Them's Fightin' Words

Return Of The Tiger

slicktiger — Wed, 30 Nov -0001 00:00:00 +0000

The Tiger Returns

slicktiger — Wed, 30 Nov -0001 00:00:00 +0000

In an interstellar burst, I am back to save the universe :) Fuck guys, it's been ages!

Black Keys track upload

slicktiger — Wed, 30 Nov -0001 00:00:00 +0000

[audio http://slicktiger.files.wordpress.com/2010/07/02_-_next_girl_-_brothers.mp3] STP vs Nirvana

Taking Red October to a whole other level

slicktiger — Wed, 30 Nov -0001 00:00:00 +0000

levelI I think that

STP Test

slicktiger — Wed, 30 Nov -0001 00:00:00 +0000

[audio http://slicktiger.files.wordpress.com/2010/07/stp-vs-nirvana.mp3]

Auto Draft

slicktiger — Wed, 30 Nov -0001 00:00:00 +0000

Hello world!

slicktiger — Mon, 28 Sep 2009 14:40:12 +0000

Welcome to Wordpress.com. This is your first post. Edit or delete it and start blogging!

About

slicktiger — Mon, 28 Sep 2009 14:40:12 +0000

When I was a kid, maybe three, I nearly took my finger off when it snagged on the jagged metal edge of a tin of baked beans my mom had opened and told me not to eat. Twenty four years on, not much has changed. I never learned to take good advice, I chose instead to piss caution into the wind, and because of that I've made so many mistakes, I could write an encyclopaedia on How To Fuck Shit Up. But I chose to write this blog instead, it's my attempt at finding my voice as an aspiring writer and sharing some of my life with you, a bunch of complete strangers. I hope it brings you as much joy reading it as it has for me writing it. Keep on truckin' ;) -ST Oh, and if you're trying to get a hold of me / give me free shit I'm at tellthetiger@gmail.com.

tfwheader.jpg

slicktiger — Mon, 28 Sep 2009 14:58:43 +0000

http://slicktiger.files.wordpress.com/2009/09/tfwheader.jpg

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slicktiger — Mon, 28 Sep 2009 15:11:05 +0000

http://slicktiger.files.wordpress.com/2009/09/tfwheader2.jpg

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slicktiger — Mon, 28 Sep 2009 15:15:44 +0000

http://slicktiger.files.wordpress.com/2009/09/tfwheader21.jpg

The Inevitable

slicktiger — Mon, 28 Sep 2009 15:26:43 +0000

You can't fuck with The Inevitable. Like this video I once watched on YouTube of some dumb, ugly drunk chick doing this dance she calls 'the percolater' on a glass table. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IBGPNfJtj_Q You know the stupid bitch is going to fall right through that glass table, slicing herself to ribbons, which makes it all the more hilarious when it actually happens. As an aspiring writer, it's inevitable that sooner or later I'd start a blog, so here it is, and it rocks. It kicks any other blog's ass, it kicks anything in the world's ass, it fucks shit up and it doesn't apologise and it will fuck you up too. And yes, them's fightin' words ;) -ST

Cave

slicktiger — Wed, 30 Sep 2009 05:06:00 +0000

Death by Drinking

slicktiger — Wed, 30 Sep 2009 05:36:36 +0000

If I had to drink myself to death, I thought to myself last night, it would be to Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds. Like my old man used to, I'd unscrew a bottle of cheap and nasty whisky, squash the cap flat between thumb and forefinger and start chugging. But it wouldn't be to Cave's Best Of album (the only album most people seem to have), no. It would be to his 3CD B Sides and Rarities album, cause when he's good, the man's magnificent, but when he's bad, my good god, he's abrasive, relentless, angry - a god with no followers, a dog without a bone, an actor all alone... [caption id="attachment_7" align="alignnone" width="350" caption="In his younger years"][/caption] I've only ever tackled an entire bottle of whisky once and it's not really an experience I ever care to repeat. I woke up in hospital, still drunk, my face aching like nobody's business and specks of what I guessed must have been my own blood on my shirt front. I got up, pulled the curtain around my bed open, put my jacket back on (sleeves ripped at the shoulders, no wallet) and figured I must have been mugged. At the far end of the hospital ward there was a sink and a mirror, I shuffled over there but the person who stared back at me through that mirror, eyes black and filled with blood, face hideously swollen, four stitches holding his upper lip together, that person who stared back at me, grinning a horrible lopsided grin, I swear it wasn't me. It took me three months to piece together what had happened to me, but the general consensus I gathered from friends and people who saw me was that I drank myself into a raving lunatic, some kind of slavering, violent, uncontrollable monster. And it was in this magnificent state that I chose to start a fight with a guy twice my size and his buddy, and needless to say, I got one punch in before the buddy got me in a solid bear hug from behind while the other guy beat the snot out of me. I still laugh when I think back on how it all ended, my friends mopping me up off the pavement, waking me up and driving me to hospital, the doctor and nurses all concerned frowns and sedatives, gentle, patient words. 'Please tell your friend to shut up,' the doctor had to say while he was trying to stitch my lip shut, because all I was saying, over and over again was: 'I'm gonna eat him for breakfast, I'm gonna eat him for breakfast, I'm gonna eat him for breakfast...' And three months later, when the guy who fucked me up walked into the bar / pizza restaraunt where my friends and I worked, that's exactly what I did. Revenge, my friends, is a dish best served cold. -ST

J-Rab

slicktiger — Thu, 01 Oct 2009 04:30:27 +0000

When I think back on it, through the soupy fog of memory, I can see us back at The Union, dancing together on a dance floor packed so full it was a wonder the wooden floors didn't collapse, raining all our drunk asses down into the Day Kaif below. I couldn't have been much older than 18 back then, and I guess you could say I was still pretty green, still putty dough, soft and maleable. And so I found myself dancing with her, the first time I think I'd ever tried dancing with a girl, and even back then I could feel some kind of force drawing us closer, our pheromones so thick in the air you could practically taste them. We kissed for the first time on that rickety old dance floor back in University, surrounded by sweaty, drunk students on a crazy summer night that would change our lives in ways we could never have guessed back then. Later I walked back to her res with her and we spent half an hour outside the front entrance, making out. I remember desperately wanting to get into her res room with her to finish what we had started, but she had reservations. She's a classy lady, she wasn't going to let some random guy she had just met into her room, no matter how powerful our chemistry was. We 'dated' for a grand total of about 2 weeks before I told her I didn't think things were working out. I was retarded back then, full-retard, as opposed to the half-retard I've grown up into. The irony is that I dumped her because after 2 weeks, we hadn't slept together, even though one night she agreed to come back with me to my res room, spent the night sleeping next to me in my tiny single bed and I didn't make a move. Like I said, full-retard. That night I was out at one of the four or five student bars where we used to get fucked up and I saw her across the room. Something swept over me at that moment, seeing her like that, the light catching and reflecting in her fiery red hair, her eyes hazel brown and wild behind her calm smile. I wouldn't realise it until years later, but I loved her from the day I dumped her. I call her Jessica Rabbit, J-Rab for short. What you have just read is only the first chapter of our story, and trust me, it only gets better ;) -ST [caption id="attachment_15" align="alignnone" width="393" caption="Patty-cakes, patty-cakes"][/caption]

J-Rab

slicktiger — Thu, 01 Oct 2009 06:19:57 +0000

J-Rab

slicktiger — Thu, 01 Oct 2009 06:24:03 +0000

Froo froo finger ding-alings

slicktiger — Fri, 02 Oct 2009 04:41:24 +0000

So last night J-Rab, me and some friends went through to this event called Taste of Joburg where you taste a whole bunch of signature dishes from the city's top restaraunts and there's booze there to taste too. I like food, in vast quantities, so I decided to check it out. Also, my company does their PR, so we got free tickets (aahhh, the perks). [caption id="attachment_22" align="alignnone" width="300" caption="A typical froo froo finger ding-aling"][/caption] All in all I enjoyed it. I got to taste some amazing venison like ostrich and warthog and this made me happy because I've got this wierd deep down desire to eat as many different animals as I can before I die and now I can tick warthog off that list - score! It's people like me that ate the Dodo out of existence. [caption id="attachment_23" align="alignnone" width="450" caption="Sorry little buddy, you were just too delicious to ever excel in this world"][/caption] Best thing about the stand where they served the warthog was that at least two of the chefs manning it were very obviously wasted on coke and it was pretty damn funny. The one came to our group to explain every detail of how they prepared the warthog and he was doing really well until he got to the carrots they had included on the plate. His synapses were firing all over the place and as a result he just drew a total blank as he stared in mild panic at the offending carrot. "And the carrots, um, ahh, hm, lemme think, um, the carrots we, huh, where is my brain today? Haha, the carrots are, umm, we, it'll come back to me, the carrots..." Ok Captain Kangaroo, take a minute there buddy, we can do this. [caption id="attachment_24" align="alignnone" width="450" caption="The inevitable outcome of any serious blow addiction. Scary shit"][/caption] There were all kinds of dancers as well, the most impressive of which were a man and woman who were doing that kind of dancing / performance art where they hold each other upside down and back to front and somehow manage to balance themselves in these impossible positions, impressive stuff. After they finished J-Rab and me got onto the stage and started doing our own interpretation of the previous performance, everyone around pissed themselves, that shit is hard, but we definitely nailed it. It was a fun evening all in all, expensive as fuck (J-Rab and me dropped 400 bucks and still went home hungry) but worth it. Which brings us to today, Friday, and the pile of work staring at me from my inbox, making me feel guilty. Better jump in there. -ST

Feeeeed me Seymore

slicktiger — Fri, 02 Oct 2009 06:08:50 +0000

#Fail

slicktiger — Fri, 02 Oct 2009 06:24:50 +0000

Captain, my Captain

slicktiger — Fri, 02 Oct 2009 06:39:16 +0000

Keep hovering for Dave's nipple

slicktiger — Sat, 03 Oct 2009 06:44:09 +0000

Most famous baby EVER!

slicktiger — Sat, 03 Oct 2009 06:51:17 +0000

Are you dead or are you sleeping? Man I sure hope you are dead...

slicktiger — Sat, 03 Oct 2009 06:57:12 +0000

Saturday Lands

slicktiger — Sat, 03 Oct 2009 06:59:21 +0000

I'm writing this in bed, it's 7.50 on a grey Saturday morning and I guess the best song to describe the mood of today so far would be Foo Fighters 'Stranger Things Have Happened'. [caption id="attachment_31" align="alignnone" width="450" caption="Rock stars - hairy and rad (except the dude on the left. He's a douchebag)"][/caption] Dig that song, go find it right now, play that song and you will understand what great tone sounds like. That acoustic guitar is doing everything it should, and the sound of that is so clean and bright, it's like it's playing right inside your head. Something about the sound of a well played guitar sparks off and amazing feeling in me. It happened the first time when I was 11 years old, my mom bought me Nirvana 'Nevermind' for Christmas, and I've never been the same since. [caption id="attachment_32" align="alignnone" width="450" caption="Alright, I'll admit it, it's the naked baby-weiner that did it for me"][/caption] The minute I slipped that cassette tape into my walkman and the first few chords of 'Teen Spirit' ripped through my soft and squishy brain, I knew something incredible was happening to me. In some form or another, that monsterous four-chord riff has been echoing through my life ever since. The notes in those chords gave birth to hundreds of other notes, shredded at inhuman speeds, bludgeoned with viscious rage and strummed, slow and sweet on summer afternoons. I've been haunted by reverb and ripped apart by distortion more times than I could ever count. From time to time, and especially as I get older, I'll listen to other stuff too, my only prerequisite when it comes to music these days is that it be excellent, I don't care what genre it is, if it gets radio play or not, or if the singer is super-model gorgeous. Just give me something I can sink my teeth into, anything. Probably a large part of this blog will be dedicated to music and my pursuit of it. I buy it relentlessly, everything and anything, from either www.mp3panda.com or http://www.legalsounds.com- both nice and cheap MP3 sites. That way if an album is a dud you don't feel like you've been molested in the ass. Here in South Africa CDs are so expensive you feel like you're taking a huge risk everytime you buy one. And so I find myself lying here, wandering what to do with my day. At some point I'll need to get a haircut. I have a dead skunk for a hairstyle right now. [caption id="attachment_33" align="alignnone" width="450" caption="My hair - yeah, it's that bad"][/caption] Later on I'll need to get J-Rab from work (that's why I'm up so early, we share a car and she needs to be at work at 7 every second Saturday and Sunday and she works till 5. It's fucking horrible) but that's about it. Wouldn't mind working on the animated series my buddy Wopna and I are trying to script and storyboard. I can't write anything about it except that it's gonna fucking rock the planet it will be so rad. That is, if Wopna ever gets off his ass and finishes the storyboards. I understand they take time, but we're now more than 6 months in and I think he's sketched 10 shots maybe. Time to mobilise. Same time tomorrow? You bet your ass. -ST

Robert Crumb is fucking cool

slicktiger — Sun, 04 Oct 2009 05:54:56 +0000

Gotta love the Japanese

slicktiger — Sun, 04 Oct 2009 07:31:41 +0000

Didn't see that one comin', didja?

slicktiger — Sun, 04 Oct 2009 07:40:59 +0000

Is that bacon I smell?

slicktiger — Sun, 04 Oct 2009 07:44:56 +0000

Focus on the background... the baaaaccckkkgggrrooouuunnddddd...

slicktiger — Sun, 04 Oct 2009 07:48:30 +0000

Rocking the Gardens

slicktiger — Sun, 04 Oct 2009 07:50:20 +0000

Hoo-wee, Saturday turned out to be, what me and my good friend Robert Crumb like to call: Cu-RAZY POPS! [caption id="attachment_35" align="alignnone" width="400" caption="Chaos Ensues"][/caption] Picking up where we left off from: after my post yesterday I went straight back to sleep, I mean 8.30 on a Saturday morning, c'mon, you would have done the same thing. Three hours later I found myself at my buddy Peggles' flat, drinking really good filter coffee and watching Muse to their thing on the HAARP DVD. Graumpot was there too, getting his dirty paws on Peggles' X-Box games. Peggles, he's a rad dude, but he shows me this documentary he spent his Friday night watching, it's called Capturing the Friedmans and deals with child molestation. I didn't catch the details cause to be honest, there's enough fucked up shit in my head already. I'll definitely add a whole bunch more before I die, but not without at least some self-censorship. I mean, to give you an idea, watch Visitor Q, it's a Japanese movie that deals with domestic abuse, concensual father/daughter incest, necrophilia, heroine, rape and unbelievable amounts of lactation. [caption id="attachment_37" align="alignnone" width="450" caption="This is the movie that is going to win hands down the next time you and some random strangers are having a 'who's seen the most fucked up movie' conversation"][/caption] Yeah, and that's a sunny day at the beach compared to all the other shit in their already. Graum left with Fallout 3 and me and Peggles played darts. I dig darts, it's really just a complicated trick of memory and fine muscle control, neither of which I was really excelling at yesterday. Dart boards always remind me of this one time I was at Peggles' folks place, they have a badass bar downstairs where I've been drinking and getting fucked up at since i was about 13. I don't know how it happened, but another buddy of mine, The Glaze and myself decided it would be fun to take turns throwing darts at one another. Yes, we'd been drinking. So The Glaze spreads his hand out flat, palm down in the middle of the dartboard and looks the other way. I aim as carefully as I can and manage to peg the dart into the wall, about a foot away from The Glaze's hand. Then he throws and nails me right in the webbing between my thumb and forefinger. He threw really softly and the dart only just punctured the skin, then fell out. After that I was justifiably enraged. 'Fuck that shit!' I said, massaging where the dart had hit me, 'round 2 asshole!' And so, being the good sport he is, The Glaze put the same hand back on the dartboard. This time I didn't hold back - that bit earlier about fine motor skills? I used none of them, I just swung my hand like I was throwing a punch and the dart pegged millimeters away from The Glaze's middle finger, it's entire 3cm tip sunk into the cork. Everyone laughed, had that dart been any closer, it would have gone straight through his finger. And so it was with some reluctance that I spread my right hand on the board. I looked away and gritted my teeth, the room went quiet, The Glaze aimed like he never had in his life before, and... BAM! The dart sails through the air and straight into the bone of my second knuckle, where it stuck. 'AAAAAA FUUUCCCCCKKKK!!!' was all I pretty much said, I had to flick my hand really hard to get the dart out and it bled like no tiny hole ever has. Good times :) Pity the scar it left was so tiny - let that be a lesson, don't do something really stupid unless you're at least 70% sure if it goes wrong you'll have a cool scar. [caption id="attachment_38" align="alignnone" width="435" caption="Darts injuries - so not worth it"][/caption] After Peggles destroyed me at darts we headed to this outdoor concert called 'Rocking the Gardens' at the Johannesburg Botanical Gardens to watch a bunch of bands; me Peggles and Pa-ool. It was pretty funny when we first arrived cause while most people got the chilling part of it right (ie, they bought deck chairs and blankets and sun cream and umbrellas) they all either didn't take their own booze (cause yeah, technically it wasn't allowed) or they took bottles and busted by the rent-a-cops at the door. We were smart, we decanted a bottle of Vodka into an empty bottle of mineral water and took 4 litres of Sprite and plastic glasses and they let us straight in. I'm not a huge Vodka fan, but it's the easiest thing to sneak into anywhere. And so we found a patch of grass / dirt in the shade to sit on and started drinking. An hour later had found ourselves a place to invade and were sitting on blankets with Jenna-fuh (my flatmate who was there too) and her buddy [insert name]. It turned out to be a pretty cool day. The sky shifted endlessly, sometimes sunlight broke through the clouds, hot and strong until you felt like you were baking in your own natural juices, then a fluffy cloud would drift by and life would be easy-breezy again. The bands were nothing special and I doubt half the people there were listening anyway. The Black Hotels played a pretty uninspiring set and moped off, 340ml were all chilled out and funky as usual (people seem to like that stuff) and Gang of Instrumentals had a few awesome moments. My favourite were a band called Bed on Bricks, pretty interesting take on rock / funk, I've got both their albums, they're one of the better SA bands playing right now, people just don't know it. Halfway through it all I had to pick up J-Rab from work, but I was pretty relieved to have her with me cause I get restless when I'm out and she's not there to party with me. I just feel guilty cause she's working and having a crap time and I'm drinking and having fun. We got back in time to tuck into the whisky that was going around our little campsite and catch the last couple of bands. At one stage, J-Rab, Peggles' girlfriend (we'll call her PGF until I can think of something better) and me went to get some burgers, not realising that every one of us was totally plastered. The ensuing chaos at the burger stand was like something out of a bad Monty Python skit. [caption id="attachment_39" align="alignnone" width="314" caption="It! Is! A! Dead! Parrot!"][/caption] Burger Guy: What you want? Me: Ok, it's two cheese burgers, um, one chicken burger and one normal burger, I think? PGF, is Peggles having anything? PGF: Yeah I think - J-Rab: Isn't he having a burger? PGF: I think, yeah, he's having one Me: Are you having one? PGF: Yes Me: So what's that? J-Rab: What have you ordered? Burger Guy: What's the order? Me: Sorry dude, shit, ok it's two cheese burgers, um, two, no wait, three normal burgers, um a chicken burger - two chicken burgers? J-Rab: What? Who's the other chicken burger for? PGF: How many is that? Burger Guy: How many normal burgers? Me: Wait, sorry, fuck, shit, how many burgers have you made? J-Rab: It's 5! PGF: It's 6! Burger Guy: It's 4! Dude in queue: FUCK! I'M HUNGRY! Me: FUCK! Doesn't matter, just make it end, please, people hate me, I hate me, here, take my money, babe get the burgers, we're leaving. And that's how I ended up getting everyone except me the wrong order, I just couldn't handle the pressure, I buckled, handling complex mental tasks when you're on the sauce is like trying to play golf underwater. We left not long after the burger incident and J-Rab and I went home to eat left-over curry and watch Lesbian Vampire Killers, which I must say, is actually fucking funny as hell. [caption id="attachment_40" align="alignnone" width="450" caption="Kak funny! Cheesy, but in an awesome B-Grade way, watch it"][/caption] It's done very much in a Sean of the Dead vein, only with lesbian vampires, funny shit. I also bought the new Arctic Monkeys and Pearl Jam albums, but more on that later. Today, I swear I'm getting my haircut. If I can't at least get that right, then this entire weekend will have just added up to kicks and nothing else. Wouldn't be the first one, but I'm 25, not 19, I've got to at least accomplish 1 thing every weekend besides pickling my brain, partying like my life depends on it and sleeping in with J-Rab. Fuck I wish she was here now, perfect day for DVDs, bed and about as much sex as you can handle. Ahh, the good life ;) -ST

The drugs started wearing off...

slicktiger — Mon, 05 Oct 2009 06:16:13 +0000

Off the chain, seriously, this dude is off the chain

slicktiger — Mon, 05 Oct 2009 06:20:31 +0000

What my worst nightmares look like

slicktiger — Mon, 05 Oct 2009 06:27:12 +0000

Hungry little fella

slicktiger — Mon, 05 Oct 2009 06:32:11 +0000

Killer Sunday

slicktiger — Mon, 05 Oct 2009 06:33:21 +0000

Yesterday was definitely a pretty killer day as far as Sundays go. Back in school Sundays always used to depress the shit out of me, especially as it got closer to Monday, but once you start working, every free second you have to yourself is precious. By the time I finished writing up that last post (how epic was that post?!? Fuck, I thought it would never end) it was already about 10 in the morning so I called up my buddy, Ex-Polar Bear Jon because I had to play him one of the best albums I've heard this year. The Ex-Polar Bear and myself love talking shit endlessly about music. Thing about ExBear is that he eatssleepsbreathesshitsloveslives music. He works at ProSound and is one of the best and most badass blues/rock/acoustic grunge guitarists playing in Joburg right now. So he comes over and we make some coffee and roll a few games of Backgammon (NEVER play Backgammon against me, I will destroy you). He plays me his favourite tracks from the new Pearl Jam, pretty good, pretty decent album, but then the gloves come off. I start playing the album I called him over to listen, and it blows his mind, soft and slimey, all over the living room walls. The new Arctic Monkeys album, Humbug, is fucking amazing. Sure, you don't know me very well at this stage and probably you think this is what I say for lots of albums, but I assure you, it's VERY seldom that I'll give an album the accolade of being 'fucking amazing'. [caption id="attachment_47" align="alignnone" width="450" caption="This album does not fuck around. I want it in and around my mouth"][/caption] Tonight I'm gonna try get my lazy ass into gear and write my first album review for this blog, so I can properly explain how happy Humbug makes me on so many different levels, in the meantime, just buy that album, but it now! Once I had thrashed ExBear sufficiently at Backgammon, he left in shame and (drum roll) I actually got my fucking hair cut. Man-o-man, it was WAY overdue. I even feel lighter, like my head weighs less and my body temperature has dropped down a degree or two now that that large, dead animal no longer adorns my head. Things are looking up. I was a little nervous though cause by a slight coincidence, the last time J-Rab got her hair cut, it was by the same lady and without getting into details, J-Rab and I were going through a bit of a rough patch because I had been a total, total jerk. J-Rab told the hairdresser some of the story which was why I half expected to walk out of there looking like a lawnmower had driven over my skull. [caption id="attachment_48" align="alignnone" width="300" caption="No one deserves a haircut this bad. No one."][/caption] I voiced this concern to the hairdresser, but she laughed and said no, she is a professional and as much as I deserve it, she wasn't going to cut my hair and leave me looking like my parents are cousins. After that it was lunch with the folks, same old same old. Our family has no traditions, none. We have no cultural heritage, no specific dress, no music, no art, nothing. We eat lunch. That is how our little tribe (which is only really my folks and me) bonds. Over snooty lunches in snooty restaraunts. The dining dead. I picked up J-Rab after that and brought her sexy little ass home. I love that woman about as passionately as it is humanly possible, she just GETS me, she understands me really, really well, is just really fucking cool. We did the domestics, other stuff too, and afterwards I by mistake called her 'dude-babe'. It was pretty hilarious, as I was leaving the bedroom and I meant to say, 'Fuck babe, I don't think I can feel my legs', but instead I said 'Fuck dude-babe, I um...' [caption id="attachment_49" align="alignnone" width="300" caption="This is what my mind conjurs when I think of a 'dude-babe'. Bleaugh."][/caption] 'Dude-babe?' she said, laughing her ass off. Haha, so funny, I nearly called my girlfriend 'dude'. Freud would have a field day. Actually, first he'd have about four lines of coke, THEN he'd have a field day. We laughed our asses off about that one, but the real gem of the evening happened just as we were about to doze off together. I ask J-Rab if I can tell her a joke, so she says OK, and my joke goes like this: Me: A termite walks into a bar J-Rab: Okay... Me: And asks, 'Where is the bar tender?' Silence. [SFX: Crickets] J-Rab: Yeah? Me: Yeah! That's it, 'Where is the bar tender?' J-Rab: Haha, isn't there more? Me: No babe - A termite walks into a bar and asks, 'Where is the bar tender?' J-Rab: O-kaaayyy... Me: Hahhaa, c'mon babe, think about the words, a termite walks into a bar and asks where is the bar TENDER y'know? Cause he wants to eat it. J-Rab: Um... he wants to eat the bar tender? Me: Hahaha, aaahh babe, you're killing me, hahahahahaha! J-Rab: What? Me: 'Where is the BAR TENDER?' Cause he wants to eat the BAR, cause it's made of wood and he wants to know where it's TENDER, y'know, like soft so he can eat it! We laughed so damn hard about that we both ended up in tears - best. Joke. EVER! [caption id="attachment_50" align="alignnone" width="449" caption="Termites: Funny as fuck"][/caption] I couldn't think of a better way of ending a really killer weekend and as I held J-Rab close and started drifting off I felt so calm and content, my mind clear and happy. And that my friends, is love. -ST

Album Review: Arctic Monkeys - 'Humbug'

slicktiger — Mon, 05 Oct 2009 20:15:29 +0000

Just the fact that I'm actually sitting (ok, lying) down to write this at the end of a long and painful day is testament to how impressed I am by what the boys from Sheffield have whipped out with 'Humbug'.

[caption id="attachment_55" align="alignnone" width="398" caption="Alex Turner - he's 23 and fronts the Arctic Monkeys. What a cool fucker."][/caption] I guess a couple of disclaimers should be mentioned before I launch into this and the first of those is that I am the biggest Queens of the Stone Age fan you will ever have the misfortune of coming across. If a band had to write the soundtrack to my life, you bet your ass it would be QOTSA. They write dirty, sexy drug-fuelled rock music and are the best band currently recording and playing, and yes, that's a fact. So who gives a rat's ass? Well, their frontman Josh Homme co-produced 'Humbug' (along with Simian Mobile Disco producer James Ford, but I know nothing about him, so back to Homme) and even if you've only heard a couple QOTSA songs, you'll recognise his influence the second you hit play. [caption id="attachment_88" align="alignnone" width="637" caption="Josh Homme - Desert Rock God. Way cooler than Christ, even if the big JC could turn water to booze"][/caption] Arctic Monkeys made a name for themselves writing infectious, energetic and surprisingly funny and intelligent indie music that was easy for people to get into. 'Humbug' is a complete departure from that. If you want another 'Favourite Worst Nightmare'-type album, something easy with a slightly poppy flavour, then run screaming now, cause 'Humbug' ain't that album. 'Humbug' is dark and smooth. It's the result of Homme taking a group of young and incredibly talented musicians under his wing and teaching them everything he knows. I'd love to know how the relationship developed. Anyone who heard frontman Alex Turner's side project The Last Shadow Puppets will know he'd already started experimenting with a more velvety vocal tone and darker sound before Homme stepped in, but the results post-Homme are phenomenal. [caption id="attachment_58" align="alignnone" width="324" caption="The Last Shadow Puppets - one of these dudes is Alex Turner, 10 points if you can guess"][/caption] This album saunters into the room, kicking a dust storm up at its heels and calmly murders everyone in the bar. The production is slick and polished, everything happens exactly when and how it should, from the haunting organ pieces to the psychedelic Doors-ish interludes, it is almost instantly recognisable that yes, the boys from Sheffield have grown up. A shit-load. Turner's lyrics are as humourous as ever, only this time around they carry a kind of subtle menace and foreboding that will echo through your head the next time you walk a dark alley home alone. The opening track, 'My Propeller' is just so fucking cool it's scary. Just wait for the main riff to kick in, that's Desert Rock my friends, the tone is unmistakable. But it's Turner's voice that's really gonna blow your mind - he delivers an impressive baritone that flows like mercury and is sexy as hell (not in a gay way, just in a 'Hey man, thought I would say' way). The first single 'Crying Lightning' (Track 2 on the album) has a bass line that snakes it's way into your brain and almost feels like something out of a twisted carnival. Turner's lyrics are at their most evocative on tracks like 'Crying Lightning' - 'Your passtimes consisted of the strange / the twisted and deranged / and I love that little game you had called crying lightning' - beautiful. You know that new Pink single about how 'This used to be a funhouse, but now it's full of evil clowns'? Well, the things that are lurking in the funhouse that is 'Humbug' would eat those 'evil clowns' for breakfast. But it's on track 3 'Dangerous Animals' that the band really starts to flex its new muscle. The song's main riff feels like a track off the QOTSA album 'Lullabies to Paralyse' (in fact a lot of 'Humbug' feels like that, spooky, intense), and yet it's got a lot of the infectiousness of Arctic Monkeys earlier stuff, this is the track you'll find yourself humming in traffic. [caption id="attachment_59" align="alignnone" width="450" caption="Definitely buy this if you dig Humbug"][/caption] Track 5, 'Potion Approaching' takes progressive rock in a completely different direction from anything I've ever heard. It starts with a riff straight from the Nirvana song 'Very Ape' and wanders waaaaayyy out there into the desert as it slides into a down-tempo interlude that smacks of The Doors. From Nirvana to The Doors? Can it be done? It can, and the thing is, it works. The sense of pace and timing on this album is exceptional - they are in no rush to get anywhere, they give the tracks on this album the space they need to breathe comfortably and they make damn sure when their choruses hit, they hit hard. There are too many tracks on this album for me to go through it all, so let it just be said that I cannot fault this album. The Arctic Monkeys have shown huge balls in taking a totally different direction musically and I'll tell you this much for free, the happy-shouty, jumping-up-and-down, radio-friendly audience they used to have are going to drop them like a worm-infested Happy Meal about 2 minutes into this album. But the rest of us, the few thinking, feeling people left who still believe that the primary function of art, and thus music, should always be to challenge us, bend our minds to new ideas and force us to look deeper into our own selves, the rest of us will love the shit out of this album. Final Verdict: 9/10

What a fucking badass

slicktiger — Tue, 06 Oct 2009 05:50:27 +0000

Now THAT'S what I call a Slick Tiger

slicktiger — Tue, 06 Oct 2009 05:58:28 +0000

ca. 2003 --- Singer Josh Homme of Queens of the Stone Age --- Image by © Andrew Macpherson/CORBIS OUTLINE

Only true rockstars can sit like this

slicktiger — Tue, 06 Oct 2009 06:03:44 +0000

This kid is so fucked when that lantern dies...

slicktiger — Tue, 06 Oct 2009 06:32:11 +0000

Umm, you got a little, yeah, right there by your mouth, a little brown stuff, might wanna wipe that...

slicktiger — Tue, 06 Oct 2009 20:03:15 +0000

Rollin Sixes...

slicktiger — Tue, 06 Oct 2009 20:08:56 +0000

J-Rab Takes a Spill

slicktiger — Tue, 06 Oct 2009 20:16:39 +0000

Today was a bit of a suck-ass day, J-Rab called me at about lunchtime in tears cause she took a bad fall at work and her elbow was all chewed up, so I jumped in the Red Baron and missioned off to save her. Now she's lying comatose in bed, they shot her full of Tramel, which is pretty strong stuff and I was jealous as hell. Usually it's me lying there, getting shot full of all manner of tranqs, muscle relaxants, anti-inflamatories and pain killers. I'm a little accident prone. To put it lightly. [caption id="attachment_65" align="alignnone" width="294" caption="Skydiving - easier with a parachute (this isn't me in case you were wondering, just a random injured dude I found on the internet)"][/caption] More than once I've stood in the wreckage around me, wondering how the fuck I'm still alive, praying to god that everyone else is too. I'm a bit of a cynical fucker when it comes to god though. The only god I could ever believe in would be the 'Deus Absconditis' - the god who left, absconded from his throne. He loaded the dice and left the game. [caption id="attachment_66" align="alignnone" width="450" caption="Moments later God left His creation to go fishing"][/caption] Girls are gentle and delicate creatures. I always used to say to J-Rab she had bird's bones, tiny and intricate and she would laugh and protest that she had normal bones like anyone. Thing is, while we were waiting for her x-rays to be read today, I snuck out into the passage and found the doctor who was treating her staring at a PC screen with high-res pics of J-Rab's x-rays. I definitely nailed it all those years back. She does have little bird bones, I saw them. It was really funny cause the doc looking at the x-rays was talking on her cell phone and not really paying attention to what was going on and the minute I saw J-Rab's x-rayed arm I practically shouted, "HAH! BIRD BONES! I KNEW IT!" [caption id="attachment_71" align="alignnone" width="135" caption="J-Rab's X-Ray. I was right all along!"][/caption] The doc stared at me like I was nuts. I wish I could say that was the first time, but doctors have stared at me like that more times than I care to count. Especially on the day I took the biggest and best shit of my life, but that's not really a topic I care to discuss right now, if you're really interested maybe I'll dedicate a post to it another time, your call. Stop looking at me like that. So now I'm making supper, checking my mails and listening to the new Pearl Jam album. I might review it this weekend, doesn't sound too bad, so far it's an improvement on their last self-titled album, pretty stoked about that. Better get back to my steak, it ain't gonna cook itself ;) -ST

Death Metal Bird - Brutal

slicktiger — Tue, 06 Oct 2009 20:35:40 +0000

Hey! You! Off my cloud!

slicktiger — Wed, 07 Oct 2009 12:48:01 +0000

Wolvey finally meets his match

slicktiger — Wed, 07 Oct 2009 12:52:43 +0000

Bright Sunshiney Day

slicktiger — Wed, 07 Oct 2009 12:55:09 +0000

Everytime summer rolls around I get this same old feeling, probably something programmed into my DNA, like life is awesome and like I could just leave this place, this stuffy office and drive until all the buildings melted away. I would head for the coast, find a beautiful beach, sit back and do nothing. [caption id="attachment_75" align="alignnone" width="337" caption="World's best office"][/caption] Back at varsity our digs was way out on the outskirts of town and our back garden was really wild and unkempt except for the dugout, which was a circular hole we dug that formed a tiny, natural ampitheatre. We used to sit there and watch the hummingbirds. We could sit for hours without speaking, kinda dozing in the sun, it was a tiny piece of Shangri-la, our own private Xanadu. Today is a sneaky and dangerous day because there are only three people in the office including me, it's a beautiful day, and chilling to the max seems like a mighty good idea. But no! Instead I'm gonna bust my balls, there's shit that needs doing, emails burning holes in my inbox, aaarrgghhh! The guilt is killing me. Oh, and I promised J-Rab I'd print a retraction about her little bird-bones. She says they are not bird bones, they are adamantium bones because even after the severe impact she sustained in her fall (I forgot to mention in that last post that she slipped and fell while walking down a steel ramp carying a butload of stuff) they still didn't break. [caption id="attachment_76" align="alignnone" width="186" caption="J-Rabs actual skeleton"][/caption] Later masturbators. -ST

Eeeeeaaaassssyyyy does it...

slicktiger — Thu, 08 Oct 2009 06:39:17 +0000

Wooaaaahhhhh Nelly!

slicktiger — Thu, 08 Oct 2009 06:48:21 +0000

Sushi for Breakfast

slicktiger — Thu, 08 Oct 2009 06:50:05 +0000

I can honestly say that you haven't eaten breakfast until you've eaten SUSHI FOR BREAKFAST. I just ate SUSHI FOR BREAKFAST and the delicate and delicious flavours combined with the natural brain-enhancing oils of the fish have pumped me UP TO THE MAX! Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, so go out right now and nail some SUSHI FOR BREAKFAST. You can thank me later. [caption id="attachment_81" align="alignnone" width="450" caption="Sushi for Breakfast - Nom!"][/caption] In other news it's another sunny day here in Joeys and the weekend looms ever closer. Tonight it's my good buddy Jacey-got-the-aceys birthday at a place called Sky Bar. It's a pretty swanky place, but last time I went there it was full of people in their mid-to-late thirties, half of whom seemed to be Jewish. I have nothing against Jewish people, half my family is Jewish, but sometimes it feels like they have something against me. Like this one time way back in varsity I got invited by Peggles to a 21st for one of Peggles' Jewish friends, and I think Pa-ool was there as well. Anyway, the Jewish guy settled on a Rasta theme for his birthday, which we all thought was pretty cool. I figured we'd arrive there and find a whole bunch of bohemian student-types smoking hookah and passing joints around. Boy-o-boy was I wrong. We arrive at the dude's parents house to a party of the most swankily dressed 'Rastas' I've ever seen in my life. Designer Rastas, we called them. And not a hookah or joint to be seen for miles. The girls were pretty smoking hot though, but what very quickly became aparant was that everyone at the party knew each other really, really well, as in, grew up together and EVERYONE was Jewish except for Peggles, Pa-ool and me. Also, I was the only guy there who actually technically wasn't invited. Peggles thought it would be a chilled 21st and I could crash it, no worries. Wrong again. In my defence, I tried my very best to be as polite and sociable as possible, I talked to as many people as possible, introduced myself, made polite conversation, but the whole time I got this feeling like I was not welcome. After I'd put a couple drinks in me I decided fuck this and rolled a massive spliff. Peggles, Pa-ool and I ducked behind some bushes in the garden and proceeded to burn that fucker down, completely oblivious to the fact that the speeches had just started, and more importantly, everyone was gathered, friends and family, down-wind from us. [caption id="attachment_82" align="alignnone" width="450" caption="This was about the size of it... only mine was bigger... (that's what she said)"][/caption] By the time we were through, everyone there hated us. Leppers would have been more popular. It was hilarious - I'd move towards a group of people to try and engage in conversation and the group would almost instantly dissolve and disappear. It was like there was a magnetic field around me making it physically imposible for anyone besides Peggles and Pa-ool to come within 5 feet of me. Haha, good times. So anyway, Sky Bar is the plan for tonight, then tomorrow my buddy Pooperoo is here from England and wants to party so I just gotta find the right place and the right time and it's AWN! I just hope J-Rab is up for it. Her arm is still hurting a lot, but she's a little trooper and I know she's a damn side tougher than she looks. She wouldn't be able to date a maniac like me if she wasn't ;) -ST

newtfwheader.jpg

slicktiger — Thu, 08 Oct 2009 13:20:01 +0000

http://slicktiger.files.wordpress.com/2009/10/newtfwheader.jpg

newtfwheader1.jpg

slicktiger — Thu, 08 Oct 2009 13:34:16 +0000

http://slicktiger.files.wordpress.com/2009/10/newtfwheader1.jpg

Now THAT'S a SlickTiger

slicktiger — Thu, 08 Oct 2009 13:47:18 +0000

ca. 2003 --- Singer Josh Homme of Queens of the Stone Age --- Image by © Andrew Macpherson/CORBIS OUTLINE

Like a giant dildo crushing the sun

slicktiger — Fri, 09 Oct 2009 06:02:21 +0000

Short Story: Killer Beginning

slicktiger — Fri, 09 Oct 2009 06:14:38 +0000

Killer Beginning

Indian cracked his knuckles and lit a smoke. Around him, bodies lay strewn in the aftermath of what he guessed was very probably his latest job. By the look of it, these people had been having some kind of party – over there potato chips and sausage rolls lay in the already congealing blood of Elvis Presley. He’d had the misfortune of falling through the glass coffee table in the center of the room and was sliced to ribbons, but judging by the half of his head that was shot off, Indian guessed he hadn’t felt much. Over there, Cleopatra lay face down in a scattered mess of soil and fern with three wide holes punched through her back. Her whisky glass lay on its side, just out of reach of her outstretched hand, its contents spilt in a way that perfectly illustrated the trajectory of her fall. Only heavy caliber rounds could do that to a person, thought Indian, hope the neighbours didn’t mind. Indian crossed the floor, picking his way carefully through the wreckage and examined himself in a mirror that had somehow survived the onslaught. He was covered in smudges of something green and greasy and was wearing a rubber Richard Nixon mask, which he pulled off and stuffed in his belt. The right side of his face was swelling up something fierce, it hurt when he smiled and his teeth had that chipped feeling like he’d been on the receiving end of a couple of heavy blows. Otherwise it was the same old sallow face staring back at him – heavy bags under watery red eyes, ten o’clock shadow, tinged with shades of grey, various scars he only dimly remembered getting. He rubbed his face, exhaled a heavy lungful of smoke and wondered how much longer it would be before Marco spoke to him through his molar and told him what to do. I’d better count the bodies, thought Indian, and try to find where the hell my gun wound up. Indian lumbered down the passage toward the front door, which was still splintered from where he’d kicked it in. Lying spread-eagled in the entrance-hall with a broken face and two holes in his right lung was Hugh Hefner. He must have let me in, he looks kinda surprised, thought Indian. A little further down the passage Indian found Madonna dead under the table, the pointy cones covering her breasts had come off, revealing almost equally pointy breasts underneath. In the kitchen, Indian found the Incredible Hulk, and knew in an instant this was the man who had roughed him up. The man was lying on his side with a large steak knife protruding from his throat. He’d painted his entire upper body green and was naked except for a pair of tattered purple pants. He was a handsome man, and looked like he’d been carved out of a six and a half foot tall block of granite. Indian found himself staring at the man for a long time. Some guys had the best luck on the planet, this guy looked like one of them, a prime specimen, grade-A stock. Indian imagined this guy’s entire life, from the private school where he’d been captain of the rugby team to the beautiful, popular, teenage princess he’d lost his virginity to in the back of his Dad’s 4x4. Indian pictured this man’s mansion of a house, his corporate three-piece suits and polished leather shoes, his mahogany desk and emerald green lawyer’s lamp. He had a trophy wife who got wasted every night on expensive Champaign and industrial strength tranqs, and a horde of little brats who were spoilt and rotten to the core. This guy had his life handed to him on a platter, he thought, but he was wrong. Had he looked closer, Indian would have noticed the scars in the places where the green body paint had come off, and the darker patches of green which hid tattoos. Indian left the kitchen without giving it another thought, but had he looked closer, he would have noticed that the real monster lay underneath the paint. Outside, a balmy summer wind breezed its way through the open bushveld that surrounded the property on all sides. The sky was silver with consolations and galaxies that Indian could never remember the names of. I must be miles away from civilization, he thought, guess I won’t have to worry about those neighbours. The patio extended to a pool of gargantuan proportions in the middle of which a dark-haired woman floated in a fuchsia halo. She was naked, and after staring at her while he lit another smoke, curiosity got the better of Indian. He fetched a pool pole, hooked the brush end under her arm and pulled her toward him. She was an exceptional kind of beautiful. He laid her out on the bricks by the pool and finished his cigarette, staring unashamedly at her naked body. He wondered what kind of person she had been, how she had moved, what her voice sounded like, if she had kids. She looked like she was in her late twenties and though her body was a work of art, it was her face upon which Indian’s eyes rested. It was gentle, and there was a warmth to it, a luster that lingered even in death. Indian imagined her smile, in his mind he saw her face brighten and her eyes light up and the thought of it made him smile even though his face hurt. Back inside the house, Indian was rummaging through the kitchen to find something to eat when he heard what sounded like footsteps upstairs. He pulled the steak knife from The Incredible Hulk’s throat and cautiously mounted the staircase. Halfway up, James Bond was lying with his one hand blown off and his insides clutched desperately in the other and in the passage upstairs, Marilyn Monroe lay in a crumpled heap with her wig half-off and a gaping hole where her heart used to be. Indian scanned the passage; to his right it branched out to a bathroom and an adjacent bedroom, to his left it ended in a master bedroom where he was pretty sure the sound had come from. He moved soundlessly down the passage, his knuckles fading to white as he tightened his grip on the steak knife and focused on keeping his breathing deep and even. He checked the on-suite bathroom first and found Johnny Cash slumped on the john. He was wide-eyed and his head dangled precariously from the few sinews that still held it attached to the rest of him. Next to the startled corpse was his driver’s license and three thick lines of cocaine. Hmm, thought Indian and dipped a finger in the blow. It tasted good, it was definitely cut with something, probably speed, but not too much. Indian rifled through Johnny Cashes pockets for his wallet and fished out a twenty rand note. Someone had written ‘32 B/More 22h00’ on it in pencil. Indian scratched his head, something about this note was familiar. He plunged into the stagnant quagmire of his mind and trawled the soupy mess of his memory, but as usual, came out with nothing but a handful of slime. His thoughts were interrupted by the unmistakable sound of a wire coat hanger rattling lightly in the master bedroom. His heart lurched in his chest and he felt the flush of his blood rising. He quietly left the bathroom and crossed the master bedroom to the closet against the far wall. His reflection in the full-length closet mirror was fierce and dark. He looked every inch a killer; the cold glint in his eyes matched the moonlight sparking off the steak knife as he readied himself to gut whatever was in the closet. His fingers crept into the steel groove used to slide the cupboard door open. Outside, the wind suddenly dropped and died. Indian took his cue. In one furious motion he swept the cupboard open, swore loudly, swept it shut and dived to the floor. Indian rolled backward out the master bedroom and slammed the door shut behind him. He slumped against the door and slowly sank to his haunches, breathing heavily. He lit another smoke and tried to think what to do. Fuck, he thought, fuckfuckfuck. A familiar screeching reverberation tore him from his thoughts as Marko made contact. “Marko?” said Indian. “Polo,” said Marko. “What’s the count?” “Eight, but I might have missed some.” “No, eight is right.” Indian chuckled, “Is that a fact?” “What’s so funny?” “I followed this noise.” “And?” “There’s a girl, looks about eight or nine years old, I found her in the cupboard upstairs.” “Well what the fuck? Kill her!” “Small problem chief.” “What?” “She’s got my gun.” “WHAT!?” “And she just shot me.” (c) Tony Niemeyer 2009

BLASTOFF!

slicktiger — Fri, 09 Oct 2009 06:27:22 +0000

Today we go live. Mission Control counts down the last few seconds while nervous astronauts strapped inside this giant rocket grit their teeth and pray to god that one of the thousand engineers that put this bucket of bolts together didn't make a fuck up. [caption id="attachment_99" align="alignnone" width="600" caption="Ground control to Major Tom..."][/caption] And here I sit, poised at the brink, watching calmly from the comfort of the Mission Control cocktail lounge, sipping a tequilla sunrise and hoping beyond hope that this doesn't blow up in my face. But I'm an optimist. When you've got nothing left to lose, you got everything to gain. So I say let the chips fall where they may, I've hidden in virtual obscurity for too long now, time to wreak some havoc. My name is SlickTiger, this is my fledgling blog site, it will fuck you up and yes, them's fightin' words ;) Happy reading -ST

LOVE ME! LOVE ME! LOVE ME! LOVE ME!

slicktiger — Sat, 10 Oct 2009 16:11:52 +0000

Pretty sure the truth's down there somewhere

slicktiger — Sat, 10 Oct 2009 16:18:32 +0000

Definitely just puked in my mouth a little

slicktiger — Sat, 10 Oct 2009 16:21:14 +0000

Eden minus snake

slicktiger — Sat, 10 Oct 2009 16:26:14 +0000

Textbook

slicktiger — Sat, 10 Oct 2009 16:33:21 +0000

"I was born in this hotel, washing dishes in the sink...

slicktiger — Sat, 10 Oct 2009 16:35:16 +0000

Magazines and free soda. Trying my hardest not to think..." Beck, Whiskeyclone Hotel City 1997.

Roll on Saturday and we're elbows-deep in making sushi. Outside, it's like it's been snowing because this tree in our garden has snowed all these tiny white blossoms everywhere, like this: [caption id="attachment_121" align="alignnone" width="655" caption="Christmas in October"][/caption] Inside, Jenni-fuh's the expert having made her own sushi at least five times before. J-Rab has the book though, the one Exclusive Books sold us, 'Sushi Made Easy', and she's telling me how sushi chefs train for years to perfect their art. First, they start out cooking rice. They do this for a year. Day in day out. Cooking rice until they've got it down to an art. THEN they start their training to make the sushi itself. All this goes through my head as we do the rice and slice cucumbers and the salmon itself and some red peppers and some avocado and some carrots. Trick to sushi is to keep your hands as wet as possible at all times, especially when you're handling the rice. In my head I drift off to last night and memories of what turned into a pretty badass party at Wopna's place. We went in there packing a bottle of Vodka, some lime, soda and ice. As I get older I kinda have to find more and more creative ways to get booze into me, having pretty much worn all the conventional methods out completely. There's only so many mornings you can wake up feeling like a truck hit you before your internal organs start hating you and everything you stand for. Vodka flies low, way under the radar, nice and sweet and easy. Pooperoo came through to the party last night, he's grown this pretty thick and mean beard, I didn't get to hang out with him too much, I was kinda bouncing all over the place talking to one person and then five minutes later, another person. Wopna's dog, this Toy Pom puppy, was happy and healthy again, he's only about 12 weeks old and contracted parvo a week after they got him, this is a disease that kills most puppies in a few days, but this little trooper made it. We call him Rhino. [caption id="attachment_122" align="alignnone" width="655" caption="Rhino - Devourer of Planets"][/caption] Skatter was also there, I haven't seen the guy for about 10 months or so, he lives in Cape Town and is up here for his baby shower. The dude's 24 and will be a dad around February next year. Fuck, Skatter a dad. He's the youngest of four brothers, and the only one to have a kid so far. Anyway, back in the here and now, my buddy Hardcore Iain The Slain Barbarian is g-chatting about how he's digging the blog so far. Hardcore Iain a a killer character. Old-school to the core, the man is a miracle to modern science. If he died, they could find things in his body that could see you through toxically high doses of various poisons and possibly cure AIDS. When I think of him, I think of the BP story. He got pretty low back in varsity, girlfriend trouble coupled with a gripping existential crisis lead him to where most of us go in times of trouble. The bottom of the nearest bottle. [caption id="attachment_112" align="alignnone" width="500" caption="Bloob-bloob-bloob-bloob, aaahhhh."][/caption] On the night in question, he drank at home and then went out boozing clear through to 4 o'clock in the morning, then decided to hit the nearest BP petrol station for some food. Upon arriving, he watched a Hilux bakkie pull in with two huge douchebags and decided he would be their friend. He approached them, introduced himself and told them he wanted to be their friend. He told them he'd always wanted friends as cool as them because they were the coolest people he had ever seen IN HIS LIFE! THE FUCKING MOST AWESOME PEOPLE! Predictably the douchebags made some threatening comments because they failed to see the humour in the situation. You can always rely on douchebags to have a complete sense of humour failure. The key thing here people is that intelligence lends itself to humour, and hence a lack of one leads to a lack of the other. [caption id="attachment_113" align="alignnone" width="580" caption="Hazit charna! How you ma boytjie!?"][/caption] To their credit the douchebags walked away from Hardcore Iain and ignored his relentless and hostile attempts to befriend them. The straw that broke the camels back happened as the douchebags were driving away, when Hardcore Iain ended his conversation with his new friends by shouting, 'Yeah?! Well why don't you go fuck your mothers!" The Hilux screeched to a halt. One of the douchebags stepped calmly out, walked across the parking lot and smoked Hardcore Iain in the face. Fucking hard. The Barbarian sunk to the floor and landed hard in the sitting position and carried on just sitting there, not moving too much or really trying to fight back or even saying anything. The jock hovered for a second, confused, and then got in his Hilux and drove away. And so Hardcore Iain sat there, on his ass, alone, until a mutual buddy who happened to arrive right after it happened helped Hardcore Iain off his arse. The guy's name escapes me competely, but his face is still easy to see in my head. A tall dude. Mathematical and philosophical genius. Liked System of a Down. This guy peeled the Hardcore Iain off the sidewalk and drove him home. We laughed our asses off when he told the story the following day. The good ol' days, hahha. Anyway, back in the real world we're beginning sushi production, so far so good. The first pieces are actually very tasty, also helps that we decided to pair the sushi with Olmeca Black Tequila and have had at least two each so far. Actually, let's make that three... *****TIME PASSES***** Sushi looking good, it's taken us about three hours to make, but like I predicted earlier, we totally nailed it, totally, totally, totally. [caption id="attachment_123" align="alignnone" width="624" caption="Not too shabby Nige"][/caption] *****MORE TIME PASSES***** Have just finished tucking into the three plates of sushi we made and I think I ate so much I'm hallucinating. The rice has expanded to the max inside my stomach and I feel like a giant lump of molten lead slouching on the couch. The Violent Femmes 'Gimme the car' is blaring out over the speakers, Jenni-fuh is writing a long and painful text and J-Rab is making stars out of golden wrapping paper and sticking them up on the walls. Slowly this whole consolation of golden wrapping-paper stars are twinkling into existence on the walls around us. Our sushi was actually really excellent, largely thanks the J-Rab's rice, which was awesome and secretly I ate a whole bunch of it when she wasn't looking just on its own. Ex-Bear might come around a little later, we're supposed to go to another braai tonight with Skatter and Wopna and Peggles and pretty much all the same people from last night, but I'm not keen. I got that feeling like everything I need is right here and that over here, in this moment, life couldn't be better. -ST

Registers a high eight on the 'Chilled' scale

slicktiger — Sat, 10 Oct 2009 16:40:16 +0000

Registering a high 8 on the 'chilled' scale

slicktiger — Sat, 10 Oct 2009 16:48:11 +0000

Registering a high 8 on the 'chilled' scale

slicktiger — Sat, 10 Oct 2009 16:50:01 +0000

LOVE ME LOVE ME LOVE ME LOVE ME!!

slicktiger — Sat, 10 Oct 2009 16:51:57 +0000

Textbook

slicktiger — Sat, 10 Oct 2009 16:54:10 +0000

An orange

slicktiger — Sun, 11 Oct 2009 07:14:04 +0000

An orange

slicktiger — Sun, 11 Oct 2009 07:16:34 +0000

An Orange

slicktiger — Sun, 11 Oct 2009 07:23:36 +0000

I can see my house from up here

slicktiger — Sun, 11 Oct 2009 07:25:10 +0000

Mars Landing

slicktiger — Sun, 11 Oct 2009 07:26:54 +0000

I pick my way through to the lounge, shuffling painfully, feeling achey and lousy. The lounge is a small battlefield of empty bottles, overflowing ashtrays, dirty sushi plates, an empty ice cream conatiner that it looks like someone licked clean, a bottle of Olmeca Black two thirds empty and a whole mess of wrapping paper cut offs, prestic, scissors and what looks like glue lying on the floor. The wall is COVERED in gold wrapping-paper stars, an entire constellation, complete with a rad UFO and not-so-rad round alien guy that I think Jenni-fuh made. Mission control, I think we have landed on Mars. [caption id="attachment_129" align="alignnone" width="436" caption="My Lounge - habitable? God knows"][/caption] Yesterday was so excessive it was a notch below a full bachanalia. We drank another bottle of Vodka flat, we drank about two six packs of beer, we drank my favourite whiskey, Red Breast (you can't buy it here, Pooperoo brought it back from duty free in Heathrow. It is the best whiskey I've ever tasted) we ate about five plates full of sushi and at least two helpings each of crab salad and a whole tub of ice cream. Short of the three of us ending it in bed, it was about as hedonistic as you can get. We indulged, we over-indulged and then we over-indulged some more. Various other characters made cameo appearances, including Graumpot, his lady and even The Glaze. His reaction was he arrived was the best. He walked into our flat and asked me what the hell was going on. I said we were all just chilling out, making stars and stuff. He asked me if I was starting some kind of weird cult, I said "Sure, why not?" [caption id="attachment_130" align="alignnone" width="400" caption="Cult leaders - never a good idea"][/caption] We ended it all with Superbad, which I'd seen twice before and passed out about 20 minutes into. Last thing I remember was lying there on the couch, stuffed completely, holding J-Rab, warm and drunk. That's what weekends were made for. Now today I think we're all gonna take it as easy as possible, get right and rested for tomorrow. At some stage we're gonna have to straighten out the flat. For now though, I'm going the hell back to sleep, my duty for the day is done :) -ST

Best day EVER!

slicktiger — Mon, 12 Oct 2009 06:35:13 +0000

Atta boy!

slicktiger — Mon, 12 Oct 2009 06:41:31 +0000

Hooo-weeee!

slicktiger — Mon, 12 Oct 2009 06:44:17 +0000

Pornos, anyone can make em these days

slicktiger — Mon, 12 Oct 2009 06:47:15 +0000

Bob had bitchtits

slicktiger — Mon, 12 Oct 2009 06:59:44 +0000

Have I told you about my condition?

slicktiger — Mon, 12 Oct 2009 07:01:12 +0000

Chuck Barris is a God

slicktiger — Mon, 12 Oct 2009 07:02:43 +0000

Worst Kind of Monday

slicktiger — Mon, 12 Oct 2009 07:05:08 +0000

The worst kind of Monday is a Monday like today. Outside it's grey and rainy and unfriendly and dark. Looking outside right now is like looking at my bank statements 3 weeks into the month. You kind of sigh with resignation because there's nothing you can really do except endure. [caption id="attachment_139" align="alignnone" width="576" caption="Go straight back to bed. Do not pass go. Do not collect 200"][/caption] The best kind of Monday is a Monday like today, when you can stay the fuck in bed. That was impressive, check that out, italics, it's taken me two weeks of blogging to figure that out. Fuck, I'm smart. Right now, in a perfet world, I'm doing this, writing like I am now, exept I'm still in bed and I'm getting paid a shitload for it. That's the goal people. I've always suspected that if I stuck with writing, really worked hard at it, relentlessly, I could end up doing something pretty sweet. This blog is my attempt at sticking to a writing routine, no harm in that right? But for the sake of my readers, I've decided to add a 'Character Bios' page to the site. That way I'll make it so you can just click a hyperlink whenever someone is mentioned, click that person's name and get a rad bio of that character. That way we all get to know one another in a close, intimate way and we become pals for life. I'll try add the first one tonight and then add one a day until everyone's up there. After that post yesterday I didn't go back to sleep, I decided instead to tidy the entire flat with lots of encouraging words but not much physical effort from Jenni-fuh. J-Rab had to go to the airport to meet up with her cousin who was in transit for a few hours, so I figured I'd use the time to straighten things up and do some scripting. I'm scripting an animated TV show, I don't wanna give too many details over the interwebs where people can steal it and stuff, but Wopna and I decided a few months back that we were going to combine his skills as a designer and animator and mine as a writer to make the pilot episode of an animated series. We scripted the pilot and it turned out pretty good I thought, pretty funny. This took us about 2 months. Then after that Wopna started the storyboarding, and so far he's sketched out about 8 shots in four months and has made it all the way to page 2 of the 33 page script. Frustrates the fuck out of me. What we've got is so good, it has so much fucking potential and we work really, really fucking well together creatively, probably the best I've ever worked with someone else, but since we've hit the storyboarding part of our project, NOTHING has happened. It's a repeating pattern in my life. That's also why this blog is important, it's something I can do by myself, I don't have to rely on a goddamn soul and that's why it's going to succeed where everything else I've tried so far has failed. [caption id="attachment_140" align="alignnone" width="622" caption="Tarddog in action"][/caption] So anyway, I did get some scripting done yesterday for the episode after the pilot (episode 1? episode 2?) but wasn't that happy with it. Mostly I was just going through the motions, just putting words to paper. The magic, in most cases, is in the editing and re-editing and re-re-editing of your work. The first draft is just a way of getting it all out, a lump of raw creativity, only after you've done that can you start to whittle it down to something you actually like. I studied English at varsity for four years and got my honours, and a side-effect of studying and analysing and criticising so many novels is that I am seriously cirtical of anything I put down. It has to be perfect, it has to move me in some direction, otherwise I hate it and want to tear it up and burn it. We ended yesterday in the coolest possible way by veging on the couch and first watching Men in Black II and then The Girl Next Door. MIB II was a real shocker, just kinda bounced around all over the place, wasn't funny, and then ended. The Girl Next Door was actually surprisingly good though. [caption id="attachment_141" align="alignnone" width="510" caption="No girl I've ever lived next door to has ever looked like this. EVER."][/caption] Any movie has to follow a certain structure in order to appeal to a mainstream audience, it's something I've studied in my own capacity over the last two years, and while I still need a lot of practise recognising and analysing it in the movies I watch, I can spot the major turning points as they happen. What I like is when a movie flows and reaching those points happens in a natural and unexpected way, The Girl Next Door did this with a lot more proficiency than typical high-school, teen-fest movies. When a movie very clearly just forces the storyline to get to those points, it feels clumsy and lazy to me. Watch Zack and Miri Make A Porno for an example of a movie that just moves from one disjointed point to another simply to satisfy basic story structure. [caption id="attachment_142" align="alignnone" width="400" caption="The only thing worth watching in this movie is Miri"][/caption] It has funny parts, but generally fails because it relies on predictable and cliched plot devices to advance the story. I could give you the two sentences that set the story up and you'll guess the concluding one in a second. My top 3 movies of all time right now are: 1. Fight Club [caption id="attachment_143" align="alignnone" width="406" caption="Because we are the all-singing, all-dancing crap of the world"][/caption] 2. Memento [caption id="attachment_144" align="alignnone" width="410" caption="Because I have to believe in a world outside my own mind. I have to believe that my actions still have meaning, even if I can't remember them. I have to believe that when my eyes are closed, the world's still there"][/caption] 3. Confessions of a Dangerous Mind [caption id="attachment_145" align="alignnone" width="333" caption="Because I came up with a new game-show idea recently. It's called The Old Game. You got three old guys with loaded guns onstage. They look back at their lives, see who they were, what they accomplished, how close they came to realizing their dreams. The winner is the one who doesn't blow his brains out. He gets a refrigerator"][/caption] I love those fucking movies. Time to pull my head out my ass though, time to hit the grindstone. Later party people! -ST

100% Rock & Roll

slicktiger — Tue, 13 Oct 2009 08:04:29 +0000

100% Rock & Roll

slicktiger — Tue, 13 Oct 2009 08:06:21 +0000

JAYZIZ!

slicktiger — Tue, 13 Oct 2009 08:10:12 +0000

What is sexy?

slicktiger — Tue, 13 Oct 2009 08:11:54 +0000

Two years back I ended up modeling for People Magazine, which was, at the time, a new low for me. How it happened was that I'd organised a fashion shoot for People at Floyd's Barbershop in Fourways Crossing (who used to be a client of ours) because the interior of that place ROCKS and is ideal for any kind of shoot. [caption id="attachment_150" align="alignnone" width="655" caption="The most badass barbershop in Joeys"][/caption] They closed the shop early and everyone waited expectantly for the People crew to arrive, which they did, without the actual model. They asked me if I wouldn't mind stepping in and saving the day, so I figured sure, why not? How hard can it be? And that's the thing, it wasn't hard at all, UNTIL they swung the cameras on me and said the most terrifying sentence I've heard in a good while: "Ok, now, act sexy!" Funny how that sentence had the exact opposite effect on me. The first few pics looked like I was bracing myself to be run over by a bus. Thankfully it got better. Floyd's Barbershop keeps a fridge full of free beer for its customers, and by the time I'd drank the fridge half dry, I was feeling pretty DAMN sexy, biatch! The resulting photos are possibly the most hilarious shots of me I've ever seen. 'Gay' doesn't even begin to describe it, all five pages of it, but hey, they paid me R1000 for two hours work so I was pretty stoked all in all. It got me thinking though and because of that experience, I have a new found respect for models because that shit is NOT easy, and yet they manage to pull it off and create the perfect 'phwoar!' effect more often than not. [caption id="attachment_151" align="alignnone" width="431" caption="What I like to call the 'phwoar!' effect in action"][/caption] However, not all of us can create that effect because nature is cruel and most of us weren't fortunate enough to be born with smoking good looks and hot bodies, but lucky for us, there is another kind of sexiness that goes way deeper than the flesh, and that's the kind of sexiness I find the most compelling. About four years ago I was going through a particularly bad patch, drinking heavily, partying a lot and I ended up wasted at a party where I ran into a girl I'd known for a year or two. She saw the state of me and refused to let me drive, insisting I go home with her instead. My friends had all gone home by that stage, so it was a total no-brainer. Back at her place we drank some more and at some point in the early hours of the morning, the conversation started getting really intense, she was probing, she wanted to know why I was such a mess, she was hitting nerves all over the goddamn place and I ended up breaking down completely. Later we fell into bed together, but my performance was pretty pityful to be honest, and I ended up slipping into a booze-induced coma halfway through. The next morning was the usual sheepish and embarassing affair of coffee and polite banter before she dropped me off wherever I'd left my car. End of story as far as I was concerned. But then, nearly two years later, I ran into her again on another crazy nameless night in another crazy nameless club or bar somewhere, we did the 'Oh-hi-how-are-you!' thing and went our seperate ways into the thronging crowd, but all through the night I kept catching her gaze across the room. Later she approached me and we spoke about the night I went home with her. She started out joking about it, saying how crazy that party was and how out of hand we all got, but her tone changed the more we spoke about it and eventually she looked me in the eye and told me that night, watching me break down in her flat, was the sexiest thing she'd ever experienced. My mind reeled. On one hand I was flattered, but on the other I was completely taken aback. In no magazines I'd ever read did it ever recommend crying like a baby as a means of creating an unforgettably sexy experience. So I'm curious - what is sexy? I've met at least a hundred (ok, ten) really good looking women that are dead sexy looks-wise, but completely vapid and ugly inside. It's sad because billboards and magazines and movies and TV celebrate only the shallowest kind of sexyness when in truth, and in my experience, true sexyness goes much, much deeper than that. If anyone's feeling brave, I'm keen to hear your stories. -ST

What the F George?

slicktiger — Wed, 14 Oct 2009 06:19:31 +0000

CAREFUL! This fucking thing will suck your brain out

slicktiger — Wed, 14 Oct 2009 06:27:21 +0000

June

slicktiger — Wed, 14 Oct 2009 06:40:48 +0000

My mom lives in a flat in a complex across from a woman in her early sixties called June. I’m terrible in the way that I’ll get a mental block in my head about someone’s name and almost always fuck it up and that's what it's like with June. I always want to call June Jude and once or twice I think I might have. Other times I make this sound which is an amalgamation of both words, Juned, and I say the last part really quickly and hope for the best. [caption id="attachment_154" align="alignnone" width="504" caption="I blame The Beatles. For everything"][/caption] I have another buddy, well technically I guess he’s the buddy of a buddy, whose name I think is Josh. Problem is he looks nothing like a Josh and every time I run into him my brain starts doing a whole bunch of intense computations about this dude’s name, and then promptly shuts down. Josh is the last name you’d want to call someone if that’s not their name, so every time I see this guy I just default to 'Hey man!/bro!/dude!' and he greets me back with my name and I know all he's thinking is, 'Fuck me! Five years and this prick still doesn't remember my name.' Awkward. So anyway, June came over to my mom’s house while we were eating supper last night because she’d heard about this whiskey I’d taken for my mom to taste, Red Breast (BEST single grain pot stilled Irish whiskey you’ll ever taste, and that is a FACT). June knows a thing or two about whisky and the second she tasted this stuff she was hooked. She did that thing that older people do when they’re tasting something good, where they close their eyes and this look of calm washes over them and they smile and nod their head slowly. I poured her two glasses, she loved the stuff so much. Then she joined us for dessert, which she also really enjoyed. I haven’t seen June for a long time, but she was looking good, even my mom said June was looking good yesterday. I laughed my ass off because the two of them went grocery shopping the other day after June had seen the doctor and been given a massive shot of morphine. My mom had mentioned something about it, said they’d gone shopping for groceries, but ‘June wasn’t feeling too well’ and so my mom left June sitting in the coffee shop at Woolworths while my mom finished up the shopping. Well turns out June was feeling fine, in fact she was feeling better than fine, she was tripping balls! She was seeing colours she had never seen before and thinking some pretty intense thoughts about the universe and other really cool stuff too. [caption id="attachment_155" align="alignnone" width="655" caption="Tripping balls looks NOTHING like this. But if you were tripping balls and you looked at this, you would never be the same"][/caption] Unlike me, my mom doesn’t have much experience with dealing with people whos faces are melting off. I knew a guy who boiled down a san pedro cactus back in varsity in an attempt to make his own mescaline. He reckoned he had pretty much nailed it, and drank a teacup full of the stuff to test its strength. Next thing we knew, he was walking around the digs with his underpants on his head, licking various surfaces and giggling uncontrollably. Not long after that he climbed into bed on our advice and hid under the sheets for the next 17 hours whispering to no one. Haha, good times ;) I told June next time she wants to rock out she should rather go shopping with me and not my mom. She laughed. My mom asked me what I thought about the beanie my mom had knitted for June, the one June was wearing and I said it looked pretty rad. June told me about all the beanies my mom has knitted for her and I was really surprised to find out there’s been at least six or seven so far. It got me thinking because I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to knit a beanie (I sure as hell haven’t) but it must take fucking ages. June has cancer in her lymph nodes, she was diagnosed with it about three months ago. The doctors aren’t happy about how it’s spread and the chemo isn’t making it better. My mom knits for June because she thinks about June all the time and wants so badly to make her friend better. Knitting June beanies is a small thing, but June loves them, she appreciates the effort and they keep her head warm. So I felt really good sharing that Red Breast whisky with June last night, watching her enjoy it the way she did, her eyes closed and that smile on her face. I'll take the bottle back next time I visit, I'd rather finish it with June than drink it all myself. -ST

J-Rab

slicktiger — Thu, 15 Oct 2009 04:59:34 +0000

Jessica Rabbit

slicktiger — Thu, 15 Oct 2009 05:06:08 +0000

[caption id="attachment_159" align="alignleft" width="294" caption="Sexy amazing"][/caption] The first one has to be Jessica Rabbit. The first one through the rabbit hole into this place. She was built for this, it’s natural for her and because of that, she’s faster and smarter than any of the ones that will follow. But look closer, she’s not all animal, she loves animals, understand them, but she’s not all animal ;) I met Jessica Rabbit seven years ago, back at Varsity. A kind of electricity sparked off that night, the chemistry was undeniably strong, but the timing was lousy. It’s taken a long time for our lives to move in synch, but now that they do, things couldn’t be better. J-Rab is smart, fun and sexy. She boxes clever and gives as good as she gets. She’s into rock music, sometimes the harder stuff like Seether, sometimes the more upbeat stuff like Kings of Leon and sometimes the sadder stuff like The Decemberists or The Wallflowers. She steers clear of pop mainly, and she is more patient than any woman I have ever met when it comes to my continual and obsessive drive to always play and listen to new bands and music. She has hazel eyes like mountain pools, deep enough to lose entire sentences in and a smile that I fell in love with instantly. She’s wild and passionate and beautiful. But most importantly, she gets me. She laughs at my jokes and I laugh at hers, and as long as there is laughter, you can overcome anything.

Aaahhh yyyeeeaaahhhh, just like that

slicktiger — Thu, 15 Oct 2009 07:11:00 +0000

Aaaaa yyeeeaaahhhh, just like that

slicktiger — Thu, 15 Oct 2009 07:16:10 +0000

Incredible photo! Fuck the guy who took it must be a genius!

slicktiger — Thu, 15 Oct 2009 07:17:46 +0000

Mr Bonehead more like

slicktiger — Thu, 15 Oct 2009 07:21:41 +0000

Intelligent Content For The Masses

slicktiger — Thu, 15 Oct 2009 07:23:49 +0000

I love it when models open their mouths and speak and with every word they sound dumber and dumber and dumber. On this show on SABC 3 last night called C.I.G.A.R.E (pronounced ‘cigar’. Yeah I know, wtf?!) they interviewed some model from the East Rand called Michelle (I think). Ok brace yourselves people. Favourite things: Movies, DVD’s, shopping, shoes and going out dancing with her friends. We didn’t really catch this one bit 100%, but I think the interviewer asked her what she would do if a guy approached her in a club and tried to speak to her and she said without a shadow of a doubt that basically, she would snub that fucker. Hard. Funniest thing was during all of the cut-aways to the modelling shoot she was doing, she was in the same pose. If you can picture a girl lying flat on her back, knees up and her arse clenched tight and lifted about a foot off the floor, so she looked like she was making a triangle, that’s how she was posing IN EVERY SHOT. Looked like she was boning the invisible man. [caption id="attachment_182" align="alignnone" width="655" caption="Are we on the same page here? Ok, cool"][/caption] Jenni-fuh just asked if I was gonna blog it and I said ‘Yes, I would.’ I said I’d blog about her asking that question about me blogging because I told her that’s what’s called meta-blogging. The next step will be when I can type and simultaneously upload this in real time, without having to hit ‘Publish’ or ‘Send’ or anything and the step after is when my typing it will automatically be a voice file that is broadcast across a frequency that you can tune in and out of at will by using your mind. It would be like inviting another person to live in your head. Sounds like a totally insane and fucked up idea, but we do it all the time, and we aren’t fussy about who we let in there either. Before that show I dropped Graum off at the airport, he’s missioning through to Monaco for his oldest brother’s second wedding. The sky looked cool when I dropped him off: [caption id="attachment_183" align="alignnone" width="655" caption="Airport descending staircase"][/caption] Back at home I tried to write some character bios. I want it to be so that if you click a person’s name you’ll be able to get a short bio of them. This is called ‘making a site interactive’ it’s something they invented about two or three months ago when they started selling Vista bundled with Web 0.2, now with antivirus so they can’t hack your face data on twit book. It’s a whole buncha cockamamie terms that I don’t pretend to understand. But anyway, so far J-Rab is the only one with a character bio. Go ahead. Click her name, you know you want to. That’s right... you weird little pervert. Last night Pooperoo came over and we traded some music, I bounced a couple of ideas about some creative projects I’ve been thinking up off him and he liked them. I think there is a very real need in this country for all of us to up the game when it comes to the quality of the media content that is produced because by international standards we are pretty far behind (with a few notable exceptions). The internet will set us free. God only knows what the fuck is happening with the SABC, but I can tell you one thing for free, soon as the cost of bandwidth comes down and internet speeds increase in this country, there will be an explosion of content being sent out there from SA. It’s not that we don’t have the talent in this country, we do, by the truckload. The problem is that production budgets are miniscule and the local TV networks don’t want to take risks when it comes to airing content that might, god forbid, push the boundaries of what is deemed ‘acceptable’ and ‘safe’. Art is not safe, what the fuck?! It’s supposed to be edgy and racy, and most of all, it’s supposed to be INTELLIGENT. There aren’t enough INTELLIGENT people out there making content. Highest grossing movie in South Africa of all time? Take a wild guess. And no, it’s not Titanic, it’s not Lord of the Rings, it’s not even fucking Spiderman or Transformers, no. It’s Mr Bones. [caption id="attachment_184" align="alignnone" width="258" caption="If this is your favourite movies of all time, I'm sorry to be the one to break it to you, but you're retarded"][/caption] Don't get me wrong, I'm stoked a local production is the highest grossing film in SA, my problem is that it's purile. This is the level we are currently at, we're registering about a 2. This is what the masses want. It’s time to up the game. I’ve got plans in the pipelines that if they work are going to rock this country hard. Watch this space ;) -ST

Peace Plant

slicktiger — Fri, 16 Oct 2009 16:09:22 +0000

Fuck how crazy, not even three weeks and I don't post and I feel like crap. Like I'm breaking some kind of promise to myself. This post is for no one but me, no one but me is likely to pick it up, bering ten to six on a friday evening. Me for one, I'm drunk. And there's no fucking way in hell I'd read someone's blog right noe. Fuck, and I had so much planned for today. I consider it a ball dropped, but the circumstances were beyond my control. But hey, here I am blogginh. No love lost. I decided this morning even to call this post 'Peace Plant' and no, it's not about marajuana, it's about an actual plant you buy called Peace In The Home. J-Rab and I bought this plant about 3 weeks ago because nothing refines energy in the house hold like a plant. So we saw Peace in the Home and we figured it sounded like a pretty good deal, and lets be honest, every couple living together probably could use a Peace In The Home plant. So we bought it, took it home. Eight days later it was dead. Don't get me wrong, it's not cause J-Rab and me fight so much, there's no peace in the home and the plant died. Negative vibes didn't kill the plant. I did. Couple days after I bought it, I thought probably it would be a good idea to water it, which is what I did. Then I was going to work about three days later and the plant was looking sad, so I watered it again. And also the day after cause it looked even worse. Then a day or two passes and J-Rab and I are leaving for work and she points out the Peace In The Home plant, and the fucker is BLACK. [caption id="attachment_193" align="alignnone" width="655" caption="Botany - tricky"][/caption] Dead. Mostly. Turns out I drowned it. Also, I can a powerfully chaotic energy around me that might have killed it. An agent of complete chaos. Negative energy didn't kill that plant. An overflow of energy killed htat plant. Good news though is that I stopped watering it, and now some tiny shoots of life are coming back to it, and I honestly think it's gonna make it. I always overshoot the mark befoire I shoot it. But anyway, that's the end of this post. You can go back to your suck-ass life now, cause I'm gonna go get laid. -ST

Chaos in the home

slicktiger — Sat, 17 Oct 2009 09:47:11 +0000

Image0045

slicktiger — Sat, 17 Oct 2009 10:26:41 +0000

Penispenispenisvaginavaginavagina

slicktiger — Sat, 17 Oct 2009 10:27:21 +0000

Complaints from the Neighbours

slicktiger — Sat, 17 Oct 2009 10:29:27 +0000

A woman lives behind us who hates us a lot right now. On a scale of 1 to 10 she hates us at about an 11.

Yesterday things got a little out of hand, but not too much. Ex-Bear and Action Jackson came around and we started laying into Vodka and beer. At one stage I suggested nailing a tequila, but actually lost my nerve, which hardly ever happens. So then I made the mistake of asking Ex-Bear to jam some guitar, play us his new song he's been working on. The thing about Ex-Bear though is that the dude has a set of lungs on him like a pair of bellows and when he gets going, his voice is so loud the windows shake. [caption id="attachment_200" align="alignnone" width="602" caption="Ex-Bear's lungs - a rad sketch"][/caption] He played his new song, and belted out the lyrics nice and loud and strong. He sings right from his abdomen, like you're supposed to so the sound is pretty epic. The second he strummed the last chord, Ladywholivesbehindus knocked on the door, hard and angry. She shat us out good and proper, told me she was going to report us to our landlord (this is the 7th time she's made this threat. Whether or not she's actually ever done it is beyond me, but our landlord's never said anything). I tried to be as apologetic as possible, but c'mon! On weekends we are supposed to be able to make noise until 11pm and this was at 10.35. Then you wake up the next day feeling all lousy and hungover and guilty. I can feel it passing already though. Otherwise, The Maen just skype called and we bounced ideas around for a really cool show we'd like to do, first prize would be to get a local TV station to buy into it, but second prize would be to get it on the internet. I mean, this amateur show called Fred gets thousands of hits (check Fred on Youtube. Actually don't, it's creepy and really annoying) so why can't we? I gotta get my shit together though, it's Glaze's birthday so I said I'd go through to his place and party. Secretly Action and myself are going to try and get Glaze really, really wasted, well that was the plan anyway, but I feel low on energy today and probably won't do it. Tomorrow I'm gonna give this site the attention it deserves. Posts like this have no real value, but tomorrow I'll have more time to blog coherently. Peace out. -ST

Penispenispenisvaginavaginavagina

slicktiger — Sat, 17 Oct 2009 10:31:38 +0000

ARMAGEDDON!!

slicktiger — Sun, 18 Oct 2009 09:33:34 +0000

Image0047

slicktiger — Sun, 18 Oct 2009 09:58:21 +0000

KnifeShine

slicktiger — Sun, 18 Oct 2009 10:01:32 +0000

Pinkness of Being

slicktiger — Sun, 18 Oct 2009 10:11:08 +0000

Maydaymayday

slicktiger — Sun, 18 Oct 2009 10:22:20 +0000

A bit like hell

slicktiger — Sun, 18 Oct 2009 10:33:58 +0000

383498855_eed812a668

slicktiger — Sun, 18 Oct 2009 10:38:24 +0000

One too many specials at the doughnut shop

slicktiger — Sun, 18 Oct 2009 10:53:25 +0000

Thank you Mexico

slicktiger — Sun, 18 Oct 2009 10:56:58 +0000

Rain Braai

slicktiger — Sun, 18 Oct 2009 11:04:14 +0000

A 'braai' for all my international readers (in their thousands) is a South African tradition, probably one of the oldest ones that whites have practised here.

At a 'braai', massive amounts of meat are cooked on a grill over hot coals, including 'borewors' (literally translated as 'farmer sausage' and comprising largely of animals that wouldn't adhere to the combine harvester), kebabs, chops and ribs. The meat is consumed with salads (everything from potato to couscous to pasta to regular) and bread rolls.

[caption id="attachment_210" align="alignnone" width="400" caption="We love this"][/caption]

But before any of this happens, you drink. Typically it's beer, but in this field there are no rules. I've seen ol' Tequila making an appearance more than once, ol' Jagermeister too, Mr Jack Daniels, Mr Brandy-And-Coke (shiteloads of that), Mr Vokda-and-lime, Cane-for-the-pain, Mr Red-wine-and-coke / Mr Ketemba (also in high volumes) and even once, on a really fucked up occassion, Mr Clubman's Mint Punch (never drink that).

So that's where I ended up yesterday, Glaze's braai for his birthday. There was a whole cast of crazy characters there, including Action Jackson, Alfalfa, Jenni-fuh, AbsaCouple, dude-who-looks-like-Rorschach, girlx, umm, oh yeah and Graum's lady, who from now on shall be known as 'Mercedes Moodley' or 'Mercedes M-Class', or maybe just 'M-Class'.

But before we arrived at the braai, this happened, I think you'll enjoy this bit ;)

J-Rab was working yesterday so she had the car and I had to ask Jenni-fuh to drive me to Glaze's braai. As we're getting to the corner of Sandton drive and Grayston, a cop pulls us over. Jenni-fuh's license disk isn't in the bottom lefthand corner of her windscreen, it's dead center, middle of the windscreen, right at the top, so I reckon the cop didn't see anything where the license normally is and flagged us down.

Also, it's expired. She's got a new one, but it's in her glove box and thus 'not clearly displayed'.

The fuzz walked up to the passenger side, where I was sitting, so I winded down the window and greeted him.

[caption id="attachment_213" align="alignnone" width="500" caption="SAPS - To protect and serve. And eat pap."][/caption]

"You know what's wrong here my man?" the cop started.

"No?" I replied.

He looked at the windshield and was about to say where's your license disk when he spotted it, quickly checked the expiry date on the license and grinned broadly.

"This license is no good," he said, still grinning.

At that Jenni-fuh opened the glovebox and started rifling through the junk there, so I join in and after a second or two we found her new license disk she hasn't had a chance to stick up yet.

He checked it and saw it was legit, but wasn't quite done with us.

"Do you know what is the fine for not displaying your license?" he asked, and started paging through this printed out list of offences he was carrying.

I braced myself.

"Five hundred rand," he said.

"No, no, no way," I said to him, "I'm sorry, but we can't afford that," Jenni-fuh also chimed in at this point, confirming this fact. We were both pretty animated, definitely over-acting for everything it was worth.

Then he looked at all the booze at my feet and saw a half-drunk bottle of Vodka from the night before in a plastic bag with lime and four Coronas, all tinkling around nice and loud everytime I moved.

"Have you been drinking?" he saids, quite happy with his new find.

"No," Jenni-fuh and I replied. Jenni-fuh lied though, she'd had a Voddie to try take the edge off her killer hangover, and still felt a little drunk from the night before.

"This stuff is for the braai we're going to," I replied cheerfully, "I think you must come, when do you knock off?"

He laughed and said not until later. He asked to see what was in the packet. I showed him the Vodka and Corona. He seemed interested in the Corona so I explained it's Mexican beer and clicked over to PR mode and told him it was the most incredible beer I had ever tasted, it was a perfect balance of sweet and bitter, it was the only beer I ever drank, it didn't give me hangovers.

His curiosity was peaqued, this was a good thing. I offered him the beer.

"Take it my man, try it, it will be the best beer you've ever tasted, no shit."

"Yes, but later I need more. I want the Heineken 6 pack."

This confused the crap out of me and Jenni-fuh. Ok, he wanted Heineken, were we supposed to drive to the store and get him some? Give him money for some? Was he looking for a bribe?

"Ummm..." I said.

"I've got some money, not much, lemme check," Jenni-fuh stammered. She opened her wallet and found a whopping thirty bucks, I had nothing on me, not even a ball of lint.

"Thats fine, that's fine," the cop replied, bizarrely enough.

We gave him a Corona and thirty bucks and he let us go.

:) I love this fucking country :)

[caption id="attachment_214" align="alignnone" width="655" caption="One of these + R30 = Get Out of Fine Free Card"][/caption]

Fast forward to the braai and I'm back on that big ol' train, riding that beast, that mean hunk of old steel, flames licking up the wheels, but I ain't sitting in that demon bastard, I'm sitting on that demon bastard, whippin' it's rusted hide, urging it down faster.

Downdowndown, like always, the train to Fuckedville. Toot toot, off we go!

Conversation fluctuated and I spoke to one person, then the next, then the next, then found the laptop and spent pretty much all afternoon building a sick playlist. At some stage I took this picture, our spaceship was approaching a White Dwarf, it attacked us completely without provocation and dissolved most of the known reality around us into white light.

[caption id="attachment_205" align="alignnone" width="655" caption="The White Dwarf that Attacked Us, Unprovoked"][/caption]

And all the while, rain fell outside, sometimes hard and fast, sometimes slow and soft, but from about half an hour after we arrived until 7 or 8 last night it rained. We holed up in the entertainment room by the pool at Glaze's place going outside only to smoke and braai the meat.

Groups formed, dissolved and formed again, that ever-fluid interaction that is common when people gather together to party.

And new and different thoughts come to you, somehow the world has more magic and things, even normally arbitrary things hold a special significance at that exact time and in that exact place.

The smoke through the light, the pattern in an ashtray, the verse of a song, the light off a knife.

[caption id="attachment_207" align="alignnone" width="655" caption="Knife Light At Dusk"][/caption]

Later a vote was taken to walk to the pub around the corner, McGintys and have a few drinks and watch the rugby. Good times ensued - we were by far the rowdiest table in the bar and definitely the only table that didn't give a toss about the rugby.

J-Rab met us there after work and Peggles and PGF (Peggles Girl Friend) also joined for the last 10 mins of the game. We ordered a shiteload of these reddy-yellowy tequila cocktails I don't remember the names of and laughed a LOT about all kinds of stuff (specifics get vague at this point).

But what I do remember was taking this pic on the way over to McGintys of a bogenvillia we found (definitely spelled wrong):

[caption id="attachment_208" align="alignnone" width="655" caption="Adventures in Wonderland"][/caption]

After the rugby game we didn't watch we headed back to Glaze's place and resumed where we'd left off, but soon people started dropping like flies around us. We didn't stay much longer cause it had been a hard day's boozin and I was starving half to death and dead tired, staring mainly at the table in front of me.

[caption id="attachment_209" align="alignnone" width="655" caption="Head --> Table"] Table" width="655" height="491" />[/caption]

We ate pizza, J-Rab and I, we walked into The Benmore Shopping Centre and tried not to look conspicuous, her in a pair of dark, red-framed heart shaped sunglasses and me a total mess, eyes like piss-holes in snow.

We were like Bonny & Clyde in that moment, Micky and Malory Knox, fucking Sunny and Cher. We went home, held each other close, and dropped like two stones into sleep.

-ST

Peggles

slicktiger — Sun, 18 Oct 2009 11:19:50 +0000

Peggles

slicktiger — Sun, 18 Oct 2009 11:23:52 +0000

[caption id="attachment_217" align="alignleft" width="272" caption="Peggles in thought"][/caption] Most of the tunnels, the twisting maze of them in this place, Peggles and I mapped out together back when we were kids, scrawny and full of bright ideas. Back then we’d race through these tunnels, but Peggles always won, it’s in his blood. A mutual appreciation of Beavis and Butthead was what sparked off the first conversation we ever had, back when we were 13, and my life has never been the same since. Peggles is the third of four brothers raised by a dad who practically invented the old school. Their old man taught them how to hunt, how to build a bonfire and how to sit by it and drink yourself mad staring into the flames. Peggles and his brothers are so fucking hardcore that the oldest signed up for the Royal Marines and became a Parabat. He served terms in both Afghanistan and Iraq a few years back when it was a bad fucking idea to be anywhere near either one of those places. He saw action, a shitload of it, he doesn’t speak about it much and we don’t ask questions, we’re just glad he came out alive. I spent so many weekends and holidays growing up with those four brothers that I practically became part of the furniture in their house, and as a result, they know everything about me and have stood by me through every single one of the worst times of my life. Peggles himself is more than proficient at basically everything. He has the intellectual capacity of a doctor and the physical strength and stature of a pro wrestler. Add a killer sense of humour, and natural tendency toward mischief into the mix and you have a guy who, at pretty much all times, is really fun to be around. I respect Peggles, he's bailed me out of a lot of kak over the years and has proven, beyond question, that he has my back.

Graum

slicktiger — Sun, 18 Oct 2009 12:04:44 +0000

Graumpot

slicktiger — Sun, 18 Oct 2009 12:05:22 +0000

[caption id="attachment_227" align="alignleft" width="241" caption="Takes Charge"][/caption] He didn’t follow the mapped out paths and tunnels, the intricate highways and byways of warrens to get here. He chose to follow gut instinct instead and though it took him longer, he picked his own way through and came into this place in his own time. He takes charge, and when he does, the world steps aside to let him through. My earliest memory of Graumpot was seeing him at Pop Art way back when varsity first started. He was slouching on a couch, reeling drunk, not too concerned with the world around him, happy. He joined our circle of friends late, but stuck fast because he is fiercely intelligent, overwhelmingly head-strong and has excellent taste in literature, movies and on occasion, music too. But the thing that set him apart back when we first met him was his passionate love of comic books and graphic novels. This man has damn near read them all. He has more comic book trivia in his head than anyone I know and a graphic novel collection that you could spend a lifetime reading and still never get to the end of. He has a wild streak in him that has lead him down dark, dark roads, it’s a side effect of his brilliant mind, but he’s not one to go down without a fight and thankfully has always been capable of picking himself up, dusting himself off and getting back on track. He has an incredible capacity to destroy everything around him, physical objects, and then repair them good as new. He bears a slight resemblance physically to James Howlett, or as he’s better known, Wolverine, hence the pic I chose for him.

Short Story: Punctuality

slicktiger — Mon, 19 Oct 2009 07:17:12 +0000

Punctuality

'Fuck.' It was the same way he always woke up, feeling like a truck had hit him, feeling like something evil had crawled down his throat and died, he lay sprawled on the couch cradling the empty bottle he had sucked down the night before like an old lover. His heart-burn was bad, his heart burned bad, and that badness rose like fire inside him. 'Aaaaa fuck.' His head split as he wrestled his leaden body off the floor, and the muscles in his back and on his side ached to the bone. The TV was still on, infomercials blasting through his skull at an impossible volume. How many days had this been going on for? How many days can a man wake up like this, he thought, before something bad happens? This is my life, he thought... goddamn. In the bathroom he stared at his reflection for a long while, trying to decide whether or not he should shave his miserable face. He was dimly aware of the sour, alcohol stench rising from his pores. Rum. It had reached a stage where he didn't even need to hunt the bottles down to figure out what he'd been hitting the night before, his stench said it all. I'm a stench connoisseur, he thought. He grinned widely at himself and stumbled backwards into the shower. The steaming, scalding hot water brought him up a level from the depths he had plunged himself into, but the surface was still a lifetime away. He'd been drowning for too long. He brushed his teeth, but it did nothing for his breath. He put deodorant and aftershave on, but it did nothing for his stench. He ate a grapefruit for breakfast, but he hardly tasted it and just barely kept it down. He got dressed last. Putting his tie on made him grin again. He'd always thought of himself as the type of guy who would eat a bullet when things got too much, but recently he'd changed his mind about that. Recently, he'd seen himself as more of the hanging type. He could imagine how it would feel as he kicked the chair out from under him and struggled like a fly in a web, every exertion bringing him closer to death. Two things about hanging appealed to him - the fact that you die with a hard-on, and the fact that he would use his ties from work to do it. He decided on his plan of action on the way to work, he was listening to The Doors when it came to him, in an epiphany punctuated by the lumbering, morning traffic, and Jim Morrison's screeching vocals. The day was overcast, but when the idea came to him, his world was flooded in sunlight. Entire office blocks turned to towers of orchards and blossomed as his car sailed past, parking lots crumbled and sprouted forests of magnificent pines, the asphalt cracked and fields of soft, rich, green grass rolled endlessly toward the brightest horizon he had ever imagined. It was finally happening, he was abandoning all hope, all desire, he was letting go of everything and focusing his entire being on one goal, one plan, his plan. Highways melted into crystal clear rivers, cars fell apart around him and were instantly covered in blankets of moss and mushrooms. As he drove closer to his plan, the foliage got denser, it became humid, misty. The rivers turned to swamps, and he could feel his world teeming with a million hidden creatures, croaking and calling and growling; hidden in the thick, soupy, dense jungle that was swallowing everything around him. This is great! he thought. This is the best day I can remember, I know everything is going to turn out great, this is the best day... He was glad to find his office block utterly ruined, thick jungle vines wrapped themselves around the brick and cement and rent huge cracks throughout the building. The natural order was taking over, the law of the jungle. Colossal tree roots curled their way through reception, rupturing the tiled floors and ruining the blue/grey carpets in the staff tea room forever. Elaine, the secretary at reception, greeted him and asked what was so funny. 'Your face' he replied, and smashed his fist into it until all of her front teeth were broken and her nose was hanging at an obscure angle. He was still laughing when the security guards fell on him and tried to cuff him. One of them made the mistake of getting too close, and he tore the guard's throat out with his teeth, and pushed his thumbs into the other one's eyes, right to the back of their sockets. It was easy from there, the guards had guns. He blasted his way through the jungle, blasted his way through Chief Information Officers and Human Resources Managers and Account Directors all the way up to the top floor. The elevator was made from bamboo, monkeys pulled thick vines threaded through pulleys to operate it. He killed the monkeys. At the top, the air was somehow thicker than on the ground, and it smelt like something long dead. He was heading into the CEO's office, that was the prize, that was his goal, the others meant nothing, they had just picked the wrong goddamn day to go to work. He found the office locked and shot the doors until his guns clicked. 'Fuck.' The doors swung open, and he found himself at this, the moment of his life, facing down the greatest evil he had ever know, all out of shells. She wasn't in her normal work clothes, that was the first thing that threw him. She was barefoot, wearing a torn loincloth, and her breasts were bare except for the hundreds of beaded necklaces that hung from her neck in green and gold. Her hair was loose, spilling onto her shoulders in thick, golden tresses. He had thought this jungle belonged to him, he had thought that it was his, but now he knew, he was wrong. Her skin had a light sheen to it, and glowed bronze. He could clearly make out her taut sinews beneath her flesh, and he knew that even though she looked calm, leaning back, half sitting on the wreckage of her desk, her palms resting on it's rent mahogany surface, in an instant she could spring at his throat. Her smile said it all, the things that slithered and lurked behind her swamp-green eyes said it all. He threw his guns down. He met her languid gaze. There was all the murder in the world in her eyes. There were the shadows of the empires she had crushed, and the fires of the bodies she had burned to get to where she was. For the first time he saw her for the predator she was, at home here, in the dank, in the dark, in the rot. He stripped his clothes off, unable to tear his eyes from her and crossed the vast tracts of swampland between them. Her tender embrace when she held him against her betrayed nothing as the fingers of her free hand trailed slowly backward across the desk and curled around the rusted handle of her letter opener. When their lips met, a feeling of sweet rapture flooded his senses and overwhelmed him to the point where he didn't feel the sting as she plunged the letter opener right to the hilt in the flesh of his back. His rapture began to rise, he tore the beads from her neck and stripped the loincloth from her waist, he found the nape of her neck and bit down hard as his fingers slipped between her thighs and found her wanting. She pulled the blade from his back and plunged it in a second time. He forced her thighs apart, and, bending down to kiss her where they met, felt something warm trickle down his spine. He sunk himself inside her, she arched her back, he felt something irrepressible welling up inside himself, something great and terrible. It spread from his loins throughout his body, it felt like lava in his blood, it shivered up his spine and filled his skull to bursting. His breath began to rasp in his throat, he coughed violently, felt something warm on his lips, opened his eyes. She had plucked the blade from his back and was sinking it deep in his stomach, rocking slightly with his every thrust, her gaze slithering behind slime of her green eyes. He pulled the blade from his stomach and turned it on her. She gripped his wrists as he forced his weight down, the blade edging closer to her throat, while he thrust himself violently between her glistening thighs. Her sweet moans spurned him on through the mist that had started to roll before his vision. The feeling inside him was growing, swelling with every lumbered breath, sweat pouring from his every pore, the tip of the blade bearing down, making a small dimple in her throat with it's rusted point, and all the while she held him fast in her Medusa-gaze, right up until the feeling burst inside him, and he cracked his spine and rent his sinews and splintered his teeth between his grinding jaws. He was magnificent in that moment, he felt magnificence, he felt it with every staggered heartbeat and tasted it with every raw, iron-laden breath. He collapsed on her with all his weight, and though he drove the blade clean through her jugular, she didn't flinch. All went quiet in the jungle, the eyes of a million swampland creatures watched them as their breath grew strained, and their hearts beat synchronously, slowly pumping the life out of them both. Before her eyes dimmed, she met his gaze one last time. "You're late for work Harold." He returned her impassive stare, and for the first time in weeks, he spoke his usually trite, unemotional response with more conviction than he'd ever felt in his entire life. "It won't happen again." The jungle watches them die, but feels nothing. The jungle has many queens and many kings, but sooner or later, the law of the jungle usurps them all. The croaking, calling and growling of a million unseen creatures resumes and is joined by the far-off sound of police sirens wailing through the humid, jungle mist. © Tony Niemeyer 2009

Just a leeeeetttle further...

slicktiger — Mon, 19 Oct 2009 07:42:29 +0000

Just a leeeeetle further...

slicktiger — Mon, 19 Oct 2009 07:44:46 +0000

Visions in the Traffic

slicktiger — Mon, 19 Oct 2009 07:47:38 +0000

On the way here I saw restless housewives walking the streets in gangs of three and four, dressed in stretchy gym attire, striding purposefully down the road, achieving nothing. I saw a pothole, the same old one on Colleraine, only now it's sprouting a tiny spray of water in a thin stream. It looked like some water-feature carefully constructed by the invisable agents of destruction that wreck the roads of this city. I imagined myself small and bathing in that tiny water spray, the cars gliding past overhead, blocking the sun completely, motherships, all of them. The weekend was another humdinger - click on this link right now to find out useful information like 'How to bribe a cop' and scroll down past this post for an awesome, pretty intense short story from a few years back I like to call 'Punctuality' - awesome Monday morning reading. Otherwise it's straight back to the grind with me - this boulder ain't gonna roll itself ;) [caption id="attachment_238" align="alignnone" width="433" caption="The Daily Grind"][/caption] Until tomorrow, -ST

HorseDog

slicktiger — Tue, 20 Oct 2009 06:54:48 +0000

Gentle Giant

slicktiger — Tue, 20 Oct 2009 06:56:27 +0000

A Sad Day For Dogs

slicktiger — Tue, 20 Oct 2009 06:57:14 +0000

Yesterday turned out to be a suck ass day because Skatter’s dog, this really cute little black Toy Pom with blue eyes called Gummy, and my aunt’s colossal ridgeback Dusty both died. With Skatter it was pretty bad, the poor little guy fell down the stairs and cracked his skull, Skatter found him when he came home from work, but it was too late to save him. Dusty on the other hand had cancer that spread like wildfire inside him. They tried everything they could to save him, but in the end had to put him down. My aunt is devastated, Dusty was an incredible dog. He was about the size of a small pony, no shit. This dog was MASSIVE and smart as all hell. He used to have long conversations with my aunt about all kinds of stuff, her speaking English and him barking out dogese loud enough to deafen a small child. [caption id="attachment_243" align="alignnone" width="600" caption="This isn't Dusty, but it's about the size of Dusty"][/caption] I saw a pic of Gummy that Skatter sent his brother Wopna’s phone. The little dude was one of the cutest dogs I’ve ever seen. I never met him, but I’ll bet he was rad. Animals are our friends, we were put on this earth to look after them and in return they enrich our lives and teach us about our own nature. Ghandi really nailed it when he said that “The greatness of a nation and its moral progress can be judged by the way its animals are treated.” J-Rab loves and understands animals better than anyone I’ve ever met and though I’ve always felt there are striking similarities between humans and animals, especially when it comes to our personalities, she’s the one that has really confirmed it for me. She’s hand reared Servals, Caracals, Jackals, Lemurs, Owls, Ocelots and most impressive of all, Tigers. I had the privilege of going into a Tiger enclosure at the Zoo where J-Rab works when the tigers were still young (10 months old). They used to take people in groups of 5 to spend time with the young Tigers, so I went with some of my buddies when J-Rab first started working there. [caption id="attachment_244" align="alignnone" width="640" caption="J-Rab and the Siberian Tiger Baloo share a moment"][/caption] Thing is, at 10 months, they are still pretty huge. They weigh in at about 85kgs (same as my weight) and have big paws that could take your entire face off with one swipe. So we were a little nervous going in there, but the Tigers were chilled out and seemed interested to meet us and play with us. It’s uncanny touching them like that, being so close to them and knowing all the time that they could kill you with the same effort it would take the average human to open a pickle jar. But more than anything, it’s the intelligence in their eyes that catches you off guard. These are beings who are self-aware, who have memories, who are capable of logical thought, who go to sleep at night and dream secret Tiger-dreams. They are creatures who display very clear emotions and form emotional attachments to other animals and to the people who look after them. So when you go home today, back to your pets if you have any, think about how lucky we are that we get to share this world with creatures as amazing as animals because for a lot of us, like my aunt who lives by herself, the world is a lonely place without them. I don’t write a lot of poetry, but I wrote this poem about dogs two years ago and I really like it.

