted to root
canals. Fact or myth?
Rian: I received help for this addiction thank you very
much. I feel better now…although I do miss the Novocain.
Albert: What are you addicted to on Facebook?
(Masturbation does not count)
Rian: Poking people.
Albert: Why is it that I never see you on my Facebook chat?
Rian: I am with you in thought. And I do hate debates…so
just stay out of them.
Albert: You have reached a lot of fame during your Tuks
DJ days. Why do you think people got offended by your
“controversial statements”?
Rian: People will always be offended by the truth. I have
made it my mission to always try to say exactly what I
think.
Albert: Did you have a happy childhood?
Rian: There were happy times and there were sad times.
Typical South African story thus!
Albert: I used to go to Odds (in Brooklyn mall) a lot. Do
you remember that you once said “Hi” to me? And what
happened to the popular night club?
Rian: I tried to say “Hi” to everybody buying drinks! I sold
Odds because it became too hectic to
run. My lifestyle was also too rock n’
roll. But mostly, I proved my point…
everybody said it cannot be done.
Albert: What does your orgasm face
look like?
Rian: I have no idea….maybe it’s time
to invest in that mirror on the ceiling..
Albert: If you could have sex with
anyone, who would it be and why?
Rian: Probably anyone in the Bel Ami
cast. They’re probably as close as
you can get to the perfect male form.
Afterwards though, I’ll probably get
bored.
Albert: This is a question on behalf
of the tourists: What is the most
conservative South Africans you have
ever encountered? And where can we
find them?
Rian: You will be surprised. Some of
the most conservative people I have met are English and
live in Houghton. These are the people that were furious
when I used the word “crap” on 702.
Albert: Your picture on www.redstartalent.co.za is pretty...
handsome...
What will it cost me to have the famous Rian van Heerden
to MC at my wedding?
Rian: Hey…phone me…I’ll make you a good deal! I’ll
even throw in a dozen jam tertjies if you book early.
Albert: Last question. Please be honest on this one: Have
you ever seen a UFO?
Rian: No…but I think I saw a ghost once...
Catch Rian on “RIAN” Thursday nights on KYKnet.
Rian Presents “Mambo Jumbo”
9
weekdays on OFM, 3pm-6pm.
www.rianvanheerden.com.
I have never really considered myself to be the religious
kind. Being somewhat of an intellectual and an avid
reader who has the tendency to freethinker dangerously,
I find it really hard to get into religion when I am
always confronted with my own personal axiom:
“Is religion not that awkward feeling you get when
someone puts his or her finger up your anus and you
start contemplating whether you should go down on that
person or not?”
As an Atheist by intellect, an Agnostic on file and a
Jew by heritage, I often refer to myself as a “freelance
religious person” when in the company of those
who don’t practise a religion (or a lack of it for that
matter) that starts with “A”. Now the great thing about
freelancing in religion is that it allows you to infiltrate
certain states of mind in order to affiliate with other
human beings without perplexing them. This can be
incredibly useful when picking up transsexual females
or trying to apply for something like a home loan. The
whole concept of freelancing in religion is of greater
significance to me in the fact that you are not bound by
contract, meaning that it is not expected of you to, say
for example, attend certain ceremonies, like Christmas
or Freedom Day, yet certain “unorthodox” behaviour is
justified in the eyes of others.
Unfortunately, being a “freelance religious person” has
its drawbacks. Christmas dinners are dull and you look
kind of stupid when you don’t know the words to folk
songs such as “Silent Night”. Another major drawback
is that co-workers who live with their heads high in the
sky will ask you to join them Wednesday mornings as
they descent on the boardroom to hold hands and pray
for something to safe them as they hit an insecurity
alert. It’s in moments like that that you wish you didn’t
answer “Yes” when asked the previous day by an
abnormally enthusiastic, closet homosexual, wonder
employee: “Are you a Christian, Albert?”
Now excluding a colonoscopy, there is always a
bright side to everything in life. The longer these
prayer sessions last, the harder the directors kick the
boardroom door open as they need to be prompt for
their mid-week progress meetings. Have you ever seen
a rapid wolf descend on a herd of sheep…? I have, and
it makes me smirk.
Now my inability to fall to my knees and clap my
hands while I parrot-talk some kind of tedious rhyme
can best be described as a man dressed up as a donkey,
being involved in a date rape incident, and being on
the receiving end. The man in the donkey suit finds
it enjoyable and problematic at the same time, but
eventually he mumbles to himself, “If self-deceit is as
gay as the day is long, I am not wearing that costume
again.”
But you know what, I am 99% certain that my
upbringing could not possibly have contributed to my
lack of believe, as I was told from a very young age that
only old people die. If I look at my inability to believe
in a deity, I think it is rather a blessing that was provided
to me by either (a) The god I don’t believe in, or (b)
My lack of imagination to take something that doesn’t
exist and making it disappear, then believing that it does
exist.
Now I said that I am 99% sure that my Atheism is not
a result of my upbringing. But 1% of my upbringing
did contribute to the controversial man I am today. I
remember that when I was a little kid I reached a certain
adolescence phase in which I actually believed that I
was MacGyver. I had the hairstyle and the whole kit;
family and friends even called me Albert MacGyver.
That, for me, was a true religious experience as I found
my true self, if only for a year or two. It was around
that time that I saw how my parents detested the church,
but still had the will of heart to drop me and my sister
off for church and Sunday school every week. As I
stood there as a confused and scared nine-year-old,
waving my parents goodbye with my little sister firmly
holding my hand, I wondered why they gave me a can
of Doom, a toy dinosaur and a 30-centimetre piece of
string. I never knew what to do with the toy dinosaur,
so I kept it away in my memory box for future use.
The piece of string and Doom I used when I was
11-years-old. God, I would never forget that day
because it was the first time I touched another man’s
testicles. This just happened to be the nuts of my
Sunday school teacher, Mr Tom Smith. Now he was
like a father figure to me and he had been my Sunday
school teacher since I was in grade one. Now the
incident in which I saw his balls was during a Sunday
school session and we had the usual routine of dropping
our pants and sitting in a circle. Now usually Mr Smith
would stand naked in the middle of the circle and as we
closed our eyes and prayed, he would go around and
give each boy a tender kiss on the penis tip.
11
Now the rule was that no peeping was allowed and
if we would tell our parents, we would go to hell. I
never really found this weird, because our neighbours’
14-year-old daughter, Melissa Roelofse, used to do the
same to me while we watched cartoons behind closed
doors. She used to call it “Intense cleaning of what a
hot bath, soap and our maid can’t clean” and she said
if I would tell my parents, she was going to bite it off
( which was just as bad as going to hell). Years later I
would learn that what she done to me was known as a
blowjob and that Mr Smith…he wasn’t a bad guy; he
just liked kissing young boys’ penises. But hey, don’t
we all like doing that? It’s just too bad that the police
and church officials though otherwise about him. They
found him lying naked on the floor in the middle of a
circle of boys displaying their erect penises. The poor
guy was in tremendous agony and he smelled like
odourless Doom, with one end of a piece of string tied
around his nuts and the other one around his foot.
Just as Germans can’t be trusted with trains and
normality, the kids in my Sunday school
class were also not to be trusted as they
all pointed the finger at me. Later
on when I spilled the beans to
the priest, the police and my
stunned parents, I said that
a man that could talk so
much shit as Mr Smith
would most certainly
be crazy enough to
bite my little dick
off; that was my
reason for quickly
slipping the string
around Mr Smith’s
nuts and foot with great
speed and stealth, and
when he moved on
to kiss the next boy’s
penis…bang! Now I never
got into trouble for that as criminal charges were laid
against the Sunday school teacher and I was dubbed
a local hero for exposing “The sick perversion of the
Christian race”. My parents even swore to never drop
me off at Sunday school again as they feared I might
contract HIV/AIDS, or the Black Man’s Disease as it
was known back in those days.
12
After a complete investigation, the police found
that Tom Smith’s real name was actually Frederick
Kleinnetotten, the leader of the pre-neo-Nazi-
scientology and rightwing Scandinavian collaboration
cult, Die Hintertür zu Jesus. It also turned out that
what the other 12 boys and I learned from Frederick
Kleinnetotten, formerly-known as Mr Smith, in the
last four years was not the prescribed NG Church’s
curriculum, but rather that of the Die Hintertür zu Jesus
cult. Immediately it became clear to my parents why
I had no conscience and the ability to fluently speak a
mixture of Japanese and Swedish, known as German.
It was after the exposure of Frederik Kleinnetotten that
I realised that I was fucked in terms of ever being able
to practise any other religion again. For four years I
have been a dedicated follower of what I thought was
Christianity, but which turned out to be a religion/cult
in which perversion and bestiality was the essence of
spiritual healing and self-enrichment.
At the age of 11, my mind was
fucked and so was my belief. For
most of my teens and young adult
life I was a dedicate Atheist who
criticised Christianity, not because
I hated it or despised it, just because
I didn’t belief in its practise and
through my criticism, other
people could make up their own
minds. It wasn’t until the age
of 25 when I finally mastered the art of
freelancing in religion. After coming out of too
many failed relationships due to “irreconcilable
differences” (usually referring to my Atheism),
I used freelance religion to chat up women
and make them belief that I believed
in whatever they believed
in. I joined a local cell group
who gathered on Mondays and
Thursdays for prayer sessions and Bible
studies. It was during this that I met the love of my
life, Karlien Kleinnetotten. Karlien was a widow whose
husband committed suicide in prison. She was also
20 years my senior. She introduced me to respecting
others’ religion and the famous sex-move, the Tarpit,
which she kind of forced me to perform on her. The
Tarpit wa the final piece of the puzzle of my life. As
Karlien used to lay there on her back with my cum all
over her boobs and a bit of my shit over her navel, I
finally realised why I kept that toy dinosaur my parents
gave me 16 years ago.
 inmusicthismonth
who we loved in ears this month, with no limit on time, date or year...

