the ramblings of a nutter

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alexpapa @ BusyThumbs — Wed, 21 Sep 2005 16:52:57 +0000

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What I did last summer

alexpapa @ BusyThumbs — Mon, 05 Sep 2005 19:16:20 +0000

I thought I'd regress a bit today and take a trip back a couple of months to where this all began.

Alright, I actually have to go back a few years, back to just before the year 2000 - when we were all about ready to throw our computers away and start hunting food again after Y2k took over. It was around that time that I decided to go back to studying, time for a real qualification this time, a degree. Scary though that, having being out of school for 2 years already and already been working for a couple of months. It was back to the grindstone, and parties of course.

When I arrived for my first day at the campus I picked up my timetable and sauntered around, looking for the best spot to catch some sun and start relaxing a bit. Then I looked at the little piece of paper that defined my next twelve weeks worth of work, no sun for me. My first subject was communication studies.

I had been exposed to this phenomenon, of communication without the use of a cell phone or computer, but it never really made any sense so I thought it might actually be a worthwhile subject. Now to get an idea, I hated English at school. I also hated Afrikaans but that's just because I refused to learn a language I would never need to use at work anyway - doesn't help me that this year I started working on the West Rand. Anyway, English as a subject was pointless to me, I hated reading, I hated poetry, I hated grammar and I most of all hated writing. I remember years of first terms at school, writing a two page essay on "What I did during the holidays". Puke.

So I sat down at the back of the class while the lecturer, as nervous as hell in front of 150 first year students with too much attitude. She tried to control the class and inspire us about the joys of communication and how it will be create the building blocks to our careers. I chuckled and started drawing pictures on my notepad.

I didn't listen at all that lesson. Later that week, however, was the first practical lesson. Our subjects were all split up into lectures of around 150 students, and workshops of about 20. No place to hide in those, so I decided to show a little interest and actually get some work done. The first assignment, and there would be twelve, was to write a single paragraph on a topic that escapes me now. The aim was to create the perfect paragraph describing something or other. So after an hour of writing, editing and reading out aloud the lecturer took our scraps of paper and reviewed them over the following week.

Imagine my shock when mine came back, 85%. The highest mark in the class. And I was the shy guy sitting at the back who no one noticed. The rest of the semester went really well, I did speeches, presentations and persuasion techniques. I scored second highest mark, out of 150 or so students. Only one -bleep- beat me, and I reckon he was sleeping with a number of lecturers at the time anyway. But I'm not bitter.

It was an opening to a new world. I realised that with the little bit of faith in yourself, and of course the faith that someone will care to read or listen to what you have to say - you can move mountains with words.

And things died down. For five years.

At the beginning of this year, I registered with a website that's sole purpose was to create an album of cell phone pictures with short descriptions. And for some reason, when I was writing a description one day of a photo I took in a pub, I didn't stop. I wrote about two pages wort, and it was pretty entertaining. Boring as hell to everyone else, but I laughed every time I read it. Not much has probably changed in fact.

And so it continues, now I write for two websites and have two blogs - so that's four spots on the web where I am just a little bit exposed. I have also had a short story published on an American "e-zine", but I don't like fiction that much anyway.

So why do I write? I guess it's just a hobby, and will hopefully earn me a couple of happy meals in the future, but at the moment it's just something to do. It helps me relax in fact, and gets my mouth back into sync with my brain. I have been known to speak before thinking. Sometimes three weeks before thinking in fact.

So I guess its therapeutic as well, and of course, my spelling has improved. Now I just need to work on punctuation.

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My Wonderful

alexpapa @ BusyThumbs — Mon, 05 Sep 2005 14:44:10 +0000

On Friday, in support of casual day and charity, I dressed up in one piece of a Santa Claus suit. It wasn't anything special, I got the right glove, while the rest of the pieces were shared between the department. The saving grace was that we were at least allowed to wear other clothes as well and considering I have only been working at this company for a couple of weeks I was happy not to bare anything.

It's a strange one though, casual day, seeing as most companies I know are pretty casual in general and almost all have a standard Friday dress-down day anyway. But it's all in the name of good fun and for a good cause, and I got some free food, drinks and a couple of hours away from my computer screen.

The day was a non-event work wise though, and after about 2 hours of actual productive sit down time I left work and made my way to a local hangout near my house. I was meeting my fiance and some of her friends from work, who had a slightly different take on the dress up idea. Kitsch is definitely not cool, but it does turn heads, especially when one girl sitting at our table walked in wearing hot pants and fishnets - I was just thankful that no one made any offers.