Three Parts Dog

Throughout my life I’ve always loved the loyalty of dogs It’s a reflection of my character that I’ve always found it easier To love a being that never pouts, or sulks or shies away from me That greets me with a wagging tail, with eyes that shine and never fail To coax a smile, to lift my mood, to remind me in this world of hurt That in dogs, at least, there still is good. When I was born my mother’s dog, a spaniel daschund cross called Onyx, Used to guard me in my sleep and, behaving like any gentle creature would, Didn’t bark or snap at me when I pulled his ears or ate his food. Onyx watched me grow up fast while I watched his jet black coat turn grey, He slowed with age, started losing his sight and returning after a holiday I asked the maid where Onyx was, but she just winced and looked away. That day I learned that fate is cruel and it tore me up that I wasn’t there There was nothing to find by the time we arrived, Just a pool filter clogged with his matted grey hair. I guess the thing with dogs is that they know the loneliness of life They know how bad it sometimes gets but unlike us they can’t pretend That everything is going swell when darkness is your only friend. I think the thing with dogs is that they love us for the strays we are They’ve shared the pain we clutch inside as surely as they’ve shared our fires Across the dusty plains of life, through frozen lands and torpid mires. But for me the thing with dogs is that I see myself in years to come Cutting all my human ties, scratching the itch in my rambler’s bones, Defying your consumer gods; one part man Three parts Dog. -ST

Jet2

slicktiger — Wed, 21 Oct 2009 07:20:54 +0000

Having a nice sit on the grass

slicktiger — Wed, 21 Oct 2009 07:22:36 +0000

Not much shining going on here...

slicktiger — Wed, 21 Oct 2009 07:26:36 +0000

Hey man, that's no way to hotbox a van dude!

slicktiger — Wed, 21 Oct 2009 07:29:55 +0000

Woah! Dude, look at your HAIR! Cut that shit off man!

slicktiger — Wed, 21 Oct 2009 07:31:46 +0000

Kill it! Kill it now!

slicktiger — Wed, 21 Oct 2009 07:33:39 +0000

Album Review: Jet - 'Shaka Rock'

slicktiger — Wed, 21 Oct 2009 07:34:51 +0000

Jet were one of the many bands that exploded on the scene while I was in varsity, and as such I missed their first two albums because I was drunk, but I caught one or two of their singles being blasted over speakers in bars and clubs everywhere. [caption id="attachment_248" align="alignnone" width="655" caption="Chris Cester, Cam Muncey, Mark Wilson and frontman Nick Cester"][/caption] “I said one , two, three take my hand and come with me because you look so fine and I really want to make you mine” – yeah, Jet are those guys. They hail from Melbourne, Australia and have been known, from time to time to find a sheep in the long grass very, very nice thank you. The band is Nick Cester (vocals, guitar), his brother Chris Cester (drums, percussion, vocals), Nick’s highschool buddy Cam Muncey (lead guitar, vocals) and Mark Wilson (bass). Their first album, ‘Get Born’ (2003) soared in the charts and generally everyone seemed to dig it, especially the Auzzies who bought enough copies to certify the album as Platinum no less than eight fucking times (ie. 8 million albums sold). That’s the album that featured ‘Are you gonna be my girl?’ (see lyrics above). They enlisted producer Dave Sardy to work with the band on ‘Get Born’ and the 2006 follow up, ‘Shine On’. Sardy has worked with bands like the Black Angels, Bush, The Dandy Warhols, Marilyn Manson, Red Hot Chili Peppers and Wolfmother. That’s just to name a few, this guy has literally worked with everyone, which makes it difficult to pin down exactly what kind sound he brings to an album. ‘Shine On’ was apparently a bit of a letdown. From what I gather the album had a really subdued sound due largely to the fact that at the height of the band’s international success in August 2004, Nick and Chris lost their father, John Cester, to cancer. But now they’re back, guns blazin’ for their third studio album, ‘Shaka Rock’ which they released in August. [caption id="attachment_250" align="alignnone" width="404" caption="Shaka Rock - no idea what it means, but hey, the cover's pretty rad"][/caption] The album is produced by Chris ‘Frenchie’ Smith, whose previous projects include nothing you’ve probably heard of except possibly his work with the band Lost Bayou Ramblers, for which he was nominated for a Grammy for Best Zydeco/Cajun Music (whaaaaat?). In an interview I watched on their myspace site, they said they co-produced this one with Frenchie, but personally, I think the band produced this album largely themselves. I got wind of it when I heard the single ‘She’s a Genius’ played on radio about a week ago. The song hooked me instantly and had me air drumming like nobody’s business as I drove through the rush hour traffic. It’s good ol’ fashioned ‘revivalist rock’ as it’s known, which can best be described in the following way: First there were bands like The Beatles, The Kinks, Led Zeppelin, Hendrix, AC/DC, The Doors and The Rolling Stones. Then came round two with bands like Supergrass, Oasis, The Verve and a lot of others I’m forgetting. Round three hit in early 2000 with the likes of The White Stripes, The Black Keys, The Strokes, The Hives, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, Kasabian, The Subways, and the Heartless Bastards. [caption id="attachment_251" align="alignnone" width="424" caption="Black Rebel Motorcycle Club - similar to Jet, only better (don't let the bad hair fool you)"][/caption] Jet fits comfortably among these bands. Theirs is an infectious, high-energy, big hook, jangly tambourine brand of rock and roll, punctuated by Cester’s powerful, screeching vocals. If you’re not already sick of the revivalist rock sound, you’ll enjoy this album. You could successfully play it at a party and chances are it would get to at least track six before someone hijacked the playlist. A good album is one that has at least three tracks that you really like on it, and ‘Shaka Rock’ is an album that will adhere to this rule. The opening track, ‘K.I.A’ is a pretty standard, powerchord-driven rock anthem, track 2 ‘Beat on Repeat’ flirts with a disco-rock flavour that works but is a little laughably self-indulgent. ‘She’s a Genius,’ (track 3) can’t be faulted, it’s an instantly-likeable, sexy, upbeat track that will stick like a pair of clammy panties to the bedroom wall of your mind. From there the album slowly starts to lose its way, track 4 ‘Black Hearts (On Fire)’ – couldn’t be more Rolling Stonesey if it tried (except the chorous, which sounds distinctly INXS). The piano influence on “Seventeen” works, but doesn’t really save the song from sounding like it could have been written by any number of bands. I liked ‘Walk’ because of the interesting tempo change that saves an otherwise mediocre song and ‘Start the Show’ has some cool moments, but basically everything after track 5 starts to get really tired really fast. “Let me out” starts off sounding a little like the Chesney Hawkes abortion of a song “I am the one and only” and doesn’t get much better and “Goodbye Hollywood” has a chorous that sounds like it was stolen straight from The Beatles and is just plain irritating. [caption id="attachment_252" align="alignnone" width="400" caption="If you sound or look ANYTHING like this man/woman, kill yourself now"][/caption] Critics don’t seem to like the album much though, here are some pearls I found online from other reviews of ‘Shaka Rock’. David Peisner from Spin wrote, “Jet’s third album, just like their second, is stuffed with swaggering, anthemic rock that you’ll swear someone else already wrote, which rarely compromises its appeal... and one can only assume the reggae-rock abomination 'Beat on Repeat' was a misguided effort to branch out.” (http://www.spin.com/reviews/jet-shaka-rock-real-horrorshowfive-seven) August Brown, blogger for the LA Times wrote, “With ‘Seventeen,’ (track 5) Kings of Leon finally has real competition in codpiece-rock lechery circles.” (http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/music_blog/2009/08/album-review-jets-shaka-rock.html) That gave me a good chuckle, as did the following comment from Rolling Stone’s Rob Sheffield, “[Jet is] back with another dull slog through the AC/DC catalog... The only song that delivers any fun is "She's a Genius," which praises the intellectual discernment of their lady friends. It deserves to inspire a reality show: Are You Smarter Than a Jet Groupie?” (http://www.rollingstone.com/reviews/album/29497592/review/29716110/shaka_rock) So there you have it, they have good things to say about the album as well, I’d recommend clicking the links to get a better idea of ‘Shaka Rock’. What it all boils down to is that provided you’re not looking for a particularly original or thought provoking take on what a hundred other bands are doing right now, you won’t be disappointed by ‘Shaka Rock’. The rest of us will tire of this album quickly though and I can say from experience that after the fifth or sixth listen, the album already starts to lose its charm. Overall verdict: 6/10

Not cool

slicktiger — Thu, 22 Oct 2009 07:21:15 +0000

It's aaalllliiiiiivvvvveeeeeeee!!!

slicktiger — Thu, 22 Oct 2009 07:23:40 +0000

There ya go, get in there ya little fucker

slicktiger — Thu, 22 Oct 2009 07:30:26 +0000

The Ghostbuster Approach

slicktiger — Thu, 22 Oct 2009 07:32:28 +0000

Last night a pretty hilarious episode ensued in the bathroom I share with my girlfriend, J-Rab which you definitely shouldn’t read if you have delicate sensibilities. I dropped the kids off at the pool just before I went to gym and hours later, while J-Rab was in the shower in the other bathroom, I discovered that little Jimmy had elected not to go the way of his siblings, but to float defiantly in the bowl instead. [caption id="attachment_258" align="alignnone" width="655" caption="Jimmy - artistic interpretation with christmas hat"][/caption] He was a cute little guy, and I guess on some level I admired his tenacity, but more than anything I wanted to get rid of him before J-Rab finished her shower. I waved him goodbye and flushed but, predictably, the little fucker swam against the whirlpool and popped up once again, triumphant. ‘Ok you little jerk,’ I snarled, ‘it’s AWN!’ At some stage in every man’s life he’s probably had to use the ‘Bucket Method’ to get rid of an unwanted bodge, but for the benefit of my female readers (doubtful any are left at this point) I’ll explain: The Bucket Method is when you fill a bucket with water and dump it unceremoniously in the bowl in the hope that the sudden and large volume of water displaces the offending nugget up the U-bend behind the toilet. And so it was with great vengeance and furious anger that I employed the Bucket Method, laughing to myself manically, like a mad scientist. [caption id="attachment_259" align="alignnone" width="400" caption="Me - artistic interpretation with beaker full of LSD"][/caption] But no. Jimmy was having none of that. Even after the second bucket, all I’d really managed to do was spill a lot of water on the bathroom floor. Jimmy floated on, not even his structural integrity was damaged, the little fucker. Mild panic set in when I heard J-Rab turn the shower in the room next door. What would she think of me if she had to meet Jimmy? In my mind I watched in horror as she fell out of love with me instantly, fleeing in terror at the site of Jimmy, the tenacious turd. And it was at about that moment that it came to me. I would employ the Ghostbuster Approach. In the Ghostbuster movies, they weakened the ghosts first by nailing them with their guns, and then only deployed the trap thingy underneath the ghosts to suck them down. [caption id="attachment_260" align="alignnone" width="655" caption="The Ghostbuster Approach - artistic interpretation in 3D"][/caption] In the same way, I would first flush the toilet to weaken Jimmy and then dump a bucket-load of water in there to finish him off. However, time was not on my side, I heard the second bathroom door open and my mild panic became flat out panic, it was now or never. I said a silent prayer to whatever Gods may be as a bead of sweat trickled down my temple. I reached out a trembling hand, closed my fingers around the flusher... and yanked down. Then, with lightning fast reflexes I grabbed the bucket of water beside me and dumped it with all the force I could muster on Jimmy’s head. ‘Fucking die! You fucking die!’ I shouted at my fecal friend as he bobbed and swayed in the chaotic maelstrom I had created. Time slowed down. J-Rab opened the bedroom door, in moments she would be in the bathroom, this was it, sink or swim, sink or swim you little ASSHOLE! And then, thanks to the miracle of displacement, every DROP of water disappeared from the bowl... and so did Jimmy! I breathed a heavy sigh of relief and, shaking uncontrollably, wiped the sweat from my brow. I’d done it. Jimmy was no more and J-Rab was none the wiser, although later that night she did ask me why I kept humming the Ghostbuster’s theme tune on infinite repeat. Because when there’s something strange in the neighbourhood... Who you gonna call? -ST

Guitar Jon at the crossroads

slicktiger — Fri, 23 Oct 2009 06:29:05 +0000

A cold wind blows in this place, it cuts straight through his clothes and slices like a knife through his skin. It’s bone cold in this place where Guitar Jon stands, drunk and alone, squinting through the thick fog, trying to figure out where to go. Fear and doubt rule this place, we’ve all been here and will come back time and time again throughout our lives, but it doesn’t make it any easier or any less lonely when we do. There are two paths he can go by, but only one holds any kind of certainty, and that certainty beckons to him, warm and safe as a straight jacket. He can see this path more clearly than the other and he can imagine himself a year down it, two years, three years. It’s a soulless path, as all certain paths are. For him it contains no mystery and no promise of excitement, but there’s no doubt in his mind that it would be a far easier path to walk. [caption id="attachment_264" align="alignnone" width="632" caption="The soulless road"][/caption] The other path is so thick in fog that he can’t even make out where it leads or whether it’s muddy, rocky or grassy. The plants that grow by the side of it are wild and thorny and sprout flowers that breathe exotic and sickly sweet perfumes into the air and look like they could swallow a man whole. That second path is the one his guts tell him to walk, but will he listen to them? Or will he follow his head and walk the safe path? I can empathise with him because I know this place so, so well and I know how it feels when you realise that for months, sometimes even years, you’ve been sitting here wondering what the fuck to do. Stalling. Killing time while time kills you. Every single one of us has a calling, and don’t get me wrong here, I don’t want to come across sounding all preachy and like I’ve got it figured all out, I don’t and hope I never will, but there is one thing at least that everyone does exceptionally well and that everyone loves doing. Problem is, very few of us can make a living off that thing. For Jon it’s playing the guitar, it’s singing and it’s writing songs. When that man picks up an acoustic steel string, or even his Telecaster, a kind of silence fills the spaces between the chords he strums and the notes he picks and sings that sounds like the world holding its breath. In those moments he becomes the perfect conduit for something old and powerful and hungry, and like lightning striking the same spot over and over, he channels that energy through his being and through his guitar until they become one and the same. And in those moments, he is part man and part God. But the song ends eventually, the last chord is strummed, vibrates and fades into nothing once more and Guitar Jon turns back to his humdrum job and his humdrum life, humdrum Jon. I once read a timeline of what would happen if the human species was wiped out completely. After a few decades all the empty buildings would begin to collapse, all the abandoned highways would crumble and the forests would gradually grow back until they were wild and lush once more. New plant and animal species would evolve, even new microbes that could break down plastics and synthetic materials would start working their magic and after 3 billion years there would be not even one coke lid left to prove that we had ever existed. All that would be left would be scraps and fragments of the satellite signals we broadcast into space. Our TV sitcoms and talk shows and cartoons echoing endlessly in the black ether of space. Our music would be out there too, floating through cosmic dust trails and far off asteroid fields for eternity. [caption id="attachment_266" align="alignnone" width="480" caption="The cosmic dust trails"][/caption] That is where Guitar Jon belongs, but there’s only one road that’s gonna take him there and he has to walk it alone, as do all of us. -ST

A lonely place

slicktiger — Fri, 23 Oct 2009 06:32:03 +0000

Out there

slicktiger — Fri, 23 Oct 2009 06:33:21 +0000

Saturday dreaming

slicktiger — Sat, 24 Oct 2009 12:37:26 +0000

Weekends only really become sacred when you start working. Up until then, even when you’re in school, they’re welcome, but unlike when you start working, you don’t crave them. You don’t sit on a Monday morning praying to sweet baby Jesus that it was still the weekend. [caption id="attachment_269" align="alignnone" width="655" caption="Gonna be a bright sunshiney day!"][/caption] At varsity I could hardly distinguish between weekends and week days, it’s the weirdest thing. I know I worked at varsity, I mean I must have because I actually managed to pass all my subjects the first time, didn’t repeat a single year and came out with two degrees, but I really don’t remember ever really busting my balls. What I remember is lazy summer afternoons, chilling at friend’s digses and res rooms, shooting the breeze and laughing, a lot of laughing. On sunny days like today I feel closer to that part of me and not the 9-5 Tiger I’ve become. Don’t get me wrong, in comparison to what a lot of other people do, my job is actually extremely stress free, but it doesn’t mean I don’t work hard. I do, I just have the good fortune of really enjoying what I do and the people I work with are incredible. So yeah, the week’s over and now there’s nothing left to do except whatever the hell I want. There are rumours of bowling, the 10-pin kind, not the lawn kind, and possibly we might go and see Inglorious Basterds, cause it opened yesterday and all reviews so far have been really good. But for now, J-Rab is antsy and says I must stop this incessant blogging, get off my ass and go do some grocery shopping, and that is exactly what I’m gonna do :) *****************TIME PASSES**************** Now it’s later and plans have changed. Now it’s FISH BRAAI! FISH BRAAI always attracts a whole bunch of people cause the minute you say BRAAI people are like OK yeah, braai, ok, I can do that. But when you say FISH BRAAI people have a totally different reaction. They’re like Huh, fish braai? Wow, fish! Sure, that sounds rad, I’ll be there. So yeah, that’s the dealy-o, I’m FISH BRAAI-ing, possibly in the pouring rain, ONLY TIME WILL TELL! [caption id="attachment_271" align="alignnone" width="540" caption="Yeah... um... I think I jinxed it..."][/caption] SLickTiger out. -ST

Happy Days

slicktiger — Sat, 24 Oct 2009 12:42:36 +0000

Aaaaaaaahhhhh kak

slicktiger — Sat, 24 Oct 2009 12:47:17 +0000

Saturday waking

slicktiger — Sun, 25 Oct 2009 16:09:18 +0000

Thing about fish, we discovered later, is you gotta be pretty vigilant when you’re cooking it on an open fire. This is by no means to suggest that we don’t know how to braai fish, Graum’s braaied a good couple fish in his time, many of which I’ve eaten and they’ve all turned out to be pretty damn good. [caption id="attachment_274" align="alignnone" width="640" caption="What a fish braai kinda looks like... if you're homeless"][/caption] The problem we had was with the vigilance part of the deal. Graum was the only one keeping an eye on things and we were all on a pretty potent mix. The fish was excellent, people said, but slightly overdone. The day I guess also turned overdone at the end of everything - a good 90% of the remaining troops were fast asleep on the couches in our flat by about 9 at night, myself included. The camera tracked through all the glass bottles and the images of all our sleeping bodies stretched and contracted slowly in muted colours shining from the TV screen. J-Rab was the first to do gown, she looked warm and happy in her sleep, completely oblivious to the noise of the rest of us getting up between movies. Graum and I rented two DVDs, the first one we watched was ‘Human Nature’, and then we tried to watch ‘Mirrors’, a psychological thriller with Keifer Sutherland, but that’s what put the rest of us down. The braai didn’t get rained out in the end, but the sky hang low and dark and four about five hours the light was strange and silvery and it looked like we were paused on the edge of a kind of perpetual twilight. [caption id="attachment_278" align="alignnone" width="655" caption="5 Hour Twilight"][/caption] In the end it was Graum, M-Class, Jenni-fuh, the Hindian, Action Jackson and his girl, Slitterpuff. Last person to join was Glazyboy in a fetching grey vest and hiking boots that got him a lot of attention. We laid a couple of blankets out on the grass by the pool and did our best to enjoy the weather. Thing is it was warm, just cloudy and later on, well after the sun had set, Jenni-fuh, J-Rab and I stripped to our underwear and swam for about 3 minutes before the cold water froze our bits off. Back in the flat afterwards I started to initiate a tequila smack down. The Hindian looked like a brave dude, so after making him fetch the plastic table from the pool area (about 500 meters) from the flat, I poured him a tequila and he hardly said a word after that. Well, not that I remember anyway, except every time something weird happened in ‘Human Nature’, he’d say ‘No!’ in total disbelief. Funniest thing was J-Rab was sleeping in my lap during ‘Mirrors’ and randomly woke up during one of the scary parts, so she half-shielded her eyes with the back of her hand, her elbow up in the air. Then she drifted back to sleep, but left her elbow up there. A couple of moments later, her elbow starts swaying backwards and forwards slowly so I burst out laughing and lower it back down for her and she smiles contentedly in her sleep, snuggles up closer and drifts way off again. Good times I tell you, good times :) -ST

Mmmm... cooked on an extra rusty braai for added flavour

slicktiger — Sun, 25 Oct 2009 16:13:15 +0000

Silverlight

slicktiger — Sun, 25 Oct 2009 16:21:24 +0000

Silverlight

slicktiger — Sun, 25 Oct 2009 16:27:43 +0000

Short Story: King of Spades

slicktiger — Mon, 26 Oct 2009 07:35:14 +0000

King of Spades

I never thought it would be like this, when I was planning this move, I never thought it would be like this. This is better than I could have ever imagined. I thought she’d completely flip out, I thought she’d be hysterical, crying and screaming, shaking and moaning, like in the movies when this kind of thing happens, but it’s nothing like that. Movies are full of shit, written by people who get off on living vicariously through fictional characters. She’s standing facing me, a little way up the driveway, her left hand is covering her mouth and her eyes are wide and tears are spilling from their aquamarine depths and splashing silently on the bricks. I’ve never seen her so beautiful. She’s different from how I remember her, her hair is longer, jet black and streaked with auburn it falls in soft tresses on her tiny shoulders that are heaving in a syncopated rhythm as she weeps. Her face is more compelling than I remember it, and looking at it now makes me certain that God took the time to sculpt her himself; took an eon to carve the soft almond arcs of her febrile eyes, took a millennium to craft her delicate cheek bones, her aristocratic nose, her neat little chin and her lips – Jesus! They were his masterpiece. I’ve never known a woman with such beautiful, full lips, lips that haunted me with every kiss and hypnotized me with every smile. I can’t see them now, but I can imagine how delicately their shapely bows are trembling. This isn’t the first time I’ve made her cry. Her hand drifts from her face, the clouds drift from the moon, she tilts her head ever so slightly, and says, ‘Why did you do that? Why did you do that, Chris?’ Her tone is soft, her voice is almost a whisper, she isn’t angry, she is sad, disappointed. I stare numbly at her and try to think of something to say, some way to explain my actions, but it’s been so long, I don’t know where to start, I can’t find the words to tell her how hard it’s been without her. My emotions are rising, my face is blushing and I can feel my vision blurring, I stammer, ‘B-baby, I –’ ‘You’re scaring me,’ she says. ‘Don’t be scared, don’t be scared, it’s just me, you know me. I promised you I’d come back for you baby, and I did. Things have been bad, they’ve been really bad for me, but this is the start of a new life for us. We’re leaving this place, I’m taking you somewhere safe, away from here. Come with me.’ ‘I can’t,’ she says, but I’m not sure she understands. ‘You don’t understand, you don’t understand how much I love you. I’ve never been able to put it into words, there are no words for how much I love you. I have something to show you, and when you see it, you’ll understand, you’ll know how much I love you.’ ‘Chris, plea-’ And then in an explosion of light and sound I show her. I show her and she sees. She sees what it meant to me all those years ago when we first fell for one another, when we first kissed, when she first told me that she loved me, when we first made love. I show her how important the days we spent together were, how I cherished those languid afternoons spent basking with her in my arms in the sun, reading under trees, eating ice cream, cold, sweet kisses. We are walking under jacaranda trees, we are holding hands, we are walking the streets of Paris, she is laughing at a story I’m telling her, her laugh is like little bells, it fills me, glows inside me. I am waking up next to her in the morning, I am whole, she is getting up, getting dressed, I am making her cheesy toast for breakfast, we are brushing our teeth together, we are starting our day together, we are there for each other, she is there for me… She is pulling me out of the car, she is crying, telling me that she loves me, I am waking up, she is crying, crying, thank God, thank God you’re alive, there is blood, there is blood everywhere, my hands are ribbons, they have to stitch me back up, I ask what about Ricky? I ask what about Ricky again and again, in the hospital she tells me… that night we hold each other like I’ve never held anyone and I cry until I can’t anymore, and she is there for me, she means the world to me, I want to die, but she’s keeping me alive, she’s the only goddamn thing in this world holding me together, I show her and she sees… She is much calmer now, she isn’t scared anymore. I move towards her, how many times have I dreamed this moment? I cross the divide that separates us, step over his body. I let the gun fall and we embrace and it feels good, it feels like home. I breathe her scent in, let it fill me. Tiny atoms of her drift into my lungs and are absorbed into my blood, they course through my veins and flood my senses. I bury my head in the gentle, sloping alcove of her neck and shoulder and crush her to me. ‘We need to go baby,’ I whisper through the soft curtain of her hair, ‘we need to leave this place and never come back. My car is parked around the block, we need to go, you can’t take anything with, you won’t need anything, you have me, you have everything.’ I hold her as we walk, it’s been so long since I’ve held anyone. We round the corner and I help her into the car and bundle her up in her favourite blanket, I brought it with me because I knew I could win her back, and I have. I pull the car out into the street, gear up, let go the clutch and floor the accelerator. We drive to the city limits and beyond, we drive until the sun starts to streak the sky in pink and crimson hues. I talk to her as I drive, I tell her how lonely it’s been without her, I tell her about how in the beginning, I would wake every morning into madness because my half-slumbering mind kept thinking I would roll over, and there she’d be beside me, warm and sleepy, peaceful, happy. I tell her about how I started drinking, drugging, spending my nights with hollow, ugly woman, in hollow, ugly embraces, trying desperately not to feel. I tell her about how many times I wanted to phone her and beg her back and about how I never stopped following her life and her amazing successes and how I never stopped dreaming of her. She’s getting sleepy now, but there are still so many things I want to tell her, I want to tell her about how a man has never loved a woman like I love her, I want to tell her about how she will never have to worry ever again, I want to tell her that her life will be perfect from now on, that I am better now, that I was sick for a long time, but that I am better now, but these things will have to wait, she’s tired now and she is silently nodding off to sleep beside me. I brush a strand of fallen hair from her face and kiss her tenderly on the forehead and tell her that I love her, and though she’s sleeping now, I know if she’d heard me, she would have opened her eyes, those dazzling green eyes of hers and she would have smiled that magical smile that she kept for me and no one else in the world she would have told me that she loves me too. The city melts away from us until there are no more buildings, just the road in front of us and the sun above. I find a lonely copse of eucalyptus trees by the side of the road and pull over. Their shade falls in dappled patches where sunlight penetrates the thick foliage above us and shines down in rays that are reflected in the dust the car has kicked up. I get out of the car, light a smoke and take a piss behind one of the trees. I wonder if that petrol station I passed has any decent pies? Better get to work, I’m fucking starving. I open the boot of my car and take the spade out.

2mm

slicktiger — Tue, 27 Oct 2009 10:21:01 +0000

It was my Dad’s birthday today and we did our customary thing of all going out for dinner, according to our ancient family tradition. Other families have rich cultures that span back hundreds of years, they wear special outfits and play traditional music and dance traditional dances and eat traditional food.

[caption id="attachment_286" align="alignnone" width="450" caption="Why can't I dress up and rock out like these Dubrovnikans?"][/caption]

But us? We go out for dinner. We don’t care where, as long as the food’s nice and expensive and the service is brisk and impersonal. We don’t have any kind of heritage, but these days, who does? I’ve never seen anyone all kitted up in their traditional garb unless it’s at some festival or other and to be honest, I always thought they look a bit retarded. In the globalised world of tomorrow we will all worship film stars and traditional food will be served 24/7 at McDonalds, and it will be full to the brim of Ecoli, which comes from shit, nom nom nom. Now J-Rab’s reading this over my shoulder and telling me that I’ve already done the whole ‘my family has no tradition’ diatribe and that all my readers are gonna remember from the time before and think that I have a ratty memory. Problem is I think you need to actually have readers in the first place for that to happen. Now she’s tickling me incessantly and making funny squeaking noises and I’m laughing like a bastard :) But anyway, at dinner this evening my Mom was telling us how she saw this show about airplane accidents (she watches shows like this for the express purpose of fuelling her already plentiful reserves of general paranoia) and what happened with this one plane was that the pilot undid his seatbelt! (This is how she tells stories. She inserts pregnant pauses mid story to try and build up the suspense while an ad break plays in her head). And the next thing you know! The entire windshield in front of him was sucked out in a tremendous BANG! And soon afterwards, he followed too! The story is actually pretty cool because the guy survived. His foot got hooked somehow and he flapped around outside the plane for 14 minutes before they managed to pull him back inside. But get this, the temperature outside the plane at that altitude was minus 20 fucking degrees! Later on, they discovered the windshield malfunctioned like that because there was a screw that had been made according to incorrect specifications. It was 2mm too short, and it nearly cost that pilot and everyone else in the plane their lives. A terrible thing happened at the park where J-Rab worked up until Wednesday last week. It’s a small zoo and they have everything there from Ocelots to Servals to the big guns, Lions and Tigers. Anyway, behind the part that is accessible to the public, there are a few more enclosures with Tigers and Lions which are kept off exhibit so that they can breed in peace, without visitors filming them and putting it on YouTube.

[caption id="attachment_287" align="alignnone" width="655" caption="Lion-porn - if you look closely you can see there bits! Siff!"][/caption]

On Sunday afternoon, Vicky, an intern from Belgium was chilling in off exhibit with a guy that volunteers at the zoo every weekend and knows the animals well. At least he thought he knew the animals well. Tequila is a 4 year-old lioness who J-Rab describes as a ‘poor, angry, caged wild animal’ and who lives in off exhibit with her mate, Chaos. The dude who volunteers and Vicky were petting the lions through the enclosure fence, something I myself have even done before, when Tequila decided ‘fuck this’. She bit down on Vicky’s hand and pulled her arm through the fence up to Vicky’s shoulder. Tequila then got a hold of Vicky’s arm, this time much higher up, and did her level best to try and tear it from Vicky’s body. By the grace of whatever powers might be, Tequila eventually let go of Vicky’s arm, but the damage was severe. Vicky collapsed on the ground with a broken collar bone, a broken humerus and enough tissue and muscle damage to her arm that the doctors were saying yesterday it’s doubtful if she’ll ever be able to use it again. In the car on the way to the hospital, Vicky nearly died twice, but luckily one of the other girls there knew basic first aid and was able to keep Vicky alive. After the doctors examined the damage, they discovered that the reason Vicky didn’t die outright from the mauling was that Tequila had just missed Vicky’s artery. It was 2mm. 2mm closer and her artery would have been torn open and she would have bled out in the car on the way to the hospital. And that really is the thickness of the barrier between this life and the next and in some cases it’s even thinner. It shouldn’t have to be so extreme, but until you’ve nearly died, you have no idea how lucky you are. Life doesn’t owe us jack-shit, but we owe everything, everything to life and while it might be difficult and shitty at times, it’s also the best thing we’ve ever known. And if that isn’t worth fighting for, I honestly don’t know what is. -ST

Ecstatic with joy

slicktiger — Tue, 27 Oct 2009 10:37:46 +0000

Ahh yeeaahhh, THAT'S the spot right there, aaahhh yeeeeaaaaahhhhh

slicktiger — Tue, 27 Oct 2009 10:40:44 +0000

Album Review: Pearl Jam - 'Backspacer'

slicktiger — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 07:15:27 +0000

Pearl Jam is undoubtedly one of the Titans of rock music, the band has been playing for the last 19 years, has recorded 9 studio albums, has sold an estimated 60 million records worldwide and is pretty much the only surviving band of the grunge rock explosion that was the early 90s.

[caption id="attachment_291" align="alignnone" width="655" caption="Pearl Jam - Stone Gossard, Jeff Ament, Eddie Vedder, Matt Cameron and Mike McCready"][/caption]

You’d be hard pressed to find someone who doesn’t have at least one favourite Pearl Jam song, such is this band’s impressive repertoire. Whether it’s the slow and powerful behemoth that is ‘Alive’, the up-tempo acoustic/electric classic ‘Daughter’ or their more hook heavy attempts such as ‘Do the Evolution’ and ‘Ghost’, this band has a knack for making records that are consistently good. Backspacer is no exception to this rule. The band recorded Backspacer with producer Brendan O’Brien (who worked with the band on Vs, Vitalogy, No Code and Yield) and that in itself was definitely a step in the right direction. O’Brien is not the kind of producer who sweats the small stuff, he knows what works, he knows what the band is capable of and is happy to let the rest take care of itself, under his expert guidance, of course. The result is that Backspacer is a lot of fun. You’d think after 8 studio albums Pearl Jam would start toning things down a little, maybe write an acoustic album with Leonard Cohenish undertones, but no, if anything Backspacer has proven that there is still a lot of life left in Pearl Jam, despite the fact that the band are all in their mid to late 40s. Rolling Stone’s Rob Sheffield says it best ‘Backspacer, Pearl Jam's ninth album, backspaces to that boyish spirit, with the shortest, tightest, punkiest tunes they've ever banged out.’ http://www.rollingstone.com/reviews/album/30067214/review/30083898/backspacer

[caption id="attachment_292" align="alignnone" width="655" caption="Backspacer - Just as fun to listen to as it is to look at"][/caption]

In total the album comprises 11 tracks and breaks the record for the shortest Pearl Jam album ever recorded, lasting roughly 37 minutes in total, a fact that almost every review I’ve read about this album has pointed out. Right from the get-go this album rocks out, delivering a powerful three-hit combo in the form of the opening tracks ‘Gonna see my friend’, ‘Got Some’ and ‘Fixer’ that set the tone for the 8 tracks to follow. Matt Cameron’s drumming takes centre stage right from the outset because if there’s one thing O’Brien knows well, it’s how to get a drum sound that refuses to play dutifully in the background while the guitars get all the glory. But that’s not to say guitarists Mike McCready (lead) and Stone Gossard (rhythm) are slacking off on this album, if anyone’s slacking off it’s bassist Jeff Ament, but then again he usually slacks off (give me one killer Pearl Jam bass riff and I’ll eat this review).

[caption id="attachment_293" align="alignnone" width="400" caption="Look at him slacking off there, that's no way to play a bass guitar!"][/caption]

The halting, half picked, half strummed riffs that make up ‘The Fixer’, the quick and dextrous opening to ‘Supersonic’ and the complex melody that is the second track ‘Got Some’ are all examples of how Gossard and McCready are masters of their art. But the thing that surprised me most about Backspacer is that after 19 years of screaming his lungs out, Eddie Vedder’s voice is still just as powerful as it was back in 1990 when he first growled out ‘Once upon a time I could control myself…’ The man is a vocal God. If you could bottle the magic that makes him sing the way he does, it would sell for millions. He also writes all the lyrics on this album and does so with his customary minimalistic and honest style that comes across as sincere without being preachy. There is even some influences from Eddie Vedder’s solo album he recorded for the movie ‘Into the Wild’ in tracks like ‘Just Breathe’ and ‘The End’, which add a welcome change from the otherwise riff-heavy tracks that define Backspacer.

[caption id="attachment_294" align="alignnone" width="500" caption="Buy this CD if you haven't already"][/caption]

The only flaw in Backspacer is that all in all, it’s nothing we haven’t heard before from these surviving grunge rockers. The experimentation on the album is kept to a minimum and it can’t stand up to past gems such as Yield or my personal favourites No Code and Riot Act. It’s a solid album and fans will love it instantly, but I suspect a lot of people might find Backspacer boring on the first few listens, but give it time, it’s a solid album and like all Pearl Jam albums, you’ll catch a track from Backspacer in years to come that will play like an old friend in your head and you’ll be thankful in that moment for bands like Pearl Jam who stick to their guns and do so with style and undeniable charm. Final Verdict: 7.5/10

Funny how Eddie is the only one I recognise...

slicktiger — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 07:18:44 +0000

Looks like a bad pyote experience I once had...

slicktiger — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 07:25:01 +0000

Easy Breezey

slicktiger — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 07:26:53 +0000

Watch this movie if you haven't already

slicktiger — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 07:28:34 +0000

Mmmm... break me off a chunk 'o that

slicktiger — Thu, 29 Oct 2009 06:21:51 +0000

Newborn babies - juicey

slicktiger — Thu, 29 Oct 2009 06:25:39 +0000

Masochist

slicktiger — Thu, 29 Oct 2009 06:28:08 +0000

If you had to ask me what are the two things that have gotten me the furthest in my life it would have to be the fact that I am a total sucker for punishment and thankfully, am really bad at dying. I've come close on at least two different occassions where, had circumstances been slightly different, I wouldn't be writing this post and eating Cheerios for breakfast, I'd be lying in a hole, probably already bones by now. Although to be honest, I'd much prefer if my body was turned into tiny bite-sized cocktail hors d'ouevres and served as a tasty snack at my funeral.

[caption id="attachment_300" align="alignnone" width="500" caption="Try the SlickTiger steak tartar, it's nom"][/caption]

People would be like, 'My these tiny bite-sized cocktail hors d'ouevres are delicious, what are they?' and the people in the know, who wouldn't be going anywhere near them would say, 'Slick Tiger. That's how he wanted to go. This way a little piece of him will live inside us all.' At which point the funeral would probably turn into a vomitorium, but I digress. I think I'm a sucker for punishment becuse of what I experienced when I woke up from the first operation. In that moment, as my mind waded slowly and painfully through the depths of the general anaesthetic they'd given me, I had no idea where I was, how I got there, why I was there, and most importantly, who the fuck I was. There was just pain. Bone splintering pain, the kind that aches right down to your core and washes over you in colossal and sickening waves. In that moment I was pain. My identity was completely erased, I remember trying to reach back for something, some kind of clue as to why I had woken up in that hell, but there was nothing there. I remember swearing. I remember the tiled ceiling. One of the nurses wheeling my bed said, 'Ok, he's definitely awake now' and not long after that they put me under again. In total it couldn't have been longer than three minutes. Amazing how three minutes can change your entire life. And now I sit here, nearly eight years later, stronger in every imaginable way. I train as often as I can, I sweat blood and I eat weights and when I wake up the next day, my muscles sore and stiff, I feel satisfied and I feel closer to that person who woke up so many years ago, pure as a screaming newborn.

[caption id="attachment_301" align="alignnone" width="601" caption="Welcome to life little buddy, all the screaming in the world can't save you now"][/caption]

You gotta wake up at least two or three days a week feeling like you've been in a fight, cause life is a fight. The moment you lie down and accept your fate is the moment you stop living and start dying. People spend their lives running away from pain and toward comfort and security, well I say fuck that, I say run toward pain, because the most incredible thing about our species is we think we know our limits, but every wall we've ever encountered we've found a way to bulldoze, and those people, the ones doing the bulldozing, they don't give a fuck about pain or suffering or defeat or humiliation or fear. They're suckers for punishment, because when you've got nothing left to lose, you've got everything to gain. -ST

Halloween do's and don'ts - a crash course for social retards

slicktiger — Fri, 30 Oct 2009 06:57:41 +0000

Not everyone in this world was born lucky enough to have a developed set of social skills, some people, like me, were born socially retarded and as such often find themselves in awkward social situations wishing they could crawl into a hole somewhere. Take the following example for instance, I get invited by a good buddy to a ‘crazy pants’ party he’s throwing at his digs one lazy Saturday afternoon. We’ll call him Irish. Now besides Irish, I only know one other person going to the crazy pants party, Action Jackson, and as fate would have it I chose that particular afternoon to return Action’s giant green dildo (with suction cup for added, er, suction?). Now don’t get me wrong, the dildo belongs to Action’s company, they sell sex toys as a side business and the green dildo, or the Incredible Hulk as he affectionately became known, was dropped off as a joke by Action at our offices when he visited once.

[caption id="attachment_308" align="alignnone" width="655" caption="HULK SMASH!"][/caption]

The Incredible Hulk sat on my desk for nearly three weeks and I’ll be honest, it unnerved me. At first I fixed it proudly to my desk, other people in the office thought it was funny and laughed nervously when I showed them, but after three or four days of staring at it out the corner of my eye, I lay it flat instead, but that hardly improved the situation. It was just so… real. No guy wants to stare at a dick all day (unless maybe it’s his own) and so I threw the Incredible Hulk in my boot with the intention of returning it to Action at the crazy pants party. The next day rolled along and a genius idea struck me. I would wear the Incredible Hulk to the crazy pants party! I would open my fly and poke it out there – how crazy is THAT?! I still think it was a pretty damn hilarious move, but I’d made one crucial, schoolboy error. I’d forgotten that basically I was going to a party where I knew no one. And so, when I made my big arrival and marched proudly onto the porch where everyone was chilling, the Incredible Hulk flapping thick and long out my trouser front, I was not greeted by the peals of laughter and shoulder clapping ‘nice one dude’s, but rather by a patio full of completely sober people staring in puzzlement at the prosthetic dick hanging out of my jeans. ‘Is that yours?’ one of the guys asked me and immediately I felt myself go beet red. It had never even crossed my mind that they would fix a personal pronoun to my faux cheloger. To paraphrase fight club, I thought they would see it as ‘a’ dildo, not ‘my’ dildo.

[caption id="attachment_309" align="alignnone" width="483" caption="Don't worry, he's not a threat to you"][/caption]

I stammered my way through some kind of explanation, but I don’t think anyone bought it. They probably all refer to me as the ‘dildo guy’ now. Very smooth, very slick tiger. But enough idle banter, with no further ado, here’s my list of Halloween do’s and don’ts so that the more socially retarded of us can survive the evening. RULE NO. 1 – For God’s Sake Dress Up As Something As a universal rule, people appreciate it when you make an effort at dress up parties. You don’t have to be the coolest dressed guy there, nor do you have to put hours of hard work into your costume, but arriving at the party dressed as a ‘Hardy Boy’ is not going to get you one ounce of respect.

[caption id="attachment_310" align="alignnone" width="498" caption="Effort is always appreciated - this guy could have put in a little more"][/caption]

See, when everyone is dressed up and looking crazy, they have a tendency to be a little self conscious at the beginning of the night and won’t hesitate to point you out to their buddies and say, ‘Fuck, look at that jerk, what a rad costume’ in order to make themselves feel better about wearing their mom’s pantyhose in public. Don’t be that guy. For God’s sake, dress up as something. If you don’t feel like being the centre of attention, go for the traditional pirate/ninja/mexican get-up. You won’t get any points for originality, but at least you won’t be the butt of the guy-who-came-with-a-sheet-over-his-head’s jokes. RULE NO. 2 – There is no such thing as too far Halloween is one of those rare occasions where you really can go balls to the wall when choosing your get up, but just be sure you’re ready to handle the attention this will probably get you. If you have the confidence to pull it off, I say go all out. Get a pink tutu a black fedora hat, a green and red striped T-shirt, stick a couple of knives to a glove and go as a cross-dressing Freddy Kruger. The sky’s the limit and like I said before, people will appreciate the effort and if you can make them laugh at the same time, that’s a huge plus.

[caption id="attachment_311" align="alignnone" width="463" caption="Um yeah, this might be taking things a little too far though..."][/caption]

RULE NO. 3 – Never forget that no matter how cool or freaky it might look if you put fake blood / oozing wounds / fake burns all over your face, you’re not going to get any ass I think this rule pretty much explains itself. Back in varsity we threw a MASSIVE Halloween party and even managed to organise a metal band to rock out at our digs. It was a huge success and people had a killer time. A lot of girls told us the party was awesome and my buddy Graumpot and I really thought we would get some ass, but we didn’t, and it wasn’t until the next day that we figured out why. We went as vampires. Good idea. We dressed up in smart suits and looked pretty suave. Also a good idea. But to add the finishing touch, we filled our mouths with red food colouring and dribbled the whole lot down our chins and all over the front of our white shirts. Fail.

[caption id="attachment_312" align="alignnone" width="600" caption="This guy probably didn't get any ass either, wonder why?"][/caption]

If you want to get ass at a Halloween party, proceed directly to the next rule. A rule I like to call ‘Rule No. 5’ RULE NO. 5 – Dress up goofy / cute / funny and you will get ass To illustrate rule number five, I’d like to use the following picture taken at Hugh Heifner’s Playboy Mansion Halloween Party ‘09:

[caption id="attachment_313" align="alignnone" width="500" caption="The smile of a man who knows he's gettin' laid in 5..."][/caption]

See that guy in the Scooby Doo outfit? He is going to get laid and he knows it. All he needs is to be able to do a half-decent Scooby Doo impression and he’s in there. Any girl, when faced with the dark and brooding zombie-dude lurking on the dance floor, or the fun and loveable Scooby Doo-guy who’s costume is furry and adorable, is going to go for good ‘ol Scoobs.

[caption id="attachment_314" align="alignnone" width="400" caption="Would you sleep with this man? The simple answer here ladies is FUCK NO"][/caption]

And that, my friends, is a fact. So if you want ass at this year’s Halloween party, go for adorable rather than scary. The kind of guys that scare girls into bed are not cool. It’s like the Sun and the Wind story. One day the Wind saw a hottie walking with a scarf wrapped around her neck. ‘I’ll bet I can make that hottie lose her scarf’ said the Wind to the Sun. ‘Ok,’ said the Sun, ‘do your worst.’ So the wind blew as hard as he fucking could, and you know what happened? The hottie clutched her scarf even tighter. ‘You done?’ the Sun asked eventually. ‘Yeah…’ said the Wind, ‘fuck, that looked different in my head…’ At that, the Sun shone as strong as he could and after about 10 minutes the hottie lost her scarf. About 10 minutes after that the hottie took her top off too, and her jeans. Then about 10 minutes after that she slowly and seductively unclasped her bra and slid her panties off her curvaceous hips… Um… sorry, where the fuck was I? Oh yeah – be funny and adorable and you’ll get ass. End of story. RULE NO. 6 – Halloween is no time to indulge in any kind of hallucinogenic drugs Another rule that pretty much explains itself, and let’s face it, it’s not the 60s, I don’t think many people do hallucinogenics anymore really. But just on the off chance that a buddy procures some ‘shrooms or a little acid to get freaky on Halloween, DON’T DO IT. Psychotropics are difficult enough to handle without every kind of creepy ghoul imaginable wandering around the place like something out of a nightmare you had once when you were six.

[caption id="attachment_315" align="alignnone" width="564" caption="One look at this dude after a bag of shrooms and you can kiss your mind goodbye"][/caption]

Leave Lucy in the sky with diamonds and stick with good ‘ol booze. RULE NO. 7 – A rule for the ladies There’s only really one rule if you’re a lady and you’re going to a Halloween party, be as sexy as humanly possible. I’m talking french maid outfits, I’m talking catsuits, policelady suits, female samurai suits, the golden rule here is less is more and fishnets and stilettos are a definite yes.

[caption id="attachment_316" align="alignnone" width="605" caption="Take notes ladies, this is how it's done"][/caption]

Stay the hell away from the fake blood bottle, and for the love of sweet baby Jesus, don’t try and dress scary. Scary is a no.

[caption id="attachment_317" align="alignnone" width="600" caption="One of these ladies has got it down pat and one should be dragged outside and shot for what she's wearing - see if you can guess which is which"][/caption]

Stick with sexy and you’ll be just fine. That about does it for my Halloween do’s and don’ts for social retards, and I’m really glad we’ve had this chat, and I think you’re gonna be just fine, in fact, you’ll be better than fine, you’ll be fucking incredible. Go get ‘em tiger :) -ST

Don't ask me how that tear near the ball sack started

slicktiger — Fri, 30 Oct 2009 07:02:00 +0000

Boi-oi-oi-oi-nngggg

slicktiger — Fri, 30 Oct 2009 07:16:19 +0000

Retard-erine

slicktiger — Fri, 30 Oct 2009 07:22:54 +0000

Tearing mommy a new one

slicktiger — Fri, 30 Oct 2009 07:28:48 +0000

Delicious zombies, mmm...

slicktiger — Fri, 30 Oct 2009 07:31:06 +0000

Rooby dooby doo!

slicktiger — Fri, 30 Oct 2009 07:48:45 +0000

Woah, too far dude... waaayyyy too far

slicktiger — Fri, 30 Oct 2009 07:53:07 +0000

How aboutta huuuuuuuggggg?

slicktiger — Fri, 30 Oct 2009 07:57:07 +0000

Phwoar, yes please!

slicktiger — Fri, 30 Oct 2009 08:04:13 +0000

The one in the middle, aaaahhhh yyeeeaaaahhhh

slicktiger — Fri, 30 Oct 2009 08:05:53 +0000

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slicktiger — Sat, 31 Oct 2009 14:28:42 +0000

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slicktiger — Sat, 31 Oct 2009 14:29:48 +0000

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slicktiger — Sat, 31 Oct 2009 14:30:56 +0000

HALLOWEEN 09 and the tale of the dreaded Voodoo curse

slicktiger — Sat, 31 Oct 2009 14:31:01 +0000

So far the day’s been a busy one, no doubt. I got the following stuff, each one from a different place practically:

1 x Green Glitter
1 x Glue bottle
1 x Green nose stud
1 x Green ribbon
6 x Cinnabons
1 x Bottle Vodka
1 x 6pack Windhoek
1 x 6pack Savana Dry
1 x Chopsticks

I also chose out a TV cabinet for my birthday. How fucking off the hook is that? You know you’re getting old when the thought of new lounge furniture excites you.

In the shops today I fell victim once again to the ancient voodoo curse that has haunted me my whole life.

The Deadly Voodoo Queue Curse.

More times than I’d care to admit, I find myself standing at the back of really long queues, as do most of us at some stage or another.

I sigh in resignation, dutifully take my place at the back and switch my brain off completely until I’m at the front.

Here’s where it gets creepy.

When I get to the front, this kind of cold shiver all of a sudden creeps down my spine, like a breath of icey cold air. I turn around, wide-eyed, and find…

Nothing…

Behind me there is no one. It doesn’t matter if 35 people are in the queue in front of me, I get to the front and there’s not a soul behind me.

Just empty space, it happens to me all the time and I guess it’s fitting that it happened today, on Halloween, the creepiest time of year.

So all of us have got our costumes sorted – Jenni-fuh is going as Poison Ivy, I’m going as a flesh eating zombie and J-Rab is going as Tinkerbell, hooray!

Thing about my zombie that’s gonna be cool though is that I’m getting a girl studying make-up to do me up as a Zombie (see? Capital Z) and I’m wearing white contact lenses which look fucking creepy as all hell in my eyes.

And as I write that, Arctic Monkeys ‘Crying Lightning’ starts blasting across this cold afternoon and through the clouds a knife of daylight comes slicing down and for a moment, the world could be a friendly place.

Is it?

“They say that God is in the radio, ch-ch-ch-checkin the stations… I know you hear it, i hear it too, it’s everywhere that i go”

The say the devil is paranoid
Always signin the cover
But god is leakin through the stereo
Between the station to station
You believe it, I know you do
You won't admit it or say so
I know that god is in the radio
Just repeating a slogan

- Queens of the Stone Age, “God is in the radio” (Songs for the deaf).

;)

-ST

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slicktiger — Sun, 01 Nov 2009 20:57:45 +0000

The aftermath of Halloween

slicktiger — Sun, 01 Nov 2009 20:57:49 +0000

I found my brains on the kitchen counter, just lying there, floppy and red with chunky, congealed blood.

My ribs were lying on the bathroom floor, and there were specs of blood all around the basin - the soap was a pinkish colour.

The rest of the flat wasn’t much better. We fed like animals last night, and the evidence of it was everywhere; spaghetti bolognaise lying limp in a bowl like a mess of tiny entrails, a baking dish half an inch full of greasy marinade with a few leftover cubes of chicken wrapped in bacon, each one only marginally bigger than I would guess an eyeball is.

The part of your eye you can see? That’s only one third of your entire eye. People think eyeballs in horror movies are too big, but they’re actually just the right size. The make up guys know their stuff, and so did the student make-up artist who turned me into a zombie yesterday evening.

By the time she was done, I looked awesome. She exposed my brains for a start, then she tore a long gash down my throat, then she made an entry wound so it looked like my brains were shot out, then she tore a lot of flesh off the left side of my torso, it bled like a sunuva bitch and you could see my ribs, and lastly, she shot me three times in the abdomen.

She made my skin pale and lifeless and made purple shadows under my eyes. She did J-Rab up to look like Tinkerbell with long eyelashes and green eyeshadow and awesome lips. We headed for Irishes house party and basically arrived looking like this:

We met some awesome people, hardly any of whom I remember, there was Medusa-lady and Dr Chad!

And The Joker and… um, Chad again.

There were other people too! But I didn’t like being in pictures with them…

Peggles made a guest appearance as Satan Himself!

It was a fucking killer party, people put a shitload of effort into their costumes and Irish and his digsmates made the house up to look really amazing, although at first I couldn’t really see shit.

I learned an important lesson at the party, if you’ve got cosmetic lenses in your eyes and you’re in low lighting, you can’t see a goddamned thing. Has something to do with your pupils dilating in low light and the hole in the lenses not being able to expand at the same time.

End result is you really have to strain to see anything clearly, which I wasn’t interested in doing at all, so for the first 20 mins of the party I walked around in a dark, blurry world filled with witches and sexy police officers and she-devils and school girls.

Thing about the school girls is they actually were school girls, a fact that didn’t impress a single other girl there. Haha, girls are funny.

I eventually took the right lens out so I could at least see some stuff and found the party to be a lot less intimidating after that. Not being able to see things properly is like watching a 3D movie without the glasses, you still get the gist of what’s going on, but you know you’re missing the full effect.

Jenni-fuh was dressed as Poison Ivy and looked pretty damn amazing, but Satan stabbed her by the pool.

Right at the end of the night, in an alcohol-fuelled moment, I took out my remaining contact lens and thrust it with gusto into her eyeball.

I have no idea how I actually got the thing in, but I did and it looked awesome. This is the last pic we took.

Peggles must have taken about 250 pics with J-Rab’s camera, 80% of which are crap and completely random, but 20% of which are really, really good like this one of my head:

And this one of all three of us:

Another thing that was fucking funny was Peggles kept sneaking up behind J-Rab and tying helium balloons to her fairy wings. By the end of the evening she had about 5 tied on there, which floated like guardian angels over her wherever she walked (see above… and below).

She got scared she would fly away there were so many. I said not to fly away without me. She said she would never fly away without me. She hugged me, but came away with spots of blood all over the front of her Tinkerbell dress.

The zombie and the fairy princess, the coolest couple you ever saw.

Irish says they’ll throw another big party there in about a month’s time and I reckon we’ll all definitely go. He’s badass, look at him in this picture and you’ll see it instantly.

You gotta get out there and meet new people or you find yourself in the same trap millions of other people get into where they hit their mid thirties and only hang out with a group of about five friends or less.

Funniest thing was J-rab felt really bad at the end of the night, and we couldn’t figure out why. Then we found this picture of us eating a Random Chicken Burger Jenni-fuh stole out the fridge and all became clear.

And with that, I’m going to leave you to play Machinarium, an awesome game I bought – try it out here www.machinarium.com, it’s old-school point and click kind of stuff, but really pretty graphics and good humour, so play it! Play it now!

-ST

Short Story: Every Dog...

slicktiger — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 06:25:59 +0000

Every Dog…

It’s Monday night and the game has changed. I’m walking into another Newtown dive, some club or other to watch some band or other, and while they’re stamping me and my buddy Peggles, I see her. She is sex incarnate. She is tall and leggy and has jet black hair and the face of a huntress, a feral creature. She is wild, her body is something godly, you almost feel embarrassed, you almost want to look away, you almost want to blush and hide, but she’s got you bucko, there’s nothing you can do. All the armour in the world can’t stop her smouldering, molten eyes. If you’re smart you’ll cut your losses and run a mile. But you’re not smart, are you? You ignore her completely. If you so much as raise an eyebrow, she’ll know you’re hungry – you’re Pavlov’s dog, and that sound resonating in your head every time you look at her is the bell ringing. Head straight to bar, do not pass go, do not collect 200. You should know better than to try and douse the inferno inside with whisky, but in moments like these, common sense, well, it ain’t that common. A few moments later I’m staring at her across the room and something about her starts to haunt me. I swear to God… I wait for her to turn and face me. Isn’t she… isn’t that…? Fuck me. It is. Her name comes to me, it’s Italian, it’s the name of an Italian flower. I know this because in another life, she told it to me. Flashbacks are really cheesy, you smear a little Vaseline over the lens, dim the lighting, change everyone’s haircuts and bingo, it’s a year ago and I’m finishing up a shift at News Café one Saturday night. It’s three o’clock in the morning and we’re going to Taboo, a nightclub famed for the larney pricks it attracts. If you drive a sportscar they let you under a red velvet rope and you can park right by the door. Inside looks like Patrick Bateman’s sweetest dream; the kind of environment only a sociopath could love. We do favours for the Taboo staff, we bring them free avo and bacon tramezinis, they get free drinks at News Café, so they let us in for free and don’t look twice when we walk in dressed like a bunch of Southern suburb refugees. The other patrons, however, look at us like we’re something they all just stepped in. This kind of entrance makes working as someone’s bitch-boy six days a week almost worth it. This is where she is, I notice her because she has a beautiful pair of breasts and she isn’t scared of making that fact known. She’s dancing by herself, I watch her until she knows I’m watching her. I like how she moves, partly because she doesn’t really look like she knows what she’s doing, which makes me think I could dance with her, no problem. When she goes to sit down, I sit down next to her. What makes this flashback especially cheesy is the fact that I can’t remember what we said to each other, so the music in the club is playing in the foreground and what we’re watching is more like a montage. She gave me her number, that’s all that’s important. Our first date and she smells like something long dead. ‘Heavy night’ she says, and her breath confirms that fact. Part of me is pissed off that she didn’t take the time to freshen up before meeting me for drinks, the other part of me is too busy trying to be witty and interesting to give a shit. After awhile I find it’s getting easier and easier to do this. She’s smart, she’s different, she’s very, very conflicted, but that’s normal when it comes to most of the women I find myself attracted to. I am a night in shining armor, she is something worth fighting for. The montage continues. Next time we meet, I’m late and she nearly ups and leaves. This time, she looks shit hot. We talk about all kinds of stuff, there are continents of common ground, it’s comfortable. In this montage scene she laughs at my stupid jokes, and we drink and even though you can’t hear it, at one stage she tells me that her breasts are getting a lot softer since she had the implants put in, and that she finds when she’s giving head, it’s way easier to get a man to come when you push a finger up his butt. My sphincter tightens involuntarily. She tells me her name is an Italian flower, and I want to buy meadows of those flowers and fall asleep in them, drunk on their perfume, staring at an impossibly blue sky. She tells me that she has an attachment problem, that when she gets to love a person, she can’t let them go, she clings desperately, she gives too much. If a date can be said to go swimmingly, then the word to describe the third date is drowningly. We meet at Trance Sky, we sit side by side on a couch, we drink, we talk, conversation starts to dwindle, we both feel it. I start to become painfully aware that it’s do or die. I need to make a move. Am I sweating? Can she smell me? She asks me why I always wear the same shoes, and I don’t really answer the question so much as evade it. Is she making fun of me? This is shit. I go to the bathroom, she keeps our couch. I get back, she goes to the bathroom. A bunch of gorillas are sitting across from me, and they start asking me questions. They think she’s hot, are we dating? I neither confirm nor deny this. They ask me how many times her and I have been out, I say this is the third time. They tell me, ‘Dude, make a move TONIGHT. If you don’t do it TONIGHT, you’ll end up in FRIEND ZONE. Once you’re in FRIEND ZONE, there’s no telling how long you’ll stay in there for. Could be weeks, could be years, but your hopes of getting laid will be fucked.” I’m pretty sure the implicit paradox in the last part of the gorilla’s sentence is completely lost on him. I have to bite my tongue to keep from telling these guys to fuck off – who the fuck do they think they are, exactly? I disregard everything they’ve just told me, the jerkoffs. No pressure man, just be cool. She comes back and we sit close. The thing to do now is to make out, but…how? She’s right here, but she might as well be a world away. How do I do this? How do I bridge the infinity between my lips and hers? Conversation is limping around like a leper in the advanced stages of his affliction. She’s getting bored, this is going to shit, I have to save this, so I look dreamily into her eyes and say: “I want to kiss you so badly right now.” Cut. The director in my head screams, “What! The! FUCK! Those aren’t the fucking lines! Jesus, where’d we find this asshole!” The inside of Trance Sky almost comes to a standstill, it’s like everyone just heard me. She turns her head away from me and says, “Really?” And right then and there, everything dies. All around me, people puke and die, flowers in vases shrivel up and wilt, stray dogs in the street hit the deck, paws up, even a block away a rose vendors stock turns to dust in his fist as the shockwave of lame ripples out from me. I think we can end the flashback right there. After that, I didn’t bother to contact her again except to send a drunken SMS one night after I’d seen her out, I don’t remember what it said. And now I’m standing across the room from her and she looks good enough to die for, good enough to murder for, way better than I remember her ever looking before. I tell Peggles who she is, I kick myself for never making a move on her, I do this repeatedly while I’m talking to Peggles to make my point, my big toenail cracks slightly, but I won’t realise this until tomorrow. I tell him, “I’m a complete dickface if I don’t go right up to her and say hi right now. I’m a fucking loser if I don’t do this right now, I’ll never stop kicking myself if I don’t do this… fuck…” Peggles stares blankly at me, he doesn’t have to say, “Stop fucking around” for me to know this is what he is saying. I clink my whisky against his, I take a hearty gulp, I go straight to her. I touch her arm lightly and she turns to look at me, I say her name and her face blossoms into a smile. We trade pleasantries, I think she gives me an obligatory hug. Her neck is long, when I’m close to it, I’m torn between tearing it out with my teeth, or kissing it as gently as I can. Beautiful women often provoke this kind of response in me, it’s not conscious, and putting it into words looks strange, and sick. She asks me about my father and his psychic girlfriend. I stiffen up involuntarily and briefly consider my next move. “He’s dead,” I say, “as for his psychic girlfriend, well, I guess her powers must be going through a slump or something, because she never saw it coming.” She expresses her sincere condolences, and I can’t help smiling despite myself as I relate the details of my late father’s untimely demise when his heart exploded on a treadmill in the gym. “I know it’s not funny, but the thing is, it’s like a double-edged sword, y’know?” “Why?” she asks, also smiling. “Because I never really got to know the guy, but I never really got to know the guy, if that makes any sense. I mean I’m not really torn up about it, which is a good thing, but that’s only because I didn’t know him very well, which is a bad thing,” I say, and she listens, and there’s something about her that reminds me of when we went out on that one really good date – she’s looking at me like she did that time, like there’s more to me. She tells me she’s just bought her first house, she tells me she’s been having trouble with the plumbing because she’s renovating a bathroom. I tell her, “Yeah, people think that a bed’s the most important thing in a house, but I swear to God, it’s the toilet. I mean, you can sleep on the floor, but there’s no way you can shit on the floor.” She packs up, and I quietly pat myself on the back. This isn’t going badly at all. She says she’ll be back, and ducks off to the toilet. I turn back to Peggles and tell him about the conversation. “So far, I got two out of three man – she remembers me and she’s single. That’s a great start, now I just gotta get her number. That’s all I need to get three out of three. I’m not even going to fuck around, I’m just going to straight up ask her for it, and then everything will be fucking awesome!” “Great.” “Yeah, just going to straight up ask her for it, just like that, no fucking around. Then I got my foot in the door y’know?” Peggles knows I’m not saying this to convince him, I’m saying this to convince me. At the bar, she sidles up next to me and I make her give me her number for the second time since we met. I fuck up the spelling of her name because I’m putting the whole thing in this time, not just the abbreviated version. Once I have it, I ask her to chose a picture to go with her name. I don’t know why my phone has this option, it’s the lamest thing in the world – you can choose from a variety of stupid faces and pictures to save next to a person’s name. “I was thinking the girl, but she has red hair and yours is black,” I say. “As long as it’s not the kid with glasses and freckles,” she replies. “How about guy-with-the-moustache?” I ask, and she laughs and gives me that look again. “Nah, not really you is it?” She shakes her head, still smiling. “Here we go, the cat! That’s pretty fitting, don’t you think?” The cat it is. I remember her tattoo, I see she has a new one encircling her arm, petit, some kind of flower. We order tequila, she takes a shot and recoils like an actual bullet just hit her. “Tastes like mommy’s kisses,” I say, baring my teeth. The conversation breezes into star signs, she goes through half the zodiac trying to guess mine, and in the end I have to tell her “Scorpio”, which I always enjoy doing because Scorpio is not the kind of sign that ever causes a mediocre reaction. Most sex offenders are Scorpio. More Scorpio’s are murdered than any other star sign. I ask her if she really believes in all that star sign hokey pokey and she says that she’s a pagan. I ask her if that means she wears all kinds of weird necklaces with magical crystals and rings that add 5 to dexterity and light radius, and she laughs and says yes. She’s leaning close to me now, there are parts of her naked skin that are touching mine. I ask her not to put a spell on me, but I know it’s too late. She bites me before she kisses me. Gently, on the neck. Her scent curls deliciously into my brain, I can’t think anymore, there’s no need for me to think anymore, I shut my mind down; I’m two parts animal, one part god. In this moment she is everything beautiful and sick in this world. She’s hungry, she eats me up and I watch whole parts of me disappear and I give more, I give everything. She leans into me and I bear her weight effortlessly and the feeling of me, strong against her, gently crushing her to me, wrapping my sinews around her, is magnificent beyond words or measure. God knows, it’s been too long since a beautiful woman has surrendered to me like she did. Of course, during that moment, I was blind to the fact that despite everything, despite the way she melted in my arms, the way she let my wandering hands slide where ever they pleased, she wasn’t surrendering. It must have been nearly half an hour later when I came to. She was heading to the bathroom and Peggles was standing right by me and saying, “Nice.” The grin that spread from ear to ear across my idiot face radiated happiness to the extent that every person who met my idiot smile, smiled too. It felt like the first time I ever kissed a girl, it felt like I was coming up on acid and the world had never been so mind bendingly beautiful. I was just really, really happy. Happy like kids are happy when they’re too innocent to know how bad it gets. I felt extremely confident that I was going to get laid and that my morning was going to end nestled like a cat full of milk in her warm, soft bosom, having just exorcised what has been one of the worst dry spells of my life. “Go!” I told Peggles. “This is the best thing that could have happened to me tonight, and I have you to thank buddy. I thought this club would be shit, but man, this is fucking awesome! Things couldn’t possibly be better right now, fuck! So go, head home, don’t worry about me, I must venture once more into the fray and once more I shall emerge: victorious!” “Ok man,” he said and left. I figured without my lift, I had an even better chance of getting her to take me back to her place, which is like locking all the doors and windows of a building and setting it on fire in the hope that the lack of oxygen will stop the flames from spreading. She took awhile in the bathroom and when she came back, she went to one of the guys she was with earlier and started talking to him. I bided my time across the room, I sized the other guy up and came to the conclusion that if it came to it, I could wipe the floor with his face, the skinny runt. He hat a hat on, he wasn’t what you’d call easy on the eye, he looked like he’d dressed himself to piss his mom off. After all, she’d had a taste of me and loved it and in a moment would be leaving hand in hand with me. And then she kissed him. Held him like she’d been holding me, her hands traced the same paths on his neck and face that they had on mine. Her body yielded to him like it had yielded to me. It was like standing outside myself, watching an inferior carbon copy repeat exactly the same routine I had enacted barely ten minutes before. I should have socked that fucking imposter as hard as I could. I should have stamped his skull under my sneaker until it came unglued in a viscous mess of bone and brains, but I didn’t. I drank a tequila and left. Outside, winter never felt so cold. I slumped between the wall and the pavement on my haunches and tried to black what I’d just seen out of my mind and figure out how the fuck I was going to get home. I probably looked up at the sky and felt no surprise that the stars were obscured by pollution, that the whole world was going to shit, it probably comforted me. All I know is that after awhile people came out who were going back to Tokyo Star, where the night had started, so I explained my story and they gave me a lift. One of the guys said, “That sucks bro,” but he didn’t really give two shits. Back at Tokyo I had more tequila, and it did nothing. A buddy called John was still there, and he gave me a lift home. When he asked why I looked so miserable, I told him my dog had died, and he told me how he ran over his favourite dog when he was fist learning to drive because he got the accelerator and the brake confused. He said it took three days for his dog to die. “Lucky dog,” I muttered.

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slicktiger — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 19:39:06 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 19:40:10 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 19:40:49 +0000

Blogging is fucking difficult

slicktiger — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 19:40:52 +0000

All this post is really going to be about is how blogging is fucking difficult. Maybe you’re young and impressionable and you’ve heard about this thing called ‘blogging’ (invented sometime in February this year) and maybe you’re thinking, That sounds like fun, yeah, I’d like to try that sometime.

Well, lemme tell you right now. It’s fucking difficult. If you wanna get anywhere out there, in the fucking blogosphere which is a place where people who can’t get laid hang out and pretend they’re cool, then you have to blog once a day.

Well, maybe not once a day. In fact this article I read said to do it between 3 and 5 times a week for at least one fucking year before you get anywhere.

So here I am, blogging away, every day I post and yeah, I think I’m getting somewhere, I mean in the first month I got 920 visits (tell anyone who knows anything about the interwebs that little nugget of information and the first thing they fucking say is ‘What are your unique figures?’ To which I reply, ‘One thousand three hundred’ just to piss those little self righteous fuckers off).

But I think the problem I have with blogging and the internet in general is that I don’t understand my audience.

I mean my friends, sure I understand them. My friends are great, they’ve supported the shit out of this site and I am eternally grateful for that, but besides that after one month of blogging everyday, I’ve only got one comment from a stranger.

And it was on the post I wrote about a turd that wouldn’t flush.

But fuck ‘em all. I’m blazing a trail out here goddamnit, the last real human being on the internet, flesh and bone, blood and nerves and sweat and tears, and that is what I think is fucking me in the end.

Too heavy. Too fucking heavy to ever go mainstream. What people want out of websites are LISTS. I have no LISTS on my site, you won’t find ‘Top 10 Celebrity Nipple Slips’ on here, or ‘25 Halloween Sluts Getting Fisted’ or ‘Top 15 80’s Animated Cartoon Series’ here.

Also you won’t find celebrity gossip or a collection of random other shit people have put out there that I’ve happened to Stumble Upon.

It’s just me up here, on this throne, King Nothing, too stubborn to get off, but fuck it.

I like it here, why serve in heaven when you can reign in hell right? Even if hell is me blogging to no one, at least I made this, this fucking place, these fucking words, at least I strung them together and sent them out there, into space, hoping for something, anything.

Blogging is fucking difficult, but I like difficult things, I’m a sucker for punishment, and on some sick, twisted level, I’m actually really enjoying this ;)

-ST

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slicktiger — Tue, 03 Nov 2009 05:57:41 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 03 Nov 2009 05:58:13 +0000

It’s my birthday

slicktiger — Tue, 03 Nov 2009 05:58:16 +0000

Today, almost exactly 26 years ago, I was born.

It was a tidy, well orchestrated affair. My mother was admitted to hospital near midday and at something like 11.50 in the morning they sliced her open and plucked me, the fruit of her womb, out from my hiding place.

I don’t remember it, but from what I’ve seen in movies and on TV, I’m sure I screamed bloody murder.

My mom says we were going through a drought at that time, they’d started imposing water restrictions and everything was dry and yellow, but that night a huge storm broke while she held me in her arms and marvelled at the tiny creature she had created.

Twenty-six years later I’m sitting in my car, killing time before a meeting out by Northriding, but overhead those same clouds are looming, dark and ominous and I’d bet my bottom dollar there’s a storm comin’ and when it hits, it’s gonna hit hard.

I need to buy cake, if I arrive at the office without it everyone’s gonna think I’m a total douche. If I can just get that one thing right everyone will love me.

Later J-Rab’s gonna give me my presents, fuck yeah! And then – sexy time!

So if you stumble on this post during the course of the day and would like to give me presents also, I’m accepting cold hard cash. Email me so I can first screen you and make sure you’re not some dodgey Nigerian, then is I’m satisfied nothing fishy’s going on, I’ll give you my banking details and we can do an EFT transaction.

Peace out party people!

-ST

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slicktiger — Wed, 04 Nov 2009 19:32:21 +0000

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slicktiger — Wed, 04 Nov 2009 19:33:16 +0000

Eatin’ the bar

slicktiger — Wed, 04 Nov 2009 19:33:18 +0000

There’s an old sayin that goes, Sometimes you eat the bar and other times, well, the bar eats you – Big Lebowski.

Today the bar ate me. And as a result I had no time to blog. Except a full update and an album review TOMORROW.

In the meantime, here’s some rad shit to keep you busy:

http://www.alphabounce.com/

That game stole days of my life. How lame is that?

-ST

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slicktiger — Thu, 05 Nov 2009 06:09:54 +0000

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slicktiger — Thu, 05 Nov 2009 06:10:33 +0000

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slicktiger — Thu, 05 Nov 2009 06:10:38 +0000

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slicktiger — Thu, 05 Nov 2009 06:11:00 +0000

You’re out of order! no! you’re out of order! this whole court is out of order!

slicktiger — Thu, 05 Nov 2009 06:11:03 +0000

So lemme lay this on you, yesterday I spent from 10 in the morning all the way through to 1.30pm on a cold, hard courtroom bench which is a damn side more uncomfortable than a church bench and that’s saying a lot.

The system is a terrible beast, especially when it singles you out to account for your actions in a court of law (and not tennis. spending the day in a court of tennis would have been rad).

What happened was back in 2007 I changed lanes (when driving) and the woman in the lane to my left went into the back of me. I’d say it was 50/50 – fifty percent my fault for changing lanes a little too quickly and fifty percent hers for not watching what was going on.

So anyway, her insurance company decided to sue my insurance company and there was sweet fuck all either of us could do to stop this from happening which is the bad news, but the good news is that the insurance companies pay everything, so technically, neither of us stood to lose a single cent.

At first I thought she was suing me in her personal capacity and I was livid.

I had these weird visions of going around to her house and spray-painting rude words on her garden wall or letting her tyres down or something similar, but luckily I do possess some self control. It’s in there, the goddamn slippery eel.

And so the system processed us, extracted what it wanted and spat us back out to get on with our lives.

In my head I gave a passionate and moving speech in the courtroom about how, regardless of my or the woman I was in court with’s innocence or guilt, the whole matter should be thrown our of court because insurance companies are the spawn of the devil, a necessary evil, and I refused to be part of a system that was built on lies and hypocrisy.

Like all impassioned speeches it sounded great in my head but would have made little sense spoken out loud.

The funnest thing about court is this little part called ‘Cross Questioning’ which your opponent’s lawyer will put you through once your lawyer has questioned you. It’s awesome because your lawyer has said to you beforehand that you must say x, y BUT NOT Z!

Then your lawyer will ask you all these leading questions all polite and stuff, big smiles and really chilled out, so that you say x and y just like you practised. Then the other lawyer goes up there and basically grabs your arm behind your back and shoves it as high as he can go while he screams, ‘SAY Z YOU FUCKER, SAY Z!’

Here’s one of my favourite moments from my cross-questioning yesterday:

EVIL LAWYER: So how long did you have your indicator on for before you turned into her lane?
ME: It was about 3 seconds
EL: Aha! Three seconds!
ME: Three seconds.
EL: Wouldn’t you say that three seconds is a short amount of time to have put your indicator on for?
ME: No.
EL: Is this the normal amount of time, on average, that you put your indicator on for when you’re driving?
ME: Well, most of the time, yeah.
EL: Most of the time!
ME: Most of the time, yeah. Sometimes it’s longer, sometimes it’s five seconds. Sometimes it’s shorter.
EL: Sometimes it’s shorter? Shorter than three seconds? When is it that short?
ME: When there’s no one behind me.
EL: AHA! When there’s… no one… hm.

The Evil Lawyer then opened and closed his mouth a few times, blinked and then kind of started at me blankly.

Eat it! Eat it motherfucker!

It was exasperating and it fucked up my day and I wouldn’t recommend it. Just abide by the law, pay your taxes and don’t be a clever dick. Court is not fun and had they been suing me in my personal capacity, yesterday would not have gone well at all.

Also, brush your teeth. And always wipe twice, twice ok? One-wipe people are dirty, dirty little vagrants and I won’t have my readers engaging in that kind of behaviour.

You guys are better than that, you guys are the best.

-ST

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slicktiger — Fri, 06 Nov 2009 06:15:54 +0000

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slicktiger — Fri, 06 Nov 2009 06:17:19 +0000

The Power of Story

slicktiger — Fri, 06 Nov 2009 06:17:23 +0000

Last night was a pretty solid, good night. J-Rab and I slept like the dead and before that The Glaze and Alfalfa came around for some beer and general shit-talking. Also The Glaze brought me an awesome birthday present and I was pretty blown away. He didn’t just randomly pick something out, he actually went out there, did a bit of research and tracked down this book called ‘Stealing Fire From The Gods’ (James Bonnet) about both writing novels and screenplays, I even started reading it right after he left and it had a really profound effect on me.

The basic premise of the book is that narrative, or story, drives us. People underestimate its power because they have no idea how our lives are completely governed by story. In laymen’s terms, we make meaning out of the world around us using language and we communicate that meaning through words, but in order to do so effectively words have to be ordered into coherent sentences that have to be ordered into coherent paragraphs, whether they be on paper or in your head. For a long, long time now I have thought that if I could just find the right combination of words, put in the right order and delivered through an appropriate medium, I could bring this world to its knees. There’s a magic in words, it’s palpable and I’ve felt it my entire life. Most of the world takes this magic for granted and use language in its most rudimental form in order to convey simple messages and satiate base desires. That’s the danger of educating people only up to a certain level and no further. Teach ‘em how to read and write, wear a suit, fulfil a specific function, but no more. Then sit back and watch them muddle through their lives, satisfied with themselves on a level that is so shallow they have to lie to themselves that their lives have any meaning at all. I see it often, people who carry themselves with this strange kind of indignity, they have a mild distrust of everything around them and absolutely no capacity to experience wonder in any form. It’s bizarre. People think that growing up and reaching maturity means becoming serious, shutting your imagination down almost completely, closing yourself to new ideas and experiences and getting elbows-deep in the business of manufacturing misery in all its myriad forms. Well, fuck that. The child is the father of the man, Wordsworth said it. Just look at children, they understand and are capable of magic. The light in their eyes is the light of the world and their imaginations know no boundaries.

And they LOVE stories. They have an inherent hunger for stories that most parents neglect completely, and as a result those children grow up as half-people, incapable of reaching full self-actualisation and permanently dissatisfied with their lives. Story has the power to reconnect us with meaning, it’s a mirror that, if held right, can teach us more about ourselves than any psychologist ever could. I know that my life’s mission is to write something, whether it be a screenplay, a novel, a graphic novel or a TV series, that will live forever in people’s imaginations and in some way make this world a better place. And so The Glaze’s present was awesome. I plan to have read the entire book before the month is done. In the meantime, before I go, let it just be noted on record that my girlfriend is psychic.

This morning we were talking about Dimension Data, she asked me what they do and I told her ‘I dunno, they go out there, collect data from different dimensions y’know? Like the Zombie Dimension, the Werewolf Dimension, the Alien Dimension, and you know what they doo with all that data?’ In my head I thought, Stick it in their ears and go blaarararararaghargharghgh. ‘Stick it in their ears and go blaarararararaghargharghgh?’ J-Rab replied hopefully. ‘Hahahahhaha! Fuck babe, NAILED IT!’ And that’s why I love that woman with all my heart and soul. Have an amazing Friday, read a story, push a kid on a swing, buy a helium balloon and let it go, and remember that this life is the best thing we’ve ever known and it can only get better :) -ST

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slicktiger — Mon, 09 Nov 2009 06:16:41 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 09 Nov 2009 06:17:08 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 09 Nov 2009 06:17:27 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 09 Nov 2009 06:18:01 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 09 Nov 2009 06:18:50 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 09 Nov 2009 06:19:13 +0000

Weekend report: Shit Fucked Up

slicktiger — Mon, 09 Nov 2009 06:19:16 +0000

It’s been too long. At the start of this I told myself Once a day, Slick. You gotta post once a day. Mondays short stories, Wednesdays album reviews. Stick to a writing schedule and you’ll be fine, juuusssstttt fffiiinnneee. Last week was the first slip up – no album review. Then Saturday, no post, AND Sunday too. The beginning of the end? Boy, that didn’t last too long :( No, just a couple moments of weakness. I’m only human fer chrissakes. The weekend was a mind-blowingly cool trip from start to finish. Friday night J-Rab and I chilled out to the absolute maximum. Guitar Jon came around, which J-Rab was a little apprehensive about because Friday was just gonna be her and I, but I assured her everything was still gonna be nice and chilled and relaxed and easy. ‘Has he been drinking?’ she asked about Guitar. ‘No! Well, maybe a little…’ ‘He better not come in here drunk, I don’t wanna deal with any drunk people tonight.’ ‘That’s fine babe, don’t worry, he’s just coming around for an hour or two, I’m gonna give him a little music, nothing hectic.’ I hugged J-Rab. Water bubbled and boiled in the pot on the sotve while outside crickets chirruped in the quiet, warm summer air. I buried my head in the warm alcove of J-Rab’s neck and breathed her sweet scent in. The gate buzzer sounded. ‘That must be him,’ I said and lifted the receiver. ‘Hello?’ I said hopefully. ‘BLALARRGHAGARHGARHAHGAAAARARHGAHGARAAAALALARARARRAA!’ screamed a voice on the other side. Nice, I thought, great start. J-rab gave me a look that made my blood more than a little cold, but Guitar kept his shit together mostly and we spent a rad night listening to music and talking shit. Saturday landed and before I really knew what hit me, I found myself in the bank, exchanging Euros and Dollars into good ol’ ZA Rand. Yeah, we’re that broke. Because J-Rab changed jobs, she went from a weekly paycheque to a monthly one, so that means we’re just living off my paycheque for the next month and while it is sizeable (much like my cock) it’s not quite two paycheques. We had to tell the bank the money was a gift and give J-Rab’s parent’s address in the states as proof of that. I didn’t like it one bit. Having just been in court recently, I didn’t like being put on the spot and the bank lady was freaking me out. I didn’t handle it well, to be honest, but J-Rab, with her sexy good looks, brainy brains and cool and calm demeanour, handled it like a pro. End result is we walked out 2K richer and, Godwilling, that should see us through the rest of the month. The party washed over us in waves, each bigger than the last, until we were buoyant in a sea of friends, talking massive amounts of shit and steadily getting good and loaded. I called it a ‘Douchebag Party’ (it was my birthday party) and some people came dressed up, but most didn’t. In the beginning (or was it near the middle) it sort of looked like this:

I was completely blown away by the awesome presents I got from Peggles and Graumpot – both or those rad motherfuckers got me glasses! And I was stoked! because on a weekly basis I break glasses. How I’m not covered in cuts and gashes from all the glasses I’ve smashed in my life is a total mystery to be, but I swear to God, glasses take one look at me and fucking explode. So anyway, about a third of the way into the party the tequila arrived, so I rounded up all the man-folk and proceeded to force it down their throats.

If I could give any advice to anyone at a party EVER, it would be tequila. That’s it. That’s all you need. Just tequila. Open a bottle at a party and become that arsehole that insists on making everyone else drink it. People will love/hate you, but at least they’ll remember you, your grinning face standing over them as they cringe and their livers fail.

I have another couple fleeting memories from the party, like when my buddy, we’ll call him Bakerman, arrived with his three cronies and proceeded to pour this potent concoction they had mixed in a watermelon into everyone’s faces. Then there’s a little static, like when TVs lose their signal, then there was wrestling, man-on-woman.

Then the sun went down, but some people decided to stay sexy and still wore their bikinis while others looked on, pale and lizzard-eyed.

From there it’s fucking impossible to remember what the hell went down. The tequila was sucked dry, then a second bottle was produced and also sucked dry. We moved the party back into our flat and rocked the fuck out. And then Guitar Jon became possessed by Satan Himself and Graum had to be called in to perform an impromptu exorcism.

Last thing I remember was going to the petrol station to buy ice cream, me, J-Rab and Guitar. I ate mine in the time it took to drive halfway back home and then ate some of J-Rab’s. I would have eaten some of Guitar’s as well, but he didn’t buy ice cream. He bought pasta salad (?). Sunday rolled around and all we did really was clean stuff up and try to piece the events of the previous 12 hours back together, but it wasn’t easy. And now it’s Monday and if I don’t get my face back to the grind soon, there’ll be hell to pay! -ST

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slicktiger — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 06:42:00 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 06:42:24 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 06:43:28 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 06:43:59 +0000

Another day in Paradise

slicktiger — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 06:44:04 +0000

There’s this way I drive, when I’m thinking about it but not over-thinking it, that feels like my car is gliding over the asphalt like an ice skater and all I feel is the gentle bob of my suspension as I leave a swirling cloud of dust and leaves in my wake.

It felt that way driving to work this morning, listening to Silversun Pickups and laughing with J-Rab. I just had this feeling this morning when I woke up like everything, everything is going to be ok, everything is going to work out and the universe is turning perfectly the way it should.

There were bad vibes back there for awhile. The months of August and September seemed to just bring one disaster after another. In August I wrote my car off, that unbearable sound of steel against steel, that gut-wrenching ‘bang’ of two cars colliding that you hear for weeks afterwards.

There was always something that put me off about cars, even before I started driving, and it wasn’t until my first accident that I realised it’s the way cars look after they’ve crashed. The way the metal twists and bends in jagged hunks. It looks like a death-trap.

But that’s all behind me now, this was supposed to be a happy post, no talk of death traps today :)

Outside the rain has finally abated and the world feels clean and new. I love that fresh, electric feeling, reminds me of a time back at varsity when I stripped naked and climbed on our roof in the middle of a massive thunderstorm and just stood up there, arms open, scaring the traffic and watching sheet after sheet of heavy rain fall in curtains over the valley that is Grahamstown.

Crazy times I tell you, we live in crazy times.

Back in the real world we’re exactly one day away from the insanity that is the FNB Whisky Live Festival. I’m pretty damn excited for it to start – we handle the PR for it and so for the last two months all it’s been is WhiskyLiveWhiskyLiveWhiskyLive.

Enough foreplay I say, time for action.

In other news, I’m trying to bang out another short story cause I didn’t post one yesterday. Why can’t this be my job? If this was my job it would be easy as pie and I’d love it and I could write butt-loads of content every day and it would be really solid stuff, not like the rush jobs I am forced to hammer out because there’s always something else I should be doing.

Why is that?! I mean, let the kid write fer chrissakes! He’s got that deep down crazy magic, let it out!

Let it out ;)

Maybe I should smash another cup of coffee… hmmm… not a bad idea… that’ll jump start my system…

**************10 MINS LATER******************

AAAAHHHHHHH!! Rad! Where was I?! Oh ya, I was getting into my idiom! Like in Monty Python’s Quest For The Holy Grail when Sir Lancelot storms into the castle and slays the fuck out of everyone!

I get these ideas sometimes, crazy wild ideas that need to be put down on paper or they run riot in my head, it’s like seeds on a jungle floor all tangled in the roots and moistened by the moss, they sprout and grow up big and mean.

That jungle, it’s fucking murder in there. It goes deep and wild and the things that slither and lurk and growl inside are monsters, all of them, and at night, in my darkest dreams I hear them killing and feeding, their matted fur viscous and shiny with blood.

You’d think this murderous scene would be one of misery and remorse and guilt, but you’re wrong, it’s one of joy and sheer, maniacal happiness. They’re animals in there, they’re fucking wild, born to kill and fuck.

I couldn’t imagine a happier place in the world than the jungle in my mind.

I’d take you for a visit, but let’s be honest, you wouldn’t last one goddamn minute in there ;)

-ST

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slicktiger — Wed, 11 Nov 2009 05:40:40 +0000

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slicktiger — Wed, 11 Nov 2009 05:41:38 +0000

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slicktiger — Wed, 11 Nov 2009 05:43:04 +0000

Album review: Alice in Chains – 'Black Gives Way To Blue'

slicktiger — Wed, 11 Nov 2009 05:43:08 +0000

Alice In Chains are the most under-rated grunge band to have ever played and that is a fact.

There were a lot of grunge bands playing back in the 90s that cottoned on to what bands like Nirvana were doing and jumped right in there (yes Bush and Silverchair, I’m looking at you) and hence were labelled as ‘grunge’. But I’ll tell you right now, that wasn’t grunge. Even what Nirvana’s music, though it had heavy, dirty grunge undertones, was infused with a generous helping of punk. Alice In Chains were 100% grunge, pure as the driven sludge. They were hard, heavy and dark, but also capable of writing exceptional acoustic ballads and more up-tempo songs like ‘No Excuses’ and ‘Over Now’ that rocked without sounding cheesy and lame. I can understand fully why they weren’t everyone’s weapon of choice, and I’m glad of that because it makes the relationship I have with their music all the more personal, but that doesn’t change the fact that they were an extremely talented band and I believe anyone with a critical musical ear would agree. Alice In Chains was formed in the late 80s by vocalist Layne Staley and lead guitarist Jerry Cantrell. Sean Kinney joined the band shortly thereafter on drums, but it wasn’t until bassist Mike Inez (who played with Ozzy Osbourne until early 90s) joined that Alice In Chains truly came into being. What was so unique about this band was the unholy unity of Staley and Cantrell. Most people familiar with the band don’t realise it, but Staley and Cantrell sang a lot of AiC’s songs together, their vocals harmonising with one another so perfectly that you would be forgiven for thinking their two voices were one. In total the band released three studio albums and three EPs but sadly became inactive after 1995 due to Staley’s excessive drug use and inability to commit to touring or even recording with the band. By the late 90’s Alice In Chains were all but forgotten, a fact that was cemented by Staley’s death due to an overdose of heroine and cocaine in 2002.

By the time the drugs he was using finally killed him not even his family and close friends were in contact with him anymore. He lay dead in his apartment for two weeks before anyone came looking for him and I’ve included this for the simple fact that a lot of rock stars like to pretend they are tortured souls, but Layne was the real deal and the music he made with AiC was a testament to that fact. And so, as you can imagine, I was excited as a kid at Christmas when that I learned earlier this year that the band had reformed. Even more exciting was the news that the line-up was identical except for vocalist William DuVall who joined the band officially in 2007 and sings on the new album Black Gives Way To Blue, the first AiC studio album to be recorded in nearly 15 years. I’ll be honest, the first thought that struck me was that this album would be an epic fail. Layne was the core of the band, anything without him would be a sad and sorry reflection of what this band used to be capable of, right?

Well, about 5 seconds into their first single off Black Gives Way To Blue, ‘Check My Brain’, my fears were put to rest, and 30 seconds after that, when DuVall and Cantrell step in to croon out the opening lines in perfect unison I recoiled from my laptop so violently that I pulled the ear plugs out the headphone jack. It’s uncanny. It’s like seeing someone who died 14 years ago buying milk at the local 7/11. It’s fucking Alice In Chains man! It’s fucking Alice In Chains! I got my hands on the full album a month later and immediately started putting it under intense scrutiny.

‘All Secrets Known’ the opening track starts slow and lumbering, like some massive, long dead thing rising again and it’s almost instantly recognisable that while this band hasn’t changed, it sure as hell hasn’t stayed the same. Track 2 is ‘Check My Brain’ and starts with a monster, string-bending riff that Alice in Chains and only Alice In Chains could ever get right. The chorous sneaks up on you, but hits hard and sticks and is unmistakeably the new AiC at it’s best. ‘Last Of My Kind’ starts sounding a little similar to tracks 1 & 2, except for the awesome palm-muted chorous that drops like an executioner’s axe and ups the tempo right when it’s needed most. However, the track that really shines is the haunting acoustic masterpiece ‘Your decision’ (track 4). Cantrell’s steel stringed tone is immaculate in this song and DuVall’s sings a lot of the song solo, which is really the first time you realise it’s not actually Layne singing. It’s interesting – DuVall is nowhere near as tortured as Staley was and in some respects it’s a welcome relief, it’s almost like listening to how Staley might have sounded had he bested his demons instead of walking the dark and lonely road he ended up on. ‘Your Decision’ is the kind of acoustic ballad so many other bands fuck up completely. AiC walks the line between heartfelt and sentimental without being whiney and irritating, a welcome change from the purile Nickleback-ish ballads most post-grunge bands write.

Sadly after that the album starts to suffer from tracks that smack of repetition with the exception of the second acoustic track ‘When The Sun Rose Again’ and the awesome, powerful, driving riff around which ‘Lesson Learned’ is built. The back end of the album does start to take some shape after a few listens, but generally fails to impress in comparison to the opening four tracks. Once I’d heard Black Gives Way To Blue a good couple of times, I slipped AiC’s previous eponymous album into my car’s frontloader, turned the volume up and immediately started noticing the differences between the band that was and the band that is. Although DuVall does a more than adequate job of filling in for Staley, Layne had a far deeper, edgier tone. His quavering, drawling vocals are hypnotic, they can carry and colour an otherwise dreary song, something that DuVall struggles to do on Black Gives Way To Blue’s weaker tracks. Tracks like ‘Acid Bubble’ and ‘A Looking In View’ just don’t work and sound distinctly like filler to me, which I don’t have a problem with, every album has a certain amount of filler, but in this case the tracks are both roughly 7 minutes long which is the musical equivalent of watching paint dry.

The lyrical content is still solid though, which I’d wager is because Cantrell had a strong influence in writing it, as he always did, and lines like “You feed the fire that burned us all / When you lied / To feel the pain that spurs you on / Black inside” (from ‘Your Decision’) are vintage AiC. In closing it must be said that writing this review was no easy task considering the history I have with this band, which is something that most people listening 14 years on probably don’t share, so I’ll put this as simply as I can. If you’ve never really gotten into Alice In Chains, Black Gives Way To Blue is a great place to start and because no one else out there is playing music like this anymore, it has a very distinctive and different flavour that, if nothing else, should make for some compelling listening. However, if you know this band, after the sixth or seventh listen to the album you’ll concede that there’s hardly a track on the album that can hold a flame to the raw, powerful AiC classics such as ‘Rooster’, ‘Would’, ‘Them Bones’, ‘Angry Chair’ or ‘Heaven Beside You.’ Provided your hopes aren’t set as high as mine were, you’ll enjoy this album, the band has stayed true to their sound and can still rock out with the best of them and for that I am more than happy to give credit where it is due. Final Verdict: 8/10

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slicktiger — Thu, 12 Nov 2009 06:17:23 +0000

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slicktiger — Thu, 12 Nov 2009 06:17:48 +0000

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slicktiger — Thu, 12 Nov 2009 06:18:09 +0000

Whisky In The Jar-o – Part 1

slicktiger — Thu, 12 Nov 2009 06:18:14 +0000

The thing about people is that they’ll buy into whatever bullshit you're selling you if you look and act the part. In fact, you don’t even really have to act the part too much, just look it and you’re 80% of the way there. Last night was the opening night of the FNB Whisky Live Festival, the biggest consumer whisky festival in the world and there I was missioning around with the photographer we hired to cover the event, looking all important with my executive leather Mastercard branded flip file and two-way radio complete with an ear piece that made me look like some kind of high-level bodyguard.

The festival was intense and to be honest, I feel like a bus hit me right in the spine. I’m tired, J-Rab had to pry me out of bed with a crowbar this morning, goddamn what I wouldn’t do for another few hours sleep… And for that reason I don’t really feel like writing anything today. Even these paltry few words have so far taken me an hour to write. I’m going to drink Bioplus, that shit is AMAZING. Yesterday I nailed one of the effervescent tablets and in 10 minutes was feeling like a million bucks, so I nailed another one to try and push it to two million. Then, suddenly, the universe was an incredible place. Raw energy and electricity was sparking off everything, a rush of happiness washed over me and I started jiggling uncontrollably in my seat. THIS IS INCREDIBLE! I thought to myself. I MUST TELL EVERYONE ABOUT HOW AMAZING EVERYTHING IS!

So I tore into Twitter like a piece of loose shrapnel, writing ‘Phwoar! Fuck me running, BioPlus is AWESOME! I’ve only had two tablets AND I FEEL LIKE A MILLION BUCKS!’ Then I froze. I hadn’t Tweeted that as SlickTiger, I’d tweeted it as FNB Whisky Live Festival to 500 odd followers in the whisky-drinking community. Fucking awesome work right there. DELETE DELETE DELETE DELETE DELETE! Yeah, so I’m gonna nail another one right now. Don’t be surprised if my next post is written in size 500 font and all it says is BJUYB%*&^(*NGUJHGVFJV%^*&&HKHK<()O! Later party people, I might get some nice pics from last night to post here, watch this space. -ST

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slicktiger — Fri, 13 Nov 2009 12:49:41 +0000

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Whisky In The Jar-o: Part 2

slicktiger — Fri, 13 Nov 2009 12:52:53 +0000

How to make the best out of the FNB Whisky Live Festival ‘09 – a layperson’s guide

So having spent the last two nights at the FNB Whisky Live, running around ‘like a blue arsed chicken’ (as my boss The Irishman would say) with film crews and photographers, I’ve picked up a good couple of tips for people who want to get the most out of their festival experience, so if you’re heading through there, or know people who are, read on! Could change your life… ;)

TIP #1 Be cool Daddy-o

I know it goes without saying, but for the less intellectually inept out there, I’ll put this as simply as possible: it’s not beer and it’s not wine, it’s whisky. Sip it slowly.

The festival is big on responsible drinking, so I really can’t stress this point enough, when you taste the different whiskies on offer at the festival, unless you’re a veteran whisky drinker, don’t try and be a hero and slam it down neat to impress the gorgeous booth ladies. They’ve seen it a million times and all you’re likely to elicit is a stifled yawn.

Add a dash of water to the whiskies you’re tasting. Not only will this prevent you from getting drunker quicker, but it will also open up the flavour of the whisky you’re tasting, thus making it far more accessible whilst ensuring that your palette doesn’t become anaesthetised by the high alcohol content of the whisky.

It’s difficult to really appreciate a complex 18 year old whisky when you can’t really taste anything. If you’re a novice taster, after 4 neat whiskies you might as well be drinking brandy – you wouldn’t be able to taste a difference.

Whisky is about sophistication and class, so be sophisticated and classy, if it’s a drunken of lecherous debauchery you’re looking for, rather drink a bottle of Johnny Blue at Teasers with your pals.

TIP #2 Get the lay of the land

More often than not, I’ve watched crowds of visitors at the festival wandering around aimlessly, tasting random whiskies until their tickets run out and then leaving, feeling like they’ve missed out in some way.

They have.

Before you taste any of the whiskies or participate in any of the activities on offer, get the lay of the land. It’s better to arrive at the festival as close to 6pm as possible so you can beat the crowds and get a good idea of what’s where.

Once you have an idea of where everything is, jump in with both feet. The idea behind the festival is to have fun, learn about whisky and interact with the industries top gurus from all over the world.

If nothing else, by the time you leave the festival you should at least be able to hold your own the next time you’re at a swanky cocktail party and Mr Slick Willy with his snooty attitude starts trying to wax lyrical about what he thinks he knows about whisky.

Take him down. The festival will give you the knowledge to do so.

TIP #3 Become acquainted with your palette

You’d be surprised how little you know about your palette when it comes down to it. People who don’t know whisky will say one of two things when you broach the topic of whisky – they’ll either be honest and admit that they don’t like it, or they’ll try and pretend that they do to seem cool and sophisticated, but when you ask them a simple question like which flavours they enjoy in a whisky they’ll feed you a load of utter tripe.

The simple cure in both situations here is education. To the people who say, flat out, that they don’t like whisky, I’ll say this: the range of different flavours that can be found in whisky is so broad and varied that you can bet your bottom dollar there is a whisky out there for you that will suit your palette, and thus your individual flavour profile so perfectly, you’ll swear it was the best drink you ever tasted.

I have experienced this personally. A year ago I was a Bells Man – I drank it on the rocks because it looked cool and I found the flavour tolerable. If you had asked me the difference between a blend and a single malt back then I would have admitted complete ignorance.

With a little education, what I realised was that I didn’t even like Bells. In fact, for my palette, which is still young, I much prefer a clean, sweet single malt – the fewer citrusy and spicey notes, the better.

For this reason I far prefer Irish whiskeys to Scottish whiskies, they’re smoother, easier on the palette and have less character, so you won’t recoil like you’ve just been shot after you take a sip.

But the golden rule is that everyone’s palette, like your fingerprints, are different. For this reason, do yourself a favour and taste an Irish whiskey, a Scottish whisky, a bourbon and a liqueur.

This simple exercise will help you a lot when it comes to discerning what flavours you enjoy and will make future tasting experiences a lot more rewarding.

TIP #4 Learn to make whisky cocktails

New to this year’s festival is the Schweppes Art of Whisky Cocktail Making Zone, which is being hosted by Kevin, master mixologist from Liquid Chefs who is not only the raddest guy I’ve met so far at the festival, but is also pretty easy on the eyes for the ladies, so guys, make sure you book early cause his cocktail making sessions fill up fast!

The sessions are free and run at 6:30, 7:45 and 9:00.

Once Kevin’s done with you, you’ll be the envy of all your friends as you mix up killer whisky cocktails that will ensure that for the rest of your life you’ll be the life of EVERY party, ALL the time.

You can thank me later.

TIP #5 The sensory zone is a must

At first I thought this sounded a little gimmicky, the idea here is to engage all your senses in a whisky tasting experience in order to help you learn about whisky in general. Sounds like a load of hippy let’s-hold-hand-and-sing-kumbaya bullshit, but it’s actually possibly the best way to learn about whisky at the festival.

Divided into a number of plain white rooms, each with a bar inside serving a different whisky, The Sensory Zone is at the far end of the hall and is well worth visiting.

Each room has a wall on one side, some are velvety to the touch, some are smooth and some are rough. On the opposite wall is a giant image, in one room it’s honey, in another it’s dark chocolate and so on. Near the bar, smelling salts exude different aromas in each room and a different style of music plays in each room.

All of these elements come together as you taste the whisky in order to illustrate the character of the whisky you’re tasting by engaging all your senses.

It leaves a lasting impression and is a great way to learn about the ‘water of life’

TIP #6 EAT

This is when you put food in your mouth, chew 32 times and swallow. Do this at some stage during the night because, like I said, after four or five whiskies, you’re gonna need it.

Word Of Mouth do all the catering for the festival, and in one simple word, their food is delicious – tuck in there!

TIP #7 Check out the Macallan Maturation Zone

This is probably something for the more mature patrons of the festival to check out, but could prove interesting to anyone wanting to know the secrets of how whisky get’s it’s flavour and colour.

The workshops are free and there are two per night. The whisky expert who takes the workshops explains the crucial influence that wood has on whisky, which can go a long way to helping you find your perfect whisky.

For example, I tend to find whiskies that are matured in sherry casks too spicey for my palette, I know this because I have a rudimentary knowledge of the effect wood has on whisky.

And people love me for it.

TIP #8 I love chocolate, you love chocolate, eat the chocolate!

Von Geusau Chocolates have a stand at the festival where they pair whisky with chocolate and I can vouch from personal experience that the combination of the two, when done right, it like nothing you’ve ever tasted before.

You take a bite of chocolate, a sip of whisky, swill it around a little and swallow and I shit you not, you’re still tasting different flavours in your mouth nearly a full minute later.

It’s a must. Guys – learn the whiskies and the chocolates and the next time you throw a party, invite the ladies to have a taste.

Use it / don’t use it ;)

TIP #9 If you like one of the whiskies you taste, buy it

Picardi Rebel have a stall at the festival where they’re selling whiskies at discounted prices, it’s the perfect place to pick up a Christmas prezzy or two, then head over to the Classic Malts stand and get it engraved with a personal message – it’s free and adds a really nice personal touch.

TIP #10 If you’ve had too much, stay the hell off the roads

There are roadblocks tonight by Cornerhouse Pub, on William Nicol, by the Baron on Main, and on Witkoppen all the way up to Sunninghill.

Don’t drive drunk, both Corporate Cabs and Roadtrip are at the festival for a reason. USE THEM! Spending two days in jail, or worse, is no way to spend a weekend.

Lastly, please come on Saturday, come on Saturday, come on Saturday, comeonsaturdaycomeonsaturdaycomeonsaturdaycomeonsaturdaycomeonsaturdaycomeonsaturday!

Friday is gonna be packed to the rafters and so Saturday has been added this year and will be a much better night to go through to get the most out of the festival.

So there you have it, any questions, come see me after class, otherwise I’ll see you at the festival :)

-ST

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slicktiger — Sat, 14 Nov 2009 11:36:54 +0000

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slicktiger — Sat, 14 Nov 2009 11:37:24 +0000

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slicktiger — Sat, 14 Nov 2009 11:37:55 +0000

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slicktiger — Sat, 14 Nov 2009 11:38:16 +0000

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slicktiger — Sun, 15 Nov 2009 19:30:43 +0000

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slicktiger — Sun, 15 Nov 2009 19:31:42 +0000

Whisky in the jar-o: Part 3

slicktiger — Sun, 15 Nov 2009 19:31:49 +0000

I stepped into round three last night like a prize fighter.

I had that deep down achy feeling in my body like I’d been kicked around and socked a few times, but not too badly, just gently, love taps.

There was only one film crew last night and they were friendly and knew what they were doing. In and out, aim the lens right, catch the light as it moves, the shapes in it as easily recognisable as possible, this is not art, it’s news.

By now we’re all old hands at this and to be honest, boredom has set in. If you bring together similar variables, you get similar results. There are of course always anomalies, just to mix it up a little, just to keep things interesting.

Shoes were killing people, backs at the end of the night were sore, and somewhere, always, the scent of whisky in the air.

Best part of it is that I now have a certificate that says I’m a master blender. Richard Patterson himself bestowed the honour on me, he’s the youngest man to ever be made a master distiller. He’s well into his 50s now, but he was 26 when they Master Distiller-ised him.

Anyway, I grabbed a hold of him for an interview and he asked me to join him onstage to blend whiskies for his show. Easy right? Stand there, blend the whiskies in front of you according to his instructions, exit stage left.

Then he asks me to find two OTHER people to join us onstage, a beautiful girl and another guy. We were going on in 15 minutes.

I felt like such a weird, creepy dude approaching random people and trying to drag them onstage for the show. I spoke with 6 girls, they all shot me down, it was a massacre.

Eventually, thank fuck, I ran into Deep Fried Man and his girlfriend, and cajoled them into help us. Deep is a buddy of mine because are paths seem to cross constantly, and always at times when I need his help in some way.

The only problem was that the closer it got to show-time, the more fidgety Deep got, he was supposed to be writing a story after all for an Esteemed Newspaper Magazine. I knew a guy would be a lot easier to find. I needed a big one, one bigger than me (yes, it’s possible) and approached a 6ft4 chunk of granite I found on the other side of the hall.

In the worst imaginable way I explained I needed his help to do a show. He stared at me completely expressionless as I spoke and when I’d finished said,

‘What?’

‘I need your help onstage, you’re a big guy, come and blend some whiskies, it’s with a master distiller from Scotland, it’ll be fun.’

The look he gave me after that told me instantly that this wasn’t a ‘fun’ guy AT ALL.

‘No,’ he said, ‘I can’t help you.’

‘Why’s that?’ I asked, though I knew this was fucked, ‘are you shy?’

His head snapped ever so slightly as I said that and his eyes stared like flame throwers at me.

‘I speak in front of people all day,’ he said in a threatening non-threatening way, ‘I don’t want to do it now.’

‘Great, well go and fuck your mother’s arsehole,’ I said and walked away.

The second guy was a lot easier to convince, though he still looked a bit like a cornered animal in a certain light.

‘The light shapes bent and twisted. The light looked different in every place and fell differently on everyone everywhere….’ – Lazarus Journal, p36.

Richard rushed the show though, he was nervous, there weren’t nearly enough people there watching, the festival had only opened an hour before. It was like watching an inferior carbon copy of the opening night’s performance.

We did our part and mixed the whiskies in front of us on stage to produce three specific blends, the first was a Nicole Kidman, the second was an Arnold Schwarzenegger and the third was supposedly a combination of the two, a Leonardo Di Caprio.

In other words, the first was smooth and sweet, the second was very bold, lots of character, lots of structure and the third one had elements of both.

Patterson chatted away while we blended and when we were done tasted them one by one, starting with the Kidman (‘close, close, getting there’), then the Schwarzenegger (‘ok, some character’) and lastly the Di Caprio (‘good’).

He repeated the tasting, this time judging the Kidman as close, but not quite there, the Schwarzenegger as completely off and the Di Caprio as the closest.

I was a sultan among men. Three people clapped.

So Now I’m a certified Master Distiller. I was invoked and everything, even given a certificate and the sacred Master Distiller Headdress.

And now Saturday lands and I need to wrap this up because Peggles is coming around.

I love you all.

Buy Them Crooked Vultures, it’s radass.

-ST

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slicktiger — Sun, 15 Nov 2009 19:41:13 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 16 Nov 2009 09:45:10 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 16 Nov 2009 09:45:33 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 16 Nov 2009 09:45:51 +0000

Whisky in the Jar-o: Part 4

slicktiger — Mon, 16 Nov 2009 09:45:54 +0000

By round four we were all of us looking a little shaky on our feet. Lucky for me, this time around I wasn’t going there to work, but rather sample some of the fine whiskies on offer, indulge in the food and not make too much of a nuisance of myself.

But my day didn’t start then, it started about five minutes after my last blog post, when I cracked the first beer of the day open and Jenni-fuh and her buddy (we’ll call her Tard) joined me.

Shortly after, we went to Peggles’ parents place cause it was his oldest brother’s 32nd birthday party. I don’t have a suitable nickname handy for him, so seeing as he fought in one, I’ll call him ‘War’.