Mike Politis (MPI) Zeno Petersen

Album: Dub Side of the Moon Album: This Is War
Artist: Easystar Allstars Artist: 30 Seconds to Mars

Dave Skinz Anastasya Eliseeva

Album: Toolroom Knights Album: Hang a flag in a window
Artist: Funkagenda Artist: David Rovics

Kelly NO Kat Trim

Album: Cities Album: Flamejob
Artist: Anberlin Artist: The Cramps

Albert van Zyl Jacque Oldfield

Album: Coaster Album: Nocturama
Artist: NOFX Artist: Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds

Paul Clark Ryan Shub

Album: Neon Handshake Album: Flashmob
Artist: Hell is for Heroes Artist: Vitalic

Rian van Heerden Jade Mitchell (lovejadeheart!)

Album: Frequency Album: Resevoir Dogs
Artist: Overtone Artist: Various

Grethe Koen
Album: Sci Fi Crimes
Artist: Chevelle

13
<<model>>
 image.paul.clark.

image.kim.lostroscio

Kat Trim
+27 84 302 7774
trimmykat@yahoo.com
All images by Lillith Leda (unless otherwise credited).
www.lillithleda.com
www.lillithleda.com/gallery17.htm
 Dave sits and
image.paul.clark.

draws some
parallels and then
compares them...
I am sitting and admiring the irony of a situation
that I have now walked both sides of. On the one
side is a young man discovering/surfing the fringes
of a new music and a new consciousness and
making a statement with the way I dressed and
danced to set myself apart. It’s the way it has been
and will continue to be for years to come. And
now I look at it from the other side and am witness
to a scene within a scene and I can see myself
back then. At first I’m a little upset that such a
mockery could be an evolution of where I’d started
at but after that brief attempt at posturing, I come
to realise they are into something real and social.
Its so rare now-a-days. Sure I may of looked
ridiculous to an outsider then as I convulsed like
a lunatic in an attempt to out-spas the rest of the
loony ward that we called a dancefloor at the time.
But it felt good to be part of something new. We
all go on about the how good the Old Daze were,
but we always fail to capture our flagrant disregard
for other people’s opinion at that stage of our
lives. Call yourself a punk, a metalhead, a coffin
child,a raver, a mod. Call it a growth spurt of the
personality and consciousness.