And this is where I made my dire mistake of the day. I went out for drinks after work, without any male backup. Well some guys arrived but didn't stay long - they had to leave promptly to steal a fire hydrant, but that is a totally different story.

And there I was, sitting at a table with four girls, listening to a conversation about sex. Not just any sex I soon learnt, though. I also found out that my antics from the previous night had become topic of conversation in a female dominated office for the day and now I was sitting amongst them. Not quite the enemy, but definitely individuals who now knew some of my most sinister secrets and dirty tricks. Well, I say NOW knew, they've probably known for ages.

It's funny how the conversations between men-only and women-only groups differ so much, contrary to what Hollywood will let us believe. Not that I have even the smallest iota of information into the women conversations, I was just given a slightly tipsy sneak-preview of the whole affair. I mean generally guys will gather for the weeks first smoke break early on Monday morning, and the conversation will go something like -

"So, did you?".
"Yep".
"Was it good?.
"Yep".
"Cool".

And that's it, it's all we need to know. In fact, most of the time just the first two lines of dialogue are needed, if the topic comes up at all.

Then we get to the girls, and for the purposes of keeping bandwidth usage to a minimum and not clogging up the servers with pages of dialogue, I will skip out on the conversation. Ok, fine, I have no clue about what they talk about. But, I do know it includes a lot of detail that I would rather be kept private.

So, I sat. I listened. I heard all about vibrators, a variety of toys that will keep any girl in raptures for hours (or minutes), depending on the recharge time. At that stage, I ordered another drink and pretended to listen to the rest of the conversation while making as much noise in my head.

I still can't quite figure out though if I have to be afraid, just a little bit of another player coming into the bedroom and stealing my limelight, someone along the lines of Mr Perfect, Danny The Dolphin, The Rabbit? My mind boggles, but at least I have become the topic of coversation for just one day, I must be doing something right.

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feeling silly

alexpapa @ BusyThumbs — Fri, 02 Sep 2005 12:30:29 +0000

I have always been the type of person who enjoys watching people, from their interactions with each other to the way they portray themselves. In a way, it helps me understand myself and the kind of masks I wear for different people. There are not many people who know all that much about me, and this topic probably least of all.

I have always had a superstitious nature, but I have always kept it in control and never succumbed to the general mass hysteria of certain situations.

For instance, in my sport playing days - when I actually used to play basketball for a team and not once every three months socially - I used to book my shirt number way in advance. It was funny, we all did it in fact, but made up the excuse of copying our favourite, far more professional, and incidentally African American player's number.

I always felt sorry for the one chap in our team who got stuck with number fourteen, as the only famous player he could think of with that number was short, white and had a history of sniffing furniture polish out of season.

Nevertheless we each had our number. I used to go as far as always making a point of defending the player with the same number from the opposing team to make sure he didn't take my good luck away. I guess it comes down to a psychological thing which I will never understand, but I always seemed to play better when I managed to have my own number on my back.

It doesn't stop there either. Often I will get to work and be slightly disappointed when a certain number parking is taken in the morning - it sounds crazy, I know, but I'm not all that normal.

Now the reason why I started thinking about this today is the sheer number of chain letters I have been receiving. They always play on basic human emotions and needs, and almost always tell the heart wrenching story of how Sally (I haven't used her real name of course) didn't send this mail to 10 of her friends and later that day caught her husband cheating on her with her best friend and sister. They have to, of course, also add the story of Jimmy, who after sending the mail to 15 of his friends and colleagues later received a phone call from the girl he had been stalking for three years who declared her undying love there and then and offered to leave her husband for him the very next day.

I have to send some of these out, just because they are so stupid and usually have a funny story (ok, I'm just a little worried sometimes).

And I agree, I am somewhat obsessive compulsive and have to always use the right-most urinal at work (don't ask), but there are definitely limits, and believing that Bill Gates is going to personally deliver your new cell phone after you have sent out an e-mail four hundred times. You have to send it at least five hundred times, otherwise they use DHL.

Anyways, I have sent this story today out to all my friends. One of them, bless his soul, sent out the link to twenty (now thats a lot) friends, and he immediately received a raise and a promotion to Director of his company. All of my other friends either had car accidents during their lunchbreak or were fired on the spot for wasting company resources. Mail me for proof, but are you sure you want to take the risk?

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she's the one

alexpapa @ BusyThumbs — Wed, 31 Aug 2005 13:33:22 +0000

She was sitting at the coffee shop, in the corner, the perfect position to watch the entrance and bask in the sun a little as well.

You could see the confidence in her posture, and the way she presented herself. She was the type of woman who took care of herself and made a point of concentrating on the details. Her hair was impeccable and well taken care of, blow dried just before she left the house, flowing just a bit longer than her shoulders, dark chocolate brown colour.