War’s party was awesome. That place, the house is like a touchstone for us all, we’ve partied there so many times that we’ve got it down to an art and Peggles’ dad, Big Red, is possibly the most generous host you will ever find.

He has this deep, commanding voice, the kind that when you hear it you can’t help but listen just because the sound of it is so cool.

We had a good time, all of us, at War’s party. His group of friends are moving into the baby-making phase of life and so there were two tiny human’s at the party, both boys, one was about 3 months old and the other was 18 months.

Those small creatures, they’re pure and clean, they got nothing on their conscious, they’ve done nothing bad, they’ve broken no hearts or laws.

They are in every way imaginable different to me, that’s why I like kids. They remind me of when I was like that, before the myriad of accidents occurred that have left me the way I am.

I’ve always loved the idea of The Catcher In The Rye. I can understand fully why someone would want to be that person, anyone out there who grew up too fast would agree. Problem with growing up too fast is you don’t do it properly and spend a large portion of the rest of your life chasing the childhood you missed out on.

After War’s thing, I headed back home with Jenni-fuh and Tard. Just before we left, Tard asked me if it was okay if we listened to something other than ‘Hootie and the Blowfish’ on the way back home.

‘Is that the closest band you can think of that sounds like Arctic Monkeys?’ I fired back at her.

‘Oh, I like Arctic Monkeys,’ she replied.

‘But you think they sound like Hootie and the Blowfish? Do you listen to music much?’

And that’s howcome I decided to dub her ‘Tard’ on my blog.

I showered and changed for Whisky Fest and headed through there for 6 on the nut. It was cool to be able to finally taste the whisky on offer and I did so with gusto.

Afterward, Stikey, Jacey-got-the-aceys and I went to a club called Latinova which, to be honest, was a bit lame and over crowded.

By 12pm / 1pm we called it a night and headed back home.

I collapsed in bed, alone. Across the country my gorgeous girlfriend lay sleeping in a tiny house on the side of a mountain, a hot waterbottle clutched to her chest instead of me.

Something happened earlier that day that is going to change both our lives in quite a drastic way…

And all I can say is it’s about fucking time.

-ST

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slicktiger — Tue, 17 Nov 2009 08:35:33 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 17 Nov 2009 08:36:02 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 17 Nov 2009 08:36:34 +0000

Same Shit

slicktiger — Tue, 17 Nov 2009 08:36:36 +0000

Days like today you just really, really badly want to give up. Just phone in sick, go the hell back to sleep, curl up warm and snug, close your eyes to the world, shut your senses down and drop like a stone back into sleep.

I got one post behind on the weekend. Making a bad habit, skipping days here and there. On Sunday I picked J-Rab up from the airport after straightening out the flat and told her, ‘Babe, today is about two things.’

‘Is one of them shaving your beard?’ she asked, the cheeky little vixen.

‘No,’ I replied.

‘It looks cool. Scratchy, but cool.’

‘Ok. Today’s about cuddling and sleeping. Those are the only two things on the agenda. Are we cool on that?’

‘Yay!’

For the longest time in my life, I was made to feel guilty because I really, really like sleeping. As a teenager I slept so much it was ridiculous. I also grew about two feet in as many years, so I guess it makes sense that sleeping would be high on my list of priorities.

One of the things I really love about J-Rab is that she appreciates a really good snooze from time to time and so we get on just fine. Some weekends we will literally not get out of bed until 2 in the afternoon. Of course, on days like that it’s not all sleeping, but probably the less said about that crazy, animal side of us the better.

And so we spent Sunday chilling to the max. We watched two movies, The Visitor, which is a very skilfully crafted movie about America’s questionable policy about immigrants and My Super Ex-Girlfriend, which is a load of cow dung.

I didn’t blog. I thought ‘fuck it’ and relaxed instead.

Roll on Monday and I’m back at my desk, post-Whisky Live, doing my best to actually get some work done.

I managed to squeeze out a couple hours graft, but by and large I was enjoying not having my balls busted continuously about Whisky Live this or Whisky Live that.

Last night Peggles came over to get some movies and gave me Anti-Christ (Lars Von Trier’s latest). We watched the opening scene, very hectic stuff, there’s actually a shot of a cock sliding in slow-motion into a pussy.

I was like ‘Hey! You’re not allowed to do that in movies are you?’

I guess you are.

Rad!

-ST

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slicktiger — Wed, 18 Nov 2009 06:37:23 +0000

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slicktiger — Wed, 18 Nov 2009 06:37:36 +0000

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slicktiger — Wed, 18 Nov 2009 06:37:51 +0000

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slicktiger — Wed, 18 Nov 2009 06:38:20 +0000

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slicktiger — Wed, 18 Nov 2009 06:38:37 +0000

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slicktiger — Wed, 18 Nov 2009 06:38:48 +0000

Album Review: Them Crooked Vultures

slicktiger — Wed, 18 Nov 2009 06:38:51 +0000

If any of you have been following the comments on Moral Fibre about this album, you’ll know before I even launch into this that we’re entering some pretty contentious territory here.

To put it in a sentence, I read a review of this album on Moral Fibre that I didn’t feel was very well researched and wrote a scathing comment to that effect, thus starting a mild shit storm of comments by other readers half of whom sided with me and half of whom didn’t.

I was asked to write a follow-up review so I could have a chance to offer my opinions on this album as well, but probably more to stir a little more shit than anything else. Controversy sells right?

So enough foreplay. I urge you before we even begin to take a fistful of stones in hand and if, by the end of this review you think what I’ve written is garbage, let ‘er rip.

Them Crooked Vultures is a supergroup that was formed earlier this year by Josh Homme (Queens Of The Stone Age), Dave Grohl (Foo Fighters) and John Paul Jones (Led Zepplin). I heard the rumours of this band near the end of July, looked it up on the interwebs and couldn’t really believe what I was reading.

Sure, Homme and Grohl jamming together, that’s nothing too crazy. Grohl famously joined Queens Of The Stone Age on drums for their most commercially successful album to date, Songs For The Deaf (2002).

But John Paul Jones? The first thing I remember thinking was ‘Is he still alive?’ I did a little research and was surprised to find that since Led Zepplin disbanded in 1980, Jones has worked with everyone from R.E.M and Peter Gabriel to The Butthole Surfers and (aha!) Foo Fighters (on their 2005 album In Your Honour, which Homme also worked on).

Suddenly the bigger picture started to become clear. This is not your typical supergroup, this is not a bunch of stinking rich and nauseatingly famous rockstars who have fallen into studio for three months, half-heartedly banged out an album and cashed it in with nothing but the strength of their reputations to actually make it sell.

This is something else, something premeditated…

And so last weekend I got my hands on the album, kicked back and hit play. I have since listened to it no less than 11 times from start to finish and I shit you not, it’s still catching me off guard with riffs and lyrics that I swear were never there the first time I played them.

This is not fluffy, catchy limp-dick rock. This is dark, edgy, dirty progressive stoner/desert rock packed with more hooks than a box of fishing tackle.

The album opens with ‘Nobody loves me and neither do I’ which staggers and sways with the confidence of a lecherous drunk in a strip club, while Homme’s customary falsetto meowls and moans like a stray street cat.

Then the next thing you know, exactly halfway through the song the band breaks into an interlude with Homme singing, ‘Cuttin her loose, I’m ready to go / People in the world, you’re gonna lose control’ and the song immediately starts picking up momentum only to dump it moments later into a riff that’s so heavy it drives like an oil tanker and sounds like an air raid siren.

It’s a classic Zepplin moment that builds to a perfectly executed climax thanks to Grohl finally sitting up on his kit and doing what he does best, pounding the living shit out of it.

It’s not like anything you’ve ever heard before, it’s executed with military precision and if nothing else, should immediately grab your attention.

Track 2, ‘Mind Eraser, No Chaser’ segues flawlessly from a disjointed, syncopated verse into a catchy, driving chorous that is infectious as all hell for the simple reason that you can hear the band is rocking out and loving every second of it.

‘Gimme the reason why the mind's a terrible thing to waste’ sings Homme, ‘Understanding is cruel the monkey said as it launched to space / Know that I'm gonna be your dangerous side effect / Ignorance is bliss until they take your bliss away.’

The first single off the album ‘New Fang’ opens with Grohl’s drumming, though there’s no way you’d guess it was him. The beat is subtle, loose, lots of cymbals, but tightens up the instant Homme and Jones jump in there.

And this is the first thing that struck me about this band. The rhythm section that is Grohl and Jones is tighter than a nun’s arsehole. They swing together effortlessly, providing a fat, solid platform for Homme to work off, and Homme fucking laps it up.

‘Dead End Friends’ swings like a party of polygamous nymphomaniacs and is a welcome change from the slightly claustrophobic opening tracks. It’s almost instantly accessible and very quickly became one of my favourite tracks on the album.

The lyrics are poetry, ‘I follow the road blind / Until the road is done out / Nights in my veins its calling me / Racing along these arteries / And love, is just a myth / To herd us over the cliff.’ Nice and dark, just the way I like it.

The fifth track, ‘Elephant’ changes tempo no less than five times during the song and feels like Homme’s attempt at packing as many different riffs as possible into one song. It will irritate you the first time you hear it. It irritated me because Homme’s vocal melody and tone is identical to a song he recorded with U.N.K.L.E called ‘Restless’ (off the 2007 album War Stories).

And that’s a mistake Homme makes more than once on this album. ‘Interlude With Ludes’ the most spaced out, drug addled song on the album (‘ludes’ are the American equivalent of mandrax) has a vocal melody almost identical to the QOTSA track ‘I’m Designer’ off Era Vulgaris (2007).

The chorous line Homme sings in ‘Nobody Loves Me And Neither Do I’ sounds like the track ‘Like a Drug’ off the QOTSA album Lullabyes to Paralyse (2005).

‘Caligulove’ sounds identical to any number of Eagles Of Death Metal vocal melodies (try ‘So Easy’ and ‘English Girl’ for starters) which, at first, ruined an otherwise great song for me.

However, is that really something to hold against the man they call ‘The Ginger Elvis’? Homme has contributed in some way to no less than nineteen albums (6 Kyuss albums, 5 QOTSA albums, 3 Eagles Of Death Metal albums and 5 double volume Desert Sessions albums) so he recycled some vocal melodies – big fucking deal.

Chad Kruger has been singing ‘This Is How You Remind Me’ for five albums (I really should stop using Nickleback as my fall-band, but it’s just so easy).

I will say this though, even after listening to the entire album the first time, it was obvious that what I was hearing, in essence, was unmistakeably Queens Of The Stone Age.

J-Ho (as he is also known) has changed the line-up of QOTSA so extensively over the past decade that he is the only original member left, so it’s no wonder he finds it difficult to shake the QOTSA sound – he is the QOTSA sound!

And yes, it’s a sound that most people don’t like. Personally I love it because no one else plays like Homme and he has an ability to find the craziest riffs and bludgeon you with them like a club-wielding Neanderthal one minute, then play them slick and easy the next.

He is also a master of tone. Most bands find three or four different guitar tones per album and stick with them (Nirvana, for example, basically had two – clean and distorted). Homme on the other hand manages to find a unique tone for almost every track on the album, whether it be dirty, rusty and infectious (ie. ‘Reptiles’ and the phenomenal twelfth track ‘Gunman’) or eclectic, clean and calm (ie. Bandoliers, another track that has grown on me over time).

Another criticism is that in some cases the tracks run too long. ‘Warsaw or The First Breath You Take After You Give Up’ is nearly 8 mins long (and is also the weakest track on the album) and the average track length on the album is 5 minutes.

The plus side to this is that, as I mentioned before, you can play the album multiple times and still find new aspects to it, but the negative is that if you have a short attention span or get bored easily, the album will lose you completely.

All in all, I think Them Crooked Vultures is a great album. Give it the time it demands to really sink in and I think you’ll be pleased you did. When I listen to the album, I hear a group of musicians who are rocking out together for the sheer joy of rocking out together, it’s refreshing.

They don’t give a shit how many albums sell, why would they? They also don’t give a shit who they impress or don’t impress, I think all of them have moved far beyond that point in their careers, and I like that.

But I will say this – don’t buy this album on the strength of Grohl’s contribution, because sadly his talents as a drummer are vastly under-utilised on this album and also, don’t buy this album if you can’t stand Queens Of The Stone Age, you won’t like it.

However, if like me, you find most of the mainstream rock music that is being produced nowadays uninspired, bland and as palatable as dry toast, try this album out. I’m not saying it will change your life, but I honestly think if you have a mind twisted enough, this album will grow on you with every listen and stick like a barnacle to the hull of your rusted soul.

That about does it. Let the stones fly ;)

Overall Verdict: 9/10

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slicktiger — Thu, 19 Nov 2009 06:32:59 +0000

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slicktiger — Thu, 19 Nov 2009 06:33:27 +0000

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slicktiger — Thu, 19 Nov 2009 06:33:41 +0000

Death By Ayoba!

slicktiger — Thu, 19 Nov 2009 06:33:46 +0000

What I dig about South Africa is that every year when summer rolls around, the cell phone network providers all ramp up their advertising and bombard us from all sides with ‘Summer this’ and ‘Summer that’ and shots of mixed racial groups partying on beaches, having the time of their lives.

And all the while, I look at these ad campaigns and think to myself, How come I don’t hang out in mixed racial groups? Why do I only have whites for friends pretty much with the exception of some Indians and one or two peripheral blacks? What the hell is wrong with me? Christ, I’m a racist bastard!

Then to make matters worse, they choose some random word in a black language I don’t understand and shove it in my face every opportunity they get.

This year it’s ‘Ayoba’ (thanks MTN), I’ve probably read that word about 50 times in the last week alone and there’s still essentially two months of summer holiday advertising to go.

By the end of it all, the word will probably be burned into my retina. I’ll wake up, pouring sweat in the middle of the night, wide-eyed, screaming ‘AYOBA! AYOBA! AAAYYYOOOOOBBBBBAAAAA!’

I think what gets to me is the fact that they attach all this meaning to a word that they know non-black people won’t understand. Why do they do that? It doesn’t seem like the smartest way to encourage racial unity in SA.

‘Hey guys!’

‘What!’

‘I’ve got a GREAT idea for our new campaign!’

‘YOU’RE INCREDIBLE! Cutmeanotherlineofcocaineandtellusallaboutit!’

‘OK! Check it out! There are WAAAAAAAYYYYY more blacks than whites in this country right?’

‘YA!’

‘Cool! Let’s make an advertising campaign that ONLY black people will understand!’

SCHNARF!

‘THAT’S AMAZING!’

‘Yeah, we’ll create a sense of unity amongst the black community while ostracising the whites and making them feel completely unhip, uncool and sidelined!'

‘FUCK YEAH! BRILLIANT IDEA! STUPID WHITES, SERVES THEM RIGHT! MAKE THEM FEEL MORE GUILTY FOR BEING WHITE, THOSE APARTHEID-ENFORCING BIGOTTED FUCKERS!’

‘HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHA!’

‘…umm guys…’

‘WHAT?!?’

‘We’re white…’

‘Whatever! Shuttup! MORE COCAINE!’

To make things worse, you’ll probably find that the meaning of Ayoba is something completely arbitrary.

After I typed that last sentence I did a little Ugoogle-ising and found the following gem posted on the Jacaranda FM website:

“Ayoba - the word for 2010.

The word for excitement, cool,

fun... pride... joy... football... winning!!!”

Fuck, no wonder they chose that word for their campaign, it means EVERYTHING. Wait, it gets better:

“MTN is celebrating summer by adding 'Ayoba-ness' to everything it does”

Well that’s just fucking great. Expect to have this word screamed at you from billboards, TVs, newspapers, radios and magazines at FULL volume.

Ayoba! Ayoba! Ayoba!

And all over the country, whites, indians, coloureds, hell even the Chinese, will be scratching their heads in unison, all thinking exactly the same thing, ‘What the fuck does that mean?’

And as is the case with pretty much everything that gets regurgitated into mainstream media these days, the answer is simple.

It means nothing.

The more people that don’t know the meaning of it the better because it means nothing, it’s just a worm dangling off the hook of the happy holiday summer consumer spendasmuchmoneyasyoucan idea that they want you to swallow.

I’ve got a better idea. Here’s my fist. Let’s see you swallow that.

-ST

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slicktiger — Fri, 20 Nov 2009 06:27:32 +0000

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slicktiger — Fri, 20 Nov 2009 06:27:58 +0000

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slicktiger — Fri, 20 Nov 2009 06:28:10 +0000

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slicktiger — Fri, 20 Nov 2009 06:28:36 +0000

The Hubbly Debate

slicktiger — Fri, 20 Nov 2009 06:28:39 +0000

Last night I was listening to 702 and they had this pretty interesting debate going on about Hubbly Bubblies (or Hookah pipes) because apparently a lot of teenage kids are smoking them and it’s destroying their lives.

It’s your typical Little Johnny story where Little Johnny starts out innocently smoking a Hubbly or two with his friends and then a year down the line in mainlining heroine and smoking cocks for cash.

I couldn’t really believe what I was hearing though, they brought in some expert or other who asked the question, What happens when the kids get bored of smoking molasses through water?

The answer, he said, is they replace the water with Vodka. I was totally outraged – what a waste of Vodka! Fucking drink the Vodka you retards!

Then what happens when they get bored of the molasses? Well, then they smoke dagga, through Vodka (siff!). And when they get bored of the dagga? Then they mix mandrax in there, and eventually heroine.

Aaahh, the youth of today. Pretty much identical to the youth of yesterday. I remember back in highschool we tried all kinds of really dangerous and fucked up shit, everything from getting good and wasted on butane to smoking matches (I know, what the fuck?) to drinking metholated spirits strained through bread.

I swear, I would have been a fucking rocket scientist if it weren’t for the massive amounts of damage I did to my brain when I was a kid.

Worst was this one buddy of mine, we’ll call him Duck. Duck came to school one Monday looking like a pile of horse shit and when I asked him how his weekend was, he said Awesome!

‘Dude, you have to try this thing we found out, fucking AMAZING!’

‘What thing?’

‘You have to smoke Myprodol in a cigarette, ffffaaaaahhhhhhkkkkkk!’

‘Mypro-who?’

‘Myprodol dude! Fucking AMAZING!’

‘Yeah, you said… amazing how?’

‘Dude, like, colours and fucking weird sounds and everything!’

‘Um, ok. I think my mom has some, thanks for the good advice.’

Worst. Idea. Ever. It tasted like crap, it tasted worse than crap, it tasted chemical and really, really evil. I snuck out the kitchen door and smoked it in the back yard while my parents were sleeping and all I remember was feeling like my heart was going to burst through my chest and having to hold on to the grass because the world was spinning so fast I was convinced I was gonna fly off it.

Back at school the next day, Mosquito, this little irritating kid asked me why I looked like crap. I grinned.

‘Dude, you have to try this thing we found out…’

As for Hubblies though, I would definitely recommend that kids, and people in general, stay the hell away from them. In varsity we had one for a year or two, but near the end, started noticing that smoking it was becoming as pleasant as sucking a car exhaust pipe.

We tried a lot of different things to clean the Hubbly out, one of which was to detach the hose part and blow into it to see what would come out and no shit, this HUGE cloud of fine black and silvery dust exploded out the end.

‘What the hell is that?’ my digsmate Graumpot asked.

‘No idea dude,’ I replied.

‘Blow again.’

I blew again. A second black and silvery cloud came out.

‘Fuck, have we been breathing this stuff into our lungs?’ Graum asked.

‘I think so…’

‘Huh. I guess that explains why we’ve had pneumonia for the last three months.’

‘I guess it does.’

‘Let’s never smoke Hubbly again.’

‘Let’s do that.’

Out of sheer curiosity we cut the hose open after that and found a crusty, rusted and foul smelling spring coiled inside there.

A spring! That’s what they put inside Hubbly hoses. People, you have been warned.

In other news, I heard a rumour it’s FRIDAY FUCK YEAH! I got one plan and one plan ONLY this weekend and that’s stay the fuck in bed, and I’d urge anyone reading this to do the same.

Until then, stay warm, don’t let the kak weather get you down cause as soon as it breaks and the sun beats down again, strong and hot, we’re all going streaking in the streets :)

-ST

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slicktiger — Sat, 21 Nov 2009 17:15:59 +0000

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slicktiger — Sat, 21 Nov 2009 17:16:49 +0000

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slicktiger — Sat, 21 Nov 2009 17:17:03 +0000

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slicktiger — Sat, 21 Nov 2009 17:17:37 +0000

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slicktiger — Sat, 21 Nov 2009 17:18:04 +0000

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slicktiger — Sat, 21 Nov 2009 17:18:39 +0000

If you wanna run cool…

slicktiger — Sat, 21 Nov 2009 17:18:42 +0000

Overhead, the sky hangs thick and black with clouds and lashes the earth intermittently with rain.

Add the fact that for the last four days it’s been severely cold and you don’t exactly have the makings of the best week. Right from the day this dreary weather started I wrote that all I wanted to do was hide under the blankets until it passed and well, today is FINALLY that day.

And so I’m lying here right now in an old school rowing T-shirt from 2000, listening to Dire Straits while memories from last night bob to the surface of my mind.

I made a break from work at 4 with Nix and she dropped me back at my place because J-Rab had the car. I splashed through the deepening puddles, free for the next 48 hours and somehow the sky that had looked so miserable before changed, and took on a kind of silvery tone, became radiant, and made the afternoon ghostly and the evening full of promise.

Guitar Jon came around after work yesterday and we drank coffee and listened to the new Them Crooked Vultures albums which, as a musician, amateur producer and sound guru, Guitar Jon really liked.

We shot the breeze awhile until The Glaze rocked up in his customary sensible jersey and proceeded to join us for more coffee.

We rolled two games of Backgammon and I thrashed him like a pro in the first one, but got pipped at the post in the second, losing by two pieces.

I used to do this thing back at varsity where Graum and I would roll a few games of Backgammon before we went out on the town, to test our luck. The games were always fierce and quick and when either of us won, it was by the skin of our teeth.

And while we played, I’d think of the Radiohead song ‘Lucky” (off OK Computer) and the lyrics would echo in my head,

I’m on a roll
I’m on a roll
This time.
But I feel my luck could change.

Over the last two years that I studied in that batshit town, that song became more than a song for me, it became some kind of ancient incantation, something that has always existed through time in some form or another.

A luck song. ‘I feel my luck could change’ – it could get better, it could get worse and the singing of that song would bring about one or the other.

And so I would often belt out the chorous of that song, letting it ring in the empty spaces of the house we lived in, which was the biggest house I’ve ever lived in, our digs in our last year at Grahamstown.

We called it the Zombie Mansion. I was solid, about 150 years old, perfectly square, two huge storues, high ceilings, wooden floors, sort of Cape Dutch looking, but different.

We loved that digs. We partied so hard when we lived in that house, all of us, that we often came out the other side, squinting at the approaching dawn, drunk and happy.

So my two games last night told me 50/50. My luck wasn’t bad, but it sure wasn’t good either. It’s important to know.

The Glaze had to be somewhere else and left not long after our second game. Guitar and I moved onto cup no. 3 and talked about how he needs to get off his ass and record. For as long as he’s not doing that he’s not living, he’s just killing time and he knows it.

Jenni-fuh also came home and started showering and getting ready for her office year-end party, which was a… wait for it… Mexican theme! They did up a marquee outside their offices, which Jenni-fuh was a little sceptical about, it sounded a little cheap, but apparently they did it up really, really well and were going to have pinyatas (spelling fail) and Petrone tequila, the whole deal.

J-Rab joined the party soon after, whirling through the door, cold from outside, but happy, with this beautiful smile on her face that lights up the world.

Our POA was to meet up with some friends of J-Rab’s she hasn’t seen in awhile and party somewhere. I called in some backup in the form of the best damn Greek connection I ever made, one of my oldest friends, Stikey, who came out with us, gun’s blazin’.

We met up at Molly Malone’s and I recognised J-Rab’s friends instantly which, in the case of the one, Soph, I wasn’t surprised, but the other, Lu, had a face I recognised, but didn’t. I asked J-Rab if Lu went to Rhodes, but she said no.

Turns out she did though and I instantly remembered where I knew her from. My memories are etched pretty clearly as a general rule, J-Rab is surprised all the time by how I remember things and M-Class, Graum’s girlfriend is too.

Introductions out of the way, we commenced the serious business of partying, celebrating being young and alive and laughing, always laughing.

Conversation was free and easy and it wasn’t long before we were having a killer time. At some stage a camera was produced, with sexy results.

About half-way through the night, Lu points out this guy and says, ‘Shit, don’t you know that guy, he went to Rhodes, Oliver Becker.’

I stared at Oliver Becker and something sparked off waaaayy at the back of my head.

Yeeaahh… I recognised Oliver Becker.

‘Fuck, his surname’s not ‘Becker’’, I said, watching him from our table.

‘Yes it is!’ said Lu.

‘No, I know that guy. We went to primary school together, I swear his name’s not ‘Becker’. At that Lu approached Oliver X and after a few minutes called me over.

I greeted X and asked him his surname straight up. It wasn’t Becker. Then the following conversation ensued, here’s the truncated version:

‘So, Oliver, your ex is doing really well,’ Lu started, not hiding her intentions whatsoever.

‘I heard,’ X replied.

‘Yeah, she’s looking really gorgeous, stunning, amazing, and she’s SO happy with her new guy, you know they’re getting married soon? Yeah, he’s gorgeous too, Spanish guy, really great guy, she’s really, really happy with him, it’s so exciting, the wedding’s in a month, I can’t wait!’

‘That’s nice,’ X replied, ‘I’m happy for her.’

‘So dude, how’ve you been, what’ve you been up to?’ I asked, trying to save the awkwardness of the conversation thus far.

‘I own a construction company and part of an advertising agency. I just bought a house in Camps Bay and I’m engaged, marrying a pilot, she’s great, I’ve also got my pilot’s license, but not for commercial, I fly helicopters.’

‘Huh,’ I replied. ‘You could set up a great drug cartel with a helicopter, provided you had a safe place to land it.’

‘Hahaha. Exactly. Well, I’ll probably buy my own helicopter soon, I –’

‘Ok, I’m gonna stop you right there and go back and sit down at my table. Good to see you.’

Wanker.

Turns out he used to rough up his ex, that’s why Lu was so openly hostile in a friendly way, which I guess was exactly how I was after finding out how loaded the guy is.

Money, to me, is something I spend to satiate my basic needs for shelter, food, transport and entertainment, beyond that I don’t place any belief in the idea that having a lot of it leads to happiness or superiority over other people.

Money proves nothing to me except that you have money. If you want to earn my respect show me honesty, integrity, humour, intelligence, don’t show me money.

Some of the very best of people I have met in this life are poor, or live modestly, but not extravagantly and are able to save very little.

We drank and partied until Molly Malone’s cleared out to the dregs and bar flies and this little blonde girl who flitted from one guy to the next, we counted four in total.

Funniest thing was at the end of the night we spotted Numbers One and Two having what looked like a little tiff between them, but really, both were of such an unremarkable appearance and manor, and so used to behaving meek and mild, the argument just turned into a chat after a few minutes and both went their separate ways.

We made an abortive attempt after Molly’s to go to Billy The Bums (I know, who names these places?!) but stayed for exactly as long as it took to drink a glass of water and left.

J-Rab and I drove back home, slowly through the soft rain and collapsed into bed together, happy and tired and curled up tight to keep warm.

We drifted off to sleep in minutes, unconcerned about the hangover to follow because of the Milk Thistle Liver tablets we swallowed before we passed out.

Dire Straits said it best, ‘If you wanna run cool, you gotta run on heavy fuel.’

If you party hard, eat too, give your body sustenance to help you deal with the booze, eat before you go to sleep, drink shitloads of water, take liver enzymes.

Don’t fuck out. Or else who’s gonna read my blog if not you crazy fuckers?

Hold that thought.

-ST

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slicktiger — Sun, 22 Nov 2009 17:09:06 +0000

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slicktiger — Sun, 22 Nov 2009 17:09:37 +0000

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slicktiger — Sun, 22 Nov 2009 17:10:46 +0000

Bright Sunshiney Day

slicktiger — Sun, 22 Nov 2009 17:10:51 +0000

Sometime yesterday afternoon the sky opened after nearly a week, and sunlight, washed clean and pure, began pouring through the clouds.

J-Rab had to work and so, besides writing yesterday’s post, I didn’t do anything until she came home at lunchtime.

It was bliss. Cold and rainy outside, me hammering words out, warm in my Writer’s Uniform (dressing gown) and getting some good shit, stuff I’m proud of, out in words.

If you can get the right words out in the right order, you can create magic.

Later I tidied the flat tirelessly and got the place looking like humans live here and J-Rab and I walked across the road for pizza. We walked through the early dusk, past the roads ruined by rain and the red incandescent glow of the sex shop that’s painted mauve inside and lit entirely in bleached white light.

The pizza turned out to be excellent, despite the fact that the inside of the restaurant looked like a kind of faux Olde English Pub / Dungeon.

We decided to watch Paranormal Activity and got about halfway through it before J-Rab asked me in a ‘this is not funny anymore’ voice to please switch it off and I agreed almost instantly.

It’s a freaky, freaky ass movie. Think Blair Witch Project only in a house instead of in the woods and cut the cast down to a total of four people, two of whom only have cameo roles in the movie.

It’s the kind of movie where you know the evil that threatens them is closing in constantly and there’s no way they can avoid it.

So we watched porn instead, much safer alternative.

Good times ;)

-ST

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slicktiger — Sun, 22 Nov 2009 18:10:46 +0000

Stikey

slicktiger — Sun, 22 Nov 2009 18:10:56 +0000

Somewhere back in time, Stikey and I were sitting in a kind of fort that we built out of tree branches, by a fire when he told me about the rabbit hole and how and where to find it.

Those early runs, we did a lot of them together, down into the hole, twisting through those crazy tunnels, digging new passages, unstoppable in every way.

Later he caught something down there, he got sick, those tunnels and the places they lead were full of spores and he just breathed in too many.

His grip on the world outside the Hole was lost and most of us, we thought he was done for.

But he fought back, he got back up by himself, and by himself he boarded the Hole up and bolted it shut, and hasn’t gone back since.

He’s smart, as adept at running a company as he is at fleecing you for every cent you have across a poker table. Money slides like mercury toward him and of all my friends, you bet your ass he will be the first to make a million.

There’s this line that Big Red used to say everytime he saw Stikey when we were growing up, it was a question, ‘Is he a Greek God, or a goddamn greek?’

The answer, I think, is that he’s both, which makes him a stand up guy to have on your side, but not a guy you’d want to fuck with if he isn’t.

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slicktiger — Mon, 23 Nov 2009 07:09:33 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 23 Nov 2009 07:10:24 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 23 Nov 2009 07:11:24 +0000

Nobody Take Today Seriously

slicktiger — Mon, 23 Nov 2009 07:11:27 +0000

Guys, please, for the love of god, nobody take today too seriously.

I have it on high authority that today is just fucking with us, just having a go, deliberately being facetious just to piss us all off, and so I urge you not to take today too seriously.

Here instead are things I think we should rather do today:

1. Take a long walk. Take deep breaths while you’re walking and concentrate on spending more time looking at the sky than looking at the ground. People don’t look up enough, they just look down at the ground and wonder why all their dreams keep dying.

2. Eat ice cream. When you were a kid you ate ice cream and it always made you feel better. Today you are going to eat some ice cream too, sitting on the sidewalk like you used to, and while you eat that ice cream, think about nothing except eating that ice cream.

3. Climb a tree. Trees are like huge, ancient dinosaurs. Even their bark is like rough dinosaur skin. Climb the biggest one you can find and hide in there until things get better. You’ll be surprised how quickly this happens.

4. Float. You can do this in one of two places, or if you’re feeling adventurous, do it in both of these two places: a) A swimming pool b) The bath. When you’re floating pretend you’re a piece of driftwood in a gigantic ocean and you don’t have to worry about anything except floating. If you’re outside, watch for birds while you float. They are constantly flying overhead, but nobody sees them because they never look up (see point 1.)

5. Sing. Inside everyone at all times there is a song playing whether it’s at the front of your mind or the back. Sing this song as loud as you can, completely tonelessly. Probably don’t do this at the office, but definitely do it while you’re driving home or when you’re in the shower. Actually, fuck it, do it in the office. If at least one person doesn’t smile or join in, quit your job and go work somewhere else.

6. Hug someone. When you hug someone, anyone, for long enough, things get better. Hug someone today. Warn them beforehand, explain that in a totally non-sexual way, you just need a hug, quite a long one, to feel better. It’s not weird to hug someone you hardly know, it’s a very human thing to do and you’ll probably make the person you’re hugging feel better too.

7. Remember that there’s a good chance that this is all one big joke. Many sources indicate that we are taking life far too seriously for our own good, and as such, are becoming prone to cancer and heart attacks. Take a minute to step outside of your life completely and zoom out, past the city blocks and suburbs and provinces and country borders and continents and Earth itself. Keep going until our entire solar system is just a tiny spec and ask yourself: Are all my problems still so big? Nope. And you’re suddenly not as important as you thought you were, you’re just a spec of dust, less than that, and that’s pretty cool cause as much as you might think you’re fucking shit up, you aren’t really.

And so that’s my blog post for today, Monday the 23rd of November. I hope you’ve enjoyed it and that you take it to heart and go out there and just be happy, cause yes, life is shitty sometimes, but it’s also the best thing we’ve ever known.

Buy some helium balloons. Let them go.

It’s that easy :)

-ST

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slicktiger — Tue, 24 Nov 2009 06:10:31 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 24 Nov 2009 06:11:06 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 24 Nov 2009 06:11:29 +0000

My Problem With The Interblags

slicktiger — Tue, 24 Nov 2009 06:11:34 +0000

I didn’t always used to be this way, blogging everyday, tweeting, interacting with my imaginary friends online. There used to be a time when I would meet people in the old fashioned way, by getting drunk in bars and clubs and simultaneously bludgeoning them with my opinions while beguiling them with my witty insights.

You’re on safe ground with drunks, they’re predictable. Not so with people you meet on the internet.

Problem with me is I just don’t trust my imaginary internet friends. How can you trust a person you’ve never met before? You can’t even begin to understand a person until you’ve shaken their hand, heard their voice, watched their mannerisms and looked into their eyes.

In a lot of cases, all you get over the internet is a facade. You get the character traits and virtues that person wants you to get. In this way people live out a kind of fantasy life online – the shy, mousy girl you knew back in highschool becomes a kinky dominatrix, the weedy, Star Wars-obsessed geek becomes a loud and brash, bullying anyone who would dare to challenge his thoughts and opinions.

Then you meet these people in the real world and surprise surprise, they not only have nothing to say, but they are nothing like the people they pretend to be online. It’s so lame!

And don’t even get me started on all the retards out there, trawling porn sites and leaving their badly-written, poorly punctuated comments like horse droppings all over this supposed ‘information super-highway’.

Hank Moody, David Duchovny’s character in Californication says it best. In season one he gets interviewed on Henry Rollins’ radio show about the blog he’s writing (completely against his will) and says the following about the online world:

“People they don’t write anymore, they blog. Instead of talking, they text. No punctuation, no grammar, LOL this and LMFAO that. It seems to me that it’s just a bunch of stupid people pseudo-communicating with a bunch of other stupid people in a proto-language that resembles more what cavemen used to speak than the King’s English.”

Amen brother.

If there’s one thing I strive toward every time I sit down to write for Them’s Fightin’ Words, it’s congruity. The person you’re reading is me. I’m just as loud, crazy and vitriolic in real life as I am on this blog and I don’t give a rat’s ass who can handle it and who can’t.

Having said that, I think it’s only fair that I mention that I’ve also been surprised by how many genuine and intelligent people there are out there using this powerful and twisted medium I like to call the Interblags.

We’re not in the majority here by any means, but there is a small community of thinking, feeling people out there with a healthy appreciation of irony who aren’t robots or retards and I can’t tell you how refreshing that is.

This blog is for you. It’s never going to be huge, for a lot of reasons I don’t want it to be, but it will always be here and so will I, so don’t be a stranger ;)

-ST

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slicktiger — Thu, 26 Nov 2009 10:16:00 +0000

The Raddest Post Ever!

slicktiger — Thu, 26 Nov 2009 10:16:02 +0000

Today’s post is the raddest post ever! Some days you need long, rambling existential mind-fuck meandering, and some days, well, you just need hot mamasitas.

(I’m currently lost in a piece of fiction I’m teasing out and probably won’t get around to posting anything other than this today. Watch this space…)

So send this to every friend you know. Tell them it’s the raddest post you’ve ever read EVER and you’ll win a prize!

Party on Wayne.

-ST

*A stunning summer bikini

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slicktiger — Fri, 27 Nov 2009 06:00:19 +0000

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slicktiger — Fri, 27 Nov 2009 06:01:03 +0000

You man the island

slicktiger — Fri, 27 Nov 2009 06:01:09 +0000

So I’m back from my sojourn in this new universe I’m building in my head. I took a day off yesterday and just got completely lost in a different world, fleshing it all out, meeting the characters.

You gotta ask yourself who they are, who their parents are, are they rich or poor? Are they well educated or stupid? Are they tall or short?

These questions, once you’ve answered them all, start acting as fuel for the inferno that is your story. They lend themselves naturally to situations that your characters find themselves in.

The character I’m working on currently has lain dormant inside my head since 2004. He’s different, it’s difficult to figure him out, he was human once, but he’s something else now and I’ve struggled for the last five years to find his voice.

But I’m getting close. I see him sometimes, in the early hours of the morning, he’s lying inert on a couch, watching stolen med student instructional videos. The screen flickers a ghostly blue colour while doctors perform surgical procedures on their patients.

He watches the scalpels do their thing, in some of the videos the procedures are simple and over in less than an hour, some of them take longer. In one video he watches a man undergoing spinal surgery, it’s a four-hour long operation.

He watches these videos when he can’t sleep. He tries to remember how it felt to be human.

He’s one of many characters that float around in my head. Problem is, like vampires, once you invite them in, they come and go whenever they like, sometimes lingering for weeks in there, half-alive at best.

I made a bar for them eventually, thought it up using the raw material of every bar I ever drank at. At least it gives them something to do – Lane and Bonjo, stoned and playing pool badly, Hank huge and calm, drinking Stroh Rum on the rocks, the Apache, Wagon Axel, sitting in the darkest corner, his eyes full of murder.

There’s a kid who found his way in here a few years back, babbling incoherently about this place he’d found, this island, a kind of Edenic paradise. I got to thinking about that kid this morning driving to work because we were listening to MGMT in the car.

“I'm feeling rough, I'm feeling raw, I'm in the prime of my life.
Let's make some music, make some money, find some models for wives.
I'll move to Paris, shoot some heroin, and fuck with the stars.
You man the island and the cocaine and the elegant cars.”

You man the island. This crazy, wild-eyed kid, that was his job. He’ll tell anyone who listens for five minutes or more. He used to man this gun turret, an old and rusted harbinger of death. He used to sit there, watching for red planes.

They told him when he first arrived that his job would be to man that gun and in time he would become a hero.

The red planes never came though and more often than not he shot seagulls down instead. It was a simple enough way to pass the time, but something about watching those birds explode into puffs of feathers filled him with satisfaction.

It was target practise.

But the thing that kept him coming back to that island was her. Her olive skin and jet black hair. Her blue eyes. The way she moved, her feet hardly touching the ground, her hips swaying, she oozed sex and he wanted her so bad he could taste it, even in his dreams.

He wished he was a hero, that crazy kid. He would kill to be a hero.

********************************************************************

Back in the real world, we’re all excited because today is our off site day and tonight is our office party.

Good times. I’ll resume transmission tomorrow, expect a fat, juicy one.

That’s what she said.

-ST

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slicktiger — Sun, 29 Nov 2009 19:41:02 +0000

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slicktiger — Sun, 29 Nov 2009 19:43:14 +0000

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slicktiger — Sun, 29 Nov 2009 19:43:59 +0000

Underneath the surface

slicktiger — Sun, 29 Nov 2009 19:44:03 +0000

We tried a couple of times, definitely more than once, to get the picture right, but it wasn’t easy. Above the surface you just point the camera at where experience has taught you your faces should be and hit the shutter button and that usually does the trick.

Underneath the surface, everything is different. You’re doing a whole bunch of things at the same time, holding your breath, trying to swim down, trying to keep your face next to hers, trying to smile, trying not to make too many bubbles.

Underneath the surface, the sound is different, your heart beats harder in your ears. You look at her, the way her hair floats like an angel’s hair, and her arms and legs move slow, graceful as a mermaid.

Underneath the surface everything is somehow better, but you can’t stay here brother. A few seconds, maybe a minute or two, that’s all you got. Any longer and you’ll stay here, underneath the surface and the world will never know the secrets you hold in your ghostly heart.

I’ve loved every second of this weekend, God knows.

Friday we had our off site day, which was pretty cool. We got the lowdown on the company, important for the noobs, but to be honest I’d heard at least 80% of it before.

The skies opened in the afternoon, menacing and black, and it poured down for a bit. Poonay gave me a lift back home as J-Rab had the car. I asked J-Rab to get us some stuff for the office party that was happening later, then kicked back, did some reading and had a snooze.

The office party was incredibly SICK. We went to Rodizios, this restaurant in the Leaping Frog centre in Fourways. The theme was Rio Carnival – J-Rab went with feathers in her hair and sparkly sticker-things in flower patterns on her face. She looked hot.

We both wore these plastic wreaths of flowers for necklaces and I went with a mask on that looked a bit like a headdress with big feathers coming off the top.

Definitely gay, but it suited the theme and I wasn’t banking on wearing it for long, just when we arrived and for a few pics afterwards.

I had this feeling the minute after I woke up from my nap like electricity was pumping through my body and I swear I couldn’t sit, stand or even fucking lie still.

I get this way sometimes where I bounce off the walls like loose shrapnel, I can’t control myself AT ALL, it’s like I’ve tapped into this stream of energy that is boundless and it’s just pouring into me, like water from a ruptured dam wall.

It’s also infectious as hell. I’m like a catalyst in a chemical reaction and if I’m around the right people, it starts setting them off one by one.

Back in varsity we called it the ‘infectious craziness’. Once it infected one of us, the others would all succumb sooner or later.

It’s the most fucking awesome feeling in the whole world. You are literally unstoppable, full of mischief and ready to party until you self combust in a blazing ball of fire on the dancefloor.

I drank. I encouraged other to drink too. I jiggled uncontrollably in my seat, I boogied on down, I ate as much food as I could handle, and then I drank some more.

After we’d all eaten dinner, they started calling all the people who’s birthdays it was on stage as well as the big tables that were there for year end functions.

Our table got called and I shot onto stage so fast I nearly knocked my chair over backwards.

I was ready for anything. Fuck, release the lions, the mood I was in, I would have wrestled those fuckers to the ground and torn their throats out with my teeth.

Turns out they’d called us all up there for a dancing competition. Game on. I immediately started hopping up and down like a boxer loosening up for a fight, throwing a few punches, twisting left and right, stretching my neck muscles.

The music started and I sauntered into the middle of the stage and started whipping out the most porno dance moves I could muster, but just as I was getting into it, they stopped the music, said something about the judges having a hard time choosing a winner and that we were going to go another round.

Fuck that shit. I was killing those other fuckers! Hardly anyone was even moving away from the back and side walls of the stage into the middle to dance, never mind actually putting some effort into it.

I made up my mind then and there to fuck that puppy to hell and back.

The music started up again and I launched into this weird jumping-up-and-down-whilst-pumping-my-fists-in-the-air move as I made my way into centre stage. Then once there I kinda flailed around a bit before my mind locked onto the dance move to destroy all dance moves.

The Saturday Night Fever Disco Finger Pointing Dance Move. I ripped into that move for all it was worth, throwing my hip out like I was trying to dislocate it while pointing diagonally up and the ceiling, my opposite hand firmly on my hip.

Three people’s heads exploded the second I whipped that one out and five women watching instantly became pregnant. All I heard was my name being chanted somewhere at the far end of the room. A woman threw her panties on stage.

I had nailed it. The judges stood on no ceremony and handed me the bottle of champagne for first prize without even mentioning any of the other so-called ‘dancers’ on stage.

If there’s one thing about me you’ll learn in time, it’s that I love winning. I’m not a second-place kinda dude, it’s first place or nothing. The other thing is I’m not a graceful winner or a graceful loser. If I win I’ll dance around and shove it in your face, if I lose, I’ll bitch and moan, tell you you were lucky that time and yeah, you might have won, but you’re still ugly.

And so, it was no surprise to the people who knew me that the second they handed the champers over to me, I thrust it high in the air and taunted everyone on stage with it before popping it back at the table and taking a long swig straight from the neck.

Next day, J-Rab and I got up when the light was still white and new and went for a swim.

I told her about this bit I’d read in the book I’m reading right now ‘Stealing Fire From The Gods’, which is about becoming an excellent writer and understanding both the intricacies of story and human nature.

It has this really cool passage about Back to the Future, where it says that there’s no telling what effect one small act of courage can have on your life.

The example the author uses is how Michael J Foxes dad stands up to the school bully at the end of the movie and wins the affection of his future wife. This one small act has huge repercussions for Michael J Foxes dad and when ol’ Michael J goes back to the future, he finds his mom and dad are way better off than they were before.

The author goes on to say that for this reason, all of our actions should be governed by courage because there’s no telling how they could positively influence the future course of our lives.

And so from now on, I’m gonna consciously try and do something courageous every day, even if it’s something small, and I think you must do the same.

J-Rab and I spent about an hour yesterday just floating around on a lilo we found by the pool.

It was a huge lilo, I lay on my stomach and she lay on top of me and we just floated and laughed and enjoyed the sun and the cool water. We’d float to the edge and I’d push off as hard as I could with my hands or feet and we’d sail across the surface of the water, carefree in every way.

We’re passionately in love, J-Rab and I, and when we’re together and laughing and holding each other close I know what we have is the real deal. It’s love, it’s the cold and it’s the broken hallelujah that a lot of people can’t actually handle.

But J-Rab is different from other shallow and callous girls I’ve known in my life. She has the capacity to love me and understand me and is happy to let me be exactly who I am, a complete maniac, and she loves me for that.

Saturday’s sun set slowly and we went out for Sushi and rented How to lose Friends and Alienate People, a movie with Simon Pegg, Jeff Bridges and Megan Fox that is really rubbish.

I always feel cheated hiring DVDs, I mean, they’re never worth the 30 bucks we pay to rent them. I’m a pirate, I know it’s wrong, but movies are just so much more enjoyable when you don’t have to pay a cent to watch them.

Roll on Sunday and J-Rab and I are on a mission for mini doughnuts. They are both delicious and totally worth the 15 minute drive to the Rosebank Rooftop Market to get them.

Back at home, we made hay while the sun shone and it was good. I asked J-Rab what I could write about our sex life and she got all shy and said all I was allowed to say is that as a man, it’s important to date a woman with a sex drive that is equal to, or higher than yours or the relationship is destined to fail.

Sex should only be 10% of the relationship, but it’s the first 10%, always. The day that changes is the day the relationship starts getting old.

For some people this can happen 3 months into a relationship, for some it’s 3 years and for a lucky few, it’s 30 or even more.

I’m holding out for option three, I’m a firm believer of having your cake and eating it.

This is it, this is your life. Never settle for second best, you’re better than that. You’re incredible and unique, the world will try and fuck with that and put you down, but pay them no attention, they only want to see you fail to make themselves feel better about their shitty lives.

Never sink to that level. Rise above that. Have the courage flight requires and head straight for the sun and as you gain speed and flames start licking off your body, you’ll feel more alive than you’ve ever felt and you’ll leave a streak across the sky that countless generations will look upon in wonder.

So shine on you crazy diamond.

Shine on :)

-ST

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slicktiger — Mon, 30 Nov 2009 07:30:49 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 30 Nov 2009 07:31:04 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 30 Nov 2009 07:31:18 +0000

A post on unrequited love

slicktiger — Mon, 30 Nov 2009 07:31:22 +0000

While I was thinking what to write for today’s post, my mind dug up one of my favourite quotes from one of my favourite authors, Gabriel Garcia Marquez.

The quote’s from one of his novellas called Memories of my Melancholy Whores. I read it about four years ago because my boss at the time bought it at a CNA before we boarded a flight to Cape Town.

The guy was really fucked up in a lot of ways, but was also a lot of fun. He basically only read books that had some kind of smutty angle and so bought the Marquez book based purely on its title.

We used to work out of a small house in a complex on Grayston Drive in a team of three people, and so I was often left totally alone in the house while my two bosses were out ‘interviewing’ people for the ‘report’ we were working on for an esteemed in-flight magazine.

It took me three or four days to read Memories of my Melancholy Whores, but that novella has had a profound effect on my life.

The story is about a 90 year old man who has only ever slept with whores his whole life. The guy is hung like a mule, but unfortunately is really, really ugly and so finds it impossible to bed normal women.

Obviously as he gets older his appetite for sex decreases and when the novella starts, he hasn’t been with a prozzy for at least a decade.

However, on his 90th birthday he decides to contact his friend, the mistress of his favourite whore house, and ask her a favour. As a birthday present to himself he wants to sleep with a virgin.

Miraculously the old man can still get it up and so, after much debate, the mistress decides to help the old man out and actually finds a 13 year old girl who needs the money desperately and so sets everything up.

Because it’s the girl’s first time, the mistress gives her a powerful kind of sedative to relax her, but gets the dose completely wrong and so when the old man enters the bedroom to deflower his prize, he finds her naked on the bed and fast asleep.

Watching her lying there like that, something miraculous happens. The old man falls completely in love with her. She looks so innocent and so pure, this young girl poised at the brink of becoming a woman, that he doesn’t even touch her that first night, he just watches her sleeping until it starts becoming light outside, then quietly leaves.

There’s a lot more to the story, but you’ll have to read it to find out the rest and I strongly recommend that you do, but the line that really stuck with me goes like this:

‘The invincible power that has moved the world is unrequited, not happy, love.’

It’s weird that my mind dug up that quote because it’s been years since I last experienced the all-consuming feeling that is unrequited love.

And yet, it’s not something you forget easily. Even as I write this at least three or four girls spring to mind that at different times in my life, I was completely in love with and either too afraid to admit it, or even worse, they knew how I felt and just weren’t that into me.

The weirdest case was a blonde girl who used to hang out in our circle of friends post-varsity, we’ll call her Jacqui.

I’d met her a few times, I thought she was smoking hot but that was about it. Then this one night at The Doors in Edenvale we were all sitting on the upstairs balcony and the weirdest thing happened.

I was talking about how varsity sets you up nicely for life because of the simple fact that it teaches you how to digest and understand massive amounts of information. It was a really boring topic of conversation, but the next thing I knew sweet, blue-eyed, blonde-haired little Jacqui sprang to life and spent the next 15 minutes passionately agreeing with me.

I have no idea how the fuck she did it, but during those 15 minutes I fell completely in love with her. To this day I still can’t explain it, but I fell for her so hard and fast that I remember standing by the bar moments later, my heart racing, knocking back as much booze as I could stomach to try and calm down and think straight.

Peggles was with me that night and I remember cornering him at one stage and trying to explain what this girl was doing to me while intermittently punching the wall and eating the ice out of my empty drink.

I felt ill. I drank some more. I don’t think I spoke another word to her the whole night but I so badly wanted to. I watched her dancing for a long time, trying desperately to think up some way to approach her, but… how?

I collapsed in bed that night, drunk and alone, but couldn’t sleep and when I eventually did, I swear I dreamed of her.

But the weirdest thing is I saw her about a week later and felt nothing.

I felt nothing. I mean, had she initiated anything, I would have happily reciprocated, but she didn’t and I just got this feeling like even if I made a move, she wouldn’t be interested and so just as quickly as I fell completely in love with her, I fell completely out of love with her.

Most of the girls I’ve fallen for don’t know I fell for them, well, to my knowledge at least and I wouldn’t change that if I could go back and do it all over again.

Even though it tore me up a lot of the time that some of the girls I was into felt rocks for me, I was also keenly aware of the fact that in many cases, love moves in circles ie. the person you’re chasing is chasing someone else who is chasing someone else and so on.

Also, it felt good to move the world.

It’s all part of one system, it’s all energy being transferred from one form into another into another into another. Love is a powerful form of energy and yes, I might have poured a lot of it out there needlessly, but I guess what I want to say is this: it comes back.

-ST

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slicktiger — Tue, 01 Dec 2009 06:52:06 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 01 Dec 2009 06:52:42 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 01 Dec 2009 06:53:05 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 01 Dec 2009 06:53:34 +0000

Mommas Boys – A New Low For Me

slicktiger — Tue, 01 Dec 2009 06:53:40 +0000

Reality TV is a fascinating concept for me because it’s anything but real. Point a camera at people and they immediately start doing the weirdest things and acting COMPLETELY different from who they really are.

I’ve stared down the business end of a camera lens before and lemme tell you, the first thing that happens is your IQ drops into the single digit category and before you know it, you become one of those retards on TV that everyone likes to point and laugh at.

So I guess I have some sympathy for these so called ‘ordinary’ people who get put on screen in reality TV shows, but not much, because in the end of the day, it’s your choice whether or not you want to appear on these shows and as such, you should be held accountable for everything you do and say whilst in front of the camera.

Last night J-Rab and I curled up on the couch to watch the new reality TV show that’s replaced The Amazing Race (we don’t have satellite), which is called Momma’s Boys and all I can say is I would have preferred to spend that hour removing my molars with a pair of pliers.

The premise is simple, fill a beautiful luxury mansion with 32 single women between the ages of about 20 and 35, then make them all compete against one another for the affections of 3 single men in their mid 20s, all of whom have the personality and intelligence of a wet dish rag.

Fair enough – so far what we basically have is The Bachelor, only instead of their being one man all the women are after, there are three.

BUT there’s a twist! Three other people are along for the ride too, the men’s (boy’s?) mothers, who move into the mansion with all the girls and dispense their almighty judgement upon every woman there, because mommy knows best and there’s no way mommy will let her baby boy get together with just any little tramp.

Obviously to make the show work, the producers have managed to find the three most pathetic examples of mommy-dominated men America has to offer, whilst still making sure the men are at least physically attractive, which is true for at least two out of the three contestants. However, of those two, I’m convinced one is a closet homo.

They sure know how to pick ‘em.

To make matters worse, mommy no. 3 is possibly the most bigoted person I’ve ever seen on TV. In her interview tape at the beginning of the show she says straight up that she doesn’t want her son to date a black girl, an asian girl, or any other girl that’s not white, a jewish girl, a girl with a fat ass or a girl that doesn’t obey mommy unquestioningly.

Of course, half the girls in the mansion are non-white and when they show them this video clip before the mommies move in, they are justifiably outraged.

I mean for fuck’s sake?! You call South Africans racist? If you had to put a white, female South African in front of a camera and have her say that shit and then show it on prime time TV, she’d be tarred and feathered FOR LIFE.

The local media would crucify the bitch. She’d be left with no choice except to leave the country and go the fuck somewhere else, possibly the deep south to live in a trailer park the rest of her life.

I just don’t think it’s necessary to show that crap on TV. I don’t think it enriches the people watching it in any way and if anything panders to our most base desires to watch people basically behaving like animals.

Predictably, when this particular mommy enters the mansion, it isn’t long before she gets into a conversation with a black women that rapidly spirals out of control.

The black women works with the US Military medics in Iraq and in my opinion is clearly suffering from the early signs of PTSD (post traumatic stress disorder) which could account for why she decides to confront Mrs B (the bigot) and quickly becomes furious at the women’s blatantly racist views.

And all across TV land, people cheer and jump for joy as the conflict reaches a climax and the black women throws her glass of wine on the floor while other girls steer the bigot away as she swears at the black girl over her shoulder.

Is this what things have come to? How is this fucking helping anyone? How?!

The thing that gets to me the most though is that I sat through that fucking show, every minute of it, and I’ll probably do it again next week and the week after, and so that makes me no better than the rest of the morons in TV land.

Lead us not into temptation, and deliver us from TV…

-ST

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slicktiger — Wed, 02 Dec 2009 07:17:14 +0000

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slicktiger — Wed, 02 Dec 2009 07:18:00 +0000

Getting Punched in the Face

slicktiger — Wed, 02 Dec 2009 07:18:03 +0000

I’ve never been knocked out in one blow, but I’ve been punched in the face more times than most.

It’s just like they say in Fight Club – you’d be surprised the lengths people go to to avoid a fight. I’m no different, well, until I’m shit-faced.

Lately I’ve been fine. Ever since J-Rab flew back from the States and moved in with me, I’ve been well behaved because she has this way of making me calm and those things that used to swirl and turn inside me, they’re locked up and I know as long as we’re together the chains will hold.

Last fight I got into was because I head-butted some guy, I can’t remember why. The fight before that I was heart broken and ended up in hospital, the fight before that was over before it had even really started and the one before that I was just a kid and didn’t get in any blows to the face, though I received a couple.

Getting punched in the face is a whole other trip. People who’ve never experienced it, mostly girls (which is exactly how it should be – under no circumstances should a man ever raise a fist to a woman) often ask me what it feels like.

Well, when you get socked nice and hard, your brain actually knocks against the sides of your skull, and I swear you can feel it. It’s like for a second or two you lose signal completely, you blink hard, a bolt of pain explodes in your head and if you’ve been socked in the nose, your eyes tear up almost immediately and blood flows out of your nose like a leaky faucet.

It can be really disconcerting if you aren’t expecting it.

I don’t miss fighting, I was never very good at it and it solves absolutely nothing, although I’ll be honest, when you wake up the next day, your face all beat up and your fists grazed and aching, it feels fucking cool.

The time I woke up in hospital was the worst. I got fucked up so bad I was knocked unconscious and peeled off the pavement by some people who found me just as my assailants were kicking my inert body.

Kicking my inert body. How bad is that? They cracked one of my ribs, split my upper lip and left my face so swollen and bruised that the people who found me, who turned out to be good friends of mine, didn’t recognise me until they fished my student card out of my wallet.

Never the less, when I staggered home the next day, in so much pain it hurt to breathe, I felt like some kind of warrior returning from battle. Bruised, fucked up, but still alive and I swear to God, the cold beer I got out the fridge back in my digs was the best damn beer I’ve ever tasted, even though it stung my freshly stitched lip to drink it.

You’ve got to go to those places sometimes, those dark and hopeless depths, because you always come back with something, usually it’s a piece of yourself you never knew existed, a crucial part of the puzzle that is you.

And so I urge all the guys reading this post today to go out there this weekend and get punched in the face, nice and hard.

You can thank me later ;)

-ST

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slicktiger — Thu, 03 Dec 2009 06:48:08 +0000

Short Story: Summer Love

slicktiger — Thu, 03 Dec 2009 06:48:10 +0000

Summer Love

Once in a while, her face would slide off, and for the briefest, most terrifying of moments, I would be able to see her real head.

She did it right at the end of it all, on the last morning that we were together. Returning home from where ever it was that she had spent the night, I met her just outside the front door and told her that she had broken my heart.

I forget how exactly the conversation progressed, but eventually I found it necessary to threaten her, so I informed her of the fact that unlike the other spineless men she surrounded herself with, I wouldn’t be strung around like her personal yo-yo.

‘The difference between them and me,’ I said with wavering conviction, ‘is that I have balls.’

At that exact moment, her face slid off, and she castrated me with her smile.

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slicktiger — Fri, 04 Dec 2009 07:13:38 +0000

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slicktiger — Fri, 04 Dec 2009 07:13:59 +0000

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slicktiger — Fri, 04 Dec 2009 07:14:10 +0000

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slicktiger — Fri, 04 Dec 2009 07:14:39 +0000

Who Cares About The Killers?

slicktiger — Fri, 04 Dec 2009 07:14:42 +0000

They were one of those bands that took awhile to grow on me, I mean, I’d heard ‘Mr Brightside’ playing on the radio for a couple of months, but didn’t really take to the song at all and as such, it just formed part of the background noise of my life during my chaotic student years while I was drinking my body weight daily and making insidious efforts to avoid doing any actual work.

My first clear memory of them is from 2004, I was in the gym (of all places) and ‘Somebody Told Me’ started pounding its way over the speakers right into my brain. Before the song was through, I was hooked and a few weeks later got my dirty paws on the album.

Even then I didn’t take it too seriously until one night, a full year later, I was suffering from the worst kind of heartache you can imagine and ‘Smile Like You Mean It’ drifted through the empty corridors of the mansion of a digs we used to live in.

It is, to this day, one of my favourite Killers songs. Something about that song resonates deeply in my bones and I think always will. It’s like the feeling you get when you go back to the house you grew up in, or the place you got your first kiss.

‘And someone will drive her around, down the same streets that I did, on the same streets that I did…’

Of course after that it was only a matter of time before I fell for the other gems Hot Fuss had to offer. I’ve belted out the lyrics of ‘All These Things I’ve Done’ at drunken parties, in drunken bars, in drunken clubs, and by myself, when I’m drunk, more times than I think I could ever count… or remember.

And yet When Sam’s Town was released in 2006, I was completely meh about the album. A buddy got it for his birthday a week after ‘When You Were Young’ started playing over the radio and we played the album on infinite repeat that weekend at his party and I can’t say it did much for me.

I remember there being some heartfelt tracks that grabbed my attention that night, in retrospect one of them was probably ‘Read My Mind’, but other than that I wasn’t really blown away by the album at all.

A year later though, ‘Exitlude’ became the story of my life. I fell in love hard and fast over two weekends with a woman who would become the love of my life but who, at the time, was only over for a short holiday because she was living in London.

When she went back to London after those ten days we spent together, I kept finding her things around my flat, a misplaced earring here, a fiery, red-golden hair there, her pyjama top mixed up in a pile of my clothes and a CD, Sam’s Town, underneath the passenger seat in my car.

‘We hope you enjoyed your stay, it’s good to have you with us, even if it’s just for a day. We hope you enjoyed your stay, outside the sun is shining, seems like heaven ain’t far away…’

Needless to say, that album fast became a favourite of mine, but it wasn’t until I heard Sawdust, the B-Sides album that came out later that year that I finally conceded that yes, The Killers were a fucking cool band.

I’ve always said judge a band not by their studio albums or radio singles, judge them rather by their live shows and their B-Sides, and Sawdust was packed full of great B-Sides.

The album was by far the edgiest release they had put out to date and as a result, not many people liked it, but personally, I was really impressed with what I was hearing, especially one of the bonus tracks, the alternate version of ‘Sam’s Town’ which is played almost exclusively on the piano.

‘I’ve got this energy beneath my feet,’ Flowers sang, ‘Like something underground’s gonna come up and carry me. I've got this sentimental heart that beats, but I don’t really mind that it’s starting to get to me…’

I don’t really mind that it’s starting to get to me. I sang that line a million times that year. I don’t really mind that it’s starting to get to me, because the irony implicit in that line spoke to me, it meant something to me and made me feel a certain way every time I heard it and like all art, the really good stuff, I guess on some level it made me feel less alone.

And then came Day and Age, the band’s fourth album and almost overnight, all the years of respect I’d slowly amassed for The Killers curled up into a little ball in the corner and died.

What the fuck was that? Seriously, what the fuck was that?! Because to me it sounded like it was rushed, it sounded like the band had gotten lazy and / or had sold out completely.

If you think ‘Human’ is a good track, I have some really bad news for you. You are retarded. ‘Are we human or are we dancer?’ Isn’t there an ‘S’ missing from the end of that last word? And besides that fact, isn’t that song just about the most irritating dance / pop / rock track ever to be recorded?

There is no substance to Day and Age whatsoever and to my knowledge, only two singles were released off the album, and like a fat man at a house party who farts loudly during those precious few moments between the previous song and the next one, the band seemed to slink quietly out of the room to go and reflect on what they’d done.

Day and Age made me realise that Brandon Flowers has a whiney voice. It made me realise that there are tracks off their previous albums that are really bad. I’d never listened to any of their stuff from the perspective of a hater, but Day and Age changed that, and once I started down that road I found there are a buttload of tracks off their albums that are puke-worthy.

The best song on Day and Age was the bonus track ‘A Crippling Blow’ which, ironically, I don’t think was included on the original CD and was only available if you downloaded the album off iTunes.

And so now here we sit, a year since that abortion of an album was released and I’m not sure anyone cares about this band anymore.

You can tell when a band has passed the apex of their fame when they come to South Africa on tour. It’s almost sad when I find out about bands coming to play here because the first thing I think is, ‘Ahhh jeez, do they suck that much now? Damn, I thought they were doing really well…’

And yeah, I bought tickets to go and see The Killers tonight, but am I excited about the concert? Not really. And so I find myself asking the question, Who cares about The Killers? Are they still the band they were a few years ago in everyone’s eyes?

Call me a cynical fucker, but I don’t think so. I guess tonight will be the test of that, but I really hope for the band’s sake and mine, they only play three tracks off Day and Age at the very most and for the rest of the concert we can pretend that it’s still 2006 and that this is a band we actually all still give a shit about.

-ST

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slicktiger — Sat, 05 Dec 2009 21:53:17 +0000

Red December

slicktiger — Sat, 05 Dec 2009 21:53:20 +0000

What I’m aiming for, at the end of this month, is for my blog calendar to have every day painted red.

My what calendar you ask? My blog calendar. You can see it if you look a little to the right, you might have to scroll down a little… yeah… thaaaaat’s what I’m talking about.

Every day I blog, that day goes red. If I don’t blog that day is just white, blank, it’s every writer’s worst demon, the blank page.

So December I’m gonna make red, the whole big ugly bastard, and yes, it means that there will be posts that are irrelevant (much like this one) but I’ll do my level best to try and inject something of value into them.

The thing of value in this one is for any aspiring artists out there that might end up reading this and comes from the book I’m reading right now (yes, I’m still reading it ;) ) called Stealing Fire From The Gods.

The author, James Bonnet gives some valuable advice to anyone trying to write (which I think any artist could take to heart); change yourself and you can change your destiny, little acts of courage performed today can have exponential effects on the rest of your life, and the third one, which he illustrates with the following story:

‘In a fairy tale called Aga Baba,’ he writes on page 30, ‘a young her on an important adventure stops to rest at a witches house. The witch, in cahoots with his enemies, tries to delay him by asking him some intriguing but difficult questions like, “What is truth?” “Does the universe ever end?” and so on. The wise young hero looks at her and says: “Shut up and get me something to eat.”’

The wisdom here is simple: Beware of imponderables when action is necessary.

For a long time I planned writing projects, maybe put down a few hundred words here or there, but it wasn’t until the day, nearly 3 months ago, when I first sat down to write this blog, that I actually started making headway.

Don’t fuck around. If you need to write, or draw, or jam, or design, or whatever it is you do that expresses your creativity, do it.

And the universe will reward your ballsy attitude ;)

Think about that, there’ll be a quiz later.

-ST

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slicktiger — Sun, 06 Dec 2009 19:33:26 +0000

Sunday Comin Down

slicktiger — Sun, 06 Dec 2009 19:33:28 +0000

There isn’t much to report from today – had lunch with the ‘Rents, left feeling thoroughly drained, had a killer afternoon nap and am now watching King Kong, which I actually haven’t seen before.

I decided to do an experiment and jumped onto Google Images and searched for ‘life changing picture’ because even though this post is nearly over, I wanted to change your life in some way before it ends.

So here it is. The first picture I found after googling ‘life changing picture’.

Peace out party people. Tune in tomorrow for my post mortem of The Killers concert, good times!

-ST

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slicktiger — Mon, 07 Dec 2009 05:40:11 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 07 Dec 2009 05:40:50 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 07 Dec 2009 05:41:15 +0000

Gig review: The Killers

slicktiger — Mon, 07 Dec 2009 05:41:19 +0000

South African audiences suck. We have absolutely no idea how to rock out and you can’t really blame us. Overseas there are hundreds of excellent bands playing every weekend and in places like London they are totally spoilt for choice when it comes to concerts and artists.

Not so all the way down in darkest Africa. Down here we get international acts maybe three times a year if we’re lucky, which is bad because what ends up happening is everyone buys tickets to go see whichever band has decided to grace us with their presence not because they are die hard fans of that band, but just because a big international artist has actually come down here to play.

What ends up happening is you get masses of people paying ridiculous amounts of money to go and watch bands that they don’t know very well.

In the case of The Killers concert that happened in Joburg on Friday night, I’m willing to bet that the majority of the people who went to watch them knew four or five of their songs, mainly the ones that play on 5FM and that was about it.

They also have no clue how to chill out and enjoy the vibe of a big concert. We arrived about 40 mins before The Killers went on stage, which was just enough time to get some drinks and start missioning through the crowds to find a good spot.

Predictably as we got closer to the centre, the crowds became more and more dense until eventually we came to a dead stop in a group of people who started shitting us out in a really bitchy, horrible way for having the audacity to stand amongst them.

People, this is a fucking rock concert, you cannot reserve a place to stand, what the fuck?!

Eventually we managed to squeeze past the douchebags and find a place to stand and moments later the lights dimmed down, a low, long, grumbling note sounded over the massive speaker system and in an explosion of lights, The Killers launched into their first song, ‘Joyride’.

A bit of a weak song to start with some might argue, but it was a nice and gentle way to ease us all into things and I think it worked.

The exact tracklist they played after that is a little blurry in my mind, but I know ‘Bones’ was in there somewhere in the beginning and that they rocked out for the first three tracks and then played two totally obscure tracks after that and the energy in the crowd dropped instantly.

To the band’s credit, they played every classic Killers’ track they’ve ever written. ‘For Reasons Unknown’, ‘Spaceman’, ‘Somebody Told Me’, ‘Human’, and ‘Mr Brightside’ were all belted out passionately and executed with such precision, you’d swear you were listening to the CD…

But rest assured, this wasn’t Milli Vanilli we were watching, as perfectly as the band played, I picked up a couple of tiny slip-ups here and there – proof that it wasn’t just a backing track we were listening to.

What quickly became apparent watching them live though is that Brandon Flowers (the lead vocalist and frontman of the band) IS The Killers. Take that man out of the band and all you’ve got is a group of dudes who look like ageing session musicians, the kind of people you’d expect to see on stage playing U2 covers at The Rustic Theatre on a Sunday afternoon.

Mark my words, the next step for ol’ Flowers will be a solo career. He’ll drop the rest of the band, strike out on his own and make an album that, surprise, surprise, sounds exactly like The Killers.

You heard it here first ;)

There were a couple of little touches that I really liked. One of them was when they killed all the lights in The Dome and Flowers and the guitarist Dave Keuning stepped under a single spotlight and sang ‘Falling In Love With You’ (the Elvis track).

I also liked the bit when Flowers sat down at the end of ‘Spaceman’ and played the last chorous on the piano, just him on his lonesome. The man can sing, that’s for damn sure.

The only song I think they butchered completely was ‘Smile Like You Mean It’, which was really sad, because like I said in my previous post, that song means a lot to me. They opted for an acoustic guitar and piano instead of the electric and synthesized kind and played the song half a click slower than they do on the album.

The result is that it sounded more like a funeral dirge than The Killers’ track we’ve all come to know and love.

Other than that, it was a solid concert, and yes, I feel like I got my money’s worth. As for the rest of the crowd, who knows what they thought of it all. A lot of my friends who went to the concert were surprised by how unenergetic the crowd was, but as I mentioned above, this is fairly typical of South African audiences.

There were people standing next to us that didn’t so much as nod their heads for the entire concert. They just stood there and watched in a kind of silent, catatonic daze.

Nice one guys. No wonder international bands avoid us like the plague.

However, the real question here is has my faith in the band been restored? After watching them play live are they back in my top ten list? Well, the answer to that question would be ‘no’.

More than anything, I feel a sense of closure. I’ve bought all their albums, listened to nearly everything they’ve ever recorded and seen them play live.

I’m happy to say adios to The Killers. In five year’s time I’ll probably dig out some of my personal favourites again and play them on a lazy afternoon, but the danger of listening to any band too much is that their music loses it’s meaning for you and thanks to the masses of radio play this band has gotten, that’s exactly what’s happened to them.

They killed The Killers. Those music execs out there in dreamland, they killed The Killers.

Those bastards.

-ST

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slicktiger — Tue, 08 Dec 2009 08:35:18 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 08 Dec 2009 08:35:31 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 08 Dec 2009 08:35:55 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 08 Dec 2009 08:36:18 +0000

Loving the haters

slicktiger — Tue, 08 Dec 2009 08:36:22 +0000

When I started down this road, about 3 months back, I can honestly say I was a different tiger entirely from the slavering beast that now sits facing my laptop screen.

Back then I was full of wonder, hope and was known on occasion to fart rainbows. Being a blogger has changed all that and I’m all the better for it.

One of the biggest problems writers face is that they are far too over-critical of their own work, often to their own detriment. In a way this is a good thing because otherwise just about anyone who could wield a sentence would be out there, guns blazin’, firing off a whole load of codswallop (love that word, say it with me, codswallop) and defending it with the time-honoured cop out, ‘Well like this is just my opinion you suck.’

Oh wait… I think I just described the internet…

But anyway, my point here is writers are precious. They’re a quiet and secluded bunch who hang out in dark corners at parties scribbling mostly unintelligible purple prose on cocktail napkins only to leave two hours later, blind drunk and alone.

And it is for this reason that I would encourage any wannabe writer to start blogging. Blogging is the single best way to a) Find your voice as a writer and b) Interact directly with your audience.

Think about what a difference this simple function of blogging would have made in the lives of millions of struggling writers throughout history. It’s an incredible moment when you fly right out there, post the most crazy-assed shit you can possibly muster, and instead of being greeted by general disapproval and criticism, receive positive comments from complete strangers who understand 100% where you’re coming from.

Of course, there is the other side of the coin where you post what you firmly believe is an excellent post, worth of some kind of literary award, and some fucking mouth-breather who doesn’t even understand the basic rules of sentence construction and punctuation jumps in there and in his best rhetoric responds with, ‘YOUR A TURD!!!! LMFAO, PWNED!’

This too is a good thing, because if nothing else, it should serve as a reminder that you are far better than these people in every conceivable way. Don’t climb in there and throw shit back at them, you’ll only get your hands dirty.

Three months ago a negative or overly critical comment felt like a death-blow to me. The voice that speaks to me inside my head (that sounds like Humphrey Bogart) would read the comment over and over again to the point of obsession. Then I would go out, get good and drunk and punch the first person who looked at me funny.

It was a crash course in growing the fuck up and I’m glad I went through it. Now when I write something that sparks off a few dozen comments about what a jerk I am, I really enjoy it.

It means that I’ve shaken people up and that’s never a bad thing. You gotta love the haters because they shout louder than anyone else out there on the interwebs and get you famous twice as fast.

It’s a sad fact of life but notoriety sells because, like they used to teach us back in Journ 101, if it bleeds, it leads.

And to quote one of my favourite movies of all time:

“This is blood for blood and by the gallon. These are the old days, the bad days, the all-or-nothing days. They're back! There's no choice left. And I'm ready for war.” – Marv, Sin City.

Words to live by ;)

-ST

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slicktiger — Wed, 09 Dec 2009 13:46:27 +0000

Fuckbook – The ins and Outs

slicktiger — Wed, 09 Dec 2009 13:46:32 +0000

So there I was, sitting at my desk wondering what the hell I was going to post today when a co-worker in the cubicle adjacent to me receives an email, but not just any email, an invitation to join Fuckbook.

And suddenly, like a blot of lightning thrown from Zeus himself, I became fucking inspired!

The way I see it, Fuckbook is the pinnacle of the social media revolution that has been exploding on the internet over the past few years.

I say this because it is my firm belief that once you strip away all the niceties and all the bullshit that society forces us to engage in, you’d probably find that 80 – 90% of what motivates people to do the things they do (especially people in their 20s and 30s) is sex.

And that’s what Fuckbook offers right? A no bullshit platform for people who just want to have sex without the hassle of having to tip toe around the issue over the course of countless romantic dinner-and-a-movie dates only to find out, after all that effort, that the other person is rubbish in bed or actually just wanted to be your friend (ouch).

So I asked a good buddy of mine, Jasey-got-the-aceys, who is a Fuckbook user to give me the lowdown and he was more than happy to answer some questions.

So here it is folks, cut and pasted right outta MSN – my interview with Jacey-got-the-aceys.

Today’s topic: Fuckbook.

SlickTiger says:
Dude, i gotta idea for a killer post based on a conversation we had once
Jasey-got-the-aceys says:
whats that man?
SlickTiger says:
fuckbook
Jasey-got-the-aceys says:
oh sick
SlickTiger says:
but i gotta pick your brains for a bit before i write it, gotta do some research y'know?
Jasey-got-the-aceys says:
cool man
SlickTiger says:
i can use a secret name for you if you like?
Jasey-got-the-aceys says:
Jasey-got-the-aceys is cool
SlickTiger says:
radass!
so lay it on me - step one is you sign up right? and it's free?
Jasey-got-the-aceys says:
okay ya you sign up its free, find a hot chick pester her
SlickTiger says:
Um, ok
Jasey-got-the-aceys says:
till she says hello charm her (generally more open over itnernet)
SlickTiger says:
did you sign up under your real name?
Jasey-got-the-aceys says:
ya man
SlickTiger says:
and made a profile like on facebook?
Jasey-got-the-aceys says:
ya man
SlickTiger says:
with a real pic of you or a fake one?
Jasey-got-the-aceys says:
cant remember
SlickTiger says:
ok, so then do you start friending people?
how do you find them?
Jasey-got-the-aceys says:
search the age range you interested in
females and find one with a full body shot
SlickTiger says:
aha! and are a lot of them naked in their profile pics?
Jasey-got-the-aceys says:
lingerie or covering boobs
with hands
SlickTiger says:
the classic shot! ok, so you search for them, find one you dig and send a friend request?
Jasey-got-the-aceys says:
ya, then if you get a reply you know she is keen
SlickTiger says:
then once you're friends you can see each other's entire profile?
Jasey-got-the-aceys says:
ya man
SlickTiger says:
ok, so then what?
Jasey-got-the-aceys says:
start chatting about common things
over email
SlickTiger says:
wait, actually, first tell me how many chicks you have fucked so far through fuckbook
just the one?
Jasey-got-the-aceys says:
none but 1 through facebook
SlickTiger says:
howcome?
Jasey-got-the-aceys says:
got over it
forgot about it
SlickTiger says:
were the chicks not so hot?
Jasey-got-the-aceys says:
they were hot just got over it
you can also request different fetishes
ahh been doing some searching around and found out why i gave up
you have to pay
SlickTiger says:
what? the site or the chicks?
Jasey-got-the-aceys says:
the site
SlickTiger says:
aha! so it's free only up to a point?
Jasey-got-the-aceys says:
ya
SlickTiger says:
ok, so you just dicked around a little, and got bored of it?
Jasey-got-the-aceys says:
exactly
it can still be a rad post,
SlickTiger says:
ok, gimme some dirt man!
Jasey-got-the-aceys says:
is much like the game
except easier
that is counteracted by the amount of psychos out there
so what you have to do is start chatting on a social networking site
then get a mobile number and sms
dont phone this is imperative until you sure they are cool once you have them on the phone you know they will be comfortable around you in person. by this stage you should have got a feel for them, to decide if they a psycho or not
ask them personal questions... the great thing is you have nothing to loose and everything to gain. If you want them to send you an MMS you NEVER send it first
create a meeting place in a crowded place so if they lied to you, you can get out of there
and you will be safe
have the meeting then its like any normal date
but once the deed is done and you not keen on them, delete all known communication with them, block mobile number spam email and send them back into cyber obscurity
If you want to lash this particular internet ho, go ahead and then render her useless into cyber obscurity
how is that?
SlickTiger says:
hm, i think i can use it...
Jasey-got-the-aceys says:
sick
SlickTiger says:
how did you nail facebook chick?
Jasey-got-the-aceys says:
by doing that
i can give you pics if i still have them?
SlickTiger says:
um, not a good idea
the internet's much smaller than you think, was she a hottie?
Jason says:
ya man she was too tall though
the reason i kicked her to the curb is
she is fucking cooked in her head talks like a child constantly cannot have a grown up conversation and just generally needs to put her head back on the right way around

Huh. So there you have it. Questions, anyone? (You can check out my man Jacey-got-the-acey’s blogsite here: http://shavinginthegutter.blogspot.com/)

-ST

Short Story: Tasting Salt (A Fragment)

slicktiger — Thu, 10 Dec 2009 05:58:30 +0000

I’m waking up to the sound of my cell phone ringing and as I open my crusty, sleep glued eyes and look around to try and figure what the fuck is going on, I realize that I stink of sour booze and am still very, very drunk.

I’m in my bed, well, technically, I’m on my bed and I’m still wearing most of the clothes from my 21st and the bed sheets feel sticky underneath me. My curtains are still open and the lamp by my bedside is still on – Jesus! How did I get here? Also, my skull feels cracked and my mouth tastes musty and stale, like I ate a couple of mouthfuls of dung last night.

The goddamn phone’s still ringing – where the fuck is it? Maybe I should just go back to sleep? My hand flops around on the bedside table, near where the ringing is coming from, but no phone, I just knock the lamp over. I feel so thick and sludgy; I don’t know what the fuck is going on. I roll closer to the sound of the cell phone ringing and flop off the bed and realize that my phone is under the bed and answer it.

‘H’lo?’ I say, my swollen tongue lolling uselessly in my mouth.

‘Baby? Jesus, I’ve been trying to get a hold of you since eight this morning, why don’t you answer?’ It’s Chrissy.

‘I think a truck hit me.’

‘Are you ok? Where are you?’

‘In my bedroom, I’m fine.’ This conversation is already starting to irritate me, I get up shakily and rub my face. Something crusty flakes off. I see glass of water on my desk. I drink some.

‘You weren’t fine last night.’

What? When did I see her last night? I drink more water and try to remember what the hell I’ve been doing, but all that comes to me is that beach I swear I woke up on. That was real, all this other stuff is bullshit.

‘Baby? Are you still there?’

‘Yes, and I was fine last night, just grumpy, I’m sorry you had to see me like that,’ I figure this is a safe bet, I usually get a little out of hand when I drink. Maybe I ran into her last night and got a little rowdy, sometimes I do this.

‘I don’t blame you for being upset, I’ve had some time to think this morning and what I did was wrong, I’m just so confused, Rick and I just happened, it meant nothing…’

Now I’m really racking my brains. What have I been doing? Where have I been? I remember celebrating my 21^st and going out afterwards and I think I played a couple of songs live somewhere and there was some kind of fight and a couple of bongs probably, and then a lot of walking, and then… some kind of… argument? Was that before or after? Then waking up naked on a beach, that must have happened yesterday, that’s probably why I feel so crusty, all the sea sand and salt still stuck to me. But that doesn’t make sense, none of this shit makes any sense – who the fuck is Rick?

‘… it’s just that you flew into such a rage when I told you, I’ve never seen you like that, God, you had this look I’ve never seen before and I was so worried that you might do something stupid last night –‘

‘Wait, are you sure you saw me last night? When did you see me?’

‘Last night! Don’t you remember?’

‘Sure, sure, yes…yes…’

‘Baby? I want to see you, I’m worried about you, you really scared me last night…’ But I’m not listening really any more, I’m looking at my hands…

‘…I know it’s been hard, it’s been hard for me too, but we agreed this was for the best…’ Now I’m hearing her voice tiny and far off because I’ve dropped the phone and I’m walking into the bathroom and I’m not feeling very well…

‘…I don’t want to lose you, baby, and I’m so scared that you’re going to do something stupid…’

I can’t hear her anymore, she’s too far away now, I’m in the bathroom, I’m standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom and I’m looking at the person who is supposed to be me and I think I’m going to be sick because I’m covered from head to foot in dried blood and I’m pretty sure it isn’t mine…

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slicktiger — Fri, 11 Dec 2009 08:09:49 +0000

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slicktiger — Fri, 11 Dec 2009 08:10:09 +0000

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slicktiger — Fri, 11 Dec 2009 08:10:29 +0000

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slicktiger — Fri, 11 Dec 2009 08:10:59 +0000

Top Billing is desensitising my gag reflex

slicktiger — Fri, 11 Dec 2009 08:11:02 +0000

Every Thursday night for some reason Jenni-Fuh, J-Rab and I end up watching this lifestyle TV show on SABC 3 called Top Billing.

My South African readers all know this show, it’s been on TV for at least the last ten years, but for my international readers from so far afield as Helsinki, Katmandu and Brakpan (where they haven’t invented TV yet), lemme give you the low down.

Top Billing is a platform from which the rich upper classes of South Africa can stand and tell all the poor people in this country (who can’t afford satellite TV and are therefore forced to watch the show) how amazing their rich and famous lives are.

They feature everyone from South African musicians, to actors, to sports stars and visit places like wine estates and five star luxury game lodges. Then they attend weddings (I shit you not) that always look like they’re being hosted in the some kind of fairytale castle out of a Disney cartoon and interview ‘interesting’ art deco people who are making avante garde ‘creations’ out of weird shit like bees wax and processed angora goat hair.

It’s nauseating, and it’s not because everyone and everything that is featured on the show is literally saturated with money, it’s because everyone on that goddamn show is so fake.

I have a very highly developed bullshit detector (mostly to my own detriment) and I swear, the minute I hear the smarmy theme music for that fucking show the ol’ BS-detector starts going off like an air raid siren in my head.

Celebrities of South Africa and other successful people that end up on Top Billing, I hope you hear me loud and clear when I say this: Nobody thinks you’re cool except for nobodies. Stop being a buncha total douchebags and show us something real.

And then there’s Jeannie D, who I’m sure is a wonderful person in real life, but who makes me actually swear loudly and throw stuff at the TV nearly every time I see her.

She gushes happiness the way clogged up sewers gush floaters. It offends me. Why does she have to smile ALL THE TIME and talk like she’s on the verge of bursting into a peal of girlish laughter at any and EVERY given moment? Is that in her contract or something?

‘Ok, the Top Billing gig is yours.’

‘Yippee!’

‘But you have to constantly speak and act like you’ve taken 600mg of Lexapro every time we turn the cameras on you.’

‘That shouldn’t be a problem, I just have! Hahahahahahahah!’

And don’t even get me started on the godawful wankfest that is Top Travel. That’s basically an hour of Jeannie D and her co-presenter Janez Vermeiren swanning around the world and palling around playfully with one another while everyone out there in Sofa Land thinks exactly the same thing.

Yep, they’re totally fucking.

I used to dig Janez – he made his name as the DIY dude on Top Billing and he was badass. He could build anything and basically looks like he’s carved out of a slab of marble. That was the peak of his career, ladies loved him, men wanted to be his buddy so he could come around and build that outside braai area they’d always wanted, life for Janez was sweet.

Then Top Travel hit and every week we were forced to watch him try and match Jeannie D’s bubbly, faux optimism and the result was that I, for one, lost my broner for him completely.

Get out while you still can Janez. Come to the light. Start up ‘Top Cage Fighting’ where you go to dirty bars in the South and kick the living shit out of people.

THAT’S good television right there.

Lastly, before I go, I want it to be known that unlike my usual vitriolic posts where I just bitch and moan about stuff and don’t actually do anything to make it better, this time around I got me a game-plan.

At this stage I can’t say much except watch this space. Over the next few months I plan to start up on OWN lifestyle show with a little help from a buddy of mine I like to call THE MAEN.

It will be super low-budget and will basically make you piss yourself laughing with EVERY EPISODE, because the people of this world take themselves too damn seriously and it’s time we exploited that for the good of mankind and the betterment of humans as a species.

And yes, ladies and gentlemen, them’s fightin’ words ;)

Have a killer weekend, take 5 tabs of acid, find God.

-ST

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slicktiger — Fri, 11 Dec 2009 08:15:32 +0000

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slicktiger — Sat, 12 Dec 2009 14:59:57 +0000

The Saturday post brought to you by: SlickTiger

slicktiger — Sat, 12 Dec 2009 14:59:59 +0000

Hello. And welcome. To the Saturday Post with me, your faithful scribe and host, SlickTiger.

Today saw a high incidence of waking up at around 10 o’clock and pottering around.

So said a recent study conducted by ST Enterprises. Action Jackson, or in field correspondent this morning, may or may not have said the following:

“The general vibe was chilled. Coffee was drunk, media changed hands. Good times.”

After this co-reporter J-Rab and your host embarked on a Round The Zoo Lake boat ride, stacked with Windhoek Beer and froo-froo girly drinks.

The day was calm and sunny, with clouds hanging overhead. Ducks floated noiselessly around the lake, people walked their dogs.

But NOW excitement abounds as the Tiger heads to an INSANE housewarming.

Stay tuned…

-ST

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slicktiger — Sun, 13 Dec 2009 19:55:33 +0000

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slicktiger — Sun, 13 Dec 2009 19:56:11 +0000

near-death sunday

slicktiger — Sun, 13 Dec 2009 19:56:15 +0000

There are some Sundays that come around and kick you arse so hard you wish you could go back in time and undo the chaos you got caught up in the night before.

At sometime around 7 this morning a feeling started burning inside me like my guts were on fire. It rose steadily up my throat, roasting me alive inch by inch as whatever evil concoction I’d mixed in my stomach last night fought desperately to see the light of day.

When I feel like this, I know I’m in for a rough two hours. I got a hiatus hernia that probably needs fixing, I saw a doctor about it awhile back and he gave me some meds to fix it, but if I don’t take this pill at the same time everyday, even if I’m a few hours out, I start to suffer.

Then if I take the meds, it flares up before it gets better and for about two hours I feel like I’m being burnt alive by industrial strength acid from the inside out.

In my head I remember Alien, specifically the scene where they try and cut the alien off Kane (John Hurt) when it first attaches to his face and they find out that its blood is so corrosive it eats through two floors.

That’s what I reckon would happen if you cut me when my reflux is bad.

J-Rab got up to go to work and then visit the place where she used to work so she could see her buddy ol’ pal, the Siberian Tiger Baloo. I lay in bed and entertained thoughts that I might actually have died the night before and was now in hell.

I ate my way through half a pack of Rennies, a double dose of my meds and two of the painkillers they gave after my shoulder operation to try and knock my headache out.

On mornings like these, the Kris Kristofferson song ‘Sunday Morning Coming Down’ becomes the story of my life:

“Well I woke up Sunday morning,
With no way to hold my head that didn't hurt.
And the beer I had for breakfast wasn't bad,
So I had one more for dessert.
Then I fumbled through my closet for my clothes,
And found my cleanest dirty shirt.
An' I shaved my face and combed my hair,
An' stumbled down the stairs to meet the day.
I'd smoked my brain the night before,
On cigarettes and songs I'd been pickin'.
But I lit my first and watched a small kid,
Cussin' at a can that he was kicking.
Then I crossed the empty street,
'n caught the Sunday smell of someone fryin' chicken.
And it took me back to somethin',
That I'd lost somehow, somewhere along the way.

On the Sunday morning sidewalk,
Wishing, Lord, that I was stoned.
'Cos there's something in a Sunday,
Makes a body feel alone.
And there's nothin' short of dyin',
Half as lonesome as the sound,
On the sleepin' city sidewalks:
Sunday mornin' comin' down.

In the park I saw a daddy,
With a laughin' little girl who he was swingin'.
And I stopped beside a Sunday school,
And listened to the song they were singin'.
Then I headed back for home,
And somewhere far away a lonely bell was ringin'.
And it echoed through the canyons,
Like the disappearing dreams of yesterday.

Do do do do do do do do,
Do do do do do do do,
Do do do do do do do do,
Do do do do do do do.

To fade

I mean, how excellent is that song? Read it, really read those fucking lyrics! ‘Do do do do do do do do’! Have you ever heard a more compelling call to action?! Do! DO!

So anyway, eventually the couch healed me, don’t ask me how, but by just sitting upright on it for about an hour, staring at the TV even though it was off, I slowly started to feel better and better and last night slowly swam into focus.

Probably the first thing that came back was me asking one of Graumpot’s Indian guests at his housewarming braai yesterday if she had any black heritage. I mean c’mon! That’s a perfectly innocuous question right? Right?

No. Not right. Wrong. Apparently she spent the rest of the night asking everyone if she looked black in this desperate, paranoid kind of way. I did not mean to upset her in any way, but ended up probably ruining her evening.

Oops.

Otherwise I behaved well. Also, I came up with a new stroke of genius when it comes to remembering the crazy thoughts I have so I can blog about them later, I use this advanced piece of technology called the ‘voice recorder’ on my cell phone.

I just opened my voice files from yesterday and came across the following:

1. ‘Terminator car. Running from right through the car window, around the back and into the left rear view mirror. Stop’

2. ‘We gotta get out of this place’ playing on Graum’s car stereo.

3. A note to write a letter to Josh Homme and post it on my site. This is the gayest idea I’ve ever had.

4. An interview with Graum’s girlfriend M-Class while she was making potato salad with bacon.

5. My attempt at trying to get everyone at the party to tell me their nick names. Fail.

So yeah, great idea there Slick. Life changing stuff. Dun duuunnnnnn!

I drank a bottle of brandy last night, basically put the entire bottle down except for an inch on the bottom. I drank it with coke, which is what I think triggered the intense heartburn this morning.

Remember kids, don’t do what Tiger-Don’t does. Drinking an entire bottle of brandy is never, ever a good idea. It’s a miracle that asking a girl if one of her folks was black is the only thing I did.

J-Rab came late cause she had her office Christmas party and I was so happy to see her, I followed her into the bathroom and hugged her legs while she was trying to pee. Much hilarity ensued. About half an hour later I curled up in her lap (my happy place) and passed out.

It was good to see Graum and M-Class though, they just finished doing a TEFL course so they’ve been scarce over the past few weeks. Peggles and PGF were also there, they didn’t get too fucked up though cause this morning they wanted to go cycling (?)

Good people, good times.

Now it’s Sunday evening and I’m keen to hit the sack and start sawing a couple logs.

Later masturbators ;)

-ST

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slicktiger — Mon, 14 Dec 2009 06:09:07 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 14 Dec 2009 06:09:29 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 14 Dec 2009 06:09:46 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 14 Dec 2009 06:10:06 +0000

The New Miss SA might Be a Cyborg…

slicktiger — Mon, 14 Dec 2009 06:10:11 +0000

We were flipping randomly through TV channels last night when we came across the crucial last two minutes that were the Miss SA Pageant 2009. We missed the entire rest of the show, which was a pity – I would have loved to have heard this year’s winner, Nicole Flint being interviewed by the panel of judges because I have a sneaking suspicion that she’s a cyborg.

Wikipedia defines a cyborg as ‘is a cybernetic organism (i.e., an organism that has both artificial and natural systems).’ Many have argued that cyborgs are the next step in human evolution, as they represent a kind of perfect union between humans and machines, an occurrence that is referred to as ‘the singularity’ (Ray Kurzweil was one of the first dudes to define the term).

It’s actually scary how close we’ve come to designing realistic artificial intelligence. Right now, machines have two massive advantages over humans when it comes to ‘thinking’ – they have perfect recall (well, until their hard drives fail) and they can process computations at speeds way beyond human brains.

The only major problem machines have is that their ability to recognise patterns is severely limited in comparison to human brains. This extends into all facets of life – a human can observe a certain phenomenon occurring at a certain place and time and use all that information to predict that this incidence could occur again if similar variables come into play again.

For example, I could observe a car accident that has happened at the corner of William Nicol and Sandton Drive in the early hours of a rainy Saturday morning and the first thing that goes through my head is ‘Holy shit, I need to stay the hell away from this intersection in the early hours of the morning when it’s raining or I could end up like those guys.’

For me, this prediction was effortless, all I employed was a fairly basic degree of common sense based on a set of circumstances I observed and my ability to read the pattern of those circumstances. Machine intelligence would struggle to arrive at the same outcome I did in that situation.

Sure, a machine could tell me the exact speed the cars were travelling, the angle at which they collided, the trajectory of the collided cars, the force of the impact, but the machine would struggle to process ALL of the information of the accident and be able to instantly recognise the patterns inherent in the accident and understand their meaning.

This is why it is unlikely that machines will ever be able to understand or experience human emotions, and that was the first clue I picked up as to why the new Miss SA might be a cyborg.

The three finalists of the pagaent, Matapa Malla 24, from Johannesburg, Lisa van Zyl, 23 year old from Cape Town and Nicole Flint 21, from Pretoria sat on stage as they announced this year’s winner, each one of them smiling flawlessly, betraying no emotion whatsoever.

Fair enough, as a beauty queen I’m sure you spend countless years learning not to show any kind of real emotion, but then the thing that really blew my mind was when they announced Flint as the winner, her smile remained completely fixed throughout.

Call me old school, but I preferred it when the winners covered their pretty little faces with their immaculately manicured hands and at least shed one or two little tears of sheer joy and nervous excitement. I mean seriously, it’s not a beauty pageant unless the winner has a bit of a cry, or am I way off the mark here?

Don’t get me wrong, I think ol’ Nicole Flint definitely deserved to win, I mean hell’s bells, she’s a good looking woman, but she was so damn controlled throughout it looked like she was wandering around in a walking Prozac-induced coma.

Don’t be surprised people, if amongst other news headlines about Castor Semenya being transgendered and Julius Malema being trans-specied, we read that Nicole Flint IS THE 6 MILLION RAND WOMAN!

Don’t say I didn’t warn you ;)

-ST

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slicktiger — Tue, 15 Dec 2009 06:43:27 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 15 Dec 2009 06:43:59 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 15 Dec 2009 06:48:11 +0000

Let’s have a round of applause for Mr Loserpants

slicktiger — Tue, 15 Dec 2009 06:48:13 +0000

The first thing you learn about being a SlickTiger is that it’s impossible to be Slick ALL THE TIME, sometimes you’re just a regular Tiger and sometimes, well sometimes you are Mr Loserpants.

I feel like Mr Loserpants today because I’m not going anywhere on holiday. Yeeesss yeesss, thaatttss right, laugh, laugh at Mr Loserpants.

This will be the first time in something like five years that I’m actually going to stay in Joburg for Xmas and New Year and not go on a badass adventure somewhere.

I love roadtripping. There’s nothing better than striking out there in your car, hitting the open roads and just driving until all the buildings and skyscrapers fade away. Out there you’ll hear bird calls you never heard and at night when you look up a hundred thousand stars will shine back down on you.

I’m not a religious man, but I swear, if I had a night sky like that above me every night I could become one.

Out there at night you’ll be lulled to sleep by the sound of the ocean washing up and down the shore and when you laugh it will be easy and it will feel good right deep down inside.

Your days will be spent in the sun, your skin will glow warm as you lounge on a towel, completely immersed in a good book. You can take pleasure in the simple things out there, it’s ok, I won’t tell anyone ;)

You will be free and easy out there, all the shit back here, it won’t matter anymore and you shouldn’t fucking let it.

What I want from you, more than anything else while you’re on holiday, is to imagine a world where we can, all of us, be on holiday all the time. A world where we are not forced into office cubicles in artificial environments all day to breathe in other people’s farts and have to put up with their shitty moods.

You, me, and everyone else that reads, understands and enjoys this blog is better than that.

Make no mistake brothers and sisters, we’re building an arc here, we’re separating the chaff from the grain, this is fucking important. This is fucking important because I know there’s a life everyone one of us wishes we were living instead of the one we are, and fuck, I want you to live that life and I know the only thing stopping you from living that life is balls.

You need bigger balls.

Hell, so do I, but I’m working on it and I want you to work on it too. There’s something you’re afraid of doing right now, it’s lurking in the back of your mind, maybe you’ve been putting it off for a day, maybe you’ve been putting it off for a year or longer.

Do that thing now. Right now. Today. Stop fucking around and reading this and go do that thing.

Tomorrow we can meet up back here and you can tell me all about it.

Keep on truckin’ ;)

-ST

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slicktiger — Wed, 16 Dec 2009 17:26:37 +0000

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slicktiger — Wed, 16 Dec 2009 17:27:02 +0000

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slicktiger — Wed, 16 Dec 2009 17:27:31 +0000

Car Wreck

slicktiger — Wed, 16 Dec 2009 17:27:34 +0000

Today’s a public holiday so J-Rab and I slept in late, but at about 10.30 a white BMW crashed right through the perimeter wall of our complex.

J-Rab and I jerked awake, but it wasn’t until J-Rab left the house later to get groceries that she saw the car wreck, parked halfway through the wall.

I only saw it this afternoon, chunks of cement and glass and the spikes that used to be on top of the wall all twisted and useless on the ground.

I stared at the mess in front of me for a long while. I tried to figure out what might have caused the accident, but I couldn’t. The security guard now posted at our new entrance wasn’t much help either.

‘Hey man, were you here when this happened?’

‘Eh?’

‘Were you here when this happened?’

‘i-Yes’

‘Was the person OK? The person driving the car?’

‘Eh, what?’

‘Was the person driving the car OK? Did you see him?’

‘Eh, no. I wasn’t here when it happened.’

I walked back to the flat. I thanked whatever Gods may be that it wasn’t me in that wreck. I’ve been in enough wrecks in my life and yes, I have the scars to prove it.

Last night was a whole other circus. What started off as a civilised soiree in our flat with Graumpot and M-Class and a COLOSSAL plate of 60 pieces of sushi degenerated over the course of the next few hours to a scene that could have been stolen right outta Jerry Springer.

We decided to go to Jolly Cool’s to shoot some pool, have a few drinks, nothing too crazy.

We arrived, put some coins down on a table of four dudes playing and asked if they could give us a shout when their game was done so we could play.

Of course 20 mins later I go back to the tables and they’ve started the next game and completely ignored us. So we stand by the table and wait for them to finish their game and when they do, the fuckers put another coin in and play another game while we just stand by and watch.

‘Fuck these guys,’ I said to J-Rab, ‘let’s go to Defcon4.’

The easiest way to fuck up a guy’s shot when he’s playing is to get a girl to either stare at his ass as he bends to take a shot, stand in front of him as he’s taking the shot and show maximum cleavage or have a girl make snide remarks behind his back that are just loud enough for him to hear every time he fucks up a shot.

I call this Defcon4. J-Rab played her part perfectly and soon enough the guys were playing the most shocking game of pool I’ve seen in ages.

Awesome. Now they were on our level.

We sauntered up to the table after they were finally done and started shooting a game to decide who keeps the table. All I can say is thank fuck Graum was on my side cause I sank nothing. I was too interested in man handling J-Rab between shots to really give a shit about the game.

Coolest thing though was that Graum cleaned up for us and got us onto the black ball while they still had a ball on the table. I walk up to play my shot. It’s a total mess, I can’t see any pockets and can’t double the black ball either because their ball is in the way.

Fuck it. I hardly even aim as I slam the white right into the black and their ball and KAPOW! sink the black and win the game.

For the next five minutes I was a hero. Five minutes after that the douchebags left.

Too-de-loo muthufukkus.

We shot another couple of games, Guitar Jon and The Glaze joined us, good times were had by all until this crazy bitch in a green top started throwing glasses and other assorted bar paraphernalia at this black girl who the green top girl had decided, for whatever reason, it was her mission in life to kill.

That’s when we knew it was hometime.

Now we’re gonna make some noms for supper, chill with a movie and enjoy the good life on this breezy, warm and beautiful summer evening.

Until tomorrow.

-ST

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slicktiger — Thu, 17 Dec 2009 06:46:17 +0000

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slicktiger — Thu, 17 Dec 2009 06:47:23 +0000

My Top 5 Calvin & Hobbes Christmas Cartoons

slicktiger — Thu, 17 Dec 2009 06:47:26 +0000

There really isn’t much going on today. The office is totally dead and to be honest it’s pretty damn depressing, so I’ve been doing what I always do when I get depressed, reading Calvin & Hobbes!

In my opinion Calvin & Hobbes is the best comic strip that was ever written. Bill Watterson did mankind a huge favour by drawing and writing these stories about a kid genius and his imaginary tiger friend.

And so I thought I’d share my Top 5 Calvin & Hobbes Christmas Cartoons with you guys cause I’m your imaginary tiger friend and it seemed fitting ;)

Once you’ve read these, you have to visit this site:

http://progressiveboink.com/archive/calvinhobbes.htm

It’s the 25 best Calvin & Hobbes strips all collected and annotated, but it’s the annotations that really struck a chord in me. Take the following excerpt for example, it perfectly sums up why I love Calvin and have always identified 100% with him:

“If you think about it, Calvin was really quite an anomaly in popular entertainment -- not just in comics, but in anything, be it movies, TV, etc. He has no friends, and no extracurricular activities; the only people he ever sees are his parents, who he has a strained relationship with, and Moe, Susie, Rosalyn, and Miss Wormwood, all of whom he detests and all of whom detest him. The only person he ever has any real interaction with exists only in his head. He is, for all intents and purposes, completely alone. And he's fine with that. The kind of kid most people would entirely ignore all through school is not generally the kind you make the star of your show, and yet the strip became hugely successful.

I know that people of all ages enjoyed Calvin and Hobbes, but I have to think that it meant even more to those of us who grew up with him. Going to school every day and seeing all the ways we didn't fit in, it was nice to see someone like us, who was intelligent and independent, and didn't need to be a smile-plastered Mouseketeer to enjoy life. Though numerous motivational posters and guidance councelors and after-school specials had said it again and again, it was Calvin who managed to truly express the idea—without being preachy, without being sappy, perhaps even without trying—that it was okay to be different.”

Enough preamble! Here are my five favourite Calvin & Hobbes Christmas cartoons, enjoy :)

And my all-time favourite Calvin & Hobbes Christmas cartoon:

-ST

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slicktiger — Fri, 18 Dec 2009 08:04:28 +0000

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slicktiger — Fri, 18 Dec 2009 08:05:04 +0000

If you think your company is rad, think again

slicktiger — Fri, 18 Dec 2009 08:05:06 +0000

I really don’t have much today guys, I’m sorry. 2009 is basically over, I seriously doubt there are many people left actually working right now except for a handful of poor saps like me (says the guy who has no leave left because he used it all up in July / August when he spent 3 weeks in the Algarve in Portugal, yeah, who’s jealous now bitch!).