If you are wondering what the hell I’m on about

go onto our favourite distributor of knowledge and
all things video (i.e youtube) and type in “fidget
dance south africa” and feast your eyes on the
seizure dance that we dub fid-jitsu. The spasmodic
twitches that you are witnessing is forefront of
the dance scene in Jhb. It’s a scene made up of
young local producers like Nick Supply, Kyle
Watson, and duo Pascal and Pearce making music
for local dancefloors all their own age. They dress
differently, dance different and don’t give a fuck,
just like some of us used to. A totally independant
vibrant collection of guys providing inspiration
that look, talk, and live just like their fans do. And
while you might think that this type of behaviour
is unique to our Jhb scene, clear that search bar
and type in Melbourne Shuffle, or Holland Hakkuh
Dance and bear witness to lunacy on three different
continents linked by a common strangeness/sameness.
And it’s not even restricted to our century. I was
watching a doccie on the UK Northern Soul Scene
in 70’s the other day and wouldn’t you believe it?
I saw what can only be described as proto-fidget
steps being performed by hairy guys in tweed suits.
After showing the footage to some coffin dodgers
for authenticity and verification they proclaimed the
dance to look loosely like the Charleston.
And I realised that what it boiled down to, was that
no matter what age you were born in it still felt good
to be part of something that wasn’t necessarily gonna
change the world (though in some cases it did), but
was going to change who you were and sort your own
values from those projected onto you without any
real guidance. It was real. Which leads me to my next
point. I am interested in them because they are part of
something new and real in an association by music. I
see and meet so many people now days who get their
culture from they see around them. Everything’s cool
by proxy. I’m cool because I belong. How many
people do you know actually wear something because
they genuinely like it or because they want someone
to say “OOOOHHHHH what a nice garment!”
Or the people that take their prompts and inspiration
from the spate of bad local television that we get
doused with on a regular basis. An omnibus of
ordinary. Soap Opera scene’s imitating life, and life
imitating Soap Opera scenes. People who’s values are
held by a lofty celebrity ideals. Don’t “Save Darfur”
you’ve never even been there, and couldn’t even point
it out on a map of North Africa...save yourself first.
Bear in mind that I watch what my tv license allows
me to, which if I can find it in own language is a
bunch of crap most days. And I’m sure you don’t
have to speak English,Afrikaans or Zulu for that
matter to agree with that statement. But some days,
just some days a piece of television will air that will
truly disregard and disrespect my intellect, and for
that matter, anyone who is capable of writing their
own name will be offended by the utter banality.
I’d sooner be stuck in Friday rush hour traffic
watching the car in front edge its way millimetre
by millimetre up the N1 all the way to Pretoria. The
same yardstick of yawn can be extended to the some
of the advertising we are exposed to on a regular
basis. Sure the rarer batches are of some substance,
and sometimes will elict the appropriate emotional
responses (and come to think of it I am not akin to
crying during particularly moving buy-me movies,)
but the majority makes me feel like I just watched
my girlfriend get titty-fucked by a clown. I mean
some of the low cost advertising we have to put up
with is just bad. Where is it written that because
something is made with a shoestring budget that it
has to look like a beaten up loafer/slipper? You can
still be witty and artistic and slip under your budget
people, and leave us with some respect for your
clients products. The same can be said of some the
music hitting the airwaves lately, and as we are what
we expose ourselves to, do the playlist committee
live in the South Africa on planet earth? Where do
you draw the line between art and entertainment.
Music is meant to have a message or at the very least
something engaging/alluring about it. Most of what I
hear is just meaningless dribble spouted in time over
some equalling mediocre music. I think Bill Hicks
said it best when being ragged for taking a couple
jabs at the New Kids on the Block “Come on, Bill,
they’re the New Kids. They’re so good and so clean-
cut and they’re such a good image for the children.
Fuck that! When did mediocrity and banality become
a good image for your children? I want my children
to listen to people who fucking rocked! I don’t care
if they died in puddles of their own vomit. I want
someone who plays from his fucking heart!” I think
we can all strive to go out and experience something
real, not something made up to sound pleasant but
something that changes us the way we changed when
we first heard it. It why those classics still bring out
those feelings in us. And why years later we can
listen to Janis, Jimi, John and Jim and associate with
those emotions because they were real artists not just
musicians.
Which leads me back to the beginning, sitting
watching a bunch of kids jump around the dancefloor
like no-one is watching, and thinking “If this is what
kids are now doing to break free of the shackles
projected values on them, what is the next dance
gonna look like?”
Since I’ve used Bill I might as well close off with
Bill. “We live in a world where John Lennon was
murdered and Barry Manilow continues to put out
fucking albums. If you are gonna kill someone, have
some fucking taste. I’ll drive you to Kenny Rodgers’
house.”.
Dave Skinz is a resident DJ at ESP. Plays in a
band. Loves MMA. and PS3. Has a facebook fan
21
page. And is a wordsmith.
www.daveskinz.com
Saving insanity was formed when rhythm guitarist
Kelly was released from the King’s dungeon and
decided that she didn’t hear enough music coming out
from the souls of women, so she raised her mighty
plectrum high in the air and made a call for all who
understood the power that the female musical ability
holds.
A near-by wood nymph, Nicole,
heard her call and, misconstruing
it as a call for those who love
dragonflies, ran towards Kelly.
Saving Insanity was born in the
forest.
Soon a fair young
blacksmith, Lauren,
and a tough but fair
midwife, Tracy, joined
forces with the duo. All
that was left was to find a
singer and a drummer with the
required 5 parts quirkiness to 9
parts hardcore...
Now after the long years of
hunting down the much needed
drummer and singer we found an Asian
party animal with a very STRANGE
obsession with midgets and fat kids eating..
(..who with the help of the wood-nymph,
Nicole, went on a mission to find the Blue
Fairy... the Asian asked
the blue fairy{from
Pinocchio} for
one wish...and she
transformed him into
a hot, leather wearing, drum
playing, GIRL and re-named her
Rikki Brest!!!!!
Then Kelly went searching for some
meaning in her life after hearing about the blue Fairy,
she became very confused... and traveled to the ends
of the earth where all she heard was a beautiful voice..
everywhere..
She followed the voice to a green crystal stuck in a
cliff and began to dig it out.... as it was freed it burst
from her hands in to a green light and where once
there was a stone, stood a beautiful princess! She
introduced herself as Jade and she became the front
line of Saving Insanity!!!
All was well in the land until that dreadful day that
Lauren left us, She had a duty to Canadia..... As their
Ice Queen....The Previous Queen had passed away
*RIP* And Lauren was Whisked away to fulfil her
duty as the new Ice-Queen of Canadia!!!
Before she left she gave us a gift.... being a
blacksmith and all... Lauren Carved us a
sculpture of a maiden and a guitar. We
asked the Blue Fairy [Who we now
keep in the closest] to give her life...
she was quiet and made of steel... but
she she played like a machein!!!!! her
name was Sharne.... and
she lead the band with
her rocking riffs!!!!
Once again SAVING
INSANITY was
complete and ready to
rock your socks!
How Saving Insanity
came about...?
Well we could say that
we all grew up together
and knew each other since
we were little little... But that wouldn’t be
true. Kelly and Nicole met through a mutual
friend and after coming to know that they
both had a passion for music, the search for
the rest of the soon to be
band was on the go!
Over time, members
came, and members
went, but finally
today after struggle
and tears, we have our
now completed band, Saving
Insanity! Being an ALL GIRL band can
be alot more different than an all guy band.
We bicker amongst ourselves now and then, we
sometimes unnoticeably talk about our social lives for
hours on end at BAND PRACTISE but even so, we all
gel incredibly well together and i think that is why we
can say we create unique, melodic music together that
people can enjoy no matter what their musical taste.
For more info on Saving Insanity, band info,
album info, tour anf gig dates, find their facebook
group under the name Saving Insanity.
23
illustration.
anastasya.eliseeva.