Her make-up was perfect, they say that a woman should always appear as if she was wearing none, and she was one of the few that managed to pull it off. Her lips were full, dark lipstick accentuated the curves and highlighted the light, greyish colour of her contact lenses.

Her eyes darted around the room. She appeared aloof, but only someone who knew her well would realise that she was taking note of who was around and who was looking back.

The freckles, dotted so slightly on her skin, traced a line from below her neck, down to her cleavage, visible with the low top she was wearing. They gave her a certain sense of innonence.

She was starting to get irritated, she had been waiting for a while now and he was late. Punctuality was important to her, and he had not made a good impression so far, and he was not even there. She was patient though, not often does someone catch her attention the way he had, and she was intrigued.

When he finally walked in, their eyes met immediately. They were both so nervous, that to this day they would probably not remember the first few minutes as they "met" for the first time.

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I'm leaving on a jet plane

alexpapa @ BusyThumbs — Mon, 29 Aug 2005 14:37:19 +0000

Ok, so I used to hate just employment agents and real estate agents, but I have decided to extend my prejudice to include all genre's of "agent".

I have been trying to arrange a honeymoon for January next year, much to my dismay I have realised that the travel agents are as full of rubbish as second hand car salesmen.

Let me start with their advertising. If you are ever reading the Saturday papers and looking through the travel section at the latest selection of enticing specials, always look out for the key word - "from". When a special is advertised at say, "From R5000", what they really mean is that if you only want to fly in, take a photo of the resort, dip a toe in the sea and fly back out the same day, then that price is for you. In these specials, even toilet paper gets added to your bill at the end of the holiday.

Always budget for at least double the price of these specials. But there are other keywords, and I think the real estate agents have been running some secret courses for the travel agents over the years. I have come across the word "rustic" to describe rooms. Rustic, sounds quaint, cutesy, maybe a little bit of work needed on the decor? No, rustic means that your room will be on the outskirts of the local village, probably built on an ancient grave site and you will most likely have to rent a 4x4 to get from your room to the beach.

I don't like to generalise, in fact I hate all those people who generalise. But, I have spoken to quite a number of agencies in the last few weeks, and they all seem to have the same problem, listening. For instance, I am getting married on the 27th January, which I of course tell the agent, and then ask her to work out some deals, make some recommendations and give me a couple of quotes. So I get ONE quote back, to an island I've never heard of, and the departure date is the 26th of January. Now, I usually start off polite, so I ask for the date to be changed. No sir. Unfortunately Oompa Loompa Land airlines only flies on Thursdays. Doesn't quite help me getting married on Friday then does it. My dear, I can see why your parents only paid for a six month diploma, they wanted you out of the house for fear of the gene pool police knocking on the door.

I figured out one way to irritate the travel agents though. These little agencies you see dotted around your local shopping mall, they are just that, agents. The tour operators are the ones who dictate the price and actually provide a real service. I figured this out after asking a few agents for the same quote and getting back exactly the same information. So I started pitting them against each other, asking one if they could beat the other ones price. I figure after a week of this I will get their commission down to a tea bag.

And angry is the word, I was even asked by one agent if I want her to continue quoting or not as her operator had advised her that they have received multiple enquiries for exactly the same package. I informed her on the ways of the Western world and that competition was a natural course of business in these parts. I had to use sign language, though to explain the concept of capitalism, but it started getting quite rude and I was worried about security escorting me out of the mall so I gave up. I have images of her still sitting at her desk, mouth open, staring at the spot where I was standing three days ago, still wondering which planet I have come from.

The Wedding Diary: A man's view

alexpapa @ BusyThumbs — Fri, 26 Aug 2005 14:40:57 +0000

Part 1

I need to go back a bit in time to explain how this all came about. I met the girl of my dreams last year September, well technically August but I'll leave that story for my autobiography. So the girl of my dreams. I know its a cliche to say that, but this time it really is.

We started going out in September. The 28th to be exact, I'm like that with dates, don't worry it will only get more complicated. I asked her out while sitting on her couch, and she said yes, of course. I was surprised to be honest, I always had the doubt that she didn't quite feel the same way about me.

I can't say that our relationship started off like the fairy tales, but there was definitely something there, in between the dodging of vases and trying to stop slammed doors during our first month stint at trying a relationship I had this feeling that I might just be in love with this girl.

Then we broke up.