Ahem! Where was I…?

Oh yeah, so I feel bad because I haven’t written one of those soppy year-end ‘My life in 2009’ or maybe ‘Highlights of 2009’ or even just ‘Please fuck off 2009’ posts, but hey, there’s still another 13 days left of this big, ugly bastard so maybe I’ll get around to it in the space between Xmas and New Year when I’m on leave.

Ahh, leave. Sweet, sweet summer leave. I think I’m going to spend my time off redesigning this site a little, tweaking stuff here and there, adding more pages, making the whole experience more streamlined.

Otherwise I just really want to read and lie in the sun and do as little as possible. Good times ;)

So, with no further ado, lemme show you why my company is 10 times radder than yours could ever be.

May I present to you the newest member of Tribeca PR, Bella:

Then I came up with an ingenious method of finishing those last few drops of milk that are always left in my cereal bowl:

Promptly thereafter puppy-lups decided to take a well deserved time out after her exciting morning:

Guys, it doesn’t get much cuter than that. Remember when life was that simple? Those were good times I tell ya.

Have a killer weekend, good luck with the Xmas shopping and I’ll catch you all for a long, killer Saturday Post tomorrow.

-ST

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slicktiger — Sat, 19 Dec 2009 17:58:16 +0000

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slicktiger — Sat, 19 Dec 2009 17:58:53 +0000

The Saturday Post (Brought to you by SlickTiger)

slicktiger — Sat, 19 Dec 2009 17:58:55 +0000

Thunder is grumbling as I write this and a steady fall of lazy summer rain is drenching the world outside. But here inside there is only quiet and calm as I lie like a big lazy lizard on my girlfriend and she dozes peaceful and warm underneath me.

Today was a frenzy of Christmas shopping and I’m really happy we got a lot of it out the way. My family is small up here in Joeys so I really just have to worry about presents for the folks and something radass for J-Rab.

I already have it all planned out – what I’m gonna give her, how it’s all gonna pan out and I think it’s going to be the best Christmas ever :)

But I gotta run, Graumpot and M-Class just arrived and they’ll think I’m rude if I just lie here, blogging naked.

Later party people :)

-ST

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slicktiger — Sun, 20 Dec 2009 20:38:09 +0000

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slicktiger — Sun, 20 Dec 2009 20:38:41 +0000

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slicktiger — Sun, 20 Dec 2009 20:39:08 +0000

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slicktiger — Sun, 20 Dec 2009 20:39:40 +0000

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slicktiger — Sun, 20 Dec 2009 20:40:00 +0000

Johnny Cash and the lazy SUnday

slicktiger — Sun, 20 Dec 2009 20:40:04 +0000

Johnny Cash found me sometime during my second year at varsity and we became pals.

I think the first song of his that I really dug was ‘A Boy Named Sue’. That song strikes a chord with me, if fact any piece of literature, music or film that deals with troubled father/son relationships resounds with me.

Also, the song was fucking badass. Here are the lyrics:

“A Boy Named Sue”:

My daddy left home when I was three
And he didn't leave much for ma and me
‘Cept this old guitar and an empty bottle of booze.
Now, I don't blame him cause he run and hid
But the meanest thing that he ever did
Was before he left, he went and named me "Sue."

Well, he must o' thought that it was quite a joke
And it got a lot of laughs from a' lot of folk,
It seems I had to fight my whole life through.
Some gal would giggle and I'd get red
And some guy'd laugh and I'd bust his head,
I tell ya, life ain't easy for a boy named "Sue."

Well, I grew up quick and I grew up mean,
My fists got hard and my wits got keen,
I roamed from town to town to hide my shame.
But I made a vow to the moon and stars
That I'd search the honky-tonks and bars
And kill that man who gave me that awful name.

Well, it was Gatlinburg in mid-July
I’d just hit town and my throat was dry,
I thought I'd stop and have myself a brew.
At an old saloon on a street of mud,
There at a table, dealing stud,
Sat the dirty, mangy dog that named me "Sue."

Well, I knew that snake was my own sweet dad
From a worn-out picture that my mother'd had,
And I knew that scar on his cheek and his evil eye.
He was big and bent and gray and old,
And I looked at him and my blood ran cold
And I said: "My name is 'Sue!' How do you do!
Now your gonna die!!"

Well, I hit him hard right between the eyes
And he went down, but to my surprise,
He come up with a knife and cut off a piece of my ear.
But I busted a chair right across his teeth
And we crashed through the wall and into the street
Kicking and a' gouging in the mud and the blood and the beer.

I tell ya, I've fought tougher men
But I really can't remember when,
He kicked like a mule and he bit like a crocodile.
I heard him laugh and then I heard him cuss,
He went for his gun and I pulled mine first,
He stood there lookin' at me and I saw him smile.

And he said: "Son, this world is rough
And if a man's gonna make it, he's gotta be tough
And I knew I wouldn't be there to help ya along.
So I give ya that name and I said goodbye
I knew you'd have to get tough or die
And it's the name that helped to make you strong."

He said: "Now you just fought one hell of a fight
And I know you hate me, and you got the right
To kill me now, and I wouldn't blame you if you do.
But ya ought to thank me, before I die,
For the gravel in ya gut and the spit in ya eye
Cause I'm the motherfucker that named you "Sue.'"

I got all choked up and I threw down my gun
I called him my pa, and he called me his son,
And I came away with a different point of view.
And I think about him, now and then,
Every time I try and every time I win,
And if I ever have a son, I think I'm gonna name him
Bill or George! Anything but Sue! I still hate that name!

I love it! ‘I knew you’d have to get tough or die’ – classic! ‘Kickin and a gougin in the blood and the mud and the beer.’ That’s the only way to fight.

That’s what real fights turn into, just watch UFC Fighting – in most fights, they’ll go to ground and the one guy will try and squeeze the living shit out of the other guy, or just pummel him in the head as hard and often as possible and THEN pop his shoulder out of its socket.

But anyway, I digest.

What was today like? How did it begin and how did it progress from that point? What did we learn from it? How will it be remembered 20 years from now?

Will it be remembered 20 years from now? Sure it will ;)

I jumped like a jack-in-the-box out of bed at 9:25 and started furiously cleaning the flat. Landlord was coming over to do something or other he’s had planned for a few weeks now. Without getting into too much detail, it involved steel skirting brackets, hot glue and waterproof silicone putty.

I just kinda looked on in confusement, but not for long. Landlord usually has these things all figured out and he doesn’t need any help, so I don’t offer any. Instead I knuckled down and got in some solid game-time with Torchlight which is a must for any Diablo fans out there I mean, it was developed by a few of the team that actually worked on Diablo so it’s got a really cool look and feel and for $20 it’s really worth it.

Ok, how was that? Nailed it? The sales pitch, nailed it? Damn straight I nailed it :)

Meanwhile, outside the sun shone like nobody’s business, hot and clear, not really a breeze at all. Fuck, it was a perfect summer day. Leaves shone above us, the heat shimmered, the sun felt like it was filling me up, like I was a battery charging.

Fuck, the minute I’m on leave and it’s sunny I’m heading up to the pool to chill to the max. You guys can come too, but bring your own booze and LSD. You aren’t allowed any of mine, remember what happened last time? Yeah, exactly.

J-Rab and I had the funniest fucking Christmas Shopping outing at Design Quarter. Like I said yesterday, I’ve pretty much finished up the Christmas shopping for my folks, the only thing left to get were these Maxwell Williams mugs my old lady wanted.

I saw them at a Boardman’s yesterday and thought they were pretty average so I decided to get Ritzenhof mugs for her instead, hence the trip to the Design Quarter.

We parked out in front of the DQ, in the hot sun and walked down the parking lot toward the shops. As we got near the end of the parking lot we both saw this kickass huge ad on the side of the Nike store there with a golfer crouching and blowing fire and while his buddy hits a ball through it on a golf course at night time.

I must admit, I was pretty entrance by it, but not quite as much as J-Rab who walked right into the curb. I just heard this abrupt scuffing sound and felt her grip my hand tight as she stumbled and then was like ‘I’m cool, I’m cool’ as she went back for her flip flop.

I laughed my ass off and she was a little embarrassed, but I said, ‘Fuck it, it’s not like the place is completely packed FULL of people or anything."’

Of course, it was packed to the rafters, hahaahah!

Then we find that Ritzenhof moved away probably over two years ago. Fahk! Luckily J-Rab said to just walk around and see if we could find another place that sold mugs like that and what the fuck did we find? A Boardman’s in Design Quarter, a MASSIVE one!

They had way more variety when it came to these Maxwell mugs so we found cool ones for my old lady.

After that we noticed a whole bunch of upmarket food stalls had been set up in the centre courtyard and went to take a look.

There was this really cool honey stall that we made a bee-line (fuck, read that last bit slowly, yes, I just did that) straight for. When we got there, the lady behind the stall gave us these short yellow straws and asked us if we wanted to taste the honey.

She had part of a honeycomb there, dripping with the stuff, so we dipped out straws in and tasted some of the raw honey and damn, it was sweet and rich and good.

As J-Rab was tasting, the wind blew the corner of the tablecloth up so she carefully pulled it down again not realising that one of the small glass pots of honey had gotten stuck and tumbled gently down in the fold of the tablecloth.

To J-Rab’s credit, she caught the pot before it fell and broke on the ground, but by then about a third of the honey inside had dribbled all down the tablecloth and was already making it’s slow and syrupy way toward the floor.

She quickly put the honey pot back on the table and apologised, laughing nervously. The couple standing next to us looked on mild horror at the gloopy mess of honey, I laughed, ‘I swear to God, you can’t take her anywhere!’

J-Rab and I laughed and bought the nice honey lady’s mead ever though she wasn’t phased at all. Good stuff that mead actually, it’s called Honey Sun mead and damn! It’s worth every cent of the 85 bucks we paid for it.

We had lunch at the ‘rents after that and swam a little, nothing too amazing to report there. After that we came home and had a nap and now I’m banging this out and watching Die Hard 2, which is such a killer movie and definitely the best part of Christmas every time it rolls around.

John McClane – that man is the best kind of action hero. So many others have fucked up both the genre of action movies and the heroes themselves, but good ol’ McClane was the original and Bruce’s portrayal of him is totally flawless.

He’s so cool because he gets fucked up. He makes fuck ups, by the end of all the movies, he’s cut up, punched up and shot up but he just doesn’t fucking die. Just like the name says!

But now it’s time to knuckle down and saw a couple logs.

Later party people :)

-ST

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slicktiger — Sun, 20 Dec 2009 20:48:30 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 21 Dec 2009 08:56:21 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 21 Dec 2009 08:57:25 +0000

Movie Review: Avatar

slicktiger — Mon, 21 Dec 2009 08:57:30 +0000

I’d be lying if I said I knew where to start when it comes to writing this review. How do you dissect a world so carefully created and beautifully rendered? I feel like a biologist standing scalpel in hand over the body of one of the fantastical creatures featured in Avatar, with absolutely no idea what I’m doing.

For starters, let me tell you why movies like Avatar usually fail to impress me, because the reason is fairly simple. Usually in movies of this nature, where the protagonist is transported to another world and interacts with an alien species, that protagonist is some dorky, reluctant hero, usually a scientist who’s clumsy and bashful and unable to assert himself at the beginning of the movie, but who by the end has found the courage and fortitude to stand up to the bad guys and thus realise his own self worth.

Not so with Avatar. The protagonist in the movie is a marine, Jake Sully (played by Australian actor Sam Worthington) a grunt who is paralysed in combat back on Earth, but decides to stay in service when the army offers to recruit him for the project his twin brother was working on on the distant planet of Pandora.

Jake is instantly likeable as a character because of how he refuses to let his disability affect his life in any way. It’s part of the magic that writer and director James Cameron (who’s previous bests include Terminator 2 and Titanic) weaves to lure you into the world of Avatar.

It’s a fairly straightforward premise, if you can get the audience to connect with your protagonist as early as possible in the film, they will follow him, become emotionally invested in him and thus become emotionally invested in the film itself.

Well, from his opening lines as he comes out of cryonic suspension after the trip to Pandora, I liked Jake Sully.

From there, Cameron starts setting the stage for this epic ‘space opera’ as some critics have called it and in a series of well executed opening scenes we learn that the humans who have arrived and set up military headquarters on Pandora have done so because they want to mine a mineral called ‘unobtainium’.

The largest deposit of this mineral on the planet occurs right underneath a gigantic, 150 meter tall tree (known as the ‘Hometree’) where a tribe of the local inhabitants, an alien species called the Na’vi, have lived in peace for thousands of years.

In an attempt to learn their culture, gain favour with them and ultimately persuade them to move so that mining operations can begin, human scientists developed the Avatar program whereby human and Na’vi DNA is combined to create Na’vi bodies that have identical neural structures to their human counterparts, thus making it possible to transfer a human mind into a Na’vi body.

Jake is chosen for the program because his twin brother’s DNA was used to create an Avatar at great cost to the military and so, instead of letting the Avatar go to waste, they decide to use Jake to ‘drive’ it and act as a bodyguard to Dr Grace Augustine (Sigorney Weaver) in her efforts to re-connect with the Na’vi and further her peaceful attempts to learn as much as possible about Pandora, the Na’vi and their culture.

Once Cameron has laid these basic foundations, believe me, you will be more than willing to follow him anywhere. My disbelief was suspended in less than 10 minutes into the film and from that point I willingly let myself become completely immersed in the breath-takingly beautiful world that is Pandora.

I watched Avatar in 3D and the most amazing thing about the experience is that when I think back on it, I don’t remember it as a movie, but rather like some kind of intensely beautiful dream I had.

Everything on the planet of Pandora is connected through a kind of biological neural network, a system where energy is consciously transferred, conserved and shared in a far more efficient way than the synthesized manner in which humans do it.

Thus a kind of perfect balance is achieved and almost effortlessly maintained, that is, until humans arrive and fuck everything up.

The jungles of Pandora are like nothing you have ever seen before, they are literally teeming with thousands of plant and animal species. At night the jungles light up with glowing phosphorescent algae and plants, making everything look like the best imaginable acid trip anyone could ever wish for.

Avatar is also one of those rare movies where you are never bored watching it. With every scene, the movie turns, the stakes are raised and you are drawn further and further into the story.

What’s also rare about Avatar is the fact that at the movie’s climax you really, really hate the humans and everything they stand for, which is a stroke of genius on Cameron’s part because Avatar is actually a powerful piece of social commentary about mankind’s propensity toward ignorance and destruction and our complete detachment with the natural world.

Sam Worthington does an adequate job of playing Jake Sully, however, his American accent slips continuously throughout the movie, which can be a bit irritating if you pick it up. Sigorney Weaver really shines in her role as Dr Augustine though, the no nonsense biologist with a genuine interest in the well-being and preservation of the Na’vi people, but my favourite actor in the movie was Stephen Lang, who plays Security Chief Miles Quaritch.

You just can’t help but admire Lang’s character because the sunuvabitch just. Doesn’t. Die. He’s a giant asshole throughout the movie, but when it comes time to kill he opens up a can o’ whupass that would leave John McClane whimpering in a corner.

Zoë Saldaña also puts on a noteworthy performance as Neytiri, the princess of the Na’vi tribe (and yes, there is actually a person acting underneath all the blue-skinned CGI) and Michelle Rodriguez is excellent as Trudy Chacon, the badass, wise-cracking marine pilot who sides with Jake and the Na’vi when the shit starts hitting the fan.

As for the plotline itself, there are people out there who are criticising it for being overused, but to all those naysayers, all I can say is open your eyes. Hollywood only has 32 scripts that it keeps on permanent rotation, EVERY Hollywood blockbuster follows a plotline that is overused, they have no choice because if you completely discard the structure and formula of the genre in which you’re working there’s an 80% chance mainstream audiences will hate your film.

Cameron’s execution of what has become a fairly standard Hollywood story of zero to hero is immaculate and from a structural point of view, he hits every story beat perfectly and keeps the story lean and mean from start to finish.

Trust me, you will walk out of Avatar emotionally drained in the best possible way, you will marvel at how powerful Cameron’s imagination is and most important of all, you will come out of that theatre thoroughly entertained.

In a world of over-sensationalised violence and gratuitous sex in films that are badly scripted and haphazardly constructed, Avatar really stands out as a piece of film that, even if it’s in a small way, makes the world of film and popular entertainment a better place.

To sum up, my Girlfriend, J-Rab said it best – this movie will leave images in your mind that you will be happy to look back on and for that reason alone, I would highly recommend watching it.

Final Verdict: 9/10

-ST

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slicktiger — Tue, 22 Dec 2009 11:39:40 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 22 Dec 2009 11:40:01 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 22 Dec 2009 11:40:11 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 22 Dec 2009 11:40:27 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 22 Dec 2009 11:40:43 +0000

The first time I got arrested

slicktiger — Tue, 22 Dec 2009 11:40:47 +0000

There’s a first time for everything – your first kiss, the first time you shave (your face for guys, your vagine for the ladies) the first time you get laid and of course, the first time you land your ass in prison.

There’s nothing quite as exhilarating as not passing ‘Go’, not collecting 200 and going directly to jail. Sure, at the time it’s not fucking funny. At the time you pray that it’s all just a bad dream and you’re going to wake up any second and everything’s going to be fine, but (provided you survive with your anal virginity intact) afterwards it makes for a great story.

Me, I was 13 the first time I got arrested. I had a patchy adolescence because at around about 11 I became hellbent on doing everything I wasn’t supposed / allowed to, more so than normal kids I’d wager.

As a result I got into a lot of fucked up situations and was forced to grow up a lot faster than other kids who were playing cricket on the lawn and drinking lemonade with their parents while I was running away from home and getting fucked up on whatever I could get my hands on with my buddy Stikey in a Formula1 Hotel.

But that’s a story for another time ;)

Where was I? Oh yeah - so back in 1997 we had this buddy, we’ll call him Lardass, who was always telling us these big stories about how tough he was and all the crazy, fucked up shit he got up to (it was 95% lies, the truth was he spent a lot of time reading comic books, eating junk food and whacking off).

After a long weekend he comes back to school with this crazy story about how he spent an entire afternoon at his parents time share at the Vaal Dam smashing windows with rocks. He’d found this old rondawel (pronounced ron-dar-vel, it means a kind of circular bar / entertainment area) that had two stories and was made up entirely of windows on the one side and so, naturally, he decided to smash as many windows as possible.

None of us bought it at all. I mean seriously, how abandoned was this place that no one came running the second the first window was smashed? Didn’t the people who owned the rondawel get pissed off?

‘Nope,’ Lardass said, ‘there was no one for miles. I must have broken about 50 windows, just smashed them with rocks.’

‘Cool!’ we all chimed in.

‘Yeah, and some of them I just kicked in with my boot, I was wearing my Docs.’

‘Fuckin’ awesome!’

A couple of weeks go past and as we start approaching half term, Lardass invites myself and another buddy of ours, Millerkie, to go to his parents time share and smoke cigarettes and smash some windows, which sounded like the best idea any of us had ever had EVER.

When the big day finally arrived it was boiling hot. I remember making our way through the wild, dry veldt along a dusty path toward the abandoned rondawel, all of us wearing our black 12-hole Doc Martins with red laces, jeans and black T-shirts.

Yeah, we were those kids.

We lit a cigarette each as we surveyed the rondawel and sure enough, half the windows had been smashed so we figured it was fair game.

We armed ourselves with a few rocks and started pelting the windows. Lardass encouraged us to kick a few in, and it was while we were doing this that we heard someone shouting and looked up to see a black dude sprinting down the path behind the rondawel toward us.

We panicked and scrambled through the broken windows into the rondawel, which was probably the most retarded thing to do under the circumstances. It’s like running towards a burning building to escape the fire inside it.

Once inside we sprinted towards the opposite side of the rondawel and into the bathroom there. I figured the best way out of the pickle we were in would be to wait for the dude chasing us to run around the rondawel to the opposite side and then slip out the bathroom window and make a run for it.

Problem was my timing was completely fucking off. I hoisted myself out the window thinking the dude had already run behind the rondawel only to find him basically waiting right outside the bathroom window.

Fuck.

I tried to sprint off but the dude caught me and made me call Lardass and Millerkie out of the rondawel. The gig was up, we were royally screwed.

The black dude took us up to a nearby cafe and made us sit on the cold cement floor inside while he called the police.

As luck would have it, the cafe we were sitting inside had been broken into the night before and completely cleaned out and so naturally they pinned it all on us. Plus it turned out they were pretty steamed about all the windows Lardass has broken previously and (rightfully so) pinned that on us as well.

We waited for about an hour (pretty standard when dealing with our country’s finest) for the police to arrive, all of us crapping ourselves and envisioning criminal records, expulsion from high school and a slow and steady decline into drug addiction and male prostitution on the streets of Hilbrow.

This was in the time before any of us had cell phones and so the only opportunity we got to call Lardasses folks was after we’d already been hauled off to the police station in the back of a police van that smelt like something had puked itself to death inside it.

Luckily Lardasses mom was a really soft touch and was at the police station in under 10 minutes. After arguing for about an hour with various police officials, she finally got them to believe that it wasn’t us who broke into the cafe or smashed all the windows previously.

So basically all they could charge us for was breaking about six windows, which wasn’t really worth the effort.

However, this didn’t stop them from locking us in the most god awful cell I’ve ever seen in my life with a bunch of unwashed ogres that looked like they’d stab your eyes out for your shoes.

Luckily they pulled us out after about an hour. All I remember was squatting against the wall with Millerkie and Lardass while Lardass kept whispering how ‘this [was] exactly like Beavis and Butthead!’ and we kept telling him to shut the fuck up.

After they let us go, they asked us if we’d learned our lesson and we all swore that we had, but time has since proven that no, we hadn’t.

I’ve had at least four run-ins with the law since that day, but thankfully that’s the only time I’ve ever been hauled off. The rest of my ‘conversations’ with the fuzz have always been amicable even though in all four cases I was guilty as sin and had I actually been arrested, would have been in deep, life-changing shit.

The rule is simple. Be as polite with cops as possible. Come out all smiles and ‘evening officer’ and ‘yes sir, no sir, three bags full sir’ and in most cases you can get by with a few hundred bucks and a ‘I swear to god, I’ve learned my lesson officer, thank you’.

It’s not a ‘bribe’, it’s a ‘spot fine’ or an ‘admission of guilt fee’.

It’s all in the semantics I tell ya, never forget that. Obviously, first prize goes to never engaging in any kind of wrong-doing in the first place, but you know, and I know, that we’re only human and that rules were made to be learnt well and broken properly.

Words to live by ;)

-ST

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slicktiger — Wed, 23 Dec 2009 10:09:58 +0000

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slicktiger — Wed, 23 Dec 2009 10:10:28 +0000

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slicktiger — Wed, 23 Dec 2009 10:10:52 +0000

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slicktiger — Wed, 23 Dec 2009 10:11:13 +0000

The Home Stretch

slicktiger — Wed, 23 Dec 2009 10:11:17 +0000

These are the twilight hours of 2009 in the office. Right now it’s only the Irish man and the Irish woman and me left.

It’s been a good year for our little company and I’ve been proud to be a part of this award-winning outfit of badass PRs. Nothing can fuck with us, there’s nothing we can’t PR, you name it, we’ll PR it and we’ll PR it well.

In other news, this is post number 91 guys, that means in another 9 fucking days we’re gonna hit post 100, hol-ee shitballs! I just used my advanced skills of a mathematician and worked out that that means post no. 100 will happen ON FUCKING NEW YEAR’S DAY!

Wow, that’s rad… except I think I’ll be so fucking wizasted I’ll be incapable of anything, possibly not even living.

I get these hangovers man, they come creeping up on me in slumber, close their evil claws around my brain, my internal organs and try squeeze the life out of me.

But I always come out tops. Slipping through the cracks, the guy who manages to just squeeze through the closing escape pod door as the spaceship explodes behind him.

I’m listening to Modest Mouse as I write this and I swear to God, ‘We Were Dead Before the Ship Even Sank’ is one of my all time favourite albums. Just fucking buy that album please, I’m not sure if we can stay friends until you listen to it.

In fact, I think what’s missing from this year is a post dedicated to SlickTiger’s most underrated albums of 2010. I might get onto that tomorrow. Today it’s 30 degrees outside and all I want to do is hit the open road with J-Rab, drive until we hit the coastline, strip down and jump into the ocean. Then lounge in the sun with a couple cold beers, stare at the sky awhile, think of sweet, sweet fuck all.

My Christmas shopping is about 80% complete, all that’s left to do is wrap everything, which is a total nightmare in itself.

I’m a pro at wrapping stuff up with bubble wrap. Give me 5 meters of bubble wrap and a mountain of product and I’ll work wonders, but normal wrapping paper? That shit is evil. Ask any man, he’ll tell you that getting that shit right is like trying to wrestle a pig lubed up to the max with axel grease.

It gets messy.

Also what’s fucking scary is that I’m getting glasses for Christmas from my old lady. Glasses guys. As in ‘four-eyes’ fucking ‘urkel’ god, how’d I get so old?

Actually I’m fine with getting old, as a man it’s much cooler when you get older cause you accumulate power and wealth, and therefore men have a way longer shelf life than women because of this.

Sure, there are exceptions to every rule, there are millions of women who become more powerful as they get older and are able to bag young hot guys, but they still have to be in kinda good shape. I’d wager that there are a lot more old, siff fat dudes dating 20 year-olds than the other way around.

Reason why is simple. Women are naturally attracted to powerful men because men like that offer security, wealth and a comfortable lifestyle. The uglier the guy the better in some cases because then the young hottie in question can really get her claws deep into him and control him more easily.

But I tell ya, for everyone of those young hotties that hooks up with a big fat rich older guy there’s probably a young, hot, poor dude in the wings who she’s banging. What do you think kept Europe’s royal bloodlines so strong over the centuries? It was the archers and castle guards and infantry men that the queens were shagging behind hubby’s back.

The world is governed entirely by one ruling principle and that is irony. You need to have a healthy sense of it to get by without losing your mind completely.

Laughter is all we got. You want to fight back against the tyranny and injustice of this world, learn to laugh.

I mean, even from a scientific perspective it makes sense. The world is ruled by opposing forces, we all know this – light dark, god and evil, blah, blah, blah. But we totally overlook the most powerful one, GRAVITY.

Fucking gravity, that relentless bastard, bearing down on us, working all the time, pulling us slowly toward the ground and our final resting place. It’s fitting that we bury people, it makes sense that eventually gravity drags you 6 feet under.

Morbid I know. So what’s the opposite of gravity? Levity, lightness and what’s the most powerful form of levity?

Laughter. It’s laughter. If you ain’t laughing, you ain’t living. It’s the only weapon we have.

Learn to laugh and the world will be a better place because of it.

Ok, enough philosophising from your tiger pal, I got a couple things to get done before I blow this popsicle stand for the year, but tune in tomorrow for more cu-razy shenanigans!

-ST

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slicktiger — Thu, 24 Dec 2009 17:18:32 +0000

Christmas Eve and all is quiet…

slicktiger — Thu, 24 Dec 2009 17:18:35 +0000

The one thing you don’t miss after Christmas passes you by is shopping for and wrapping Christmas presents. There’s a lot of kak you have to go through to get everyone exactly the right present, especially when you’re fighting your way through hordes of zombified Christmas shoppers while R&B remixes of ‘The 12 Days of Christmas’ pump out of every second shop window.

But the good news is it’s all done and now all there is left to do is enjoy the next two days, eat, drink and boogy on down.

Tonight we’re going to a nice and fancy Christmas Eve party at friends of my parents. My folks assure me it won’t just be fogeys attending and that the food will be excellent so I’m pretty excited about that. I’m just hoping it feels nice and festive for J-Rab, she’s missing her family like crazy and keeps saying that it doesn’t feel like Christmas with them in Boston and us in South Africa.

In other news, I finally got the first couple of paragraphs written for this epic work of fiction I’ve had bubbling in my mind for awhile now and I’m really happy with them. I love those moments when you sit back, admire something you’ve been working on and think to yourself, ‘Fuck, did I just do that?!’

It’s the first step down a road that will take thousands more steps before I get to where I’m going, but when I get there, you’ll hear all about it ;)

I’m belting out a separate post with Christmas wishes cause I’m a big softy like that.

Peace out party people and a meeeeerrrrrryyyyyy Christmas!

-ST

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slicktiger — Thu, 24 Dec 2009 17:22:29 +0000

Meeeerrrrryyyyyy Christmas!

slicktiger — Thu, 24 Dec 2009 17:22:31 +0000

It’s been a cu-razy year, but I feel like it’s been a good one and so, to get into the festive spirit of things, I decided to write a Christmas well wishing list of all the people that I think are badass, kickass and have sexy asses:

My beautiful, incredible, smart and sexy girlfriend, Jessica Rabbit. You mean the world to me babe, Merry Christmas :)
My parents for kicking my ass when I need it most
My amazing, strong and gorgeous sister who is a voice of calm and understanding when I need it most
My somewhat addle-brained but loveable brother who I really should speak more often too – sorry bro, you know how it goes :)
My nieces and nephews (Mark, Nicola, Robbie and Katie, Stephanie and Amy) that keep me young and remind me that there is magic still in this world
My aunts and uncles scattered from Cape Town to Portugal, you guys keep me (in)sane
My friends, who are like brothers to me: Peggles, Wopna, War and Skatter, Stikey and Jacey-Got-The-Aceys, Rikki T, Millerkie, Van Barmann, Pooperoo, Action Jackson – you were the guys back there with me before we even got to the trenches, back when things were free and easy and in some cases I’ve known you for longer than I haven’t known you. For everything, thank you.
The fighters, the rock and roll booze hounds and Tambourine men and women of Grahamstown and Thereafter: Graumpot, The Glaze, Guitar Jon, Mr. D, Billy Pineapples, Barbarian! you crazy fuckers, keep the dream alive.
Tribeca PR: Irish, Ticklishious, Tree Poon, SheBoss, THE MAEN – GIMME A HUG CHARNA! Nix, EL GUAPO, RIGHT HERE (^5), Num Nums, Trishalicious, Lizeb and Ricora. You have to put up with me way more than most, and that’s pretty damn commendable just on it’s own, nevermind the fact that you guys are the best colleagues and friends I have ever worked with. Merry Christmas.

That’s it from me guys, have an awesome night, be safe, take care and meeeerrrrryyyyyy Christmas!

-ST

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slicktiger — Sat, 26 Dec 2009 16:24:50 +0000

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slicktiger — Sat, 26 Dec 2009 16:25:22 +0000

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slicktiger — Sat, 26 Dec 2009 16:25:42 +0000

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slicktiger — Sat, 26 Dec 2009 16:26:06 +0000

White Christmas

slicktiger — Sat, 26 Dec 2009 16:26:11 +0000

I thought about painting yesterday red, but decided not to, even though that’s the goal I set myself for the month of December.

Red December I called it. Red because I was going to post everyday so that by the time we get to the end of December, every day on my blog calendar would be red with an entry.

Well, every day except Christmas cause c’mon! I’m only human, and besides no one uses the interwebs on Christmas to read someone’s crazy-ass blog right?

‘Zackly!

But yeah, I have no idea where the hell to start writing about the last two days. The Christmas Eve party was quaint, but sadly there weren’t anywhere near as many young people there as I’d hoped, but the food was excellent and the wine was delicious.

J-Rab had to work for an hour yesterday, on Christmas morning which wasn’t ideal, but gave me just enough time to straighten the flat out, get some food and fry up a really killer Christmas breakfast of bacon, toast, fried eggs, fried tomatoes and basil and champagne and orange juice. J-Rab was suitably impressed but more than anything just wanted to open presents.

She spoilt the hell out of me, three new T-shirts, an electric toothbrush (my last one was possessed by a demonic spirit and would just switch itself on at 3 in the morning and not go off until the battery was completely flat, no shit) and most importantly, the 2GB iPod shuffle so I don’t have to listen to the techno remixes of ‘Castles in the sky’, ‘Like the Deserts Miss The Rain’ and ‘What is love? (Baby don’t hurt me)’ the next time I’m at gym.

I got her a garnet necklace and earrings that go well with her fiery auburn hair and I chose all my mom’s presents for J-Rab, so two new tops and the sexiest bikini you ever did see, hoo-wee!

After opening all our presents we headed to my dad’s house, opened more presents, swam and stuffed our faces with more delicious ham, potato bake, salad and Christmas pudding. And then! We napped, and it was good.

After we woke up, we headed over to War’s apartment in the early evening where his brothers Peggles, Wopna and Skatter and their significant others were rocking out with a cooler-box full of drinks and Guitar Hero Metallica.

It was an evening of much revelry. There were shots of Jagermeister, there were conversations had and clean forgotten and the opposite, a few conversations we wish we could forget. A tiny toy pom involved and stepped on once, and all the time, Metallica melted our faces off from a TV that was emitting enough heat to fry an egg on.

Also, you’ll be happy to know that I destroyed EVERYONE at Guitar Hero.

‘Fuck you!’ people said, ‘it’s only cause you play guitar in real life.’

‘Well, there’s the secret to it right there then, isn’t it?’ Haha, dumbasses.

What a fucking amazing game. I think I dreamed in Guitar Hero fret boards with coloured circles floating down them and me nailing them! Every one of them!

And it all started when the Japs (I think it was?) invented this massively overhyped coin-op game they called Dance Dance Revolution, who would have thunk it? All these years down the line it’s spawned Guitar Hero, possibly the most badass game ever created.

My crowning achievement was nailing the Metallica classic ‘One’ on medium with a tidy 71%. Sure, there are thousands of people out there who could kill a score like that without even breaking a sweat, but they’d need at least 4 or 5 practice runs – I did that by literally just picking up the guitar and playing the song.

All I can say is that when the solo for ‘One’ breaks, it really does feel like you’re at war. My nerves were shot to shit when I put the guitar down, it was the best gaming experience I’ve had in years, fuck yeah!

Today has been really chilled so far, poor J-Rab is back at work for an hour (for the emergency animals that need to be admitted), but before that we had lunch in Greenside at Mama Themba’s with the unwashed masses and as usual we weren’t blown away by the food, but hey, it was edible at least.

All I know for sure is that I’ve got a craving for sushi that is driving me nuts and I really wouldn’t mind curling up with a few DVDs tonight.

BUT… a man makes his way here as I write this. He’s crossed many miles of ocean to reach us and return a hero. Today he was supposed to make contact…

Excitin’ times ;)

-ST

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slicktiger — Sun, 27 Dec 2009 15:13:07 +0000

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slicktiger — Sun, 27 Dec 2009 15:13:40 +0000

How to listen to the White Stripes

slicktiger — Sun, 27 Dec 2009 15:13:42 +0000

Buy every album they’ve ever recorded (which, in chronological order are: ‘The White Stripes’, ‘De Stijl’, ‘White Blood Cells’, ‘Elephant’, ‘Get Behind Me Satan’ and ‘Icky Thump’), throw them all into a playlist and play on shuffle for an hour.

People are so bitchy about them, but The White Stripes are a great band. There’s enough variation in the music they write to keep their sound interesting, and Jack White’s lyrics are a cool combination of insightfulness and inanity.

I’m kicking back with some White Stripes now spending the day swimming, eating mind blowingly good couscous salad (with bacon in there, avo, feta, rocket, chopped butter lettuce, salad dressing and baby Italian plum tomatoes), tidying the flat and playing Torchlight.

It’s the first day that’s actually felt like a holiday since I went on leave on Wednesday.

The weather has been better than perfect. Not a cloud in the sky or a breeze on the wind. Warm and bright and it feels good that J-Rab and I spent the day outside enjoying it and not cramped up inside like we do sometimes.

Tonight I’m thinking of going bowling. In the words of the Great Lebowski. ‘Fuck it dude, let’s go bowling.’

Later masturbators.

-ST

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slicktiger — Mon, 28 Dec 2009 09:17:46 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 28 Dec 2009 09:18:02 +0000

When you catch a Tiger by the tail, don’t fail…

slicktiger — Mon, 28 Dec 2009 09:18:04 +0000

There’s no way I would usually do this, but I’m bored and I feel like pulling the legs off insects for awhile.

So I wake up to this shitty, grey, cold ‘summer’ day, shuffle into the lounge, boil up some coffee, the landlord calls and says he’s coming over to do something or other in the bathroom, fine with me, I have no plans.

Then I open up my gmail and find that another douche has commented on my Killers Review (posted here and on the Moral Fibre site) and broken the previous douche’s record for ‘latest comment after nobody gives a fuck’ by, wait for it, 15 days!

In total this guy clocked in at 20 days after Vince posted my review, I think that deserves some kind of award in itself, but wait, it gets way, waaaayyy better.

This is the comment he posted:

Author: yousuf
Comment:
MAYBE you're stupid or maybe you're just a paper Victim.
at any rate.
i can't sit here and not reply to your travesty of justice which you call a review so here's my opinion on your opinion.
ok before anything else let me just like agree with you on one thing: south african radio stations are shite. they stick to Human and like a couple of other tracks. Lol alright anyway

it's quite the generalisation to say that s.a. audiences suck. you're alas mistaken in that regard. i was standing about 5 metres from dave keuning and the collection of people around me, ranging from some random oldish people to like 12 year old girls, Everrrrybody was rocking out and knew most of the songs. perhaps you were just amongst the ones who didnt know much about the killers but then again, you know what they say about birds of a feather. :)

it may be, as you so cutely declare, "a fucking rock concert" but that doesn't mean you can just push people around to get to a better spot. if you actually perhaps maybeeee just gave a damn about the killers you would have arrived earlier to get a good spot?

then you say that they played "two totally obscure" tracks. slicktiger. "BLING" is not obscure but then again you don't know much about the killers it appears, unless im mistaken, of course. but that doesn't happen often. the second of the supposedly obscure tracks was Shadowplay - alright i guess this is somewhat off since it's just a cover by the killers but anyway it's a decent song, though far from the top of my list.

and actually they did leave out a few important tracks.. i.e. the rest of the murder trilogy and also glam indie rock n roll would've been good

THEY DID NOT BUTCHER 'SMILE LIKE YOU MEAN IT'. the version they did was bloody brilliant with ray on violin..like better than the original. gosh.

and then just when i was hoping you were going to spare yourself the embarrassment of continuing, you went to that place. by 'that place', i mean. saying. that. brandon. makes. the killers. UR SO STUPID HONESTLY. HAVE YOU NOT HEARD OF "BLUSH RESPONSE"? let me enlighten you. it's the band monsieur flowers was in pre- The Killers. and so judgin by what you said, one would think "blush response" sounds the same as "the killers". but guesssssssss what sunshineeeee.. it doesntttttttt... hence. ur wrong. Lol

lol just an aside: "you heard it hear first"..? haha dude the rumour of brandon's solo career has been goin around for at least a year. so like. dont steal somebody else's opinion n try to pass it off as ur own Lol

dude lol if s.a. audiences are so shite, why was it that brandon had to raise his voice to be heard over the shouting fans? and like. why did he refer to the audience as having "such beautiful voices". do you know what i think? i think your head was too far up your arse to notice much. that's what i think.

oh oh. to end this, let me quote the song you say means a lot to you:
"Save some face.. you know you've only got one.."

GOODNIGHT. TRAVEL WELL.
:]

What a gem! I was so fucking excited getting this fucking comment I can’t tell you. All I could think reading it was fuck yeah! Them’s fightin’ words.

Let me start by saying yousuf, welcome to the site, hope you like it here, make yourself at home.

Oh, don’t mind the dog, he does that to everyone. BOGART! Down boy! Hahaha, he likes you. Just let him do his thing. Hahaha, good boy Bogart. You want a towel or something?

Anyway, I just wanted to sit down with you, and straighten things out cause I think you’re a swell guy and I think we should be pals.

But first let it just be said that despite whatever rumours you might have heard, I did not finger-bang your mom, or your sister that one time during a shift break they had behind the McDonalds in Alberton.

Those were lies, but I fully understand why you would react so dramatically to my review given that kind of history. I would have done exactly the same thing, maybe not in the same flowery language, but hey, that’s just because you’re still learning to read and that’s cool too.

The point I’m making here yousuf is not to take things too seriously, it’s a sure-fire way to end up alone, trawling the internet for outdated content to shit on in an effort to make yourself feel better about your shitty life.

Attacking someone anonymously over the internet is the most cowardly form of social engagement that exists, besides Facebook-stalking people to try and get a date or resigning from your job over email.

I bow to you, yousuf, and your extensive knowledge of The Killers and look forward to reading your review of the gig, but I’m not holding my breath yousuf, because you and I both know you don’t have the stones to be any kind of writer.

So how about this – you stick to sitting on your ass, jacking off and playing World Of Warcraft and mind your own fucking business and I’ll stick to the job of writing whatever the fuck I want, whenever the fuck I want.

Don’t let the door hit ya where the dog jizzed down your pant leg.

-ST

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slicktiger — Tue, 29 Dec 2009 20:20:36 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 29 Dec 2009 20:21:19 +0000

This day can be summed up in a mere spattering of words

slicktiger — Tue, 29 Dec 2009 20:21:22 +0000

Ok, ready?

Here is today: wake up, watch Drag me to Hell with Action Jackson, get my ass handed to me in Smackdown vs Raw on the Xbox by Action Jackson, swim some, J-Rab comes home from work, I return the DVDs (we also hired The Boat That Rocked) and we make supper.

Guys, I’m not going to lie to you, nothing happened today. I made some headway on a script I’m working on, that’s about it.

BUT if you wanna know what I think about the two movies I saw, we can definitely go there:

The Boat That Rocked

A bunch of loud and unruly middle-aged dudes broadcast rock and pop from a boat anchored off England’s shores while the authorities try and shut them down. It’s a load of dung. If you’ve seen it, maybe you can help me with a few questions I have.

1. Why the fuck did they include the scene where the young guy on the ship nearly shags the chick the fat guy has waiting in the dark for him? How did that add to the story? Not at all as far as I could tell.

2. Why the fuck did they include the entire bit about Simple Simon getting married, then the two guys trying to out-chicken one another and eventually jumping off the masthead into the ocean? How did that add to the story? Another spectacular fail.

3. What was the story about? It sits squarely on the fence between a coming of age theme and the whole rebellious rock and roll theme (perpetuated by a cast of dudes who, like I said, are old enough to be your dad, what the fuck?)

4. What the hell did the young guy do on the ship besides just goof off with the other losers on the ship?

5. Why the hell was the young dude so happy to get back with his love interest after she arrived on the ship and shagged the fat guy instead of the young dude because he took too long to get a condom? What a dirty little whore, I wouldn’t fucking want her after that.

6. Why were the bad guys so utterly ineffective and unthreatening in every way? They do two things throughout the movie to try and stop the good guys, the first is countered by the good guys instantly and proves totally ineffective and the second shuts down their whole operation.

I dunno. It felt lazy, it felt sloppy. If you liked this movie, I want you to watch the scene where the young guy sits down with the weather and news reader and the totally random other guy after the young guy has just walked in on the chick he was going to sleep with in bed with the fat guy.

Watch that scene and tell me what you saw, cause all I saw was a buncha total losers dunking biscuits in each other’s tea, eating the biscuits with naughty grins on their faces in a kind of ‘cheer up mate’ scene with not a word of dialogue.

Cringe-worthy.

Drag Me To Hell

Now this was an interesting movie, I’d recommend watching it if you’re a horror fan, but just be warned, the lead actress in it gets a LOT of shit in her mouth. Eyeballs, insects that get puked all over her, embalming fluid, fuck, you name it, she takes it right in the mouth.

Sam Raimi (director of Evil Dead and Spiderman) wrote and directed it and I really like the way he builds tension in the movie. It’s brilliant because his script is nice and lean and you know when everything’s going well and it’s all smiles and ‘Yay it’s over’ that it’s not fucking over and something even worse is just around the corner.

Now I’m indulging in a little more chillin to the max and then bedtime. Big day tomorrow. No idea why.

Later party people.

-ST

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slicktiger — Wed, 30 Dec 2009 19:33:40 +0000

A Horse With No Name

slicktiger — Wed, 30 Dec 2009 19:33:45 +0000

Maybe you exercise a lot, specifically cardio exercise, or maybe you’re just a person who lives in a lot of pain, I’ve experienced both and what I always found weird about going through a lot of physical pain is that the most random song starts playing in my mind on infinite repeat.

When I woke up from surgery this one time, it was that fucking America song ‘A Horse With No Name’. I swear to god that fucking song played in my mind over and over and over again until I wanted to scream.

For years afterward that song creeped me the fuck out. If I heard it anywhere my eyes would glaze over instantly and I’d be back in high care, grinding my way through it all. It’s not the pain that eats you up, it’s the helplessness.

Now I love that song because it has a special meaning for me. That desert is my desert, that horse with no name, I’ve named it a thousand times.

Isn’t it strange how dearly you learn to love the things that fucked you up the most?

-ST

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slicktiger — Thu, 31 Dec 2009 14:36:03 +0000

Goodbye 2009

slicktiger — Thu, 31 Dec 2009 14:36:10 +0000

I can never fucking remember which way around it goes. I mean, there was probably a time when I used to know this shit, and that’s probably why it stuck, but lately, man, who the fuck knows?

The idea is that you’re either an even year kinda person or an odd year kinda person. In other words, you either have good even years or you have good odd years.

When my buddy Stikey first told me this it had a great and terrible significance in my life. I remember at that point in my life (nearly 3 years ago) it all made sense, I could trace all the tragedies in my life back to even years and all the triumphs back to odd years, or was it the other way around?

I don’t fucking know.

All I know is that with each passing year the calendar of your life gets pockmarked with another tragedy or punctuated by another triumph and I guess after enough time, who can remember which years the big ones land on?

Also, who knows the significance of a triumph or tragedies until years and sometimes decades after they have passed?

I don’t fucking know. At times I like to think I know a thing or two about this life, but when I think carefully about that idea, I realise I know very close to fuck all about fuck all.

I wish I could make you smile one last time for 2009 and write a great blog post and a heartfelt send-off for 2009, but I can’t.

Sure, maybe it’s been a shitty year. Maybe that’s the big problem I’m having, trying to look back on a year that had more negative aspects than positive ones and trying to find the brightside.

And no, I’m not talking ‘I’m Mr Brightside’, I’m talking ‘Always look on the bright side of your life’, there’s a difference.

I’ll say this though. Thank you. From the bottom of my black heart, for reading this blog, you don’t know what it means to me.

I never understood how a world so full of people could be such a lonely place, but because of this blog and you reading it, my world at least, feels that much less lonely.

I hope 2010 brings you happiness, health and wealth. I hope it’s everything you could wish for and more than that.

Your buddy ‘ol pal,

-ST:)

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slicktiger — Fri, 01 Jan 2010 19:20:47 +0000

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slicktiger — Fri, 01 Jan 2010 19:23:39 +0000

2010 And All Is Quiet

slicktiger — Fri, 01 Jan 2010 19:23:43 +0000

Guys, good news. I’m still alive and I’m proud of that fact because man-o-man, I felt rough as an ogre’s ass this morning.

Never again right? Hells no. Yesterday started out pretty calm and breezy but very quickly started spinning out of control.

It was late afternoon when the first few beers of the evening were cracked open here at our flat. Action Jackson and his buddy Q came over. I found J-Rab’s camera and got all creative with the following incredible result:

Then J-Rab and I did the cute, coupley thing where you take about 50 pictures of the two of you trying to get the perfect one while everyone else in the room vomits a little into their mouths.

The best part of the day though was the fact that my good buddy from highschool, Van Barman, was down here (across here?) from Puerto Rico, where he works as a rescue swimmer with the US Coast Guard.

I always respected him for that and always will. He jumps out of fucking helicopters into oceans that are sometimes rough as hell and saves people’s lives.

He makes a real difference in the world. He also gets to live in a tropical paradise, and from the pics he’s sent us I can tell you there’s nothing fucking wrong with that at all.

We headed up to our pool / braai area for a swim, but only Barman and I jumped in, everyone else was lame. It was a beautiful afternoon though, just the six of us up there while the sun set slowly, one last time for 2009.

From there, our merry little band of drunkards headed back to the flat and continued boogying on down, only Barman and his GF (pictured above) had a family dinner and had to leave, only to be replaced by Johnny D, another good highschool friend I haven’t seen in years.

We hit the liquor store just before it closed and I bought a gigantic bottle of champers to fire off at midnight. It’s not New Year’s unless some douche is shooting a bottle of champers like a shotgun, and I figured that douche might as well be me.

Back at HQ, we decided to lay a whole bunch of blankets out in the parking lot so we’d have a good view of the moon for the eclipse that was going down. Last night was not only a full moon, but it was also a blue moon (ie. the second full moon in one month) AND an eclipse.

I was stoked! Also, I was 100% convinced by superpowers were going to kick in the second that eclipse hit, fuck yeah! And so we lay on our blankets, drank, talked a load of shit and waited. And waited. And waited. And waited some more.

Finally, after about an hour, here’s what we saw:

Moments later I got a call from Barman cause his dinner thing had ended and I went to pick his ass up and kick things up another notch.

From there on in, it gets a little blurry. There was Jagermeister guys, there was whisky, there was red wine, there was brandy and coke. There were great conversations, life changing shit was discussed, I just can’t really remember whats.

We decided to head up to the pool again to ring in the New Year and I became fanatically obsessed with the sparklers J-Rab brought out and insisted that I light mine before New Years and then promptly dropped it in the pool.

When the countdown came around I was ready for it though and had my bottle of champers in hand to fire it off triumphantly as the countdown hit 5… 4… 3… 2… 1…

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Pow! Off went the cork, my timing was immaculate, which was pretty surprising considering the fine form I was in.

Um, yeah. I’m sorry you had to see that.

Personally, I don’t remember that photo being taken, but it goes a long way to explaining why I felt like eating a 9mil for breakfast this morning.

Good times :)

Of course, everything ended in tears. I’m not sure if I’m just really acting well in this pic or if I did indeed suffer some kind of emotional breakdown. It’s quite possible that the awesomeness of the day was just too much for me to handle.

Good thing my old buddy Barman was there so pull me back together.

I don’t know what time it was when it all ended, but I think we were all more than ready to pack it up, pack it in by the end of it.

I was a good party. Good times were had, and I feel ready for 2010. I sure as hell didn’t this morning, but I do now. I bested my hangover, I came out tops, nothing can stop me.

Me and my lady spent most of today sleeping. It started out all sunny, but turned black and rainy just after lunchtime.

Now it’s drizzling lightly outside, we’re listening to The Dave Matthew’s Band and J-Rab’s curled up with The Persimmon Tree by Bryce Courtney.

Me, I’ve got a hankering for ice cream so I’m gonna wrap this up. Tomorrow I might actually get around to overhauling this site a little, but I won’t make any promises on that front.

Let’s just take it as it comes. I got 2 days left of holidays.

It’s gone by too fast, don’t you think? Let’s not go back to work on Monday! We can pull a sickie and stay home and watch DVDs, it’ll be awesome!

Fahk! I come up with THE BEST ideas sometimes!

Later masturbators, happy New Year!

-ST

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slicktiger — Sat, 02 Jan 2010 21:57:57 +0000

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slicktiger — Sat, 02 Jan 2010 21:58:31 +0000

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slicktiger — Sat, 02 Jan 2010 21:58:57 +0000

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slicktiger — Sat, 02 Jan 2010 21:59:29 +0000

Site Overhaul Initiating… beep… fail

slicktiger — Sat, 02 Jan 2010 21:59:34 +0000

Today looked different in my head.

It started with me waking up before 9.30, making a killer breakfast with bacon and eggs and sausages and fried tomatoes and mushrooms cooked slowly in butter, freshly squeezed cold orange juice, toast from homemade bread, more jam than you could shake a stick at.

Can you taste that? Fahk.

After that I was going to take J-Rab somewhere away from here, away from all the cement and asphalt. We were going to drive, far out there and find a place where the two of us could be alone, there would be a river there we could drink out of, we’d spread a blanket out under some trees, pop a bottle of champagne, drink it out of crystal flutes and eat expensive sandwiches, the ones from Woolies.

We’d look up at the sky through the leaves and see big ‘ol lazy birds circling overhead, riding thermals for kicks.

We’d drive back home just before sunset, the warm feeling of the sun still on our skin, and we’d be happy, our heads fuzzy from the champagne, and we would want nothing, nothing else from this life except for everything we had already.

It would be raining as we fell asleep.

Instead we got up sometime after 10 and tidied the flat until 2. We went to Sandton City, I exchanged a shirt J-Rab got me for a better one and we came back home.

And all the while, these dreams kept coming back to me from last night. In one I was preparing for war, and when it broke I was unstoppable. They sent me in there armed with a giant machete, and I hacked the shit out of anything in my path. Problem was, it was my own ranks I was hacking my way through.

Bummer.

In another dream I dreamed this girl I know appeared in Playboy magazine and had a horizontal instead of vertical vagina. As in, not up and down but left to right. Freud would love me.

Then my brother called from Australia where he’s just moved and we talked for about an hour. It was good to make contact again, I think it’s been about 6 months or more since we spoke last. He’s a good man, my brother and he’s living a good life over in Oz. I really hope I can visit him sometime soon.

My day got better from that point and the evening has been pretty damn awesome. J-Rab cooked us up an amazing stir-fry and I rented the new Star Trek movie to watch, which I really, really enjoyed and I would encourage everyone to watch, doesn’t matter if you’re a sci-fi freak or not, it’s a great action movie and the script is rock solid.

Now I’m watching Alexander on E-TV and thinking man-o-man Rosario Dawson has a great rack, it’s pretty much the best thing about the entire movie. Something about Colin Farrell makes me want to punch him in the face when I see him in some movies, same is true for Jared Leto (yet another reason why I fucking love Fight Club. What Edward Norton does to Leto’s face in that movie? Yeah, I’ve wanted to do that for years).

But anyway, the overhaul of this site never happened. I’m sorry. I know you’re heartbroken. Please, let me make it up to you with this great pic of Rosario Dawson I just found…

All good? Great :)

I will say one thing about today though, it may not have started like I wanted it to, but it’s raining slow and heavy outside, so at least it’s going to end the way I hoped it would.

Ain’t that wonder ;)

-ST

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slicktiger — Sat, 02 Jan 2010 22:14:34 +0000

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slicktiger — Sun, 03 Jan 2010 17:13:42 +0000

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slicktiger — Sun, 03 Jan 2010 17:14:08 +0000

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slicktiger — Sun, 03 Jan 2010 17:14:29 +0000

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slicktiger — Sun, 03 Jan 2010 17:16:06 +0000

Site Overhaul 50% complete

slicktiger — Sun, 03 Jan 2010 17:16:11 +0000

Check out the amazingness of this guys – the site overhaul is 50% complete! On the right you’ll see a number of new things have been added, namely a ‘SEARCH’ bar, where you can search Them’s Fightin’ Words for your favourite posts to show to your friends and loved ones (and be the envy of them all).

OR you can just type a random phrase in to read my opinion of that particular topic, like ‘The Cuban Missile Crisis’ for example (um, yeah, don’t type that, it was just an example).

But that’s not all! There’s also now a new section called ‘TOP 10 POSTS’ also on the right where you can check out all the site’s most badass posts according to how many times they’ve been viewed.

You’ll find some classics in there, like the controversial 'Death By Ayoba’ post and my killer album reviews.

I mean seriously, how fucking rad is that?! This site is MUCH better now!

I wanted to add other stuff too, like a ‘Tweet This’ button after my posts but I couldn’t figure out how to get it working after I downloaded it :P

I’m no techno-genius. I’m more of a Snake Plissken kinda dude. Ever see that movie Escape From LA? At the end of that, Snake (played by Kurt Russell) detonates this massive electro-magnetic pulse that fries every piece of electrical equipment on the face of earth and basically plunges us all back into the dark ages.

That would be rad. People would run riot in the streets. There’d be no choice but to arm yourself to the teeth, band together with whatever friends and family you could find and fight tooth and nail to survive.

Actually wait, maybe that would be crap…

I wanted to add a whole bunch of other pages to the site too, not just the ‘About’ page, but I need to think carefully about how I want the site navigation to work before I go there and possibly buy and customise my own theme for the site.

Any web developers out there with some spare time on their hands? I’ll take it off your hands for you, no worries, but please note I charge an hourly fee for such services. I’m open to negotiation though ;)

Otherwise we spent most of today making sushi in an effort to not to get too depressed about going back to work tomorrow. I tried my hand at making rainbow rolls and wow! They were TERRIBLE! J-Rab’s were way, way better, partly because she’s more meticulous with her sushi than I am, but also because she actually remembered to roll both the salmon AND the avo on the outside, instead of just the avo.

Duuhhh Slick.

But now the sushi-making is over and the pre-work depression has hit home hard. I love my job and the people I work with, but man-o-man, I don’t wanna go back to work, I just wanna stay here and hang out with you guys.

The whole day’s been grey and rainy and sad songs keep playing on J-Rab’s iPod which isn’t helping.

Tomorrow we join the traffic. Tomorrow our inboxes govern our lives once again. Tomorrow we lift the yoke of modern life again and we beat on, boats against the current…

The good news though is that Random Cat came back to our flat today. Good ol’ Random Cat hasn’t come for a visit for at least a month, but is now comfortably resting on the big couch with that lazy cat look in her eyes that tells me she’s probably going to sleep soon.

If you live a great life, you come back as a domestic cat that gets fed and pampered and has a big garden to explore and play in with your other kitteh-pals.

If you live a shitty life, you come back as a caged tiger and you dream of jungles and hunting all day, but are kept in a tiny enclosure and fed horse meat while kids throw pinecones at you endlessly.

Well, not this tiger. They had no idea what they were dealing with when they built the walls around me and by my guess, they’re more than a couple of feet short.

On three guys.

One…

Two…

;)

-ST

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slicktiger — Mon, 04 Jan 2010 09:44:35 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 04 Jan 2010 09:46:12 +0000

5 things that going back to work today is better than

slicktiger — Mon, 04 Jan 2010 09:46:15 +0000

If you live in South Africa, specifically Johannesburg, and today is your first day back at work after an amazing and relaxing holiday, please believe me when I say I feel your pain.

To add insult to injury it’s also grey and pissing down with rain here in Joeys. It’s one of those mornings when all you want to do is burrow deep under the blankets and tell the world to fuck right off.

And so I decided to spread a little cheer and write a humorous post on ‘10 things that going back to work today is better than’, but I couldn’t think of that many things. Five is fine – enjoy :)

Thing No. 1 – A Full Frontal Lobotomy

Sure, you may think your job is mind-numbing, but until you’ve had the neural connections severed to and from your prefrontal cortex, you have no idea what mind-numbing truly is.

Lobotomies were a popular way of dealing with loonies in the 1940s and 50s, because basically the procedure turned them from complete maniacs into mindless zombies and therefore made them much easier to control.

Problem was, the procedure was deemed too expensive and needed to be carried out by neurosurgeons, thus making it largely unfeasible in state mental hospitals, where it was needed most.

And so an entirely different kind of lobotomy was devised, whereby the patient’s upper eyelid was lifted and the point of a thin surgical instrument inserted against the top of the eyesocket.

A mallet was then used to drive the instrument through the thin layer of bone behind the eyeball and into the brain where it was swept from side to side, mashing the patients frontal lobe good and proper. This was then repeated in the other eyesocket.

So yeah, work might suck today, but man up! It’s better than having your brains smooshed around like lumpy mashed potatoes. Fact.

Thing No. 2 – Being One Of Frank Zappa’s Children

For the uninitiated, Frank Vincent Zappa was an American songwriter, producer and director who was really, really um, how do I put this? Fucking weird.

The poor dude was quite a sickly child and suffered frequently from asthma, earaches and sinus problems, which his doctor treated by prescribing radium pellets, and no, he didn’t swallow them, he was told to insert a pellet into each nostril and just kinda walk around like that.

Whether or not that lead to his boundless eccentricity remains unknown, but the guy recorded over 50 albums in his brief 52 years on this planet and had a killer sense of humour, which not only extended into his art, but also into the names he gave his four children: Moon Unit (his first daughter), Dweezil (his first son), Ahmet Emuukha Rodan (his second son) and Diva Thin Muffin Pigeen (which I presume was his second daughter)

So yeah, your day today might be sucking, but if your name was Diva Thin Muffin Pigeen, your entire life would suck.

Feeling better yet?

Thing No. 3 – Suffocating in 200 pounds of poop

It is a universal fact that bosses are largely full of shit, but they’re nowhere near as full of shit as, say, a constipated elephant.

This discovery proved to be the last that German zookeeper Friedrich Riesfeldt would ever make after he fed his constipated elephant friend Stephan 22 doses of animal laxative, followed by an entire bushel of high fibre berries, figs and prunes.

Amazingly, this didn’t have any effect on Stephan so Riesfeldt, concerned for the welfare of his elephant pal, then administered an olive oil enema and bada bing, bada bang! Result!

Stephan trumpeted loudly and released 200 pounds of clogged elephant poop like a cannon blast from his rear end, the sheer force of which knocked Riesfeldt to the floor where he was promptly buried alive in the grateful animal’s turd.

Game over. Bleew, bleew, bleeeewwww.

So the next time your boss shits on you, just be glad he’s not an elephant with the business end of his poop chute aimed squarely in your face.

Thing No. 4 – Waking up from a kickass drinking binge to find you’ve been buried alive

How crazy is this – back in the 1500s people used to drink ale and whiskey out of lead cups and the combination of the alcohol and the lead would sometimes knock the imbibers out for a couple of days, during which time their vital signs barely registered.

Typically these people would then be laid out on the kitchen table in their homes for a couple of days during which time the family would gather around and eat and drink and wait and see if they would wake up. Hence the custom of holding a ‘wake’.

At around this time in England they started running out of space to bury people and so they would dig up coffins and reuse the graves, which lead to a startling discovery.

One in twenty-five coffins were found to have scratch marks on the inside of them from people who were being buried alive. One in twenty-five!

How much does that suck? One minute you’re out gettin’ wizasted with your cronies and the next you wake up in a coffin, snug, warm and buried six feet under the earth’s surface.

All the scratching in the world ain’t gonna save you from that.

Thing No. 5 – You could be a barnyard masturbator

Yeah, apparently people like this actually exist. The basic job description is collecting animal semen from various farm animals to help them reproduce.

As a barnyard masturbator your tools of the trade include an electric probing device to stimulate God knows what, fake rubber vaginas and bucket loads of lube.

The plus side of a job this rad is the awesome cocktail-party conversations it would definitely lead to.

‘I’m the head of a successful private banking firm and just bought a 60-ft luxury yacht, anchored off the coast of Barbados, and you?’

‘I jerk animals off.’

‘Hm, you… what?’

‘Sure. I mean there I was, fresh out of highschool, not really knowing what to do with my life when I happened upon a lonely stray dog one day with his lipstick out and one thing kinda lead to another…’

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So there you have it! I hope I’ve made you feel better about your day. Now go do some work, that agitated bull ain’t gonna jerk itself off ;)

-ST

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slicktiger — Tue, 05 Jan 2010 07:18:18 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 05 Jan 2010 07:19:07 +0000

The politics of pulling a sickie

slicktiger — Tue, 05 Jan 2010 07:19:11 +0000

I woke up today opened the curtains and seriously considered drinking a shot of drain cleaner to avoid actually going to work. It’s still grey and rainy in Joburg and lemme tell you, nobody is impressed.

Can we have some sunshine please? Is that too much to ask? It’s supposed to be summer – you call this fucking summer? I want my money back. This is bullshit.

On days like today you wish you’d pulled a sickie, and not just any kind of sickie, I’m talking epic sickie here, I’m talking not getting out of bed until lunchtime sickie, but you didn’t do that did you?

No, you pussied out, and now here you are, reading my blog instead of working and wishing you’d had the stones to pick up the damn phone and, in your best ‘moments away from death’ voice tell your boss, ‘I can’t come to work today, I’m sick.’

‘Well, how sick are you?’ your boss would have asked.

‘Well, I just fucked my sister,’ you’d calmly reply. ‘How sick is that?’

Sorry, I couldn’t resist. I saw the gap and just went for it. This blog in no way endorses sister fucking, we aren’t apes for chrissake.

It’s ok though, I fully understand why you didn’t take this course of action, it’s because we all adhere to a societal contract that binds us to doing all manner of shit we really don’t want to by using the most powerful motivator mankind has ever come up with.

Guilt.

That one small, single syllable word is the lube that greases the system and makes sure we don’t wander too far off the beaten path.

Think about it – the second a co-worker phones in sick, what’s the first thing that goes through your mind? Cause the first thing that goes through mine is ‘Sure, whatever. He’s not sick, the big faker, the big softie, he’s probably already on his third beer by now, screw him!’

And in that way, I keep the cycle alive. Aarrgghh! The irony!

So I say we change our mindsets when it comes to sickies. I say from now on, we applaud co-workers who are very obviously pulling a sickie and we start a culture of caring and understanding that extends so far that ‘not feeling like working’ will eventually be a legitimate excuse for not rocking up at work.

And what a wonderful world that would be :)

Aaaannnyyyyyway, I guess I’d better get some work done.

Take care now. Same time tomorrow? You bet your ass ;)

-ST

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slicktiger — Wed, 06 Jan 2010 07:49:31 +0000

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slicktiger — Wed, 06 Jan 2010 07:50:40 +0000

Album Review: 30 Seconds to Mars - ‘This is War’

slicktiger — Wed, 06 Jan 2010 07:50:44 +0000

I’m all for a little on-stage banter at rock concerts, it’s nice when Mr Big Rich Rockstar acknowledges the thousands of screaming fans that have just financed his new holiday house in the Hamptons, but when Jared Leto opened his mouth to speak (read: swear) between songs at Cokefest 2008, the general consensus was that he really shouldn’t have.

‘Alright all you crazy motherfuckers! I wanna see you fucking crazy motherfuckers fucking jumping up and down and fucking going crazy during this next fucking song, ok? Fuck yeah!’ Sure Jared, whatever. Wipe your face, your eyeliner’s running.

The best part was when he climbed the giant 50ft scaffolding rig on the left hand side of the stage all the way to the top and then, staring out at the Alberton Racetrack declared, ‘You should see how fucking beautiful you all look from up here!’

Me, I got so excited, I couldn’t help but pump my fist in the air while chanting, ‘Die! Die! Die! Die!’

They’re a pretentious band, and why the hell shouldn’t they be? Besides the fact that Mr Leto is every angst-ridden 13 year old girl’s (and in some cases 13 year old boy’s) ‘happy tissue’ fantasy, the band’s second album A Beautiful Lie catapulted them into international stardom almost overnight and was certified as platinum after selling 1 million albums worldwide.

So it’s no wonder that fans and critics alike were keen to sink their teeth into This Is War, which was released in December last year, to see which direction the band would take after the previous album.

Before I launch into this, I think it needs to be said that I never heard their first album and only caught the singles off A Beautiful Lie, so I’m writing this largely from an outsider’s perspective.

So what did I think of the album? Well, if I had to sum it up in a word, sadly that would would be ‘meh’.

The album was produced by Flood (aka Mark Ellis) who has worked with everyone from The Killers to PJ Harvey, The Smashing Pumpkins and more importantly, U2.

I say this because the U2 flavour on this album is undeniably strong. This Is War can best be described as stadium emo at its best. Almost every track is wrought with maudlin emotion and over-sentimentality, punctuated by slow, eerie Depeche Mode synth sections and Leto’s sometimes whispering / sometimes screaming vocals.

The album starts slow with the opening track ‘Escape’ that introduces the two most irritating aspects of this album – the monotonous Tibetan chanting that begins and ends the album and the vocal sections that are sung by a huge crowd of people who sound like they’re mostly made up of prepubescent girls.

‘Night of the Hunter’ however, is a vast improvement. The hard, cascading drum beat and Leto’s rasping, screaming vocals hook you on the first listen and, along with the effects-laden guitar riffs, carry you through all five and a half minutes of sheer emo hedonism.

This segues nicely into ‘Kings and Queens’, which is a surprisingly upbeat, anthemic track with a reverbed guitar riff in the verse that smacks of U2, but keeps the song interesting. On the first listen you may not think much of this track, but it does grow on you in time.

However, from there on in the album starts to miss the mark. The title track, ‘This Is War’ sounds like a rehashed version of ‘From Yesterday’, the acoustic track ‘100 Suns’ starts out well enough, but shoots itself squarely in the foot thanks to the inclusion of the aforementioned faux ‘crowd’ harmonising with Leto’s vocals and clapping at the end of the song, which I can only assume is because at 2 minutes, ‘100 Suns’ is BY FAR the shortest track on the album.

You’ll listen to ‘Hurricane’, ‘Closer To The Edge’ and ‘Search and Destroy’ 20 times and still not remember them, ‘Vox Pupuli’ contains the most cringe-worthy, gag-inducing crowd chanting I’ve ever heard on an album (‘This is a call to arms / Gather soldiers / This is a battle song / Brothers and sisters / Time to go to war’ - bleaugh) and the closing track ‘L490’ is pure filler and nothing else.

Having said that, track 10 (‘Alibi’) offers a nice change of pace and is the only song on the album that comes across as being sincere, thus proving that there might actually be real people underneath all that man-scara.

‘Stranger In A Strange Land’ with the classic lines ‘Enemy of mine / Fuck you like the devil / Violent inside / Beautiful and evil’ is also noteworthy. The dark and heavy bassline is the closest this album comes to being badass and as such, definitely deserves a mention as one of the stronger tracks on the album.

All in all, there is hardly a track off This Is War that can stand up to the singles that came off A Beautiful Lie and unless you’re a die-hard 30STM fan, there’s a good chance this album won’t make much of an impression on you and after 4 or 5 listens you’ll lose it underneath the passenger seat of your car and never find it again.

Call me a cold-hearted bastard but after hearing This Is War a number of times, all I’m left thinking is that maybe it would have been better if Leto had fallen off that scaffolding back in ‘08.

Ouch.

Final Verdict: 5/10

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slicktiger — Thu, 07 Jan 2010 06:24:42 +0000

Goodbye June

slicktiger — Thu, 07 Jan 2010 06:24:45 +0000

I always knew she was coming over to visit because of the dogs she had, these tiny little scruffy things, I’m not sure what breed they were, but she had two and you’d hear their tiny nails scratching as they ran excitedly toward our house in the hope of finding our cat and terrorising it.

The doorbell would sound and June would be standing there with a big smile on her face, a cigarette in her hand and a glass of whisky in the other. She’d be smiling and she’d be in a good mood, always in a good mood, and we’d shoot the breeze and catch up on what I’d been up to while my mom busied herself in the kitchen, making supper and throwing in a random comment into the conversation here and there.

Sometimes she’d stay for supper and have one or two more drinks, she knew how to have a good time and was full of fun and mischief, and more than once, when my mom was trying to give up smoking, June would come over and the two of them would sneak a ciggie like two naughty schoolgirls.

I wrote a post about June last year, halfway through October, and sure, I understand you’re busy and probably just quickly stopped by because it’s become part of your daily routine while your email downloads or while the coffee percolates, but if you have a moment, please read this because it’s the last memory I have of her.

My mom called me in tears yesterday to tell me that June passed away on Tuesday night.

She might have been no one to you, even to me she was never anything more than a good friend of my mom’s and a woman who lived in the same complex, but she was a mother, a sister, an aunt and a damn good friend to a lot of people and I firmly believe that we are all connected to one another in ways we will never know or understand and that if you take a moment to spare a thought for the people that loved June, it will make a difference in their lives.

It was cancer that took her in the end, she underwent extensive chemotherapy to try and beat it, but it didn’t make a scrap of difference and as far as I know she made a decision to end the treatment late last year, because all it was doing was making her feel worse and worse.

I think about that and it scares the hell out of me. I can’t imagine what it must be like to reach that point, to accept the fact that you are never going to get better and that in a matter of months or possibly weeks you are going to close your eyes and never open them again.

These bodies of ours are never truly ours, are they? We loan them from the stars, feed and nourish and hopefully look after them as best we can while we can, but sooner or later we have to give them back.

I wrote this post because I wanted it to be known that June was a good person, one of the few I’ve met in this life, that she lived a good life and that she made this world a better place by being here.

I never got to finish the bottle of Red Breast whiskey with her, but as far as last memories of people go, that evening we spent laughing and enjoying a dram together is definitely one of my favourite.

I’m not a religious person, but I do believe that there is no ultimate end, you don’t just die and that’s it – there is more, much, much more, and just because your path has disappeared, it does not mean that it’s ended.

Wherever June’s path has taken her, I hope it’s perfect there. I hope there’s all the whiskey and cigarettes anyone could ever ask for and that she’s laughing like she always used to and making the people there as happy as she made all of us :)

-ST

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slicktiger — Fri, 08 Jan 2010 08:13:15 +0000

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slicktiger — Fri, 08 Jan 2010 08:13:30 +0000

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slicktiger — Fri, 08 Jan 2010 08:13:44 +0000

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slicktiger — Fri, 08 Jan 2010 08:13:54 +0000

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slicktiger — Fri, 08 Jan 2010 08:14:10 +0000

The Body Corporate Where I Live Are A Bunch Of Fascist Pigs

slicktiger — Fri, 08 Jan 2010 08:14:13 +0000

Fascism, my friends, did not come to an end with the defeat of the Axis Powers at the end of World War II, no. Like a cockroach after nuclear Armageddon, it has come crawling out of the gutters of history and is alive and well and fucking thriving in the complex where I live.

I don’t remember when it all started because there’s a better than average chance that I was drunk at the time, but not long after moving into our complex in Craighall Park, we became aware of a menacing presence residing in the flat behind us in the form of the Chairlady of our Body Corporate, whose name shall remain anonymous (because fuck man, she scares me).

We’ll just call her Beelzebub, that means Satan.

In the two and a half years we’ve lived in our flat we’ve had various altercations with Beelzebub because like many people aged between 20 and 30, we like to party. We like to have friends over, we like listening to music, we like the occasional drinky-poo, is that a crime?

Apparently yes.

The best way I can explain everything that’s happened over the last two years in our flat would be by copy/pasting, this awesome summary of offences that Beelzebub sent our landlords near the end of last year:

Hi (name withheld),

I'm writing to you to request that you address the issue of noise disturbances with your current tenants.       I can't recall exactly when you moved away from Braemore but at that time you let your unit to three, young men.      Shortly after they took occupation, I called on them & provided them with Braemore's Conduct Rules which they acknowledged by signing my copy & I left another copy with them.      For the first few months, they were well behaved & didn't create any disturbances.     However, their behaviour soon changed.    You will recall that I spoke to you about 18 months ago to complain about a party that they held in the flat, which was accompanied by music played at full volume & which continued throughout the night & into the early morning.    On that occasion, I went to unit 32 at around 4.30 in the morning to speak to the occupants about the noise disturbance.       The crowd in the flat were inebriated & I raised my complaint with two of your tenants, whom I recognised from when I delivered the Conduct Rules to them.    Unfortunately, and possibly due to their state of inebriation, they were argumentative & unapologetic.   One of them (The Glaze!) almost shoved his finger in my face.     They continued to disturb the peace on numerous occasions thereafter with noisy parties & often there would be upwards of 20 people in the unit.    Unfortunately, I didn't keep a record of the dates & times but going, forward, I intend to keep a record of every incident.

Two of your three tenants have vacated unit 32 in this year, one of them is (The Glaze!).       Again, I haven't kept a record of when they moved out, but we've had relative peace & quiet for the last few months, until this week on Wednesday & again last evening.

Wednesday, 14 October

At around 10.30pm I went to speak to your tenants about a noise disturbance.   The front & kitchen doors were wide open & the sounds of their yelling & music could be heard from my flat, which is in the block behind them. I was not confrontational at all, I simply asked them to keep the noise levels down & suggested that they close their kitchen door, which they did.   I mentioned to them that it was a week night & some of the residents have to get up early in the morning to get their places of business & it's not acceptable that they should have their sleep disturbed by the inconsiderate behaviour of other occupants.

Friday, 16 October

Just before 11pm last evening, I was again forced to go & speak to your tenants about a noise disturbance.    There were three guys in the lounge & one of them was playing the guitar & singing (shouting?) at the top of his voice (Guitar Jon!).     I think what fuels these noise disturbances, is their intake of alcohol - from the perspective of my personal observation, it seemed that they weren't exactly sober.    To their credit, I must say that they apologised & were quiet after that.

I'm attaching another copy of the Braemore Conduct Rules & specifically draw your attention to Conduct Rules 17 and 18.      Each one of your current tenants must sign the Conduct Rules, acknowledging that they understand the rules & are prepared to abide by them.     I must also point out that the other occupants in that block - from units 31 to 36, all fall into the age group 20 to 30 & none of them cause disturbances.    Therefore, if your tenants raise their youth in defence of their behaviour (as I suspect they will), you may just point this out to them.     If your tenants are unwilling to abide by the Conduct Rules, which are in place to ensure that the rights of other occupants are observed & respected, then perhaps they should consider living somewhere else.

Kind regards,

BEELZEBUB (HAIL SATAN!)

What a load!

I know people that are a million times worse tenants than we are. I knew these guys back at varsity that lived in a digs aptly named ‘Mordor’, who threw a ‘bring something to burn’ house party at the end of our third year there and ho-lee fuckballs, you should have seen the resulting chaos.

Because a lot of the kids I was at varsity with had more money than they knew what to do with and were too lazy to sell their furniture at the end of the year, I watched in total disbelief as the following items were tossed into the bonfire they started on their lawn:

2 x wooden bedframes
1 x old queen sized mattress
2 x TVs
1 x CRT computer monitor
2 x vacuum cleaners
2 x single couches
1 x double couch
1 x wooden door (ripped off the hinges from a bedroom inside Mordor)
And my personal favourite:
1 x 2-man fibreglass canoe

The resulting ‘fire’ if it can be called that, was so unbelievably MASSIVE that it actually felt like a small sun had come blazing through the cosmos and crashed in the back lawn of Mordor. You could tell who was at the party the next day because their eyebrows and lashes were singed from the heat, I shit you not.

The fire melted the gutters off the roof, cracked every window down the one side of the house, and burst the piping coming out of the geyser.

Now THAT’S what I call disturbing the peace.

So anyway, I come home from work yesterday, and there’s a letter from the Body Corporate under our door expressing intense dismay because of the fact that some jerkwad keeps taking the creepy out the pool and leaving it disconnected in the sun.

Granted, that’s a pretty dumbass thing to do, but Beelzebub and her committee’s reaction is nothing short of completely retarded.

Did they send a letter to everyone asking them not to take the creepy out of the pool or further action will be taken? No, they didn’t do that. Instead they are now permanently locking the gate to the pool area and making everyone sign a register with the security guard at the front gate every time they want to take a dip in the pool.

Added to that, if you are caught tampering with the creepy in any way, they reserve the right to slap a R500 fine on your ass right there and then, no questions asked.

Those fascist fucks! THEM’S fightin’ words!

I can’t tell you how tempted I am to take drastic action in the face of this abhorrent abuse of our basic human rights to enjoy a dip in the pool on a hot summer’s day. What the fuck?! People have fought and died for the ideals of democracy and freedom, which are founded on the basic premise that we should have have some kind of influence, no matter how big or small, over the decisions that are made by the leaders of our country, our province and our body corporate.

So I need your help. Here is a list of all the actions I’ve thought of taking in the face of this blatant fascism, which one(s) should I do?

1. Fill the pool with cement. That’ll show those fuckers. I’ll sneak in at 3am with 10 bags of PPC and get pourin’, then NOBODY will EVER fuck with the creepy because well, they’ll need a jackhammer to get at it.

2. Kidnap the creepy and hold it for ransom. Another stroke of ironic genius. Also, I’ve always thought it would be rad to make one of those ransom notes out of cut out magazine letters whilst wearing rubber gloves in a dimly lit room. We’ll send the ransom note with a list of our demands and pics of the creepy lying naked and exposed in the midday sun. Evil, yes. Effective, you bet your ass.

3. Write a letter, copy it 40 times and slip under everyone’s door (except Beelzebub’s) giving detailed instructions, with illustrations, explaining how to safely climb OVER the 3ft gate that they’re planning on locking. To add insult to injury, the letter will also encourage everyone to swim naked. Let’s see them try and kick our asses out THEN.

4. Throw another party. You’re all invited.

The gauntlet has been thrown down people. I didn’t start this, THEY did, and unfortunately, they fucked with THE WRONG MEXICAN.

Hasta la victoria siempre!

-ST

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slicktiger — Fri, 08 Jan 2010 08:20:45 +0000

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slicktiger — Sat, 09 Jan 2010 11:55:04 +0000

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slicktiger — Sat, 09 Jan 2010 11:55:22 +0000

The Saturday Post: 9 Jan ‘10

slicktiger — Sat, 09 Jan 2010 11:55:25 +0000

I’m gonna keep this one short and sweet guys, there’s a whole bunch of stuff we need to get sorted today and I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but I’d rather spend the rest of today with my lady than bashing out another epic post.

All the posts this week have actually been pretty epic. Life just seems really full at the moment, I don’t know if you’re feeling it to, but there’s a buzz in the air this year that I swear is so tangible it feels like my skin is sparking with electricity.

Of course, that could also be because I’m tearing through the gym these days like a loose propeller. We’re only 9 days into the year and I’ve already clocked 4 sessions. Admittedly, for the first two I was embarrassingly sweaty and red-faced, but once those were out the way, session 3 and 4 already felt better.

I’m lucky to come from a lean gene pool – there is no history of obesity in either my mom or my dad’s side of the family, and as such, I have the metabolism of a race horse. Of course, given another 4 or 5 years I’m sure this will change, but that doesn’t bother me.

Gym is really funny though. I watch other guys in the gym who go wearing their designer Body In Motion gear with all the latest gym accessories money can buy, run for a bit on the treadmill, do a few sets on the machines and go home without breaking a sweat, and I think to myself, Why bother?

I go in loose fitting faded shirts, brown shorts and old Nike shoes, I do cardio until my heart feels like it’s going to explode, catch my breath, and then hit the machines and free weights, working steadily toward that killer burn you start to feel in your muscles that sends endorphins flooding like a capsized oil tanker into your blood.

And then I go back and do it all over again. I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again, I’m a sucker for punishment.

My goal is 4 sessions a week, every week of this year. If I maintain that and try keep the binge drinking to a minimum, by December I’ll be a fucking MACHINE.

And yes, THEM’S fightin’ words ;)

-ST

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slicktiger — Sun, 10 Jan 2010 16:27:36 +0000

There is no post today

slicktiger — Sun, 10 Jan 2010 16:27:39 +0000

There is no post today. Don’t come here all expectant, looking for something significant, something that will make you laugh, something that one day you can tell your kids about, because you won’t find it.

The post that was supposed to be here up and left, no goodbye note, no forwarding address, no explanation. It was here the one minute, and the next, it was smoke.

There are other posts out there, millions upon millions, written by other people, fine people and people you can admire and say ‘I’m proud of him. He did everything I wished he would do, he grew up into a great person and made all the right choices in his life and I couldn’t be happier with the direction his life has taken. What a great guy. What a winner. His haircut is the best. He dresses well. He says everything perfectly at the right time, always. He will look after us… he will look after us…’

Don’t come here for that guy. The guy here isn’t that guy. The guy here is bent and a million different kinds of fucked up and if you don’t believe me, just ask people for chrissake, they’ll tell you. They’ll tell you straight up to weave a circle round him thrice and close your eyes with holy dread, with holy dread, for he on honeydew hath fed.

And drank the milk of paradise.

There is no post today, be glad of that, because if there was one it wouldn’t be friendly and curl up in your lap and keep you warm while it dozed contentedly, no.

It would bite you if there was a post here, with dirty teeth, and you wouldn’t leave feeling happy, you would leave feeling hurt.

There is no post today, but the authorities are on their way to kill whatever has taken it’s place, the rough beast that slouches, growling, slavering here in the dark.

For your sake, and mine, let’s hope they bring the big guns and don’t stop until whatever is here is sprayed in wet, red chunks all over the walls.

Here’s hopin’.

-ST

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slicktiger — Mon, 11 Jan 2010 06:16:27 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 11 Jan 2010 06:16:48 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 11 Jan 2010 06:17:07 +0000

I have all the answers

slicktiger — Mon, 11 Jan 2010 06:17:10 +0000

Guys, I have some really great news that I’d like to share with you that I think is going to really brighten up this dreary Monday, are you ready for it? Awesome, here it comes.

I have all the answers. It happened to me completely by chance, much like being bitten by a radioactive spider or getting bombarded with gamma rays. There I was, sitting at the traffic light outside our complex, waiting for it to turn green when suddenly, out of nowhere, this heavenly light started shining down on me.

I turned toward the light, and standing right there was this guy handing out pamphlets. Now usually I wouldn’t accept pamphlets handed out at the traffic light by complete strangers, but like I said, there was something about this guy, some kind of invisible force that was radiating from his core that said to me, plain as day, ‘Taaaakkkkeeeee a pamphlet, taaaaaakkkkkeeeee oooooonnnnneeeeeee…’

So I took one. And now, I have all the answers.

If you don’t mind, I’d like to quote the opening paragraph of the pamphlet ad lib, because of its awesomeness:

Prof. Mosh, Hailed As The Herbalist Of The Year In 2005 And 2006 Consecutively. He is an Astrologers, Herbalist, Healer And Researcher. He is the Proud Winner Of The Eastern Africa Herbalist Control Council Award For Life-time Achievement In Astrology And Herbal Healing. He is the current leader of the grand ancestral shrine which has been in existence since 1820 as a source of the most powerful unseen forces. he has solved many mysterious issues by using the invisible powers. He’s regards by many as one of the greatest healer on the planet today.

I couldn’t believe my luck! ‘The greatest healer on the planet today’ practising right here, In Joburg! No. Fucking. Way.

But wait, it gets better. After that comes a list of no less than 19 different superpowers that this guy possesses. Nineteen! Not even Peter Petrelli has that many superpowers, what a legend!

Here are some of the ones that really stood out for me:

1. Read and tell all your problems before you even mention them to him
5. Remove the black spot in your hand that keeps taking your money away
6. Find out why you are not progressing in life and solution
9. Ensure excellent school grades even for children with mental disabilities
10. Bring you to see your enemies and make demands on them using a mirror
14. Heal women problems of barrenness, disturbing menstruation, Abnormally long pregnancies, etc.

How the hell is that?! This guy can do anything guys. I mean, he is the current leader of the grand ancestral shrine, there’s nothing that can stop this dude.

Personally I was blown away by number 5 because I always wandered what the hell that black spot in my hand was all about and now I know, it’s been stealing my money! Naughty black spot!

What’s even better is the paragraph that follows his list of superpowers. I hope you’re sitting down for this.

Prophet Mosh is known to bless, capture, heal, pray and Show your past, future and right friends from just a mirror He has the power to sit on a crocodile & lion skin While floating on water & communicating with the dead

Just read that part again carefully. That’s a whole other level of multitasking. Fuck, I’d pay R200 to see that – sitting on both a crocodile and lion skin while floating on water and communicating with the dead! Ka-Pow! There goes my mind.

Why had I never heard of this guy before? I mean shit, a guy this powerful could have taken over the entire world by now, what a badass!

And all he needs is R200 for a consultation, ‘your surname, date of birth & 1 candle’. A modest fee if I ever heard one.

This is powerful stuff right here guys and so, for a limited time only, I am opening up this site to you, my faithful readers to please (for a negligible admin fee) post your troubles and hardship in the comments section and I will communicate with Prophet Mosh himself, who will in turn communicate with the dead, and bada bing, bada bang, using the invisible powers, we will solve your problems and ensure everlasting happiness and pleasures.

I’m here for you guys. Me and my new buddy, Prophet Mosh, who has offices in ‘North Gate, Coca Cola Doom, Randburg, Malibongwe Drive & Melville Montgomery Park’ (so yeah, add ‘master of cloning himself’ to his list of superpowers) are gonna make your life flippin’ sweet!

Don’t delay! Post your troubles and worries now and by tomorrow, they will all be gone. This is not some ‘Crossing Over With John Edwards’ bullshit that you see on TV, this is the real deal!

I have all the answers guys, and soon you will too.

Easy as pie ;)

-ST

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slicktiger — Tue, 12 Jan 2010 09:20:42 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 12 Jan 2010 09:21:02 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 12 Jan 2010 09:21:39 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 12 Jan 2010 09:22:01 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 12 Jan 2010 09:22:19 +0000

Men, Males and Bitches – The SLickTiger Guide To Guys

slicktiger — Tue, 12 Jan 2010 09:22:22 +0000

If I had a buck for every time I’ve heard men complain about how complicated women are, I swear, I’d be living on a 300ft yacht, anchored off the coast of the Caribbean, sipping expensive champagne and working earnestly on my tan and that novel I’ve been planning.

However, the opposite is also true – men are equally as complicated as women, if not more so in some circumstances.

Gone are the days of our grandparents where there were stringent guidelines in place that dictated the duties and behaviour of men and women in society. These days anything goes which, don’t get me wrong, I think is a great thing, but has sadly also lead to both men and women losing their way and experiencing mounting frustration when it comes to not only figuring the opposite sex out, but figuring themselves out as well.

The changing roles of men and women in this fucked up world is a subject I think about often when I’m people-watching or engaging with people in social circumstances and one that lead me into a conversation about guys with my girlfriend last night where a sudden epiphany struck me.

I believe that the broad category of ‘guys’ can be broken down into three basic sub-categories into which almost any guy you meet will fit perfectly, and those categories are ‘Men’, ‘Males’ and ‘Bitches’.

This lightbulb moment is inspired by nothing more than the observations I have made over the last 26 years of being alive, and spurred on by the fact that I love nothing more than to engage with, observe and try and carefully take people apart to figure out what makes them tick.

So, starting at the bottom of the list, here’s the SlickTiger breakdown of the 3 categories that guys fall into:

BITCHES

The most defining characteristics of this group of guys are a total lack of backbone, an overriding obsession with themselves and an inability to overcome their insecurities.

Bitches are more concerned with their hair, nails, skin, cologne, clothes and shoes than even their own girlfriends are and go to painstaking lengths to ensure they look and smell immaculate at all times, whether they’re going out to a club or driving three blocks to drop off a DVD.

In social situations they have a tendency to be extroverted to a cringe-worthy degree as they vie constantly for the attention of the group and have an irritating laugh that is completely fake and bursts from them like rapid machine gun fire.

Typically they have more girl friends than guy friends because they love to gossip and they make for great companions when it comes to shopping for a new blouse or a killer pair of heels for the girls night you have planned.

At this point I think it needs to be said that Bitches are not necessarily gay. Gay men don’t all just fall into one category, gay guys can be Men, Males or Bitches. The media loves to portray gay men as flamboyant, raging queens, but in the real world this stereotype doesn’t always hold true.

It’s not all bad though, bitches have some redeeming qualities as well – they are completely in touch with their emotions, can often be really funny and, provided they can actually get over themselves, can be surprisingly thoughtful and understanding when life is kicking you in squarely in the guts.

The biggest issue I have with Bitches though is that they have no problem whatsoever with looking you straight in the eye and lying through their teeth. Nothing is ever their fault and they will squirm and wriggle furiously to avoid shouldering the blame for their mistakes.

Many women fall for this type of guy because they find their hundreds of little idiosyncrasies fascinating and cute and, to put it bluntly, on some level they feel sorry for them and want to mother them.

Further down the line though, when it’s crunch time, Bitches will let you down and blame you for their own shortcomings. They are chronically incapable of handling real responsibility or exercising selflessness in any form.

Be careful of making a Bitch your life partner girls. They might seem fun, adorable and interesting at first, but sooner or later you’ll end up screaming the words, ‘Just fucking grow up!’ or, ‘Be a fucking man for once!’ frequently when huge arguments erupt.

Eventually you’ll grow tired of their endless shit and will probably end up moving right along to the next category of guys.

MALES

Males are the most common group of guys you’re likely to come across and can be sub-divided into the categories of ‘Mr Nice Guy’, ie. the first guy to get fucked, but the last guy to get laid (that quote courtesy of The MAEN!) and Mr Asshole ie. the guy that gets laid all the time.

Mr Nice guy gets on with life and is a damn side more reliable and consistent than a Bitch would be. In social situations, they move in groups of two or three and are typically seen huddling in the corner or the nightclub, casting surreptitious glances at the gorgeous women in the room and wishing they had the balls to just go up and talk to them.

The problem with Mr Nice Guy is that he has lost his ability to be assertive and is prone to bouts of low self esteem that manifest in him doing nothing at all.

If Mr Nice Guy is out with his girlfriend and another guy starts hitting on her, Mr Nice Guy will stand aside politely and let the other guy muscle his way in there because another trait of Mr Nice Guy is that he will do almost anything to avoid confrontation.

Like I said though, they’re ok guys, and in many cases actually end up with seriously gorgeous women when they approach their mid thirties because by then a lot of women are ready to settle down with Mr Nice Guy because he’s predictable, easy to control and has usually amassed a small fortune by then by keeping his head down and working like a dog.

Mr Asshole on the other hand get’s more ass than a porta-loo at a rock festival, but this solely to do with the fact that he acts like a complete jerk when it comes to women, because he’s figured out that ironically, the less it appears like you want a woman, the more she will want you in turn.

These Males are your typical beer-swilling jocks that also congregate in groups of three or more and thrill in the fact that they actually know very little about women because for their purposes, they don’t need to.

The problem with these guys is that, while they might be able to get a lot of tail, they can never keep it because they are basically severely underdeveloped emotionally and have a proclivity to cheat on their girlfriends at the drop of a hat.

Males do a lot of damage to women’s perception of men because they lead women to believe that there are only two types of men on this planet – Mr Nice Guy, who is stable, considerate, quiet and unassuming, but ultimately boring and Mr Asshole, who is wild, rough, unpredictable, but ultimately inconsiderate and careless with their lovers, girlfriends and wives.

Which leads me to the final and sadly the rarest type of guy out there.

MEN

There is a type of guy out there who lives his life according to the ideals of honesty, courage and integrity in all situations, who treats all the people he comes across in his life with equal respect and understanding and who has the confidence to be assertive without being arrogant, the intelligence to know when to pick his fights and how hard to fight them and the balls to shoulder the responsibility of his fuck ups and admit when he is wrong.

Being a Man is a lifelong ambition, it’s something guys have to work towards constantly and it’s something that only at the end of his life will a guy ever know if he’s achieved, and it’s for those reasons that real Men are difficult to find.

Men carry themselves with a natural confidence that is not forced or contrived, but rather lies calmly beneath the surface and is so palpable that other people can actually feel it the second a Man walks into the room.

A Man makes it his life’s mission to understand himself and is not afraid to explore every facet of his personality no matter how dark or difficult those roads may be.

Real Men are fascinated by and in awe of women. They recognise the power these beings have over us and are not threatened in any way by that, or afraid to give their hearts to women, no matter how vulnerable that might make them feel.

Men live their lives with a conviction that seldom wavers and a core set of values and ideals for which they are prepared to fight and, in some cases, die in order to uphold.

At the same time though, a true Man also possesses a great sense of humour and an ability to keep smiling though the going might be tough and keep laughing though his heart might be breaking to pieces inside.

Men have the capacity to put other people first and seek to help rather than criticise people weaker than themselves. They are great listeners because they understand that in each person they meet they encounter pieces of themselves and as such are able to understand and tolerate a lot of people that the rest of society deems strange, different or difficult.

Men seldom lose their cool, but when they do, it’s because you have harmed someone close to them, in which case you better run as hard and fast as you can because they will not hesitate to track you down and tear you a new one.

Men respect themselves and their bodies, take pride in their appearance and usually exercise frequently because they enjoy pushing their bodies and minds as far as they can go and breaking through the boundaries that previously defined them.

A large part of a Man’s life is also dedicated to the control and subsequent eradication of fear, because they realise the simple fact that until they do this, they will never be able achieve greatness.

There are guys like this out there, but it is not always apparent at face value which guys have decided to walk the road of Manhood and which are just floundering around with no purpose, drive or vision.

Also, real Men prove themselves through their actions and not their words and this is the single most important thing I would encourage women to do – listen to the things he says and watch the things he does and if the two don’t add up, proceed with caution because there’s a good chance he’s full of shit.

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I hope this has helped in some way. I might be completely off the mark here, and if you have any thoughts on the topic, please feel free to fire away, that’s what the comments section is for :)

-ST

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slicktiger — Wed, 13 Jan 2010 08:06:03 +0000

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slicktiger — Wed, 13 Jan 2010 08:06:18 +0000

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slicktiger — Wed, 13 Jan 2010 08:06:46 +0000

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slicktiger — Wed, 13 Jan 2010 08:07:12 +0000

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slicktiger — Wed, 13 Jan 2010 08:07:33 +0000

The Only Vampire I ever Gave A Shit About

slicktiger — Wed, 13 Jan 2010 08:07:36 +0000

I don’t know what the dealy-o is with vampires right now, but it seems everyone’s going apeshit over them. It’s really fucking lame, and to put it bluntly, more than a little gay if you ask me, especially the Twilight kind of vampire – they sparkle in sunlight? Seriously? And people like this shit?

The Oatmeal’s take on How Twilight Works is probably the best summary of the entire franchise and makes me glad I haven’t wasted any time reading the books or watching the movies.

Maybe I’m missing out, maybe Twilight could have changed my life for the better. For the sake of at least having an informed opinion, I’ve often thought of reading the books or watching the movies, but right as I’m about to do it, this overwhelming feeling of ‘meh’ creeps up on me and I decide to do something else instead, like pluck my nose hairs or make a sammich.

I’ve read a couple of books dealing with Vampires, the most notable of which would probably be the Anne Rice Vampire Chronicles (Interview With A Vampire, Lestat, Queen Of The Damned, Tale Of The Body Thief and Memnoch The Devil) and to be honest, always found the whole vampire genre to actually be a thinly disguised exploration of homosexuality and sexual deviance.

What a load.

BUT, there is one Vampire I really identified with because his story wasn’t a sordid, dressed up sexual fantasy, but rather an awesome exploration into the nature of addiction.

I’m talking about Cassidy from the best goddamn graphic novel series I ever read, The Preacher.

If you’re into really violent and gripping fiction, do yourself a favour and go and buy all of The Preacher series right now, it’s an awesome story about a Preacher from Texas (Jesse Custer) who gets possessed by an entity named Genesis which allows him to command the Word Of God.

It’s a badass superpower – his eyes light up all red and anything he says people obey without question, sometimes with hilarious consequences, like when an entire platoon of army guys are trying to gun Jesse and his girlfriend Tulip down and he turns to them, eyes blazing, and screams ‘Fuck off!’

They immediately drop their weapons and just start running in the opposite direction into the desert, at which point one of them looks nervously at his buddy and says, ‘For how long?’ The implication, of course, is forever.

So what does Mr Custer do with his newfound power? Well, he commands the heavenly host down from the ether and demands to know what has happened and subsequently finds out that the natural order is falling to pieces because God has left his throne and left his creation to go to shit.

Jesse’s mission after that is simple, track God down and kick his ass.

Jesse is a great character because he hardly ever uses his superpower, choosing rather to use his fists to solve the various problems he encounters on his journey. Right in the beginning of the series he meets and befriends Cassidy, who is intrigued by Jesse and decides to join him on his mission.

Cassidy is Irish and is a full-blown alcoholic. He’s an unshaven, charming rogue who never takes his sunglasses off and fucking loves nothing more than getting wasted, getting laid and partying like his life depends on it. He’s a happy-go-lucky kind of dude and from the moment he steps into the story, you can’t help but like him.

Him and Jesse form a close friendship really fast, even though Jesse finds it a little strange that Cassidy sleeps for most of the day under a heavy tarpaulin sheet in the back of Jesse’s truck and basically avoids the sun at all costs.

Then one night the two of them get into a fight with a bunch of rednecks, one of whom plunges a knife into Cassidy’s eye, right through his sunglasses. Instead of reacting, Cassidy just stands there calmly, pulls the knife out, tears the guy’s throat out with his teeth and starts drinking him dry.

I forget exactly what Jesse’s reaction is, but he says something like, ‘Holy shit! You’re a…’

At which point Cassidy lets the guy’s dead body fall to the floor, and, grinning from ear to ear, blood all over his face says, ‘That’s right. The “V” word…’

He’s one of the best characters I’ve ever read. He’s a lousy fighter, but because he’s a vampire, he has super human strength and can heal from any wound, so it doesn’t really matter. In fights he only needs to land one decent punch and his opponent’s bones shatter like glass.

He gets fucked up over and over and over again, but just keeps coming back for more, nothing can stop him. Also, he doesn’t need to drink blood to sustain himself, it just helps him heal faster if he’s been fucked up badly, otherwise he can eat normal food, drink booze, have sex and do everything a normal person does, he just can’t be in the sun too long or he starts to burn up.

However, about halfway through the series Jesse starts meeting characters that know Cassidy and they all start warning Jesse about him, telling Jesse he has no idea who Cassidy really is, what he’s done or what he’s capable of doing and they’re right.

Cassidy is a monster. He was turned back in 1916 and once he found out how powerful he was, he indulged every hedonistic whim that came his way. He dived headfirst into a life of drugs, alcohol, partying and lots of sex, and because he was such a loveable guy, he made a lot of friends and was really popular in the circles he moved in.

Before long, he discovered heroine and encourageed his friends and his lover to do it with him. Over time, it destroys his friends completely, their lives fall to pieces, they become heavily addicted, spurred on by Cassidy’s appetite for the stuff.

Eventually, his friends start dying around him, but he doesn’t give a fuck. He looks like total shit, and at his lowest point, lives in a derelict building, feeding off the rats he finds and prostituting himself on the streets to feed his habit.

He eventually manages to recover from his addiction, but by that time the lives of all the people that were close to him are completely ruined.

Cassidy ends up sleeping with Jesse’s girlfriend after Jesse is thrown from a plane and believed to be dead. Tulip is so distraught, she starts doing sleeping pills and tranquilisers with Cassidy and the two hole them selves up in a motel and live out their days like two junkies, trying to kill the pain of Jesse’s ‘death’.

Cassidy turns out to be the monster everyone said he was because he can’t control his vices and because he lives outside the rules that apply to everyone else. The story does actually have a happy ending, but you’re gonna have to read it yourself to find it out ;)

I think it’s the most accurate depiction of what most people would do if they were ‘turned’. All this nancy Vampire bullshit that seems to be so damn popular in the media right now is a pile of wanky shit if you ask me.

Just read The Preacher. You can thank me later :)

-ST

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slicktiger — Wed, 13 Jan 2010 08:11:11 +0000

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slicktiger — Thu, 14 Jan 2010 08:00:12 +0000

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slicktiger — Thu, 14 Jan 2010 08:00:28 +0000

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slicktiger — Thu, 14 Jan 2010 08:00:55 +0000

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slicktiger — Thu, 14 Jan 2010 08:01:22 +0000

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slicktiger — Thu, 14 Jan 2010 08:01:44 +0000

Bar One Manhunt – Only Cool Because Of Phil

slicktiger — Thu, 14 Jan 2010 08:01:46 +0000

Last week I walk into our lounge, fresh from helping Graumpot try jump start his car after it died while he was in Mozam, and who do I see on TV? My buddy Phil!

It was cool to see one of my buddies on TV instead of me for a change. I’m on TV all the time. I’ll sleep anywhere when I’m drunk ;)

Needless to say, from that point on I was glued to the set. I went to school and varsity with Phil, but hadn’t seen the guy probably since 2005, so I was rooting for him 100%. We used to row together back in highschool, and no by ‘rowing’ I don’t mean this:

I mean this:

It’s a physically demanding sport and as far as I could tell, Phil still does it, which is why he probably decided to enter the Bar One Manhunt.

From what I can tell, the idea behind the show is a whole bunch of guys get taken through one gruelling physical task after the next, and with each task, or series of tasks they go through more and more guys get eliminated until there is just one left.

And that one guy, after surviving countless hellish tasks, pushing his body to the limit, sweating blood and getting his ass kicked all over public TV, after going through all that shit, that one guy wins…

A Bar One?

Who fucking knows? Not me. It might have slipped my attention, but I’ve watched two shows so far and still have no idea what they’re actually competing for. That’s a pretty major fail if you ask me.

The other major fail is the fact that the show is hosted by Ursula Stapelfeldt, who scares the living crap out of me. Just have a look at this smile, it’s like staring directly into the sun.

Ursula. Likes. To speak. Like this. While making. Lame. Gestures. With. Her hands.

I mean, yeah, the contestants on the show are a bunch of meathead guys mostly, who’re probably way better at competing in triathlons than they are understanding complicated instructions, but c’mon, they’re not retarded, and nor are we.

Last week ended on this mind blowing cliff-hanger because the show chose to throw all the rules of reality TV out the window and instead of ending the episode by telling us who actually got eliminated, they chose instead to pump the dramatic music to a nauseating level as. They. Announced. That. The. First two people. To. Be. Eliminated. From. The Bar One. Manhunt.

Are…

[To Be Continued]

Ow! My balls!

Thanks guys, great climax right there. Go suck a fuck.

So I sat diligently in front of the telly last night for the second episode of the show, which began with two people getting eliminated – how random. There’s a reason why every reality show on TV follows the same format, don’t fuck with that. No one gives a damn if you eliminate people at the beginning of a TV show.

We haven’t built up any kind of relationship with those guys over the course of the episode, we don’t give a rat’s ass that they have to go home, hell, we can’t even remember who they were, a week has gone by! If something can hold my attention for longer than 5 minutes, call Guinness. But a week?

From there the episode started wandering all over the place like a drunk trying to find a McDonalds in a frog storm. The first challenge was to build a raft out of barrels, wooden planks and nylon rope. Both teams’ rafts fell to pieces the second they went through the first set of rapids, for which neither team were penalised in any way.

After that some quad biking ensued, followed by a spot of cycling, a fucktarded ‘mental’ challenge involving a number of poles that both teams solved in about 40 seconds and then a jog to the finish line the following morning where we all held our breath for the earth shattering news that. The people. Getting. Eliminated. From this week’s episode. Were…

No one!