24
My wife Jenny and I have two conditional rules in our
three-year-old marriage - once a month I am allowed
to sleep with a hooker and when she is away for
extended periods of time, I am allowed to sleep with our
neighbours’ 18-year-old daughter Nancy Smith. Now the
only conditions about these two rules are that my wife is
never allowed to find out about either the hookers or randy
Nancy.
Being a writer, I spend most of my day at home while my
wife works at some bank (who’s name I am not allowed
to mention) as a consultant. I spend at most about five
months a year really writing; the other months are spent
promoting whatever I have written and mowing the lawn
or something. Depending on my mood and emotional
health, some months or years I simply just take off.
This means that most often I have a lot of time to kill
by practising my hobbies such as growing peaches in
our backyard or bedding Mr and Ms Smiths’ youngest
daughter.
Nancy’s visits used to be a once-a-week thing due to her
possessive boyfriend and her busy schedule as a first-year
medical student, but the weekly visits were fine with me
since I was only fucking her for the experience of her tight
vagina and her fetish to be tied up. Months later when my
wife caught us in bed together for the first time, Nancy
was getting fucked like a dog with her head forced into
the pillow and her hands tied behind her back - a scene my
wife labeled as “barbaric” and “distastefully brutal”.
After about a month of screwing around, Nancy dumped
her possessive boyfriend which meant that we were able
to play on a daily basis. Each morning after my wife left
for work, Nancy would attend her first class of the day
which usually involved biting and bondage. The sweet
“ding dong” sound of the front doorbell ringing while I
laid in bed reading the paper went as well with my coffee
as blasphemy. My first-touch with sunlight for the day
would usually be when I open the door for Nancy. Here
routine - yet irritating and redundant - question of “Is the
lovely wife gone?” would usually be the only words out of
her mouth not dictated through screams. I usually respond
by saying: “I am going to fuck you so hard you are going
to split in half.”
25
Nancy’s daily visits opened up the windows to both
experimentation and wariness. When my wife caught us
for the second time together I was once again entering
Nancy from a rear position. This time the words “In
here” were written on Nancy’s lower back with a black
marker and an arrow was pointing towards her anus -
unlike the previous time, my wife refrained from making
a comment.
My affair with Nancy became the oyster garden for my
inspiration as a writer, but not for my life. Even though
a lot of work was being done behind the typewriter and
behind the 18-year-old sexual prodigy, I kind of became
bored with life. Screwing Nancy behind my wife’s back
was exciting to a certain extend, but I had a bigger lust
for wickedness. At the tender age of 27 I have achieved
tremendous success by means of simply minimising
my workload and maximising my self-confidence and
persistency. But despite all of that, I have simply run
out of ways to enjoy the simple things in life. It started
to feel that every day
I lived and every
single thing I did
was just another
forgettable moment
that has passed. The
more I searched for
excitement the more
erratic my behaviour
became, especially
my new-found habit
of touching myself
while in conversation.
My sudden change
in behaviour and my refusal to go for therapy did raise
some questions among my loved ones, especially my
beloved wife (who won’t learn about my and Nancy’s
affair for another three months). Jenny was starting to
feel guilty and she admitted that due to her long hours at
the office, she was neglecting me. I wasn’t that bothered
by Jenny’s “negligence” because I was too busy fucking
Nancy and maintaining my mini orchard to even notice
that there was a distance growing between me and my
wife. I was however very amused by the irony of the
entire situation since I was convinced that my wife was
having an affair with a co-worker, Michelle Olwagen.
My suspicions of my wife having an extramarital
relationship with a female co-worker didn’t bother me
even the slightest bit; for starters, I was busy fucking a
barely legal teenager on a daily basis and secondly, it’s
26
not like some other guy was putting his fat cock inside
my wife. And even though I have never met or seen
Michelle Olwagen before in my life, I knew someone
very well who knew her very well.
It was a Thursday evening and there wasn’t a cloud in the
sky when I drove through the city on my way back from
a meeting with my publisher. I was waiting for the green
light at a robot when my eye caught two superfine women
standing on the street corner; the one was smoking a
cigarette and the other one was exchanging words with
a distinctive gentleman who looked like a policeman.
Judging by the way the women were dressed and the
quality of the area, the thought that they were hookers
didn’t even pass through my mind - I would rather have
mistaken them for two power-dressed lawyers than
streetlovers. But when they approached my car with a
charismatic “Hey there, you” I knew that they are the
type of women who only accepts cash.
Now I have never
really gone as far as
my brother to actually
sleep with one of the
princesses of twilight,
but it has always been
somewhat of a hidden
desire and definitely in
the top spot of my to-
do list. If this part of
my life had a chapter,
I would have called it:
“Meeting the other end
of the rope”.
Prostitutes have
always been similar to a good movie to me. If a lot of
different people pay money to go see a movie, it is most
certainly a box-office hit. The same goes for a prostitute.
If many different guys, who could rather fuck their wife
or girlfriend, would go so far as to pay a woman to fuck
her, then her box must surely be a hit.
The two prostitutes that approached my car must have
been somewhat of an upper class or new to the business,
because they were too well groomed for a hooker -
especially the way the one’s pubic hair was trimmed into
the shape of a half-moon. The same night I saw the one
prostitute’s moon-shaped pubes, I learned that she does
prostitution as a part-time job and to “watch people act
frail”. I found this absolutely intriguing.
That first night I met my two new friends - Moonflower
and Gothgirl69 - I bought them both. They were so cheap,
it was literally a buy one get one free special. I took them
to a Holiday Inn near my house because it would raise
the minimum amount of suspicion and most importantly,
it was convenient for me. Since I am the type of guy
who has enough confidence in his sexual performance, I
don’t do threesomes or orgies. So when we approached
the elevator, I told Moonflower to kindly wait in the bar
area while I take her friend, Gothgirl69 (which turned out
to be a competitor), to the
hotel room so we could
get things up to business.
After I did both of them
and paid for their drinks
while they waited their turn,
I gave them their money
and assured them that we
would hook up again - I
did, however, only continue
seeing Moonflower.
From there on it became
a regular thing. The sex
I had with the prostitute,
Moonflower, was passionate
and gentle and the sex I
had with Nancy was violent. My wife, who still haven’t
found out about my affairs, kept on working long hours
and I was still convinced that she was sleeping with that
Michelle girl. Now and then my wife would query on
the bite marks and bruises on my body. Once when I
contracted a mysterious rash on my dick (most likely from
Nancy, but it turned out to be Moonflower), I narrowly
escaped being caught out before telling my wife that I got
the rash from her and that she might be suffering from
some fungus on her virginal area (luckily for me, Jenny
just happened to have a fungus on her left lip which she
contracted from Michelle).
It was close encounters like these that made me master
the art of lying to Jenny, usually about the origin of my
injuries. Sometimes I even confused Jenny into believing
that she gave them to me during some sexual brawl.
“Those are your handy work my love,” I would often say
to her before accepting her apology which was usually
followed by a missionary-style fuck. It is when the sex
life you share with your wife is degraded to plain old
missionary style that you know that the spark is gone. But
in the rare times that I did however made passionate love
to my wife, it was usually with anger - not the angry sex
that I had with Nancy, but the type of angry sex that says,
“What the fuck have we done to each other?” Sometimes
Jenny wanted our lovemaking to be soft and gentle; I
preferred thrusting her like I was paying to do so.
The morning my wife caught me with Nancy for the
second time, I thought that it was over for sure. It was
only after an embarrassed Nancy left and my wife and
I sat down at the kitchen table that she confessed to
having an affair. My wife told me that she was suffering
from depression and that the affair was with a female
colleague; she further told me that her lover had decided
to end their eight-month affair
after meeting a man. As I held
my wife I felt her tears running
down my chest - which still
carried the aroma of Nancy’s
pussy - and at that moment I
told her that I only slept with
Nancy three times and that
she caught us two out of the
three times. But whether my
wife believed me or not about
the “three times” I had been
with Nancy, it was the truth
when I told her that I would
never see Nancy again. After
four months with Nancy, we
have literally exhausted our
imaginations and our sexual abilities - there was simply
nothing more humanly possible that we could do in the
bedroom.
After my wife confessed to her affair with Michelle
Olwagen, we didn’t separate. It had absolutely no affect
on our relationship as most people would imagine. We
did however start to have somewhat of a steamier sex
life - Jenny even allowed me to butt-fuck her - and she
also started seeing a therapist to help her deal with her
depression. Jenny and I agreed to work harder at our
marriage, but I wasn’t able to let Moonflower go. With
Nancy out of my life and my wife under the impression
that the holes in our marriage were all patched up, I
was able to continue my affair with the prostitute. One
evening when my wife was out with friends, I invited
moonflower over to our house for the first time. She
told me that due to the feelings she started to have for
me after months of sleeping together, it was no longer
necessary for me to pay her. She sex that followed was
the worst sex I ever had with Moonflower; I guess since
money was no longer involved it just wasn’t the same.
That night was the final straw in my marriage. When
my wife caught me for the third time with another
woman, she did have a comment.
“So this is the jerk you have left me for, Michelle?”
27
illustration.
anastasya.eliseeva.