Strange thing that, short relationships, you just never know where you stand or what went wrong. Well you sort of do, but you don't want to admit it. So we left it at that. A couple of emails, a few tears and the occasional phone call.
Then something strange happened in January. She phoned a local radio station one afternoon tell some kind of story relating to the topic of the day. I heard her, and decided to give her a call. Then things really got out of hand, the emails started up again, the phone calls increased and eventually we saw each other, just before my birthday in February.

And then she came to my birthday party, both of them. We saw each other on Valentine's day, although, it was a singles event and all eight of us were dressed in black in protest of love. I think it was at that stage that the trouble started again. We stopped seeing eye to eye on certain issues and reality came back into play. The Neverland romance was not so surreal anymore. It's a curious thing, how it takes a while to float up the clouds yet how quickly you come crashing down to the ground below.

We didn't stop seeing each other, however. Far from it. We saw each other almost every day, for a couple of months. We fought, we loved each other, and then we fought some more. Over what? A lot of things, mostly insignificant in the grand scheme of things, though, still there.

It was in April that I started honing my reflexes again, my vase dodging had never been better. Then came one strange night, after a couple of us had gone out to a club. I walked her to her car as she had to leave early, and for some reason that I can't quite put my finger on, but do not regret, I kissed her. It was the second first kiss, and it definitely sparked something.

My "sorta-kinda-maybe" girlfriend was driving me mad, or should I rather say the situation was.

We went away on holiday in early May, the two of us and a friend each. We shared a room, we chatted, I made hot chocolate. Things were very weird indeed.

Then we got back from holiday and the stress was unbearable on the two of us. So we did what we knew best, and I dodged another vase. We decided it was not going to work so we stopped talking altogether.

Now concentrate, have a glass of water if you need and take a five minute break. This is where it really gets complicated.

On Saturday morning, I got a phone call, you know who from. She had a plan, and realised she missed me too much. I saw her on Sunday and she revealed all. We knew we both loved each other, so her plan was to take a break, let our heads clear, maybe a month or so. Just to see how we felt after that. I agreed, and walked away.

At that stage I didn't know if I would see her again. All contact was lost. I would wait for her call. Now if I had asked for advice from men's magazines at this stage, I would have probably been told to run, change my phone number and go out and get exceptionally drunk.

I didn't though. On Tuesday I got another call. Caller ID told me that this would be an important one, it was going to be a yes or a no. Now based on the fact that this story is going to be about our wedding, the answer was obvious.

A month later I proposed. I didn't get a "Yes", I got an "of course". Then we drank our pink champagne, real champange I know when to pull out the stops.

Rushing it a bit? Maybe.
Careless? Of course.

So that's the background, and if you think that was stressful, imagine the biggest fairy tale wedding ever on the 27th January 2006.

to be continued...

you are the weakest link

alexpapa @ BusyThumbs — Wed, 24 Aug 2005 17:08:59 +0000

I have been in my new job for almost three weeks now. At the end of this week, it will almost be a month. By my calculations, that means I started looking for a job almost four months ago. For three months, I emailed agencies, sat on the phone, went for interviews and generally showed myself off. That is tiring work.

I eventually found a really good agent, who helped me find the job I am in now. He was efficient, working for an agency with the resources to back him up and get applications out quickly.

There were a couple of agencies who told me they had positions for me, and to this day have not come back for an interview request. I decided not to email them, letting them know that I had found something. Why should I return the Favour that I never got in the first place?

Agencies, and I have bitched about this before, for the most part are the scum under my toes in the shower. They have no interest in helping their applicants find jobs, and are more interested in high commissions structures than customer service. I know this from both sides of the coin, as I have hired and have been hired through agencies.

Today, was the last straw. I received an email from an agency who allegedly found my details on the Internet. My dear, the Internet is a big place, lets start the first email off and be a little more specific. So the jist of the letter was, that they have hundreds of positions, and they would love to help me find a job.

I decided to try my hand at letter writing, and replied with this.

To whom it may concern,

I regret to inform you that your application to have me on your books as a suitable candidate was unsuccessful.

Although, you and your agency met all of the mandatory qualifications and affiliations in order to help me find a job, I must regret that I have already found a position.

I hope that your search brings in great results for candidates and I wish you all the best in your endeavours in the future.

Yours Sincerely

I don't think I am being too sarcastic here. It's just a taste of their own medicine. Besides they are only three weeks and a couple of days too late.

show me your badge

alexpapa @ BusyThumbs — Tue, 23 Aug 2005 20:48:11 +0000

I read today that the Metro Police in Jo'burg are going to be on a blitz again, in order to reduce the deficit of outstanding fines. Fines, being defined as traffic violations consisting of people talking on cell phones while driving, skipped red robots and our long time favourite, speeding. Using the element of surprise, the Metro will set up random road blocks in addition to pulling over suspicious looking drivers and present them with an electronic version of the original arrest warrant. What an "electronic version" means, I have no idea. I can't imagine the Metro being able to operate a jigsaw puzzle, let alone a laptop computer.