Christ! My balls!

Non elimination round. Thank you very much for watching. That’s 30 minutes of your life you can NEVER GET BACK.

Phil rocked though. Forget the show itself, just watch it for Phil and if he gets eliminated, stop watching the show immediately or Ursula’s 1000000 Watt smile will make you blind.

Fact.

-ST

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slicktiger — Fri, 15 Jan 2010 05:50:47 +0000

White Nipples (NSFW)

slicktiger — Fri, 15 Jan 2010 05:50:49 +0000

So there’s this rumour going around, not sure if you guys might have heard it, but they tell me that it’s motherfuckingfridayfuckyeah!

If you’ve been reading and following this blog over the past few days, chances are you’re getting a little tired of my long and rambling tirades, so instead of getting on my high horse and writing a post that has intellectual and social relevance, today I decided to just say ‘screw it’ and post a pic Stikey sent me of a girl with white nipples.

Clever photoshopping or a rare genetic mutation, you decide.

Have a killer weekend guys, be safe and if you find any white nipples this weekend, be sure to send the pics my way ;)

-ST

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slicktiger — Sat, 16 Jan 2010 15:06:01 +0000

The Saturday Post: 16th Jan

slicktiger — Sat, 16 Jan 2010 15:06:04 +0000

I tell ya, this rain is starting to get pretty fucking ridiculous if you ask me. Somebody remind me where we live again? Cause it feels like a rainforest, no shit.

So far today’s been pretty chilled, we straightened the flat out, had lunch with the folks, did some grocery shopping and later are going to eat sushi and then watch Where The Wild Things Are, which I’m really, really excited to see.

So much so that I’ve spent the last two hours in Hyde Park shops, with my head in this poster:

Good times I tell ya! Good times :)

-ST

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slicktiger — Sun, 17 Jan 2010 20:34:46 +0000

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slicktiger — Sun, 17 Jan 2010 20:35:04 +0000

Leftover SUnday

slicktiger — Sun, 17 Jan 2010 20:35:06 +0000

Sometimes I feel like I don’t do enough on weekends, do you ever get that feeling? You arrive at work on Monday and your colleagues ask the usual ‘How was your weekend?’ question and the best you can come up with is, ‘Yeah, good thanks, and yours?’

‘Good thanks.’

‘Cool… umm…’

‘You do anything cool?’

‘Yeah, we saw a cool movie and you?’

‘Oh, we had a braai, nothing too hectic, chilled y’know?’

‘Cool…’

‘Yeah…’

‘Um, you want some coff-’

‘STICK IT TO MY VEINS!’

All we really did today was buy washing powder, try and change the earrings I got J-Rab for Christams (they broke), made hamburgers for lunch and had an afternoon nap, which got rudely interrupted by the most badass rain storm you’ve ever seen.

Thunder, lightning, hail and buckets and buckets of rain.

Now it’s time to call it a night. J-Rab and I just got a whole bunch of new media from Graumpot, including seasons 1, 2 and 3 of Dexter, which I haven’t seen, but which everyone tells me I’ll really love.

So here’s a pic of Graum’s car, I call it the Terminator Car, here’s why:

Later homies :)

-ST

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slicktiger — Mon, 18 Jan 2010 07:01:44 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 18 Jan 2010 07:02:09 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 18 Jan 2010 07:02:30 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 18 Jan 2010 07:02:52 +0000

Movie Review: Where The Wild Things Are

slicktiger — Mon, 18 Jan 2010 07:02:57 +0000

I went into Where The Wild Things Are with high hopes after watching the trailer numerous times and hearing from a lot of people that the book, written by Maurice Sendak and published in 1963, was one of their favourite childhood stories.

Also, the movie was directed by Spike Jonze, who worked with writer Charlie Kaufman on two of my favourite movies of all time, Being John Malkovich and Adaptation. Besides that, Jonze mainly directs music videos and TV commercials, for which he has received numerous awards.

I have only the vaguest recollection of reading the book when I was young, and as such, went into the movie hardly knowing anything about the plotline or the characters, which was probably a good thing as the original children’s book was only 48 pages long and thus had to be expanded and changed considerably to make up the 100-odd minute screenplay.

Sadly, I found the movie didn’t live up to my expectations. The feeling I got from watching the trailer (which features the epic Arcade Fire song ‘Wake Up’) was that this was a deep and significant piece of filmmaking that was guaranteed to pull at the heartstrings and was loaded with meaning and profundity.

The actual experience of watching the film was very far from being meaningful or profound and I left the cinema feeling like I’d missed something, some kind of vital clue to help unlock this movie for me, because I found it disjointed and largely inaccessible.

Where The Wild Things Are tells the story of Max (played by Max Records), a troubled young boy who’s parents have divorced and who lives with his mother and sister, both of whom he has a difficult relationship with. After a huge fight erupts with his mother one night, during which Max dons his wolf suit and bites her, he ends up running away from home and finding a small boat, which he sails to a distant land, inhabited by the large, oafish Wild Things of the story’s title.

At first, the Wild Things want to eat Max and in a scene that takes a nightmarish turn, they surround him and are on the verge of devouring him when he convinces them that he has magical powers and can explode their heads at will. They then decide to make him their king after which he leads the Wild Things on a ‘rumpus’ through the woods that consists of them smashing trees and rocks, tackling one another and laughing all the while.

Yeah, just wait, it gets weirder.

After the rumpus, the Wild Things all collapse in a huge pile on top of one another and go to sleep, happy and content with their new king, who was sworn in on the condition that he would keep all sadness away forever.

The next day Max goes on a tour of the Wild Thing’s island with Carol (the Wild Thing in all the movie posters, voiced by James Gandolfini). Max is shown a model of the island that Carol has built in a secret cave where Carol likes to be alone. This inspires Max to command the Wild Things to build a massive fort, something that brings them all together as they unite toward a common purpose.

However, before the fort can be completed, Carol’s ‘love interest’ KW brings her friends Bob and Terry (who are owls) to the fort which causes Carol to become angry and overwhelmed with jealousy.

Without explaining the entire plot, let’s just say that relations degenerate even further from this point and eventually force Max to board his tiny ship again and leave the island. Back at home, he finds his mother waiting up for him with his supper, which he eats ravenously while his mother falls asleep watching him with a happy smile on her face.

The End.

My biggest problem with Where The Wild Things Are is the dialogue in the movie. The Wild Things all speak like children, which is understandable as the implication throughout is that the island Max has discovered is based purely on his imagination, however it makes all of the interactions between the characters in the movie really bizarre to the point where you’re never sure what to take seriously or what to dismiss as inconsequential banter.

This becomes a problem when the story approaches its major turning points because for me, none of them felt very significant. For example, Max decides to initiate a big ‘dirt clod war’ in an effort to bring the Wild Things together and encourage them to have fun, which ends in even more in-fighting when KW accidently steps on Carol’s head.

Watching the scene unfold all I thought was, ‘OK, so she stepped on his head and now he’s furious. Huh. Is this supposed to be important?’

At this point I can almost hear you all shouting ‘But it’s supposed to be a kid’s movie! Stop analysing it like an adult!’ to which I have only the following to say, the story of Where The Wild Things Are that Spike Jonze tells is far too laden with sadness, loneliness and melancholy to appeal to most children, trust me, most of the kids in the audience looked like they were about to fall asleep.

I strongly suspect that Where The Wild Things Are is a film that takes on a much greater significance the second time you watch it, or at least I hope so, because the first time I confess that I think I missed the point entirely.

Max Records’ acting can’t be faulted however and damn! That kid’s gonna grow up to be some kind of tri-athlete – he runs everywhere in the movie and is filled with a kind of wild energy that suits the film’s theme well.

All in all, I would recommend watching this film because it’s so different from other films in its genre, but definitely don’t shell out your hard earned bucks to go and see it at the movies because honestly, I don’t think it’s worth it. Oh, and the awesome Arcade Fire song in the trailer? It’s not in the movie, or even the movie soundtrack. Fail.

Final Verdict: 6/10

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slicktiger — Tue, 19 Jan 2010 05:22:51 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 19 Jan 2010 05:23:22 +0000

Impending Sense Of Doom

slicktiger — Tue, 19 Jan 2010 05:23:24 +0000

I’m 26 years old, 26 years and 2 months, give or take, and I think I’m going through some kind of quarter life crisis that is manifesting itself in this Impending Sense Of Doom that feels like it’s bearing down on me incessantly.

I want you to understand that I am not a person who is prone to panic in any way, shape, size or form. Panic, to me, seems like a lot of unnecessary hard work and I’m not into that at all. Hard work, sure, I’m not scared of hard work, but unnecessary hard work? Life’s too short for crap like that.

Panic and worry – what a load. Also it’s pretty much a universal truth that most of the things we worry about never happen. Sure people will argue that they never happen because we worry about them, but I’ll tell those people to fuck right off and keep on not worrying about stuff while they get horrible anxiety-related illnesses and suffer from unrelenting runny poo.

But it’s weird, I don’t know what’s happening to me lately. Round about last week Wednesday I started to get really down, which is also something that doesn’t happen to me often, but I sucked it up, told myself to stop being such a fag and did what I usually do when I’m down – elected to go on a three day drinking binge.

Hahah, I kid.

I hit the gym nice and hard, exercised the demon, went home, ate a big steak, had great sex, passed the fuck out and slept like a baby.

Thing is, the next day it was back. I don’t remember at what point I started feeling it again, but I wasn’t just down this time, this time something else was lurking in my head too, this mild sense of… I don’t know how to describe it, fuck it kills me to write this, but yeah, I think it was panic.

God, why am I writing this? Nobody wants to read this shit, I’m sorry this is fucking retarded.

Forget I ever said anything. Here’s a picture of a monkey riding a bicycle:

-ST

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slicktiger — Wed, 20 Jan 2010 06:20:07 +0000

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slicktiger — Wed, 20 Jan 2010 06:20:29 +0000

The Young Bull and the Old Bull

slicktiger — Wed, 20 Jan 2010 06:20:32 +0000

There was a day, a sunny and cloudless day, a day completely different from today (which is rainy, dark and shit) and this day was perfect for day dreaming and long, lazy naps in the sun. I know that you know exactly the kind of day I’m talking about and that you can picture this cloudless and perfect sunny day in your mind if you close your eyes.

On this day, two bulls stood on a grassy hill in a meadow unlike any meadow you’ve ever seen before. This meadow was fresh and green and sprinkled as far as the eye could see with every-coloured flowers and four leaf clovers and a big ol’ weeping willow at the far edge of the meadow, growing happily alongside a river that flowed clear and bright.

On this perfect and cloudless day, you could smell the mingled perfumes of all the flowers drifting on the cool summer breeze and you could feel the warm sun coming down, glowing on your skin, filling everything it touched with life.

And so these two bulls, a young bull and an old bull, stood peacefully on the hill, chewing the grass, and more importantly, watching an entire herd of cows in the meadow below them, their soft flanks moving in a slow, syncopated rhythm as they grazed, their big stupid brown eyes vacant as muddy pools. Their tails swishing flies away.

After awhile, the young bull turned to his friend, the old bull, and said to him, ‘I have an idea.’

The old bull looked up at his young friend, who wasn’t known for his profound intellect, with an eyebrow cocked and said, ‘I’m listening...’

The young bull turned his head toward the herd in front of them, and licking his lips said, ‘See those cows down there?’

‘I see them,’ the old bull replied.

‘Let’s run down this hill and fuck one of those cows,’ the young bull blurted out, excitedly.

The old bull turned and surveyed the cows innocently grazing below in the simmering summer sun and grinned slowly from ear to ear.

‘I’ve got a better idea. Lets walk down this hill...’ said the wise, old bull.

‘And fuck them all.’

-ST

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slicktiger — Thu, 21 Jan 2010 06:27:14 +0000

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slicktiger — Thu, 21 Jan 2010 06:27:28 +0000

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slicktiger — Thu, 21 Jan 2010 06:27:57 +0000

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slicktiger — Thu, 21 Jan 2010 06:28:17 +0000

The One Thing I Feel Is Missing From The Interweb

slicktiger — Thu, 21 Jan 2010 06:28:23 +0000

I’ve been using the interweb since the day it was first launched way back in 2007, and as such, I consider myself one of the leading experts on anything to do with the literally hundreds of things you can do on the interweb.

Don’t believe me? Fine. Here’s a list of all the things I’ve mastered on the interweb so far:

Gmail – remembering my password and login name, sending, receiving and forwarding electronic mails and spotting scam emails in a second, Fishers beware!
Facebook – becoming friends with people from as far afield as Cape Town, Bloemfontein and Durban in real time. Also, I’ve ‘friended’ three people from outside the continent, all of whom are influential businessmen from thriving countries such as Nigeria and Zimbabwe. These businessmen are trusting me with literally millions of dollars of money they’ve inherited now that I’ve given them all my banking details. Can you say CA-CHING!
Google – searching for online information on anything from stock markets to unit share prices to Federal Intelligence Agency files, you name it! Have also mastered boolean algorithms like TYPING SEARCHES IN ALL CAPS TO MAKE IT GO FASTER
Porn – watching any kind of porn I want, like robot sex machines, or midgets FOR FREE, ANYTIME I WANT! Um, except for at work… some guy used all our bandwidth in two days awhile back, right after I first started, and now certain sites are banned…
Twitter – getting thousands of followers by clicking a simple link. I’m definitely winning at Twitter, the aim of which is to get more followers than your friends so you can tell them what song you’re listening to, what you’re eating and what it was like the last time you went to the loo

Now that I have your respect and you can see the mad interweb skillz I have, I’ll tell you something that I always thought was missing from the interweb.

If you’re instant chatting with a friend or family member and are in a friendly mood, on the interweb you can send them a ‘^5!’ which isn’t some kind of strange maths equation (don’t worry, I also thought that), but actually a really ‘sick’ way of writing ‘high five!’.

Off the chain.

There is even a variation which I managed to decode in a mere matter of weeks which is ‘v5!’. No, this doesn’t mean Version 5! it actually means ‘low five!’, which people use to indicate that they want one ‘down-low’ instead of ‘up-high’.

What I believe is missing is the kind of ‘five’ you see in a lot of sporting games like rugby, soccer, cricket, hockey, ice hockey, football, American football, tennis, croquet, darts, badminton, judo, pole vaulting and shuttlecock when the one guy does scores a goal or shuttles his cock really well and his team mate gives him a jocular pat on the arse.

My buddy Stikey felt the same way and actually took things a step further and went ahead and invented the ‘*5!’ which is used to indicate a jocular pat on the arse.

So far I’ve tried it out on a number of my buddies with pretty damn hilarious consequences. Here’s some IM chats copy / pasted for your reading pleasure. In this one I was mid sentence when I did a complete 360 degree turn and launched into it:

me: sure, im down with that we're organis- hey, what the fuck?!
dude, it's Elvis!
name withheld: where?!
me: (*5!)
hahahah! too easy
name withheld: hahaha
you threw me off guard there
i even looked!
me: you have no idea what just happened, but you feel violated
name withheld: i feel let down that elvis hasnt showed up :(

Classic! Then there was this chat that happened yesterday:

me: have you been there with [name withheld]?
be honest
name withheld: no. some married complication.
me: cool
never cross that line
shit gets ugly
name withheld: you been there?
me: nigga please!
name withheld: did his wife find out?
me: actually, her wife found out
and joined in!
name withheld: ^5!
me: ^5!
hahaha!
hey, look it's elvis!
(*5!)
name withheld: *facepalm

See what I mean?! Flip, I really think I’m onto something here. Thing to do is start *5!-ing all your friends as soon as possible, and let’s spread the word of this awesome way to interact / practise borderline sexual harassment over the internet.

I really think this has legs guys, I really think this could be the thing that I will be remembered for in days, nay, weeks to come over the interweb. So let’s all band together and sprea-

Hey, what the fuck?! Is that Elvis scrounging around in that dustbin?

(*5!)

Heh heh heh.

It’s THAT easy ;)

-ST

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slicktiger — Fri, 22 Jan 2010 11:12:53 +0000

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slicktiger — Fri, 22 Jan 2010 11:15:07 +0000

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slicktiger — Fri, 22 Jan 2010 11:15:19 +0000

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slicktiger — Fri, 22 Jan 2010 11:15:46 +0000

The Most Hungover I’ve Ever Been At Work

slicktiger — Fri, 22 Jan 2010 11:15:51 +0000

It’s Friday guys, hell yeah! Hands up who’s hungover from smashing tequilas into their face last night! C’mon, be honest – you at the back there, what’s your name? Eh? Dave? Fuck dude, you look like something I watched come out of a stray dog’s backside once, what the fuck are you doing at work?!

Fridays when I’m hungover at work always remind me of the infamous Friday-that-shall-not-be-named a few years back when I dragged my sorry ass to work, praying with all the strength left in me that my hangover would just cut the fucking foreplay and kill me already.

At this point I think it should be said that if you have delicate sensibilities you should probably just stop reading this right now. Just stop reading it. Just click close now, because the story I’m about to tell you is not pretty and I can guaran-fucking-tee you you won’t look at me the same way after you’ve finished reading it.

In my defence, it’s a mistake I have made once and only once and will sure as hell NEVER REPEAT AGAIN, because if I did, there’s a good chance it would be the last thing I would ever do, it was that bad.

So this is the last warning I’m going to issue – don’t read this if you’re some nancy, enjoys one-or-two drinks when he goes out, doesn’t like getting out of control, parties, but not too hard kinda guy (or girl) because you won’t understand this story.

Also, if you’re my mom just stop right now. Close this window and rather play Tetris for a bit, then make some coffee and carry on with your day and this won’t fuck your entire weekend up.

Ok. Now that that’s out the way, let’s proceed with reckless abandon.

It started at a client event on a Thursday back in 2007. It was a launch we had organised with a whole crowd of consumer media at this awesome and trendy barbershop that had just opened in Fourways Crossing. The turnout was excellent and the event went really, really well – we’d set up a Bedouin tent outside the shop and Liquid Chefs had specially prepared a selection of 5 different cocktails for the afternoon / evening. Very slick, very classy.

We kicked everything off at about 3pm and by 6 all the journalists had gone home, leaving only the owners of the barbershop, my colleagues and the liquid chefs barmen, who we’d hired until 7.

We were all in really high spirits because of how well the event had gone and so decided to sample the cocktails that had been specially prepared because, well, why the fuck not?

This was the first time I can remember getting locked into a proper old school drink-off with The MAEN! who, at nearly six and a half feet tall, can do to drinks what thirsty camels do to 50 gallon water troughs.

The MAEN! and I were both pretty much just ‘work friends’ at that time as I’d only been at my company for about 3 months, but thanks to the events of that night, all that changed VERY fucking quickly. It didn’t take us long to realise that between the two of us we had the capacity, unrelenting sense of purpose and single-minded determination to drink that entire fucking bar dry, which is exactly what we did.

We started out ‘tasting’ one of each of the cocktails Liquid Chefs had prepared in order to reach a proper scientific conclusion as to which was the best one, after which point we drank as many of those as humanly (inhumanly?) possible. Let’s just pause right there and take a minute to think about this – 5 different cocktails with at least 3 different shots in each one = 15 different shots.

Never try this. Promise me.

When they eventually packed up the bar, The MAEN! and myself were suitably unimpressed as both of us felt like we were only beginning to hit our stride and so The MAEN! somehow managed to steal a bottle of gold tequila which the two of us then proceeded to swallow in large gulps straight out the bottle until it was bone dry.

In hindsight, I definitely should have gone home right then and, like a werewolf who knows a full moon’s coming, chained and locked myself to our security gate.

Haha, hindsight. It’s always fucking 20/20 ain’t it?

Instead I drove home, got a buddy to pick me up and proceeded to go out to Tanz Cafe, where Guitar Jon was playing the finals of the singer/songwriter competition they’d been running for the last two months.

I was single at this time and experiencing an acute sense of what I can only describe as suppressed hatred towards the female race. It had been 7 long months since I’d last gotten laid, which was officially the longest dry spell I’d ever lived through.

I don’t know what I did or said to the female population of that bar and I don’t want to know. Probably it was like watching an 85kg wrecking ball of alcohol-fuelled testosterone swinging slowly and purposefully through the crowds of people gather there, smashing into poor, unsuspecting women and scattering them in every direction.

All the while I carried on drinking. Knowing me, it was probably whisky.

My memory of events is hazy at best, but I do recall getting really emotional during Guitar Jon’s performance and screaming ‘WE LOVE YOU JON! FUCKING YEAH!’ at least 15 times during his set.

Sadly, Jon didn’t even crack a spot in the top 3, which enraged me to the point where the ‘red mist’ began to descend. This is where my vision begins to turn blood red, much like the Terminator, and the switch inside me flips from ‘Party, Joke Around, Have a Rad Time’ to ‘KILL EVERYTHING’.

I gave the judge and sponsor of the event, Andy McGibbon, a piece of my mind, and not just any piece. A big, ugly piece.

Eventually, I remember feeling a meaty hand clap firmly on my shoulder, shortly after which I was forcibly removed from Tanz in a tangle of limbs and ‘Get yr ffuckin’ dirty han’s off me you fuckin’ ASS’OLE!’. That’s the last thing I remember.

The next thing I remember was waking up thinking I’d been run over by a truck. My skull was pounding like a jackhammer on a hard cement sidewalk, my tongue tasted like an oversized slug in my mouth and my eyes looked like fried eggs.

I didn’t look like shit. If I’d woken up looking like shit I would have been fine, a shower, shave and some Bioplus and I would have been peachy. I looked much, much worse than shit.

My face was loose and swollen with booze and I swear to god, if you’d squeezed my nose, whisky would have come out.

I showered, got dressed and left for work, the contents of my stomach swilling around malevolently every time I turned a corner. I caught my reflection in my rear view mirror. My face was turning green.

I was the first to arrive at work and dutifully booted my laptop up and took a seat at my desk in the tiny room I shared with The MAEN! and El Guapo. Once my laptop was up and running and Outlook was open I carefully folded my arms on my desk and passed the fuck out.

One of the girls I worked with arrived and popped her head into the office to say good morning. The stench of me sent her reeling like she’d been shot.

‘Woah, fuck dude! You smell like a brewery!’

‘Yep. I feel like a brewery.’

‘Are you ok?’

‘Yeah, I mean, I’m still alive… unfortunately…’

‘Do you want some coffee or something?’

‘NO! I mean, no, I’m fine thanks. Maybe just some water.’

‘Err, ok… I’ve got some Panado if you want any?’

‘That’s ok. Just water is fine thanks.’

Moments later I started getting that godawful feeling right under the back of your tongue that tells your brain that in about 5 seconds you’re gonna become intimately acquainted with whatever it was you ate last, which worried me because I couldn’t remember eating anything.

I calmly stood up and walked across the entrance foyer to the staff bathrooms in the most dignified way possible, smiling and nodding at Beth the receptionist, but not actually saying anything for fear of unleashing the fountain that felt like it was about to erupt from me.

I’m not going to go into the details of what happened next, but I kept things neat and tidy, and didn’t miss the bowl, which was a big plus. The big minus however was that I had to do it as quietly as possible because you could basically hear everything from the bathroom in the entrance foyer.

Have you ever tried to throw up quietly? It’s like trying to jump into a swimming pool without getting wet.

I immediately felt better though, flushed, washed my hands and face, and strode out the bathroom, ready to face my day.

The girl who made the ‘brewery’ remark from earlier was waiting in my office with a glass of water and a concerned expression on her face.

‘Are you sure you’re ok?’

‘Yeah, haha, I’m fine, gimme another half hour and I’ll be 100%.’

‘…Ok… have you had anything to eat this morning?’

‘Um, actually now that you mention it, no I haven’t…’

‘Well, I’m going make some toast with cheese, do you want some?’

‘I’m good thanks, I’ll just stick with water for now.’

‘You should probably eat something dude, you’ll feel much better afterwards.’

‘Umm…’

‘Just eat one or two pieces, it will settle you stomach.’

‘Ok…’

‘Cool, wait right there.’

I sat back down and stared blankly at my emails. I was definitely feeling better, but wasn’t quite out of the woods yet. Just then I felt a long, low groan deep in my bowels and suddenly everything became clear to me.

I needed a ‘beer kak’. Once you’ve had a ‘beer kak’ after a heavy night, you instantly start feeling much better.

And so I got up again, and with another big smile on my face, crossed the entrance foyer again, smiled and nodded at Beth politely, closed myself in the only cubicle the men’s toilet had and unleashed something that I can only describe as concentrated evil from my backside.

It felt amazingly satisfying and sure enough, the minute I’d choked that dirty bastard I started feeling almost human again. I wiped and turned to survey my accomplishment and immediately burst out laughing.

God only knows where I got all that fibre from, but the structural integrity of my movement (let’s just call him Derrick to avoid getting too graphic) was impeccable. So much so that when I flushed, nothing happened.

I mean sure, water sloshed this way and that inside the bowl, but Derrick refused to budge. Mild panic set in as I remembered that Beth could hear the toilet flushing loud and clear from the reception desk. I didn’t want to be that dude you know? The double-flusher. Nobody wants to be the double-flusher.

But what could I do? I’m not a fucking animal!

I waited until the toilet was done filling up again, said a silent prayer to whatever Gods may be, closed my eyes and with sweaty palms, hit the flusher a second time.

The sound of water churning inside the bowl filled my ears. It sounded like a good flush, surely this would be enough to send Derrick up the U-bend and out of my life?

I opened my eyes.

I said ‘fuck’.

Derrick didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. He had beaten me, the sick and twisted fuck.

What could I do? Flush AGAIN!? Become the TRIPLE-FLUSHER? No, if two wasn’t going to do the trick, nothing was. I washed my hands, waited for the coast to clear and, like a ballerina skipping across a stage, crossed the foyer in about three quick strides, trying not to make eye contact with Beth.

Back in my office I gratefully tucked into the cheesy toast Brewery Girl had left by my laptop. She was right, all I needed was to put some food into my stomach and I’d be fine…

Or was she…?

The pigswill in my stomach made friends with the cheesy toast at first, but it very quickly became apparent that they had a number of irreconcilable differences that weren’t going to just quietly resolve themselves over time.

My stomach started turning, gently at first, but gradually it got more and more violent until, not 30 minutes after I’d swallowed the last mouthful of cheesy toast, I could feel that unless I got my ass back into that bathroom, something bad was going to happen.

Once again, I got up from my desk, and once again I crossed the entrance hall foyer, smiling at Beth, only this time Beth wasn’t smiling back, she was looking at me with genuine concern and even got up and started to say something, which I pretended not to hear as I burst into the bathroom for the third time that day and closed myself back in the cubicle only to find…

Derrick. Exactly where I left him, reclining with a smug look on his face in his little brown plunge pool.

Do I need to write what happened next? Yes? No?

Let’s just say that Derrick was not impressed AT ALL. But seriously, it served that fucker right. In this world, you play by the rules or suffer the consequences, it’s fit in or fuck off. I felt rocks for Derrick, he brought that upon himself, the arrogant prick.

Still though, it was by far the nastiest moment of my life. The kind of story Alcoholics Anonymous group members tell about the time they hit rock bottom.

At the time I didn’t pause to dwell on the new low I had sunk to though, I just flushed and try to put it all behind me, which was difficult because even after a third flush, Derrick remained steadfast, that fucking fucker!

Fuck, I should be the poster boy for high fibre, I’m what every middle-aged woman trying desperately to become ‘regular’ would give a toe to be like. Kellogs would fucking love my ass if they ever met Derrick.

From that point, I slowly started to recover but, like a dead body I’d buried in a playschool sandbox, I started to feel really guilty about Derrick. Something about just leaving him there went against my code of ethics as a man and a human being.

And so, after a brief and only mildly embarrassing conversation with the cleaning lady, I crossed the foyer for a fourth time, this time with a large, plastic bucket tucked under my arm and a look of steadfast determination fixed on my face.

I hit Derrick with a bucketload of water large enough to drown a cat in and finally, thank fuck! the tough ol’ bastard joined millions of others in ducking up the U-bend and into a place that I see sometimes in my worst nightmares.

Needless to say, I blacked the events of that morning out of my mind for many years, and it’s only been through extensive psycho-therapy that I’ve come to terms with the Friday-that-shall-not-be-named and the indelible mark it’s left on my soul.

There’s a lesson here folks – do everything in moderation and you’ll be fine.

Especially fibre. Watch out for that stuff, it will fuck your shit up, literally ;)

Have a killer weekend.

-ST

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slicktiger — Sat, 23 Jan 2010 16:15:48 +0000

Where is the sun?

slicktiger — Sat, 23 Jan 2010 16:15:51 +0000

Is it just me, or did Joburg not used to be an altogether sunnier fucking place than it has been over the last few years?

I don’t remember summers being like this when I was a kid. I remember sweltering hot days and brief afternoon cloud bursts that started at 4 and were done by 5, leaving clear skies in their wake and that fresh feeling that comes after summer rain.

For the last two weeks all it’s done here is rain and I’ve had just about enough of it. I mean, for fucks sake, PLEASE can we have some sunshine? I think I’m getting some kind of seasonal cabin fever here, another week of this grey, rainy shit and I’ll be smashing through the doors with an axe screaming ‘Here’s Johnny!’.

Would you like to know what I did today? Ok… are you sure? Jeeze, how bored are you? It’s Saturday, you shouldn’t even be here – go outside and throw a frisbee or something. Oh wait, I forgot it’s PISSING DOWN WITH FUCKING RAIN OUTSIDE.

Bleaugh.

I got up early and dragged my sleepy ass to the gym to sweat some blood for awhile, then I came back home did domestic stuffs like washing dishes and shit like that, shopped for some groceries with J-Rab, made lunch, had a 15 person orgy with a pile of pure Colombian cocaine and Russian strippers (oh good, you’re still awake. Just checking) and then had an afternoon nap.

It’s been chilled.

What you been up to?

-ST

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slicktiger — Sun, 24 Jan 2010 17:09:18 +0000

This post could have been about any number of things

slicktiger — Sun, 24 Jan 2010 17:09:22 +0000

This post has been written and rewritten more times than you’ll ever know. This post could have been about any number of things, at first it was about my dreams when I was a teenager, here’s an excerpt from that post:

I dreamed I was a rockstar for a few years. It was a good dream when I think back on it, a dream you have when you’re just out of school and you think you know how bad it gets, but you don’t know how bad it gets, you’re just a kid, invincible and naive.

I lived that dream once or twice, maybe more times than that, on creaky wooden stages around Grahamstown. I got up there, sometimes by myself, sometimes with some friends, and I played the stuff I wrote and told myself that somewhere out there someone would hear it and it would have great significance to that person and it would echo in his head, or her head, even in their dreams.

Then it was about what I would do if I was in charge of this world, here’s how that one was shaping up:

I’d make the oceans rise and I’d crack the continents apart and I’d bring fire raining down from the sky. I’d send swarms of every poisonous creature into Wallstreet and I’d sink corporate skyscrapers into the lava pits. I’d flood silicone valley with sewerage and I’d laugh while the internet fizzled out and the information super highways disintegrated and crumbled down to dust.

Then it was about Love, the kind spelled with a capital ‘L’ and how it’s the only thing that will save us, but it came out really lame, so I’m not going to paste an excerpt from that one.

I went down all those roads, but they became tangled and convoluted and contrived. Those roads left me feeling lonely and alone and that, coupled with the miserable grey weather we’re having and the fact that J-Rab was at work, all added up to this empty feeling and I started staring at nothing and sighing from somewhere deep down.

It was right about then that I heard this thud-squeak and turned to see Random Cat staring up at me with her wide green eyes. She jumped up on my chest and nuzzled her face against mine, like she could somehow feel what I was feeling and wanted to make it better.

It’s funny the way life works, the way something as simple as a Random Cat can make everything better sometimes.

This post could have been about any number of things, but I want it to be about Random Cats – may they find you when you’re down and, arriving with a thud-squeak, make you smile when your days are grey.

-ST

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slicktiger — Mon, 25 Jan 2010 08:03:49 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 25 Jan 2010 08:04:00 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 25 Jan 2010 08:04:17 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 25 Jan 2010 08:04:32 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 25 Jan 2010 08:04:51 +0000

Existor: A Whole Other Level Of Reality TV

slicktiger — Mon, 25 Jan 2010 08:04:54 +0000

So I’ve got this idea for a killer reality TV series, I’ve had it for awhile actually and I’m gonna lay it on you, but please promise me you won’t steal it, I like you and wouldn’t want to have to track you down and feed you to the pigs.

Everyone has watched the mother of all reality shows, Survivor, at some stage or another. It was the original reality show (except maybe Big Brother? Not too sure…) and people lapped that shit up because it exploited our twin desires to indulge our voyeuristic tendencies and fantasize about what it would be like to be ‘stranded’ on a tropical island with a bunch of complete strangers.

The show was wildly popular and has spawned no less than nine-fucking-teen seasons (according to WikiAnswers, but I’m not sure how this is even possible? If they make one a year, this means they started in 1991, wtf?!). I’ll admit, I still watch them. It’s just such a rad way to watch human beings interacting with and manipulating one another. If you got a hold of all 19 seasons and watched them all, I swear to god, you’d be able to write the most mind-blowing thesis about the human mind when augmented through the lens of ‘reality’ TV.

But anyway, enough of that bollocks, I think I’ve introed the fuck out of this thing, let’s get to the juicy bits already!

My reality TV show would be called EXISTOR, and yes, it would be written all in caps like that, because it would be THE BEST REALITY TV SERIES EVER!

The premise is dead simple. You launch a MASSIVE worldwide viral campaign calling for entrants from the age of 18 upward, then select 42 of the people who apply, making sure you get an accurate worldwide demographic and you dump those fuckers unceremoniously on an island in the middle of fucking nowhere, say ‘too-de-loo muthufukkahs’, and never interact with them again.

Meanwhile, the island is rigged to hell and back with literally thousands of cameras and mics, all remotely operated, as well as about 30 broadcast-quality live cams that the contestants are given to do whatever they want with, but that’s it. There are no cute little challenges to determine who gets the rice or not, there are no immunity idols and there is no getting voted off the island.

It’s not Survivor, it’s EXISTOR, there is one goal, and only one goal – don’t die.

The audience would watch as the people on the island formed natural alliances and built real shelters and hunted and cultivated their own food, because basically, those people we dumped on the island? They’d never leave. That would be their LIFE, and we’d get to watch it all either in highlights packages every week, or live from the cameras we give the contestants or the thousands of other cameras around the island, which the audience would be able to flick through and operate themselves... somehow (I’ll leave that to the tech guys to figure out).

The only interaction between us and them would be when we sent technicians to fix the cameras and drop off new cameras and batteries for the contestants, but even those people would be deployed in the dead of night and, like fucking ninjas, would creep around and swap out dead cameras with new ones.

Over time, the contestants would fall in love with one another, they’d have children on the island, a whole new generation would grow up on camera and take control of the island and we’d get to sit back at home, in the comfort of our living rooms and watch the miracle of human life unfold before us, untainted by the promise of reward or fame or any of the other bullshit that makes reality TV anything but.

People would die on the island. They’d get married, they’d promise to love one another for all time, they’d cheat on one another and in a jealous rage, they’d fight and maybe even kill one another, and we’d keep the cameras rolling, always rolling, for all time.

And who knows the effect it would have on us? Would we even be able to watch it? Maybe we need the hosts on TV and the elaborate immunity challenges to remind us that no matter how real it feels, it’s not real.

I can see it now, the initial hype would be HUGE! People would watch non-stop, they’d be glued to their TVs, completely addicted, but over time their attention deficit would cause their interest in the show to dwindle. Then one day, years later, they’d read about one of their favourite contestants dying on the island, or falling pregnant, or falling in love, and they switch back to EXISTOR, and there they’d all still be, but they’d be different and the contestants would tell their kids about the world they came from, a polluted world that was ruled by machines and guns and war and they’d explain why they chose to leave that world and never come back.

And 100 years into the show, children would be born that wouldn’t even understand what the cameras were and they’d walk barefoot, quiet as still water through the jungles and forests of the island, hunting wild boar, completely unaware that they were being watched by billions and billions of audience members that knew more about those children and their parent’s lives and their parent’s parents lives than those children would know or ever care to know.

EXISTOR. You heard it here first ;)

-ST

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slicktiger — Tue, 26 Jan 2010 06:36:59 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 26 Jan 2010 06:37:19 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 26 Jan 2010 06:37:33 +0000

It’s raining planes

slicktiger — Tue, 26 Jan 2010 06:37:38 +0000

The world we live in is one crazy place, that’s for damn sure. I walk into the office this morning and read on the front page of The Star that yet another plane has crashed, this time in Beirut. Authorities are saying the plane exploded after take off because of adverse weather conditions, which boggled my mind completely.

How exactly does a plane EXPLODE because of bad weather? Was it struck by the mother of all hail stones, which in turn ignited the fuselage and turned what was once a plane into a blazing ball of fire?

Sounds a little fishy to me, especially considering how many planes seem to be plummeting from the heavens these days. Just check out the site http://www.planecrashinfo.com/ for all the most recent plane crash statistics… or maybe don’t, depending on how terrified you want to be the next time the plane you’re on starts experiencing turbulence.

In 2009 alone there were three major plane crashes in which over 150 people died in each one – the Air France crash, the Yemenia Airlines crash and the Caspian Airlines crash. In the case of the Air France crash, it’s largely a mystery as to exactly what happened that caused the Airbus to plummet into the Atlantic Ocean, but I got’s me a theory, hot damn!

My buddy Mus is a pilot and he’s told me some VERY scary shit about the planes he’s flown. From what he’s said, there’s hardly a plane in the sky that doesn’t have some kind of fault or other that the pilot sometimes only finds hours into the flight.

In most cases it’s something minor, maybe an instrument here or there that isn’t reading accurately, but in other cases there can be seriously fucked up shit going on, and it’s in cases like that that an excellent pilot will make the difference between everyone ending up dead in the ocean, or back safe in their homes.

And that’s not to mention other shit that could go wrong. Take US Airways Flight 1549 for example. One minute they’re taking off and climbing steadily toward cruising altitude and the next BAM! Flock of geese outta nowhere!

The pilot of that flight, Captain Chesley Burnett "Sully" Sullenberger III became a legend when he safely landed the plane on the Hudson River and saved all 155 people on board. He was ranked second in Time Magazine’s Top 100 Most Influential Heroes and Icons of 2009, I just read the Wikipedia entry about him and it’s really inspirational stuff, I definitely think you should check it out.

But anyway, back to my theory.

I reckon with the recession that hit last year, aviation companies started cutting corners when it came to maintenance and proper safety checks of their planes, which is why planes seem to be literally dropping out of the sky all over the goddamn place.

So yeah, think about that the next time you climb in a giant steel bird and ascend heavenward, but don’t let it bum you out too much cause let’s face it, if a plane crashes and explodes in a blazing inferno it’s tickets for you pal, no matter how tight you do up your little seatbelt.

-ST

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slicktiger — Wed, 27 Jan 2010 16:16:01 +0000

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slicktiger — Wed, 27 Jan 2010 16:17:12 +0000

Californication And My Thoughts On Love

slicktiger — Wed, 27 Jan 2010 16:17:15 +0000

I don’t know how many of you out there watch Californication, but it’s one of my favourite TV series and has been since I watched the first episode.

I was instantly hooked because as a writer I identified with the main character Hank Moody (David Duchovny), and couldn’t help but like him because he destroys the stereotype many people have of writers as secluded introverts who sit diligently in their pyjamas every morning with a steaming cup of coffee, lovingly coaxing words out of their laptops while small birds tweet outside.

Hank Moody is a different kind of writer. He’s like a modern-day Byron (only not bi-sexual) and has this kind of easy-going, cocky-funny charm that makes him irresistible to women.

The thing about Hank is that he’s got a good heart underneath it all and that’s what draws women to him. Hank doesn’t chase women, he’s 100% devoted to Karen (Natascha McElhone), the love of his life and the mother of his daughter, even though at the beginning of the series she wants nothing more to do with Hank and is engaged to Bill (Damian Young) who Hank affectionately refers to as ‘the dial tone’.

Ironically, the women in the series seem to sense Hank’s emotional unavailability, and pursue him with greater urgency the more he tries to brush them off. What makes it believable is that Hank doesn’t fall into bed with every woman that offers herself to him and also, not every woman he sleeps with is super-model gorgeous.

J-Rab and I have just finished watching the third season of Californication, which was probably the weakest season thus far, except for two things. The first was this awesome explanation Hank gives Felicia, the Dean’s wife at the varsity where Hank starts teaching, as to what it is about women that fascinates him:

‘It’s my purgatory really, dinner, drinks, whatever. I’m never really all that interested but I find myself telling her how beautiful she is anyway cause it’s true. All women are, in one way or another. There’s always something about every damn one of you, there’s a smile, a curve, a secret. You ladies really are the most amazing creatures, my life’s work. But then there’s the morning after, the hangover and the realisation that I’m not quite as available as the night before. And then she’s gone and I’m haunted by yet another road not taken...’

Powerful words. There is something about every single one of you, I agree 100% and it’s part of the reason why I never understood men who hate women or speak about them in derogatory terms. I never identified with guys like that because I suspect that they are secretly scared of women, but are too fucking stupid and proud to ever admit that fact.

Fucking mouth-breathers. But anyway, like I was saying…

The second thing that saved season three for me was the final episode. Throughout the season, Hank has his usual encounters with numerous females of the species, encounters which become less and less believable as the season progresses until he finds himself in a situation that is so ridiculous it’s difficult to take the show seriously.

To make things worse, Karen just forgives him for all his transgressions, despite the fact that they are supposed to be starting a new life together in (SPOILER ALERT!) New York.

But then the last episode hits and it hits pretty damn hard. To go into any kind of detail would be to give everything away, which I hate doing. Instead, you should get your hands on seasons 1, 2 and 3, and watch them all, you’ll be doing yourself a favour.

After the episode ended, J-Rab and I lay in silence for a good long while, both lost in our thoughts. It was a really strange moment, nothing we’ve ever watched together has had that effect on us, it cut right to the bone and got me thinking a lot about the things her and I have been through and how it really is true that sometimes in life you end up hurting the people you love the most.

If you follow this blog and have been doing so for awhile, you probably have an idea of J-Rab and my relationship through the things I post, but what I realised last night was that perception is probably skewed.

Simple fact is I would never air our dirty laundry on this site, it’s just not a boundary I’d ever want to cross. As such our relationship might come across as all rainbows and lollipops and I can’t abide that, because it just isn’t true and the last thing I wanted when I started this blog was to spin a bunch of bullshit as the truth.

The reality of our relationship is that like most couples, we’ve been through a lot of heartache, we’ve fought with each other, screamed at one another, thrown shit all over the place and all but strangled each other to death more than once during our two and a half years together and the honest truth is if I had to go back in time I would do it all again, exactly the same, because it’s made us who we are.

Sometimes I look at other couples, the way they tip toe around one another, the way they’re full of fake smiles and forced familiarity when they’re around other people, and I feel really sorry for them because none of it’s real. I don’t know why, but people have this weird way of making a huge public spectacle of their ‘happiness’ in order to somehow affirm it which I always thought was total bullshit.

I love the Leonard Cohen song ‘Hallelujah’ because it says it exactly like it is:

‘I’ve seen your flag on the marble arch / Love is not a victory march / It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah.’

We’ve been there. I know exactly what that cold and broken Hallelujah feels like, what it feels like to reach that point where all hope has died and you wonder how the hell you’re ever going to be able to look that person in the eyes again, never mind save your relationship.

But J-Rab and me, we found a way. We toughed it out, we fought until there wasn’t any fight left in us and then we started down the long, hard road of forgiveness and I’m glad we did because she’s the best goddamn thing that ever happened to me.

I’m not interested in fluffy toys and heart-shaped chocolate boxes and ‘I love you pumpkin’ messages on Facebook. I want a companion, I want a lioness, as ferocious as she is kind, someone who’s got my back and keeps me on my toes, someone I can laugh with and share this life with and grow old alongside and J-Rab is all those things to me.

Don’t tell her I said this, but I never knew how I got so goddamn lucky.

She means the world to me, and if that’s not worth fighting for, I don’t know what is.

-ST

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slicktiger — Thu, 28 Jan 2010 09:56:03 +0000

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slicktiger — Thu, 28 Jan 2010 09:56:26 +0000

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slicktiger — Thu, 28 Jan 2010 09:57:26 +0000

The Parlotones Irritate The Living Shit Out Of Me

slicktiger — Thu, 28 Jan 2010 09:57:31 +0000

There are very few SA bands that I actually like, in fact I could probably count them all on one hand and most of them don’t play anymore.

Anyone remember Squeal? Early Nude Girls (before Carstens became a jerk)? Boo? Sugardrive? I used to dig those bands, they had a great sound and put out a good couple of albums that were pretty decent.

I find the bands playing these days largely uninspiring with a few exceptions, one of which is Lark – Inge Beckman is the kind of girl you wouldn’t look twice at walking down a street (well, depending on what she was wearing) but on stage she’s all kinds of sexy.

Then there are SA’s favourite bands, the Prime Circles and the aKings and the Goldfishes of this world and whatever you do, DO NOT fuck with their fans. They are fiercely loyal and won’t hesitate to swear at you loudly for ‘not supporting South African music’ if you tell them that those bands are shit.

And lastly, there’s the Parlotones. If you don’t know who the Parlotones are, then I’m not quite sure what you’re doing reading this post. Crawl back under the rock you’ve been hiding under and stay there, because fuck man, the Parlotones are EVERYWHERE!

That song that plays in Outsurance adds? Parlotones. The free album that came with your Sony Ericsson W995? Parlotones. The band that played at the last big corporate function you attended? Parlotones. The band associated with Gigabyte laptops? Parlotones. The only SA band to launch its own wine? Parlotones. The band you hear playing in your worst nightmares? Miley Cyrus. But when she’s too busy working the pole, you bet your ass, it’s the Parlotones.

To be honest, I didn’t really give a flying fuck about any of that. You think it’s easy for SA bands to actually make a living out of gigging and selling albums? Think again buddy, it’s fucking difficult. At least 95% of SA bands have day jobs because the music industry in this country is miniscule in comparison to the rest of the world and the sad reality of being a musician in this country is that is doesn’t pay the bills.

So by all means, get in bed with a couple of sponsors, why the hell not? Cash in on your hard work, atta boy!

BUT there is a line. And the Parlotones crossed it when they got in bed with that giant behemoth of the fast food industry: KFC.

‘We driiiiiiiiiinnnnkkk, we driiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnkkkkkk, we driinnkk from the cupa LIE-YEE-IF!’

If I have to see that advert once more on TV I’m going to tear my fucking face off.

If you haven’t seen it, it’s part of this new series of adverts KFC has shot that all feature this nerdy, glasses-wearing girl who’s wetting herself because she’s on set for the filming of the Parlotones new video.

Amidst the hustle and bustle and action of everything going on around her gets all flustered and in one ad has a Parlotones SnackBox thrust at her and in another one, an ice cream. I don’t understand the logic behind either of these adverts, but I think the underlying message is ‘Eat some KFC and shut the fuck up.’

I found both adverts cringe-worthy, but the newest one, in which our nerdy heroine is pretending to jam Parlotones frontman Kahn Morbee’s guitar in a dressing room when he walks in on her, is definitely a new low for a band that I didn’t think could top their previous efforts at whoring themselves off to the highest bidder.

Are they on crack?! What band in its right mind would agree to have one of their songs (I presume it’s their song) butchered by a girl with the acting talent of limp celery?

What’s even worse is after Kahn walks in on her and asks for his guitar back, she bashfully stands up, edges towards him and then lunges at his face for a snog.

Aaaaarrrrrggghhhh! WWWWHHHHHHYYYYYYY?!

The saddest part of the whole thing though is that in researching this piece (yes, I actually do that sometimes, don’t look so shocked) I got a hold of both Radio Controlled Robot and A World Next Door To Yours (the Parlotones 2005 and 2007 albums) and I have to admit, grudgingly, that they’re OK. Not mind-blowing, not life-changing, but also not utterly crap.

I even took things a step further and found out how much it costs to hire the Parlotones for a corporate function and get this, the booking fee starts at R70k which, after you’ve divided it up between their agent, their manager, their technicians, logistical costs of moving their equipment etc, etc, etc probably only works out to be a couple of thousand, if that, for the band.

A couple of thousand to stand in front of a room of fat, balding men and bored, middle-aged women while you belt out songs about how colourful you are. That’s gotta start destroying your soul sooner or later.

Maybe what this piece should have been is an indictment against the South African music industry and how it forces bands who want to actually make it big in this country to turn themselves into big fat whores in order to do so, but the music industry in this country has always been like that. It’s not going to change, no matter how much we bitch and moan about it.

Local bands would do well to take a page out of Saron Gas / Seether’s book. They had the talent to make it internationally and so that’s exactly what they did. Sure, they’ve been called traitors for leaving SA and turning their backs on the country that made them, but seriously what the fuck else were they going to do?

Have their faces plastered all over KFC SnackBoxes? Fuck. That.

Making it big in Europe or the States should be the end goal for any local band because the sad fact of the matter is that the music industry here doesn’t have the money and resources to properly support and promote local talent unless you sell out in the most degrading way possible.

Never do this though. No amount of money in the world can replace your integrity as an artist and once that’s gone, it won’t be the cup of life you’ll be drinking from my friend, it will be the cup of crap you’ve irritated out of people.

1 Band 1 Cup, now featuring the Parlotones!

I rest my case.

-ST

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slicktiger — Fri, 29 Jan 2010 06:45:14 +0000

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slicktiger — Fri, 29 Jan 2010 06:46:04 +0000

Conversation With Beelzebub

slicktiger — Fri, 29 Jan 2010 06:46:08 +0000

A few weeks back I got up on my high horse and pranced around the place (one of my favourite pastimes) because the Chairlady of our Body Corporate is Satan.

You can read all about it in this post right here, but basically Beelzebub and her Minions Of Darkness were pissing on my battery because they issued this snotty letter telling us we weren’t allowed to use the pool in the complex without filling in this whole roster thing because someone kept pulling the creepy out the pool and leaving it in the sun to shrivel up and die.

I was really keen to take drastic action and fill the pool with cement and made a list of actions of all this crazy stuff and asked you, my friends, what you thought I should do.

“Kidnap the creepy!” you all shouted, pitchforks raised, “that’ll teach her! The power of Christ COMPELS you! The power of Christ COMPELS you!”

In the end I elected to do nothing though. Passive resistance is still resistance right? Yeah, I showed her.

Then on Wednesday we arrive home and the minute I drive into our complex, I notice that something is wrong, but I just can’t quite put my finger on it…

“Something is wrong…” I muttered to J-Rab as we drove in, “but… I just can’t quite-”

“Are you blind?”

“Eh?”

“Half the trees in the complex have been cut down!”

“Holy fucking hell! I think you just may be onto something there…”

“Wonderful. It looks like we live in Brixton now.”

What’s worse is the Syringa tree in our garden courtyard has been butchered by the chainsaw-wielding maniacs who pass as ‘landscape architects’ these days. All they left was the centre trunk, which means the neighbours across the courtyard now have a clear view directly into our bedroom and because of this there are now 3 videos of us on Redtube that I sure as hell didn’t put there!

Ok, maybe the one… but definitely NOT the other two!

And so, last night I came home after gym, showered, put on my best wife beater, crossed the River Styx and walked right into the jaws of hell.

It’s exactly like they describe it in this long and convoluted novel I read once called The Bibel (or something similar). It hones of sulphur, there are creepy demon-things everywhere with red leathery skin jabbing these wretched-looking motherfuckers with spears and pitchforks and flames! Fuck me running, there’s flames EVERYWHERE!

And there, sitting on a throne of skulls, was Beelzebub...

“Hullo,” I said.

“Hi. How are you?” she replied.

“I’m well and yourself?” I shot back, confident and ready to attack.

“I’ve been better actually. I’m not happy with the job the garden service did.”

“Oh yeah? Well, I’m here to give you a piece of my m- wait, what?”

“This garden service we hired, they cut back far too much in a lot of areas around the complex, but what can you do? We got three different quotes from garden services, the cheapest one coming in at R10,000 and for that amount of money, we told them to make sure that we aren’t going to have to call them back in six months time to do it all again, because we just can’t afford it. I’ve already had to raise the levy to cover the costs of hiring them, not to mention the costs of the creepy, which has been destroyed thanks to the kids in this complex, who go to the pool area unsupervised by their parents and run riot all over the place! I just don’t know. I’m leaving here soon so it won’t be my problem anymore, I’m tired of dealing with all the issues this place has. I’m tired of being the dragon.”

“Just back the fuck up there for a second, what is this bullshit?” (I didn’t actually say this, but let’s just go with it for the sake of making me badass. Remember, I WAS wearing a wife beater and I HAD just come from gym) “You’re not allowed to be human! You’re the evil lady who shits us out when we pack the flat like a sardine tin with all my buddies and proceed to drink our body weight with music blaring until the sun rises! Which reminds me, we’re having another party on Saturday, so yeah, um, can we use the pool area?”

“Sure.”

“I’ve got the R250 you need for a deposit...”

“Oh, that’s more of a formality than anything else, just please leave the pool area like you found it.”

“No! You WILL take my R250!”

“Well, if you insist.”

“There!”

“Thank you.”

“Pleasure!”

“I won’t be here because I’m flying to London on Saturday night, but you can collect the deposit from iplqpo3is1n74m3 (don’t remember the dude’s name) at no. 19 on Sunday.”

Flying... to London... Saturday night... These words echoed like a death row pardon in my head.

Are you thinking what I’m thinking B1?

I sure as FUCK am B2!

Let’s get fucking wizasted!

RARRARAARARGHARARAGAHAHAAHGHGHGHHGHHH!

I stayed for another 15 minutes talking to ol’ Beelz and came away with a different point of view. In this life, you gotta give people their 15 minutes, I’m usually pretty good at this, but my encounter with Beelz last night reminded me that I do still slip up from time to time.

The woman lives by herself in that flat, she lost her husband a few years back. She told me he was a fit guy, kept himself in shape, exercised at least twice a week, played golf regularly, played squash every week, but he was diagnosed with cancer and 6 weeks later, he died.

So I’m writing this post to take back the shitty things I said about her and set the record straight. She’s not some demon, she’s not the devil incarnate, she’s just a lonely old woman who’s fed up with always having to be the bad guy.

Food for thought right there. C’mere. Hold my hand. Let’s sing Kum Ba Ya...

Tune in tomorrow for a rushed and largely incoherent post because tomorrow it’s FUCKING PARTAY TIME MUTHUFUKKAHS! In case you don’t already know, we’re blowing this grey and rainy city and heading down to Cape Town to start a new life, me and J-Rab, living on a wine farm and raising Cheetah Cubs, but more about that later :)

In the meantime you look after your sexy selves and have a killer weekend.

Your buddy ol’ pal

-ST

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slicktiger — Mon, 01 Feb 2010 05:59:06 +0000

Ploughing into the hurdles

slicktiger — Mon, 01 Feb 2010 05:59:12 +0000

He was an athletic machine. His legs pumped like pistons as he sprinted and he was miles ahead of the competition by the time he came to the first hurdle. His legs scissored over each hurdle flawlessly, it looked like he was going to break his own personal best and all around the stadium the crowd started cheering and screaming wildly as they stood up, fists pumping in the air.

Tension was high as he deftly reached into his gay little running shorts and pulled the hip flask out. The spectators all saw it and a hushed silence fell over the stadium as they stared at him, their mouths still hanging open, frowning in confusion.

He turned to his loving audience, winked and tipped the hip flash to his lips, gulping its contents greedily as he leaped over the last few hurdles, already starting to get a little wobbly on his feet.

He sucked the hip flask dry and threw it over his shoulder in a long, slow arc that ended abruptly as it struck one of the other runners in the face.

The crowd gasped in horror. What the hell was he doing?

He turned his head back and focussed his attention on the last two hurdles, but already the booze was taking effect.

He ran straight into the first hurdle without any attempt to jump it whatsoever and came crashing to the floor in a tangled heap of limbs and splintered wood. The crowd gasped a second time and started shouting and booing loudly.

He picked himself up shakily, laughing all the while, limped over to the last hurdle, kicked it flat as the other runners passed him by, and went to lie down on the grass by the side of the track for a bit.

He’d never seen a sky so blue before…

I didn’t post on Saturday or Sunday, the guilt of which is making me feel a little lousy. But in my defence, the party on Saturday was INSANE! One minute everyone’s all cool, all chilled out, next minute everyone’s in the pool going wild!

But more about that later, watch this space ;)

-ST

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slicktiger — Tue, 02 Feb 2010 06:08:15 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 02 Feb 2010 06:10:28 +0000

Saturday Night – A Photo Journey

slicktiger — Tue, 02 Feb 2010 06:10:33 +0000

So yeah, we lost radio transmission for a few days back there and yesterday’s post wasn’t exactly what you’d call ‘worth a damn’ (not in my opinion anyway, I mean sure, there’s nothing wrong with pics of girls with see-through bras splashing around in pools, by there was no goddamn SUBSTANCE there! Nothing to sink your teeth into!) so here’s what went down at our farewell party.

In the beginning everything was cool, everything was chilled. The sun actually broke through the clouds for the first time in what felt like months sometime around 1pm, just before the party started. Not long after that, we posed for a sexy photo, me, J-Rab and THE CLAW OF DEATH!

A bunch of radass people arrived, one of which was Action Jackson who, even though he’s been at almost every party I’ve documented on this blog, has never actually had his picture published on this blog.

Ladies and gentlemen. With no further ado. I present to you. A great man and a personal friend of mine for the last 15 years. Wearing a Woody The Woodpecker T-Shirt and a badass grin. Mister. ACTION! JACKSON!

Another radass person to arrive was Graumpot. I asked him to hit us with his best ‘Heeeeeerrrrrrreeeeeee’s JOHNNY!’ face and good god did he nail it!

At this point, Jacey-got-the-aceys pushed me in the pool. The Red Mist descended. I got out, wrestled his ass to the ground, tried to tear his head off and generally put on a killer show for everyone else at the party, who all just stood around staring at us in a kind of shocked silence.

Shortly thereafter, everything was forgotten. Jacey gave me a high-five, I gave him a *5! and much hilarity ensued. Here’s a picture of some hilarity ensuing.

Then something weird happened and things took a turn, a dark turn, for the worst. Night fell and the volume of alcohol consumed took a sharp increase. Confusion reigned supreme, all around there was wailing and gnashing of teeth and somewhere, out of nowhere, a strange 40-year old man arrived and drank too much.

He then proceeded to try and pose in a ‘cool’ way for photos. But it wasn’t cool. I’m… sorry you have to see this…

After that, everything went to hell in a handbasket. More people arrived and we instantly made friends for life and then forgot each other’s names and had some more tequila. A loud splash was heard from the direction of the pool and before I knew what the hell was going on, I was in there, surrounded by ladies, it was amazing, it was like girl soup in there, party on Wayne!

And THAT my friends, was only the beginning of the party. Things still carried on until the wee hours, it was a truly sick, sick, sick party, wish you could have been there!

To end things off, here’s my favourite pic of me and J-Rab from Saturday. Sure, we might look a little drunk, a little starry-eyed, but more than anything we’re just happy to be surrounded by our friends on a warm summer evening, shooting the breeze and making some of the last memories of our life together in Joburg.

Thank you for taking this photo journey with me and my pals. Next stop CAPE TOWN MUTHUFUKKAHS!

-ST

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slicktiger — Wed, 03 Feb 2010 04:54:12 +0000

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slicktiger — Wed, 03 Feb 2010 04:55:07 +0000

The Tale Of SlickTiger And Voodoo Demon T-Shirt

slicktiger — Wed, 03 Feb 2010 04:55:11 +0000

The tale I’m about to tell you is pretty damn incredible, so much so that many people, friends and family alike, have warned me against putting it out there. “Whatever you do, DON’T blog about this!” they warned, but seriously, what the hell do they know?

I tell ya, it’s EXACTLY like they said in Spiderman “With great power comes a tidal wave of shit you probably don’t want to deal with” (or something like that) and, well, I’m done picking the flesh of my loved ones out of my teeth, I just want my old life back, is that too much to ask?!

It all started with Vincent Hofman, that evil bastard. Him and his site www.moralfibre.co.za started ALL of this.

There I was one day, minding my own business on the internet, probably surfing some porn or playing Farmville or something, when he attacks me on G-chat about some competition or other that he’s running.

I don’t remember the conversation exactly, but I think it went something like this:

Vince: hey! you! buddy! hey! stop fucking around, i know you’re playing Farmville, stop trying to look busy
me: Um, hi Vince, how are you to-
Vince: you visited MF today?
me: Huh? No, not yet, but I was just about to I swe-
Vince: why not!
me: Dude, I was just about to, I swear!
Vince: whatever. you finished writing that piece i asked you for?
me: Um, which one was that ag-
Vince: fuck man! The one about how contemporary society has become eroded by the twisted moors of pseudo-intellectual, quasi-omnipotent, western corporate consumer masturbatory ontological fascist antidisestablishmentarianism?
me: Oh yeah, that one… sure, um, should be ready any day now…
Vince: good. i want it 8am tomorrow. also, i’m putting my name in the byline. but don’t worry, i’ll link it to your site, right at the bottom of the piece. in font size 3. in turkish
me: Ok, um, yeah, that sounds fair…
Vince: also, im running a competition on the site
me: Cool! what’s the prize?
Vince: a shirt
me: I love shirts!
Vince: yeah, a dude from that band the gallows designed it himself, sealed the print onto it with virgin’s blood in some kind of elaborate ritual sacrifice to Satan presided over by a Haitian voodoo priest or something
me: Fuck yeah!
Vince: for some reason not many people have entered the competition yet, so get your ass on the site and enter the competition and there’s a better than average chance you’ll win it
me: Fuck yeah!
Vince: um, there’s probably just one thing I should tell you first though
me: Eh? What?
Vince: the last guy to have the shirt tore his entire family limb from limb and was found crouching with nothing but the shirt on in the corner of his room, eating their remains
me: Huh. But the shirt’s free right?
Vince: yup
me: Fuck yeah!

And so it came to pass that three days later the announcement was made over Twitter that the winner of the Gallows Voodoo Demon T-Shirt competition was… me!

Having never won anything in my life except a 10kg bag of Epol dog food (which tasted like total crap, but made my coat really shiny) I was so excited I could hardly sit still!

For the first few days, my excitement levels were tolerable, and my friends and co-workers shared my enthusiasm and were genuinely happy for me as I jumped up and down excitedly and sang songs I made up about my new T-shirt.

However, two and a half months later, when the T-shirt still hadn’t arrived I had to be put on powerful sedatives after my booth-buddy at work screamed something about not being able to take ‘anymore fucking singing anymore’ and stabbed me in the neck with a pair of scissors.

About a month after that, the T-shirt arrived! I rushed home to put it on, and with trembling hands, slowly pulled it over my head and slid my arms through the sleeves.

The instant the shirt was on, this feeling of raw power flooded through my entire body! It was like this one time when my friends spiked my drink with liquid ecstasy at a high school social and I ended up with my underpants on my head gyrating wildly to “What Is Love? (Baby don’t hurt me)” while the other grade 8s ran screaming out of the school hall.

I turned to look at myself in the mirror and this is what I saw:

The Gallows T-shirt had transformed me into a bloodthirsty gargantuan beast! I immediately went on a rampage around the neighbourhood, smashing buildings down with my bare hands, swatting helicopters out of the air like flies and using tank turrets as baseball bats while I bashed army dudes over the horizon and clear into the ocean!

I also ate a few people. They tasted marginally better than Epol.

Of course it wasn’t long before they sent in the big guns and called a nuclear airstrike in on my ass and that’s when I realised that maybe I’d taken things too far.

It’s not right for one man to have so much power, and so I’m offering The Gallows T-Shirt, designed by one of the dudes in the band in some kind of dark, evil, blood soaked voodoo ritual, as an item to be raffled for the Nerdies 2010, because all the proceeds go to Wet Noses charity and puppies are cyoot.

But whoever wins the T-Shirt BEWARE! On wearing it you will become a bloodthirsty gargantuan beast, filled with murderous rage and a savage appetite for destruction and human flesh, but it sure beats spending your free time jacking off and playing Farmville right?

Let the bidding begin…

MUAH-HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!

-ST

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slicktiger — Thu, 04 Feb 2010 14:07:05 +0000

Salome’s first day

slicktiger — Thu, 04 Feb 2010 14:07:12 +0000

Hey party people.

This won’t be a long post. I’m feeling kinda down and don’t really know what to write about today. The day started out all sunshiny and turned to pouring rain and grey skies. More grey skies. Just when you think things are clearing up, more grey skies.

I guess it doesn’t help that I’ve been listening to Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds all day, but I don’t know, I find solace in that crazy fucker’s music, the way he’s screaming mad one minute and singing heartfelt ballads the next. Reminds me of this one guy I met once in a crowded bar, drinking himself quietly to hell, writing poetry on paper napkins… I wonder what ever happened to those napkins…

I think about our maid Salome’s first day when she started with us and how I was on school holidays and went to make myself a bowl cereal at 2 o’clock in the afternoon cause I was hungry and lazy that day.

I remember how I paused when I reached into the fridge for the milk because the milk jug with the cartoon cows on it wasn’t there.

Instead I found myself staring at a Hunchback of Notre Dame milk jug. Identical in shape, but with a red cap instead of a white one and pictures from the animated Disney movie all over it.

I asked my mom later what happened to the milk jug and she told me that Salome broke it by mistake, but was too scared to tell anyone so she walked up to the Pick ‘n Pay on her lunch break and tried to buy an identical jug. They were sold out of cartoon cow ones, so she bought a Hunchback of Notre Dame one instead and just kinda hoped no one would notice the difference.

She burst into tears when my mom asked her where the cartoon cow jug was.

I don’t know, I think about Salome’s first day sometimes and how it must have felt to watch that milk jug slip out of her hands and smash on the floor.

It’s stupid, I don’t know why I think about that. I wish there wasn’t so much junk in my head sometimes.

Tomorrow will be better.

-ST

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slicktiger — Sat, 06 Feb 2010 20:46:35 +0000

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slicktiger — Sat, 06 Feb 2010 20:46:56 +0000

Not dead yet

slicktiger — Sat, 06 Feb 2010 20:46:58 +0000

I’m not dead yet! This last week was a bad week for blogging and the posts I wrote smacked of mediocrity, but I’m only human and not yet the blogging machine I hope to one day be, but I’m getting there, one post at a time ;)

So what’s been going on in my crazy-assed life the past few days? Well, for starters I visited the dermatologist yesterday and he nailed this big skin tag that’s been growing on my forearm with some liquid nitrogen and now it looks like this:

Fuck blogging is awesome! Guess what else!? I had a salami sandwich for lunch today! I know! Stop the fucking press right?

Ironically, there are actually major changes happening in my life right now, like the fact that tomorrow at 9.20 I drop J-Rab off at Lanseria Airport and don’t see her again for two and a half weeks.

I’ll tell you one thing for free, I fucking hate long-distance. It’s hellish – the missed calls, the smses, the g-chats, the Skype calls, I wouldn’t fucking wish it on my worst enemy. J-Rab and I did it for a year and a half, I was here and she was in London, then after that she moved to Boston, that’s a 6 hour time difference kids, 7 in winter.

You think we’d be used to it, but the truth is you never get used to it. You get used to being close, coming home to the person you love, the little things y’know? Brushing your teeth together, curling up to go to sleep, all that retarded shit, the shit you never bother to put into words, you get used to that stuff.

And then she’s gone and you’re finding tiny pieces of her for weeks afterward - strands of her hair, maybe a pair of earrings here, some lip gloss there, her scent on your pillow, and you’re remembering the feeling of her breath on your neck and what it looked like to watch her disappear through the boarding gates the last time you saw her.

And then the phone calls, fuck I remember them well. The first month or two it’s bearable, but by month three, month four, it feels like you’re dating a ghost, a voice on the phone and not much more.

People said we’d never last, but we found a way, just like we’ll find a way through the next two and a half weeks.

I hope it goes by fast. The weekends are the worst and there’s two of those to get through, so hopefully it won’t be too bad, and even if it is, I’ll fight on through cause that’s what I do.

If nothing else, it should free up a little time for me to write some great material and I already have ideas bouncing around for a couple of killer posts, so watch this space ;)

Later Party People.

-ST

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slicktiger — Sun, 07 Feb 2010 21:55:05 +0000

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slicktiger — Sun, 07 Feb 2010 21:56:34 +0000

Suitcases and Empty Spaces

slicktiger — Sun, 07 Feb 2010 21:56:38 +0000

Nothing sounds like polyurethane suitcase wheels bumping over bricks. You could record that sound and play it to anyone and they’d be able to tell in a second it’s the sound of a suitcase being wheeled around, it’s the sound of someone arriving or someone leaving.

This morning it was the sound of my girlfriend starting our new life by herself. It kills me that I couldn’t be there with her, stepping onto that plane together, hand in hand to face whatever the future brings. Instead I’m left behind, sitting on my bed in a room as bare as it was before she moved in.

And round and round in my head the same line from the same song plays on infinite repeat.

Baby I’ve been here before, I’ve seen this room and I’ve walked this floor, you know I used to live alone before I knew ya…

I never bothered to decorate my bedroom before J-Rab moved in. It was functional; bed, bedside table, lamp, bookshelf, washing basket. Patrick Bateman would have loved it. Then she arrived with her photographs and her drawings and her Indian elephants and her stars and the space I lived in came alive.

I’ll never forget the Saturday when her and Jenni-fuh busied themselves for hours cutting little golden moons and stars and spaceships out of some wrapping paper they found and sticking them up on our living room wall. It wasn’t long after I started this blog if I remember correctly, you can go here if you want to read that post.

I arrived home on Friday to find J-Rab taking the last of those stars down. There’s only a tiny crescent moon left, high up where her and Jenni-Fuh asked me to put it, too close to the ceiling for either of them to reach.

I think I’ll leave it up there.

We drove most of the way to the airport in silence this morning, her hand resting lightly on my thigh as I drove, and ironically, it was one of the most beautiful mornings Joburg has had in weeks.

“Well, at least Joburg is giving you a nice farewell,” I said.

“Yeah, great. It pisses down with rain for almost the entire summer, then on the day I leave the weather couldn’t be better.”

“Heh heh, yeah,” I chuckled, “asshole city.”

The man at the check-in counter told us J-Rab’s luggage was 2 kilos over the limit and looked like he was going to do something about it until the two of us verbally clothes-lined the motherfucker.

“C’mon, she’s moving her whole life down to Cape Town, everything! How the hell do you expect her to keep to your ridiculous 20kg limit? So she’s 2 kgs over, I’m pretty sure the plane’s still going to be able to take off. Please dude, help us out here, this is an emotional time for us both…”

Of course he let it slide. Only problem was J-Rab’s overhead luggage was the size of a St Bernard, but he let that slide too. We make a great team, my lioness and me. I wouldn’t want to fuck with us.

I held her for a long time before she went through the departures gate, but it wasn’t long enough. I watched her take her laptop out of her bag and put it through the x-ray machine along with the St Bernard and then put it back in on the other side.

She turned and waved one last time, I waved too. I swallowed hard.

I spent the rest of the morning at Peggles’ flat – he was actually arriving back from Cape Town at the same time J-Rab was leaving so I gave him a lift from the airport back to his flat and drank coffee there and tried to enjoy the morning.

By lunchtime it was pissing down again and I drove through the deluge back home and wandered aimlessly around the flat, opening the cupboards, staring into the fridge, stacking the dirty dishes but not washing them, eating the couscous salad J-Rab made us for dinner last night and then finally collapsing onto the bed with all my clothes on and falling into a restless sleep.

We watched Dexter until 3 in the morning together, season two, we had to finish it before she left because it’s not the same watching it alone. I think I dreamed about it, but I can’t be sure.

I know I dreamed about something.

She called once she’d arrived at our new place and took some pictures with her phone and sent them to me.

I found myself squinting at them, trying to get a feel for the place, weighing up the pros and cons. Here the pictures are. It’s weird to think this is going to be the place where I’m going to live and you, a bunch of perfect strangers mostly, know as much about how it looks as I do.

Tomorrow I’ll wake up and look at this city with new eyes. I’ll drive down the same roads I have been for years, but they’ll carry a certain charm that they didn’t before and the tiny details that make up this city will jump out at me, larger than life because in two weeks and two days, I’m packing everything up and hitting the open road.

In my mind I can see myself pulling into the dusty driveway of the wooden house where we’re going to live and I can see her running out the front door, her henna-red hair moving in slow waves as the afternoon sun sets quietly behind us, and the distance between us closes for the last time.

It’s not long now… not long at all.

-ST

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slicktiger — Mon, 08 Feb 2010 07:40:33 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 08 Feb 2010 07:41:09 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 08 Feb 2010 07:41:32 +0000

The Voodoo Demon T-Shirt – An Update

slicktiger — Mon, 08 Feb 2010 07:41:37 +0000

I think we may have gotten off on the wrong foot about this whole voodoo demon T-shirt thing and I may have inadvertently scared all of you out of actually bidding for that ~~godawful, demon-possessed piece of hell~~ lovely and stylish piece of clothing.

Let me just say this once and for all so you don’t all get nightmares and wet the bed – the T-shirt I’m offering for the Nerdies ’10 raffle isn’t actually possessed by demonic spirits, it’s just a normal T-shirt. It won’t make you turn into a gargantuan, destructive force of nature when you put it on and I promise it won’t make you want to eat anyone.

See, what I was doing there was indulging in a little bit of fiction (you can read the original post here) a flight of fantasy if you will, in order to pique people’s interest in what is otherwise a normal T-shirt (a seriously radass T-shirt, but it doesn’t give you superpowers) so that you guys would go wild and in a frenzy of bidding, end up buying the shirt for somewhere upwards of R5k.

Then I realised I didn’t really explain the auction itself very well and maybe that’s what the real problem is here, so here’s the dealy-o. You have to go to this website and scroll down in the comments section (scroll right to the bottom) and find my thread about the shirt and start bidding. Don’t be a stingy fucker, if you give money with an open heart it comes back to you x3, fact.

I can’t really say I’m surprised though. I did some charity work before once, trying to raise money for the Walter Sisulu Paediatric Cardiac Centre for Africa. The MAEN! and I dressed in drag and ran the Spar Women’s Race and while it wasn’t a pretty sight, we got a damn good time and more wolf whistles than either of us could really handle.

Before I ran, I got people to sponsor me and managed to get about 50 people or so to sign and pledge an amount per kilometre, whether it was R5 or R50. I was stoked by people’s response and it gave me a lot of faith in the generosity of the human spirit. That is, until it came to collection time.

Out of all the people who sponsored me, you know how many actually paid up? Two. Two people, that’s it.

It was quite a wake-up call in a lot of ways because it got me thinking about all the times I’ve donated money to charity and I can’t say it’s been very often, so I’m just as bad as all the people who never paid up. Actually no, I’m not that bad because usually if I say I’m going to do something, I do it.

So let’s do this people. Right now there have been a grand total of (wait for it) THREE bids on the shirt – Angel, SheeBee and my main man, Supa_Dan. We’re currently sitting on R40 for this shirt, which is pretty damn cool as it was designed by Laurent "Lags" Barnard, the guitarist from the English hardcore punk band Gallows.

That fact in itself should fetch at least R150 for this shirt. All proceeds go to Wet Nose Animal Rescue Centre. So let’s lend a helping hand fer chrissake.

I’m re-opening the bidding at R60. Anyone have the stones to top that?

There are upwards of 150 of you who visit this site every day, don’t think I don’t know who you are, I know exactly who you are. I know where you live, where you go to work, your banking details, the whole deal.

Not that I would use that information to, say, destroy your life or anything, all I’m saying is think of the puppies guys, think of the puppies.

-ST

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slicktiger — Tue, 09 Feb 2010 05:56:38 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 09 Feb 2010 05:59:44 +0000

The SlickTiger Guide to Klapping Gym Boet!

slicktiger — Tue, 09 Feb 2010 05:59:48 +0000

As an oke with lots of mates who are also okes I can tell you straight that it’s every oke’s dream to get MASSIVE AND RIPPED and bang two hot blondes AT THE SAME TIME!

Once an oke has achieved this goal, he is happy and can spend the rest of his life sitting on the couch, drinking beer, watching sports and TELLING OTHER PEOPLE WHAT TO DO.

He has earned this right, nobody can take this right away from him and with my help you can earn this right too, but first you gotta learn the proper way to KLAP GYM BOET! or you’ll always be a loser who can’t pull hot chicks and spends friday nights at home twitting with his loser friends on the interweb.

STEP ONE TO KLAPPING GYM BOET!

The first step to klapping gym boet is to buy a fucking TIGHT VEST. This will intimidate your opponents in the gym and make the hot chicks there stare at you and you will be able to lift 15% heavier weights from the confidence boost it will give you.

Confidence is everything. A wise man once told me if you don’t have confidence, fuck off, and he was right.

Ideally, you want your vest to show your biceps, triceps, delts, traps, lats, pecs, but NOT NIPPLES! That’s flippin’ gay.

STEP 2 TO KLAPPING GYM BOET!

Everyone knows that to klap it PROPERLY in the gym you need to be as tanned AS CAN BE! Having a GREAT TAN in the gym will not only make all your muscles look RIPPED, but it will also show all the chicks checking you out that, yes, you are an outdoors kind of guy and not some gay moffie who’s scared to lie in the sun for 13 hours wearing a thong.

I went onto the internet to show you just how ripped and amazing okes look with a little bit of a tan.

The charna in the above photo has NAILED not only a flippin’ AMAZING tan, but also a hot blonde belter who probably called her friend who was also a hot blonde belter right after this picture was taken so they could bang this guy. AT THE SAME TIME!

His arm is MASSIVE and covered in veins. Fuck, I can’t look at this picture anymore. FUCK! I’m jealous…

What can I say about this charna’s AWESOME tan that would do ANY JUSTICE to him or how AWESOME he is? Look at his even, brown / orange skin tone, flippin’ HARDCORE man! Look at the clear line between his pecs – proof that this charna likes to KLAP THE GYM! AND HARD!

Such a shame about the bladdy rough chick on his left though, but I’m sure with a bit of blonde hair dye, 70 hours in the sun, 6 months in the gym and lekker big fake tits, she’d look ok. Not flippin’ hot. But ok. He could do better.

Please go back up and just look at this photo one more time. Please just do that RIGHT NOW CAUSE THIS OKE’S TAN IS MAKING ME KAK MY PANTS HIS FLIPPIN TAN IS SO AWESOME!

Look how MASSIVE AND RIPPED he is! You don’t need to tell an oke like this how to KLAP GYM BOET, he wrote the BOOK! He’s also wearing a backwards cap and sunglasses IN THE GYM, so automatically plus 40% to his confidence which means he will be able to lift 75% heavier weights!

Now THAT’S what a kief tan can do for YOU!

STEP 3 TO KLAPPING GYM BOET!

Step three is a crucial one, this is SERIOUS now, so PAY ATTENTION, I”M ONLY GONNA SAY THIS ONCE.

In a gym situation you are nothing, NOTHING! without your charnas. You think you can get flippin RIPPED and MASSIVE and bang two hot blonde chicks at the same time if you train by yourself? Fuck boet, are you stupid?

The okes you train with are your CHARNAS! They are your BROTHERS! They will be there for you to tell you ‘Fuck boet, you look HUGE!’ and ‘I want 5 MORE! I FLIPPIN’ WANT FIVE MORE!’ and ‘Is that a new vest? Flip boet, it really brings out the colour of your eyes.’

Without your charnas you are NOTHING! You’ll have NO ONE to shout at and NO ONE will stare at you in the gym, shaking their heads because they can’t believe how MASSIVE AND RIPPED you and your charnas are!

Look at these charnas. They obviously gym together. Look at the blonde belter the one oke is gonna bang with her best friend who is also a blonde belter as soon as she gets back from having her boobs juiced up to the max.

Flippin’ awesome.

STEP 4 TO KLAPPING GYM BOET

As with most things in life, an important part of klapping gym boet is knowing when to stop. There is a time in every Gym Boy’s life when he looks at himself, RIPPED and MASSIVE in the mirror and thinks to himself ‘I can’t even wipe my own arse anymore. Have I gone too far?’

Well, I’m here to tell you the answer to that question is NO!

When is it time to stop getting MASSIVE? NEVER!

Lots of chicks will say that they ‘Don’t like a man who is too massive’, but they’re flippin’ lying cause they LOVE IT! They’re just scared of his muscles, and can we blame them? NO!

Take a look at this photo and tell me who’s going to win this ‘Who is the MASSIVEST?’ competition:

Let’s see. Is it going to be Mr ‘I look like Eddie Murphy in a red speedo’ there on the right? Or maybe Mr ‘I thought about injecting horse growth hormones but decided not to’ there in the middle?

NO! Fuck, are you stupid?! It’s going to be the FLIPPIN’ HUGE OKE on the right who’s so MASSIVE AND RIPPED his two blonde belter girlfriends have to brush his teeth for him and doctors say he won’t live past 35! KLAP IT BOET!

Do you think he’d ever be that MASSIVE AND RIPPED if he just GAVE UP?! Please man. Don’t be thick.

Here’s another example:

This oke is so massive he can just go around putting his hand on blonde belter’s boobs ALL THE TIME and they don’t even mind, in fact, they ENJOY IT because they know he could uppercut their HEADS OFF if they tried to stop him.

What a LEGEND! Any second her blonde belter friend’s going to arrive and you KNOW what’s going to happen then! Flippin’ AWESOME!

I think I’ve proved my point about step four, NEVER GIVING UP, but just to make sure, I’ll ask you one last question.

Do you think this man, this old man, could EVER! EVER! have gotten so MASSIVE AND RIPPED if he’d known when enough was enough?

STEP 5 TO KLAPPING GYM BOET!

The last and final step to klapping gym boet is the nutritional step, because unless you eat right and inject dangerous steroids daily, you’ll never get RIPPED CHARNA!

Eating right means eating PROTEIN ALL THE TIME, CONSTANTLY, WITHOUT EVEN STOPPING, because this way you’ll show your body that NO! You don’t need any flippin’ fat! You don’t need to store any nutrition, you’re shoving it in your face CONSTANTLY!

Injecting dangerous steroids daily means experiencing violent mood swings, possibly because of the steroids and also possibly because your cheloger is ONLY ONE INCH LONG!

But seriously boet! Come off it man! Who needs a normal-sized cheloger when you’ve got two blonde belters, one on each arm ready to BANG YOU BECAUSE YOU’RE SO MASSIVE AND RIPPED!?

Fuck man! Are you stupid?

Now go out there and KLAP SOME GYM BOET!

FLIPPIN’ SCHWEET!

-ST

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slicktiger — Wed, 10 Feb 2010 06:15:51 +0000

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slicktiger — Wed, 10 Feb 2010 06:17:16 +0000

Porn saved my life

slicktiger — Wed, 10 Feb 2010 06:17:21 +0000

What’s pretty rad about living in the modern world is there’s not really any stigma attached to porn anymore, provided it’s regular porn and not 2Girls1Cup porn or 1Man1Jar porn (hadn’t heard of that one had ya? Google it! Do it now!).

This means that as long as you’re not at work and you’re a single guy or have an open-minded girlfriend, you can pretty much watch porn to your heart’s content and no one’s going to think any worse of you… except your parents. They might be a little creeped out by the copy of ‘Weapons of Ass Destruction 5’ you keep stashed under your pillow and come to think of it, so am I.

Ask any guy and they’ll probably tell you they’ve learnt a lot of valuable lessons from porn, like the perks of being a TV repair man for example or how to make light of an awkward situation like walking in on your wife and the babysitter dressed in leathers and lubing up a cucumber.

But how many guys can say that porn has saved their lives?

Well, porn saved my life. I did a solo road trip about three years ago from Joburg to Colesburg to Storms River to Cape Town then to Colesburg again and finally back to Joeys.

It was an epic trip and I had all kinds of cool adventures along the way, well at least I think I had all kinds of cool adventures because to be honest, I don’t remember much of what went down.

One minute I’m having a sokkie-jol with the locals at The Blue Moon in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere, next I’m arm wrestling one pasty Brit after the next at Djembe Backpackers Lodge, next I’m dislocating my arm in a swimming pool (long story) and popping it back in myself in Kommetjie, next I’m wandering around Vortex somewhere in Paarl with a giant pink sombrero listening to a total stranger rattle on about how the entire story of Christmas evolved from people eating too many magic mushrooms in the forest and staring at reindeer.

It was a holiday so badass I needed a holiday after it just to recover and actually ended up taking two day’s sick leave when I got back because I had bronchitis and felt like hell.

Thing about the trip was that I did every leg of serious driving more hungover than the last and all I can say is never, never subject yourself to that kind of torture. It got so bad that unless I’d swallowed three packets of McNabs Energy Tabs and downed two Red Bulls before hitting the road, I was about as useful behind the wheel as a blind monkey with one arm.

Once I’d taken the edge off my hangovers all that was left to do was keep my eyes on the road, concentrate and drive. Then drive some more. Then drive some more. Then after that, you guessed it, lunch at Wimpy, yum!

Bottom line is I was dead tired for the last couple of trips I did and tried everything to stay awake – winding the windows down, playing music loud, biting my cheeks really hard, slapping my face really hard, having a conversation with myself in numerous different voices, drinking lots of orange juice, singing the theme songs of every old TV show I ever saw (‘Come and knock on our dooooooor, we’ve been waiting for yoooooouuuuu”) and eventually pulling all my nose hairs out, one every 15 minutes.

It’s all bullshit. None of it fucking worked. All that happened was I got funny looks at the petrol stations I stopped at because my hair was a bird’s nest, my face was bright red, my nose was bleeding and I kept chewing my cheeks and singing the A-Team theme song under my breath.

I knew I’d hit rock bottom when, whilst driving between Cape Town and Colesburg I looked up to see an entire family of cute little dassies crossing the road and mowed down everyone of them.

I had to find a way to stay awake, those dassies never did a damn thing to me and there I was, smearing them across the road like lumpy jam.

Suddenly God, or some kind of divine entity, parted the clouds above me and in a epiphanic moment, an infinite reel of every porn movie I’ve ever seen started playing in my head.

It was everything from the classics like “Bang Hur”, “King Dong” and “Laurence of a Labia” to modern day titles such as “Position Impossible”, “In Diana Jones And The Temple Of Poon” and “How Stella Got Her Tube Packed” (don’t ask).

I’ve never been so alert whilst driving in my entire life. My only regret is that I didn’t figure this miracle cure for drowsiness sooner!

So the next time your parents / landlord / boss / the police walk in on you appreciating some fine pornographic material and try to evict / fire / arrest you tell ‘em straight up, “Hey, do you mind! I’m fucking saving countless lives here ok?! Christ, knock next time!”

Hey presto! Problem solved ;)

-ST

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slicktiger — Thu, 11 Feb 2010 06:50:13 +0000

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slicktiger — Thu, 11 Feb 2010 06:50:32 +0000

Wonderboy Life’s Just Begun…

slicktiger — Thu, 11 Feb 2010 06:50:37 +0000

You gotta love The Kinks, because they’re fucking cool. If you don’t know who they are, please stop reading this blog immediately and go out and buy at least 5 of their albums. In this instance I don’t even mind if you buy the ‘Best Of’ collections, that’s ok, in this instance, because I just want you to get into them and that’s probably the best way.

They’re like The Beatles, only they never got as huge, which is really sad. Their music is way better than The Beatles in my over-inflated opinion, with the exception of The Beatles White Album – THAT fucking album is amazing. ‘Rocky Racoon’ all the way, that’s my favourite Beatles’ song of all time.

Anyway, once you’ve bought the compulsory 5 The Kinks albums I mentioned earlier, find the track ‘Wonderboy’ and play that fucker on repeat until you hear it in your dreams.

I heard it the first time back in varsity and it’s been there ever since, playing somewhere in the background of my life.

I appreciate irony, in fact, I thrive on it because it’s one of the most powerful forces that governs our world, and the song ‘Wonderboy’ is loaded to the gills with irony.

The lyrics are hilarious because Ray Davies (singer and frontman) sings them in this sing-song way that sounds a bit like a nursery rhyme, with this limp and lifeless vocal tone that sounds a lot like he’s just fucking given up with life and the combination of these two things, for me, makes me piss myself laughing.

Wonderboy life’s just begun / Turn that sorrow into wonder / Dream alone, don’t sigh, don’t groan / Life is only what you wonder

I arrived at work this morning and started playing random songs and “Wonderboy” came on and I couldn’t help but smile because over the course of the last day, my life really has turned to wonder.

As you may already know, I’m moving to Cape Town at the end of Feb because J-Rab was offered a killer job at Cheetah Outreach in Stellenbosch which came with free accommodation on Eikendal Wine Estate, very fucking cool.

The only snag of course was that I didn’t have anything lined up in Cape Town, which I think was contributing to the impending sense of doom that was creeping up on me a few weeks back.

Well, I’m fucking relieved to say I was offered a job yesterday at an awesome PR agency in Cape Town, which is going to be a great step forward in terms of my career and which means I got nothing to worry about except packing my life up and hitting the open road.

Sometimes in life you just gotta let go. Sometimes you’ve got to put a little trust in whatever Gods may be and have the courage to accept that things have this funny way of working out for the best if you just let them.

Cause really, in the end of the day everybody’s looking for the sun and yes, people strain their eyes to see, but I see you and you see me.

And ain’t that wonder? ;)

-ST

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slicktiger — Fri, 12 Feb 2010 06:52:33 +0000

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slicktiger — Fri, 12 Feb 2010 06:52:47 +0000

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slicktiger — Fri, 12 Feb 2010 06:53:03 +0000

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slicktiger — Fri, 12 Feb 2010 06:53:17 +0000

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slicktiger — Fri, 12 Feb 2010 06:53:32 +0000

Valentine’s Day Post

slicktiger — Fri, 12 Feb 2010 06:53:34 +0000

Valentine’s Day is definitely my favourite Hallmark Holiday because it very neatly divides the world into two factions – people who are in a relationship and people who aren’t or, in layman’s terms, people who will get ass and people who wish they were getting ass.

So logically, when V-day rolls around one of two things will happen to you, (please keep in mind I’m writing this from a male perspective because, well, that’s what I am):

Thing Number One

A sudden and inexplicable panic will strike you. “Fuck!” you’ll think to yourself, “is it Valentine’s Day already?! Fuck! What the hell should I get her? No wait, screw that, why the fuck should I get her anything just because some greeting card company says so? Fuck it, I’ll just explain the retarded logic behind it all to her and suggest we just forget it this year...”

This will not end well. Your girlfriend is not stupid, she knows it’s a bullshit marketing ploy, BUT she’ll be damned if her friends are being spoilt rotten by their boyfriends while she files her nails and watches you play X-Box.

Play along. If you get it right she might reward you by inviting that friend of hers who posed in FHM once over for a threesome. Not likely, but hey, a guy can dream.

Thing Number Two

A sudden and inexplicable hatred will strike you. “Fuck!” you’ll think to yourself, “it’s Valentine’s day and I’m single – AGAIN! I hate everyone in a relationship right now! They make me want to puke! Valentine’s day makes me want to puke! Romance is shit! I’m going to a ‘fuck Valentine’s Day party’ to get wasted, I’m not even going to try to hook up with anyone I’m so pissed off! But y’know... if it happens I won’t say no... could be quite nice actually...’

For the longest time in my life I was a ‘Thing Number Two’ kinda guy, a TNT man if you will, because I have chronically bad luck when it comes to Valentine’s Day and have only spent ONE Valentine’s Day with a girlfriend.

How. Sad. Is. That?

Remember Valentine’s Day back in highschool? What a giant clusterfuck of competing adolescent egos, man-o-man! I remember slouching my way over to the school hall with my buddies with this feeling of mounting dread welling up inside me as we took our seats and our school prefects (who all got dressed up in drag for some ungodly reason) started pumping rave ‘choons’ and handing out valentines to the lucky assholes whose girlfriends / crushes had decided to make a public display of their affection.

And there the rest of us sat, our hearts full of hope, our heads bobbing like meerkats every time we thought we’d heard our names called, only to have that hope crushed into the dirt when yet again, we left the school hall empty handed and went behind the school bathrooms to smoke some heroin.

I call this the ‘Charlie Brown Scenario’ because let’s be honest, that kid’s a big, fat loser that nobody, not even the kids watching the show, ever liked. Where the fuck is his hair?! Fucking Progeria-ridden motherfucker – wear a wig for chrissakes!

Anyway, I call it the Charlie Brown Syndrome because of the fucking infuriating way he would always run up to kick the football Lucy was holding, only to be duped by the bitch, time and time again, as she pulled away at the last minute.

EVERYONE saw it coming. EVERY kid watching that show was like, '”Charlie Brown you fucking moron, don’t fucking fall for that sneaky little whore’s tricks! Get the fuck outta there, go! Run away! Eat some rocks you got from Halloween or something, anything!”

But the goddamn tard never listened to reason, did he? Well, I felt like that goddamn tard every time Valentine’s Day rolled around, convincing myself that this time, Lucy was going to keep her finger on that football but no, the slut never did and I left the hall with nothing but a desperate longing to burn the school to the ground.

And surprise surprise, this year’s no different. I’m stuck up here in Joburg while J-Rab is down in Stellenbosch and yes, I know it’s just a dumb fucking fabricated event to encourage mass consumerism, but I’d give anything to spend it with her.

We’ve been dating for three years in October and never spent Valentine’s Day together, but you bet your ass when that day finally comes there’ll be a fucking parade in the streets!

There’ll be all the roses in the world built up into massive, red, heart-shaped floats and hundreds of fat little dwarf dudes in togas with tiny white feathery wings on, and when we reach the city centre we’ll release a hundred thousand red and white balloons that will float toward the clouds and into jet engines everywhere.

It will be epic ;)

But until then if you, like me, are spending Valentine’s Day away from your loved one, just remember this: yes, it may be lonely and depressing and yes, there’s a good chance that you’ll feel like a big fat loser but it’s nothing, nothing a little heroin can’t fix ;)

Happy Valentine’s Day.

-ST

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slicktiger — Mon, 15 Feb 2010 19:15:45 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 15 Feb 2010 19:16:09 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 15 Feb 2010 19:16:32 +0000

SlickTiger is THE KING of First Impressions

slicktiger — Mon, 15 Feb 2010 19:16:37 +0000

Hey Party People, wassappenin?

If you’re a loyal TFW reader, I think I should probably start by apologising for being a lazy bastard over the weekend and not posting (it was actually a pretty epic weekend because I by mistake smashed my buddy Peggles’ massive glass table while we were playing darts and I feel really bad about that) and also not posting sooner today, it’s been too hectic.

But enough of that crap. I’m done grovelling, time to tell you why I’m the KING of first impressions. This is pretty epic.

Here’s the dealy-o (skip this bit if you know me / read this blog often): I’m packing up my life and heading down to Stellenbosch in exactly one week’s time so that I can join my gorgeous lady J-Rab down there and start a new life together, VERY exciting times for your buddy ‘ol pal Slick.

I’ve even got a new job lined up that starts at 8am sharp next week Wednesday because no, I don’t fuck around, I kill everything I see, that’s why God has a hard-on for me (name the movie I bastardised that from and win a prize!).

What’s pretty damn cool is that my new company wants me to start so soon because they’re going on a 3 day conference to kick the year off where we get to know the company, our colleagues, and even have guest speakers come in and speak about industry trends, etc, etc.

I couldn’t possibly think of a better way to start out at a company. After those 3 days of team-building exercises and ‘getting to know you’ sessions, I’ll start work on Monday pretty much knowing EVERYONE! SORTED!

Only thing I’m a little nervous about is the high female to male ratio at this conference, which I estimate to be about 20:3. I don’t like standing up in front of an entire audience of women because I get really self-conscious and say really stupid things that make me cringe when I think back on them.

One of the first things we’re doing is a ‘getting to know you’ game where you have to stand up in front of everyone and show them a ‘hidden talent’ you have.

I thought of doing a couple of one-arm pushups at first, cause those are pretty amazing, until I realised that I can’t do one-arm pushups. What? You try it! That shit’s HARD!

Then I thought of telling everyone I’m really good at smelling stuff and when they ask to prove it I’ll take a few deep whiffs and then say, ‘Yep. Definitely smelling stuff.’

But then fuck! Outta nowhere! I finally figure EXACTLY what I’m going to tell them.

Before I launch into it, I’d just like to thank The MAEN! for inspiring this one. I am nothing without you, this blog is nothing without you. Is it ok if I show them the picture of your penis? It is? Cool, you just boosted my viewership by probably about 350.

So anyway what I’ll tell them is that I’m really good at sex.

‘I’m really good at sex,’ I’ll tell them, ‘you laugh, but it’s true. The other day I was having sex with a woman in Haiti and she said it was so amazing, it felt like the earth was moving beneath her.’

Here I’ll pause for a moment while everyone laughs politely.

‘Ok, hahahaha, yeah, she didn’t really say that...’ I’ll concede sheepishly.

‘She was dead.’

Da doom…

TSSHHH! :)

-ST

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slicktiger — Tue, 16 Feb 2010 05:49:33 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 16 Feb 2010 05:50:39 +0000

Why I Don’t Play Action Cricket

slicktiger — Tue, 16 Feb 2010 05:50:42 +0000

Look, I don’t want to start this post on the wrong foot here ok? This is about why I don’t play action cricket, I’m totally down with the fact that you might play action cricket, playing action cricket is a perfectly acceptable pastime that thousands of mentally disabled people engage in worldwide, keeps them from banging the cat, I’m cool with that.

In fact, one of my best and severely mentally disabled friends, The Glaze, used to play action cricket every Friday with his buddies from work, that’s how open minded I am about the whole thing.

They were part of some league or other, which meant they played against a whole bunch of other tards who’d formed these ‘work buddy’ teams to encourage healthy socialising outside of working hours.

But let’s be honest, these ‘work buddy’ teams only exist because three or four douchebags in the office are FUCKING AMAZING at EVERY CONCEIVABLE SPORT and so they rope in a whole bunch of other guys who really suck at sport so that the douchebags can laugh at and humiliate the others in public.

If some guy at work came up to me and said, “Hey dude, we’re starting an action cricket team, it’s gonna be rad bro! We play every Friday after work, have a couple of beers, it’s chilled, wanna sign up?”

My reply would be, “I’m sorry. Friday nights are when I masturbate furiously to re-runs of ‘Murder She Wrote’. Sounds retarded doesn’t it? Yeah, well so does action cricket.”

See, The Glaze didn’t have the malevolence in his spirit to perceive the trap he had wandered into by agreeing to play action cricket in a ‘work buddy’ team until it was too late.

And so there he’d be on Friday evenings, NOT enjoying a few sneaky libations with the rest of his real life friends, but rather stuck in some day-glo green astro-turfed nightmare, trying with all the skill he could muster to hit a ball with a plank of wood.

Just wait, it gets better.

At some stage during their league games, the office douchebags decide to implement a new rule. The person with the lowest score has to drink a HUGE mouthful of warm beer, not out of a glass, no, that would be too easy. Not out of a shoe either, also not degrading enough.

Instead, the player with the lowest score was forced to drink a HUGE mouthful of warm beer out of the communal ball-box.

Two things immediately struck me when The Glaze broke this news one evening in shame – a) Why the fuck did they all use the same ball-box? and b) WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH THEM?!

At this stage let me just make one thing clear. By ‘ball-box’, I’m not referring to a box that balls come in, I’m referring to the moulded piece of hard plastic that players wear to protect their sweaty junk from injury.

Surely at the exact point that someone suggests you play for stakes like that is when any sane person makes any excuse imaginable to get the fuck out of there?

What’s really funny though is how badly The Glaze’s team sucked. By the end of it all I think they’d lost every game except for two. They still got medals for effort though, every player in the team, which really cracks me up because The Glaze got the lowest score four or five times, once even managing to score –12, so in my estimation, he must have drank about a pint of ball-box beer.

Unfortunately he took his medal out with him on Friday night and by mistake lost it, which made me laugh so hard I cried because who in God’s name would want to walk around clubs and bars with a medal they got for drinking ball-box beer?

“Hi cutie, nice medal, what’s it for?”

“Drinking ball-box beer.”

“Oh my GOD!”

“What is it Tracy?”

“That guy’s an action cricketer!”

“Ok, stay the fuck away from us freak or I’m calling the Police!”

But what really cracked me up is the fact that the poor dude’s downed a pint of ball-box beer and now he’s got nothing to show for it! Hahahahaha! Double-edged sword muthufukkah!

The lesson here kids is never let your ‘work buddies’ rope you into any kind of sporting activity that you aren’t a semi-pro at or they’ll finally have that opportunity they’ve been waiting for to make you drink their ball-sweat.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you ;)

-ST

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slicktiger — Wed, 17 Feb 2010 07:39:28 +0000

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slicktiger — Wed, 17 Feb 2010 07:40:03 +0000

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slicktiger — Wed, 17 Feb 2010 07:40:33 +0000

The Three Evilest Shots You’ll Ever Drink

slicktiger — Wed, 17 Feb 2010 07:40:36 +0000

If you’re the type of person who enjoys this blog, then I’m just gonna jump right in there, take a shot in the dark and guess that you probably don’t mind a drink from time to time.

You don’t mind a drink from time to time, you don’t mind going out with your friends and maybe doing a sneaky tequila or two, you have nothing against that. You don’t mind opening a fine bottle of wine and drinking the whole thing by yourself, that’s fine by you, and you don’t mind taking a hip flask of whisky to work everyday and taking large gulps under your desk when no one’s looking, you know, just to steady your hands a little.

We don’t judge here at Them’s Fightin’ Words, well unless you’re MTN, The Parlotones, 30 Seconds To Mars, a fascist pig, or any number of other things that irritate the shit out of me. I like drunks though, so you guys are safe.

In fact, a lot of my good friends are well accomplished drunks, and I’ve followed their drinking careers in some cases right from the first drink I forced them to down. You know where you stand with a drunk because the second they’ve had a few, THE TRUTH starts flowing like a fountain of milk and honey from their wet, booze soaked lips, usually with hilarious consequences.

Also, I love watching the body language of truly wasted people, especially when they’re trying to get some ass. Take this one friend of mine for example, we’ll just call him X, to avoid an awkward conversation later today. When he’s nice and lubed up he’ll approach his target, leaning backward at an angle of 45 degrees from the floor. Then once he’s made his approach, he’ll straighten up to a respectable 90 degree angle, occasionally wavering forward to 100 and backward to 80.

God help his target if she shows any kind of interest because then it’s balls to the wall, 135 degree forward leaning, right up there in her personal space. Now it’s her turn to lean backward at 45 degrees. It’s like some bizarre mating ritual perpetuated by two similarly charged magnets.

So anyway, I decided for today’s post I’d share a few priceless nuggets of information I gathered whilst living in Grahamstown and studying at Rhodes University, Where Leaders Learn... To Drink.

And no, I don’t know your friend’s sister Kirsty who went there to study a BSC, or your mate Rhino who was part of the surf club so let’s not even go there ok? I went to Rhodes I remember NO ONE! I leave all that remembering bullshit up to other people cause yesterday’s got nothin’ for me, pictures that I’ll always see, time just fades the pages in my book of memories.

Here are the three EVILEST shots ever invented. I sincerely hope you never have to drink any of these. Rhodes students invented these. Yeah, that bad.

THE MOTHERFUCKER

Not a very original name for a shot, I’ll be the first to admit that, but when you’re caught in the hazy deluge of a three-day drinking binge, these things seldom matter.

For this particularly potent assault on sobriety, you’ll need the following:

1 x double shot glass
1 x shot of absinthe
1 x shot of stroh rum
1 x draught glass
1 x lighter
1 x bent straw

Ok? Are you picking up what I’m laying down here? It goes like this: You pour the absinthe and stroh into the shot glass and light it. You hold the draught glass upside down over the flaming mess, catching as many fumes as possible before putting the draught glass down over the shot glass, thus neatly extinguishing said flaming mess. Carefully sneak the shot glass out from the draught glass, being careful not to let the fumes escape and SMASH the shot in your face.

Then, quick as possible, put the short end of the bent straw under the draught glass and suck the fumes in like a bong hit. I watched someone pass out instantly when doing this once, so maybe tie yourself to something first.

THE SAMURAI

Specially designed for the shoe-string budget drinker, this is by far the MOST FUCKED you’ll ever get on one shot. I’ve been there. I have the scars to prove it.

For this suicidally retarded foray into drunken oblivion, you’ll need the following:

1 x shot of stroh rum
1 x shot glass FULL of sugar
1 x round slice of lemon, with rind

Can you see where this is going? I think you can see where this is going. This is going straight to shit, do not pass go, do not collect 200.

First empty the entire shot glass of sugar into your mouth. You’ll be surprised how much sugar a shot glass can hold. Swill it around a little to get it moist and then pop the entire lemon slice, rind and all into your mouth and chew it up but good.

By this stage your mouth will be so full your cheeks will be in real danger of rupturing. Now somehow get that shot of stroh in there and swallow the lot. Sit down for 15 minutes and for god’s sake, no matter how ‘fine’ you feel, DON’T drink anything else. Now stand up, walk around a little and marvel at how completely wasted you’ve just become.

Make an educated decision at this point, ask yourself ‘Can I handle any more booze?’ O’course y’can! Ffffaahk!

This will be the last thing you remember.

THE SACRED SHIT OF SATAN

This shot should not be drunk by ANYONE. It was invented by barmen at Champs Action Bar shortly before the place was closed down. Champs was frequented mainly by truck drivers, correctional services officers, criminals and students who were into metal and didn’t mind spending their evenings watching people fight one another with broken bottles and screwdrivers (true story).

So anyway, there is nothing cute or clever about this shot. To make it you need:

1 x double shot glass
Bit of tequila
Throw in some stroh rum
Fuck it, why not some whisky
Vodka’s definitely a winner
Some amarula cream so it can curdle instantly
And why not finish that bad boy off with a healthy dollop of Tobasco sauce?