28
 A.
The gun glistens in the badly lit room. It seems
extraordinarily solid and almost alien. I am terrified
of guns.
I had one held to my head a few times - got to love
this country. I tried to shoot one, many years back.
Didn’t happen. In general – I’ve seen and lived
through a fair share of violence, and it pathologically
terrifies me. This metal object, to me, is a symbol of
pure, faceless violence.
So here I am, in this small dark room, sitting on
the bed. Next to me is a stranger. Through the haze
of wine and fucking - I look at his face. He spells
danger. Partly because he wants to, partly because of
the shape of his brow and dark eyes, partly because
he just took a loaded gun from under his pillow.
I met him in some bar, on one of those ‘’fuck it all’’
nights. He had a sharp tongue, a husky voice and
walked in at the right time. Back in his bedroom I
ripped my clothes off and we fucked to Nouvelle
Vague. What’s interesting is – we didn’t kiss. Just
fucked. He was sick, dark and exciting. Much like
me.
‘’Fuck… is this thing loaded?’’ – My voice, shaky.
He silently shows me the magazine, the bullets.
‘’Of course it’s fucking loaded, bitch.’’
Bitch…
I suddenly feel exceptionally sexy.
I lie back and open my legs. I give him a stare, cold
as the bullet. He understands.
The gun is cold against my cunt, which surprises me
by opening to welcome the hard tip. My cunt is hot,
but the rest of me freezes with terror, as I imagine
the bullets inside and the kind of hole they would rip
through me.
....................................................................................
.....................................................................................
Later he licks my juices of the barrel of the weapon.
This time he pops the magazine out first ‘’Just to be
safe’’. I laugh. I still refuse to hold it.
I feel the end of this ‘’fuck it all’’ night. I gather
my scattered clothing, say casual good byes, and
leave this non-circumstantial room, with the non-
circumstantial man and his gun I just fucked.
I am driving home through the beautiful streets of
town, relieved to be alone. As I try to figure out what
the hell that was all about - I feel a little ill… but not
without a certain sense of achievement. The kind
you get from kicking down your own boundary.
I drive slowly. The street lights are majestic.
This pointless night of boundary-crossing… I figure
I want it to work as some sort of an exorcism.
Whatever it is that I am hiding from in my day to
day life – tonight I faced it, with my mind (and legs)
open.
These nights also leave you a little lost, with a bitter
taste in your mouth. And a small, gun-shaped hole in
29
your heart.
The free album from MPI, called Evolution, reviewed by Ryan Shub.