Apparently, we as motorists owe the government almost R280m. I can understand why the boys in blue and khaki are upset, that's a fair amount of money that they didn't manage to get in cash at the scene.

It always amazes me how many people I know who have bribed an officer of the law, but that is a different story altogether and I don't feel like even thinking about politics and how corrupt this country has become.

I do, however, have a couple of suggestions as to what they should do with the money, if they manage to actually get some of it paid.

The first thing I would nominate is an obligatory exercise program for all officers. This would include the basics, like running and push-ups, and the occasional sit up when they get really advanced. There is a lot of weight on those asses, and frankly it is costing Joe Public more in annual tyre costs than fines deficits. This is the easy part, the superintendent could start off every mornings briefing with a jog around the block, dangling doughnuts and hot dogs from the back of one of their luxury pick-ups.

As they say, healthy body and healthy mind. The next step would be a little bit of schooling. Just some basic reading and writing skills to start off with. My goal here would be to just get them to be able to spell common surnames and possibly pronounce the intersection where the bush they are hiding behind is situated. A little bit of cross-cultural pronunciation and spelling will be part of phase 2.

Now that we have the basics down, I think we could seriously work on some driving skills. The "do what I say, not what I do" attitude will be replaced with a "I'll stay in my lane if you stay in yours".

And the final module will be a reality check and test. This will involve removing the identity crisis that every TRAFFIC officer thinks that they are John Rambo on a mission to stop the invading forces from stealing our president, when in actual fact they are just here to make sure that everyone gets to work and back safely everyday.

The test will be split into a theory section, comprising of strictly multiple choice questions, while the practical section will involve traffic violations simulated by the use of go-karts and dummies. Just so that we don't offend anyone else.

a thought

alexpapa @ BusyThumbs — Mon, 22 Aug 2005 18:37:34 +0000

Sitting on the back of the truck, biting his nails, watching drivers in their cars fly past him as the foreman drove him towards his house. His was always the last stop of the day.

He was a tall man, out of proportion in a way that his arms and legs didn't quite look like they belonged to his body. He had coarse, dark brown hair, which would probably be a shade lighter if he kept it washed. Although, his eyes matched his hair colour, so dark that the pupils were indistinguishable. His face, dark and wrinkled from the years in the sun and his beard shaven, except for the patches just under his jaw line that he always missed.

He had on his usual work clothes, blue overalls, arms tied around the waist, with only a white vest to protect him from the harsh sun. You could tell he was a labourer his whole life by the strength, clearly visible, in his fore-arms. His hands bore signs of hardship, scars, maybe from fighting, that weren't allowed to heal, across his knuckles and nails which were bitten as far back as his teeth could reach.

He was responsible for making sure that every load of bricks was carried up the ladder, onto the roof of the half-finished house in a suburb who's name so fancy that he couldn't even pronounce it. Years of mundane work had taken their toll. There was no ambition left in his dull eyes, just a robotic "yes sir" attitude which pushed him through the eight hour day.

It was a long drive out of suburbia and into the slum area he grew up in, but he was used to it by now. Two and half hours in the back of that truck everyday, watching the rest of the world go by. Sometimes he would manage to get a little bit of sleep, especially in the mornings as his four hours of sleep at night was never enough. But now, in the middle of summer, the sun was up too early and beating down on him.

He often thought about the lives of the people he saw in traffic, and how they lived. He already knew what kind of houses they lived in. He knew all the details, the types of wood used, the weight of the wall tiles in the kitchen, and the fact that one toilet cost more than four weeks worth of his wages.

He could never comprehend how so much money could be spent on such unnccessary luxuries, especially when he had a family to feed. His house was nothing more than one room. Four walls covered with ageing timber, acting as a roof, which almost completely keept out the summer rains. By now, his wife would be cooking dinner, most probably maize meal, and a small slice of cheese each. They had saved well over the weekend.

She could not find a job, and as much as she wanted to look harder, she did not have any time after caring for the children.

He was almost at home now, he woke up from his light nap after the truck veered onto the dirtroad of his informal suburb. As the truck came to a stop, he grabbed his small bag and jumped out of the back. The truck sped off without a word from the driver at all. He thought again about the people he had been watching in traffic, and although his foreman was rude and didn't even talk to him, at least he had the luxury of being dropped off at his front door everyday.