Does that sound like fun to you? I had no idea what it was when I bought it because I was already pretty hammered. The sign behind the bar said ‘Don’t be a pussy! Try The Sacred Shit Of Satan.’

‘I’m no goddam pussy!’ I slurred, ‘gimme Satan’s shit!’

Yeah. Boy did I regret that decision.

So there you have it guys, three fun ways to spend a night slurring incoherently, hitting on ugly strangers and starting fights that trust me, you’ll lose.

Hahaha! Good times I tell ya, good times :)

-ST

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slicktiger — Thu, 18 Feb 2010 08:18:17 +0000

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slicktiger — Thu, 18 Feb 2010 08:18:51 +0000

The Internet Is making me retarded

slicktiger — Thu, 18 Feb 2010 08:18:53 +0000

When I think of the internet, I don’t think of a serious place. I don’t think of an information super-highway where top professionals can source any kind of information they want, network with colleagues and like-minded individuals and make informed business decisions, no.

When I think of the internet, I think of one big-ass playground full of kids running around with cake all over their faces.

I’ll tell you what’s happened. Thousands of years of human evolution have pushed us so far up the food chain that nothing, nothing can fuck with us, except us. Provided you live in a country that’s not wracked by war, famine, pestilence or death and you earn a steady income, chances are you’re so comfortable and bored with day to day life, whether you admit it or not, that you’ll do any fucking thing to escape the hum drum, and THAT’S what the internet has become, a giant escape hatch.

Grown men and women the world over are sending one another FAIL mails, lolcats, pyramid scheme spam (send this to 10 friends in the next 20 minutes and your penis will grow by 3 feet!), and lame joke emails that get sent to you by four different people, the last one being your own mother.

Don’t get me wrong though, I’m just as guilty as the next guy of indulging in the mindless garbage floating around on the interwebs. I enjoy a FAIL mail just as much as the next guy, but the question I often find myself asking is, What the fuck is happening to my mind?

Do you ever find yourself thinking that? All that junk we consume, all the media we are bombarded with on a daily basis, it all sits in our minds somewhere, and like a mustard seed you swallow into your lung by mistake, it’s growing in the damp and the dark and that can’t be good.

I meet these people with increasing frequency that have very clearly made it their life’s mission to completely discard the things that make them think or feel anything beyond a purely superficial level and I get ticked off when I meet people like that. We have no idea what we are capable of, it’s possibly the best part of being human. You think you know yourself and your boundaries, but you’ll find if you have the courage to step outside of your comfort zone and test those boundaries, they move.

Isn’t that the reason we exist? To grow and learn and gain as much experience as possible? Fuck, this life is a gift, you don’t know how fucking lucky you are to be living it, how fucking lucky we all are to be alive is this world of supreme chaos where in the same day, millions of people will meet and fall hopelessly in love while millions more will stand in mourning over the graves of their parents or even more heartbreaking than that, their kids.

I’m paraphrasing badly from one of my favourite movies of all time, Adaptation. You remember the bit where Kaufman goes to the script writing seminar held by Robert McKee? Well McKee ends up attacking Kaufman after Kaufman makes the statement that ‘nothing much happens’ in the world, it’s brilliant.

Nothing happens in the world? Are you out of your fucking mind? People are murdered every day. There's genocide, war, corruption. Every fucking day, somewhere in the world, somebody sacrifices his life to save someone else. Every fucking day, someone, somewhere takes a conscious decision to destroy someone else. People find love, people lose it. For Christ's sake, a child watches her mother beaten to death on the steps of a church. Someone goes hungry. Somebody else betrays his best friend for a woman. If you can't find that stuff in life, then you, my friend, don't know crap about life!

And I think this is exactly the problem this modern world of ours faces. We don’t know crap about life. We shut all that stuff out, we focus only on things that make us feel happy and make us feel good because ‘there’s enough shit in the world already’. Here’s a news flash – that ‘shit’ you refer to, that’s LIFE. Running away from the things that challenge us or scare us or force us to really feel something, isn’t LIVING, it’s just killing time and when it comes to killing time, the internet is KING.

I don’t have any answers, yet. All I got is words, fightin’ words and nothing to back them up with except my primal sincerity. Still though, I can’t shake this feeling that we’re being dumbed down, all of us, by the media we consume in nauseating quantities and worse than that, we’re enjoying it.

-ST

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slicktiger — Fri, 19 Feb 2010 15:45:49 +0000

Friday Post, A Day Late And A Dollar Short

slicktiger — Fri, 19 Feb 2010 15:45:55 +0000

Goodbye is a bullshit word. There’s too much finality in goodbye. I don’t say it.

The world turns, it always has, you find one another, and you find one another again and again and again, in this life and the lives to follow.

The radio station in my head has been blasting this song for the last two hours.

It’s the Velvet Underground ladies and gentlemen.

With a song that goes.

A little something.

Like this.

Say a word for Jimmy Brown
He ain't got nothing at all
Not the shirt right of his back
He ain't got nothing at all
And say a word for Ginger Brown
Walks with his head down to the ground
Took the shoes right of his feet
To poor boy right out in the street

And this is what he said
Oh sweet nuthin'
She ain't got nothing at all
Oh sweet nutin'
She ain't got nothing at all

Say a word for Polly May
She can't tell the night from the day
They threw her out in the street
But just like a cat she landed on her feet
And say a word for Joanna Love
She ain't got nothing at all
'Cos everyday she falls in love
And everynight she falls when she does

She said
Oh sweet nuthin'
You know she ain't got nothing at all
Oh sweet nutin'
She ain't got nothing at all

Oh let me hear you!

Say a word for Jimmy Brown
He ain't got nothing at all
Not a shirt right of his back
He ain't got nothing at all
And say a word for Ginger Brown
Walks with his head down to the ground
Took the shoes right of his feet
To poor boy right out in the street

And this is what he said
Oh sweet nuthin'
She ain't got nothing at all
Oh sweet nutin'
She ain't got nothing at all
She ain't got nothing at all
Oh sweet nutin'

She ain't got nothing at all
She ain't got nothing at all
She ain't got nothing at all

-ST

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slicktiger — Mon, 22 Feb 2010 10:42:49 +0000

Tiger Out

slicktiger — Mon, 22 Feb 2010 10:42:52 +0000

Hey guys, wattup? I didn’t post this weekend because basically all I did was pack, pack, pack, pack, pack, pack, pack, pack, pack, pack, pack, pack, pack, pack and after all that packing, I packed, packed, packed, packed and fucking packed some more.

Fuck! Can you handle all that packing? I sure as hell couldn’t! I think I’ve lost my mind a little, jayziz! Probably shouldn’t have dicked around so much during the week…

This post is to apologise in advance for what a scrappy week this is going to be. Today at 2pm I head to Bloem, then tomorrow I nail the rest of the drive to CT, then Wednesday morning I leave for a 3 day conference with my new company where I probably won’t be able to blog.

If I could, I would blog my ass off while road trippin’, but I’m handing back my work laptop and don’t have one besides that.

BUT, I’m not a total douchebag. To keep you guys entertained while I’m away, here are this site’s top posts to date. Read ‘em slowly, maybe like one a day until I get back on the horse, that way you won’t miss me too badly / forget about me completely.

Wish me luck, and if anything bad happens, always remember that in this life, it’s better to be a slick willy than a smooth arsehole.

Here are the posts:

NO.1 “The SlickTiger Guide To Klapping Gym Boet!” (Click it BOET! EAT SOME WEIGHTS!)

http://slicktiger.wordpress.com/2010/02/09/the-slicktiger-guide-to-klapping-gym-boet/

NO. 2 “A Sad Day For Dogs” (who knew this post would be so popular?! Weird I tell you, flippin weird)

http://slicktiger.wordpress.com/2009/10/20/a-sad-day-for-dogs/

NO. 3 “Death By Ayoba!” (the first post that got people all antsy about this site, a classic!)

http://slicktiger.wordpress.com/2009/11/19/death-by-ayoba/

NO. 4 “The Parlotones Irritate The Living Shit Out Of Me” (self explanatory really…)

http://slicktiger.wordpress.com/2010/01/28/the-parlotones-irritate-the-living-shit-out-of-me/

NO. 5 “My Top 5 Calvin & Hobbes Christmas Cartoons” (I love Calvin & Hobbes, this is why)

http://slicktiger.wordpress.com/2009/12/17/my-top-5-calvin-hobbes-christmas-cartoons/

NO. 6 “Halloween Dos And Donts – A Course For Social Retards” (includes a dildo!)

http://slicktiger.wordpress.com/2009/10/30/halloween-dos-and-donts-a-crash-course-for-social-retards/

NO. 7 “Top Billing Is Desensitising My Gag Reflex” (man did I have fun writing this one!)

http://slicktiger.wordpress.com/2009/12/11/top-billing-is-desensitising-my-gag-reflex/

NO. 8 “The Most Hungover I’ve Ever Been At Work” (DON’T read this while eating. In fact, probably DON’T read this AT ALL)

http://slicktiger.wordpress.com/2010/01/22/the-most-hungover-ive-ever-been-at-work/

NO. 9 “Who Cares About The Killers?” (cause seriously, who the fuck does?)

http://slicktiger.wordpress.com/2009/12/04/who-cares-about-the-killers/

NO. 10 “The One Thing I Feel Is Missing From The Interweb” (*5! Yeah! Good for you? Awesome, me too)

http://slicktiger.wordpress.com/2010/01/21/the-one-thing-i-feel-is-missing-from-the-interweb/

So yeah, enjoy! And I’ll see you guys on the other side.

Keep on keepin’ on ;)

-ST

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slicktiger — Wed, 03 Mar 2010 06:39:18 +0000

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slicktiger — Wed, 03 Mar 2010 06:41:27 +0000

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slicktiger — Wed, 03 Mar 2010 06:41:58 +0000

The Tiger Returns

slicktiger — Wed, 03 Mar 2010 06:42:04 +0000

I’ll tell you one thing about Christians, they’ve got the monopoly on guilt. Hell, I don’t even go to church or practise Christianity, but when I do bad shit, the guilt comes thick and fast.

I’ve been meaning to post for a long fucking time, I was in a good routine y’know? People they used to say, ‘Yeah, that SlickTiger guy, funny fucker. Posts every day, EVERY DAY. We love him. We want him in and around our mouths.’

Now they say, ‘Yeah, that SlickTiger guy, what a jerk. He had something going there for awhile, but it’s clear he ain’t got the stones to see it through. He’s dead to us now.”

Well, I got news Party People, like a cockroach scuttling out the drain after the last nuke wipes humanity out for good, I’m back, and I’m badder than ever ;)

Since I last checked in, crazy shit has gone down. I packed my life up in record time, jumped in The Red Baron and blazed a trail of fire clear across this beautiful, fucked up country of ours.

Joburg showed me its true face just as I left. I saw it the last time the sun set, just as I was about to get on the N1 to Bloem. Its true face looks like this:

I rolled into Bloem late, my schedule was tight as a drum because my new company had organised a 3 day conference that they really wanted me to attend which started ON the day I was originally going to arrive in CT.

Bloemfontein is a ghost town at 9 on a Monday night. I could count the other cars I saw on one hand. A stray dog nosed through some garbage. An empty chip packet blew scraping down the road.

The next day I got up at 4.30, showered and left by 5. There was about an hour’s grace before the heavens opened like a floodgate and I drove the next 6 hours in rain that fell so heavy it was coming down in sheets.

Try overtaking trucks in weather like that. Visibility is zero, but it’s ok because you can see the other car’s headlights right?

Fuck no. I counted about 15 trucks and cars that were driving with their headlights off, and in every one of those cars I saw my own death, splattered at 120 km/h all over the asphalt.

I’d be worm food if it weren’t for porn. It saved my life – click this sentence to find out how.

I hit Stellenbosch at around 4.30 and headed straight to Cheetah Outreach where I found her feeding four cheetahs. She had one by the scruff of his neck, a huge handful of fur between her fingers.

‘Hey!’ I said, ‘Stop hurting the animals.’

She turned around to give me a piece of her mind, but stopped mid sentence when she saw it was me.

Two and a half weeks – I could see the difference in her. She’s more tanned, she looks relaxed, more at home here than she was back in the Big Smoke, stuck behind a reception desk, whiling her time away filling in vet boards and staring at nothing.

She hugged me and the feeling of her all soft and skinny against me was good the way a cold drink on a hot day is good, the way a deep sleep after a hard day is good, good right down to your bones.

13 hours later I’m sitting in a bus with my new co-workers, singing ‘The Wheels On The Bus Go Round and Round’ into a microphone plugged into the dashboard.

6 hours after that I’m line dancing to ‘Sexy Back’ and smashing Jager-bombs into my face with what I can only describe as hordes of women.

In life sometimes, you just go with it. If you’re me, you take that a step further.

I could go on about the conference, a lot went down over the three days, but I think the word I’m looking for to sum it all up here is ‘radass’. I invented that word, you can use it but you have to reference this blog ;)

The weekend was amazing. J-Rab and I hit Bikini Beach near Gordon’s Bay and on Sunday went to meet my buddy Scatter’s 4 week old daughter.

It’s amazing how perfect babies come out. They’re finished so neatly, ten fingers, ten toes (hopefully) tiny mouth, fat arms and legs. Then they grow up and get all funny-looking and full of imperfections, flaws and fuck-ups.

And now I’m in the thick of things. The new job has started guns blazin’ but you know me, it’s nothing I can’t handle ;) Oh, before I forget, here’s a pic of me on the first night I arrived at my new place:

Tune in tomorrow for a post I like to call ‘SlickTiger Meets Gary The Cannibal’.

Ka-Pow!

-ST

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slicktiger — Thu, 04 Mar 2010 06:20:41 +0000

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slicktiger — Thu, 04 Mar 2010 06:20:58 +0000

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slicktiger — Thu, 04 Mar 2010 06:21:28 +0000

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slicktiger — Thu, 04 Mar 2010 06:21:48 +0000

SlickTiger Meets Gary The Cannibal

slicktiger — Thu, 04 Mar 2010 06:21:56 +0000

“I’m in a gay relationship,” he said, “I’m not sure if you… might have… heard anything about that…?”

When complete strangers open up like that with me, my first instinct is to go deadpan. I fake nonchalance because I’m totally cool with that. This is 2010 for chrissake, people are entitled to live free and without prejudice when it comes to their lifestyle choices.

And no, it doesn’t alarm me on some level that I’m sharing a room with this man, didn’t he just say he’s in a relationship?

“No, I hadn’t,” I replied, “but, um, I respect that.”

“We’ve been together 8 years now.”

“That’s a long time,” I said, genuinely impressed, “the longest relationship I’ve managed so far is about and year and a half. Straight relationship. The longest straight relationship. Um. Not that I’ve tried any other kind, haha… yeah, so…”

“Should we head downstairs?”

“Fine with me.”

And that’s pretty much how our first conversation went. They got much better after that, as they do once alcohol is introduced, and by the time we all met up for dinner that night, Gary and I were good friends.

Also, because we were two out of the only three males on the conference with about 26 women, we ended up hanging out a lot purely by default.

Shortly after we all sat down for dinner the MD of the company told me that they weren’t going to make us n00bs dance or sing a song for everyone, but that we would have to stand up, introduce ourselves and make a speech during dinner instead.

I love shit like that and so the second the MD, henceforth known as ‘Hot-Boss’, made the announcement to the table, I volunteered to go first, right then and there, before dinner had even been served.

Always go first. Don’t be a pussy. People will respect your courage and, having no one else to compare you with, will love everything you say.

I kept my speech nice and short. I thanked them for hiring me, I thanked them for inviting me on the conference, told them how excited I was to be starting out at such a friendly and rad company and sat back down.

“Wait a minute,” one of the girls chirped, “tell us why you got arrested!”

Ahh Christ.

In one of the ‘getting to know you’ games earlier that day it had emerged that I had been arrested when I was 13. Funny how things like that seem to pop up at the least appropriate moments.

Eyebrows were raised. Hot-Boss tried to brush it off by saying, ‘Well, there’s a question we’re definitely going to add to the list the next time we interview someone.” Queue polite / nervous laughter (keep in mind this was before the alcohol started flowing).

Under the surface though I could see she was a little unsettled – the last thing you want to find out about the person you’ve just hired in that they’ve had a run-in with the fuzz.

You can read all about the first time I got arrested here, it’s actually a pretty tame story. Me and some buddies smashed a few windows on a derelict building and got caught and arrested for vandalism.

Still though, it sounded bad when I explained the story over dinner that night, it was awkward and I sat down sheepishly when I was done and made a mental note to just shut the fuck up about that stuff in future.

Shortly thereafter Jager-bombs began to drop like grenades down a VC trench.

The next n00b stood up after dinner was served and got a slightly more severe grilling than me, she clocked in at about 4 minutes. She survived with her dignity intact though, but only just.

More Jager-bombs dropped. Speeches got longer and longer as the people listening grilled the n00bs with one question after the next. Questions like ‘How old were you the first time you got drunk?’, ‘When did you first have sex?’ and ‘Who’s the hottest girl here?’ started popping up. Much hilarity ensued.

Jager, Jager, Jager. Bomb, bomb, bomb.

Eventually everyone got tired of speeches and hit the upstairs lounge to party on down and cut up the dance floor.

Sometime during the festivities someone figured out that Gary hadn’t made his n00b speech at which point we all started chanting ‘Ga-ry! Ga-ry! Ga-ry!” which reminded me of the crowd chanting ‘Ru-dy! Ru-dy! Ru-dy!” from the movie with the same name about a retarded football player.

Being surprisingly shy in front of a crowd, Gary tried to get us to simmer down in the hope that we’d all forget about it after awhile and carry on partying.

No such luck.

Hot-Boss asked him to tell us about himself and he told us a killer story about how when he served in the army (navy?) he was sent on a ship to guard PW Botha only to end up accompanying ol’ Pik on what can only be described as a ‘ho-run’.

Pik was in the mood for some Eastern European women, of which there happened to be a few on a neighbouring ship, so they rowed off in a life-raft towards this other ship only to get shot down completely by the women / security on the ship and forced to row back empty handed.

“Hahaha!” people chuckled, “nice story Gary!” “Tell us another story Gary!” “Yeah, tell us another one!” everyone shouted in happy, drunk unison.

“Well,” said Gary, “another thing I’ve learned is that human flesh is overrated.”

[Insert record scratching sound effect]

“What?! Overrated how?” one of the braver girls present asked.

“As a food source,” Gary stated, matter-of-factly.

The room exploded. “What the fuck?!” “You’ve eaten human flesh?!” “Tell us you’re joking Gary!” everyone shouted in bewildered, drunk unison.

“It was in North Africa back in the day when a lot of people still did that and it wasn’t really frowned upon. I had no idea what I was eating, I was only told afterwards,” he said defensively, “it tasted quite sweet.”

Cut to the inside of my head where the opening scene from the movie Ravenous started playing, the one where a tent full of starving soldiers all tuck into a bloody meal of suspicious-looking circular steaks.

It’s shot mostly in close-ups. They tear at the meat with their teeth, blood running down their chins and congealing in their beards, while the wet sound of them all chewing gets louder and louder and the cuts get faster and faster and faster and…

“GARY THE CANNIBAL!” I screamed like a man waking up from a nightmare. Everyone burst out laughing, well, everyone but the intern who was struggling to lift her jaw back off the floor.

Me, on the other hand, I was ecstatic. Gary’s priceless over share nullified my earlier confession completely – who the fuck cares about a few broken windows when you have a human flesh eater in your midst?

Now there’s a question to add to the interview list – True or False: Human flesh tastes sweet?

Hahahahahaha! Ahh, good times I tell ya, good times ;)

-ST

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slicktiger — Fri, 05 Mar 2010 06:09:38 +0000

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slicktiger — Fri, 05 Mar 2010 06:10:13 +0000

When I Grow Up, I Wanna Be Alan Knott-Craig

slicktiger — Fri, 05 Mar 2010 06:10:18 +0000

A long time ago, I was a journalist working with a team of people from all over the world and I felt pretty fucking special and amazing.

We got paid every week in cash, huge wads of R200 notes carefully counted, stacked and packed into brown paper bags.

See, what we were doing wasn’t exactly legal. It would bore the hell out of me to have to explain it as I’ve probably told this story a hundred times, so instead I want you to think of the scene in Fight Club where they’re in the boutique store selling soap.

The narrator says something about how all they’re doing is selling rich people their fat asses back to them – we were doing the same thing, only in an editorial sense with neat, official rate cards with prices printed in Euros.

You want a page of advertising in our report? That’ll be eighty-fucking-nine thousand Euros please.

I know what it feels like to be escorted out of someone’s office by security. I also know what it feels like to lie to mayors, ministers and high-powered CEOs right to their smug little faces instead of the other way around.

You’d be surprised how easy it is – 70% of winning people over is looking the part, get that right and with enough important-sounding smarmy banter you can bullshit your way into anything.

That’s how I landed the interview with Alan Knott-Craig, who was the then CEO of Vodacom. A phone call here, an official-looking series of faxes and emails there and then next thing I knew, I was waltzing into his offices with my Hawaiian team-mate Steven, both of us dressed to the nines in expensive business suits and leather shoes polished until they looked like black mirrors.

I wore a fucking tie. I had a fucking briefcase. I was 22 years old.

For the record, old Alan had the hottest PA I’ve ever seen in my life. That woman was hot enough to melt tar, fahk. It’s a smart move because before you’ve even met the man you already have this grudging respect for him whether you’re conscious of it or not.

Understandably, I was more than a little nervous and had asked Steven, 12 years my senior, which interview question of the ones I’d drafted I should start with.

‘None of them,’ he replied.

‘What?’ I said.

‘Dude, you look like a kid fresh outta college.’

‘I am a kid fresh outta college.’

‘Yeah, so you’ve got to earn the man’s respect or he’s never going to take you seriously. Start with a difficult question, show him you’re not afraid of him.’

‘O… kay…’

‘Ask him why Vodacom’s cell phone rates in South Africa are so much more expensive than other places in the world.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You don’t think that’s going to piss him off?’

‘Trust me, after that he’ll know we aren’t fucking around and after that, he’ll buy some advertising in the report.’

‘Cool. Ok, I’ll do it.’

He’s a tall guy, ol’ Alan. Big hands. Exudes unwavering confidence and is direct to the point of almost coming across as rude.

None of this helped my nerves. We all sat down and I opened my briefcase with trembling hands as he sat there, calm as a cat with its claw through a mouse’s tail.

‘So Mr Knott-Craig,’ I stammered once I was set up and ready to go.

‘Call me Alan,’ he replied.

‘Alan. Why are Vodacom’s rates so much more expensive than other places in the world?’

And good old Alan, good old Mr Knott-Craig, I’ll never forget his response as long as I live. Me, a skinny kid out of college no idea what the hell I was doing, and him, one of the most influential men in South Africa, the chief executive officer of an empire.

He stared straight at me with a look that could weld steel and said one word.

‘Crap.’

Which is exactly what I did.

And that’s why when I grow up I want to be Alan Knott-Craig, what a fucking badass.

-ST

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slicktiger — Sat, 06 Mar 2010 20:25:08 +0000

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slicktiger — Sat, 06 Mar 2010 20:27:52 +0000

Saturday Post

slicktiger — Sat, 06 Mar 2010 20:27:58 +0000

Man-o-man, I haven’t popped out a Saturday post for months! I dig writing them though because there’s none of the usual bullshit pressure to get them out as fast as humanly possible.

That’s one thing you learn very quickly about blogging – you do it on borrowed time. ‘Especially if you have a job and a girlfriend and drive and a life’ J-Rab has just chirped in. She does that from time to time, but rest assured, I punish her for such disruptive behavior.

Warm up the wagon wheel, yeee-ha!

Aaaaaaaanyway. Yeah, like I was saying, unless you get paid shitloads of money for it, you literally have to steal time from other things you should be doing in order to blog. I often wonder what this blog would be like if I got paid a crapload to just write it and didn’t have to hammer posts out through the night or at sparrow’s fart in the morning.

Chances are, ironically, it would probably be much worse than it is right now because when you’re racing against time to finish posts they have this funny way of turning out amazing. I do some of my best work under pressure, that’s a fact.

Today was a good day, that’s why I’m writing this. In fact, the whole weekend so far has been awesome.

On Friday after work, J-Rab and I hit the beach in Camp’s Bay and the weather couldn’t have been more beautiful if God himself had CGIed the sky.

We wet our feet in the sea, we took goofy pictures of ourselves, we looked up at the mountains. Something inside unwound a little.

Afterward we sat at Caprice and drank one cocktail after the next, people watching all the while and watching the sun set slowly over the edge of the ocean. It’s a crazy place Caprice, a lot of beautiful people go there looking sexy and talk to other sexy people and pretend like they’re the only people in the place.

I was keen to meet up with a buddy of mine, Jacques SS, after Caprice. He was going to the opening of Trench Town in Obs, but J-Rab an I were getting too drunk to drive all the way back to where we live, which is basically between Stellenbosch and Somerset West, so we just drove back home, shagged one another’s brains out and slept like the dead.

The entire day today was spent straightening out the little house where we live and fahk! I’m happy to say everything’s finally done.

It’s weird, I didn’t like this fucked up little wooden house of ours at first, but now that it’s full of all our stuff I’ve warmed to it a lot.

And with that I’m going to bid you all a good night. J-Rab and I are itching to sink our teeth into the third season of Dexter and the longer I write this, the less time we’ll have to do that.

Too-de-loo muthufukkahs!

-ST

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slicktiger — Sun, 07 Mar 2010 17:04:51 +0000

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slicktiger — Sun, 07 Mar 2010 17:09:10 +0000

Sunday Grocery Shopping = Hatred

slicktiger — Sun, 07 Mar 2010 17:09:15 +0000

Things were going well, I had a handle on today, I felt like progress was being made.

I was up by 9.30 finishing the final few things that needed picking up, packing away, pulling out and plugging in. I ate leftover spaghetti bolognaise for breakfast, when you eat meat for breakfast the world bows down to you because it knows that you cannot fuck with this man!

You cannot fuck with a man who eats meat for breakfast – that man proceeds directly to the shower and scrubs himself so clean he gets out red, the colour of beetroot, and races to the sink and brushes his teeth, LIKE A SPARTAN!

This man was ME!

Right after that, I grabbed the nearest pen and began writing a LIST! Of GROCERIES! Because we were running dangerously low on MEAT!

Once I’d made sure my grocery list had at least four DIFFERENT animals on it, I added other crucial foodstuffs that I knew I’d get in trouble if I didn’t remember such as:

MILK!
YOGHURT!
COFFEE!
A MOSQUITO NET! (Technically not a food stuff, but not too bad on a piece of toast with some peanut butter)

I surveyed my grocery list, realising full well that it was lacking in a number of additional foodstuffs to make the consumption of the MEAT more palatable for my WOMAN and other leafy, vegetable-like foodstuffs that my doctor told me I need to have in my diet to KEEP THE SCURVY AWAY, but these were MINOR DETAILS that I knew I could figure out WHEN I GOT THERE!

And so I struck out, engine roaring, music blaring, to HUNT and GATHER from the hot, dry and dusty savannah plains of Pick ‘N Pay, confident that WITHIN THE HOUR I’d be back with a wagon-load of food to nourish my tribe.

I arrived and contemplated parking in the yellow bays right by the entrance that are reserved specifically FOR THE ELDERLY! But that’s highly inconsiderate and what would my mom say?

I then GRABBED a trolley and stormed into the grocery store, one I had never been to before, only to find that it was FUCKING MASSIVE!

Crap. I thought. How the fuck am I going to find anything in here?

The second thing I noticed was the music, which was quite CALM and PEACEFUL and had the same effect SLEEPING PILLS have on me.

Before long, I started to lose enthusiasm. Before long I was just kinda flopping from one aisle to the next, thinking ‘Hmm, Royco Cuppa Soup… do we need this? Royco? Cuppa Soup? I… don’t fucking know…’

The music rolled like a thick fog into my brain, which, already completely overwhelmed for choice, was systematically starting to shut itself down.

Eventually the workings of my mind resembled a goldfish, dead, floating belly up in it’s tank. Or a donkey, standing in the boiling midday heat, its face completely expressionless, half-heartedly swishing flies away from its ass.

Fakh, I thought, not for the first time in my life, I hate grocery shopping.

I don’t know what I bought, hell, I don’t even remember the last half-hour of my grocery shop, which explains why I came home with the following items:

Coat hangers
Mince Mate (but no mince)
Ice Cream
A gem squash
Soap
Steak
Oven Gloves, and
Royco Cuppa Soup

Kill me.

Kill me now :(

-ST

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slicktiger — Mon, 08 Mar 2010 05:38:36 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 08 Mar 2010 05:39:20 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 08 Mar 2010 05:40:23 +0000

Top Four Reasons Why Drinking An Entire Bottle Of Whisky Before Work Is A Good Idea

slicktiger — Mon, 08 Mar 2010 05:40:30 +0000

It’s Monday morning and I know what you’re thinking.

“Fuck” is probably it, followed shortly by, “this again.”

Well, I have good news. Thanks to a miracle remedy I recently discovered, your work days no longer have to smack of mindless repetition, bullshit meetings and faking that you enjoy the company a bunch of people you wouldn’t piss on if they were on fire.

That miracle remedy, ladies and gentlemen, is whisky. Don’t believe me? Well then, read my top four reasons why drinking an entire bottle of whisky before work is a good idea.*

Ready? Atta boy! Let’s get started!

*Note: For best results, an ENTIRE bottle must be consumed. Don’t be a pussy and stop when you’re two thirds down because you’ve gone blind, what are you? Six? MAN UP fer chrissake!

Reason #1: The drive to work will be AMAZING!

The first thing you’ll notice once you’ve chugged down the last few delicious mouthfulls of whisky is that you are more confident and capable than you’ve ever been IN YOUR LIFE!

The second thing you’ll notice is that your pants (and underpants) might need changing before you venture out into the world due to a large, warm, wet stain around your crotchal area.

Don’t let this deter you, the complete loss of bodily functions is a common side effect after drinking an entire bottle of whisky. Just make sure you sit down first before attempting to change your pants as balancing on one leg at this juncture could prove tricky.

Armed with fresh pants (and underpants) stride confidently out the house and into your car and leave for work. If you’re having trouble starting your car, run through the following checklist of questions to make sure you haven’t forgotten something:

Have you left the house?
With your car keys?
Are you sure it is indeed your car that you are trying to start?
Is your car in gear?
Do you remember how gears work?
Have you taken the handbrake off?
Have you reversed down the driveway, across the street and into the neighbour’s living room? If so, explain the situation away by saying you’re recovering from extensive neural surgery, and then pretend to slip into a coma

Once this checklist has been completed, you will notice that the drive to work is AMAZING!

You’ll careen at breakneck speeds along pavements, the wrong way down highways and possibly even along railway tracks. All that traffic that used to cause you unnecessary stress will magically disappear as you tail-end, side-swipe and pile-drive your way through any vehicles unfortunate enough to get in your way.

Provided you aren’t arrested and your car doesn’t explode in a blazing ball of molten steel and broken glass, you’ll arrive at work in record time, invigorated after your near brush with death and only vaguely concerned about the newspaper vendors smeared all over the front of your car.

Reason #2: You can finally get all of your issues with fellow work colleagues off your chest

Any HR person will tell you that the best way to maintain a happy and healthy work environment is to keep lines of communication open at all times.

In practice this becomes difficult to do as people don’t always take kindly to you telling them that they are big fat pathetic losers who are further down the food chain than prawn shit.

This can lead to the suppression of any number of issues that you have with fellow co-workers, which can have negative results on your performance in a team-orientated office environment.

However, after an entire bottle of whisky, voicing your concerns becomes not only easy to do, but also thoroughly enjoyable.

I’d suggest starting with junior staff members in order to practice your new found skill and then moving up the food chain and finally ending with your boss or even the CEO of the company.

Here’s another check-list of constructive comments and feedback you could give to your colleagues and co-workers in order to facilitate an open and honest forum for future discussions:

Your ugly! Anyone ev’r tell ya that? UGLY AND YOU SMELL! Go home! N’body likes YOU!
Look-ee look-ee! If it isn’t Miss ‘I jus’ got ANOTHER pr’motion! Everyone knows you’re screwin’ the boss, yeah! That’s right! EVERYONE!
Hey there sweetcheeks! Did I ev’r tell you you’r fuckin’ HOT? HUH? DID I? Well, you are. C’mere, gimme a hug, c’mere. I love you. I LOVE you! Hey, c’m back here!
Yo Boss-man! Up high! Hahaha! C’mon, loosen up ya big, dumb prick, stop bein’ such a fuckin’ homo all the time!

You’ll find all these and many, many more conversational ice-breakers come naturally after an entire bottle of whisky, so why not lighten up the atmosphere in your company and drink an entire bottle of whisky before going to work today!

Reason #3: You’ll get to go home early

After your courageous display of honesty at the work place, you can be sure that your bosses will reward you by letting you take the rest of the day off.

You can spend this time reflecting on the profound difference you have made in the lives of the people you work with, or, even better, getting started on a second bottle of whisky!

Which brings me neatly to my final reason why drinking an entire bottle of whisky before going to work is a good idea.

Reason #4: I’ll have someone to drink with

Having experienced first hand all of the reasons why drinking an entire bottle of whisky before work is a good idea, I now find myself waking up completely carefree everyday at noon without having to stress about the burden of going to work and with not a worry on my mind except my impending court date.

Which is why I urge you to try this miracle cure for all of life’s woes and when you have, come and find me!

I can be reached during the day at the Salvation Army shelter in the city centre and at the alley behind it at night where I often pull up a plastic crate with my new friends and drink varying kinds of interesting alcoholic concoctions they make from metholated spirits and shoe polish!

So don’t delay! Drink an entire bottle of whisky before work NOW and kiss your worries (and life) goodbye!

-ST

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slicktiger — Tue, 09 Mar 2010 05:19:08 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 09 Mar 2010 05:19:27 +0000

The Day I Won The Lottery

slicktiger — Tue, 09 Mar 2010 05:19:34 +0000

I stood in the sea, holding her. We watched the sun set pink-red over the horizon while surfers around us paddled lazily after waves and a man on the beach threw a frisbee for his Jack Russell.

We left when the sun was about a fist from the horizon and drove back to our crazy wooden house, both of us salty from the sea with sandy toes, and we talked about the future.

Back at home I fried up some burgers while she did a load of washing and when we were both done, I popped a bottle of Champaign and we drank a toast, clinking glasses. Our wild eyes met, my lioness and I, and we kissed. The taste of cold Champaign, the feeling of her body pressed against mine.

That old Sheryl Crow song came on her iPod, ‘My Favourite Mistake’ and I remembered the first time she ever said those words to me.

The things women tell us when they’re falling in love, we never forget them do we? No matter what happens, no matter how badly it ends, we never forget the words women whisper to us in those moments when the universe is holding its breath and it feels like the credits in the movie of your life could roll at any second.

And now she lies sleeping on the couch next to me while I finish the rest of the bottle of Champaign, listening to Jimi Hendrix on this balmy summer evening, at the end of a day that I think has changed my life completely.

There are things happening, things I could never have foreseen and they’re good things because they prove what I always suspected was true, that the good guys win sometimes and that if you find something you’re passionate about and stick to it, great things will come your way.

Me, I’m a writer, always have been, but I can’t tell you how long I wasted that gift, how many years I kept it locked away waiting for an opportunity that never came, making excuses.

Not living, just killing time.

But the day I finally got my shit together and started this blog, something came alive, and this thing, it’s big and it’s getting bigger.

Maybe, like me, people are tired of being fed a load of contrived bullshit. Maybe they just want to kick back for a few minutes a day and feel like they’re connecting with an actual human being instead of a bunch of fucking robots.

I stand like I always have, naked in front of you, shameless and unafraid, and I tell it exactly the way I see it and I leave the rest entirely up to you.

But I will say this though, pull up a chair if you like what you see here, because the show’s just starting and you bet your ass, it’s gonna be a good one ;)

-ST

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slicktiger — Wed, 10 Mar 2010 05:46:08 +0000

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slicktiger — Wed, 10 Mar 2010 05:46:36 +0000

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slicktiger — Wed, 10 Mar 2010 05:46:54 +0000

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slicktiger — Wed, 10 Mar 2010 05:47:20 +0000

SlickTiger Interviews The Minister Of Arts And Culture… Or Does He?

slicktiger — Wed, 10 Mar 2010 05:47:25 +0000

Last week’s post about the time I interviewed Vodacom CEO Alan Knott-Craig got a whole bunch of old cogs turning in my head and memories I’d long since forgotten have been playing all jerky and in sepia tones at the weirdest times.

The one where I ‘interviewed’ the then minister of arts and culture, Dr. Zwelidingo Pallo Jordan, jumped randomly into my head outta nowhere and I burst out laughing in the middle of a teleconference call with Ireland.

I was 22 years old at the time and facing the biggest hair crisis of my young life. During varsity I cut my hair about four times in as many years. I looked like a roadie for Metallica, which was great, at varsity.

Back in the real world (ie Joburg) people looked at me like I was something that had dribbled out of a garbage bag they had just lifted from the bin.

So I reluctantly agreed, in the interest of securing gainful employment, to get a haircut. But the next question I faced was what kind of haircut? At that stage in my life I’d only had 3 – a ‘pot cut’ from when I was born up until I was about 13, then a middle parting throughout highschool and then shoulder-length, greasy, grunge-rock hair from when I arrived at varsity till when I left.

Stupidly, I told the hairdresser to keep it pretty long and defaulted to the middle parting I’d worn back in highschool.

It was fucking cringe-worthy. Remember Will Ferrell in ‘One Night At The Roxbury’? No? Let me jog your memory.

Yeah, it was that bad.

So anyway, the group of journalists I was working with at the time managed to set up an interview with the Minister himself, ol’ Zwelidingo, at the ministry in Pretoria and so we set out early one morning to get there by 9 and conduct an ‘interview’ with him (ie. try to sell him advertising in the bullshit report we were compiling).

In order to make what we were doing look legit, there were a number of essential tools we used, such as:

Expensive-looking suits (ties and all)
Briefcases
A thoroughly researched list of interview questions (no shit, if we didn’t at least get this part right, no one would take us seriously enough to buy advertising)
A ridiculously overpriced ratecard and legal documents that were anything but
A dictaphone that used tiny old-school tapes, and
A digital camera that took fucking crap pictures

About halfway to Pretoria, my colleague, a Hawaiian guy in his thirties called Steve asked me if I’d brought spare batteries for the camera at which point I froze rigid.

‘What?’ he said, ‘Don’t tell me you forgot spare batteries.’

‘I didn’t forget spare batteries,’ I said, still rigid.

‘Then what?’

‘I forgot the camera.’

‘Oh, what the fuck dude?! What the fuck are we supposed to do? We can’t go back now, we’re nearly there, the interview’s in 20 minutes!’

‘Fuck, just relax, that thing takes fucking useless pictures anyway, we’re not going to use one fucking picture we’ve taken so far, they’re all shit.’

‘Yeah, but that’s not the fucking point! The fucking point is to look like we’re journalists and journalists take fucking pictures! God! How could you forget the fucking camera!’

‘Stop being such a prick about it I’m sorry! What else do you want me to say! I’m sorry! Fuck! At least I remembered…’

‘What? What is it?’

‘Oh fuck.’

‘Don’t say that. Don’t say ‘oh fuck’ like that.’

‘Dude. I forgot the dictaphone.’

‘Oh fuck.’

We were royally screwed. We had no choice but to keep our eyes peeled for an electronics store on the way to the interview and though we found two, neither of them had dictaphones.

This left us with only one option, call the Minister’s PA, explain that our dictaphone was broken and find out of the ministry didn’t have one we could borrow.

She said she’d see what she could do. I still remember sitting in the ministry foyer, nervous as hell, jiggling my leg, drumming my fingers, praying for a miracle.

While we were sitting there waiting a man with a giant ghetto blaster walked past us and into the PA’s office.

I looked at Steve. Steve looked at me. His leg started jiggling.

‘Are you sure this will work?’ we asked the PA moments later.

‘It should – it has a record button and we found a clean tape you can record on, just make sure you sit close to it.’

And that’s how, on a random Tuesday morning, I ended up walking into the Minister of Arts and Culture’s office dressed in a 3-piece with a fucking terrible haircut and a ghetto blaster.

‘Ehhhh,’ the Minister said, frowning, not entirely sure what the fuck was going on, ‘are you going to play me a song?’

Believe it or not, it gets worse.

The ghetto blaster had the shortest cable known to man and no batteries, so in order for us to all be close enough to it so that we could actually record what was being said, we had to rearrange the fucking furniture in the minister’s office so that we could all sit at the boardroom table, around the gheto blaster.

Thank fuck Steve was with me, he kept the Minister occupied with polite banter while I made sure the tape was rewound, hit record/play and started saying ‘testing, testing’ in a voice loaded with the kind of quiet desperation people usually reserve for prayer.

I hit stop. The loud sound of the spring-loaded buttons snapping up made the room so silent. I hit rewind. Everyone’s attention was riveted on the gheto blaster. It got to the end of the tape and I hit stop again.

I shut my eyes. With a trembling finger I pressed play. The tape spools started turning and the next thing I new, clear as day we all heard…

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

The record/play buttons on the blaster were for recording CDs, or maybe even, if you were feeling daring, the radio, but that was it.

‘Um,’ Steve said as he realised how fucked we were, ‘Minister. I’m so sorry about this, but I think we’re going to have to reschedule…’

‘What magazine did you say you were from again?’ The Minister asked, too baffled at this point to be angry.

‘British Airways. HighLife Magazine,’ I replied, blushing blood-red.

‘Well that settles it then.’

‘Settles what?’ Steve asked nervously.

‘I want free flights. British Airways.’

I looked at Steve. Steve looked at me. I gave up. So did Steve.

‘Free flights,’ I said, ‘you got it.’

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how NOT to interview the minister of arts and culture, and yes, there will be a quiz later ;)

Have a killer day.

-ST

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slicktiger — Thu, 11 Mar 2010 06:33:39 +0000

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slicktiger — Thu, 11 Mar 2010 06:34:05 +0000

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slicktiger — Thu, 11 Mar 2010 06:34:20 +0000

Album Review: Spoon - Transference

slicktiger — Thu, 11 Mar 2010 06:34:28 +0000

Spoon is one of those bands that you’ve definitely heard of before but if you had to name one of their singles or even an album chances are you’d draw a big, fat blank.

This is because even though the band has been playing since 1993, they’ve never managed to break into the mainstream music scene. Sure, some of their songs have featured in TV series such as Scrubs, Veronica Mars and The Simpsons and the movies Stranger Than Fiction and Cloverfield, but if you can name one song that featured in any of those (WITHOUT Wikipediaing ‘Spoon’) you’ll win a prize!*

The first recording of theirs I got my hands on was their 2007 album Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga and though I didn’t think much of it at first, after 5 or 6 listens I had to concede that it was a great album.

I then delved into their entire catalogue and was pleasantly surprised to find that if there’s one thing that can be said about Spoon, it’s that they write consistently good music, which is what lead to MetaCritic ranking Spoon as the ‘Top overall artist of the decade’ last year, an accolade not to be taken lightly.

After hearing the first single from Transference (‘Written in Reverse’) on the band’s MySpace site earlier this year, I was convinced Transference would be a good album, and it is. Not stupendous, not mind-blowing, but definitely worth sinking your teeth into whether you know Spoon or not.

The beauty of Spoon is that they have this ability to take simple beats and riffs and turn them into songs that are much, much more than the sum of their parts.

Their idiosyncratic brand of upbeat indie rock, which is punctuated with funky basslines and foot-tappingly infectious piano melodies is easily accessible, which is why it’s always baffled me that more people aren’t into this band.

The first track on Transference ‘Before Destruction’ opens sparsely and keeps things that way. The drums are guitar definitely take a back seat to singer Britt Daniels vocals, which turn an otherwise bland song into something with a bit more character.

‘Is Love Forever?’ comes across as messy at first, the drums and guitar sound like they’re following different time signatures, and Daniel’s vocals sound like an attempt at singing Morse Code.

An interesting choice for a second track, but then again, Spoon always put their strongest tracks in the middle of their albums, so if you’re not feeling anything yet after the meandering third track ‘The Mystery Zone’, hang in there, it gets better.

‘Written in Reverse’ pulls no punches and is a great example of what this band can do when they find a killer riff and drive it home. The piano chords play with the precision of factory machines stamping engine parts while a jangling, Rolling Stonesey guitar riff struts confidently into centre stage like a stripper after 6 tequilas.

‘I Saw The Light’ follows neatly afterward with its soft / loud dynamic that, just as it’s getting tired, swings into piano and drum instrumental that almost sounds like a completely different song and adds an interesting layer to an otherwise mediocre track.

Besides those tracks, ‘Got Nuffin’ will also stand out as another example of Spoon’s simple but-catchy-style of songwriting. Listen to the individual parts of the song and nothing much is happening, but put them together and you’ve got a song that hooks you by the second chorous.

‘Goodnight Laura’ is also notable and should have been the last song on the album, it’s a great track, one which perfectly showcases both Eric Harvey’s talents as a pianist and Daniels’ talents as a vocalist.

However, Transference is not without a few shockers – the beginning of ‘Trouble Comes Running’ sounds like it was recorded on someone’s cell phone and does little to hold your attention throughout the song, but isn’t as bad as the fourth track, ‘Who Makes Your Money’ which repeats the same flakey piano chords and bassline for a full 4 minutes.

‘Out Go The Lights’ and ‘Nobody Gets Me But You’ are both Ok songs, but that’s about it. Neither will jump out at you or make much of an impression until your 6th or 7th listen.

In terms of the lyrics, Daniels keeps them as simple and dimmed down as possible, which serves as a double-edged sword in that they don’t come across as flowery or overly-pretentious, but at the same time, I can’t honestly tell you one line throughout the album that really stood out for me.

What you’re getting with an album like Transference is a collection of songs that will definitely grow on you in time, but probably won’t change your life in any majorly significant way.

If you liked Spoon’s albums Gimme Fiction (2005) and Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga (2007) then you’ll definitely like Transference. Likewise, if you’re unfamiliar with this band, I would highly recommend listening to those two albums first and then giving Transference a spin.

Final Verdict: 6/10

*The prize is self-importance. Well done.

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slicktiger — Fri, 12 Mar 2010 07:55:24 +0000

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slicktiger — Fri, 12 Mar 2010 07:55:47 +0000

Inappropriate Joke Friday

slicktiger — Fri, 12 Mar 2010 07:55:56 +0000

Hey Party People!

I didn’t get a chance to bang out another thoughtful, insightful and well written post last night because the universe didn’t want me to. Instead, the universe told me, explicitly, to go home, lie down on the couch and pass out.

Who am I to argue with such a compelling suggestion?

So I’m inviting some community participation today! Like when the teacher tells the class that today they’re doing unprepared speeches in order to ‘work on their public speaking skills’ ie. he was too drunk the night before to prepare a lesson.

I hereby declare today ‘Inappropriate Joke Friday’. The only question that you need to ask to see if your joke qualifies as ‘inappropriate’ is: If I told this to a group of complete strangers, would they ever speak to me again?

If the answer is yes, I’m sorry, but your joke isn’t quite inappropriate enough. Buy a Jimmy Carr DVD and try again next time.

So to get the ball rolling, here’s mine (courtesy of Stikey):

A serious alcoholic keeps coming home at 3 in the morning, blind drunk and covered in his own puke. After years of this, his wife finally offers him the following ultimatum:

‘If you come home like that one more time,’ she says, furious, ‘I’m divorcing you.’

That night the man tells his friends what his wife said while they’re sitting in the pub getting tanked.

‘What the fuck am I going to do?’ the man asks in desperation.

‘Easy,’ says his buddy, ‘put a R100 note in your shirt pocket. When your wife starts bitching you out for being covered in puke again, just tell her that R100’s from the guy at the bar who threw up on you. It’s to cover the dry cleaning costs. Problem solved.’

‘Fuck!’ the man replies, ‘you’re a genius! Who wants tequila? I’m buying!’

Early the following morning, the man staggers home, covered in puke only to be greeted by his wife, who is spitting mad.

‘It’s over!’ she screams, ‘I warned you about this you good-for-nothing drunk asshole!’

‘No, no, no, wait,’ the man slurs, ‘see this hunnered rand note? It’s from the guy who puked on me to get my clothes dry cleaner, um, cleaned!’

‘That’s two hundred rand. What’s the other hundred for?’ The wife asks, still livid.

‘Oh that? That’s from the guy who shat in my pants.’

Da dum.

Tsshh.

Ok, now you!

[Sound Effect: Crickets in the background]

-ST

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slicktiger — Sun, 14 Mar 2010 16:05:46 +0000

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slicktiger — Sun, 14 Mar 2010 16:06:46 +0000

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slicktiger — Sun, 14 Mar 2010 16:08:22 +0000

Sunday Post – 5pm and still haven’t made the bed

slicktiger — Sun, 14 Mar 2010 16:08:25 +0000

When you wake up, it is a firm belief of mine that you shouldn’t fuck around at all. You should jump right up and make the bed and make it well so when you get home later you can collapse on it and feel good because even if your day sucked, at least you don’t have to climb into an unmade bed at the end of it.

Well, it’s 5pm and I still haven’t made the bed.

Instead, I’ve spent the day writing. Hammering as many words as possible out of this poor laptop while its sticky-coffee keys squeak and protest under my relentless fingers.

And still, I feel unfulfilled. Like I’ve wasted the day completely. It’s frustrating how on some days you’ll pour every bit of effort into your writing and come out with something that’s only mediocre at best and on others you’ll plonk out a few words that are sheer genius and have hundreds of people commenting and sending the link to their friends.

This definitely won’t be one of those posts.

All I really wanted to do with this post was write about yesterday and what an amazing day I had at the beach in Kommetjie with J-Rab, my cousin Sub-Human and his wife and kids.

It was the kind of day where the beach is the last thing on your mind. It was overcast and had rained that morning, but we had nothing to do after lunch, so we took the kids to the beach and it actually turned out to be a really beautiful day.

Sitting on Kommetjie beach, you are flanked on either side by beautiful mountain ranges with nothing but the sea and all its majesty in front of you. It’s amazing how relaxing it is to just sit there like that with hardly anyone around, thinking of nothing really and just enjoying living in the moment.

I call him Sub-Human because I don’t have any other nickname for him and it’s what some of his friends called him back in the day because he was wild and free in ways you and I can only imagine.

He has an incredibly big heart, the biggest of anyone I know and is fiercely intelligent, but most people when they meet him think he’s beneath them.

My ex-girlfriend thought that. She thought he was white trash and even made that comment about him one evening when we were on holiday a few years back in Cape Town. All I can say is it didn’t go down well with me at all.

She hated me doing this one thing, it upset her more than anything in the world and so, the second she made the ‘white trash’ comment I did that thing, right in her face, to piss her off as much as possible and surprise, surprise, it worked.

Nothing quite like instant revenge to spice an evening up.

Sub-Human is a philosopher and a poet who can strip an engine and put it back together in record time and who is a loving father and husband to his wife and two boys.

But more than that, he’s the best cousin in the world.

Back when I was a teenager, he was my hero. He must have been in his mid twenties, and I loved the way he was so honestly unconcerned with what the world thought about him and completely unafraid to say what he thought and fight for what he believed was right.

There was integrity in the way he lived and I respected that. The trappings of this world have never meant a damn thing to him and he’s always had this way of seeing straight through people’s bullshit that never fails to crack me up.

He freaks a lot of people out, they don’t take him seriously, they think he’s a clown, a buffoon, but if you could have sat on that beach with us, looking out over the oceans and the mountains and heard him speak about the Albatross and how much he loves watching those colossal and magnificent birds glide over the ocean, you’d swear he was the single most fascinating person you had ever met.

‘Act like a pauper, think like a King’ he always used to tell me and I’ll remember those words as long as I live because they take on a new significance for me with every situation I find myself in.

I don’t think Sub-Human is a fitting name for him and I’m almost embarrassed to use it to describe such an amazing person.

Instead, I’ll call him Albatross, that’s much more fitting.

And also, I’ll make the bed ;)

-ST

Short Story: Who The Fuck Is SlickTiger?

slicktiger — Mon, 15 Mar 2010 10:40:27 +0000

‘So yeah, this SlickTiger guy, he’s got a site, I read some of it the other day, it’s really crazy shit up there. Really crazy shit. I mean, reading it I feel like we’re connected somehow – does that sound fucking crazy to you?’

Dr Schmeizer shifts slightly in his chair, sighs and rubs his eyes.

‘Yes. That does sound fucking crazy to me.’

‘Um, are you allowed to say that?’

‘Say what?’

‘I dunno, swear at me during a consultation?’

‘Under normal circumstances, no.’

I start to say something, but the good doctor cuts me off, ‘But considering you come in here sprouting the same gobbledy-gook week after week, month after month since we started these sessions, and considering your total lack of progress during that time, I hardly think it matters what I say or don’t say.’

‘Yeah, but I pay you to be professional. I pay you a lot to give a shit.’

‘Do you know how many sessions we’ve had so far?’

‘Of course! I’m paying for them, of course I know…’

‘Ok, how many?’

‘Um…’ I cast my mind back. I get as far as about a month ago, I’m wearing my ‘The Internet Is A Fad’ shirt, driving here. Some guy in the traffic is waving furiously at me. Do I know this person? I’m swerving to avoid getting side-swiped by the crazy fucker.

No, it can’t be a month, it must be longer. I cast my mind back further. It’s like throwing a fishing line out there. I remember when I was a kid learning to fly fish, watching my dad, the long, slow motion of his line like an extension of his arm, the way the reel used to spin, making that zinging sound as it unravelled. I do the same in my mind, I cast a line way the fuck out there, the reel zings, then snags abruptly, cutting the line.

I watch as the line floats through the air, anchored to nothing. It sails over the opaque waters of my mind, and lands like a long, thin snake on the water.

It sinks.

‘Um…’ I say again, stalling for time, ‘like, about three months?’

The good doctor’s head slumps forward and he stares at me through his thick, heavy brows. This is a passive-aggressive gesture, he’s doing it to show me he’s pissed off. I’m always pissing someone off.

‘Try six months. September 28^th, that’s when you first started coming here, do you remember that?’

Do I remember that? Sure, I think I remember that. I mean, if he remembers it then it happened right?

‘I dunno doc, I try not to sweat the details, things like that, they’re neither here nor there really, I say three months, you say six months. I mean, in the universal sense of time, does it matter? In the universal sense of you know, the way things work, is it really a big deal? I don’t think it is. This conversation, my life, your life, I think maybe we j-‘

‘I took the liberty of recording our last session.’

‘Eh?’

‘And if you don’t mind…’ The doc opens his desk drawer and pulls out a dictaphone. He hits play, I’m saying something, but he stops and fast forwards it, he’s saying something, he stops and fast forwards again. I’m saying something. Boy do I love the sound of my own voice.

‘I dunno doc, I mean, life’s too short to sweat the small stuff, y’know? Does it really matter how long it’s been?’

‘Humour me.’

‘Ok, phew, um…’ uncomfortable silence, broken only by the sound of me squirming in my chair, in the recording and in real life. ‘About 3 months?’

‘It’s been six months.’

‘What? Really, that long? Phwoar.’

‘Does that surprise you?’

‘Yes. No. A little. But really, in the bigger picture, is it really that important? I mean, in the universal sense of time, does it matter? In the universal sense of you know, the way things work, is it really a big deal? I don’t think it is. I could be wrong. But I don’t think it is…’

He hits the stop button. This profound silence hangs like a punching bag in the room.

‘You have a serious problem,’ he says, his hands doing that pyramid thing when people touch the ends of all their fingers together and move their palms forward and backward. I think this is supposed to have some kind of calming effect. It’s like watching lungs. Or a jellyfish.

‘Hahaha, okay, and it’s taken you six months to figure that out?’

‘Your memory is abnormally impaired. In most cases, once a number of weeks have elapsed, it seems you forget things completely. The people you’ve met, the things you’ve done. In other cases, it’s instant.’

‘Huh. You don’t say.’

‘It’s a rare condition, and I must admit, I’ve never seen it before. I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never seen it.’

‘Okay. That’s… fucking great…’

‘There are a number of psychiatric drugs we can put you on to try and improve your memory function and promote higher levels of concentration, I th-‘

‘What?! No fucking way. No drugs.’

‘You have a very serious problem and I really think what wou-‘

‘I didn’t come here to get dosed up to my eyeballs, what the fuck?! I came here so you could help me figure out why the fuck everyone thinks I’m someone I’m not!’

‘SlickTiger?’

‘Yes! Fucking SlickTiger! Who the fuck is SlickTiger? Why the fuck does everyone think I’m SlickTiger?’

Dr Schmeizer stares at me through his brows again. Man is this going well. He presses fast forward on the Dictaphone. The sound of the heads whirring inside, intricate mechanisms spinning, working like tiny insect bones inside the machine.

He hits stop. He hits play.

‘I’m not interested in your bullshit miracle cures! What the fuck?! I didn’t come here to get prescribed a bunch of bullshit drugs that are going to make all my fucking problems go away! I came here for answers! I came here to figure out if I’m losing my mind or not! I need to know that shit!’

‘You need to know what shit?’

‘I need to know who the fuck SlickTiger is!’

It’s like staring into a mirror reflecting a mirror, reflecting a mirror, reflecting a mirror…

‘It’s you. It’s always been you. You just don’t remember.’

I say ‘Holy shit’ at the same time the me on tape says ‘Holy shit’.

The good doctor hits stop. I slump back in my seat. Sandbagged.

‘So… does this happen every week?’

‘For the last four weeks, yes.’

‘And you think drugs will help me?’

‘Yes, it can’t hurt to try.’

I sigh. Do I want to go down that road? There’s a reason I’m forgetting all this stuff, do I want to know what that reason is? It feels like a bottomless can of worms.

‘Okay, I’ll try it, what the fuck. Why not.’

‘Excellent. And in the meantime, I need you to do me a favour.’

‘What, like a homework assignment? I’m not good with favours, I always forget the- oh yeah, you already know that.’

‘I want you to get off your lazy fucking ass and write something funny for fuck’s sake!’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Something funny! I don’t read your site everyday for this metatextual bullshit! I read it for the Klapping Gym Boet articles! Stop fucking around or I’ll go read some other site. LOL-cats or something. Maybe Motifake. Do you understand me?’

I understand him. And I know what I have to do.

‘You’re fucking fired,’ I say as I get up to leave.

‘You say that every week.’

‘Yeah, but this time I’m fucking writing it down!’

I storm out of his office, slamming his door hard behind me. What a fucking jerk. I can’t believe I’ve been going to him for such a long time. Three months totally wasted, what the fuck.

Outside I light up a smoke. It looks like it’s going to rain, did I do any washing? Maybe. But fuck the washing, I’ve got bigger fish to fry.

Like figuring out who the fuck this SlickTiger guy is.

Yeah… I think I’ll start there…

-ST

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slicktiger — Tue, 16 Mar 2010 06:05:38 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 16 Mar 2010 06:06:01 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 16 Mar 2010 06:06:47 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 16 Mar 2010 06:07:08 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 16 Mar 2010 06:07:36 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 16 Mar 2010 06:07:57 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 16 Mar 2010 06:08:20 +0000

Are Women Getting Hotter With Every Decade?

slicktiger — Tue, 16 Mar 2010 06:08:26 +0000

It has been a theory of mine for some time now that women have gotten better and better looking over time. Just when you think they can’t get any sexier, BAM, another stunning supermodel seems to pop out of the woodwork, even more beautiful and unobtainable than the last.

Then again, maybe it’s just me, maybe I’ve just been brainwashed by the media to think Miss X, Y or Z is so incredible, when actually drop-dead gorgeous women have always existed, the only difference being which one the spotlight shines on, from what angle and after how much photo-shopping.

And so I approached the authority on such issues, Google Images, and started looking for pictures of ‘sexy’ women through the ages.

I started at 1900 and found the following gem:

Let me break down what we’re dealing with here. I see a woman with a strange-looking, skunk-like mop of hair for a hairstyle, reclining suggestively with a book, inches away from showing us a little nip, but thankfully keeping the PG rating of this pic at a 10.

This is the kind of girl who would make a great librarian, pre-school teacher or postal worker. All in all, I think she should go back to reading her book and pull up her dress for heaven’s sake! No need to scare the children.

Moving right along, here’s what 1920 yielded in the form of the first popular female actress to make it in Hollywood, Florence Lawrence:

Yeah, are we making any progress here? Yes? No? Sure, there is some kind of charm about her, but let’s be honest, if you passed her in the street would you give her a second look? I mean, besides to stare at her hat, which is making my balls shrivel up inside me.

I think this is what people mean when they describe a woman as ‘handsome’. She’s a handsome woman, ie. good-looking… for a man.

Just wait though, cause with 1950 comes good ol’ Marilyn Monroe, hooo-weeee!

Was Marilyn Monroe really the belter everyone makes her out to have been, or was she just the first attractive woman with enough confidence to be able to pose half-naked and make it look sexy?

What I’m seeing in this picture is a woman with smallish breasts, some pretty meaty thighs, a stomach she’s definitely sucking in for all it’s worth and a face that’s attractive the way your sister’s best friend was attractive back when you were 11. Then you realised her mustache was thicker than yours and never spoke to her again.

Let’s move onto 1970 shall we?

All of a sudden, things are starting to heat up a little. Meet Veruschka von Lehndorff, one of a dozen or so ‘supermodels’ that were popular in the 1960s and 1970s. Veruschka, with the right kind of make-up, lighting and wardrobe could easily nail an FHM front cover.

Still though, can she compare to modern-day beauties? Maybe not quite, but I’d say she’s damn close.

Then I stumbled on this picture of model Gia Carangi, who was big back in the late 70s and early 80s. They made a movie about her starring Angelina Jolie called Gia which, if you like seeing lots of Angelina’s naked body, is DEFINITELY worth watching.

Now THAT is a good-looking woman and one that is definitely comparable to any modern-day beauty. She was also one of the original ‘supermodels’ on the scene, but died tragically at 26 from AIDS, which she got from shooting heroin with dirty needles.

Still though, would you say she’s better or worse looking than a modern-day supermodel like say, Joanna Krupa, for example?

Or the woman who seems to be topping a lot of lists these days, Megan Fox?

After trawling the interwebs for literally hours to find pics to base this post on, the conclusion I’ve reached is that yes, women are getting hotter and hotter and it’s all thanks to the invention of the supermodel way back in the 60s and 70s.

Once supermodels came into existence, all of a sudden female perfection had a benchmark to measure itself against, and now women are not only getting hotter and hotter, but the mainstream media is flooded with images of them on an ever-increasing basis, causing untold damage to ordinary men and women alike, who do all manner of fucked up shit to either date women like this or become them.

Which is why sometimes you gotta take a step back from it all and realise that while these women might be incredible to look at, chances are they have really shitty personalities and are plagued with insecurities.

Bottom line is when you look that good you’re so used to getting your way and walking all over people that you think behaving like a sycophant is totally normal and acceptable.

I say let’s go back to a time before supermodels and celebrate what true female beauty is and so, I’d like to invite you in appreciating the following NSFW image with me of a woman from 1920 who has great breasts (if this is your gran, I’m sorry, but she had a great set and you should be proud of that).

The lesson here is not to let the mainstream media dictate your tastes. Instead, you should get into 1920s porn and not only will you be an INDIVIDUAL but you’ll also have a great conversation starter (and ender) at the next dinner party you attend.

All those girls in magazines, all the ones in the movies and on 50ft billboards, let that shit go. Look for beauty in the real world and when you find it, hold onto it, cherish it and you might just find something close to true happiness instead of shallow pleasure.

-ST

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slicktiger — Wed, 17 Mar 2010 06:22:17 +0000

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slicktiger — Wed, 17 Mar 2010 06:23:25 +0000

Album Review: Johnny Cash – Ain’t No Grave

slicktiger — Wed, 17 Mar 2010 06:23:30 +0000

I say ‘Johnny Cash’ and you say ‘Joaquin Phoenix’. I say ‘brilliant and deeply troubled country musician who struggled his whole life with alcohol, drugs and his relationship with God’ and you say ‘a feel-good Hollywood love-story that ends when guy marries girl and they live happily ever after.’

Walk The Line ended just before Johnny Cashes life actually got interesting and way too much emphasis was placed on his relationship with June Carter, which was basically the focal point of the entire movie and the reason why there has to be a Walk The Line II: Cash Comes Back which I will of course write and direct.

The tragedy of Johnny Cashes life was that for over a decade the world completely forgot about him. He reached the height of his success in the 60s and 70s and had one hit after the next, as well as numerous appearances on TV and in film, but when 1980 hit, the world turned its back on the Man In Black, leaving Cash feeling forgotten and dejected.

And that’s pretty much where Johnny Cashes story would have ended if it weren’t for Rick Rubin and his formidable skills as a music visionary and producer. Under Rubin’s supervision, Cash recorded the album American Recordings in his living room in 1994, a collection of cover songs and original material that won a Grammy that year for Best Contemporary Folk Album.

Another three ‘American’ albums followed, Unchained (1996), American III: Solitary Man (2000) and American IV: The Man Comes Around (2002). American IV is widely regarded as Cashes epitaph as it was the last album he recorded before his death in September 2003. It contains his cover of the Nine Inch Nails song ‘Hurt’, the video of which is immensely powerful and I’d urge anyone reading this to watch it right now.

After his death, a fifth American album was released from left-over material he’d recorded with Rubin entitled, American V: A Hundred Highways (2006) which has sold 337,000 copies since its release and which looked like it was going to be the last album of new material to be released, until now.

This year sees the release of American VI: Ain’t No Grave, also produced by Rubin and all I can say is I hope this is the last American album that Rubin produces because while it really does shine in parts, mostly it ambles through one overly religious country song after the next and then ends, somewhat bizarrely, on the Hawaiian song ‘Aloha Oe’ 32 minutes later.

The title track and opening song ‘Ain’t No Grave’ is definitely one of the album’s stronger tracks and the line ‘When I hear that trumpet sound / Gonna rise right out of the ground / Ain’t no grave / Can hold my body down’ is strangely prophetic given that Cash has basically released this album from the grave.

It’s a slow and badass country song which, when combined with the lumbering drum beat and the repeating sound of chains being dragged, makes for a haunting track. You kinda get the feeling that at any moment you could look over your shoulder and be greeted by zombie Johnny Cash, covered in dust and dirt, wearing a tattered black suit, grinning and playing a banjo carved out of bones.

The mood doesn’t lift as the second song ‘Redemption Day’ (a Sheryl Crow cover) plays, but that’s not a bad thing. Cashes rendition of the song, with his old and quavering bass-baritone voice is heartfelt and moving. It sure as hell won’t get the party started, but it just might keep you company in moments when life is shitty and hope is hard to come by.

The song ‘Satisfied Mind’, which featured in Kill Bill Vol. 2 is also a great track. It’s just Cash and his guitar, strumming a slow song about how ‘There’s one thing for certain / When it comes my time / I’ll leave this ol’ world / With a satisfied mind.’ I’ve always loved this song because it perfectly captures the space Cashes mind was in during his twilight years and it’s a space I hope I might reach someday myself.

The rest of the songs on the album waver between sounding like hokey church hymns (‘I Corinthians: 15:55) and down-trodden, my-girl-left-me-and-my-horse-just-died country ballads (‘For The Good Times’, ‘Can’t Help But Wonder Where I’m Bound’, ‘Cool Water’) that could very well bore you to tears.

Unlike previous American albums, this won’t appeal to a younger audience. If you’re a die-hard Johnny Cash fan, you’ll appreciate this album, but will also concede that it’s not his best. However, if you’re one of the many who’s only real perception of the Man In Black was shaped entirely by Walk The Line, you won’t find any of the upbeat tracks like ‘It Ain’t Me Babe’, ‘Ring Of Fire’, and ‘I Walk The Line’ on Ain’t No Grave and probably won’t find it appealing in the slightest.

For me though, it’s a fitting end to the body of work that Cash recorded throughout his life and I’m glad I bought it, even though sometimes it makes me suicidal.

Final Verdict: 6/10

-ST

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slicktiger — Thu, 18 Mar 2010 09:37:50 +0000

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slicktiger — Thu, 18 Mar 2010 09:38:44 +0000

How To Deal With A Dick Cupcake – a Lesson For Guys

slicktiger — Thu, 18 Mar 2010 09:38:50 +0000

Sometimes in life, you come back from a meeting, everything is cool, everything is going well, you’re having a great day and you get to your desk and next thing you know BAM! dick cupcake.

The thing about dick cupcakes is you never know when they’re going to sneak up on you and, even worse than that, you never know how to handle them.

I surprised myself today by handling what could have been a really embarrassing, awkward situation really well by doing the following two crucial things:

1) Remaining cool
2) Sticking by the ‘MAN CODE’

See, dick cupcakes are never given in a malicious way, that’s the first thing you have to keep in mind. A person will never give you a dick cupcake because they hate you or because they want to piss you off, rather, they want to see how you react to the dick cupcake, THAT’S what’s really going on.

This is why remaining cool is a must. Just think to yourself, What would Cooldog do?

First thing you must do is acknowledge the dick cupcake immediately. Don’t try and brush it aside or down-play it. You might not realise it, but everyone’s watching you to see how you react, so don’t hold back.

‘Aahhhh guys! Hahaha, who left this dick cupcake on my desk?’ was the line I went for, and it did the job perfectly.

Other lines that could work well include:

‘Woah! I don’t remember leaving that dick cupcake there! Hahahaha! But seriously guys, who’s dick cupcake is this?’
‘A dick cupcake! Hahahaha! Ahh you guys, you shouldn’t have!’
‘Hey guys! Who wants to eat a huge dick cupcake? Cause I know a lucky guy that just found one on his desk! Hahahaha!’

Here are some lines that wouldn’t work so well:

Who the fuck left this dick cupcake on my desk? Huh? WHO? I’m throwing this dick cupcake THE FUCK AWAY!
Oh how considerate. A dick cupcake. This must be some kind of mistake though, I ordered a VAGINA cupcake. Where the hell’s my VAGINA cupcake huh? I’d eat that!
Oh god, a dick cupcake, oh god, I LOVE dick cupcakes, nomnomnomnom, aah, nomnomnom, tastes so good in my mouth, mmmmm…

Then of course comes the difficult question of what to do with the dick cupcake.

‘Eat it!’ The girls in my office shouted, ‘eat the dick cupcake, hahahahaha!’

Any guys reading this post please note the following: by throwing down the gauntlet of actually eating the dick cupcake in front of a room full of women, what my colleagues were doing was testing my mettle as a MAN.

No self-respecting man eats dick cupcakes. End of story. That my friends is a fact of life.

Still though, never lose sight of the fact that it’s only a joke. They want to see if you get ruffled, again, remember to keep your cool.

‘No,’ I replied in a stern, yet friendly voice, ‘I will not eat the dick cupcake. Eating dicks goes against my code as a man.’

Instantly the room fell into awed silence. Aahh yes, the CODE OF THE MAN. I could see that they had heard about it, but never seen it actually invoked in a real life situation. This was good stuff. I had their rapt attention.

‘HOWEVER,’ I said, holding a finger up to show them that this next part was important, ‘I have no qualms about eating the cupcake WITHOUT the dick.’ As I said this, I carefully removed the dick from the top of the cupcake.

‘There you go,’ I said, handing the dick to a random girl walking past ‘I’m sure you’ve had a lot more experience dealing with these kinds of things than I have.’

‘Hahahahahahahahahah!’ the girls laughed, ‘Bravo! Bravo old chap! Huzzah! How delightful! Three cheers for good ol’ SlickTiger!’

And THAT ladies and gentlemen, is how to deal with a dick cupcake.

-ST

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slicktiger — Fri, 19 Mar 2010 12:48:55 +0000

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slicktiger — Fri, 19 Mar 2010 12:49:40 +0000

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slicktiger — Fri, 19 Mar 2010 12:50:16 +0000

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slicktiger — Fri, 19 Mar 2010 12:50:50 +0000

Holy Taco Friday

slicktiger — Fri, 19 Mar 2010 12:50:58 +0000

You guys are fucking cool.

You are my invisible friends, and you are fucking cool. No, no, don’t downplay it, be PROUD of that shit. If I say you’re fucking cool, then it’s gospel truth. Hallelujah brothers and sisters!

Let’s sing kumbaya.

As you’ve probably guessed by now, I don’t have too much so say on this beautiful Friday in Cape Town. Truth be told I’m counting the minutes until the long weekend lands.

What are your plans? I’m going to Pringle Bay to get sunburn! And drunk! It’s going to be flippin sweet ;)

So anyway, there’s this site called www.holytaco.com that is pretty damn incredible because it’s stacked FULL of hot mamasitas and so, because you guys are so fucking cool, the rest of this post is just going to be smoking hot pictures I’ve ‘borrowed’ from Holy Taco.

Women are beautiful creatures. Let’s celebrate that fact this long weekend, and on Monday, let’s send those pictures to SlickTiger.

Group hug.

Have a killer long weekend everyone! I’m going to try post, but there’s a better than average chance I’ll say fuck it and go lie on the beach instead.

Until next time ;)

-ST

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slicktiger — Mon, 22 Mar 2010 20:35:01 +0000

View from a porch

slicktiger — Mon, 22 Mar 2010 20:35:09 +0000

On this porch you can sit in the scorching midday sun and enjoy a beer so cold the sides of the bottle are frosted while you sit in the shade and watch distant cars glide by on the mountainside.

It’s peaceful here, you can sit with strangers and not feel that compulsive need that overrides all common sense to fill perfectly good silence with meaningless garble.

A warm breeze sweeps lazily through the leaves of the trees to the left of the porch, but when it moves through the bushes in front of us, the leaves flash silver as their undersides catch the sun.

We are surrounded on all sides by mountains thick with wild fynbos and at night the stars pepper the sky from horizon to horizon, forming countless constellations that J-Rab can name and trace but that to me just look like random and formless shapes.

You just don’t get this in Joburg. You can search far and wide for it, but you won’t find it.

I picked my way out over the rocks with J-Rab and her friend GoffGirl earlier today, we were looking for muscles on a beach in Pringle Bay. The ocean gathered in natural pools all around us and J-Rab showed me how sea anemone have these tiny tentacles that suck at your finger when you touch them.

Some of them were powder blue, I stared at those ones for a long time, trying to figure out how they came to be, by what evolutionary turn did they form like that, blue as the sky in those rock pools hundreds of years ago.

I stood barefoot in some of the pools, wiggling my toes in the sand as wave after wave came rolling in.

There was more, starting at Barbarian’s place on Friday, and then Buena Vista and then Stikey on Saturday, volleyball at Caprice, Little Red’s place and his new kid, good times all of them.

But it won’t come right now and I can’t force it. I guess I’ve just run out of words, they must have trailed away as I was driving the winding coastal roads back from Pringle Bay this afternoon.

It’s beautiful out there.

My girlfriend has just slapped me hard on the ass.

Instead of writing one more word of this waffly shit, I think I’m going to return the favour.

She is the best.

-ST

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slicktiger — Tue, 23 Mar 2010 19:53:10 +0000

Short Story: Smooth Baby

slicktiger — Tue, 23 Mar 2010 19:53:15 +0000

He couldn’t wait to go home. In all seven years of being alive, he couldn’t remember ever being so excited before.

His heart hammered relentlessly inside his tiny chest and his mouth felt cotton-dry as he fidgeted and squirmed in his chair, bursting for a pee and not paying one scrap of attention to anything going on around him.

In his mind, all there was, was THE TOY.

He’d first seen THE TOY in a flea market when his mom was shopping for some black dog to grill for supper. Amongst the chaos and the noise and the thick clouds of oily smoke that mingled and moved like dragons through the narrow, dirty alleyways, he’d spotted it.

At first he wasn’t quite sure he’d seen correctly. He adjusted his glasses, thick as coke bottle bottoms, on his practically non-existent nose and squinted across the alleyway at the adjacent stall.

There it was. THE TOY. The most incredible toy ever invented. The second he comprehended what he was looking at, the child’s mind came alive with possibilities.

How was it possible that such an amazing toy had come into being? He had to have it. He would do anything to get it, even crawl over his own dead mother.

He immediately started tugging frantically at his mother’s leather pants, squealing at the top of his lungs, much like a pig being skinned alive.

His mother had never seen her son so furiously locked in paroxysms of overwhelming desire. The way he twitched and screamed almost involuntarily frightened her and she struck him hard on the back of his head to try and knock some sense into him.

If only it had been that easy.

That night, her son refused to eat any of the succulent dog she had prepared for him. He sat in a slack-jawed kind of daze while a thick, translucent trail of drool crept steadily from the corner of his mouth to his shirt front.

He sat like that for days, wasting away. Eventually she began to fear for the child’s life as he halved in size before her very eyes and so, in a huff of desperation, she finally agreed to buy the child THE TOY for his next birthday in three weeks time.

The change in her son was instant. He leaped up from where he was sitting and began to hop around the room, singing irreverent songs of praise to no one in particular in a language only he understood.

The bell for the end of school sounded like a prison exoneration as the boy, after three torturous weeks of jittering constantly and wetting his pants in excitement, jumped nearly two feet in the air and bolted, legs pumping, to the parking lot outside where his mother sat on her motorbike with his present neatly wrapped in her hands.

He ran in slow motion, the sun shining down like a host of holy angels above him as tears of unrepentant joy streamed down his face.

This was finally it, the moment his brief life had been building towards, the reason he was sure he existed.

Finally, finally his wildest dreams had come true.

Finally, he could shave the baby.

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slicktiger — Wed, 24 Mar 2010 06:22:40 +0000

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slicktiger — Wed, 24 Mar 2010 06:24:40 +0000

Album Review: Gorillaz – Plastic Beach

slicktiger — Wed, 24 Mar 2010 06:24:45 +0000

The new Gorillaz album is definitely their worst offering to date. Don’t believe what all the music critics out there would have you believe, they’re full of shit and so is this album.

This album will confuse you. You’ll think it’s interesting and cute at first, but after a few listens you’ll concede that like toilet spray, all the aural bells and whistles that saturate this album are nothing more than a thin disguise to try and hide the fact that this album stinks.

In my humble opinion, Damon Albarn, the creative genius behind The Gorillaz (and former frontman of the best Britpop band to ever play, Blur) is running out of ideas. He collaborates with no less than 15 different artists on this heap of dung album, which probably explains why listening to it feels the same way trying to do long division sums in your head used to back when you still remembered how.

Never trust a pop album that opens with classical music. What that tells you right from the outset is that it’s trying to be something it’s not. Throw that shit the fuck away.

‘Welcome to the World of the Plastic Beach’ featuring Snoop Dogg is, in two simple words, fucking boring. One critic commented how Snoop has never sounded so chilled and laid back in a track before. Yeah, that’s because he’s not even fucking trying!

I don’t like rap at the best of times, but the way Albarn has allowed it to overrun this album is nauseating. Toneless, repetitive and banal, tracks like ‘White Flag (featuring Bashy, Kano & The National Orchestra for Arabic Music)’ (I know, what the fuck?) and ‘Sweepstakes (featuring Mos Def & Hypnotic Brass Ensemble)’ are so utterly devoid of the quirky intelligence that used to define Gorillaz that they’ll have you banging your head against a wall to get a little mental stimulation going.

The good news is that, with 18 tracks on the album, there are at least some that find their mark. ‘Rhinestone Eyes’, has a nursery rhyme kind of charm to it that, combined with the sinister synth undertones in the chorous is a lot closer to the Gorillaz we all know and love.

‘Stylo (featuring Mos Def & Bobby Womack)’ is also a pretty decent, retro R&B track that kind of sounds like the Flight Of The Conchords track ‘Inner City Pressure’ and ‘Superfast Jellyfish (featuring Gruff Rhys & De La Soul)’ is quirky enough to remain interesting and is reminiscent of ‘19-2000’ (‘got the cool shoeshine’) off their eponymous debut album.

The best track by far on the album is ‘Some Kind Of Nature’ featuring Lou Reed of all people. It’s a classic Gorillaz track and probably the closest the album comes to delivering a ‘Clint Eastwood’ or ‘Feel Good Inc.’

Besides that, there really isn’t much to say about this album. The general feeling I get from listening to it is similar to the way Sunday night feels after an awesome weekend. You’ll find yourself gazing off contemplatively a lot when listening to Plastic Beach, wandering what the hell happened to put such a downer on the brilliantly-written pop masterpieces that adorned the previous two albums.

Final Verdict: 5/10

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slicktiger — Fri, 26 Mar 2010 13:15:19 +0000

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slicktiger — Fri, 26 Mar 2010 13:16:15 +0000

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slicktiger — Fri, 26 Mar 2010 13:16:30 +0000

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slicktiger — Fri, 26 Mar 2010 13:18:21 +0000

‘Fuck The Whole World And What Everybody’s Saying Hey’ Friday

slicktiger — Fri, 26 Mar 2010 13:18:32 +0000

Guys, the end of this week nailed me in the butt (and no Jono, I didn’t enjoy it).

Long and the short of it is that the laptop melted the fuck down and flat out refused to connect me to any network of any description and hence, no blog posts could be written.

There are news reports of entire nations coming to a complete standstill because I wasn’t posting. Empires rose and fell, LAVA consumed ENTIRE CONTINENTS! HURRICANES! Devastated the countryside! And people the world over…were sad :(

But it’s all good now guys, we’re back on track and all indications point to the weekend being filled with awesome, rad times.

So here’s my gift to you this Friday, it’s a little video I like to call ‘Vitriol’ from a little band I like to call ‘Bluejuice’ and it’s about to become the soundtrack for your weekend so good luck!

And don’t dare give up.

Give it a little bit of vitriol, hey!

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ldBhDmvWFXE]

Wow, what the fuck just happened there? Tried to paste a link and got a whole video window, badass!

I think my blog just evolved…

Have a great weekend guys. Here’s a hottie I borrowed from my friends www.holytaco.com (again).

-ST

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slicktiger — Mon, 29 Mar 2010 06:13:53 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 29 Mar 2010 06:14:18 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 29 Mar 2010 06:14:40 +0000

The Nuns Of The Antarctic

slicktiger — Mon, 29 Mar 2010 06:14:46 +0000

When I was younger, I fancied myself quite the budding poet and used to scribble out random and garbled verses that were mostly really shit, but hey, at least they rhymed.

In highshool I got published in a collection of poetry compiled by the poetry institute of Africa called ‘Shadows and Silhouettes’ which got me pretty excited until the thing finally arrived and I realised they’d pretty much published EVERY SINGLE POEM THEY GOT SENT.

To get published I think you just had to bang a out a verse or two and be in highschool, that was about it.

I tell ya, life is shitty sometimes. My buddy Barbarian fucking nailed it on Saturday night. We were sitting in his flat in Vredehoek and talking about some random thing or other when he said the funniest thing I’ve heard in months.

‘Christmas food,’ he said, ‘is crap.’

That simple sentence nearly had me in tears because he’s fucking right. The turkey is always way too dry and stringy, the Christmas pudding gives you the runs and mince pies are severely overrated.

You put your knife and fork down after eating Christmas food and you feel like your internal organs are dangerously close to rupturing.

No matter what anyone says, at that stage, you’re glad Christmas only comes once a year.

See, the magic of a thing is in the anticipation of it. The moment I found out I was going to get published, my adolescent mind filled up with all kinds of hallucinations of grandeur and I was pretty sure fame and fortune were close at hand.

Needless to say, over the next few years I wrote less and less poetry and became more and more sceptical of other ‘poets’. I started to suspect that really what they were doing was using poetry as a guise to write a pile of wanky shit that means nothing to anyone, including the person who wrote it.

This is especially true of the so called ‘poets’ who used to haunt open mike nights in varsity.

Pale, frail and nervous looking people, they would always go up there and read something that sounded like a confession about how their uncles fiddled with them when they were young and now they spend their alone time in their granny’s knickers listening to Anthony And The Johnsons.

I got drunk one night at such an event and wrote some poetry of my own on a serviette. After a particularly heart-wrenching performance by a guy who only just barely managed to keep his shit together onstage, I decided to jump in there, bar serviette in hand, to recite a poem I called:

Untitled

He drank until the day he died.
He drank to dull the ache inside.

He smoked until his lungs caved in.
All he ever knew was sin.

After what happened, he just gave in.
After what they did to him…

Dopey fucked a penguin.

Boy. Did that go down well.

-ST

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slicktiger — Tue, 30 Mar 2010 05:55:12 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 30 Mar 2010 05:55:49 +0000

SlickTiger Industries © Presents…

slicktiger — Tue, 30 Mar 2010 05:55:53 +0000

It’s been a long time in the making, but I’m finally ready to announce something pretty mindblowing that is going to feature right here, on this, the MOST ill-conceived site on the interwebs EVER.

The idea came to me in a rare moment of clarity while I was washing the dishes last night and the second it struck me, my jaw went completely slack, like a punch-drunk fighter taking a haymaker right in the FACE.

I immediately told the idea to J-Rab and she got that look on her face that is a perfect mixture of bewilderment and mild panic, which is how I knew I had NAILED IT.

So without fucking around one second further, I’m gonna lay it on you.

The next thing you read is going to be my killer idea, so just try to prepare yourself for the awesomeness ok?

Ok. Here goes.

I’m going to write an advice column. Right here. On this blog.

Every Friday I’m going to sift through the thousands and thousands of emails you guys are going to send and I’m going to pick three that need my advice the most and then I’m going to dispense that advice, GRATIS, in order to improve your lives and help you reach your true potential as the amazing human beings you are.

ANYTHING that you send me will be treated with the utmost confidentiality and under no circumstances will I reveal your identity other than the name you sign your email with, which you can of course just leave blank (the name, not the email).

I have a lot of experience when it comes to the following topics:

Bringing your loved one to come back to you in 5 days, even after gone for a long time
Bringing you to see your enemies through use of a mirror and making demands on them
Dealing with women problems of abnormally long pregnancy, making vagina back to normal after birth and never stops talking
Bringing good fortune in gambling, horse races, chicken fights, pigeon farming, mumbo jumbo
Helping man with growing penis bigger, thicker, make love for 5 days non-stop, looking like Rambo
Tax evasion, Barbra Streisand, Ebola virus, mustard salad, money-back guarantee!

So don’t delay! Send any problems that are making your life shit to tellthetiger@gmail.com TODAY and fuck! I’ll make your FUCKING PROBLEMS GO THE FUCK AWAY!

So that’s tellthetiger@gmail.com, email now and kiss your shitty life goodbye!

-ST

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slicktiger — Wed, 31 Mar 2010 06:43:19 +0000

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slicktiger — Wed, 31 Mar 2010 06:44:04 +0000

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slicktiger — Wed, 31 Mar 2010 06:44:57 +0000

Album Review: Deftones – Diamond Eyes

slicktiger — Wed, 31 Mar 2010 06:45:04 +0000

Something about cars always unnerved me, from as far back as I can remember, but it wasn’t until I wrote my first car off that I truly understood why.

Blink, just once, let your concentration lapse for the briefest moment at the wrong time and the resulting bang you hear on collision will be etched into your mind so deep that thinking back on it will give you the shivers.

If you’re lucky.

Chi Cheng was driving back home from his brother’s memorial service on November 4th 2008 when he was involved in a car accident that would have killed him if it weren’t for the three off-duty paramedics that happened to stop at the scene of the crash moments after it happened.

They saved his life that day, but many would argue it was in vain. Chi slipped into a coma shortly after they found him that he has yet to wake from, a fact that some feared would spell the end of one of the most innovative bands to emerge from the Nu Metal scene of the late 90s and early 2000s.

But the good news is that Deftones are back with a new bassist (Sergio Vega, formerly of Quicksand) and a new studio album, Diamond Eyes, which is their sixth album to date.

Anyone familiar with Deftones’ previous albums would be justified in maintaining a healthy level of scepticism as to whether or not Vega could ever match Cheng’s natural flair as a bassist. Cheng’s thick and mean basslines played a huge roll in defining Deftones’ sledgehammer-heavy sound and he sure as hell wasn’t afraid to step into the spotlight and let his bass lead when a song called for it.

That single fact is probably the only point I can fault on Diamond Eyes. It’s a great album and one that I honestly believe fans will enjoy and critics will give an approving nod to, but there is definitely a Chi-shaped hole where the formidable bassist used to fit and you can hear it.

The new material is heavy as ever – guitarist Stephen Carpenter’s riffs grind fast and heavy for the most part and drummer Abe Cunningham pulls no punches on his kit, but with the exception of three or four tracks on the album, the rhythm section feels a lot looser than it was with Cheng at the helm.

The opening tracks “Diamond Eyes”, “Royal” and “CMND/CTRL” are pretty standard Deftones fair and didn’t make much of an impression on the first listen, though the soaring chorous of “Diamond Eyes” starts to grow on you fast and the syncopated rhythm of “CMND/CTRL”, coupled with frontman Chino Morino’s screeching vocals (which, by the way, have never sounded better) will definitely get you sitting up and listening.

From there on in the album just gets better and better.

The softer and slower “Beauty School” is a great example of what Vega is capable of when given some space to work with and is reminiscent of the killer track, “The Passenger” which the band did with Tool singer Maynard James Keenan on arguably their best album to date, 2000’s White Pony.

The lyrics “You’re shooting stars / From the barrels of your eyes / It drives me crazy / Just drives me wild” are poetic in their simplicity and come across as being sincere without sounding gag-inducingly cheesy.

There are two other tracks recorded in a similar style on the album, ‘Sextape’ and ‘976-EVIL’ and to be honest these are my three favourite tracks on the album.

The simple fact is that the new lineup just seems to handle the quieter tracks better. The heavier tracks like ‘Rocket Skates’ (the first single), ‘Risk’ and ‘This Place Is Death’ do have their strong points, but without Cheng’s signature basslines, they lack the punch that made albums like Around The Fur (1997) and White Pony (2000) truly great.

The song ‘Prince’ is perhaps the closest the band gets to capturing that old, badass Deftones sound. It builds to a powerful chorous and makes no apologies as it tears through you like a bone saw.

In my opinion, there are three possible futures for a band like Deftones after Diamond Eyes. The first is to stay in safe territory and record a follow-up to Diamond Eyes that sounds much the same, but the formula will get old fast and chances are the band will slowly start to drop off the radar.

The second would be for the band to explore the sound they’ve perfected on the quieter tracks on the album and take their material in a direction that is slightly more chilled out (by Deftones’ standards) and more widely accessible.

The third future, sadly, is probably the least likely because it would only happen if Cheng woke up from his coma. He would become a rock legend instantly and, if he was still able to record and tour with the band, could finish working on the album they were recording prior to his accident, Eros, which according to Morino was their most experimental, unorthodox and edgy project to date.

Sure, it’s idealistic, but for the sake of his fans and family I hope he recovers. In the meantime though, hats off to the guys for sticking to their guns and recording an album which, while it might not be their best, still kicks a whole lot of ass and proves without a doubt that no matter what happens, you can’t keep a good band down.

Final verdict: 7/10

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slicktiger — Thu, 01 Apr 2010 10:39:04 +0000

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slicktiger — Thu, 01 Apr 2010 10:39:22 +0000

Dead Chocolate Jesus

slicktiger — Thu, 01 Apr 2010 10:39:33 +0000

Easter. Who’s idea was that anyway? Of all the weird-ass pseudo-religious celebrations that happen, it’s got to be the weirdest by a long fucking way right?

The son of God gets tortured, nailed to a cross, fucking stabbed and left to die, then comes back from the dead three days later like some kind of zombie and we celebrate that fact by eating chocolate rabbits and chickens and marshmallow eggs?

Whatever drugs the person who cooked up Easter was on, I want some.

As a kid I did the whole go to church thing with my parents where I jiggled in my seat a lot and counted down the minutes to when I could finally go back home and eat some more goddamn chocolate goddamnit!

Once at Easter lunch, a distant relative, who was also a reborn Christian (stop reading this if you’re a reborn Christian, this is not the place for you, take your church band somewhere else) explained to us kiddies why Easter eggs are hollow inside.

‘Easter eggs are hollow inside,’ she told us with a big creepy smile on her face, ‘because it SYMBOLISES how when they opened JESUS’ TOMB, they found it EMPTY!’

Really? My nine-year old mind said (even back then I was sceptical of reborns).

‘So would Jesus be inside Easter eggs if they didn’t find the tomb empty?’ I asked, pure and innocent as the driven snow.

‘Why, I don’t know! Maybe!’ she said and then laughed for some unknown reason.

‘Ew!’ I said, ‘I don’t think anyone would eat Easter eggs if there was a dead chocolate Jesus in them.’

Yeah. How about that? Nine fucking years old.

Pity I only got dumber with time.

****TIME PASSES****

The administrators of this site would like to apologise on Slick’s behalf as he was unable to finish this post. Jesus, or possibly a reborn Christian, or SOMEONE, decided to smite ol’ Slick for his blasphemy and sent a minion from hell to break into Slick’s car and steal his GPS yesterday.

Hence he had to spend this morning running around trying furiously to get his window fixed before the long weekend, only to arrive back to an unresponsive laptop that was more interested in crashing than actually letting him write a goddamn blog post.

But yeah, he says happy Easter if he doesn’t get to post again.

Now go eat some chocolate and think about what would have happened if they found Jesus.

-The Site Administrator

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slicktiger — Fri, 02 Apr 2010 09:28:38 +0000

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slicktiger — Fri, 02 Apr 2010 09:30:19 +0000

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slicktiger — Fri, 02 Apr 2010 09:30:54 +0000

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slicktiger — Fri, 02 Apr 2010 09:31:23 +0000

Tell The Tiger (Episode 1)

slicktiger — Fri, 02 Apr 2010 09:31:32 +0000

Hi Folks, and welcome to the first episode of ‘Tell The Tiger’ with me, your humble host, SlickTiger.

I was completely overwhelmed by all your emails, who knew you guys were so fucked up? Thank you for sharing though, with my help we can overcome the hardships of existence and blossom as incredible and unique homosapiens.

So let’s jump in there shall we?

Hi Slick,

I have recently been experiencing a problem involving pets in the complex.

Problem 1. There is this huge fucking fluffy ginger cat that looks like Garfield that takes the liberty of pissing on my front door almost everyday, leaving this welcoming sickly sweet ammonia stench to infiltrate my nostrils every time I enter or exit my flat. And its not just a little spray, that fucking cat wrings its kidneys completely, leaving a fairly large puddle, one that you would certainly not think came from one little cat!!! I bought a water pistol and a cap gun, but have yet to catch the ginger red handed as it were, but I have seen him scurrying down the stairs a few times when I am parking my car, so I know it's him. So I haven't managed to use my arsenal on him yet, something that keeps me up at night from sadistic excitement at the thought of capping him. If I catch him I even thought of putting the mother fucker in my toilet, flushing it, and then letting the sorry son of bitch loose, hopefully to never see him, or smell him again!

Problem 2. Next door, not in my complex, but in one of the surrounding house, there lives 3 Scottish terriers or corgis, like the Queen has, I’m not sure, cause I have only seen them from a distance. And seriously, when I say they bark non-stop, all fucking day and night, I’m not kidding. It drives me fucking insane with rage. I have contemplated shooting the dogs with a pellet gun, throwing firecrackers over. I tried to get hold of the owner, but he won’t answer his phone, (his neighbour gave me his number), and he never seems to be home.

Please, slick, what should I do?

Regards,

Anonymous P

Fuck, too hectic! Anonymous P, your life sounds like a hellish ordeal, between the cat soiling your front door and the Queen’s dogs never shutting the fuck up I’m surprised you even found the time to write this email.

Good news is I got a solution for you my good man. Two, to be precise.

First off, know this – that cat fucking hates you. It is deliberately pissing all over your front door because it has singled you out as an ‘easy target’ and will continue to do so, unabated, unless you take DRASTIC action.

The waterpistol / cap gun idea, while novel, is not going to solve your problem. What you need to do is the following:

Step 1

Watch a lot of Dexter. Take special note of the way he prepares his ‘kill sites’. See how he covers every available surface with plastic before he kills his victims? I want you to do exactly the same thing in the entire area around your front door.

Step 2

Buy a bucket of bright orange paint and some string. They want a cat that looks like Garfield? Fine. Give em a cat that looks like Garfield. Leave the front door slightly ajar and get a buddy to prop the open bucket of paint on the top of the door.

Then tie some string to the door handle and unravel enough of it so that you can find a comfortable position to watch the front door from and still be able to shut the door with a quick tug.

Step 3

Wait. Waiting takes awhile, so be patient and let your murderous rage for Garfield fuel your vigilance. Once you see that evil fucker come sniffing around, let him get nice and comfy and right as he’s mid-pee, give the string a quick tug.

Step 4

Laugh in that little fucker’s fucking FACE as he screeches in surprise and flees the scene of the crime, trailing orange paint all over the fucking complex. You won’t have to worry about any of that shit though. Thanks to the plastic sheeting, there won’t be one drop of orange paint, or cat piss anywhere near your front door EVER.

Ka-pow! Problem solved!

As for the dogs that never shut the fuck up, the answer here is simple. The owners need to buy bark collars for their dogs. Bark collars administer a small electric shock every time the dog barks, which will only be six or seven times before the dog gets the message.

Convince the owner to buy bark collars by using simple intimidation tactics and then escalating things until he or she gets the message.

Start by buying a few magazines, some glue, some scissors and a notepad and cutting out letters and gluing them to the page, like a ransom note.

The first note should be fairly simple and should read as follows:

Your dogs never stop barking. It is driving me insane. Please buy bark collars for them when you’re not home or I’ll get angry. You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.

That last sentence is from The Hulk. That’s how they’ll know you aren’t fucking around.

If the dogs still don’t shut the fuck up after that, wait for the early hours of the morning, then sneak over to their car port and pour a 1kg bag of sugar into the guy’s petrol tank.

Leave a second ransom note on the guy’s windshield that reads:

If you like driving as much as I like living in a quiet and peaceful complex, you’ll buy bark collars for your dogs

They’ll get the message after that. If not, leave a third note that reads:

You don’t seem to be getting the message. Maybe you need some prison-time to have a good hard think about how we’re going to solve this whole dogs-never-shutting-the-fuck-up problem.

Then phone the police and tell them dog-guy is a known sex offender and you’ve seen him hanging around kid’s playgrounds in and around your area with a pair of binoculars and a camera with a massive zoom lens.

Ka-pow! Problem solved!

See folks, the lesson here is not to let the pets of others fuck with your life.

Anonymous P, I hope this advice helps you out dude, let me know how it all goes and good luck!

Tune in next week for letters from people that have awkward and embarrassing sex-problems!

-ST

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slicktiger — Mon, 05 Apr 2010 15:12:15 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 05 Apr 2010 15:13:48 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 05 Apr 2010 15:15:56 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 05 Apr 2010 15:18:13 +0000

The Nervousness Of Being White

slicktiger — Mon, 05 Apr 2010 15:18:22 +0000

You can play it down as much as you like, but there’s a kind of nervousness associated with being a white person in this country that goes through palpable peaks and troughs depending on the current social or political climate.

Generally though, I think we’ve learned to just let it be. There’s very little we can actually do to effect political change in this country except stand on the sidelines and shout the odds at no one, and so we go on with our lives and try to make the best of them because it’s easier to live in the moment than it is to live in fear of a future that may or may not come.

‘This country is going to the dogs’ is a sentence I’ve heard more times than I’d care to admit, and yet somehow this country hasn’t gone to the dogs.

The doomsayers have gotten egg on their faces more than once and it is for this reason that I generally steer away from South African politics and try to remain as positive as possible about the future of our beautiful country.

And yet, I couldn’t help but feel a fresh swell of anxiety when my aunt told me yesterday morning that Eugene Terreblanche had been murdered by his farm workers on the outskirts of Ventersdorp on Saturday evening.

The official story is that two of his labourers killed Terreblanche over a wage dispute and that his murder was not politically motivated, but try telling that to the right wing extremists that followed Terreblanche their whole lives and I’d wager you’ll be met with more than a healthy dose of skepticism.

The major problem here is that Terreblanche’s murder follows close on the heels of the charges laid against Julius Malema for leading students at the University of Johannesburg in singing the words, “Shoot the boere [farmers], they are rapists.”

At the time Malema sang those words, I admit I thought very little of them. To me, it was just another ploy on his part to get a few more front page headlines, something which he’s proven alarmingly good at.

But now that Terreblanche is dead, hacked to death by his farm workers, a very powerful message has been sent across South Africa, whether it was intended or not, and the repercussions of that message are what’s making me nervous.

More than anything, I hope this doesn’t escalate. We forget that there are still people that would give their lives for the AWB. They may have been under the woodwork for a long time, but they are still there, armed to the teeth and waiting for an excuse, any excuse, to fight for what they believe in.

It’s a tense situation though because if they don’t fight back in some way, what’s to stop Malema from spreading more hate speech and inciting another incident like this one?

I wish it hadn’t come to this. Sure, Terreblanche was a wretched bigot and was the cause of a lot of racial atrocities and tension in this country, but until now the most overriding public image most of ol’ ET was of him falling off his horse during a parade in Pretoria.

It was a seminal moment in his life because in it he was reduced from the feared and respected leader of one of the most extreme organisations this country has ever seen to a doddering old fart who couldn’t ride a horse if his life depended on it.

And that’s how he should have died, in his sleep, alone on his farm in the middle of nowhere and largely forgotten by the country he sought to control.

Instead, his violent death has instantly elevated him to the status of a martyr for a group of people who are the very worst examples of the old and bigoted mindset that caused this country untold damage in the past.

I strongly believe that South Africa has a rich abundance of intelligent and benevolent people who want nothing more than the very best for this country and everyone living in it, regardless of their colour or creed.

It is them, and not the Malemas of this world, who should be leading us, but they aren’t and who knows if they ever will.

At that same rally where Malema sang “shoot the boerre”, he also told students that Mandela had convinced blacks to forgive, but they should never forget what was done to them.

How sad it is to have the legacy of the greatest political figure this country has ever seen eroded by a careless individual whose words encourage everything Mandela has fought his whole life to prevent.

I don’t have all the answers, I wish I did, but I know one thing for sure, for as long as Malema is allowed to get away with inciting violent and hateful behaviour, we’re playing a political game of Russian roulette with a fully loaded gun.

And the first casualty just fell.

-ST

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slicktiger — Mon, 05 Apr 2010 20:11:17 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 05 Apr 2010 20:11:55 +0000

Friends Wanted: Cape Town

slicktiger — Tue, 06 Apr 2010 06:00:00 +0000

A month ago, my chick and me moved to Cape Town coz of a job she got offered, even though a lot of my mates back in Joeys warned us not to.

‘All they ever do down there,’ my mates warned, ‘is smoke dagga and not much else. Also, the people are clicky and won’t be your friend unless you’re rich.’

Of course, I thought my mates were just pulling my leg and having a good lag at their chommie making the big move down to the Cape, but as it turns out, they were right about one thing.

Flip, okes down here smoke a lot of dagga.

And also, I dunno if it’s coz they get parries or something, but my mates were also right about another thing, it’s flippin’ clicky down here and nobody wants to talk to you.

I’ve introduced myself with a big friendly smile and a firm handshake to every oke I’ve met down here, and not one of them has wanted to be my friend.

Now, because we have no one to chill with, my girlfriend and I drink TWICE as much brandy and coke as we used to and often she carries on about how we have no friends now and I have to klap her to get her to just bladdy shuddup.

And so, I’d like to use this website as a way of making some new mates down here in The Cape, some real okes who I can be chommies with and who have girlfriends that can help mine in the kitchen when we braai.

To attract the right kind of mates, I’ve made a list of me and my girlfriend’s hobbies, which includes:

Braais
Fighting
Gym
Watching the game at the pub
Drinking
Fighting
H2O (the doof doof party, not the stuff in bottles)
Jetskis
Fighting

So if there are any okes and chicks in The Cape who enjoy similar hobbies and wanna be mates with me and my girlfriend, please leave your details in the comments section below.

Also, if you could please be rich and good-looking, that will help us a lot, cause we’re rich and good-looking too. Here’s a picture of us as proof:

I look forward to hearing back from you ous soon!

Your-soon-to-be-chommie-from-Joeys

-ST

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slicktiger — Tue, 06 Apr 2010 21:18:01 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 06 Apr 2010 21:20:12 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 06 Apr 2010 21:21:18 +0000

Album Review: Broken Bells

slicktiger — Wed, 07 Apr 2010 06:00:00 +0000

You get two kinds of people in this world – those that hear music and those that listen to music.

About 80% of the world hears music. It’s something that plays in the background of their lives between dancing from one club to another, falling in love with one person after the other and popping out one kid after the other.

Those people, they don’t care about the stories behind the music they listen to. They will hear a band like Broken Bells and they’ll love it and a week later they’ll completely forget they ever heard it and move on to the next band.

Which, I guess, is a testament to how fucking incredible this band is.

Remember The Shins? Two of their tracks featured on the Garden State soundtrack back in 2004 after which they enjoyed a brief stint in the limelight before people got bored and promptly forgot they ever existed.

Well, Broken Bells is made up of The Shins’ frontman and guitarist James Mercer and one Brian Burton, or Danger Mouse as he is more widely known.

Danger whothefuck? I hear you ask. Danger Mouse, the guy who produced Gnarls Barkley’s albums St. Elsewhere (2006) and The Odd Couple (2008) as well as the phenomenal Gorillaz album Demon Days (2005) and the highly underrated Beck album Modern Guilt (2008).

Tie all those albums up together, throw in Mercer’s best vocals I’ve ever heard on an album, add a whole heap of great hooks, free flowing melodies and laid-back beats and you’ll start to get an idea of what Broken Bells sounds like.

What we’re talking about here is an album you can put on the next time your buddies and their respective girlfriends come over for a few drinks, and it will play from beginning to end without anyone getting up to change it.