30 image.paul.clark.
MPI Project is in simple terms; the tangible reconstruction
of the personality of a musical prodigy, an individual with
an acute knowledge for what is electronic music and its
surrounding culture. This individual is none than Mike
Politis, the father of MPI and an astute member of South
Africa’s hedd banger society.
Mike’s roots lie within the breakbeat movement, but his
talents extend through genres such as techno, progressive
aswell minimal and minimal-tech. Mike’s journey to the
top has served as a priceless experience, spanning many
countries, many residencies and of course many big tracks
which have made their fair share of waves in the industry.
Mike’s is renowned for his live production skills as the
impression he made on the Ibiza
club community earlier this year,
will stand the test of time… Mike’s
supremely rare talent is one of his
greatest assets, a skill only mastered
by the best of the best, the O.G.’s of
electronic music production.
Through the culmination of his
musical experience and effortless
ability to produce pure ear pleasure,
Mike has released his first official
album; EVOLUTION, a short yet
meaningful exploration through a
diverse mix of electronic music.
EVOLUTION speaks for itself;
a depiction of raw progress and
a clear message to all listeners; change is inevitable.
This album presents itself as a systematically planned
experiment; Mike’s attempt to push his sound passed his
existing boundaries to the point of no return. I picked up
elements of minimal, minimal-tech, techno, house and, of
course, Mike’s specialty dubstep; a true journey through
contemporary electronica. Mike’s breakbeat love runs
thick within EVOLUTION as hard hitting beats are thrown
from all angles, bound to bomb ear drums alike. MPI’s
experimentation with techno styled tunes is something a bit
distant from his norm; but his perfect execution has allowed
for a swift and smooth transition towards a more versatile
sound.
After taking a couple listens, to EVOLUTION a few tracks
stood out; ‘Pulsate’ caught my ear purely because it shows
Mike’s mastery of the minimal-tech side of things, with its
Ryan Shub plays dubstep, and runs of Dankage Beats.
http://dankage.blogspot.com
http://dankage.blogspot.com/2009/07/welcome-to-our-world.html
Or join the Dankage Beats facebook group.
clean sounding, bubbly beat and
crisp sampling; bound to get those
heads banging.
‘Empire X’ really stood out,
a perfect example of MPI’s
completely unique dubstep sound;
out of the ordinary oscillations,
deep, grindy basslines and
unmatched uplifting vibes.
And finally, a bit of a wild card,
‘Come Alive (feat. Paul Dawson)’
caught my attention as it shows
Mike’s seamless vocal integration
into his new sound.
EVOLUTION is Mike’s
masterpiece, his gift to us all, a true depiction
of pure musical passion.
So now when asked who MPI PROJECT is,
my answer is simple; ‘Its not who MPI is, its
what MPI is… MPI is a symbol of evolution,
the movement towards an immaculate sound…
the sound of S.A. putting the world to shame
with its innovation and fearless approach to the
unknown. South Africa holds little influence
on the world’s electronic music scene, but
when an entity such as MPI stands out so
significantly, it gets me thinking… we’ve got
the best sitting on our door step, we just need
to open our ears a little wider.
Mike all I can say… Respekt…enjoy the
journey mate!
31
 A film, shot, written,
directed, edited
and produced by
Jacque Oldfield.

32
The Dykumentary is a mockumentary based on The film was shot, written, directed, edited and
lesbian stereotypes from A to Z, every letter in the produced by Jacque Oldfield. It was an official
alphabet is a character. It is totally fictional, over selection for the Out In Africa film Festival which
the top and based on the various social, economic took place September this year, and sent overseas to
and cultural circles of the lesbians in South Africa. other festivals in Switzerland and Paris. It sold out
Shot documentary style, each of the 26 characters 3 out of for shows just missing a full house by ten
is interviewed on and off camera in their everyday seats at the final viewing!
environment, be it at work, their place of recreation,
home or in their social life. Ultimately, it’s a taste or a pilot for a series. It will
basically introduce 26 characters which will become
With lesbians we spoke to, everyone seemed to a 26 part series with 24min episodes each episode
laugh when they could relate to or knew someone covering one character’s life.
that fell into one of the categories. Based completely
on stereotypes and over exaggerating the characters The Dykumentary will be released shortly to DVD.
we can laugh at ourselves. For more info go to The Dykumentary facebook
page for the latest updates.
Films which inspired or can be used as references
are Spinal Tap, Drop Dead Gorgeous, Little Britain,
Human Remains and Kenny. Although this film is
culturally relevant to South Africa, we believe it
would be just as effective anywhere in the world, we
also believe that it doesn’t only apply to a lesbian
market but to a straight market too. A real treat for
all you vagiterians.

33
illustration.
anastasya.eliseeva.

34
This is not a story about sex. This is a story about art.
“I should have taken care of that fucking bear a long
time ago.” Those were the last words I heard my dad
said as he drove off in his Mercedes Benz for the
last time. I was 13-years-old when my parents went
through a state of separation (as the child psychiatrist
had put it to me), which soon evolved into my father
going AWOL and then eventually an entertaining
divorce which made war profiteers look like corner-
café Jews and Sarah Palin running for office as
legitimate as butt-fucking a 12-year-old without a
condom. That period of my life is know as “The
Rabbi’s finger tastes like my brother” and it is probably
the best years of my life for several reasons which will
became clearer as you read this. I have quite a bright
memory of that period in my life as it was the first
time that I became bored with the routinely, consistent
ways of human life and even my own lifestyle for
that matter, as I searched for what was known as The
Special People’s Club (Of cause back then I didn’t
know there was something like The Special People’s
Club). So irritated I was with the pure world and the
fact that I was too young to go to strip clubs that I even
started hanging out with our neighbours’ grandson
Brandon.
Now Brandon was three years my senior, an avid TV
game player, a petty thief and a smoker - at least back
in those days it was still a bit rebellious for a 16-year-
old to smoke; these days you wonder what else they
are doing. What I liked most about him, if not the only
thing I liked about him, was that he was an entertainer
and he didn’t even know that he was one. For starters,
he always made himself and those who cared about
him believe that he would quit the smoking when he
reaches the age of 18. When he eventually did turn 18
he didn’t stop smoking, he just switched from Winston
lights to Camel lights.
35
Brandon’s appearances and behaviour was also very
typical, so if you don’t have an imagination, just
imagine Jay from “Jay and Silent Bob”. For those who
do have an imagination, he had the look of the typical
rebellious teen of the mid-nineties – he was at his
prime in an age that paved the way for the mallrat teens
of the 21st century. He always wore a star-studded
earring in his left ear, he dressed like that deceased
rapist from that Seattle grunge band and he had long
hair which was occasionally tied in a ponytail. I think
it’s safe to say he looked like one of the Columbine
killers (Not the handsome one, but the other one).
Brandon often visited his
grandparents who were
really nice pensioners that
lived next door to us in
Paarl. His grandfather drove
a brown ’72 Chevy and I
would never forget the gross
smell of his homemade beer;
Brandon’s grandmother
was… well she was just old
and she once saw me taking
a dump in our backyard, in
the company of a bear, as
she was walking past the
fence. If you would ask
me, I would say that the
real reason why Brandon’s
parents dropped him off
at his grandparents was that they had high hopes that
he might find God or even better, a barber. Now my
friendship with a baffled hippie/metal-head, if there
is really a difference between the two, was strongly
frowned upon by my parents and in quite a sadistic
way, forbidden. But it was never really officially
said to me that I was not allowed to hangout with
the neighbours’ loser houseguest. The message that
Brandon was bad news and a potential negative
influenced was rather passed on to me by means of
code; pretty much like the anti-sex education I received
as a teen/young-adult. “That piece of shit smokes - he
is going to die,” my dad told me on several occasions,
if I remember correctly. “Have he offered you any
cigarettes, Albert? If he did, you are not going to be
able to sleep at night and then you might die.”
I never knew whether my dad was making a joke or
not when he said that smokers are going to die, because
even though I was just 13-years-old, I knew very well
36
that everyone was anyway going to die - I always
said that it’s just a matter of who is lucky enough to
go before the other. Yet every time I would look out
the window and see Brandon having a smoke on his
grandparents’ porch I would feel compelled to indulge
in something different than the quality, yet dull life
I was given to by my parents, who now pretty much
hated each other like leather and concrete. Brandon
never used me like my father used my mother, but I
used Brandon like my mother used my father. Brandon
wasn’t my escape, he was my science project. He
was my steppingstone in my search for what would
one day be The Special
People’s Club. And against
all odds, and popular belief,
my long-haired friend never
touched me inappropriately
as most people would expect
from a character like him,
but he did introduce me to
sniffing Tip-Ex thinners and
spray-paint. Four years later
when I woke up one evening
naked with one half of my
body in the swimming pool,
I realised that inhaling spray-
paint out of a plastic bag is
really not such a good idea;
right there my four-year old
habit of sniffing spray-paint
came to an end before I lost
all my brain cells (Luckily I didn’t become that stupid,
because my IQ is 135. I tested it this morning). But
when Brandon and I occasionally ransacked the local
7 Eleven of its Tip-Ex thinners supplies, I sometimes
felt like I was getting there - if not somewhere, just
anywhere. That was of cause till my grandfather
brought home that stupid bear.
If you ask me, I think it’s illegal to own a black bear in
South Africa, especially if you keep it as a domestic pet
in an open yard with a metre high fence. But that bear
stayed with us for four-month until it escaped and some
farmer shot it dead while it was feasting on ripe grapes
in a nearby vineyard. I still remember the award-
winning front page story in the Paarl Post: “Black bear
mauls local grapes”. That bear was fucking horny
– always running around humping trees and trying
to rape our elderly German shepherd, Sasha – but it
did serve its purpose. The journalist who wrote the
award-winning story, Michael Rabe, was promoted to
editor of the Paarl Post, all thanks to the story he wrote
about our bear. And Michael was a good editor; that
was until the unpleasant rumour arose about Michael
fucking his mother in Dros’ restroom and he was change… For some unexplainable reason the bear’s
ashamedly forced to resign. bizarre horniness was passed on to me. The thought
of it was a bit too superstitious for an intelligent bloke
Now my mom hated that bear and my dad hated it even like me, but the more I thought about it, the more
more. My grandfather didn’t live with us, so it wasn’t sense it made. At the age of 13 I wasn’t that much into
his problem anymore. “Here, you take this bear,” he girls, or could I rather say I was not thinking about
told my dad the day he brought it to our house. “What anal- and double penetration each time I saw a girl
the fuck are we going to do with a bear? It belongs in a hauling her stunning ass in the street. But after that bear
zoo or something!” my dad yelled at his dad. “It’s going left, my sexuality went as primitive as man himself;
to bring you good things, I can feel it,” my grandfather not to mention my masturbation techniques! I was
assured my father. “His name is Rocko.” About a month masturbating to pregnant woman, toilet seats, trees,
after we got Rocko, my father’s sleeping on the couch in feet, flowers, bears, you name it. And another thing
the lounge just became my father not coming home at all that convinced me that Rocko’s horniness was passed
and then he was gone. But it was for the better, because on to me, was that when that farmer found him in his
as soon as my father left my mother stopped crying at vineyard having a go at his grapes, he wasn’t raping
night. Now I liked that bear, but I kind of thought he was them as the Rocko we knew would have done, but he
a pretty useless and stupid thing to have around, not to was busy eating them.
mention his perverted nature (Being named after a porn
star and all). Even Brandon stopped coming over to Over the years my horniness-formely-known-as-
our house because he was too scared of Rocko, but that Rocko’s just became worse and worse, but I never
didn’t bother me because as I said earlier, Brandon was saw it as a curse; I saw it as the road to what would
my science project and he already served his purpose eventually be The Special People’s Club. I was 13, I
in my life. One night after Rocko broke into Brandon’s never even kissed a girl, but I was already a sex addict –
room and tried to rape him in his sleep, Brandon got a lifelong sickness that is, unless you are Cliff Richards,
such a fright that he never came to Paarl again. This not as bad as having cancer. And over the years my
kind of pleased his grandparents which saw him as the horniness was never really truly relieved in the way that
reason for their money disappearing from their wallets. I would have liked it to be relieved – that is obviously
Although the attempted rape case never went further by a female. But the older I got, the bigger my need
than a couple of laughs and giggles, my mother wanted was to hurt other people’s feelings in order to feel
the bear to go. “Here, you do it. It is your bear,” she said better about myself. After years and years of aggressive
as she handed me the shovel. masturbation, simulated sex on life-size teddy bears and
practising the muff-dive on a Subway sandwich, I was
I never had the heart to do Rocko in. It was wrong. Yeah, not nearly there when that day came that I had my first
he was an insanely horny bear, but he was a nice bear. “I sexual experience. I was in my first year of university
am not going to kill Rocko today,” I told my mom every and living in Pretoria, but the first term was over and
time she handed me that shovel. I was visiting my friends in Paarl. We had the crazy
“Albert, poor Sasha practically lives in fear under the idea to drink as much as we can and see who could get
kitchen table of being raped by that stupid bear. So kill alcohol poisoning first. We hit bar after bar; al three
that bear now before it rapes that old bitch or even worse, drinking spots in Paarl. At some point I thought I was
one of the kids that live in the street!” going to die. I had so much Jaggermeifter and talked
But still I didn’t kill that bear and I wasn’t planning on so much bullshit, and I think [I performed oral sex]
doing so, because I knew it served a special purpose in on a stripper at the Shangri-La. Whether I really did
not just our lives, but in other people’s lives. A week perform oral sex on that stripper, no one knows. But
later Sasha died of what we believed was a heart attack. the evidence is haunting and I never regret anything,
The vet, and a good family friend, Karel van Rooyen, because as I lay in my room on Rocko’s warm furcoat,
concluded that it was a fatal panic attack. And the next I thought to myself: “I am finally in The Special
day, four-months after we got that bear, he was gone. We People’s Club.”
all read Michael Rabe’s article the following morning and
pretended as if the entire bear-epic never happened. Ps. Please don’t lecture me on a “dull ending”. This is
not a novel. This is merely an autobiography/narrative
With Brandon, Sasha and my father gone, I was starting piece of writing about my parents’ divorce and that