The marriage of Mercer’s folksy guitar riffs and Burton’s synth soundscapes is so damn perfect you’d swear they’d done at least three or more albums together to reach the musical pinnacle that is Broken Bells.

There is not one sound on this album that is unnecessary. Musically, it’s as tight as they come, Burton knows exactly what to do and when to do it and the result is an album that is multilayered without being cluttered and claustrophobic, is chilled out without making you nod off halfway through and is poppy without being mindless and puerile.

What also impressed me is how far Mercer has pushed his vocals on this album. He experiments with vocal registers that I thought were far beyond his reach and nails them almost effortlessly and his lyrics on songs like ‘The Mall And Misery’ (‘Oh she lies half burning / From the battling crows… There’s a new world / Somewhere a good girl / Lives and breathes’) are as carefully written as the subtle melodies Burton weaves around them.

Sure, ‘The Ghost Inside’ has undertones of the Gnarls Barkley hit ‘Crazy’ and ‘Your Head Is On Fire’ could pass as an MGMT track on valium, and yes, musically you aren’t going to hear anything on this album that hasn’t already been done before, but the point is, Broken Bells do it fucking well.

Somewhere between trip hop, psychedelia, folk rock and eccentric pop you’ll find this album and if you’re a fan of any of those genres, it will be one of the best albums you’ll hear this year.

You don’t have to be a music aficionado to appreciate this album, which is why I would recommend it, very highly, to just about anyone.

Final Verdict: 8/10

Short Story: Animals In Love

slicktiger — Thu, 08 Apr 2010 17:40:45 +0000

If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the years I’ve worked here, it is the universal truth that no matter how they might try to dress it up and pretend otherwise, humans are messy creatures and that is a fact.

Some of them loved a good, hard party and they’d leave the rooms smelling like a bar the next day, beer pooled in sour patches on the carpets, cigarette butts spilling out of ashtrays knocked to the floor, that kind of thing.

The Higgs brothers were crazy like that – Joe kicked the TV in one night when they were good and wasted, and Mike got a mean gash on his forehead because he was jumping on the bed and got whacked by the ceiling fan.

Their old man owned a hunting surplus store that didn’t make them a lot of money so they paid for the damage in gin traps instead. I was fine with that. Kept the wild animals away.

Some of them were bedwetters, and lemme tell you, the cleaning ladies hate a bedwetter, for obvious reasons.

Some of them were messy eaters and left our sheets stained with all manner of shit – salsa, ketchup, bacon fat, mayonnaise… at least I hope it was mayonnaise.

All those people, they were harmless folk. Messy folk for sure but harmless, and mostly I didn’t let it get to me that they treated my rooms exactly like they were, cheap places to spend a night after a long day’s drive.

But then every once in awhile, I’d get a call from the Big Bad telling me to book out three rooms, one next to the other and I’d put down the phone after a call like that and I’d swear under my breath because I knew what was coming.

The next day I’d find the two rooms on the outside untouched, Big Bad just hired them so no one else would, but the one in the middle? I’d find it looking like wild animals had torn it to shreds.

The mattress would be lying half off the bed, springs bursting out of it at every angle and the sheets would be drenched in sweat and spotted with blood, lying in a crumpled heap in the corner.

The pictures would be lying face down where they’d been torn off the walls and the curtains would hang ripped on the railings, faint, bloody stains trailing down them where they’d been clutched in desperate handfuls.

The cupboards would be broken from blunt force, the bedside lamp would be a sad and tattered mess, the basin in the bathroom would be shattered and the floor would be drenched an inch of water from the broken faucet.

Anything that was glass would be smashed – windows, mirrors, anything. Those animals even managed to destroy the ceiling fan once, I found it turning in slow, lopsided circles, with only one propeller left on it. Not even Mike’s thick head ever managed to do that.

At first I thought the Big Bad was getting people murdered in those rooms, maybe people who owed him money or who had wronged him in some way. He never let me see the people who checked in, that was part of the deal and the next day he’d send one of his boys over with a bag full of money, more than enough to repair the damage, so I kept my mouth shut.

Still though, it was fuckin’ weird and I couldn’t stop my mind ticking over and over every time that phone call came.

In the end it was the screaming that really got to me. I can turn my back on a lot of things, more than I’d care to admit, but the sound of a woman screaming? You gotta be one cold-hearted bastard to not let that get to you.

I convinced myself that Big Bad was renting the room out to the worst kind of people you could imagine, maybe thugs of his who liked to beat up women and worse. Maybe that’s how he rewarded his hired guns, rented out these rooms in the middle of nowhere and let them do whatever the hell they wanted with them.

So one night I stayed up, listening and waiting because I had to know and even though it fucked me up pretty bad, what I saw, I’m glad I saw it.

Around four o’clock in the morning things finally went quiet in the room Big Bad had rented and a calm descended over the desert around us that was so deep, I swear you could hear the moon setting in the pale sky.

I climbed into the back of my truck and pulled the tarpaulin sheeting over myself, leaving a tiny gap for me to watch through as I peaked over the tailgate at their front door, about 50 feet away from where I lay.

It was there that I saw them.

He came out first, stooping as he stepped out the door in jeans, a black vest and more tattoos than you could ever count. His eye was swollen shut and crusted with dry blood, red scratch marks ran down his neck, and his shoulders were riddled with bite marks.

He was huge, carved from stone and had a mean look about him like he’d seen and done a lot of bad things in his life and he would see and do a lot more.

He scanned the parking lot for a few seconds and then slowly stepped aside, holding the door open with a thick, tattooed arm.

She stepped outside carefully, like a fawn, into the breathless morning, wearing his jacket.

She was every kind of beautiful that woman, but that’s not what stuck in my mind. What stuck in my mind was that after all that screaming and destruction, she stepped out of the wreckage of that room without a scratch on her.

And I knew in that instant that the screams I’d heard all those times weren’t from pain.

He closed the door softly once she’d stepped through it and she turned back to face him and gently put the palms of her hands on his chest and then lay her head between them, right where his heart was, to listen.

His arms rose slowly to encircle her and he tucked her head under his chin and closed his eye and they just stood like that for a long time while the sun rose red above the aching desert.

I don’t know how many years I’ve got left in me, probably a handful at best, but even if I lived another hundred, I don’t think I’ll ever see two people, two animals, more in love.

A black limo pulled up to where they were standing and she reached into one of his jacket pockets, took out a ring and put it on her left hand. She gave him his jacket back, wiped her face quickly and turned to get into the car.

He stood there watching her in silence until long after the limo had pulled away and the dust had settled, and then he jammed his fists into his jacket pockets and started walking down the road into the desert, the same way she went.

The rest of that day I didn’t do much but stare off from behind the front desk, lost in half-thoughts about what I’d seen that morning. By the end of the week it wasn’t much better.

A couple of months later Mike and Joe stopped by, asked how the gin traps were working out, so I lied and told ‘em they were working out just fine.

Truth is after that morning I dug a deep hole behind the shed, threw the gin traps in it and buried them, I don’t know why. It just seemed like the right thing to do.

The world carried on turning as though that morning had never happened, as it always has. The hours added up to days, which added up to months, which added up to years and I stopped thinking about those two. I just took it for granted that that big mean bastard finally met someone bigger and meaner or that that beautiful woman went back to whatever life was waiting for her in that limo and didn’t look back.

And so you can imagine my surprise this morning when I picked up the phone to hear a voice I hadn’t heard for nearly five years.

‘I need a room Sam,” he told me in that same old wolf-voice.

“Actually, make it three.”

-ST

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slicktiger — Fri, 09 Apr 2010 08:01:26 +0000

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slicktiger — Fri, 09 Apr 2010 08:02:12 +0000

Tell The Tiger (Episode 2)

slicktiger — Fri, 09 Apr 2010 08:02:18 +0000

I love meeting people who tell you how ‘crazy’ they are. ‘I’m crazy dude!’ they all say, ‘I’m the craziest fucker you’ll ever MEET!’ which can be loosely translated as, ‘Am a pretty average guy, really nothing that special about me or my life. Thanks for listening.’

Truth is, the really crazy fuckers out there, or the people who have crazy shit going down in their lives keep that shit on the down lizzo, which is why I started Tell The Tiger, because I feel an affinity for these people and honestly want to help them.

Also the shit they send through makes my life plain as dry toast in comparison ;)

Take this email I got on Tuesday for example:

Hi Tellthetiger,

Im not sure why im sending you this when I havent even told my friends about it so please dont mention my name anywhere, but ive been dating this girl for about four months now, shes the best looking girl Ive ever dated (shes done some modelling for magazines etc), perfect and also an amazing personality, my dream girl until a few weeks back we were taking a shower together and she asked me the most fucked up thing, to pee on her in the shower!

I laughed and thought she was joking (she’s got a bit of a crazy sense of humour) and tried to ignor what she was asking me, but she kept asking, saying it would be ‘naughty’ and it didn’t matter anyway because we were in the shower and why didnt I just try it?

So I did it and she loved it, it was bizarre. We both kind of laughed about it and I didn’t really think anything of it, but then she asked me to do it again, twice in the next week or so, she said it really turned her on, but the most fucked up thing is we came back from a night out last week and she asked me to do it again, this time when we were in bed together!

My friends warned me that she was a little ‘weird’ but seriously, yellow fountains? What the hell, I don’t know what to do! I refused to do it and she immediately got really embarrassed and it was really awkward and she left and we haven’t slept together since because I don’t know if shes going to ask me again, what if she breaks up with me because I wont do it? I love this girl, what should I do?

Help!

Peed Off

Ok, first off, I think the preferred term for this kind of behaviour is ‘golden shower’ not ‘yellow fountain’ so yeah, that might turn up more results in Google searches should you want to seek professional help, which I would definitely recommend if this advice gets you nowhere.

There is no easy way of diffusing a situation like this. It’s not normal behaviour for your girlfriend to want you to pee on her and it’s highly likely that the need she’s feeling to submit herself to acts of degradation like that was caused by some kind of trauma suffered at a young age.

If what she’s making you do is freaking you out too much you need to tell her that and explain that while you love her, what she’s asking you to do doesn’t feel right and you would rather not do it. If the issue comes up again, try to figure out what it is about golden showers that turns her on so much and try to get her to open up about previous boyfriends and if she’s tried this on them and how they reacted and in that way try to drill down to what the root cause of this is.

Of course, there is a chance that she just likes it because it feels ‘naughty’ but there are a million other ways to practise naughtiness in the bedroom that don’t involved relieving your bladder on your loved one, maybe try some of those options instead.

Any way you look at it, there’s no way you’re ever going to be able to just brush this one under the carpet, confront it head-on, be honest and patient with her and whatever you do, approach this with as much tact as possible and if she threatens to break up with you if you won’t do it, then as hard as it might be, break up with her. The minute any relationship degrades into ultimatums like that, you step into the territory of emotional blackmail and in my experience things very seldom get better after that point.

Either way, let us know what happens dude, and if anyone else wants to offer solutions, I think our buddy here could use them!

-ST

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Remember, if you have difficulties with life in any way, size, shape or form, you too can Tell The Tiger by simply mailing him on tellthetiger@gmail.com and he will do his level best to address your troubles or your money back!

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slicktiger — Sun, 11 Apr 2010 21:33:47 +0000

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slicktiger — Sun, 11 Apr 2010 21:34:53 +0000

SlickRetard

slicktiger — Mon, 12 Apr 2010 06:00:00 +0000

A hypothetical question if you will:

Your girlfriend strips down to her panties and runs into the sea with a whole bunch of her friends (also all girls) sometime around midnight after a night of excessive revelry – what do you do?

The answer here is a pretty simple one if you’re a SlickTiger. If you’re a SlickTiger you stand back, admire the view, carry on drinking your beer at a leisurely pace and get your jacket ready for your lady once she’s finished having a dip.

However, if you’ve been smashing tequila all night and are feeling a particularly strong surge of testosterone in your blood, which manifests itself in a ridiculously overprotective bout of male egotism, the LAST thing you do is stand by while your girlfriend scampers off half naked into the ocean.

This is when SlickRetard takes over. SlickRetard doesn’t even hesitate when his girlfriend starts running carefree down the beach, stripping off as she goes. SlickRetard vaults over the edge of the lifesaving club wall, strips down to his undies and sprints after his girlfriend like some wild-eyed lunatic.

Then, when SlickRetard finally catches up to her, he uses his body like a protective shield, wrapping it around his girlfriend and protecting her dignity from the perverted eyes of the naked group of men that sprang up out of fucking nowhere the second a boob became visible and charged toward the sea.

I guess at that stage, things could have turned out alright if SlickRetard had maybe not stripped his clothes off so close to the goddamn sea, because while he was desperately clutching his girlfriend, wave after wave was lapping up the shore, soaking his shorts inside which were his wallet, car keys and of course, cell phone.

Miraculously, even though the flippy key for my car didn’t so much flip open, but rather awkwardly grinded halfway into the erect position due to all the sand in there, it somehow still unlocked and immobilised the car, so we could at least go home to dry off, but I tell ya, the car ride back here WASN’T a happy one.

Why is it that the male ego always chooses the most retarded of times to raise it’s fucking ugly head? I should have just let her go. I learned my lesson. It cost me a cell phone, but I learned it.

Bottom line is if you’re THAT insecure about your girl gettin a little naked and running into the sea with her friends, then you’re being a fucking retard.

-ST

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slicktiger — Tue, 13 Apr 2010 11:06:37 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 13 Apr 2010 11:07:20 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 13 Apr 2010 11:07:38 +0000

Three Reasons why humans are dumber than animals

slicktiger — Tue, 13 Apr 2010 11:07:46 +0000

My girlfriend J-Rab works at a reputable animal park that shall remain nameless, where she and the other people who work there handle a number of badass animals like cheetahs and pumas, and then one or two other little critters like black-backed jackals and meerkats.

Part of her job is training students that come from as far afield as places like Canada and Germany who become friends with her (some of them) and then, 3 months later, promptly leave.

Last night was the farewell for one of these students, let’s call her Shroomgirl, which even I was a little sad about because as it turns out this girl is fucking hilarious!

To be honest, as a guy I very seldom find girls funny. Sure, sometimes the way they tell stories and jokes is cute and I laugh along so they don’t think I’m rude, but it’s very seldom that a girl will make me genuinely laugh my ass off, but Shroomgirl nailed it!

Last night she told us her three biggest ‘What the fuck?’ moments working at said animal park, irrefutable proof that humans are indeed dumber than animals.

Reason #1: Syntax, syntax, syntax

When taking a group on a tour of the park one day, Shroomgirl fielded an unintentionally sexually explicit question when one of the members of her group, on admiring a fine and majestic cheetah, asked the following gem: ‘Do the cheetahs ever get a chance to spread their legs?’

What he meant to say was ‘Do the cheetahs ever get a chance to stretch their legs’, as in, do the cheetahs ever get a chance to run around a bit. Even funnier than that was the fact that, before anyone could answer, one of the managers, Yogi Bear, jumped right in there, completely deadpan and replied, ‘No. The cheetahs here are not used for breeding purposes.’

Fail squared.

Humans:0 Animals:1

Reason #2: Dirty-talking cheetah style

Another time, Shroomgirl was with a group that had some randoms and a dude in his 20s and his girlfriend. Now, because they’re animals (and probably also because they’re just plain bored) sometimes the cheetahs do some pretty weird shit to one another, much like humans.

On this particular day, two young males, Chobe and Felix shared a special moment when Chobe started suckling Felixes tummy while they were lying down together, right where Felixes nipples would be if he was a lady-cheetah.

Even more fucked up than that was the fact that the minute the boyfriend saw this happen, he turned to the ol’ GF and, loud enough for everyone on the tour to hear, said, ‘How about later you be Felix and I’ll be Chobe?’

And immediately everyone on the tour threw up in their mouths a little.

Humans:0 Animals:2

Reason #3: The leopard-guy

The third what the fuck moment was the best by a long way.

After just finishing an extensive tour of the entire park where Shroomgirl showed the group the entire park, starting with the cheetahs in the front, and then the other assorted animals in the back and introducing the group to every animal and telling each animal’s life story, they came to the end of the tour and when Shroomgirl asked if anyone had any questions, she was bludgeoned by this beauty:

‘Ok, so I know the front part’s for the leopards, but what’s the back for?’

Well done. The front part’s for the leopards, well done. There is not one fucking leopard in the park. And ‘what’s the back for?’ after she just showed the fucking retard every square inch of it?!

You’re a credit to the species.

Humans:0 Animals:3

I rest my case.

-ST

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slicktiger — Tue, 13 Apr 2010 21:20:48 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 13 Apr 2010 21:21:08 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 13 Apr 2010 21:22:44 +0000

Album Review: Massive Attack – heligoland

slicktiger — Wed, 14 Apr 2010 06:00:00 +0000

I find with every album I listen to and generally I try to bend my head around at least 7 or 8 a month, I have a growing appreciation for attention to detail when it comes to song writing and producing and I think that’s why Massive Attack’s newest offering, Heligoland, has me completely spellbound.

I’m not going to lie, the mood is pretty heavy throughout this album, which is why it will go down a lot better when you’re lost in a moment of intense introspection than it will at the next house party you go to and so, even though I really liked this album, I’d be very hesitant to recommend it to just anyone.

Though the overall tone does tend to waver between jaw-grinding comedown paranoia and desolate despair, it stops short of going the route of their contemporaries Portishead, who’s last album had most people gassing themselves in their cars by track 4.

Suffice to say, critics love Heligoland because it’s coherent and you can tell right from the opening few seconds that a lot of thought and care went into producing it. The result is a polished and highly-accomplished album that, while it sure as hell ain’t gonna make you shake that ass, will definitely appeal to trip hop fans and people naturally attracted to the darker side of music.

‘Pray For Rain” the opening track sets the standard for the album and features vocals from Tunde Adebimpe from TV On The Radio which are so quietly and creepily sung they’ll make the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

The song haunts like a nightmare long forgotten, the kind where whatever it is that’s out to get you isn’t chasing you, it’s watching you from the darkness, waiting to drag you down when it’s good and ready.

“Dull residue of what once was / A shattered cloud of swirling doves / And their eyes change / As they learn to see through flames…”

Track 2, ‘Babel’ is a great choice to follow from the menacing opener that is ‘Pray For Rain’ and adds a nice touch to the desolate soundscape of Heligoland in the form of Martina Topley-Bird’s sultry vocals. The track builds to a surprisingly catchy chorous but it still anything but upbeat.

Topley-Bird also does the vocals for the track ‘Psyche’ which, with it’s frantic and discordant guitar picking is enough to drive anyone caught in the vicious jaws of a weekend MDMA binge completely shit-your-pants crazy.

That track and the intense downer that follows right after it (‘Flat of the Blade’) are definitely not this albums greatest moments, but are thankfully countered by brilliantly arranged and expertly produced tracks like ‘Paradise Circus (featuring Hope Sandoval from Mazzy Star)’ and arguably one of the best tracks on the album ‘Saturday Come Slow (featuring Damon Alburn from Gorillaz)’.

It’s a thought-provoking album that in many ways reminds me of novelist Cormac McCarthy’s post apocalyptic masterpiece, The Road in the way it is loaded with equal parts of menace, desolation and in rare and precious moments, hope.

In Heligoland, Massive Attack has finally, after 12 years, recorded an album that is comparable to the album that put them on the map, 1998’s Mezzanine. It’s trip hop at it’s darkest which is why many people might dismiss it as a mood-killer and nothing else.

However, if you can get past that, Heligoland may very well speak to you on a level very few other albums will, just don’t give it to your broody teenage brother or sister or they might lock themselves in their room with it and not come out until the firemen come to bash the door down.

Final Verdict: 7/10

-ST

Short Story: Ending

slicktiger — Thu, 15 Apr 2010 19:36:52 +0000

She takes my hand and leads me down an impossibly long passage. The light everywhere is murky, oozing out of dimmer-switched skylights, the carpets are a pale mustardy colour and rooms branch off to the left and right of me, there must be at least 20 coming off this passage.

The two beers I downed nervously at the ‘bar’ are doing nothing to take the edge of what I’m doing and though I’m trying to act cool, trying to enjoy this, I think what’s really happening is I’m crapping myself.

This one can’t be much older than 20, she is skin and bone, I think I should have gone with a different one. It’s just that I fucked up in the moment. I mean, I think most guys would have. They lead you into a room, call out, “Ladies, introductions!” and next thing you’re staring at a row of highly dysfunctional female human beings and being asked to pick one.

The “Cindys” and “Candys” and “Lauries” and “Nickys” all kinda seem to melt into one and you’re very suddenly aware of the fact that about 15 women are watching you with the same disinterest cats watch dropped strings.

One of them introduced herself as the “Naughty Nurse” and made an effort to at least be appealing on some level. Problem was she was the ugliest of the bunch by quite a long way, which made her “Naughty Nurse” act pretty sad at the end of the day.

I had to do the lineout twice cause after the first time there was this pregnant silence in the room when I was asked to choose. I couldn’t remember a single woman’s name and felt too embarrassed to just point and say ‘you’.

Eventually the woman in charge suggested we go through the names again and I nodded my approval and tried to look confident and not betray the fact that all I wanted to do was get the hell out of there.

So that’s how I ended up choosing Charnelle. Hers was the only name that stuck after the woman in charge ran through them all again. She also looked younger than the others, so I figured we’d at least be able to have some kind of a conversation.

But man, watching her shoulder blades move so visibly under her skin while she walks in front of me, all I can think is how damn skinny she is, like a little kid or something.

She takes me inside a room and turns, business-like, and strips off her cheap evening dress. She steps awkwardly out of her panties, and stands in front of me, all ribs, hip bones and bee-sting nipples.

“You can take a shower if you like,” she says.

The Greek God told me that when he did this last, the girl joined him in the shower and they made out while she washed him.

“Sure,” I reply.

I shower until I’m starting to wrinkle, but still no sign of her, so I get out sheepishly and tie a towel around my waist, regretting the fact that I didn’t get to shave my balls before this.

Back in the other room, she’s smoking a cigarette out the window, which she quickly throws away, waving her hands frantically through the smoky air.

“It’s cool, I don’t mind,” I say.

“Ja, but my manager hates it when we smoke in the rooms,” she says, rolling her eyes.

“I won’t tell if you don’t...”

“Why would I tell? We get fined if they catch us.” She’s tired, irritated. Maybe I should have gone for the Naughty Nurse, at least she seemed happier.

“Yeah... um, so how does this...” I trail off, hoping for her to finish my sentence. Nope, nothing.

“What happens now?” I finish lamely.

“Oh,” she says standing abruptly, still naked. She crosses the room to a table of assorted oils and creams. “You want baby oil or refined oil?”

“Um what’s the difference?”

“You married?”

I double-take at the absurdity of this question.

“Do I look old enough to be married?” I say, mildly indignant.

“Girlfriend?”

“No! What kind of jerk comes here if he’s married or has a girlfriend?”

“Ninety percent. That’s why we have refined oil, it doesn’t leave a smell, but it’s a lot rougher on the skin that baby oil.”

“Ok,” I say, more than a little surprised, “baby oil’s fine.”

“Ok, take off your towel.”

“Haha,” I laugh nervously, “what, aren’t you even going to buy me a drink first?”

She folds her arms, cocking her head impatiently to the side. Her eye make-up looks like it was applied by a heroine addict.

“Guess not,” I mumble. I walk across the room and, facing away from her, untie the towel and drape it neatly over a nearby chair.

“Now what?” I ask, still facing the corner.

“Come and lie down,” she says tonelessly, “on your stomach.” I half turn and then see she’s watching me. I freeze stupidly.

“I’m going to see it sooner or later,” she says, “I mean that’s why you came here isn’t it?”

I have no idea why I came here. I have to bite my tongue to keep from saying this. I turn around, she stares pointedly at my junk, sighs and starts pouring baby oil into her cupped hand.

Excellent start.

I quickly lie down on my stomach, relieved at the illusion of being somehow less naked that this affords me.

She starts with my feet, digging her fingers into my insteps. It feels like she is trying to crack the bones in my feet, I’m not sure if I’m supposed to be enjoying this or not.

This could be like one of those massages that feels like agony while it’s happening, but you walk away from it feeling better, I think to myself.

“So what do you do?” She asks.

“I sell grass,” I reply. She stops massaging.

“Really?” For the first time all evening, she sounds borderline enthusiastic about what I’ve just said. “You don’t have any on you, do you?”

“Um, it’s not that kind of grass.”

“What kind is it?” She says, her enthusiasm dying instantly.

“It’s like lawn grass, not grass-grass, you know, for golf courses and stuff.”

“Oh. Too bad. I’d love a zol right now.”

She’s now moved onto my calves and is massaging with a lot less vigor than earlier, didn’t have much in her it seems.

“So... you smoke often?”

“I used to smoke a lot, helps me get to sleep.”

“I should try that, I also get insomnia sometimes.”

“Oh no, it wasn’t insomnia.”

“What was it?”

“Kat.”

“Hm,” I say, desperately trying to think of what to say next, “why don’t you just make him sleep outside or something?”

She stops massaging and unexpectedly, starts laughing.

“Oh my God, are you serious?” She says between giggles.

“What?”

“Kat, you know? The drug. You didn’t think I was talking about an animal cat did you?”

“Riiiight,” I reply. “That makes a lot more sense.”

She bursts into a fresh peal of laughter, and surprisingly, I like the sound of it.

“I thought, ‘Fuck, what kind of cat keeps you awake every night? Is it a tiger?’”

“Hahaha! No, it’s not a tiger...”

She starts massaging me again as her laughter fades, she’s moved up to my quads now. It’s becoming quite clear to me at this stage that she has next to no idea what she’s doing.

“So, did you do a lot of it?”

She pauses before answering, “Ja, my friends and I ended up doing quite a lot.”

“When did you do it last?”

“Um,” she pauses, thinking, “about ten or eleven weeks ago.”

“Ok,” I say, “that’s not too bad, I mean, that’s pretty good right?”

“Ja, it’s the longest I’ve stopped since I started about two years ago.”

“Fuck,” I say, at a loss for words.

“It’s a kak drug. It takes away the most important things from anyone’s life, you know? Eating and sleeping.”

“Shit, that must be horrible...” She’s massaging my ass now. I know this is supposed to be turning me on, but I’m not feeling anything. Fuck I hope the situation changes soon.

“Ja, it is. And it sneaks up on you totally. One minute it’s once or twice a month, then more and more and more. Eventually it’s every day, and before you know it, it’s been two, three days and you still haven’t slept.”

“Is that even humanly possible?”

“I didn’t think so, well, not until I was on that shit.”

She’s moved onto my lower back now. Somehow she is managing to find every knot in there and make it worse.

“In fact, that’s how my friends started doing heroine, it was all they could find eventually that would get them to sleep” she says emotionlessly, like she’s explaining how they started stamp-collecting.

“Heroine? Jesus, doesn’t that shit completely destroy you?” This conversation is creeping me out.

“It does... I mean, they used to get sick, really sick when they weren’t using it. That’s the problem eventually, you have to take it just to feel normal, and without it, everything, even breathing, is painful.”

Silence descends. I’m not too sure what to say at this stage. Does she tell this shit to all her clients? Is she trying to open up to me? She’s now working the top of my back and my shoulders, but I wish she wouldn’t.

Everything below my shoulders feels like scorched earth. I’ll be lucky if any of the muscles she’s touched ever work the way they should again.

“Um... so what happened to your friends? Are they ok now?” I say, half-dreading the answer.

“Ja, they are all trying to get off it...” she says, but I know there’s more.

“That’s good...”

“One of them, my friend Annalie, drowned when she was high, so that made them realise that they were in trouble.”

“Oh my God... I’m... sorry to hear that...”

“She wanted a bath and fell asleep when she was inside. She sank under the water and by the time we found her, it was too late, she was already blue.”

“Shit, you were there?”

“Ja. It was bad, her boyfriend was also high, he pulled her out and just started hitting her chest over and over again, he didn’t know what he was doing, but she was already dead.”

“Fuck...” I can’t believe she’s telling me this. She doesn’t even know me... maybe that’s why.

“Well, you gotta take the good from a situation like that, I mean, if it stopped your friends from taking heroine, or even just made them realise that they need to stop, then she didn’t die for nothing.”

She stops massaging me and I can feel that her hands are shaking. She says nothing, just sniffs once, loudly, and silently wipes her face.

“Ok,” she says, straining to sound normal, “you can roll over now.”

-ST

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slicktiger — Fri, 16 Apr 2010 13:50:05 +0000

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slicktiger — Fri, 16 Apr 2010 13:50:38 +0000

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slicktiger — Fri, 16 Apr 2010 13:51:11 +0000

Tell The Tiger (episode 3)

slicktiger — Fri, 16 Apr 2010 13:51:23 +0000

Wow, this week’s been too crazy guys, too fucking crazy so I chose a nice and short problem to NAIL rather than some long, drawn out, deeply psychologically troubled mail to deal with gently… tenderly… lovingly…

This week’s problem comes from a guy who likes to call himself “Jeanunderpantman”. Um… okaayyy.

Howzit Slick,

I’ve gotthis major problem where I prefer jerking off to havign actual sex with my girlfriend, its just feels tighter and better. Do you think if she lets me try anal it weill be better? How can I convince her to try it?

Jeanunderpantman

Jeanunderpantman (I’ll just call you JP), lemme just say congratulations. Actually managing to start your computer, READ this site, REPLY to Tell The Tiger with an actual email (though shockingly spelled) and SEND it without incident couldn’t have been easy.

Pat yourself on the back. You have done well.

As for your problem, I have a few solutions:

1) Send us a pic of your gf. There is a good chance that you prefer fucking your hand because SHE’S UGLY AS SIN. If she is UGLY AS SIN, riding the Hershey Highway might temporarily make sex with her better, but in the long run you’re probably going to have to trade her in for a better looking ho, yo.

2) If she isn’t a total GROT OTTER as it were, the problem might be that her lady garden is a little loose. Has she had kids? How many? Be honest with me here dude, I can’t help you if you aren’t straight with me. Of course, the other alternative is that your cheloger is too small. Probably kill yourself if this is the problem. No one likes a man packing a silk worm.

3) You could be a cock smoker. Test this out by turning off ‘Safe Search’ in Google and typing ‘ripped gym boys’. I made that mistake once. I’m blind now. You might really enjoy it though, in which case you should probably swap your lady for a lady-boy. I hear Thailand specialises in them.

Hope that helps JP, let us know how everything pans out for ya buddy.

That’s all for this weeks Tell The Tiger, peace out party people and have a killer weekend!

-ST

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slicktiger — Fri, 16 Apr 2010 14:00:29 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 19 Apr 2010 16:47:05 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 19 Apr 2010 16:47:30 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 19 Apr 2010 16:47:52 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 19 Apr 2010 16:48:15 +0000

Today Was a car crash

slicktiger — Mon, 19 Apr 2010 16:48:28 +0000

Fahk, today was a car crash.

Didn’t see that comin’ did ya? Ol’ Slick calls the post ‘Today Was A Car Crash’ and then launches right into the opening sentence, ‘Fahk, today was a car crash’!

Hahahahaha! Um, why am I the only one laughing?

On the way to work this morning I saw two taxis all fucked up, twisted out of shape, people (dead people?) being packed into ambulances and driven to state hospitals to get nasty infections.

I drove on in the driving rain and I turned my fog lights on. I don’t know what I hoped to achieve by doing this, but it made me feel marginally more safe.

The whole day, my guts have been melting. They feel like hot coals inside me. The weekend was a harsh mistress and all I can say is thank the good lord that J-Rab was stone cold and able to get us from A to B cause I probably would have been lousy at it.

Friday night we headed out guns blazin’. Bottle of tequila on the backburner and a pile of beer you could build a fort with. We hit The Barbarian’s place first, then Da Vinci’s for the best goddamn pizza I ever tasted, then a house party with some good people, and a man, we’ll call him The Giant, who had hands that were so massive he could probably break your skull if he ever flat-handed you.

He reads this site everyday, The Giant. He said it keeps him sane on days when office life is too boring to handle. My life had a lot of purpose in that moment, and everything, everything was worth it and I guess it still is.

It was his lady’s birthday party and I arrived sprouting tequila like a leaking ship.

It’s not rocket science. If you’re going to a party where you don’t know a lot of people, take a bottle of tequila. The people that drink it, make friends with those people. The people that don’t drink it, tease them until they drink it, then make friends with those people.

No one remembers you this way. But somewhere down the line you’ll be at another random do on another random night and a person from across the room will call out, ‘Hey! You! I know you! You’re the Tequila-guy from that party that one time…’

We drove to Komemtjie after the party, we snuck into my aunt’s house, passed the hell out and slept like dead people.

Saturday my cousin, Captain Albatross, woke me with a beer and a firm pat on the shoulder. ‘Cuzzy’ he said to me, ‘come let’s talk.’

We sat on the upstairs balcony in my aunt’s old comfy blue chairs, sipping cold beer and watching the cloudshapes changing with time and he told me about his crazy night and I told him about mine.

I kicked a soccer ball with The Captain’s kids and taught them to strum a few chords on the guitar. Dylan is a natural. All of seven years old and already he can count a solid 4/4 signature. I could make a rockstar out of that kid.

We ate mountains of braaied meat and it was good. Jimmy’s marinade was the clear winner that day. We drowned everything in it, even the boerewors and fuck me it all tasted like sticky, glazed heaven. I ploughed through a lot of it and afterward I lay on the grass and didn’t do or think of much for a long time.

A few hours later, J-Rab drove us back home and I dozed like a kid in the passenger seat, waking only when we went over bumps, then gazing through half-shut eyes at the spaces where ocean and land met, those brilliant white beaches along Baden Powell, the greeny-blue ocean the sun reflecting red off the mountains.

We ate at Buena Vista that night with The Loub, a good meal, good company, good times. I kinda wished I wasn’t already half dead at that stage. Energy was hard to come by, it had been a long day.

Sunday I got up late, sat on our balcony and played my guitar for 2 hours to a rapt audience of Anatolian Sheep Dogs. The low chords made them growl and the high chords made them howl. I felt like a demon guitarist, dragged back out of hell to play auditoriums full of growling, howling animals for all eternity.

Not a bad gig come to think of it. Better than rolling a rock up a hill.

I met a man who reads this site from time to time on Sunday afternoon. We’re working on a project together, something that’s going to blow people’s fucking minds.

And that’s really where this is all leading up to.

There are things, big things, in the pipeline for this site. I’m stepping up and calling a couple of shots for once and if this works, if I can actually manage to pull this one off, you’ll be proud to stand and be counted as one of the first people that found this crazy, fucked up place.

‘Oh yeah, SlickTiger?’ you’ll say, ‘I was following his blog WAY before …………… happened. Yeah, those days he used to write differently, like he was talking to us, like it was a private conversation. We liked his stuff mainly, but sometimes he clearly had nothing to write about, so he’d just write about his own life.’

‘We enjoyed some of those posts…’

It’s happening people. It’s all coming together and I couldn’t be happier ;)

-ST

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slicktiger — Mon, 19 Apr 2010 20:41:44 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 19 Apr 2010 20:42:12 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 19 Apr 2010 20:42:54 +0000

The SlickTiger Guide To Raising Baby Humans

slicktiger — Tue, 20 Apr 2010 06:00:00 +0000

Recently I’ve noticed that a lot of people around me, friends, family work colleagues, etc. are breeding at an alarming rate. I attribute this to the general decline in quality TV programming and the decision-impairing properties of hard liquor.

Add to that potent mix the proliferation of lewd sexual material in the mainstream media and the decline in morality suffered as a result of that, and conditions for breeding baby humans start to look very favourable indeed.

And so I decided to write a step-by-step guide on raising, feeding and caring for baby humans. In this way I hope to help people who are either currently raising baby humans, or still growing them inside their wombs, waiting for the miracle that occurs as the foetus descends into the pelvic cavity and its head and shoulders pass through the bony ring of the pelvis, much like a bowling ball through a balloon knot.

Step one: Environment

The first thing you’re going to want to secure before you bring your baby human home is a suitable environment.

As a rule of thumb, a 48 to 53cm baby human should be kept in a 55 gallon tank. This will allow the baby human enough room to run around and exercise and yet not have to run too far to catch its dinner.

As the baby human grows, so should its enclosure. I would recommend no smaller than a 70 gallon tank once the baby human has grown to 70-80cms and a 180 gallon tank once it has grown to 100-150cms.

Most baby human shops should stock a varied selection of bedding for your baby human, but I would strongly recommend taking my advice when it comes to the following items:

Baby human bark / bedding: This is definitely not a good idea. Crickets and other smaller insects that are high in nutrition for your baby human can hide under the bark, resulting in your baby human not getting its full meal. Another major reason is that the baby human could ingest a piece of the bark, which could result in uncomfortable stool.
Sandpit sand: I have found this to be both an affordable and practical form of bedding for baby humans. Simply ‘scoop’ the baby human’s fecal matter off the sand and replace as necessary.
Newspaper / Paper: This is a great idea if you are concerned about ease of cleaning and cost. It’s not the ‘prettiest’ set up for your baby human’s enclosure, but it works well.
Straw: Another great material to line your baby human’s tank with. The straw retains heat well and can easily be arranged into a comfortable ‘nest’ for your baby human.

Step two: Diet

Feeding your baby human will require you to handle all manner of food stuffs including raw vegetation, insects, and small mice.

Baby humans are omnivores, meaning they will eat veggies and small animals. Insects, however, should definitely be a daily staple of your baby human’s diet should you want it to grow up strong and healthy, with a robust exoskeleton.

I would highly recommend feeding your baby human a combination of the following:

Bugs: The size of the insects you feed your baby human is extremely important. All food that is offered should be smaller in width than your baby human’s beak. Larger food items could get easily lodged in the baby human’s digestive tract, causing uncomfortable stool.
Veggies: There is a huge selection of 'leafy' greens which are high in calcium to feed your baby human, such as kale, argula, collard & mustard greens, parsley, dandelion greens and flowers. If you take your baby human outside or allow it to run around the house (though I wouldn’t recommend it) do be sure to check that no leafy vegetation in or around the house is poisonous. Baby humans have a voracious appetite and will eat anything mildly enticing, this also applies to any drapery you might own, wooden furniture or shoes.
Live baby mice: Live baby mice are an excellent source of protein for growing baby humans, but please note the mice must be fed live. Dead baby mice will not move around enough to attract the baby human’s attention as its eyes are only capable of detecting movement and they only see in the colours purple, green, red and black.
Water: Baby humans should be sprayed twice daily on their heads, which stimulates the natural way they would drink water in the wild, namely by lapping up the drops of dew they would find on plants in the morning.

Step 3: Alarming behaviour to watch for

First time human baby owners often overlook subtle behavioural disorders that occur due to their ignorance on the subject.

When raising a baby human, be sure to be vigilant of the following behavioural disorders:

‘Hood’ display: When determining hierarchy in the home, the baby human will often ‘blow out’ its hood by extending a bone-like structure covering the surrounding flap of skin. This can also be used as a defensive gesture when the baby human is startled. Calm the baby human down with a few small mice and a selection of ‘gutloaded’ crickets. Be sure that the crickets are not fed poisonous greens though, as this may result in uncomfortable stool
Head Bobbing: This is a dominance display. The baby human seems to be saying, ‘You wanna piece of me? Eh? Puto?’ Do not be alarmed by this behaviour, but do arm yourself with a sharp stick just in case.
Arm Waving: This is a submissive gesture in recognition to the dominant male, which should always be the father until the baby human has reached full maturity and shed its carapace for the last time.

By following these three simple steps you should experience many years of enjoyment with your baby human after which time it is highly advised to rerelease them into the wild where they can follow successful careers as lawyers, accountants, life insurance salesmen or PR consultants.

-ST

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slicktiger — Tue, 20 Apr 2010 22:32:38 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 20 Apr 2010 22:35:27 +0000

Album Review: Black Rebel Motorcycle Club – Beat The Devil’s Tattoo

slicktiger — Wed, 21 Apr 2010 06:30:00 +0000

You know it’s time to get a new drummer when the one you’re using goes onstage to accept an award and is so wasted that instead of making an acceptance speech, he just stares silently at the audience for a full nine minutes.

Not that I’m judging, fuck, I think it’s brilliant! Even though it happened way back at the 2003 NME Awards, when the infamous Black Rebel Motorcycle Club drummer Nick Jago went onstage to accept the Best Video award, the story refuses to die. It was a perfect ‘fuck you’ moment in rock and roll history and one that perfectly defines this band.

Black Rebel Motorcycle Club have been around a good ten years, during which time they’ve recorded six studio albums, all of which, in my humble opinion, have been surprisingly excellent.

There’s just something about this band’s garage rock meets blues meets psychedelic 70s rock meets folk revival that really speaks to me and always has.

Put it this way, if you’re looking for music to drink whisky to while you drown the memories of the last beautiful and bad-hearted woman who crossed your path, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club is the band for you.

Needless to say, I have every album they ever recorded (except the instrumental one, The Effects of 333, I don’t do instrumental albums, they creep me out) including one of my favourite albums of all time, the masterpiece that was 2005’s Howl. It’s loaded with more references to the Devil than a Quaker sermon, but hot damn! You know you’re onto something good when the first line sung is “Time won’t save our souls…”

The new album, in a lot of ways is more of the same. They had to cut Jago loose a second time and they replaced him with a girl (Leah Shapiro, formerly of The Ravonettes) but she sure as hell doesn’t play like a girl.

What you’ll find on this album is the same mixture of hedonistic, booze and drug fuelled old school rock that this band has made a name for themselves playing. There are no major curveballs on this album, there are no ‘what the fuck was that?’ moments and I’m totally fine with that because there’s enough depth and song writing skill in BRMC to keep things interesting without having to reinvent the wheel.

Let’s be honest for a moment here, how could you not love a song like “Conscience Killer” (track 2) which drives like a Royal Enfield and has the lines “I’m a fine line teaser / Never been nothing but a cheater / I’m a son of the night / Give me a little room and I’ll spit in your eye.”

“River Styx”, with it’s snaking bassline is also instantly likeable. It oozes evil as it slinks through the shadows of Hayes’ droning vocals and the sick, grinding tones of his squealing guitar riffs. It’s a masterpiece of sleaze.

But you’ll find quieter moments on this album as well, reminiscent of Howl. Tracks like the gospel / revival folk ballads “Sweet Feeling” and “The Toll” prove that there’s a lot more to this band than a bunch of songs it’s fun to get roaring drunk to.

Singer and frontman Peter Hayes’ voice has changed a lot over the years and you can hear it on a track like “Sweet Feeling” where his voice effortlessly hits five or six notes, clear as a bell in one sustained legato.

Of course there are a couple of duds which mar this otherwise great album - “War Machine” and “Half-State” for example, both of which insomniacs the world over should be grateful for – but it is very seldom that an album is without duds.

My rule of thumb is this – if an album has four killer tracks on it or more, you’ve got your money’s worth which is exactly what you’ll get with Beat The Devil’s Tattoo. It isn’t going to win any major awards, it isn’t going to make a huge or lasting impression in most people’s lives, BUT it is going to make a great companion the next time a girl fucks you up and like a good friend, it will tell you what a bitch she was and party with you till you’re good and drunk.

Final verdict: 8/10

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slicktiger — Thu, 22 Apr 2010 07:33:53 +0000

The Truth Behind ‘No Woman, No Cry’

slicktiger — Thu, 22 Apr 2010 07:34:10 +0000

I’ve got a weird obsession when it comes to collecting music trivia that can be matched only my my good buddies Guitar Jon and Mr. D, who could tell you what colour underwear Keith Richards wore when he played Woodstock ‘69.

But one of my favourite pieces of music trivia is about the Bob Marley song ‘No woman, no cry’ and was told to be by my good buddy Stikey on yet another nameless drunken night spent in a nameless drunken bar.

I love this piece of trivia for two reasons, one because basically EVERYONE knows ‘No woman, no cry’ and two because basically everyone who’s heard it has never given a moment’s thought as to what it means.

I mean, it’s not rocket science, right? He’s singing about how if you don’t have a woman, you won’t cry, ie. cut the bitch loose, problem solved.

Sounds a little cynical for a man who dedicated his life to spreading the message of peace, love, understanding and respect to our fellow man, no?

Damn fucking right it does!

As it turns out, the original version of the song was sung slightly differently than the live version which made it famous. In the original, Marley was singing, ‘No woman, nuh cry’ which becomes hugely significant because the word ‘nuh’ is Jamaican for don’t.

He’s not saying ‘No ho = no heartbreak’ he’s singing a song to his wife Rita, telling her not to cry for him when he leaves.

Originally I’d heard that he recorded the song during the self-imposed two year exile he took from Jamaica after the politically-motivated assassination attempt on his life, but the dates don’t add up right.

All I can surmise is that the song was recorded during a time in his life when he was travelling abroad to record overseas.

He was on a mission that man and even though I’m not a huge reggae fan, I respect Bob Marley because he was a true prophet and a man who changed this world for the better and who’s music will exist for as long as we do.

He was a great man. He died at 36, and his last words to his son Ziggy were, ‘Money can’t buy life.”

Money can’t buy life.

-ST

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slicktiger — Fri, 23 Apr 2010 13:38:01 +0000

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slicktiger — Fri, 23 Apr 2010 13:38:50 +0000

Tell The Tiger (Episode 4)

slicktiger — Fri, 23 Apr 2010 13:39:00 +0000

This week’s Tell The Tiger marks a whole new era in this little project of mine because, I’m proud to say, after receiving a whole slew of emails from guys, I FINALLY received one from the fairer sex!

Fuck! It was awesome, I nearly fell off my goddamn chair. It’s like when the girl from next door somehow figures out the secret codeword to get into the boy’s tree house where she then proceeds to skin you and your mates for all your pocket money in exchange for up a peak up her skirt.

What?! Like you wouldn’t have. To this day, Minnie Mouse never looked so goddamn adorable…

Where was I… oh ya, a GIRL wrote in this week and so I’d like us all to give her a warm, Tell The Tiger therapy group welcome.

Coffee’s free, but I see someone ate all the doughnuts. Nice guys. Very classy.

Right, so let’s get to it. Here’s what she sent:

Hi Slick,

I’m worried my boyfriend of nine months is cheating on me. We live together and I intercepted a message on his phone last week that said, ‘I want you so badly right now’ that came from a number I didn’t recognise. He didn’t seem bothered by it at all, and said it was just a completely random sms that went to the wrong number, but he’s been acting wierd lately and doesn’t have the appetite for sex that he used to. The thought of him with someone else makes me sick, but the thought of losing him is worse.

I read all his cell phone messages last week, but didn’t find any others from that number, he walked in before I could read his sent items though. He says he’s stressed from work and the long hours and that’s why he doesn’t want sex and that things will go back to normal once he’s done with the big project he’s working on.

Am I overreacting? I want to trust him, but that sms really freaked me out.

Confused !

Ok, Confused (I’m just gonna call you ‘Conny’ if that’s ok?).

Conny. To be quite frank with you, my tigey-sense (yes, I just did that) tells me there’s another side to this story that you’re not telling. You ‘intercepted’ a message on his cell phone? What are you, a GESTAPO SPY?

Never read a man’s cell phone messages or email inbox unless it is with his express permission. Did it make you feel good, finding that message? Did it feel good to snoop around behind your boyfriend’s back and read his inbox? Sure, maybe if you were a GESTAPO SPY it would have made you feel good, but I’m betting you’re just a regular human and it made you feel like crap.

As for the message itself, I dunno, it does seem a little peculiar. The only messages I’ve ever gotten that went to the wrong number have been ‘Please call me’s from people with names like Jabusizwe, Promise, and a guy I let sleep on our couch once for a few weeks because (according to his sign board at the traffic lights) the police arrested his elephant for smoking.

BUT it is entirely within the realm of possibility that someone just sent him the wrong message. Possible. Not probable. But possible.

The sex thing could definitely be work-related. When a man’s tired, he’s less likely to initiate sex and a lot of women don’t have the confidence to fire things up themselves because, let’s face it, men are usually horny bastards who need no encouragement.

Try initiate things if you haven’t already, if this still doesn’t work, at least give him the benefit of the doubt until whatever this ‘big project’ he’s working on is over. If things don’t spice up after that, watch for the following tell-tale signs he’s cheating:

He smells like woman’s perfume, and not your perfume (though, in a way that would be more fucked up) someone ELSES perfume
He has fresh condoms in his wallet / glove box / dinner jacket he went out in for a company function only to come back at 4 in the morning smelling like VAGINA
There are hairs in your bed, long ones, that aren’t yours
There is a woman in your bed, shedding that hair while she rides your boyfriend like a merry-go-round pony, that isn’t you

In all seriousness though, there is only ever one rational answer to the question ‘Am I overreacting?’ when asked by a woman, and that answer is ‘yes’.

Confront him with your fears if this weirdness persists, you owe him that much. Otherwise let that sms go and always remember, if he thinks he’s found someone who is better than you, cut that stupid asshole out of your life and move on because clearly he doesn’t know a good thing when he finds it ;)

Hope this helps!

-ST

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slicktiger — Sun, 25 Apr 2010 18:43:06 +0000

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slicktiger — Sun, 25 Apr 2010 18:45:05 +0000

Approaching Post 200

slicktiger — Mon, 26 Apr 2010 06:00:00 +0000

I did the craziest thing this weekend, I went back through this site, right back to the first post and systematically logged everything I wrote last year. I would have logged everything I wrote this year as well, but didn’t have enough time, I’ll get around to that tomorrow.

It was a really useful exercise though, it reminded me how much great content I’ve banged out over the 7 months since I started this blog and also gave me a whole bunch of ideas how I can streamline this site and make that content easier for first time visitors to find.

Meanwhile, I’m steadily approaching Post Number 200, an event I plan on celebrating by throwing a huge party with lots of midgets with serving trays full of cocktails velcroed to their heads. I’ve always wanted to do that, I think I saw it in a movie one time.

Post 200, to me, is like some kind of magical Shangri-La. They say after 200 posts you are able to achieve incredible feats like get 5,000 views in one day just by posting a picture of a bear in a tutu or achieve $15,000 in advertising revenue just by randomly writing words like NIKE! or KFC! in your posts, followed by exclamation marks.

But in all seriousness, I’m proud of how this blog is progressing. As is stands there is a solid core of about 350-400 people who are hitting this site everyday, which I aim to grow to 1,000 by the end of the year.

It’s been my life’s mission since as far back as I can remember to become a great writer and write a work of fiction that will make a lasting and significant contribution to human kind and this site is what’s going to help me achieve that goal.

But it’s nothing without you.

So thank you, wherever you might be, here on home soil or sitting somewhere across the ocean, for reading these words. They’re all I got right now, these crazy fightin’ words, but I know that if I can just find the right ones, and string them in the right order at the right time with the right people reading them, like a row of lucky sevens all falling into place, thousands of casino tokens are going to come spilling out of the one armed bandit that is life.

And then you’ll see midgets with velcro head trays, man-o-man ;)

Until tomorrow.

-ST

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slicktiger — Tue, 27 Apr 2010 17:56:25 +0000

Blogging Against All Odds

slicktiger — Tue, 27 Apr 2010 17:56:29 +0000

I just want you to know that while I’m writing this ,my loving girlfriemd is tikling me relentlessly, trying to give me a wet wilkly, biting me and trying to slip a digit up my butt.

Which is why I’m sure you;ll understand, I cant’ blog today.

-ST

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slicktiger — Thu, 29 Apr 2010 13:37:20 +0000

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slicktiger — Thu, 29 Apr 2010 13:37:40 +0000

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slicktiger — Thu, 29 Apr 2010 13:38:13 +0000

Slippin’ up!

slicktiger — Thu, 29 Apr 2010 13:38:20 +0000

Hey all you crazy kids!

I’ve let things slide on the site the past couple of days, but it doesn’t mean I love you any less ok? C’mere, let’s hug it out, there there…

So in return for being such a crap blogger of late, I’m going to recommend two things I’ve discovered recently VERY HIGHLY because I think they’ll better your life and that’s what Them’s Fightin’ Words is all about.

Ok, thing number one is a whisky I had the pleasure of tasting on Monday evening that pretty much melted my mind into a thick, gloopy mess it was so incredible.

It’s one of the whiskies that fall under the Suntory group (like from Lost In Translation remember? ‘For relaxing times, make it Suntory time’).

See, the story goes that in 1923 Suntory’s founder, Shinjiro Torii began Japan’s first whisky distillery in Yamazaki, on the outskirts of Kyoto. Ahh, Kyoto! I hear you say. Yes! Kyoto! The Japanese city famed the world over for it’s exceptionally high quality drinking water.

And any whisky drinker worth his salt knows that water is one of three ingredients that goes into whisky. See where I’m going with this?

In 1973, Suntory introduced a range of whisky called ‘Yamazaki’ and I shit you not, the Yamazaki 18 year old is some of the best whisky I’ve ever tasted IN MY LIFE.

AND at R1,300 a bottle, it’s dirt cheap!… Um… if you just won the lottery or robbed a bank or something…

The other killer discovery I made is the movie The Men Who Stare At Goats. I got my hands on a pre-release copy, how badass is THAT!

Yeah! Pity it was only the first 17 minutes of the movie, but MAN, those 17 minutes were so fucking funny I just about laughed my ass clean off, which is saying a lot cause 90% of the ‘funny’ movies I watch elicit a few chuckles and that’s about it.

Here’s an idea of how rad it is.

Opening scene: Close up on a guy with an immaculate grey moustache’s face. He is staring with unmatched intensity DIRECTLY AT YOU. We cut to a slightly wider, head and shoulders shot of the same dude, he’s sitting at a desk in army uniform, still STARING DIRECTLY AT YOU.

Fuck he is intense.

Cut back to the close up for a few more seconds. ‘Boone’ the guy says, ‘I’m going into the next office.’

Moustache-man stands up abruptly and sprints AS FAST AS HE CAN across the room only to collide with full force into the opposite wall.

He collapses on the floor and stares furiously at the wall.

‘Damnit’ he growls.

So probably what you need to do for a really fun night is buy a bottle of Yamazaki 18 year old and drink THE WHOLE THING whilst watching The Men Who Stare At Goats.

It’ll be a night you never forget… OR REMEMBER!

In other news, I’m going to win an X-Box, and not just any X-Box, but an X-Box Elite! Sometimes being the most badass writer on the face of the PLANET has its uses.

This is one of those times.

Until tomorrow.

-ST

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slicktiger — Thu, 29 Apr 2010 13:42:40 +0000

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slicktiger — Fri, 30 Apr 2010 14:34:11 +0000

Tell The Tiger (Episode 5)

slicktiger — Fri, 30 Apr 2010 14:34:22 +0000

Ok, there’s no fucking Tell The Tiger today, I’m tired ok? Tired of sorting out you guys and your messy fucking lives, and also just plain tired of this week and ready to throw the fucking towel the fuck in.

So all I’m going to do is post the following picture of an unbelievably hot mamasita with a really lousy tattoo.

Thank you www.holytaco.com, thank you.

Have a killer weekend guys!

-ST

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slicktiger — Sun, 02 May 2010 13:16:23 +0000

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slicktiger — Sun, 02 May 2010 14:09:41 +0000

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slicktiger — Sun, 02 May 2010 14:10:20 +0000

Top Secret Weekend

slicktiger — Mon, 03 May 2010 06:00:00 +0000

Fuck, did we get up to some crazy shit this weekend, man-o-man. I fucking wish I could tell you guys about it, but I can’t, aaaarrrrrrgggggghhhhhhh!

How lame is that? It’s like starting a joke and then right at the end of it saying, ‘Umm, actually wait… that’s not how it goes… umm…’

[SFX: Crickets]

But yeah, I guess there’s no harm in sharing a few details.

Here is the weekend summed up in completely nonsensical bullet points:

I drove up and down the same kilometer of dirt road for nearly two hours
J-Rab mastered the art of being dead
We walked into a restaurant, ordered a plate of dry Nachos with melted cheese and a plate of bread, with me dressed like Euro-trash kiddie fiddler
A dream about a threesome with two other girls was dreamed
A fake drive-in was built in our garage
My dreams of winning the Xbox dwindled
I did grocery shopping
Yatse!

It bugged me at first living out here in the total solitude of weekend days when J-Rab had to work, but over time I’ve actually come to really enjoy it.

Cape Town is easing its way into winter. It’s the beginning of May and people are still walking around more often than not in shorts and T-shirts and generally the days still feel long and sunny.

Up here in the loft of ‘The Shed’ (as we now affectionately call our house) I can look out over a wine vineyard as I bash away at this keyboard, acres of neat rows of vines that are slowly turning a brownish red as winter approaches.

The lawn we planted a few weekends back is growing like crazy, it’s small but I still get a real kick out of taking my shoes off and walking around in circles over its surface. It’s especially fun at night, when you can look up at all the stars.

Life is getting better and better down here. Things might have been a bit rough in the beginning, and there were a lot of highs and lows in rapid succession, but overall, the highs are winning and I’m glad we live here in the sticks.

Even if all manner of animals (Anatolian shepherds, owls, geese and rats to name a few) keep us awake at night and The Shed is so badly constructed you can see outside through some of the gaps in the wood, it’s our little corner of the world, and nothing can touch us out here.

That and the fact that there’s just a good feeling I have going about this year right now, are pushing me to finally get off my ass and do what I’ve wanted to do my whole life.

Aaaaarrrrrrrgggggghhhhhhh! Wish I could tell you, fuck!

What I can say though is that it’s all building up to the 200th Post Celebration that’s going to be happening here on TFW, which lands on the 17th May.

So not long now Party People.

Not long at all ;)

-ST

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slicktiger — Mon, 03 May 2010 22:14:22 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 03 May 2010 22:22:10 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 03 May 2010 22:22:42 +0000

Movie Review: Iron Man 2

slicktiger — Tue, 04 May 2010 06:00:00 +0000

I didn’t go into Iron Man 2 the same way I’d go into just any movie, no. I went into Iron Man 2 with a pretty specific list of things I wanted to see that went like this:

Explosions
Wide-scale destruction
Dudes in metal suits bashing the shit out of each other
Robert Downey JR being smarmy
More explosions
Sexy bitches
Radioactive flying dinosaurs (in retrospect, maybe not a very realistic expectation)
Mickey Rourke fucking shit up and being badass
Did I mention explosions?
Explosions

And let me just say that hell yeah! Iron Man 2 delivered on pretty much all fronts (except one).

Iron Man director Jon Favreau takes the director’s seat once again on Iron Man 2, and he does a damn fine job of it, bringing all the energy, humour and action to the sequel that made the first movie such a hit.

Story-wise it picks up at the exact moment where Iron Man left off, with Tony Stark telling the world his secret identity, a confession that opens up a whole can of worms for poor ol’ Tones while simultaneously reminding us why superheroes should always keep that shit on the down lizzo yo.

Before he knows what’s hit him, the American government is trying to get its greedy paws on the Iron Man suit because “other nations will try and copy its design” and when they do, the American government want to be the ones calling the shots.

Yeah, whatever. Everyone knows they only wants to get its hands on the suit because it’s fucking cool and chicks dig it. Although little do they know that the paladium core inside the ARC reactor in Stark’s chest is actually slowly poisoning him to death. I liked that little twist. Irony is rad.

Anyway, predictably someone does copy the design. Enter Ivan Vanko (aka Whiplash) played by Mickey Rourke, who shows up wearing a kind of leather and steel gimp suit with glowing electric whips attached which he then uses to pretty much destroy EVERYTHING in a seriously cool scene at the F1 track in Monaco.

Throw in Don Cheedle in an Iron Man suit suped up with enough firepower to take down an entire fleet of jet fighter planes, Scarlett Johansson in the most bitchin’, curve-huggin’ leathers you ever did see, Sam Rockwell (I fucking LOVE Sam Rockwell) trying to out-smarmy Downey JR and of course, Mr ‘I-shall-strike-down-upon-thee-with-great-vengeance’ himself, Samuel L Jackson as Nick Fury and you’ve got all the makings of a really solid movie.

Just don’t go in there expecting mind-blowing plot twists or deep and philosophical forays into the nature of humankind and you’ll probably really enjoy Iron Man 2. What it lacks sometimes in plot, it makes up for in acting talent, visual effects and action sequences, all of which were the life-blood of the first movie.

The only thing that disappointed me about the film was the fact that Scarlette Johansson was almost completely superfluous to the bigger story except for one brutal action sequence. Oh, and Gwyneth Paltrow, she was cute in the beginning, but kinda got on my nerves after awhile.

If you liked the original movie, you’ll like Iron Man 2. If you like action movies with dudes bashing the shit out of each other in badass metal suits, you’ll like Iron Man 2. And if you like big explosions and sexy bitches, you’ll like Iron Man 2.

As for the flying radioactive dinosaurs *spoiler alert* there aren’t any. But one day there will be and when that day comes, don’t come crying to me when your brain explodes from the awesomeness of 50 tons of flying radioactive DEATH.

Final Verdict: 7/10

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slicktiger — Wed, 05 May 2010 08:34:02 +0000

There won’t be any posts here for awhile. My mom’s in ICU, they think she had a mild heart attack last night.

-ST

Thank You Everyone

slicktiger — Sun, 09 May 2010 16:01:43 +0000

My mom’s ok. She’s not great, she’s definitely not strong enough to be left alone, but she’s out the hospital and they’ve at least managed to stabilise her heart.

It looks like it was a heart attack, her left ventricle is extremely weak and they think that’s what caused it.

Thanks to everyone who sent best wishes, most of you have never met her, but she’s a great person, someone I love and respect deeply, I try to tell her that stuff to her face, but she doesn’t believe me.

But she’s getting better. “I have so much to live for,” she told me this afternoon, “I have a life that I enjoy and get fulfilment out of, I have great friends, I live in a wonderful little house, I have you, I have your dad, there are just so many things I’m thankful for every day, it really is great to be alive…”

She told me that, this afternoon. In my head, she told me those things and everything was fine.

Everything was fine this afternoon, when she told me those things, when she smiled and laughed like she used to and she was rosy-cheeked and radiant and she looked in my eyes, grateful, and said to me, ‘You’re a great son. I could never have asked for better. You’re the best son in the world.”

And I smiled when she said that, and I hugged her. Smiled and hugged her and everything was fine, just fine, in my head.

Everything is just fine. Everything is just fine. Everything is just fine.

Just fine. Just fine. Just fine. Fine. It’ll be fine.

Everything will be fine. Everything will work out. Everything will be ok. Don’t worry. Never worry about anything. Just trust that everything will be fine and it will be fine.

Just trust and pray to nothing that everything will be fine. Pray as hard as you can, to nothing, that everything will be fine, and you’ll see, in the end of the day, everything will be fine.

Everything will be fine. It’s not right now. But it will be. Right now everything is fucked, but it will all get better and the world will laugh at you for getting all worked up over nothing.

Everything will be fine. You did the best you could.

You’re a great son, she said so herself.

Didn’t she…?

-ST

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slicktiger — Tue, 11 May 2010 20:42:10 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 11 May 2010 20:45:03 +0000

Kill The Pig! bash him in!

slicktiger — Wed, 12 May 2010 06:00:00 +0000

In my day dreams sometimes I crash-land on a desert island with the people I work with and somehow we all survive it.

I watch everything unfold in my head, the initial shock of the crash slowly being replaced by child-like wonder as we take in everything around us and start exploring the island and building shelters and forming friendships based not on some manufactured hierarchy, but rather who can actually protect and lead everyone.

Sooner or later though people would start to argue and get bitchy about who gets to boss who around because we’d be getting hungrier and wilder with each passing day.

I think at that point I’d probably strike out, fashion some kind of weapons and go hunt for weeks on end, picking my way through the jungle, learning how to move without sound, learning how to track animals, learning their patterns.

I’d get dirty and cut and scratched and bitten. My hair and beard and nails would all grow and I’d shed weight until my ribs stuck out like xylophone keys and I could put my hands around my waist and nearly touch my fingers together.

At night I’d burrow into the forest floor and cover myself with earth and leaves and lie there, humming half-remembered songs and having long and intense conversations with no one in a language that only vaguely resembled English.

Nothing would matter anymore except food and water. Those two things would consume my every waking thought and the status reports and brainstorming sessions and seminars and client expectations that used to guide and govern me would fall away completely and be replaced by the stark and terrifying reality that I was finally in control of my life.

Ironically I’d probably wish for my old life back. That’s the funny thing about humans, we are totally incapable of handling the freedom we are given. We design all kinds of social structures and institutions to get rid of that freedom at all costs and then complain that our lives feel controlled and dogmatic.

I’m not sure how the day dream ends. Maybe I eventually do kill something and I take it back to share it with everyone back at the shelters and they welcome me back like a returning hero.

Maybe it goes the other way and I stay in the jungle for a good, long while, trying my damndest to forget everything about my life and letting my mind unravel completely until I become nothing more than a drooling animal, ruled completely by instinct and base desire.

I guess it all depends on whether or not I can get over whatever it is that’s dragging me into the jungle and actually start writing worth a damn again.

Hahahaahahaha! Fuck.

Easier said than done…

-ST

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slicktiger — Thu, 13 May 2010 20:34:16 +0000

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slicktiger — Thu, 13 May 2010 20:34:55 +0000

Tell The Tiger (Episode 6)

slicktiger — Fri, 14 May 2010 06:00:00 +0000

It’s been awhile since I last delved into the tellthetiger@gmail.com inbox and made a lucky reader’s life perfect in every way, my apologies for that, but I’ve been focussing most of my energies on making on own life liveable over the last week, and I’m happy to report things are back on track.

Opening the tellthetiger@gmail.com inbox is kinda like swiping a security card at the local loony bin and stepping into a room full of slobbering degenerates, walking in endless circles and staring with glazed eyes at the TV-in-a-cage which only ever shows lawn bowls on mute.

God knows, I’ve missed you guys.

This week’s mail (which was sent to tellthetiger@gmail.com) is beautiful in its simplicity, so without any more verbal circle-jerking, let’s jump in there shall we?

Hey SLicktiger,

im still in highschool but I read your site a lot, its awesome, where do you find the pictures, they’re funny dude!

anyway, my problem is a lot of my friends are hooking up and have girfriends, but I haven’t as of yet because I cant approach girls without sounding liek a fuckin retard.

have you got any pickup lines youve used that have ever worked or are pickup lines bullshit?

thanks!

JP

Holy fuck, children read this blog?! Can’t I get arrested for that? For Chrissake sake don’t tell your friends about this site!

Oh and thanks for noticing the pretty pictures JP. Finding them isn’t easy. You gotta know a guy who knows a guy, then you gotta meet that guy in a dark back alley behind a Chinese diner with an envelope of cold hard cash, unsealed, and the rest well… I could tell you but about a week later you’d mysteriously disappear and all your family would ever see of you would be the little cotton wool-wrapped bits they’d get sent in envelopes.

As for your problem, my advice to you is definitely suicide. There’s a good chance you sound ‘liek a fuckin retard’ because you are one. Seriously JP, ‘girfriends’? What the fuck is a ‘girfriend’?

Proof-read your work son, this is a site for GROWN-UPS, where we discuss GROWN-UP stuff in a GROWN-UP manner. I’ll have none of that ghetto spelling here young man!

Lucky for you though I was also 13 once and more than willing to crawl over my own dead mother to get laid. Um… wait, that didn’t come out right…

To answer your question: no, pickup lines are not bullshit, you just gotta know the right ones to use and practise them in front of the mirror until your delivery is perfect in every way. Also, it helps to start with the ugly or fat girls in the group to get your confidence up and then move up the ladder to the belters.

Also, alcohol helps. But I didn’t tell you that.

Here are my top 10 pick-up lines of all time, use them wisely:

1. Was your dad retarded? Because you’re special.
2. Christ you’re so hot I’d suck your farts like a BONG HIT!
3. (Looking around the room) Did you invite all these people? They’re shit. Tell them to go home so we can bang on the bar counter.
4. Man, I see a cute girlie like you and all I wanna do is tickle your belly button… from the inside…
5. Your wig is beautiful (tug tug) what glue do you use?
6. That’s such a nice top, my niece has one just like it… she has down syndrome…
7. (Standing waiting for a drink at the bar) Fuck me, whose dick do you have to suck to get a drink around here? Is it yours?
8. I’d offer to buy you a drink but by the look of it you’ve had plenty already.
9. You: I’m sorry, you can’t smoke inside here. Her: I’m not smoking. You (winking and pointing your finger-gun): Yes you are.

And my personal favourite:

10. Did it hurt? When you fell from heaven? Cause by the look of it you landed on your FACE.

I hope these help JP, if not I’m sure the dirty basterds who read this blog have plenty more where these came from.

Anyone out there care to impart some knowledge that might help this wayward young ghetto-speller?

Site’s all yours ;)

-ST

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slicktiger — Sun, 16 May 2010 19:50:34 +0000

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slicktiger — Sun, 16 May 2010 19:51:04 +0000

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slicktiger — Sun, 16 May 2010 19:51:59 +0000

Saturday In Jonkershoek – A Photo Journey

slicktiger — Sun, 16 May 2010 19:52:03 +0000

It’s funny how ‘the real world’ has this way of catching up with you sometime in your 20s. One minute life is kinda breezing along like it always did, and the next you’re elbows deep in bills, car insurance, medical aid, deadlines at work, traffic, grumpy co-workers and then what? Marriage, children and a whole other heap of stuff I don’t really want to think about right now.

Sometimes you’ve just got to leave all that shit behind you and go for a walk. That’s what J-Rab and I decided to do on Saturday. We packed a backpack with a couple of beers and drove about 15 minutes to the Jonkershoek Nature Reserve where we had lunch and took goofy pictures of each other.

After lunch we entered the reserve, excited as kids at Christmas and got a killer picture of us getting ready to hike the SHIT out of that place.

The road we took meandered round in a wide circle past a huge dam and through a pine forest. The smell of pine needles, the cool, fresh feeling of winter’s edge biting through the dappled afternoon sunshine.

We talked about a different life for us, a different future where J-Rab becomes a rich and famous model and I become an award-winning novelist and script-writer, and we pose on magazine covers together and holiday in exotic places that we sail to on 500ft luxury yachts with all our friends.

“It’s on the cards babe,” I told her, “it’s fate, you can’t fuck with fate.”

All around us, mountains stretched up to the sky and I wanted to climb the highest one and stand on the top, my arms outstretched in the sunshine and shout down into the valley below in my own invented language until my voice got horse and the people listening all chuckled and, shaking their heads said, “Crazy fucker…”

I know Saturday is probably going to be a day I’ll remember for a long time because it was simple and easy and filled with laughter, J-Rab’s and mine. Days like that you lock away somewhere deep inside and, when times get bad, you take them out again and hold them up to the light and remember that life was better once, and it will be better again.

-ST

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slicktiger — Sun, 16 May 2010 20:13:58 +0000

The 200th Post Lands On Friday!

slicktiger — Mon, 17 May 2010 06:00:00 +0000

We’re getting close party people, so close I can feel it, you can feel it and hundreds of thousands of people all over the world can feel it too… they just have no idea what it is and are rubbing ointment on it in the hope that it will go away.

This week is going to see some epic posts going down as we count down the days to the 200th post, which lands, like a mothership full of fokken prawns on Friday, almost exactly 7 months after I first banged a couple of random words out and hit the ‘publish’ button.

What a journey it’s been, no shit. I mean hell, if I strung all those posts together I’d have a fucking novel. It would be pretty disjointed and probably read like something a tik addict wrote between smoking bulbs and running from the cops, but hey, PROGRESS has been made.

And so, to celebrate the 200th post, I’ve decided to invite everyone (who reads this blog and lives in Cape Town) to join me for a couple of drinks on Friday night at Knoxville on Kloof street.

Check out the “Them’s Fightin’ Words” Facebook page for all the details. The guestlist so far is looking pretty badass, here’s a sneak peak:

Arnold Schwarzenegger (HUGE fan of the Klapping Gym Boet Post)
Nelson Mandela
Hugh Hefner and The Girls Of The Playboy Mansion
Megan Fox
Jack Nicholson
Samuel L
Oprah Winfrey
Barack Obama
Charlize Theron
The Girls Of Weapons Of Ass Destruction 5
Dave Grohl
Josh Homme
Wagon Axle (Nebraska Apache)

So what the fuck are you waiting for? Ditch those bullshit plans you made for Friday night and come party like a ROCKSTAR with your buddy Slick!

-ST

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slicktiger — Mon, 17 May 2010 20:09:56 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 17 May 2010 20:10:22 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 17 May 2010 20:11:02 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 17 May 2010 20:12:17 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 17 May 2010 20:13:36 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 17 May 2010 20:14:00 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 17 May 2010 20:14:42 +0000

The SlickTiger Guide To Klapping Gym Boet Part 2: Know Your Blonde Belter

slicktiger — Tue, 18 May 2010 06:00:00 +0000

Hazit ma boychies!

Flip okes, but the response to my last piece about KLAPPING GYM BOET was off the flippin’ chain! I’m seriously CHUFFED that so many charnas out there care so much about getting TANNED, MASSIVE and RIPPED, WEARING TIGHT VESTS and LOOKING TIT (thanks Gary)!

The next question charnas seems to be asking now is how do you know a chick and her mate are BELTERS? What if you think a chick’s a BELTER and you BANG her and her friend only to wake up the next day once the roids have worn off to find you banged a couple of GROT OTTERS by mistake?

Another charna who is MASSIVE and RIPPED sent in this pic, asking, ‘Haai Slick! I banged this chick and her friend from the gym after getting MASSIVE and RIPPED, are they belters or what charna!’

All I can say to a question like that is flip oke, ARE YOU STUPID? What the hell were you THINKING?!

These are the unhealthiest chicks I have EVER SEEN! Did they die from malnutritionment after you were finished BANGING them? They’re WASTING AWAY oke! The one’s not even blonde enough and needs to PULL UP HER FLIPPIN PANTS and KLAP SOME GYM BOET!

When I said blonde belters, I meant BLONDE BELTERS charna! Now if you’d banged THESE two chicks, THEN I’d be IMPRESSED ma boych!

Of course now a lot of you will look at these BELTERS and notice that ja, something’s not quite right with the chick on the right. OF COURSE SOMETHING’S NOT QUITE RIGHT WITH THAT CHICK! SHE HAS NO TAN!

HERE’S a much better example of how a healthy tan can turn an ordinary chick into a BELTER:

And so, here are a few tips for all the MASSIVE and RIPPED charnas out there about the right kind of things to look for in a BELTER.

THING NO. 1 TO LOOK FOR IN A BELTER: LADYLIKE

I can tell you right now that being a oke who is MASSIVE and RIPPED myself, I often hang around with chicks that yes, are BELTERS, BUT just don’t know how to act like ladies instead of GORILLAS.

These GROT OTTERS think it’s lekker to do things like SMOKE, SWEAR, EAT CARBS or only do gym six times a week. They also think it’s kief to just say whatever the hell THEY WANT without first asking a man’s PERMISSION – NOT ACCEPTABLE!

OKES, this is not LADYLIKE BEHAVIOUR. If a blonde chick or her blonde chick friend try any of this, choon them straight, ‘Hey GROT OTTER! Stop acting like a flippin’ TRAILER PARK TRASH! You aren’t BRITTANY SPIERS!’

A chick must be ladylike at all times or THAT’S IT! Tell her to HIT THE ROAD CHICK. Here’s a ladylike chick to show you what I mean:

THING NO. 2 TO LOOK FOR IN A BELTER: NAUGHTY

Okes, please don’t think that just because a chick is LADYLIKE in public, she can’t have a bit of a naughty or fun side as well behind a closed doors. No charna wants a chick and her blonde belter friend in the bedroom who aren’t a bit wild or don’t know their way around a tube of KY Jelly, a traffic cone and a car battery with lekker nipple-clamps.

Check this chick out. She was an ex of mine. Jealous yet? Ja, EXACTLY!

There is ABSOLUTELY nothing wrong with a chick like that okes, NOTHING. So why did we break up? Ja, it’s a bit of a sensitive topic hey… I dunno… life just took us in separate directions. I mean, I’m not saying that I caught her KLAPPING GYM behind my back or using my credit card to have KAKLOADS OF EXPENSIVE SURGERY or anything, so ja…

BUT, THE NEXT DAY I found pictures on the interweb of an even NAUGHTIER BELTER, Chrissie, and let’s just say that she had the pleasure of some SlickTiger boerrie with cheese sauce THAT night ;)

THING NO 3. TO LOOK FOR IN A BELTER: OUTDOORS TYPE

A BELTER must also like the outdoors life of tanning for 7 hours straight, jetskis, H2O parties, doof doof music and klapping gym IN THE GARDEN.

Don’t believe me that such amazing BELTERS exist? Boet, open your EYES charna! They’re ALL OVER the interweb!

What’s also nice is when they do outdoor activities like WASH MY CAR. Here’s another ex-cherry of mine, in a lekker bikini doing a practise run of WASHING MY CAR. Always make them PRACTISE FIRST or they’ll probably BREAK the car.

THING NO. 4 TO LOOK FOR IN A BELTER: A WINNING ATTITUDE

Now okes, this is an important one so don’t stuff this one up. Too many of my charnas get with girls who NEVER STOP COMPLAINING when us gym boychies leave self-tan on the couch, make huge PROTEIN BAFFS, or shoot so many steroids our chelogers go INSIDE US.

To all those okes stuck in kak relationships like that out there, I have only one thing to say: DUMP THOSE LOSER GROT OTTERS AND FIND A CHICK WITH THE RIGHT ATTITUDE!

THIS chick, for example, you can tell has a GREAT attitude.

So charnas, stop settling for second-rate chicks, you’re MASSIVE and RIPPED now! You look TIT oke! Flippin’ go in for the big time and bang two flippin HOT blonde belters now that you know what to look for!

Also, if you’d like to send pictures or videos as proof that’s also fine. I’ve still got plenty of pink heart stickers left, so DON’T BE SHY, send me some lekker pics and always remember: KLAP IT BOET!

Until next time ma boychies!

-ST

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slicktiger — Tue, 18 May 2010 17:15:03 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 18 May 2010 17:15:49 +0000

Music Review: MGMT – Congratulations

slicktiger — Wed, 19 May 2010 06:00:00 +0000

MGMT’s first album, 2007’s Oracular Spectacular, tore through the music scene at the time like a loose propeller. Before they knew what had hit them, bandmates Ben Goldwasser and Andrew VanWyngarden went from gigging in local clubs and bars around New York to playing massive music festivals alongside greats such as Radiohead and Bloc Party to crowds of tens of thousands of screaming fans.

Three years later, the singles “Time To Pretend”, “Kids”, and “Electric Feel” still get dance floors jumping with happy, wasted people, belting out “Let’s move to Paris, shoot some heroine and fuck with the stars” while spilling their drinks over anyone unfortunate enough to be standing nearby.

Oracular Spectacular is one of those rare albums that is almost impossible not to like, no matter what your taste in music might be. Of course, the big question on everyone’s mind was ‘With such a killer debut album (well, technically it’s their second if you count the album they released under their previous name, The Management), haven’t they set the bar a little too high for the albums to follow?”

Sadly, the answer to this question in the case of Congratulations is yes.

Gone are the slow, fuzzy and infectious basslines and quirky riffs that made songs like “Kids” and “Time To Pretend” so powerful. Nowhere on Congratulations will you find a song that struts with the confidence that “Electric Feel” does, or trips out, stoned immaculate like “The Youth” without sounding forced or contrived.

Congratulations feels frantic in comparison to Oracular Spectacular. Songs like “It’s Working”, “Song For Dan Treacy” and “Brian Eno” all sound like Goldwasser and VanWyngarden wrote them after schnarfing one too many speed-rails while listening to old Beach Boys records at double speed.

The rest of the album is mostly made up of sluggish and floppy tracks like “Someone’s Missing” (with vocals that sound like a melancholic chipmunk singing at the bottom of a well), “Lady Dada’s Nightmare” (four and a half minutes of pointless instrumental circle-jerking) and “I Found A Whistle” (which sounds like a waltzy crystal meth comedown) that sure as hell won’t be topping any charts in the foreseeable future.

On the plus side, the awesome synths on “Song For Dan Treacy” should get your feet tapping and the Jackson 5-ish break on “Something’s Missing” is an interesting twist. “Siberian Breaks” also has some notable moments, but you’ll have to wade through all twelve odd minutes of this sprawling track to get to them.

In their defence, I don’t think that MGMT ever intended Congratulations to be compared in any way to Oracular Spectacular and seem to have made a concerted effort musically to distance the two albums as much as possible. Of course the downside of this is that the mainstream audience that loved Oracular Spectacular will probably greet Congratulations with the time-honoured cry “What is this shit?” halfway through track one.

At its best, Congratulations feels like a bad B-Sides album and at its worst, like something that Goldwasser and VanWyngarden should have maybe thought a little harder about before ever recording, never mind releasing.

From it’s bizarre, cartoony, Sonic The Hedgehog album cover to its rushed production, Congratulations should definitely not be taken seriously. In fact, let’s pretend that this album was never released, play Oracular Spectacular one more time and hang in there for album no. 3 shall we?

Final Verdict: 4/10

-ST

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slicktiger — Wed, 19 May 2010 18:05:24 +0000

The Face Of Things To Come

slicktiger — Thu, 20 May 2010 06:00:00 +0000

Reading this site, you might not think it, but there is actually an over-arching plan that I put in place the day I first started blogging that I am slowly and steadily working towards.

It’s been a dream of mine for as far back as I can remember to team up with my friends and produce a whole bunch of radass media, everything from comic books to TV series, to movies, I got ideas up the wazoo for all kinds of crazy shit, just ask J-Rab, she has to sit and listen to me brain-shit all this stuff out all the time.

My problem is I never had the stones, right in the beginning, to pursue my dreams. I chose a life of comfort instead, something predictable, something that paid the bills and kept me in hair gel and smarmy golf shirts while the twisted, artistic creature inside me started to wither and die.

I used to have enough songs to write an album. Stuff I wrote myself and used to bang out, drunk and heartsore, in bars all over the sleepy varsity town where I grew from a boy into a man. Now I can’t even remember the chords, never mind play them.

It’s been weeks since I even touched my guitar and when I do, I punch out a few chords and then lay it back down. What if the same thing happened to my writing? What if all these fucked up crazy-assed words inside me woke up one day and just stopped fighting?

What if the same thing happened to me?

I ain’t gettin’ any younger and I’ll be damned if I’m going down without a fight. I got big plans, but I can’t see them through alone.

Luckily, I’ve met some good people in my life and those good people have gotten together recently and together we’ve taken the first few steps toward something that I really hope is going to rock this world.

It launches tomorrow. But in the meantime, here’s a little something we’ve been working on.

Think of it as the face of things to come ;)

-ST

SlickTiger Industries Presents: TigerTV

slicktiger — Fri, 21 May 2010 05:56:47 +0000

Ladies and Gentlemen, boys and girls, ghouls and fiends WELCOME to TigerTV.

I couldn’t have done ANY of this without the help of my good friends Supa Dan, Judd Zuckle, Mike Van Barmann and Hardcore Iain The Slain Barbarian.

This is the first of many, many more short film projects to come. If you wanna get involved, email tellthetiger@gmail.com.

I can pay you in meatballs and internet notoriety.

Please enjoy the PSA we shot to raise awareness about an issue close to my heart.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VesaLKM-bAg]

Have a killer weekend guys!

-ST

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slicktiger — Sun, 23 May 2010 15:05:31 +0000

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slicktiger — Sun, 23 May 2010 15:06:14 +0000

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slicktiger — Sun, 23 May 2010 15:06:52 +0000

The 200th Post Celebration

slicktiger — Sun, 23 May 2010 15:06:59 +0000

You know you’ve had a killer night out when you wake up the next morning sleeping on couch cushions on someone’s living room floor still in all your clothes from the night before, unable to to move, speak or even open your eyes because of how badly your head is throbbing.

I extended the invitation y’know? I sent it out there to anyone who was interested to come on down and have a few drinks and get a little fucked up together, I did. And man-o-man, did people RESPOND!

Knoxville was packed to the fucking rafters on Friday night with people there to celebrate the 200th post with us. It was so bad you could hardly breathe in that place! Wall-to-wall party people out in full force to show their support, christ, I wish you coulda been there.

Of course, thanks to the beauty of internet anonymity, none of those people knew who I actually was, but still, it was great to see so many of them out in full force, partying like their lives depended on it.

From Knoxville we descended into the chaos that is Long Street and met up with a great and wasted friend of mine, Luke-Ass, who’s in CT the next couple of days for some comic book workshops or other. He told me this and a great deal of other things which I promptly forgot and then we drank some tequila and then we drank some more tequila.

We ended up crashing at Barbarian’s place cause J-Rab eventually curled into a tight little ball in my lap and had a rad, rejuvenating 30-minute nap on the couches at Juleps, after which we hit the 7-11 (at 3am?) and demanded they let us buy a packet of Ghost Pops on my credit card, despite the ridiculous R12 minimum purchase-on-a-credit-card rule.

Next day we slunk outta ‘bed’ at about 10 to find that despite the fact that we felt like we might have woken up in hell, outside it was a beautiful day, even though the light hurt my eyes and I felt like something someone had mopped off a pavement.

J-Rab and I had a really decent breakfast at Caramellos and then decided to hit the beach at Clifton which was great for her (she’d been smart enough to pack her bikini and a towel) but not so great for me (I had neither and so ended up lying in the sand with all my clothes on, very classy).

I’d never been to Clifton outside of peak season and I was pleasantly surprised to find that it was super chilled out and we ended up staying there for a good two hours if you count all the time we spent climbing over boulders and finding a nice spot to chill.

Saturday evening was even better. I’ve recently gotten my hands on a bottle of fine 16 year old Bushmills Irish Whiskey which I sipped while enjoying some sushi from a place I’d highly recommend off Main Road in Somerset West called Blue Waters.

Throw in gratuitous amounts of mind blowing sexy-time into the mix and you’ve got a weekend worthy of a 200th post celebration.

Now to figure out what the hell to do with my next 200 posts…

Have a great week party people ;)

-ST

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slicktiger — Tue, 25 May 2010 19:16:14 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 25 May 2010 19:18:20 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 25 May 2010 19:18:43 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 25 May 2010 19:19:15 +0000

Album Review: The National – High Violet

slicktiger — Wed, 26 May 2010 06:00:00 +0000

Call me old school, but I have a profound respect for hard-working bands. I’m talking about the kind that take a decade or more to fine-tune their sound and get a little better with every album they release.

The National released their first album in 2001 and have since released another four studio albums, the last of which, 2007’s Boxer, received widespread critical acclaim, so much so that their song ‘Fake Empire” was used by the Obama campaign at many high-profile events during the last election.

And so the pressure was on for the band to deliver the goods for their new album, High Violet, and they sure as hell didn’t disappoint.

As with their previous albums, singer Matt Berninger’s vocals are a major attraction on High Violet. He keeps his distinctive baritone calm and steady throughout, choosing to steer clear of the wilder vocal territory of tracks like “Mr November” and “Murder Me Rachel” off previous albums, and it works like a charm.

Imagine Nick Cave’s vocals stripped of all their hatred and fury and you’d have something close to Berninger who chooses subtle irony and pathos and his weapons of choice and wields them with great effect.

“All our lonely kicks are getting harder to find” Berninger sings on “Little Faith”, “We’ll play nuns versus priests until somebody cries / All our lonely kicks that make us saintly and thin / We’ll play nuns versus priests until somebody wins.”

The somber musical landscape of High Violet depicts a kind of sleeping pill society that hangs permanently in the space between waking and sleeping in a hazy reality where in a track like the Interpol-ish “Conversation 16” Berninger swings from confessing to feelings of inadequacy and regret to quietly and calmly singing the verse “I was afraid I’d eat your brains / Cause I’m evil”.

The track “Anyone’s Ghost” stands out as one of the best on High Violet and picks up from where Boxer left off in terms of the band’s experiments in blending orchestral swells into their music. Drummer Brian Devendorf does an excellent job of giving songs like “Anyone’s Ghost” a clean and punchy beat which his brother Scott follows like a bloodhound on his bass guitar.

“Afraid Of Everyone” is another killer track that Devendorf’s percussion stands out on. He’s the kind of drummer that knows exactly what to do when, and focuses on doing exactly that to the best of his ability rather than stacking songs full of complicated fills and showy drum rolls. There’s a sparsity in the way he plays on High Violet that suits the album perfectly.

The National has a second pair of siblings in the brothers Aaron and Bryce Dessner who match each other riff for riff on rhythm and lead guitar with Aaron sometimes handling the bass and piano sections of their songs. For the most part their instruments take a backseat to Berninger’s vocals on High Violet except in tracks like “Runaway” where Bryce’s acoustic picking takes centre stage and “England”, which would be nothing without Aaron’s lilting piano melodies.

Of course, High Violet won’t suit everyone’s tastes. It’s a lot more somber than previous albums, and the individual tracks are difficult to tell apart from one another on the first few listens, but their idiosyncrasies do start shining through if you give them the time they deserve.

The best way to describe High Violet would be to imagine taking a track like Bruce Springsteen’s “Streets Of Philadelphia” and turning it into an entire album. For this reason, sadly, it can’t top their 2007 masterpiece when it comes to the complexity and range they showed themselves capable of, but it comes pretty damn close.

Still though, High Violet is an album that will satisfy fans and possibly even turn first time listeners on to The National and so I would recommend buying this album and giving it a spin or two, because if nothing else, it should make for some welcome company on a rainy day.

Final Verdict: 7/10

-ST

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slicktiger — Thu, 27 May 2010 18:50:50 +0000

Google is Raping My Site!

slicktiger — Fri, 28 May 2010 06:00:00 +0000

I’m not sure if I can fucking handle this. I like to think of myself as a man of principle, I ‘stand up guy’ as they say and thus, even though I could be making a tidy packet off advertising on this site, I’ve chosen not to go that route because advertising is horse shit and it’s filling our minds with puke.

Me, I got bigger things in my crosshairs than a couple of Gs a month for some bullshit Life Insurance ads on my site.

So anyway, long story short, for some time now I’ve suspected that J-Rab is shit-your-pants crazy because she spotted some random advert on my site a few months back, which I promptly told her is not possible, because, well, I haven’t SOLD any advertising on the site.

Then today I get back from work and she grabs my hand, without saying a word, marches me to her laptop, and shows me the following:

It’s fucking Ayoba time?! It’s FUCKING AYOBA TIME?!?! Christ, what the fuck is going on here? Fuck you MTN and FUCK YOU GOOGLE for raping my site like this without my goddamn permission!

How do I stop this? Somebody help me out here, I mean for fuck’s sake, I HATE MTN and everything they stand for, does no one remember my ‘Death By Ayoba’ post?

God, the irony is killing me!

And even worse than that, they stuck this piece of filth up on my ‘White Nipples’ post. How DARE they defile the sacred White Nipples with this garbage?!

I give up. Seriously. I give the fuck up.

Have a great weekend. Me, I’ll be drinking myself to hell and back, screaming ‘AYOBA’ in the streets until the cops lock me the fuck up and hopefully end my misery.

-ST

The going gets tough

slicktiger — Mon, 31 May 2010 06:00:00 +0000

The going has gotten tough. Not for lack of inspiration, no. Not for lack of enthusiasm, I’m still as fucking excited about this junkyard site as I’ve always been, it’s just time, time, time, time.

The problem is time, right now I have none. Can’t blog at work, I’ll lose my job. Can’t blog at home anymore, it’s killing me and J-Rab’s relationship as surely as if I came home every night and spent 2 and a half hours jacking off to midget porn.

So yeah, for the time being I’ll be posting less. I’ve only got one day to write the week’s posts, Sunday, which is a problem when, like today, I spent a lot of it with my good buddy Jasey-Got-The-Aceys drinking expensive whiskey and staring out at the Autumn vineyard where I live.

It will get better. This site will always be here and I’ll always be bashing content out whenever I have half a chance, it’s just going to be a little lean and mean the next few months.

So just thought I’d give you all a heads up. Like when you’re in a relationship with someone and they give you the ‘It’s not you, it’s me’ speech.

-ST

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slicktiger — Tue, 01 Jun 2010 17:32:19 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 01 Jun 2010 17:33:28 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 01 Jun 2010 17:35:58 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 01 Jun 2010 18:06:49 +0000

Album Review: The Dead Weather – Sea Of Cowards

slicktiger — Wed, 02 Jun 2010 06:00:00 +0000

If Marla Singer from the movie Fight Club started a band, it would sound like The Dead Weather. They’re dark, edgy and angry and with their second album they’ve perfected their particular brand of radio-unfriendly blues / tripped-out reggae / 70s rock and infused it with enough wailing feedback, weird synth effects and creepy organs to bring the last acid trip you had flashing back hard and fast.

Their previous effort, 2009’s Horehound did very little to impress. Musically, it sounded like everyone on the album was pulling in different directions, a common short-coming suffered by supergroups. The songs were loose and rushed and whatever inroads they made with regard to originality and style were overshadowed completely by singer Alison Mosshart’s toneless wailing and the disjointed, hookless attempts at songwriting that defined a lot of tracks on the album.

The biggest draw-card that Horehound had was the fact that Jack White (of The White Stripes and The Raconteurs) was in the band, but even that didn’t impress too much. ‘Oh, another Jack White side-project? Meh’ seemed to be the general consensus.

Fast forward to ten months later and The Dead Weather’s second album is already on shelves and who knows what the hell happened in those ten months but the band has come back tighter, meaner and better than ever.

Interestingly, in a recent interview, Jack White explained that the title Sea Of Cowards is a direct reference to the hordes of anonymous trolls on the internet that ‘spit venom and attack people in a cowardly way using fake names.’ Dorky? Yeah, a little, but trust me, the album is anything but.

This time around, Mosshart has found a happy medium between the aforementioned ‘toneless wailing’ and the throaty whispering that she’s prone to and I was pleasantly surprised to find that on Sea Of Cowards I didn’t feel like my ear drums were being scraped with industrial-grade sandpaper every time she belted a chorous out.

Although to be fair, Jack White does sing a lot more on Sea Of Cowards than he did on Horehound, which is definitely what the latter album was sorely lacking. The man has also upped his game considerably in terms of loading the tracks on Sea Of Cowards full of sick, bluesy, distorted guitar riffs and hooks that bite hard and don’t let go.

The first single, “Die By The Drop” is definitely not the finest example of what this album has to offer, the chorous is a mess, but the vocal dynamic between Mosshart and White during the verse works well and the lyrics “Let’s dig a hole in the sand brother / A little grave we can fill together… Some people die just a little / Sometimes you die by the drop / Some people die in the middle / I live just fine at the top” are catchy as TB and guaranteed to get your inner air drummer jamming.

The best track on the album is the instantly likeable “The Difference Between Us”. If you’re thinking of buying this album, listen to this track and if it doesn’t grab you, steer clear of Sea Of Cowards and go check out the new Michael Buble album, I hear it’s a huge hit with mindless drones the world over.

“The Difference Between Us” rises like a dark phoenix from a distorted guitar / synth melody that is perfectly accentuated by either White or Jack Lawrence, both of whom are credited as drummers on the album.

Fucking superbands. Swapping instruments like wives at a swinger’s party. You gotta love that shit.

“No Horse” moves with the sexy confidence of a gunslinger in a fist fight and has a bassline that will make you grin from ear to ear it’s so badass, not to mention the grungey, wailing guitar riffs that White bends and grinds out like a maniac.

The last track on the album, “Old Mary” will confirm any suspicions that this band is seriously twisted. The quiet, church-organ chords that haunt this track make a fitting backdrop to White’s lyrics, which are a twisted bastardisation of the Hail Mary: “Old Mary full of grease / Your heart stops within you / Scary are the fruits of your tomb / And harsh are the terms of your sentence…”

It’s an album that feels like it died in the Old West (thanks to the awesome melodies ex-Queens Of The Stone Age guitarist, organist, pianist and bassist Dean Fertita brings to the mix) and was revived sometime in the 70s in a drug-fuelled séance. It’s sexy, it’s deadly and it’s hell-bent on breaking all the rules.

The Dead Weather have done a fine job of carving out a sound that is unlike any band you’ve ever heard, and with Sea Of Cowards they’ve fine-tuned that sound into a far more listenable and coherent whole and proved without a doubt that they aren’t here to fuck around.

Try this album on for size, see where it takes you and who knows, when you get there, you might just thank me ;)

Final Verdict: 8/10

-ST

Tell Th eTiger )Episode 7)

slicktiger — Thu, 03 Jun 2010 19:36:01 +0000

Ok, I’ll be the frist to admit here taht perhaps I’m nothe soberest I should betp answer people’s fuckng life problesm here, hey, hahahahaaha, yeha, I’m definitely past the point of opertaing heavy machinery but the thing is it;s been awhile yknw? And i kinda feel like i owe it to you guys , my audience to at least post SOMETHING! I ena fuckskaek the way Iv’e been posting recenty ain’t gonna win me any awards thats fe damn sure!

So yeah, ho aout we just jump inther shallwe? Um, ok, here we gl:

Hi Slick,

Love the blog dude, keep up the good work man, I send your links around the office, all the funny ones and CHARNAS dig it lank hey!

But anyway, I enjoyed the last ‘Tell the tiger’ because there was a time I felt exactly like JP – I struggled to approach girls and ‘break the ice’ as it were, but those days are far behind me now and the problem I have now is a completely different one.

I’m stuck in some kind of rut, it’s been going on now for about 6 or 7 months, always the same story. I go to clubs or bars, I approach girls and start chatting and generally things go well, I can usually keep their interest and not get shot down and usually make at least some kind of connection.

Then we talk for awhile and sometimes I get their numbers and other times we even make out and things are going really well. Then the next day I get in touch with these girls, I either call them or sms them, and every time, EVERY TIME, they just shut me down dude, it never leads anywhere. Maybe coffee, and that’s it. After that they never return my calls or sms me back.

What the fuck am I doing wrong here? I mean, I make them laugh, we talk, it feels like I’m making a connection, and then nothing. It’s killing me man!

Am I being too nice? A lot of my friends say I’m being too nice, but I don’t know any other way to be, I can’t pretend to be some douchebag guy when I’m not.

Give me some advice here dude!

-Captain

HA! Fuck, is anyoen else here feeling ths dudes pain? lets bebhonest here for a minute, no bullshit – every guy s been here, EVEYR GUY! IVE benn here uded, many times, mauny times, and yeahm, just liek you ,I fet like it was me, like I was fucking lame chiks werewalking all over me, sure dude, don’t feel bad man, EVEYROENS been here dude.

Thing to do is jsut take tihigns down a notch, yknw? Your friendd are probaly right, you;re proably going too far in dudde, just pull bakc, be ccool daddy-o, no girl wants MR Soulful coming in there to fuck her shit up man. Thing about the softcock approcah is it works great int he MOMENT, BUT, come the next day ,all those defeellings she had ,they’re gone duede, fucking evaportaed ,gone daddy gone.

If you get intaht sitiation where you’re gping guns blazing, kissing her, making out ont he dancefoloor, forr chrissake, PULLBABCK! TAke the reign s back in dude, tell her you’re moving too fast, use those lines they use on US! teLL HEr you really like her, BUT would much rather jsut be friends and see how things play out.

REVERSE the roles D UDE! Youre a pro at hearing all thse put-me-dpown lines that girls say, say them BACK to them, and watch the effect that has, trust me, it’ll fuck you up how quick they come running.

But yeah, thats abut all I reallly have to say on the topci dude, hahahaaa!

Ther’s no fucing way I shoul ever hit publish on this post, christ I can hardlt see straight.

But you knwat? FUCK it.

Lets’ do it.

publish- *click ;)

-ST

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slicktiger — Mon, 07 Jun 2010 05:26:25 +0000

The Son Of Swords

slicktiger — Mon, 07 Jun 2010 05:26:31 +0000

A story, if you will, one of my favourites:

The Prince And The Magician

Once upon a time there was a young prince who believed in all things but three. He did not believe in princesses, he did not believe in islands, and he did not believe in God. His father, the king, told him that such things did not exist. As there were no princesses or islands in his father's domains, and no sign of God, the prince believed his father.

But then, one day, the prince ran away from his palace and came to the next land. There, to his astonishment, from every coast he saw islands, and on these islands, strange and troubling creatures whom he dared not name. As he was searching for a boat, a man in full evening dress approached him along the shore.

"Are those real islands?" asked the young prince.
"Of course they are real islands," said the man in evening dress.
"And those strange and troubling creatures?"
"They are all genuine and authentic princesses."
"Then God must also exist!" cried the young prince.
"I am God," replied the man in evening dress, with a bow.

The young prince returned home as quickly as he could.

"So, you are back," said his father, the king.
"I have seen islands, I have seen princesses, I have seen God," said the prince reproachfully.
The king was unmoved.
"Neither real islands, real princesses nor a real God exist."
"I saw them!"
"Tell me how God was dressed."
"God was in full evening dress."
"Were the sleeves of his coat rolled back?"
The prince remembered that they had been. The king smiled.
"That is the uniform of a magician. You have been deceived."

At this, the prince returned to the next land and went to the same shore, where once again he came upon the man in full evening dress.

"My father, the king, has told me who you are," said the prince indignantly. "You deceived me last time, but not again. Now I know that those are not real islands and real princesses, because you are a magician."

The man on the shore smiled.

"It is you who are deceived, my boy. In your father's kingdom, there are many islands and many princesses. But you are under your father's spell, so you cannot see them."

The prince pensively returned home. When he saw his father, he looked him in the eye.

"Father, is it true that you are not a real king, but only a magician?"
The king smiled and rolled back his sleeves.
"Yes, my son, I'm only a magician."
"Then the man on the other shore was God."
"The man on the other shore was another magician."
"I must know the truth, the truth beyond magic."
"There is no truth beyond magic," said the king.
The prince was full of sadness. He said "I will kill myself."

The king by magic caused Death to appear. Death stood in the door and beckoned to the prince. The prince shuddered. He remembered the beautiful but unreal islands and the unreal but beautiful princesses.

"Very well," he said, "I can bear it".

"You see, my son," said the king, "you, too, now begin to be a magician."

- John Fowles, The Magus

It’s been a rough couple of days, and as always, I’ve got the scars to prove it.

I fled to Kommetjie on Saturday morning, I needed time to think things through, and I stayed over at my aunt’s place.

She did a tarot reading for me before I left, not a full one, she just asked me to draw a card.

Thing about her is she’s the real deal. We don’t believe in magic because it’s a childish, vague concept. We kill it at every turn and rely on our rational, logical faculties to see us through life, conveniently forgetting that those logical, rational faculties have been shaped and structured and manufactured since the day we walked into school to make us predictable and easier to manage.

It makes no fucking sense to me. People rely on their intelligence to get them through life and wonder why they feel so trapped and impotent.

Anyway, my aunt is the real deal. She’s read up on almost every religion man ever had the crazy-stoned notion to create and has dedicated her life to the arts of meditation and developing her natural intuition to levels that are unbelievably powerful.

I drew one card from her deck = the Son Of Swords - standing triumphant in his battle regalia, his eyes fixed simultaneously on the prize before him and the sun, a symbol of his next conquest.

In his right hand he held his sword, drawn and ready for battle, but in his left, he held a dead dove by its neck and stood in a scattered mess of broken roses.

In that moment I saw her sitting on my bag, crying. I felt her holding me, the softest she’s ever held me, I heard her whispering to me and I felt myself pull away, dump the bag in the boot and drive, not looking back, not wanting to see the destruction in my wake.

A scattered mess of broken roses.

-ST

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slicktiger — Tue, 08 Jun 2010 09:22:10 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 08 Jun 2010 09:22:33 +0000

People From Bellville: Stop Driving Up My Arse

slicktiger — Tue, 08 Jun 2010 09:22:41 +0000

I’m not quite sure how else to go about this, I mean seriously, what’s the fucking dealy-o here? Is Bellville populated entirely with proctologists? Why in the name of sweet, six-pound-four-ounce baby Jesus must you guys drive right up my arsehole every fucking day? Why?! WHYTHEFUCK?!

[With the notable exception of Supa Dan, he’s a legend and he drives just fine.]

At first it was cute, I just thought maybe people in Cape Town were really friendly and were getting up close and personal to come and say hello or something.

‘Look honey,’ I used to say, ‘that man whose parents are cousins has driven up to say hallo! What a friendly chap!’

Next thing I noticed was that 90% of the folk driving up my arse didn’t have regular CA license plates, they had these screwy ‘CY’ plates and all drove white Cortinas with sheep-fur seats.

‘Who the fuck are these people,’ I remember asking my boss one day, ‘these fuckers that drive up your arse all the time with the CY number plates?’

‘Oh them,’ my boss said, a visible shiver going through him, ‘they come from Bellville…’

If I had to draw up a list of my favourite ways of being tortured, having a buncha mouth-breathing Neanderthals drive right up my fucking arse every day would rate right up there with being raped with an electric drill or forced at gun point to watch a three-hour marathon of the Ellen Degeneres show.

Here, for the benefit of the inhabitants of HELLville, is a list of reasons why I fucking hate it when you drive up my arse:

1. I’m already doing 140. How fucking fast do you want to fucking drive?! Yes, the speedo on your Cortina goes to 160, well done. Please only reserve that speed for when the police are chasing you.

2. It’s just not fucking polite. We aren’t dogs for chrissake, it feels like you’re sniffing my backside.

3. Why the fuck are you in such a hurry? Struggling with your time management skills a little? Buy a watch and drive like a human.

4. Do you have any idea how quickly you can end up smeared in wet chunks all over the highway at the speed you guys drive at? I’m being dead serious here, I’ve been in an accident on a highway, a woman in the lane next to us blew a tyre and in less than 3 seconds, 5 cars had smashed to pieces, one of them being mine.

Life, my friends, is a precious and fragile thing and believe me, once you’ve ended yours and possibly the lives of your passengers or the other people on the road, the last thing you’ll be saying at the gates of hell will be, “Ja, I’m a bit bummed I’m dead now hey, but JASSIS! Did you see check how fast I was klapping it!”