37
to believe that maybe the bear wasn’t really such a stupid bear we had.
good thing as I first thought. But that was all about to
38
 a note ripped from Grethe Koen’s clutches, with her permission....
OK, so I consider myself a rocker, and love
alternative music like the tap-dancing child I will one
day have. But I have a guilty confession to make...
I love pop music. I love it so much that I want to
roll around in it. I want to rub it over my skin and
swallow it and shit it out again. The more trashy pop
is, the more I love it. The more it reeks of plastic and
fakery the more I want to shove it up my nostrils.
The more booty shaking I see the more I want. The
more money being tossed around on screen the more I
squeal with delight.
I like pop because it’s never had scruples about what
it is. Its shameless industry manufactured music
catering for the masses…it’s called pop because
it’s POPULAR music. It’s not supposed to be niche
or indie or moral or make some kind of deep and
intellectual statement. It’s there to make money.
Pop is what it is; disposable music useful to shake
your ass to, to make you feel stupidly happy and
to sing to in the shower. With lyrics like “lucky my
breasts are small and humble so you don’t confuse
them with mountains” we’re not heading for poet
laureate status here. But if the beat is tight we will
dance all night. And that, my friends, is all that
matters about pop.
Now, if pop is disposable, trashy and shamelessly
sexual in order to sell more records and holds nothing
sacred…then why try being anything less? That is
why this little whore is such an inspiration.
I mean LOOK AT HER. She’s like slut Barbie. It’s
like industry needed a polythene cut-out money horse
and came up with this! She might even have a shlong!
Does she use this rumor shamelessly to gain more
notoriety? YES! And do I care? NO! And if you’re
already that plastic, hell, why not go ALL THE WAY!
I want pop stars to be even MORE shameless, even
MORE provocative, even MORE fake and open
about the fakery that is their music.
Hell, I want their voices so synthesized they’d make
Richard Hawking sound natural. I want them wrapped
in plastic and shitting out money. I want them rolling
around in corporate jizz. I want Enrique Iglesias bent
over and taking it up the ass by his record producer
while he simultaneously chokes out dollars and cents
like poker chips and sings “I can be your Hero.” I
want the Black Eyes Peas dry humping each other
in front of some industry goons while millions stand
around cheering. I want Britney Spears fucking my
television screen. I want it and I want it on my MTV
every second of every day.
The beauty is, when I don’t want to listen to it
anymore, I can just put in my ipod and listen to my
alternative music. That’s what it’s there for…TO BE
AN ALTERNATIVE. Just don’t think it exempts you
from the system or any kind of conformity.
“I hate fucken pop music, and how it makes everyone
dress the same.”
Yeh, we get it, you’re an individual.