You aren’t impressing anyone, slow the fuck down.

-ST

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slicktiger — Wed, 09 Jun 2010 05:49:02 +0000

Congratulations! 1 x Mind-Blowing Orgasm Coming Your Way

slicktiger — Wed, 09 Jun 2010 05:49:06 +0000

If you had to ask me what I believe in, I don’t really know what I’d say. Organised religion seems really contrived and, let’s be honest, is pretty boring and preachy most of the time.

I do think there’s some kind of bigger, karmic system we’re a part of though, which is why I’ve decided to appeal to whatever Gods may be to reward anyone who visits this site today with a mind-blowing orgasm.

The beauty of a karmic gift of this nature is you can enjoy it by yourself or with (consenting) others, but just make sure you know what you’re getting yourself into. This isn’t your run-of-the-mill, make-a-funny-cum-face, roll-over-and-go-to-sleep kind of orgasm.

This is the kind that will definitely wake the neighbours and possibly even the dead.

You’re welcome. I was just feeling really generous and in a great mood cause I got interviewed on radio this morning, Maties FM to be precise, the Stellenbosch University campus station.

What’s that you say? You’re suicidally depressed because you missed the interview? Cheer up buddy ‘ol pal, once I get Wordpress to do what I fucking paid $19.97 for it to do, you’ll be able to hear it.

Enjoy the orgasm ;)

-ST

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slicktiger — Thu, 10 Jun 2010 20:36:37 +0000

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slicktiger — Thu, 10 Jun 2010 20:36:55 +0000

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slicktiger — Thu, 10 Jun 2010 20:37:43 +0000

SlickTiger MFM Interview

slicktiger — Thu, 10 Jun 2010 20:52:25 +0000

My interview with MFM. Listen out for the sneaky mention of free mind-blowing orgasms at the end. Fucking radass.

necrophilia is wrong 2

slicktiger — Thu, 10 Jun 2010 21:32:48 +0000

Today we are South Africans

slicktiger — Fri, 11 Jun 2010 06:00:00 +0000

I have a love / hate relationship with this country.

It’s the little things that get to me. It’s the way taxis take to our streets with total abandon and a sense of entitlement that infuriates everyone they cut in front of and crash into.

It’s the way, after all this time, after all the fights we’ve fought, snot-nosed political troublemakers can step into the limelight and set us back twenty years every time they shake their fists in the air and bark their angry, idiotic words, inciting hatred and violence.

It’s the way a friend of a friend got robbed or stabbed or shot for his cell phone and we all heard the news and said “Thank God it wasn’t worse”.

It’s the way politicians get away with blue murder completely scott free, irrespective of what they’ve done and it’s the way we all bitch and moan about it until we are pulled over for drunk driving and get off on a R50 bribe.

It’s the way I’ve never, not once, wound my window down to give a beggar change. Their faces disappear from my mind the second they vanish in my rear view mirror. An endless parade of ghosts.

It’s the way we can’t forget, no matter how hard we try, that there was a time in this country when our fathers and their fathers before them committed atrocious acts of violence and cruelty because they allowed themselves to be governed by a system based on ignorance and fear.

It’s the way we live in eternal uncertainty, of our government, of our future and of each other.

So why stick around? If there’s nothing left to fight for, why fight at all? There’s a whole world out there full to bursting of greener grass, why not just leave?

I stay in South Africa because underneath everything, I love this country to pieces and I know that I can’t live without it.

Things get bad sometimes and sometimes it feels like we’re backsliding and like the precious balance that we’ve tried so hard to maintain is toppling, but if there’s one thing no one can deny about South Africans, it’s that we are a people who understand more than any other nation on this earth how powerful hope really is.

From the concrete skyscrapers in Jozi to the open, untouched valleys of the Eastern Cape; from the sugarcane fields of Kwa-Zulu Natal to the baking hot deserts of the Karoo and the proud oceans that wash the shores of this beautiful, haunted country, we are a people who are united by the hardships we’ve suffered and the moments of triumph we’ve shared.

And what better way to celebrate everything we’ve achieved than by inviting the world with open arms to experience what it’s like to live here, under the arching, golden African sun and the endless blue skies that stretch on above us, come summer, autumn, winter or spring.

The beauty of it all is that on some days we might be coloured people, waiting by the bus stop to commute back to Khayalitsha and on others we might be white people from the northern suburbs of Jozi, driving our Audis home after a long day in and out of meetings.

On some days we might be black children, kicking a soccer ball in the streets of Alex and on others we might be Indian women, dressed in brightly coloured saris behind tables of fragrant spices at the Oriental Plaza.

On some days we might be Chinese people and on others we might be Greek. On some days we might be Lebanese and on others we might be Afrikaans or Sotho or Zulu or Venda.

But today, we are all of us South Africans.

What a great day today is :)

-ST

SlickTiger MFM Interview

slicktiger — Mon, 14 Jun 2010 20:46:03 +0000

A great interview. Probably my best to date.

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slicktiger — Mon, 14 Jun 2010 21:07:25 +0000

The SlickTiger Interview On MFM

slicktiger — Mon, 14 Jun 2010 21:07:29 +0000

Stop the motherfucking press motherfuckers! I actually managed to get my dirty paws on the interview that took place last week on Wednesday on MFM (Maties FM, the Stellenbosch University campus station) because literally hundreds of thousands of people emailed, skyped, smsed and shouted at me on busy street corners because they so badly wanted to hear it.

So yeah, I did you guys all the favour of painstakingly breaking into the MFM offices in the dead of night and stealing about 3 days worth of back-recordings that I had to listen to, which was like chewing glass, to eventually find this little gem of an interview. Enjoy guys. Something tells me you’re gonna love the shit outta this ;) [audio http://slicktiger.files.wordpress.com/2010/06/mfm-interview-naughty-mix.mp3] -ST

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slicktiger — Thu, 17 Jun 2010 20:50:08 +0000

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slicktiger — Thu, 17 Jun 2010 20:50:49 +0000

Tell The Tiger (Episode 8)

slicktiger — Thu, 17 Jun 2010 20:50:54 +0000

Um, yeah.

Unsurprisingly, after the abortion of a reply that was my last ‘Tell The Tiger’, the ol’ gmail address (tellthetiger@gmail.com) has been a little quiet.

Look, in my defence I wrote that last one after participating in a ‘Mass Streak’ right by the Green Point stadium with a bunch of total strangers, which I was understandably nervous about being a part of because a) it was fucking cold and b) the last time I streaked in public was, well, never.

So I might have been a little under the influence, christ, I’m only human.

Anyway, you’ll be pleased to know that this week I’m sober as a judge and ready to make one lucky reader’s life better in every single, imaginable way. This one’s a bit of a longie, but totally worth the read because it’s about DAGGA!

In 3…

2…

Hey ST,

After reading yourpost you wrote awhile ago about a ‘friend’ of yours who made his own mescaline and tripped out for 18 hours or something and just the general tone of your blog, I thought maybe you could help me with this problem I’ve having with my GF about the wacky baccy.

IVe been a huge fan of Mary Jane for aobut five or six years now, since I was in matric at highschool and up until recently, I’ve smoked everyday. I don’t think of it as a big deal really, other people come home and drink half a bottle of wine at night, but no one judges them. I just like smoking a joint after work, is that so bad? It helps me relax and destress after a long day. It’s not like I’m sneaking off in my lunch break and hitting bongs in my car or anything, I did that once and got so paranoid back in the office I had to fake a really bad headache and go home, not cool.

But anyway, my new girlfriend has never touched drugs of any shape, size or form in her entire life and all her friends are exactly the same. Personally, I didn’t think people like that actually existed anymore, but maybe that’s just me. So anyway, she kinda made me promise not so smoke anymore when we got together and I thought why not? She’s hot, I can do this!

In total, I think I lasted about a month. Life just became really boring. Is this what it’s like to walk around normal all the time? Fuck! How do people handle this! Then we went to a good mate’s party and there was a bong going around, so I took a hit when she wasn’t lookingand I’ve been smoking everyday since.

The GF hasbust me twice and both times weve had huge fights about it. Thing is though, the rest of the time I’ve gotten away with it just fine, which totally fucks up her argument of ‘Weed makes you a different person’ but how do I tell her that? How do I make her see that what i do is totally harmless and I have it totally under control?

Basically, how do I get back to smoking a joint after work everyday and on weekends without completely freaking her out?

Help!

J-dogg

Ahh yes. The age-old conundrum of changing who you are to better suit your woman’s whims. We’ve all been there, but all I can say is J-dogg, my man, you fucked this one up royally right from day one.

“She kinda made me promise not so smoke anymore when we got together”? What the hell does that mean? How does a person “kinda” make you promise something?

“Umm J-dogg, please could you not smoke weed anymore, but if you want to that’s ok too,” is that what she said to you homeboy? Huh? Sounds like a buncha jibba-jabba jive talk to me shorty and I ain’t havin’ none ‘o that!

Sorry, I’ve been watching a lot of The Wire recently… um, interspliced with reruns of the A-Team…

Your HUGE fuck-up here is you set the wrong expectations at the beginning of your relationship – schoolboy error my man, but forgivable because she is hot. Men often say and do fucktarded things because of hot chicks, I think I read somewhere that it’s in our DNA or something.

I guess in your defence, maybe you honestly thought you could kick the mahanga-janga and figured it was worth a shot, fair enough. But never smoking again means NEVER. SMOKING. AGAIN. Not when you’re bored, not when you’re pulling a sickie at work, not when you buy your next X-Box game and kick back for an intense 10-hour gaming marathon, and sure as fuck not when you’re next hanging out with your buddies and one of them whips out a bucket and says, “Hey, let’s smoke three of these, take a hit of acid and go watch ‘Dawn Of The Dead’”.

Actually, as a general principle no one should do that. Hiding under a cinema seat, mumbling to no one and trying to chew your fingers off is no way to spend a Saturday morning. Or so I’m told…

If you really love this girl and want to make something out of what you have together, try and see if you can work out some kind of compromise like limiting your smoking to one day a week, I think that’s reasonable.

But then you gotta stick by that. Fuck up once, she’ll forgive you. Fuck up twice, things are gonna get rocky. Fuck up three times and it’s toast. If she takes you back after that, things will never be the same and like the little girl in the opening scene of Dawn Of The Dead your love will become a zombie.

Not dead, not alive, just flopping around uselessly, hungry for braaaiiiinnnssss.

That’s my take on things my man, but I’m more than happy to open the floor to my panel of trusted experts, many of whom I’m sure have had hands-on experience with this ‘wacky baccy’ you speak of.

Me, I tried the stuff at a party once, but I never inhaled ;)

-ST

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slicktiger — Sun, 20 Jun 2010 22:00:26 +0000

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slicktiger — Sun, 20 Jun 2010 22:05:47 +0000

The Last Episode Of Lost

slicktiger — Mon, 21 Jun 2010 06:00:00 +0000

Mention to people that you enjoy watching Lost and you get one of two reactions. The first is a totally dismissive “Oh, yeah, I watched a bit of the first season but then sort of went off it…” and the second is an explosive “HOLYSHITIFUCKINGLOVETHATSHOW!”

That, ladies and gentlemen, is the mark of a cult show. In fact that is the mark of anything that is cult, an audience that is fiercely polarised between people that love whatever it may be to the point of manic obsession and a much larger contingency that are either completely indifferent towards it or think it’s the biggest load of shit they’ve ever seen.

I've long since accepted the fact that most of the music, movies and art I enjoy is basically inaccessible to 'normal' people. If I had a buck for every conversation I've had about a band or a movie I fucking love that has been met with a polite, but completely vacant stare, I'd be kicking back in Honolulu sipping Pina Coladas and being fanned with palm leaves while I lay on my ass and did sweet fuck all for the rest of my life.

So forgive me if I get in a little over my head here as I jump into the reasons why I think Lost is one of the greatest TV shows that has ever been broadcast. The beauty of the internet is you don't have to smile and nod politely, you can just click close and I'll be none the wiser, choice is yours ;)

First, a few facts and figures that prove how few people actually gave a damn about this series by the time it ended.

According to Lostpedia, the final episode was viewed by 13.5 million people, which is a pretty dismal figure when you consider that the M*A*S*H finale was viewed by 105.9 million people, the Cheers finale by 80.4 million and the Friends finale by 52.5 million. Hell, even the season finale to the last American Idol, which was the least popular since the first season still had Lost beat at 24 million viewers.

On average, the first season of Lost had around 19 million viewers per episode, which proves beyond all reasoning that for the most part, people gave up on Lost.

They did this because what people want from TV shows and movies is closure. They want to be able to experience something that entices and enthrals them at first, then draws them in on a deeper, emotional level, during which time they’ll tolerate a certain level of manipulation as they are lead down the garden path toward the inevitable outcome, and then they want satisfaction in the form of clear cut answers at the conclusion so that they can get on with their lives.

Lost broke that formula by very seldom ever giving people answers and when it did, the answers only lead to more questions. It worked in the beginning, but somewhere during Season 2 / Season 3 people simply got tired of being lost and slunk off to watch Grey’s Anatomy instead.

Even after the series finale, there are hundreds of questions left unanswered, as the following video infuriatingly demonstrates: http://www.collegehumor.com/video:1936291

Still confused as to why the season finale tanked? The way this video puts it, it’s a miracle people even hung in there to watch it at all.

But they did, all 13.5 million of them, and while a great deal of that 13.5 million hated the season finale and felt it was a total cop out, I didn’t and I’ll tell you why.

For one thing, the last thing I ever expected at the end of Lost was to be given one final, conclusive answer, or even a series of conclusive answers that tied everything together, in fact I really hoped they wouldn’t do that because to do so would be to kill the driving force behind the entire show.

JJ Abrams, the co-creator of Lost gave a somewhat schizophrenic talk at TED (http://www.ted.com/index.php/talks/j_j_abrams_mystery_box.html) where he discusses the idea of mystery being more important than knowledge. He uses the analogy of a “mystery box” that his grandfather bought for him when he was a kid that he, to this day, has never opened.

The reason why, he explains, is that to him, the box has come to represent the infinite possibility that is inherent in mystery. It’s something my favourite writer, John Fowles, was also acutely aware of when he wrote about the energy in mystery and how, for as long as you wonder about something, as long as your imagination is actively engaged in trying to figure something out, that thing is ALIVE inside you.

Answers, Fowles famously said, are a form of death because the minute you are given an answer, the question and the mystery that drives it both cease to live in your mind.

You couldn’t imagine, even if you tried, what the night sky would have looked like thousands of years ago, before man invented telescopes and before the notion of other planets and other suns existed.

Back then, the stars and the consolations were some of the biggest mysteries imaginable. Since the dawn of man, until science stepped in and explained it all, we stared at the stars at night and wondered, “What the fuck are those?!”

The information age has been hugely beneficial to the technological advancement of our species, but at the same time, it is killing all the mystery to life. You want to know the answer to something? Type it into Google and in 0.8 seconds there it is.

I loved Lost, because it defied explanation and forced the people watching it to use their imagination in order to fill in the many blanks and loose ends the show’s creators left entirely up to us to figure out.

And finally, possibly the single thing I loved the most about Lost (*HUGE SPOILER ALERT*) is the way all of the main characters met up in the afterlife in that church one last time before they moved on to wherever it was they were going.

I took a lot of comfort in that idea because I’ve always had this sneaking suspicion that we’ve all met before and that we’ll meet again, in this life and in the many after it, and I imagine those moments to be a lot like the one in that church at the end of Lost, where everyone – Jack, Sawyer, Kate, Lock, Sayid, Hurley, Claire, Charlie, Jin, Sun, all of them – finally understood how important their connection to one another was, and were finally able to understand that though their time on the island was difficult and though they had to endure endless unnecessary hardship and cruelty, they were also the best times of their lives because the friendships and relationships they formed were all that really mattered in the end.

We’re all lost in one way or another until we find each other and in doing so, ourselves. This is the meaning I took away from Lost and this is the reason why I think it’s one of the greatest shows I’ve ever had the pleasure and privilege of watching.

-ST

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slicktiger — Mon, 21 Jun 2010 07:06:24 +0000

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slicktiger — Wed, 23 Jun 2010 06:39:20 +0000

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slicktiger — Wed, 23 Jun 2010 06:40:26 +0000

In Whisky There Is Comfort Still

slicktiger — Wed, 23 Jun 2010 06:40:30 +0000

I had this way of picking up things and drinking them when I was a kid, probably like most kids do. When I was 3, the electrician came at night to fix something or other and my mom offered him a beer, which he drank a sip of and left on the living room table.

I picked that bad boy up and drank the whole thing. Then I jumped up and down in my cot, laughing my ass off for about 2 hours and then I passed out stone cold and woke up feeling fine the next day. There’s Irish in me, not a lot (my grandfather was half English, half Irish), but enough ;)

I think about a year later I had my first taste of whisky. My mom has always enjoyed a whisky and soda in the evenings and had poured herself a glass and left it on her bedside table. I thought it was just water and took a sip, but unlike the beer, I didn’t down the whole thing because it tasted like crap.

I spent the rest of my childhood sober until I was about 12 or 13 and my good buddy Ricky T and myself drank our way through three six packs of his dad’s “Two Dogs Alcoholic Lemonade”. Two Dogs was like an aborted first attempt at an alca-pop and tasted awful, but did the job pretty damn well.

How we thought we’d get away with drinking his dad’s entire stash is something I don’t think we gave much thought, if any, at the time.

From that point, the story gets long and complicated and I won’t get into any of the details except to say that from an early age, I was never shy to drink like a goddamn fish. I’ve never been an alcoholic and have very seldom if ever gotten drunk alone or binged for longer than four days, but I learned to drink hard and I did it well.

At varsity I started drinking whisky because I thought it looked cool and for R6 you could get a double First Watch at one of the bars in Grahamstown and so naturally I drank that foul fucking stuff like mother’s milk. You could clean engine parts with First Watch. It’s Canadian whiskey, which means they use rye instead of barley to make it and because of that it can be quickly mass-produced and sold much cheaper than normal whisky. It’s nasty, but damn! It does the job.

Back then, a bottle of Jack Daniels was my idea of a fine whisky. Me, Barman and Graumpot had a tradition where we’d buy one another a bottle when our birthdays rolled around and sip it on ice. Bleaugh. What the hell were we thinking?

After varsity I drank Bells with an air of faux sophistication and thought myself an accomplished whisky-drinker. Eventually I tired of the taste though and gave up on whisky in general, that is until about three years ago.

I started working PR for the Whisky Live Festival and as a part of that, went on a number of whisky tastings and started to learn a little about the spirit. Over time, my interest for whiskey began to mature naturally because of the close contact I had with it and the people involved in the big liquor marketing and distribution companies in South Africa and I found the more I learned, the more I wanted to learn.

All of this culminated recently when I attended ‘Whisk(e)y 101’ with the College Of Whisky, the first part of the course they put together to train people to become whisky presenters. Since that course, I’ve been enjoying various whiskies on an almost nightly basis (Talisker, Singleton, Bushmills 16 y/o, a bottle of Dimple 15 y/o) and amazingly, this spirit, the flavour of which was once almost inaccessible to me, is slowly opening up.

I find myself admiring this amber liquid against the light, watching the legs fall and wondering what journey that dram took to find its way to me.

The thing about fine whisky is that it is made through a process that cannot be speeded up and as such, it is almost immune to the unnatural acceleration that has come to define the way humans do things.

I take comfort in that fact. I take comfort in the thought that somewhere across the world, a master distiller still picks his way through his distillery, nosing and tasting his whisky as it lies in oak casks, his palate able to almost distinguish individual atoms of scent and taste, waiting for the perfect moment to blend or bottle his whisky so that when it reaches us, all the way down here in Africa, the product we are getting is perfect in every way.

The simple pleasure I get out of enjoying a dram of good whisky far outweighs any of the times I drank the stuff to get shit-faced back in varsity which, I guess, is a clear sign that I’m getting old ;)

The end with, here’s one of my favourite whisky quotes, 10 points to the person who guesses who said it:

“The water was not fit to drink. To make it more palatable, we had to add whisky. By diligent effort, I learned to like it.”

-ST

Silencing The Rat

slicktiger — Thu, 24 Jun 2010 06:00:00 +0000

Cave liked to get good and drunk and punch things.

Sometimes it was doors and cupboards, he’d curl his ridiculously long fingers into ridiculously large fists and punch dents into the wood until his knuckles were skinned and bleeding.

Other times he’d let his pent-up rage out on a window or two – we’d all be sitting around at another blurry digs party, making insidious efforts with random girls to get laid and next thing a window would smash somewhere and we knew without even getting up to look that it was Cave throwing another one of his inexplicable drunk tantrums.

You’d meet him sober, in daylight hours and he was a reasonable enough guy. You might say he had a ‘kooky’ side to him, but that was about it. He spent a lot of time avoiding the drama department at all costs, despite the fact that he usually got the leading parts in all the plays. It was pretty hilarious actually, he’d skip out on as many rehearsals as humanly possible and then take to the stage on opening night and steal the show. He was a natural.

So yeah, he was a reasonable enough guy, maybe a little crazy, nothing too out of the ordinary. But once he got started on the sauce something else took over and the guy, all six feet five inches of him, became uncontrollable in every way.

He was skinny as a bean pole, but fuck me, it took at least four guys to wrestle him to the ground once he got started. I never got involved, it was way more fun to watch everything go sprawling in every direction in a tornado of whirling limbs as they tried to subdue the raging monster that was Cave after a hard day’s bingeing.

On the night in question I was out at the Rat with other friends when Cave, and all hell, broke loose. I dimly remember getting invited to the party in The Gutter (a friend’s digs) that Cave was at, but I’d decided to opt for regular insanity at the Rat that night instead of the particularly potent strain of insanity The Gutter bred.

If memory serves me right, it was Guitar Jon, Pansy and Mr D who had the pleasure of wrestling Cave that night. He’d been hitting it hard all afternoon and sometime around 10pm decided to pick a fight with the windows upstairs in The Gutter.

Problem this time around was Cave caught a major artery as he drove his right fist through one of the panes and he started pissing blood in dark squirts from his wrist all over the place.

Of course, in his magnificent and drunk state he flat out refused to be taken to hospital and physically assaulted anyone who came near him to try and help him out. It took them half an hour to drag him, literally kicking and screaming, into Pansy’s car so they could drive him to hospital and even once he was inside the car, he fought like an asylum escapee to get them to pull over and let him out.

Meanwhile, on the other side of Grahamstown, things at the Rat were getting rowdy. The usual crowd of loud, drunk jocks that hung out in groups of five or more were belting out James, Counting Crows and Bon Jovi songs at lung-busting volumes while the rest of us grimaced and ordered more tequila.

I swear, the Rat and Parrot in Grahamstown is like some kind of washed up old pirate ship that beached itself in the middle of that ghost-riddled town and refused to budge. Empires will rise and fall, but that place will always stand, a bastion of drunken debauchery, until Judgment Day, and even then, ol’ Satan himself will probably drop by for a smoke and an ice-cold pint.

Anyway, back at Settler’s Hospital, the guys had just managed to wrestle Cave out the car, but noticed he wasn’t putting up the fight he had been before. Somehow they got him to the casualty ward after much drunken swearing and half-hearted flailing on Cave’s part and explained to the shocked nurses what had happened.

He was immediately given some kind of sedative to calm him down and once the nurses had wheeled him off to get him fixed up, the three of them breathed a collective sigh of relief, got into Pansy’s car and went to find a bar.

In four years of drinking in that town, I’d never heard the Rat go as quiet as it did when they walked in there half-drunk, all scuffed up and disheveled from fighting Cave and covered from head to foot in the man’s blood.

They looked like three murderers coming for a drink after their last kill, but they hardly gave a fuck. Pansy ordered a couple of beers and shots while Mr D scanned the room with tiger eyes and Guitar Jon lit a smoke.

From there they got stuck into the earnest job of getting completely fucked up as the jocks around them welcomed them like heroes returning home off some ancient battlefield and bought them one shot after the next while the guys told and retold their story, making it more outlandish with each telling.

I left sometime in the early morning, shortly after Mr D took down one shot too many and ended up puking all over an oil heater in the corner of the room. I think most people left after that.

One thing’s for damn sure though, nobody getting fucked there that night will ever forget the three guys who came sauntering through the door, beat down and bloody, not giving a flying fuck, untouchable in every way.

Silencing the Rat.

-ST

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slicktiger — Sun, 04 Jul 2010 21:02:47 +0000

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Afrikaans Porn

slicktiger — Mon, 05 Jul 2010 06:00:00 +0000

Dit was n koue Maandag aand en Karel Bester was in sy gunstelling bar met Charnelle, genieting n bitjie brannewyn en coke terwyl Kurt Darren het op die jukebox n lekker leidjie gespeel het.

“Weet jy wat die fokken probleem met Marikie is?” het Karel gese as hy n lank suip van sy brannewyn gevat het, “sy is glad nie adventurous nie.”

“Nie adventurous nie?” het Charnelle gevra, haar oe darting tussen Karel se gesig en sy krotch, “wat beteken jy Karel?”

“Wel, die ding is, ek en Marikie is nou amper vyf jaar getrou en moenie my verkeerd vat nie ek fokken lief haar stukkend.”

“Jaaa…” het Charnelle gese as haar lank, pienk vingernaels oor Karel se duk, hairy arm gestrook het.

“Maar, dit maak nie saak nie hoe hard ek vra, sy wou nie gatsteek probeer nie!”

“Sjoe!” het Charnelle uit geroep, “maar jy’s n stoute seuntjie om vir arme Marikie daaie te vra!”

Karel het bloed-rooi geblush. “Hoe dronk is ek?” het hy gedink. “Ek is seker Charnelle wou nie hierdie kak oor ek en haar suster hoer nie.”

“Jammer Charnelle, ek, ek, fok ek is dof…”

Charnelle het haar lippe stadig gelek terwyl haar lank fingernaels verder op Karel se duk, hairy arm gestrook het.

“Karel, moenie so blerrie shy wees nie,” het Charnelle gewhisper, “ons is ou vrinne lank voor jy my suster getrou het…”

“Charnelle…” het Karel gese, “is dit kool as ek… umm… jou lekker in die gat steek…?”

“Ag Karel! Jy is so fokken romantic, vir seker is dit kool! Kom, laat ons na my plek gaan, ons kan n bitjie KY loob en biltong koop op pad.”

* * * * *

“Fok, maar Charnelle se plek lyk lekker met al hierdie kerse,” het Karel gedink as hy kaalgat op haar couch gesit het, “net soos daaie laat aand televisie programme op E-TV.”

Karel het sy sagte shlerm in sy hand frantically gemaseer. “Kom nou jou fokken lazy ding,” het Karel vir homself gemumbel, “Charnelle sou nou nou uit die badkamer kom en dan moet jy stuif soos n paal wees sodat ek jou in haar poepgat kan jam.”

As Karel dat gese het, het Charnelle die badkamer deur vinnig oop gegooi sodat dit n hard klap tussen the muur gemaak het.

“Charnelle…” het Karel gese, “ek is fokken speechless…”

Charnelle het daar in leathers gestaan met a rooi rubber gag-ball in haar hand.

“Jy lyk pragtig,” het Karel gese.

“En jy lyk n bitjie saggies ne?” het sy geantwoord.

“Ja, jammer man,” het Karel embarrassed gese, “ek dink ek het n bitjie teveel brannewyn gedrink. Maar as jy my kok kom slurp sal dit lekker hard kry.”

“Jou wish is my kommand,” hey Charnelle al sexy gese as sy op sy knee gekry en Karel se piel in haar mond gesit het.

“Fok ja,” het Karel gese, “dis reg teef, slurp my piesang, aaaahhh.”

Voordat hy geweet wat gebeer het was Karel yster-hard en gereed om Charnelle se Hershey highway te ry.

“Kom nou,” het Karel gese, “laat ek my hard kok vas in jou pragtige gat steek, ek moet huis toe gaan voordat ek die laat aand repeat van Noot Vir Noot mis.”

“Fok, is dit vanaand?” het Charnelle gese, “ek het gedink dit was op Dinsdag aand.”

“Nee, dis vanaand. Nou sit daaie gag in jou mond vas, en gee die KJ vir my. Ek wou jou gat lekker loob sodat dit tear nie.”

“Ja, moenie soos jou boet wees nie, hy het my gat so vreeslik getear ek n poepsak vir n maand gedra het.”

“Wat?!” het Karel gese, “jy en my boet het gatsteek gehe…?”

“Ja, maar moenie worry nie, jou kok is heeltemaal groter.”

“Oo, dis ok then,” het Karel gese as Charnelle die gag in haar mond gesit en oor die koffie tafel gebend het.

Karel het die KJ al oor sy privates gesquirt. “Dis now or never,” het hy gedink, “ek hoop Charnelle haar stinkgat lekker gewas het, ek wou nie any dinglberries in my pubes kry nie.”

Charnelle se gat was die tightest ding Karel in sy hele lewe gevoel het. Dit het n paar stroke gevat voordat hy heeltemaal in was en dan n paar meer voordat hy lekker hard gekom het.

“Aaarrararargrahggrhrggrghahrgagragrgahghhhhhh,” het Karel gese.

“Mmmommommmommmommoo,” het Charnelle terug gemumble.

“Hoe voel dit!” het Karel geskree, “voel dit lekker as ek my kom in jou gat pomp? Ooo ja, vat dit! Wie’s jou pappa? Wies jou pappa teef!”

“Mmmmmomommmmommo,” het Charnelle gese.

“Ahh…” het Karel gese. “Ok, baie dankie Charnelle, ek is klaar.” Charnelle het die gag af gevat en terug na Karel gedraai.

“Het jy my gat geniet?”

“Ja!” het Karel gelukkig geantwoord, “fok, dit het baie lekker gevoel, kan ek you in die gat volgende week ook steek?”

“Vir seker!” het Charnelle geantwoord.

“Dankie tog Charnelle. Lekker aand.”

“En jou Karel,” het Charnelle gese as Karel sy kleure aangetrek en uit die deur gestap het.

“Sjoe, ek hou baie van daaie Karel,” het Charnelle gedink.

“Ek hoop ek nie my krotch krieke vir hom gegee het nie…”

DIE EINDE

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slicktiger — Tue, 06 Jul 2010 21:53:01 +0000

Truth is

slicktiger — Tue, 06 Jul 2010 21:53:05 +0000

If you had to ask most people what really makes them happy, they wouldn’t be able to give you a straight answer. “Different things, being with family, hanging out with friends, going to new places, trying new things, meeting new people…” that’s probably what they’d say.

Me, I’m wired differently from that. Sure, I like those things too and of course the feeling of being madly and passionately in love, the company of good friends when life is shit and you just want to be around someone you don’t have to put on some kind of act for, those things mean a lot to me.

But if you asked me what makes me happy, what feeds my soul and makes me fucking come alive I’d tell you straight, it’s writing.

Words are everything, whether they’re spoken, sung, whispered or written. They’re so deeply entrenched in everything we do that we hardly stop to think just how fucking powerful they are. Take language away from us, the ability to communicate our thoughts and feelings and we’re back scratching in the dirt, hunting animals with sticks, dumb as mud.

What I feel on most days, if I had to be totally honest with myself, is a deep dissatisfaction with what I’ve landed up doing for a living. I shuffle into an office looking like my mom dressed me and sit down in a cubicle farm so quiet, all you can hear is the sound of people typing.

Here I spend hour after hour trying my hardest to please every fucking person I come into contact with while secretly all I’m hoping for is someone to get up on a boardroom table one day, in the middle of some big important meeting and at the top of his or her lungs scream, “THIS IS ALL BULLSHIT!”

Truth is I dug myself into this hole. Me. I did it. And now, instead of making a living doing the one thing I truly love and am good at, I’m fading away, turning milky-white under the fluorescent light, the best fucking years of my life wasted, an hour at a time, working my ass off for other people.

So what do I do? I blog. And somehow it makes me feel better because every post feels like I’m clawing my way, an inch at a time, out of this hole and towards something better.

I haven’t been posting lately. I’ve let life kick me squarely in the guts and rolled over like a fucking pansy and felt sorry for myself.

Well, fuck that. When life gives you lemons, you take those lemons and you fucking throw them back as hard and as fast as you can and you tell life ‘FUCK YOU’.

The Tiger’s back and he’s fucking angry and ready to fuck some shit up.

And yes, THEM’S fightin’ words ;)

-ST

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slicktiger — Wed, 07 Jul 2010 21:50:25 +0000

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slicktiger — Wed, 07 Jul 2010 21:51:04 +0000

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slicktiger — Wed, 07 Jul 2010 21:51:30 +0000

Album Review: Morcheeba – Blood Like Lemonade

slicktiger — Wed, 07 Jul 2010 21:51:33 +0000

There’s a man out there, name of Brett Schewitz, one of the many I’ve met through Twitter who’s proven himself to be a stand-up guy, the kind of dude who says what me means and does what he says, which makes him pretty rare in a world of people who are full of talk and not much else.

Anyway, he hooked me up with the new Morcheeba album, Blood Like Lemonade, about a week before it launched but instead of jumping in there and reviewing it right away, I dicked around for about two months and missed the scoop on this album completely.

So Brett, this review’s for you and the good folks at Sheer Sound, sorry it’s taken so long to bash out, I blame the whisky.

So, Morcheeba. There’s a name you probably haven’t thought of since the late 90s. They KILLED it with their album Big Calm back in 1998, which quickly became the soundtrack to many a late-night toking-session with pseudo-intellectual varsity students the world over smoking ridiculous-looking glass bongs and zoning-out to trip hop masterpieces like “The Sea” and “Part Of The Process”.

Since then it’s been a little patchy for the formidable threesome of DJ Paul Godfrey, multi-instrumentalist Ross Godfrey and singer Skye Edwards, who comprised the band’s original line-up. Remember the nursery-rhyme vacuity of “Rome Wasn’t Built In A Day”? Yeah, it was pop-inspired tracks like that gem that lost Morcheeba almost all it’s street cred.

I mean seriously, “One fine day / We’ll fly away / Don’t you know that Rome wasn’t built in a day / Hey hey hey”. Yeah, and then we’ll make hay, down by the bay, we just may, make hay all day. Dr Seuss could have done a better job.

Around 2003 the band axed Skye Edwards and pumped out another few albums which I’m sure some die hard fan is going to come out of the woodwork and attack me for saying that nobody really gave a crap about.

Queue 2010 and I’m sitting with my headphones on on a sunny Friday at work spinning Blood Like Lemonade and I’m thinking “Holy fuck, this shit’s good.”

The band’s come full circle, both musically and in terms of their line-up, which (thank God) now includes Edwards again and believe me, that fact in itself is reason enough to go out and buy this album right now.

The woman can sing. It’s like listening to Billy Holiday’s older sister. Every note Edwards sings is clear as a bell and warm as a logfire on a winter’s night.

And don’t even get me started on the lyrics, because I honestly won’t stop. The opening track “Crimson”, which is also my favourite on the album starts with some of the most powerful and evocative lines I’ve heard in a long time.

“I can smell the Goodyears burning / And it won’t fade away / Windscreen broken, you’re bleeding / Rolling action replay / Hellbound hopeless for you / Nothing left to hold on to…”

There’s a subtle darkness to “Crimson” that is so goddamn seductive it’s impossible to ignore. It almost sounds like a Massive Attack track, something off Mezzanine, except infinitely more chilled. It’s trip-hop without the pretence, beautiful in its simplicity.

Then cut straight to a track like “I Am The Spring” and you’ll start to understand what makes this album really stand out. “I Am The Spring” is as sparse as it gets, the entire track is just Edwards being accompanied by an acoustic guitar which, in my humble (read: overinflated) opinion is the ultimate litmus test for any musician. Strip all the production and fancy studio effects out of a song and what have you got left?

In this case, you’ve got a powerful and haunting song about love that tells it like it is, ending with the line “I am the spring / Love is blossoming / But I’ll take the fall for you” which, much like love itself, is perfect in its tragedy.

Throw in a track that tells the story of a person who gets addicted to the thrill of murder (“Recipe For Disaster”), one where Edwards takes an honest and introspective look at the band itself (“Even Though”), and the excellently written and produced title track (“Blood Like Lemonade”) which smacks of Big Calm and you’ve got an album that is really hard not to like.

Just watch out for the instrumentals “Mandala” and “Cut To The Bass”, they’re fun the first few times, but the novelty wears off fast after which point they become repetitive and downright boring to listen to, but hey, no album is perfect right?

All in all, I found Blood Like Lemonade to be a great album and it’s sure to go down like a whore on payday the next time you whip that old, ridiculous glass bong out the closet and invite your mates around for an old-school smoke up.

Final Verdict: 7.5/10

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slicktiger — Thu, 08 Jul 2010 18:55:50 +0000

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slicktiger — Thu, 08 Jul 2010 18:56:50 +0000

Our New Neighbours

slicktiger — Thu, 08 Jul 2010 18:56:53 +0000

Don’t you think it’s fucking weird how baby animals from other species are cute to us? I mean, I can understand why we would find our own young cute (it’s so we don’t eat them) but what evolutionary purpose does it serve to find other species cute?

So we got some new neighbours on the wine farm where me and J-Rab live, they moved in about two weeks ago and live in the house adjacent to ours.

Check these little guys out.

I haven’t actually met my new neighbours face to face, they’re still too little to be around strange, disease-ridden Tigers like me, but soon as they are, you bet your ass I’ll post some more pics.

And yes, you’re more than welcome to visit, the full tour costs R350, but I’ll settle for a fine bottle of single malt.

Mail tellthetiger@gmail.com to book, but hurry! Spots are filling up fast ;)

-ST

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slicktiger — Fri, 09 Jul 2010 11:31:46 +0000

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slicktiger — Fri, 09 Jul 2010 11:32:03 +0000

Tell The Tiger (Episode 9)

slicktiger — Fri, 09 Jul 2010 11:32:06 +0000

Picking each week’s Tell The Tiger mail is like shoving your hand into a tank of Piranhas to rescue a kitten. You gotta be quick or that poor sucker’s going to be a little kitty skeleton in about 5 seconds.

Of course, there are always some cats that just deserve to be left in the tank, which brings me neatly to this week’s mail.

S’up ST,

So I’m lank into this chick, but she’s got a kid. Is it wrong to buy it toys and stuff and get it to like me so that she digs me? I don’t see a problem, but my friends think it’s wrong.

Shot bud!

Fuzz

Ok, Fuzz, all I can say here ‘bud’ is hell yeah! Buy that little fucker toys dude! Load bakkies FULL of shit from Toys R Us, back it up into her driveway, get a shovel and start off loading!

In fact, why don’t you take it a step further? Take the kid to the movies a couple of times, go ride bikes together, buy him ice creams on hot summer days, read him bedtime stories and tuck him in at night, then go bang his mom stukkend and when she starts getting clingy, dump the bitch.

Wow, is it lunch already? That’s all the time we have this week folks. If anyone else has any advice for this fine, upstanding young man, by all means let rip, you could be saving some poor child the psychological scarring of having this douche as a stepdad.

Have a killer weekend ;)

-ST

Everything In Its Right Place

slicktiger — Sun, 11 Jul 2010 12:49:36 +0000

A song that perfectly describes itself

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slicktiger — Sun, 11 Jul 2010 13:00:22 +0000

Song For Sunday

slicktiger — Sun, 11 Jul 2010 13:00:25 +0000

Doing weekends right is an art that can take a lifetime to perfect.

Me, I’m still learning. Some weekends I spend partying my ass off and living to regret it when I’m suddenly back chained to my desk on a Monday, blinking red-eyed and unshaven in the artificial light and wondering how the fuck I got there.

Other weekends I chill to the max (read: do absolutely fuck all) and arrive on Monday feeling somehow cheated and like I’ve wasted my time in the worst possible way.

Depending on how the weekend’s gone, these feelings of regret usually start setting in late afternoon on Sundays while I make frivolous attempts to at least tidy the house or put on a load of washing or SOMETHING.

Today’s different though because I actually got a shitload of stuff done this weekend and I’m pretty damn proud of that.

On rare days like these, the Radiohead song ‘Everything In Its Right Place’ starts playing in my head like this:

[audio http://slicktiger.files.wordpress.com/2010/07/01-everything-in-its-right-place.mp3]

So I’ll leave you with that thought while I get ready for the WC final tonight where I’ll be supporting Holland because my sister lives there and I’m a huge fan of the underdog, having been one more times than I can count ;)

Later masturbators.

-ST

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slicktiger — Sun, 11 Jul 2010 14:12:59 +0000

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slicktiger — Sun, 11 Jul 2010 14:14:58 +0000

Afrikaans Porn – TRANSLATED!

slicktiger — Mon, 12 Jul 2010 06:00:00 +0000

Last week Monday, I shocked and enthralled the Afrikaans world with my epic short story entiteld: Afrikaans Porn. Seconds after posting it, a whole flood of people retweeted the piece, both of them commenting on how I’d reached a whole other level of blogging excellence by catering specifically for the Afrikaans market in such a thoughtful way.

What was even more amazing than the piece itself was the Google Chrome translation of it, which my main man Civilian sent through to me on the weekend.

Prepare yourself for the awesomeness of this post. Actually no, fuck that. Nothing can prepare you for the awesomeness I’m about to blow your mind away with.

Good Luck.

AFRIKAANS PORN (TRANSLATED)

It was a cold Monday evening, and Charles Bester was in his favorite bar Charnelle, enjoying a bitjie brannewyn and coke while Kurt Darren on the jukebox a nice song played.

"You know what the fucking problem with Marikie is?" Charles said as he was a long drink from his brannewyn took, "she is not at all adventurous."

"Not adventurous not?" Said Charnelle asked, her eyes darting between Charles' face and his krotch, "which means you, Charles?"

"Well, the thing is, I Marikie and is now nearly five years of loyal and do not take me wrong I fucking love her in pieces."

"Jaaa ..." said Charnelle said as her long, pink fingernails on Charles' duk, hairy arm gestrook did.

"But it does not matter how hard I pray, she would not gatsteek try it!"

"Wow!" Said Charnelle called out, "but you're a naughty boy for poor Marikie daaie to ask!"

Charles has blood-red geblush. "How drunk am I?" He thought. "I certainly would not Charnelle this shit about me and her sister whore.”

"Sorry Charnelle, I, I, fuck me mat..."

Charnelle has slowly licked her lips while her length fingernaels further Charles' duk, hairy arm gestrook have.

"Charles, do not be so blerrie Shy," said Charnelle gewhisper, "we are old buddies long before my sister had married ..."

"Charnelle..." Charles said, "it is cabbage than I... umm... your nice hole in the pitch...?"

"Oh, Charles! You're so fucking romantic, for sure it is cabbage! Come, let us go to my place, we can be a bitjie KY loob and buy biltong on the way. "

* * * * * * * * *

"Fuck, but Charnelle's place looks nice with all those candles," said Charles as he thought of her naked on couch sat, "as daaie late night television programs on E-TV."

Charles has his soft shlerm in his hand frantically gemaseer. "Come now, you fucking lazy thing," said Charles to himself gemumbel, "Charnelle would now come through the bathroom, and then you active as a pole so that I can in her poepgat jam."

As Charles said that had Charnelle the bathroom door open quickly so that it cast a harsh blow between the wall had made.

"Charnelle ..." Charles said, "I'm fucking Speechless ..."

Charnelle lived in Leathers stood with a red rubber ball gag in her hand.

"You look beautiful," Charles said.

"And you look like a softly bitjie ne?" She replied.

"Yes, sorry man," said Charles Embarrassed said, "I think I have a bitjie brannewyn drank too much.But if you cook me come slurp it will get nice hard. "

"Your wish is my kommand," hey sexy Charnelle already said as she got on his knee and Charles' dick in her mouth were.

"Fuck yes," Charles said, "that's right bitch, my banana trunk, aaaahhh."

Before he knew what was Charles gebeer iron-hard and ready to Charnelle's Hershey highway driving.
"Come now," Charles said, "I leave my hard cook fast in your beautiful hole stretch, I must go home before I leave the evening repeat of Noot vir Noot wrong."

"Fuck, is it tonight?" Said Charnelle said, "I thought it was on Tuesday evening."

"No, it's tonight. Now sit daaie gag in your mouth down, and give the KJ to me. I wanted to enjoy loob hole so it does not tear. "

"Yes, do as you are not guilty, he gave me so terrible hole I getear poepsak a month for a bore."

"What?!" Charles said, "you and me modeled gatsteek whole new ...?"

"Yes, but do not worry, your chef is completely bigger."

"Oo, that's ok then," Charles said as Charnelle the gag in her mouth and sat on the coffee table gebend did.

Charles has already KJ gesquirt over his privates. "It's now or never," he thought, "I hope her Charnelle stinkgat good washing, I did not want any dinglberries my pubes have not."

Charnelle's hole was the tightest thing Charles throughout his life felt. It took a few bands before he was completely in and then a few more good hard before he came.

"Aaarrararargrahggrhrggrghahrgagragrgahghhhhhh," Charles said.

"Mmmommommmommmommoo," said Charnelle gemumble back.

"How does it feel!" Charles shouted, "it feels good when I come into your hole pump? Ohh yes, take it!Who's your daddy? Wies your daddy bitch! "

"Mmmmmomommmmommo," he said Charnelle.

"Ahh ..." Charles said. "Okay, thank Charnelle, I'm ready." Charnelle have taken the gag off and back to Charles commented.

"Did you enjoy my hole?"

"Yes!" Charles replied happily, "jib, it was very nice feeling, I can you in the hole next week stretch?"

"For sure!" Said Charnelle replied.

"Thank goodness Charnelle. Pleasant evening. "

"And you, Charles," he said as Charles Charnelle colors dressed and out the door walked.

"Wow, I really enjoy daaie Charles," said Charnelle thought.

"I hope I am not my krotch crickets for him gave ..."

THE END

-ST

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slicktiger — Mon, 12 Jul 2010 17:13:08 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 12 Jul 2010 17:14:10 +0000

The Tiger’s Top 3 Swearers Of All Time

slicktiger — Tue, 13 Jul 2010 06:00:00 +0000

Swearing is something nobody stops to think about because all of us do it all the fucking time. There was a time when slipping the odd ‘fuck’ into everyday conversation was like flashing your willy at your girlfriend’s parents or flashing your vagina at err, well, anyone really.

I trawled the internet for information about swearing to back my theory up about how nobody gives a fuck about it anymore and after countless hours of searching, found the following useful infographic:

As this graph clearly illustrates, since the new millennium began way back in 2000, people’s attitudes to swearing have changed quite drastically. So much so, that except for a sharp spike around 2010 (which was probably a result of the graph artist being shouted at by his boss for drawing silly graphs instead of doing his day job) we can see without a shadow of a doubt that people actually enjoy the fuck out of swearing.

Nowadays you can’t even go to the fucking video store without hearing a ‘shit’, ‘ass’ or ‘fuck’ somewhere, whether it’s the dude behind the counter lambasting you for returning the Lord Of The Rings boxset 6 months late or the car guard outside attacking you verbally for reversing over his leg, it seems EVERYONE thinks it’s cool to let rip with a ‘eat shit muthufukka’ whenever it suits them.

I blame rap music for this diabolical drop in societal standards. That and Verimark infomercials which though they may not contain any swearing, really make you want to swear.

Inevitably, with this increase in volume of swearing comes a marked decrease in the quality of swearing. People just don’t say ‘fuck’ like they used to, they don’t say it with any feeling or any meaning which I think is not only an insult to this brilliantly versatile word, but also reflects poorly on the swearer himself who is probably only doing it to sound ‘hip’.

And so I’ve compiled a list of my top 3 swearers of all time so that people can listen to these cats and learn how to swear fucking well, because until you can do that, no one’s gonna take you seriously, not your boss, not your girlfriend, not her parents, not your parents, not even your friends, nobody.

So pay attention, this will change your life.

NUMERO TRES: Jack Nicholson

Jack Nicholson has been swearing since way back when he was banging your mom at Woodstock, which makes him a certified pro at dropping the F-bomb with maximum impact.

He’s got the whole devilish charm thing working for him tinged with a healthy dose of sheer insanity which makes him really compelling to watch because you constantly get the feeling like he’s going to flip the fuck out at any given moment.

When he says ‘fuck’ he means it. He doesn’t just fire the word out there willy nilly, no. He says it with enough gravity to crush planets. He makes you feel like he’s swearing at you, like you’re the one who fucked up, asshole.

Just rent The Shining and watch for the scene when he verbally assaults Shelley Duvall on the staircase of the Overlook Hotel. Or how about the one where he explains to Duvall why she shouldn’t bother him while he’s writing? It’s pretty brutal.

Jack Torrance: Wendy, let me explain something to you. Whenever you come in here and interrupt me, you're breaking my concentration. You're distracting me. And it will then take me time to get back to where I was. You understand?
Wendy Torrance: Yeah.
Jack Torrance: Now, we're going to make a new rule. When you come in here and you hear me typing
[types]
Jack Torrance: or whether you DON'T hear me typing, or whatever the FUCK you hear me doing; when I'm in here, it means that I am working, THAT means don't come in. Now, do you think you can handle that?
Wendy Torrance: Yeah.
Jack Torrance: Good. Now why don't you start right now and get the fuck out of here? Hm?

It’s bad enough just reading it, but hearing him say it makes you want to get the fuck out of there too. Take a note out of Jack’s book, swear like you’re dangerously close to losing your mind and people will simultaneously fear AND respect you.

NUMERO DOS: Edward Norton

What’s great about Ed Norton’s swears is that he is able to load his colourful language with SARCASM AND IRONY. When he swears he sounds like he’s sick to death of all this fucking hypocritical bullshit y’know?

His ‘fucks’ are LADEN with burning, biting sarcasm that communicate a kind of world-weariness that can’t be faked.

You can’t get angry at a guy like Ed Norton when he swears at you because he’s so completely beyond giving a fuck that you’d just look like an asshole if you took any offence to him calling you a backward, cousin-fucking retard.

Of course, when he’s angry his ‘fucks’ land like haymakers, just watch the monologue scene when Norton’s staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror in The 25th Hour and you’ll know exactly what I mean.

Monty Brogan: Yeah, fuck you, too. Fuck *me*? Fuck *you*, Fuck you and this whole city and everyone in it. Fuck the panhandlers, grubbing for money, and smiling at me behind my back. Fuck the squeegee men dirtying up the clean windshield of my car - get a fucking job! Fuck the Sikhs and the Pakistanis bombing down the avenues in decrepit cabs, curry steaming out their pores stinking up my day. Terrorists in fucking training. SLOW THE FUCK DOWN! Fuck the Chelsea boys with their waxed chests and pumped-up biceps. Going down on each other in my parks and on my piers, jingling their dicks on my Channel 35. Fuck the Korean grocers with their pyramids of overpriced fruit and their tulips and roses wrapped in plastic. Ten years in the country, still no speaky English? Fuck the Russians in Brighton Beach. Mobster thugs sitting in cafés, sipping tea in little glasses, sugar cubes between their teeth. Wheelin' and dealin' and schemin'. Go back where you fucking came from! Fuck the black-hatted Chassidim, strolling up and down 47th street in their dirty gabardine with their dandruff. Selling South African apartheid diamonds! Fuck the Wall Street brokers. Self-styled masters of the universe. Michael Douglas, Gordon Gekko wannabe mother fuckers, figuring out new ways to rob hard working people blind. Send those Enron assholes to jail for FUCKING LIFE!

Powerful stuff. When he doesn’t give a fuck, his swears are cool as hell, but when he does you get the fuck out of his way FAST.

NUMERO UNO: Chris Rock

No man on this Earth swears with the passion, explosiveness or brute force of Chris Rock, it’s like getting blasted in the face with a shotgun, awe-inspiring stuff I tell ya!

The thing about Mr Rock is he relishes his swear words, he knows how powerful they can be when delivered correctly and has probably worked his whole life to make sure that no other man on this planet can match him when it comes to the sheer force of his swears.

He’s like a fucking force of nature, especially when he’s doing stand-up. Rent one of his shows and watch it nice and loud to get the full effect.

Also, the man’s funny as fuck.

Chris Rock: Damn. It's all fucked. The world's fucked up man. Michael Jackson lost his mind. What the hell is wrong with Michael? Another kid? Another kid? I thought it was groundhog's day when I heard that shit. Another kid. Get the fuck out of here. That's how much we love Michael. We love Michael so much. We let the first kid slide. Another kid. I'm fuckin done. I'm done with Michael. I was a fan my whole life. I am fuckin' done! I'm handing in my glove. I saw Michael on 60 Minutes. Ed Bradley tried his best to make Michael look like a mammal. Someone that drink water and breathe air, right? He gave Michael the easiest question in the world, the easiest GED questions in the world, and Michael could not pass the test. He said, "Oh Michael, do you think it's proper for a 45 year old man to sleep in the bed with 13 year old boys?"
[Michael says]
Chris Rock: "Yes".
[Ed Bradley says]
Chris Rock: "Ok, ok, oh let me rephrase that question." "Michael, would you let your children sleep in a bed with a 45 year old man that has been accused of child molestation?"
[Michael says]
Chris Rock: "Yes". Ed Bradley looked at Michael Jackson like he wanted to say, "Nigga, is you crazy?" Like he wanted to take the 60 Minutes clock and push the shit forward and say "get the fuck off my show!"

Hope you’ve enjoyed my choice of top 3 swearers of all time. I’d challenge the people reading this to add to this list, but I know they won’t because a) I’ve fucking nailed it! NAILED IT IN THE ASS! and b) No one fucking reads this.

-ST

02_-_next_girl_-_brothers

slicktiger — Tue, 13 Jul 2010 16:15:00 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 13 Jul 2010 16:21:46 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 13 Jul 2010 16:22:25 +0000

Album Review: The Black Keys – Brothers

slicktiger — Wed, 14 Jul 2010 06:00:00 +0000

I can’t tell you how badly I’ve been itching over the past two months to write this review. Usually if an album’s older than a month I won’t touch it because this is the internet goddamnit! If you miss something by even a week, it’s dead and buried.

I’m making an exception in this case though for one simple reason: this is an album that will go down as one of rock music’s finest and as such, it doesn’t matter if I post this review now or two years from now, this album is timeless and will sound just as good then as it does now.

There’s a universal formula that you can apply to most bands almost without fail. The first album comes out rough and ready, gets a few people talking, has one or two singles but otherwise doesn’t make much of a splash. A decent producer gets a hold of the band and turns the second album multi-platinum and suddenly they’re everyone’s favourite overnight.

By album number three, the pressure’s on. The band changes its sound, loses half its fans and spirals into a dark period of drug-fuelled loathing and embarrassing moments at awards ceremonies.

Then a few years later they bang out a couple more albums that deal largely with how they kicked the drugs, how much they love their long-suffering wives and what being a dad is like, by which stage no one really gives a rat’s ass anymore.

The Black Keys are not that band. Since their debut The Big Come Up back in 2002, they have steadily gotten better and better with each successive album, continually exploring and pushing the boundaries of the blues rock genre, picking up from where legends like Robert Johnson, Junior Kimbrough, Screamin’ Jay Hawkins and Hendrix himself left off, fine-tuning that sound and making it their own.

Right from the first few seconds of the opening track “Everlasting Love”, the foot-tappingly infectious grooves that define this album strut confidently to the fore and make it known that what you’re listening to is fucking cool, plain and simple.

The tone throughout the album is so mind-blowingly warm and authentic, it almost sounds like you’re listening to vinyl. Not only is it blues rock the way it was meant to be played but, more importantly, it’s blues rock the way it was meant to be heard.

“Next Girl” comes on big and bold, strapping its fists like a prizefighter going into a bare-knuckle brawl which, considering the song’s written about an ex-girlfriend, speaks volumes about how expertly the duo understand and handle their material.

If you’re going through a nasty break-up, there’s a good chance “Next Girl” will instantly become the best song you’ve ever heard in your life. Auerbach’s riffs tear through the rhythm section with the kind of subtle menace every man’s felt at some stage in his life when contemplating what a bitch his ex was.

It’s poetic in its simplicity “My next girl / Will be nothing like my ex girl / I made mistakes back then / I’ll never do it again.”

It’s an album that shifts gears fluidly between upbeat, big drum, fuzzy guitar riff-laden monsters like “Howlin’ For You” to slower, more sincere blues-driven tracks like “Unknown Brother” and the awesome cover of Jerry Butler’s “Never Gonna Give You Up” (not to be confused with the Rick Astley song of the same name that’s only cool because it’s crap) and somehow manages to stay solid as a rock throughout all 15 tracks.

I usually take great joy in slating the songs that piss me off on an album, even the albums that I really love, but the honest truth here is that on Brothers there are none. Auerbach and Carney keep Brothers lean and mean, which makes for a refreshing change from albums that have three great tracks and nine shit ones thrown in as pure filler.

My expectations were set high right from the start with Brothers, and it still managed to surpass them which basically never happens.

Brothers is a sure-fire winner in my books and definitely gets my vote as the best album I’ve heard this year so far. I’m leaving you with “Next Girl” for you to decide for yourself whether this album is everything I’ve hyped it up to be.

Enjoy ;)

[audio http://slicktiger.files.wordpress.com/2010/07/02_-_next_girl_-_brothers.mp3]

Final Verdict: 9/10

-ST

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slicktiger — Wed, 14 Jul 2010 15:59:46 +0000

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slicktiger — Wed, 14 Jul 2010 16:00:04 +0000

SlickTiger Industries Presents: USOMFA Tour ‘10

slicktiger — Thu, 15 Jul 2010 06:00:00 +0000

Guys, some pretty earth-shattering news. Please sit down for this.

In exactly one week’s time, I’m climbing into the belly of a giant steel bird and heading for the United States Of Muthu Fukkin’ America (USOMFA) for the first time in my 26 years of being alive.

I know, crazy hey? They actually gave me a Visa, and not just any Visa, a TEN YEAR Visa motherbitches!

Even more hectic than that is the fact that after nearly 3 years of dating, I’m finally going to meet J-Rab’s parents and twin brothers. We’ll be staying with them over in the USOMFA for a full two weeks – sound like the plotline for a slapstick block-buster comedy starring Ben Stiller and Robert De Nero? You bet your ass!

While I’m over there, I’ll be launching SlickTiger Industries’ latest initiative: USOMFA Tour ‘10.

Catchy title ain’t it? Yeah, I’m pretty amazing like that.

I’ll be getting to the bottom of this crazy-ass place they call the USOMFA and really figure out what it’s all about, the people, the places, fuck, everything.

Whilst on the USOMFA Tour ‘10, you can expect in-depth interviews and profiles the likes of which have never been seen on this site before. It will be like you’re right there with me, living the life of an actual American, taking in all the sights and sounds and getting to grips with the state I’ll be visiting: Massachusetts baby!

How do I feel about the trip? Pretty damn excited. Am I nervous about meeting the parents? Hell no! I have it on good authority from one of J-Rab’s oldest friends that they’re exactly like the Weasleys from Harry Potter, so I got nothing to worry about.

This is going to be real-time, real-life, hardcore investigative citizen journalism at its very finest so yeah, just be careful reading it or your head could explode with awesome.

So if you guys have any suggestions of stuffs to check out in Massachusetts (I’ll be staying in Essex), lemme know. And if you happen to live in Essex then fer chrissakes drop a mail to tellthetiger@gmail.com and let’s hang out!*

-ST

*As long as you promise not to kidnap me and make lampshades out of my flesh

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slicktiger — Mon, 19 Jul 2010 05:39:50 +0000

Monday Morning Kicks

slicktiger — Mon, 19 Jul 2010 05:39:56 +0000

Danny de Vito always kinda creeped me out because what the hell is he? He’s not a dwarf and he’s not a midget, he’s just a really short guy who I can’t look at without picturing the Penguin from Batman.

He’s a great actor though, I decided this on Friday night when J-Rab, Jennyjenjen (previously known as Jenni-fuh) and me invited ourselves around to Barbarian’s place after a few drinks at Trenchtown and spent the whole night watching It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia.

I don’t know if I’ve been living under a rock the past few years and after posting this a whole bunch of you are going to think I fit into the ‘laggard’ section of the adoption curve (GOD FORBID!) but seriously, I’ve never heard anyone talk about It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia and it’s the funniest fucking TV show I’ve watched since Flight of the Conchords.

The humour’s completely different though – Sunny In Philly is full of loud, shouty Americans doing insanely stupid and fucked up shit to one another that had me crying I was laughing so hard.

Think Three’s Company on crack and without the lame canned laughter. I hate canned laughter. Those are dead people laughing, did you know that? Yeah, canned laughter is recycled over and over so the next time you hear it in a sitcom, just think about that for a second. Dead people.

You know a TV show’s a winner when the episodes have titles like “Mac’s Banging The Waitress”, “Mac and Charlie Die” and “Who Pooped The Bed?”

And to top it all off they got Danny de Vito in there playing Frank Reynolds who frequently exploits and insults anyone he comes into contact with and is generally shady, unethical and pretty siff all in all.

And so I leave you with the following clip to give you a laugh on what is otherwise a mind-numbingly crap Monday.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9VZansPlb1o]

Catch you crazy cats tomorrow.

-ST

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slicktiger — Mon, 19 Jul 2010 20:36:53 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 19 Jul 2010 20:37:12 +0000

Vote Slick

slicktiger — Tue, 20 Jul 2010 06:00:00 +0000

Any day now nominations for the SA Blog Awards 2010 will be officially opened which means over the next few weeks you can pretty much bet your ass you’ll be bombarded with posts on all your favourite blogs begging you shamelessly to vote for them in this year’s Awards.

Question you gotta ask yourself when you’re voting for all those other pricks though is “If I had to get into a barfight with 10 angry, roid-fuelled Lebanese bouncers, would this blogger have my back?”

And the answer you’ll find in most cases is no. He won’t have your back, he doesn’t care about you because all you are to him is another hit on his site. You’re just a number to him, he wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire.

I’m different from those other internet dorks. I’d piss on you! I’d piss all over you! You guys aren’t just numbers to me, you’re my imaginary internet friends and if that ain’t worth something, then I don’t know what the fuck is.

I’m gonna need a little help on this one though cause I’m going in there guns blazin’:

Most Humorous South African Blog
Best Post On A South African Blog (KLAPPING GYM BOET!)
Best Original Writing On A South African Blog
Best New Blog
Best Music Blog
Best Personal Blog and of course
Best South African Blog Of The Year

I’ll be honest, I’d like nothing more than to walk into that awards ceremony and walk out with an armload of awards while the rest of the blogging fraternity of this country is left standing there thinking “Who the fuck is that guy?”

Wouldn’t that be funny? Wouldn’t that be a moment straight out of a movie? Some guy with his scrapyard blogsite that he cobbled together with hardly more than a Wordpress theme and a whole lot of heart goes toe to toe with all the big players out there with their sites loaded to the gills with advertisers and sponsors and actually beats them!? Wouldn’t that be fucking cool?

A vote for me is a vote for every crazy bastard out there who’s ever picked a fight with the biggest, meanest guy in the bar and won. It’s a vote for every true artist out there who’s had to shelve their dreams so they could get a crummy day job in a cubicle farm to pay their bills. It’s a vote for the guy who, no matter how many times he gets beaten down, gets back up and carries on fighting because he knows deep down that unless you’re fighting for something, you aren’t living for anything.

I’ve sweated blood for this blog, no shit. I’ve woken up early, stayed up late, made my girlfriend pretend to be dead to shoot a video about necrophilia, stolen time from work, stolen time from my friends and God knows who else to write the content that I do for this site and yeah, some of it’s crap, but some of it’s good too and correct me if I’m wrong, but we’ve had some good laughs over the last few months right?

I got this one shot to step in there outta nowhere and blow everyone, everyone the fuck away and so I’m asking you, one goddamn crazy jungle cat to the next, will you help me do that?

They haven’t officially opened the voting yet for the nominations phase, but when they do, the URL is: http://website.sablogawards.com/2010/

Let’s show ‘em how it feels to get taken down by the undercat ;)

-ST

STP vs Nirvana

slicktiger — Wed, 21 Jul 2010 05:58:01 +0000

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slicktiger — Wed, 21 Jul 2010 06:05:57 +0000

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slicktiger — Wed, 21 Jul 2010 06:06:32 +0000

Album Review: Stone Temple Pilots

slicktiger — Wed, 21 Jul 2010 06:06:36 +0000

I used to like this band. Back in the 90s they had some pretty killer songs and their debut album Core (1992) was definitely one of the better albums to come out of the grunge era.

Their second and third albums were also ok, but by the time albums four and five rolled around it was pretty obvious to their rapidly diminishing fan base that whatever magic these grunge / alternative / arena rockers had back in the early 90s was pretty much dead and bloated.*

So why, I ask you, why in God’s name would you want to come back, nine years later and record another album?

There’s only one excuse to go there, and that’s if you’ve been working long and hard over those nine years to write material that really gets people sitting up and listening, material that lives up to the hype a nine year hiatus is likely to create, but did Stone Temple Pilots do that? Did they release that album?

No. They did not release that album. They released a turd instead. Another almighty stinker to remind the world that while the grunge era might have been badass while it was happening but it’s fucking over now and should be buried in the same landfill our flannel shirts ended up in.

From the opening track “Between the Lines” this album aims low and misses. How about these for brilliantly written, awe-inspiring lyrics, “Penguins don’t fly / Crocodile Sunday smile / Really love to fish / But don’t like super-fishy people”.

Even worse is the way “Between the Lines” shamelessly rips off the Nirvana classic “Stay Away” like nobody’s business. Hit play and see for yourself.

[audio http://slicktiger.files.wordpress.com/2010/07/stp-vs-nirvana.mp3]

Do those two vocal lines sound a little similar to you? Yeah, that’s because at best all this album amounts to is a half-assed attempt at rehashing what other bands did much, much better back in the 90s.

One minute they sound like a bad Soundgarden cover band (“Take a Load Off”) and the next they’re banging out Blind Melon-type choruses with reckless abandon (“Fast As I Can”), but that’s not even the worst of it.

The worst of it is the track “Cinnamon” which sounds like it was written and performed by Hanson. And then to prove they can still shake things up, they end the album with the track “Samba Nova” which, as the name suggests, sounds like a samba song someone wrote after pushing two Es up his arse.

When they’re not ripping off everyone from Blind Melon to Spacehog to David Bowie (I swear the chorus line in “Dare If You Dare” is taken verbatim from the Bowie classic “All The Young Dudes”) they’re trawling their previous albums for riffs they can regurgitate to try and make sound fresh.

The closest this album comes to producing a half-decent track is the bizarrely titled “Hickory Dichotomy” which has a certain nursery rhyme catchiness to it if you don’t mind listening to frontman Scott Weiland’s meandering pseudo-intellectual lyrics.

Like I said, I used to like this band, I really did, but I just feel that the new self-titled album is about as interesting as listening to an hour long sound effects record of traffic noise.

Final Verdict: 3/10

*10 points for anyone who sees what I did there. TEN!

STP vs Nirvana

slicktiger — Wed, 21 Jul 2010 06:12:51 +0000

STP vs Nirvana

slicktiger — Wed, 21 Jul 2010 16:45:00 +0000

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slicktiger — Wed, 21 Jul 2010 20:55:09 +0000

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slicktiger — Wed, 21 Jul 2010 20:55:41 +0000

A Vision Of USOMFA

slicktiger — Thu, 22 Jul 2010 06:00:00 +0000

William Blake. Now there was a crazy fucking cat. The dude used to sit naked in his garden with his wife (also naked) and re-enact scenes from his favourite plays. He also used to experience intense visions in which demons spoke to him and in one famous incident, gave him a guided tour of the afterlife.

Me, I get visions too, but they’re usually after I’ve drunk the house dry and I have to resort to straining meths through bread to get a few more kicks before the police come.

Tonight at 11.30 I get in a big ‘ol steel bird and fly the fuck to America. It’s my first trip over there so my head’s been spinning with all kinds of crazy-assed scenarios, like a mental collage of every American movie I ever watched, because I have no idea what it’s going to be like.

American food. What’s it taste like? What are the people like? Fuck, what’s jet-lag like? I’ve never even experienced jet-lag, hells bells!

More than that I’m thinking about J-Rab’s family who, I’m finally going to meet after three years of dating their belter of a daughter and sister. What are they like? Will they let me drink meths in the house?

Does America even have meths?

The next post I bang out will be on American soil and I plan to stack it to the max with a whole bunch of pics so you guys can see the crazy shit me and J-Rab got up to. Keep in mind there’s a 6-hour time difference though, so I’ll be blogging from the past, hitting you with posts at all kinds of fucked-up times, that’s how we roll in America.

Too fucking crazy guys, FUCK I’m excited as a kid at Christmas.

So think of me as you’re drifting off tonight, I’ll be way up there in the clouds somewhere while you’re counting electric sheep, en route to Amsterdam for a 4-hour stop over and then straight to Logon Airport in Boston to meet the parents.

One last question before I go though – Arcade Fire, The Black Keys, The National, The Dead Weather or Kings Of Leon?

Choices, choices ;)

Later party people.

-ST

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slicktiger — Mon, 26 Jul 2010 02:46:38 +0000

USOMFA Tour Chapter 1: The Phenomenal Pilot

slicktiger — Mon, 26 Jul 2010 06:00:00 +0000

I tell ya, the tour kicked off on Thursday night to a fucking killer start. It was like something out of a movie, a whole host of shit going all wrong and fucked up, one thing after the next.

Craziest part was the accident that one of our crew members had a few hours before our plane was scheduled to take off. J-Rab heard it was one of our pilots – the poor guy got into a car accident and couldn’t fly.

So they had to get an emergency pilot to take the guy’s place which delayed our flight by 2 hours.

That pilot, the one in the accident, he has no idea what a party we had because of his accident, no idea. If I could meet that pilot, I’d fucking hug the man. I’d thank him personally for the badass time we had, a lot of which I filmed on my cell phone and am panning to cut up into a nice, shitty-quality show reel and put up for you crazy cats tomorrow.

In the meantime, here’s a clue where we wound up for the day because of that phenomenal pilot.

God bless that phenomenal pilot.

God bless his phenomenal pilot soul.

Watch for the video party people, it’ll be epic ;)

-ST

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slicktiger — Mon, 02 Aug 2010 03:14:12 +0000

USOMFA Tour ‘10 Update: America is FULL of Viruses

slicktiger — Mon, 02 Aug 2010 03:14:16 +0000

What happens when you don’t blog for awhile is this crushing feeling of guilt sets in and slowly saps the life out of you until you find yourself blind drunk at 4 in the morning, running around the desert in Las Vegas, looking for strippers and cocaine.

Or maybe that’s just me ;)

Thing is, the day after that last post about our flight getting delayed and taking a badass detour on our way to USOMFA, J-Rab’s laptop got hit by about 5 really malicious, bloodthirsty viruses that fucked shit up but good.

Worst thing was I was mid-post when they struck so I look like Mr Badguy, surfing midget porn or something right when shit started going down.

We fought the viruses for a good couple of days during which I put my blogging on the backburner, thinking that it would just be a day or two before we got J-Rab’s machine back to normal. Sad truth is it’s totally fucked in every conceivable way, so I jury-rigged the computer J-Rab’s stepdad uses as their printer server to blog off and here I am, at 10pm on a hot summer night in Massachusetts, finally banging out a couple of words about this crazy trip.

I wish you could see this place, spend a day driving the green and leafy roads that connect one place to the next here because I’m not sure me writing about it is going to do it any justice.

The houses have no fences here and they’re mostly wooden and have two or three stories. Every third house flies an American flag by the front door and the cars are all fucking huge 4x4s that people drive at considerate speeds down the highways and byways so as not to upset the other drivers.

It ain’t Africa here. You won’t get randomly cut off by some maniac behind the wheel of a taxi and when you stop at traffic lights, there’s no one begging for change or waiting for an opportunity to rob you blind.

Those little things, those are the first things you notice.

When I first got here, I tried to see if I could spot some kind of key differentiating thing between Americans and other people, but came up with nothing. They are no fatter or thinner than people back home, they are no darker or lighter in skin colour and they are no taller or shorter in height.

They’re just people. There’s really nothing distinctly American about them except their accents, but I’m sure there’s a lot more under the surface, but you don’t get that stuff until you live in a place.

We visited Salem on Thursday and checked out the cemetery where the Judge from the Salem Witch Trials is buried, the sick fuck who condemned at least 18 people to death for being ‘witches’.

Craziest thing is that just around the corner there’s a second cemetery where they’ve engraved a number of stones with the names of the people who were hanged for being witches because they were never given proper graves with headstones.

Among the names I read was John Proctor himself, the protagonist in The Crucible. It was eerie reading his name in stone that day, it was one of those rare moments when the real world and the world of fiction collide and you find yourself in the middle of that collision, changed in some way you can’t quite grasp yet.

And from somewhere deep in my soupy brain, I remembered the words Elizabeth Proctor said to John in The Crucible and smiled.

“You’re a good man John,” she said, “only somewhat bewildered.”

I’m going to try do this again tomorrow and the next day and the next. My time here is fading fast, I need to capture these crazy days while I can.

-ST

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slicktiger — Mon, 02 Aug 2010 16:56:47 +0000

We Interrupt the USOMFA Tour To Bring You This Important Announcement

slicktiger — Mon, 02 Aug 2010 16:56:51 +0000

As of today, the nominations are officially open for the SA Blog Awards 2010. In fact if you look DIRECTLY to the right of this post, you’ll see the badge I’ve stuck up on this site for you to click on which automatically nominates me for the following 3 categories:

Best SA Blog
Best New Blog
Best Post On A Blog

Nominating me for the SA Blog Awards will not only guarantee you a place in heaven, but it will also grant you an extra 3 inches onto your penis or your money back!

For girls it will instantly transform you into an amazing driver, just like this lady right here:

So don’t delay – nominate me TODAY and I’ll make your life as awesome as a DOUBLE RAINBOW!

-ST

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slicktiger — Tue, 03 Aug 2010 04:35:13 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 03 Aug 2010 04:35:32 +0000

USOMFA Tour Day 9: Trip To Boston

slicktiger — Tue, 03 Aug 2010 04:35:33 +0000

I can’t stand those asshole touristy types who move in herds, taking pictures of every damn thing they come across and asking all manner of dumbass questions like “when was this building built?” and “what part of the city is this?” and “what percentage of your burger patties are made up of rat meat?”

I prefer running with child-like glee up the streets and alleyways of new cities, soaking up everything I see and firing off random pictures of cool shit that I come across using pseudo art nouveau-ish composition to make people think I’m smarter than I really am.

Exhibit A: The Docks Where We Caught Our Ferry Into Boston City Centre

Today we struck out for Boston itself and had a pretty badass time there. The city is very clean and only smelled bad in one or two places we came across, which is much better than say Joburg city centre, which smells like ass and looks only marginally better than the version of South Africa depicted in District 9.

We caught a ferry by the name of “Rita” into Boston harbour which went surprisingly fast and was quite rad except for the part when they blasted the horn to signal we were departing and I nearly shat my pants.

Exhibit B: Rita

But the second we landed and got off I immediately felt cheated. There, on the other side of the dock was a MUCH better boat that kicked Rita’s fucking ASS!

I present to you Exhibit C: CODZILLA!

What’s cool about Boston is all the tall buildings that tower above you, reminding you that no matter how important you might think you are, you’re actually less than a speck of dust on the face of the planet when you stop to think about it.

Exhibit D: A Tall Building That Made Me Think That

All my cynical ramblings aside though, Boston is one killer city. It’s alive and has that distinctive 1st world feeling that SA tries so hard to fake but just can’t match in any way, shape, size or form.

We’re planning a second attack on Boston before we leave on Saturday, so I’ll post some more pics when we do, but until then, here’s a great pic I took of a brass frog that you could even say is a great example of some VERY creative composition.

Exhibit E: Brace Yourself…

I’m banging posts out like nobody’s business right now so that more people visit the site and vote for me in the SA blog awards (see banner on the right) so tune in at least twice a day for regular updates.

And don’t forget to nominate me! Or I’ll cut you!

-ST

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slicktiger — Wed, 04 Aug 2010 00:36:06 +0000

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slicktiger — Wed, 04 Aug 2010 00:36:15 +0000

USOMFA Tour: Dusk Approaching

slicktiger — Wed, 04 Aug 2010 00:36:16 +0000

On Sunday we went to Rockport, a sleepy little seaside town in Massachusetts and J-Rab and I walked the streets there, ducking into the little shops we found and browsing through the trinkets inside them.

It was a sunny day, one I think we’ll all remember for a long time to come, and walking past a shop window, we saw this shirt:

Now, with less than 4 days of our holiday left, I’m tempted to take the advice on that shirt and just never go back.

J-Rab and I would drive down south, jump the border to Mexico, find menial jobs to get by and start a new life together. I’d write a lot more in our new life, actually get started banging out some of the scripts inside my head, maybe do some short stories here and there, land a few writing gigs, build my portfolio.

A few years down the track I’d land something legitimate, move back to the States, find that tiny seaside town and rent a flat there.

In summer I’d learn how to surf. Collect a few shells for J-Rab to make some jewelry. Leave the corporate world that I’ve become entwined in so far behind that I’d clean forget I was ever a part of it.

In about an hour J-Rab’s sister and her boyfriend are both going to leave for the airport and fly back to London and though we still got a few days left, I keep getting this feeling like the best parts of our holiday have already happened and all there is left now is that slow march back onto the plane and back to our day jobs and the thousands of emails that overflowing from our inboxes like a burst sewerage pipe.

Fuck, listen to me, whining like a little bitch. It’s been one of the best holidays of my life and all I’m thinking about is work when it hasn’t even ended yet.

Fuck that shit. I’m going to drink another beer and relax to the fucking max.

Catch you crazy cats tomorrow. Also, NOMINATE ME FOR THE SA BLOG AWARDS (click the badge on the right. Scroll up a little bit, theeeerreee it is…). Or I’ll jab you in the gums with a screwdriver.

Love from your buddy ol’ pal:

-ST

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slicktiger — Wed, 11 Aug 2010 16:29:56 +0000

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slicktiger — Wed, 11 Aug 2010 16:30:53 +0000

USOMFA Tour ‘10: This Is The End… My Only Friend… The End…

slicktiger — Wed, 11 Aug 2010 16:30:57 +0000

I had a lot planned for the USOMFA Tour – in-depth interviews, investigative profiles, daily updates, you name it, but the truth is I never got around to actually writing any of it.

That’s the thing about holidays, you make all these plans about how you’re going to spend them and then before you know it they’re over, you haven’t done any of the stuff you had planned and life’s moving on.

My brain is having none of that though. For the first time in my life, I’m experiencing chronic jetlag and it ain’t pretty. Here’s an intricate graph I drew to illustrate my sleep patterns since I left America on Saturday:

And here’s an equally intricate graph I drew that shows how many people give a fuck about my sleep patterns since I left America:

You could have at least faked some kind of interest guys, seriously. You could have at least done that for me.

A big question on everyone’s minds though has been “How did it go meeting J-Rab’s parents and brothers for the first time, I mean you guys have been dating for what, like three years now? That’s a flippin’ LONG ASS time to not have met her parents, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

Well the great news is that it went really, really well. J-Rab’s parents are warm, friendly and very easy to get along with, which is more than I can say for DEATHCAT!

All DEATHCAT did was miaow angrily at me and threaten to die (at this point I feel it might be pertinent to mention that DEATHCAT is a 22 year-old feline that is made up of mottled fur, leathery skin and jutting-out bones that send a shiver down your spine every time you see them).

As for J-Rab’s brothers, they are way smarter, more wholesome and a shitload better adjusted than I was at their age. This is a great thing because otherwise most of our holiday would have been spent trawling dive bars to find them, bailing them out of jail, and engaging their enemies in vicious knife fights to the death.

Speaking of which, should you ever find yourself in such a situation, always remember to hold your knife blade-down when stabbing, that way you can stab quicker and harder whilst using your forearm to shield your opponent’s stabs.

I got back to the office yesterday to find they’ve moved me right into the corner of the room so I now sit with my back to the entire office and am no longer able to surf porn and quickly hit Alt+Tab when I see someone approaching in my peripheral vision. I can’t put into words the profound effect this has had on my morale and motivation in the office.

How is a grown man expected to get through a day’s hard slog without a little lesbian gang-bang action? It just ain’t right I tell ya. It just ain’t right.

In other news, I’ve finally been approached to write material for another site and getting paid for it to boot! If I can just land a few more gigs like this one, I’ll be able to use my writing talent to bring home the bacon, which should free up a crapload of my time to surf porn. A man can dream…

So all in all life ain’t too bad for your buddy ol’ pal Slick, but it’ll be even BETTER if you nominate me for the upcoming SA blog awards.

Best new blog, best post (Klapping Gym Boet) and best overall blog are the ones I’m gunning for, but I can’t do it without you guys.

So click this link http://website.sablogawards.com/2010/ and nominate SlickTiger to fucking KILL EVERYTHING!

I ain’t no Panjo. Set me loose at the SA Blog Awards gala dinner and it’ll take more than a dead chicken and some gentle words of encouragement to get me back in my cage ;)

-ST

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slicktiger — Thu, 12 Aug 2010 16:56:14 +0000

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slicktiger — Thu, 12 Aug 2010 16:57:23 +0000

This Isn’t Easy For Me TO Say…

slicktiger — Thu, 12 Aug 2010 16:57:25 +0000

Sooner or later you and I both knew it would come to this, but that doesn’t make this any easier for me to say.

Recently I know we’ve had our ups and downs, me posting at all hours of the day and night, drinking heavily, promising the world and letting you down time and time again, standing over your bed at 3am with an ice-pick gripped in my fist… um… wait, what was I saying?

Oh yeah. There’s no easy way for me to say this so I’m just going to blurt it out in capital letters:

I’VE BECOME A CORPORATE WHORE GOOD-FOR-NOTHING, MIGHT-AS-WELL-BE-2OCEANSVIBE, TOTAL SELLOUT!

BUT, I’ve got a fucking sweet phone now! KA-POW!

Remember that writing gig I told you about waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaayy back? (ie. yesterday), well part of that is I get a Nokia X6 along with a year’s free subscription to Nokia Music (yay! I can finally listen to all my favourite Kanye West albums for free!).

Technically I guess I didn’t sellout on my blog though as the writing gig and phone are both for another site entirely, but getting all that rad free shit today made me realise that if people had to approach me with a buncha free shit for this site, I’d find it really, really fucking hard to turn them down.

Still though, there’s no fucking way I’d ever accept advertising or free stuffs on the basis that I had to write or say something that I wouldn’t otherwise. So yeah, in other words, I don’t think it’s fucking likely that ANYONE will ever approach this blog for advertising purposes because let’s face it, this site is toxic as asbestos and as consumer-friendly as a dead rat in your Happy Meal.

Having said that, I want you to take this gun, it’s fully loaded and the safety’s off, and if I ever sellout and become another advertising-riddled pile of horse shit, I want you to shoot me. Right in the money-maker (not that money-maker! The face! The FACE fer chrissakes!).

Here at Them’s Fightin’ Words we pull no punches and make no apologies. That’s the way it’s always been and always will be.

Forever and ever.

Amen.

Here’s a badass Garden Gninja smoking a cigarette.

Exactly.

-ST

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slicktiger — Fri, 13 Aug 2010 08:25:26 +0000

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slicktiger — Fri, 13 Aug 2010 08:25:52 +0000

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slicktiger — Fri, 13 Aug 2010 08:26:02 +0000

Tell The Tiger (Episode 10)

slicktiger — Fri, 13 Aug 2010 08:26:07 +0000

It’s not every day that I get juicy, sex-related mails in from the confused masses that write to Tell The Tiger, desperately seeking my advice on how to make their lives better.

Sometimes people write in with perfectly ordinary, everyday problems that I do eventually get around to answering when all the juicy sexy ones dry up. It’s not that I’m prejudiced or anything, like a father with countless mentally unhinged children, I love all the mails that are sent into TTT equally.

It’s just that some (like the guy whose girlfriend wanted him to pee on her in bed) stir a lot more shit than others and stirring shit is what Them’s Fightin’ Words is all about. Stirring shit or shooting the shit. Anything involving shit really.

So check, check, check it out yo, here’s this week’s reciprocate of my malevolent wisdom:

Hey man, you have to help me with this one.

I read this chick's blog every now and again and it's funny as hell. Except, I don't like it when she reviews stuff. How do I tell her the reviews make me all melancholy and to keep the other stuff flowing more often? I know she's going to take it the wrong way because she's is mad as a bat, so I want to put it to her subtly, in a way that's not going to get her panties into a knot and come after me with a cleaver or reveal my email address to all her readers or something like that?

Sincerely
unfunny guy

Hmm… I don’t mean to get all paranoid here, and maybe it’s just the crack talking, but this isn’t some kind of veiled, clever-word-gamey attempt at suggesting I should write less reviews is it?

I mean, let’s examine the facts here:

Fact no.1 Blog is funny as hell
Fact no.2 “She” reviews stuff
Fact no.3 “She” is mad as a bat
Fact no.4 unfunny guy fears some kind of drastic retribution for getting on “her” bad side…

I’d say it’s a pretty close fit EXCEPT my reviews don’t make people melancholy, they just piss people off. Checkout Jason’s comment on my Pearl Jam review, or Raymond’s comment on my Deftones review. Those guys are anything but melancholy, that’s fer damn sure.

Thing you have to realise about bloggers is that we’re stuck quite far up their own arses. Take me for instance, I’m at least 2/3rds of the way up there, which is probably just a little higher than the average.

As such, we don’t take kindly to criticism of any shape or form because God forbid anyone should disagree with what we think, say or feel about basically anything.

Bottom line, she won’t write less reviews just because you suggested it. BUT if you can provide constructive criticism about how she can improve her reviews, then you’re a lot less likely to come home after a stressful day of work and find she’s boiled your pet rabbit.

Failing that, just go in there guns blazin’. Sometimes bloggers need to get knocked off their high horses, in the long run you’re probably doing her a favour – just fake your email address ;)

That’s all the time we have for this week folks, but do keep your emails comin’ to tellthetiger@gmail.com. Don’t suffer in silence. I’m here for you.

Have a killer weekend ;)

-ST

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slicktiger — Sun, 15 Aug 2010 23:10:22 +0000

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slicktiger — Sun, 15 Aug 2010 23:10:52 +0000

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slicktiger — Sun, 15 Aug 2010 23:11:23 +0000

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slicktiger — Sun, 15 Aug 2010 23:11:50 +0000

The Weekend Gets A Solid 8/10

slicktiger — Mon, 16 Aug 2010 06:00:00 +0000

Even though it’s fucking shitty Monday again and even though we’re all right back here, right where we were last week and even though no one’s boiled up any fucking coffee yet because everyone that works here are jerks and all those emails you chose to ignore on Friday are burning little holes of guilt in your inbox like smouldering cigarette cherries through your prep school blazer, even though all this shit’s happening, I think we can agree that the weekend that just past?

It was pretty awesome.

Mine kicked off with a few rushed beers with my main man SupaDan at Neighbourhood where we hurriedly tried to bang out a fresh storyboard for the next TigerTV extravaganza. All I can say at this stage is we’re taking things to the next level this time around and the shit we’ve got planned is going to make that whole necrophilia thing we did a few months back look like a big fucking joke.

See what I did there? Course you didn’t! Get some coffee in you fer chrissakes, you’re still half asleep ;)

Then right at the end of my drinks with Supa, this guy flags me down like he knows me and I look at him like I know him too, which is completely fucked up, and just as we’re about to do the whole, “Hey man! / Hey bro! / How things? / Yeah good and you? / Yeah good! / Well good to see you! / Yeah you too!” this guy says my favourite fucking sentence to me:

“Hey! Don’t you write that SlickTiger blog?”

To which I replied, “Fuck yeah! I am SlickTiger!” (affirming who you are through a fabricated alias is so fucking cool. It’s like someone coming up to you and saying “Hey! Look everybody! Batman!”).

And that’s how I met Bowlphilosophy, the guy who posted one of my favourite comments on the site so far, right under this post.

After that I went with my boss-lady to the Cape Town convention centre for the annual Highlands Ball hosted by the Keepers Of The Quaich.

For brevity’s sake I’m not going to go into all the details of what went down, but basically I tasted some of the best single malts money can buy, watched an enraged Scott slash a haggis to ribbons (some kind of tradition) and went dressed like this:

Then, as if my life wasn’t fucking weird enough, a crazy thing happened in the wee hours of Saturday morning.

See, right behind where we live on a wine-farm-that-shall-not-be-named, are enclosures for Anatolian Shepherds that we look after. They’re flippin’ MASSIVE dogs that mostly just bark all night and add to my sleep-deprivation-inspired madness but are also a lot of fun to pal around with because they’re so big and friendly.

Anyway, one of the Anatolians (Mercedes) has been pregnant for some time and at 4 on Saturday morning, she gave birth to two puppies.

J-Rab was on call for the puppies and rushed out the second the woman watching Mercedes called to say the puppies were breaching.

I half remember J-Rab running off in the wee hours to attend to the birth and then I went back to sleep. Six hours later, J-Rab still hadn’t returned and when she did, it was with the news that Mercedes had not given birth to two puppies, nor four puppies, but TEN FUCKING PUPPIES AND WAS STILL HAVING CONTRACTIONS!

An hour after that, it was 11 puppies. An hour after THAT I watched as puppy no. 12 was born.

Who knew one mammal could spit out so many little wet furry worms?!

Then while J-Rab and her aunt and cousins and I were all having lunch at Dornier and enjoying some fine Cab Sav, J-Rab gets a call that puppy no. 13 has been born.

At which stage we all poured another glass of wine, more than a little concerned that the world was about to be completely overrun by some kind of puppy apocalypse.

The final count, I shit you not, is 14 puppies. Mercedes was in labour for 18 hours in total before the last little squeaker plopped onto the straw and into the world.

That’s enough for an entire Iditarod Sled Dog team, just like in Iron Will! You know, the movie about the guy whose dad is killed in the mushing accident and so he decides to take part in a dog-sled race to save his family farm starring MacKenzie Astin? C’mon! Everyone knows that movie!

Anyway, bottom line is if this whole blogging gig doesn’t work out for me, I’m taking my Iditarod dog sled team to Alaska and there’s nothing you can say to stop me.

So now here I am, sandwiched between cheetah cubs on one side and 14 Anatolian puppies on the other.

And lemme tell ya, life couldn’t be better :)

So yeah, what did you get up to this weekend?

-ST

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slicktiger — Mon, 16 Aug 2010 16:16:38 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 16 Aug 2010 16:16:51 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 16 Aug 2010 16:17:02 +0000

The SlickTiger Help-A-Blogger In Need Initiative

slicktiger — Tue, 17 Aug 2010 06:00:00 +0000

Hi guys (*serious face).

There comes a time in every man, woman and child’s life when he, she or it becomes aware of something that previously he, she or it was not aware of before.

That time in my life came about when I was 25 years old and, trawling the internet one day for worthy causes that I could support to make the world we live in a better place, I, for the first time in my life, became aware of “bloggers”.

Bloggers, ladies and gentlemen, are not like you and me. You see, unlike you and me, bloggers are different from us because of a number of factors that I have researched thoroughly and dedicated my life to raising awareness of such as:

Their parents are cousins
They drank high quantities of alcohol during their formative years
Repetitive head wounds, and
Twitter

The epidemic of “bloggers” began about a year ago when online social-media website 2.0 platforms began to exist in the “blogosphere”, and were made popular through peer-to-peer MySpacial networks over Facebook.

Before the internet made them famous, no one had any idea that these people even existed and typically these “bloggers” spent most of their lives locked in basements eating gruel and communicating to one another in a series of wails and grunts.

Many argue the world was a better place when “bloggers” were chained in these subterranean lairs, such was the ignorance of the world at large back in those early days.

I implore you not to turn a blind eye to this epidemic! Pretending they don’t exist is not going to make this problem go away!

Instead, I encourage you to email tellthetiger@gmail.com and pledge money toward the Swiss bank account I have set up in order to help these unfortunate individuals and properly integrate them into society where they can find meaningful jobs as Refuse Collection Agents, Street Sanitation Officers or Public Relations Consultants.

So don’t delay, send all your banking details to tellthetiger@gmail.com today and join the SlickTiger Help A Blogger In Need Initiative, or SHABINI for short.

You CAN make a difference in the life of a “blogger” TODAY!

-ST

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slicktiger — Wed, 18 Aug 2010 06:29:52 +0000

There should be puppies here

slicktiger — Wed, 18 Aug 2010 06:29:55 +0000

The cutest little fuckers you’ve ever seen! Three day old happy, fat little puppies squeaking away in a puppy pile of no less than FOURTEEN pups.

There should be puppies here to brighten up your day and remind you that the world can be a pretty rad place from time to time, but like a total douche, I left my cell phone with all the pics on it sitting on the toilet.

How fucking random is that?! Why did I even put it there in the first place? Eeeeeeeedeeeeeeoooooottttttt.

To make up for the lack of puppies, here’s a kitten wearing a frog bonnet:

Um, yeah. That’s all I got today guys. But exciting news is that later today I’ve been invited to a press function to watch the guys from overseas demo the Nokia N8.

There better be a giant buffet there. That’s all I’m saying. Giant buffet and the phone gets a glowing review.

All together now.

Giant buffet.

-ST

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slicktiger — Wed, 18 Aug 2010 22:31:12 +0000

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slicktiger — Wed, 18 Aug 2010 22:31:36 +0000

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slicktiger — Wed, 18 Aug 2010 22:32:03 +0000

SlickTiger puts on his journalist hat, gets to work

slicktiger — Thu, 19 Aug 2010 06:00:00 +0000

Something you might not know about your Tiger pal is that there was a time when he had his sights set on becoming a journalist, no shit.

I even went through the motions of studying a degree in journalism and everything, but in the end the dark side won me over with promises of regular working hours and a much better salary and so I became a Sith Lord of spin instead.

So it was pretty hilarious when Nokia invited me in my capacity as a blogger to check out the new Nokia N8 at the Grand Daddy Hotel on Longstreet. I kinda felt obliged to go because the kind folks at Nokia’s PR company hooked me up with the badass X6 I’m currently rocking so fair’s fair right?

I wish you guys could have been there, it was so funny. I walk upstairs to Daddy Cool’s (15 minutes late for the demo, just like a REAL journalist) and everyone’s like “Hi SlickTiger! How are ya! Klap gym boet! Hahahaha!”

And I’m like “Hahahaha!”

And they’re like “Hahahaha!"

And I’m thinking, Is that buffet I smell…?

And they’re thinking, This douche better give us a good write up or that X6 is comin’ STRAIGHT back…

Then I meet the guy giving me the demo and he introduces himself but I’m not really paying attention because right behind him, I shit you not, is a FUCKING AMAZING BUFFET!

I’m talking wraps, mini wraps, kebabs, you name it! More delicious noms than you could shake a stick at, all laid out neatly on a table for me and me alone.

“Please, do help yourself,” Demo-man said, smiling.

Huh, these Nokia people are nice, I thought to myself, chomping through a steak wrap. Being a journalist is sick!

“So,” Demo-man says, “tell us about the people who read your site.”

“Oh yeah, the people who read my site, well, um, they’re not your average consumer y’know?” I said in my important-sounding voice, “They’re better than that. They read my site because they don’t buy into the load of crap that other sites try sell them, they want to read something an actual human writes. They’re pretty cool that way, um…”

“And age wise?”

“Twenties, early thirties, around there.” I’d like to thank the Academy.

“Ok, and have you yourself had any experience using a Nokia phone?”

“Yes, he has the one we gave him, the X6,” the friendly lady who greeted me confirmed.

Uh oh, I thought. She’s subtly referencing the X6… quick! Say something that won’t make them take it away!

“Amazing phone!” I affirmed with gusto, “The touch-screen technology is just, amazing! Unfortunately I don’t have it on me at this exact moment I er, left it on the toilet at home this morning.”

“You know, studies show that a high percentage of people actually tweet and check emails on the toilet,” Friendly-lady said.

Great, I thought to myself, Now she thinks I’m one of those people. Siff.

“Anyway, if you’ll turn your attention to the screen in front of you we can begin the demo,” Demo-man said.

From there on in I made an earnest effort to take in and mentally record everything that Demo-man showed me. I then mentally archived this information, deleting some of the porn in my brain to make room, and cleverly filed it for later reference.

So, here’s what I got:

Luckily the good folks at Nokia gave us press packs on seriously slick memory sticks so that I can actually substantiate this otherwise meandering tale of utter crap with some solid facts about the N8, after which I’ll sum up neatly with another whisky and my overall impression of this phone.

Check, check, check it out yo:

This phone has a 12 MEGAPIXEL CAMERA. That’s 12 motherbitches, as in after 11, before 13? Which means the pictures it takes are guaranteed to fuck your shit up the INSTANT you see them
It also has an HDMI output which means you can plug the phone directly into your sweet 52-inch LCD TV just like Demo-guy did for me and pull up all your pics and movies and they look so amazingly crisp and clear you’ll probably pop wood instantly
You get maps. Bam! No fucking around. Maps for 70 countries worldwide and it won’t cost you a goddamn cent
You can download apps, not thousands and thousands like on an iPhone, but give it a year and I reckon there’ll be a decent selection. What’s cool about the N8 though is that if you buy apps, they get billed to your service provider and added to your monthly bill. No dicking around entering your credit card info for jerkwad pirates to steal on the interweb
The music you buy on the phone through the Ovi store isn’t DRMed up the wazoo and can easily be stored and played however the hell you want, unlike the ‘Comes With Music’ music that sends a homing missile to your house the second you try give the music you’ve bought to your buddies
Everything is flippin’ integrated with everything. Don’t grill me on the details here, but the phone’s built for ‘social media addicts’ so yeah. Think of it as a crack pipe for Twit-heads, Face-boobs and Blog-jammers
It looks pretty slick. Take a gander:

Final verdict is I went to the demo to mooch some free food and came out actually impressed with what I saw so yeah, go out and buy everyone you know one of these, they’re gonna sell for R5 500, pre-orders start 27th September.

I’ll be getting one in early September to review so you can expect a follow up where I’ll give you guys the real low-down as to whether this is amazing as Demo-guy made it out to be.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I just have to go rinse the taste or corporate dick out of my mouth and we can resume broadcasting as usual ;)

-ST

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slicktiger — Fri, 20 Aug 2010 11:45:07 +0000

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slicktiger — Fri, 20 Aug 2010 11:45:37 +0000

Friday puppies!

slicktiger — Fri, 20 Aug 2010 11:45:41 +0000

One of these radass little guys is gonna be my dog. J-Rab says we can’t keep one, but LOOK AT THE PUPPIES! JUST LOOK AT THEM!

Have a killer weekend guys :)

-ST

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slicktiger — Mon, 23 Aug 2010 21:54:55 +0000

Guardian Angels

slicktiger — Mon, 23 Aug 2010 21:55:00 +0000

By the time you see the blue lights flashing, it’s already too late.

Thursday night we get pulled over, I’ve had two tequilas and about five beers so basically I’m up shit creek and I fucking know it.

They run through the usual pleasantries of “Have you been drinking, sir?” and “Please get out of your car sir” and all the while all you’re thinking is, “It’ll be fine. Everything will be fine. Somehow everything’s going to work out. Just be cool.”

They make you check the nozzle, check it’s freshly sealed in plastic and no one’s tampered with it before they open the plastic and attach it to the breathaliser.

“Point zero five is the legal limit sir, are you aware of that?”

“Yes, I am.”

She aims the breathaliser at me like a firing squad and I fill my lungs to bursting with clean, fresh air…

* * * * * *

Friday night we’re going down Kommetjie road, J-Rab’s driving and we see a line of cars pulled over.

“Oh fuck,” she says.

“What is it? Is it a fucking accident? Please tell me it’s a fucking accident.”

“It’s a road block.”

“AGAIN?! WHAT THE FUCK?!”

Again. It’s happening all over again…

* * * * * *

The number on the breathaliser is changing. I feel like I’m watching a roulette wheel spinning. Point zero three. Point zero five. Point zero six.

How is this even possible? I wonder. I’m WAY over the limit, how is this even fucking possible?

* * * * * *

“Can I see your license please miss?”

It’s like some kind of recurring nightmare. If he gets a breathaliser out we’re fucked. God, anything could happen to her in those cells.

I feel sick to the stomach.

He checks her license, moves around to check my license disk. Holy fuck, isn’t it expiring soon? There’s no way we’re getting through this, it’s just not possible. The license disk has expired, we’ll get a fine, he’ll smell the drinks she’s had on her breath.

She’s not drunk, but she’s over the limit.

God, we are so fucked.

I take a deep breath, fill my lungs to bursting with fresh, clean air…

* * * * * *

The numbers stop changing. There’s a moment of silence so heavy I think my heart’s caved in.

This isn’t happening. How is this even happening? How?

“Point zero four. You’re under the legal limit sir. Drive home safe”

* * * * * *

“Your license expires at the end of the month, but remember, you still have 21 days after that to get a new one so don’t worry too much about it and have a nice night.”

“Thank you,” J-Rab says.

And we drive home both times, safe as houses and jump into our warm bed and hold each other, laughing, just laughing and so goddamn happy to be home.

* * * * * *

I found this drawing on a wall on Saturday night at a house party we were at and I spent a long time staring at it and smiling. The other people there, they had no idea why.

But when J-Rab saw me staring at it she smiled too.

“Guardian angels,” she said.

“Guardian angels,” I replied.

-ST

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slicktiger — Tue, 24 Aug 2010 16:43:17 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 24 Aug 2010 16:43:25 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 24 Aug 2010 16:43:45 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 24 Aug 2010 16:44:15 +0000

Marketing People

slicktiger — Tue, 24 Aug 2010 16:44:18 +0000

I deal with a lot of marketing people, sometimes as many as 3 in a single day, and the conclusion I have drawn about this kooky bunch is that they are (with one or two exceptions) from another fucking planet.

What do they do to these poor people that makes them think that whatever it is they are marketing is basically more important than life itself?

In my mind I see horrible torture chambers filled with marketers-to-be all chained up and getting stretched on racks and shit while their directors whip them and pour boiling oil over anyone who thinks the product or service they’re trying to market isn’t the single most amazing thing the world has or will ever see.

I mean christ, I’ll be honest here and straight up say that these people fucking scare me.

They march into meetings armed with an entire arsenal of information about their target audience and are generally flush with all kinds of demographic information, statistics about what people supposedly like and don’t like and all kinds of other stuff I don’t even begin to understand.

And that right there is the beauty of what they do. No one understands it. And the reason no one understands it is that they invent their own fucking language to explain it. Here are the only examples I remember right now, but I swear there are at least 10 000 000 000 more I’ve heard and instantly blanked from my mind.

“Ideation” – to what? Create ideas? Isn’t that called “thinking”?
”Release” – specifically used to describe the way consumers conduct themselves in social situations, ie. “we need to be careful we don’t end up marketing our product to an audience seeking release”. In plain English this sentence reads: “don’t target people who like getting fucking wasted. If we do that it’s back to the torture pits”
“Push back” – as in, “you need to manage your pushback” which is a nice way of saying “stop being so fucking lazy and do some work. I was up until 3am working. What were you doing at 3am huh? HUH?!?”
And so on and so on…

Funniest thing is that marketing people have this innate ability to make other people buy into their bullshit even though those other people have no idea what any of it means!

Case in point. I recently sat in on an eyeball-gougingly productive meeting where someone from another agency was describing this new target audience that the bad, bad people from marketing had invented and given a snazzy name.

In an effort to figure out what this invented target audience is into, I fired off a whole bunch of questions about them which yielded the following answers:

They get bored quickly
They all want to be celebrities
If given an option for a prize, they would choose cash over anything else
They won’t engage with anything unless some kind of reward is guaranteed
They aren’t on Twitter
They aren’t on Facebook
They don’t read blogs
They only ever consume mainstream media and nothing else
They don’t understand what Tetris is (long story)
They wouldn’t know what Mayans are (also long story)

So what we’re basically describing here is a bunch of really, really stupid and lazy people who are self-obsessed and disinterested in anything that doesn’t immediately benefit them in a tangible way.

And all the while, I’m sitting there thinking, If these people actually do exist, I really don’t like them and the LAST thing we should be doing as human beings possessing any kind of moral conscience is trying to sell them alcohol!

It’s a crazy world we live in folks and thanks to people like marketers, advertisers and me, it’s only getting crazier.

Ain’t that wonder ;)

-ST

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slicktiger — Wed, 25 Aug 2010 14:26:59 +0000

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slicktiger — Wed, 25 Aug 2010 14:27:20 +0000

Where The Music At Yo?

slicktiger — Wed, 25 Aug 2010 14:27:24 +0000

If you love this site as much as I do (not humanly possible) you might have noticed there haven’t been any music reviews as of late.

Reason being I’m now officially writing album review for a radass site called www.pulpmag.co.za.

So the deal is I publish a little taste of my reviews on this site, just the first couple of sentences, then if you wanna check out the full review, you click a HYPERLINK* included at the BOTTOM of the post that says “Read the whole enchilada here…” and ka-pow! It’s a done deal

So to kick things off, here are all the reviews I’ve written to date, enjoy!

Album Review: Arcade Fire – The Suburbs

If Holden Caulfield, the anti-hero protagonist of The Catcher In The Rye, had to grow up and start an indie rock band, that band would be Arcade Fire.

This phenomenal Canadian group, which consists of no less than seven members, has a powerful grasp on nostalgic indie anthems that deal with themes of innocence lost and disillusionment with adulthood that would have made Holden proud.

Their debut 2004 album Funeral instantly became a firm favourite among music critics and aficionados the world over as did their 2007 follow-up, Neon Bible, which earned the band numerous awards and accolades and proved there was much more to this band than just their debut album.

And so Arcade Fire approached their third album which, many would argue, is the most difficult album to record. Repeat the material of your previous two albums and your audience will yawn in your face and move on. Stray too far from your roots and your fans will balk like skittish ponies, bitching and moaning all the while about how you either sold out or took WAY too many drugs this time around.

Read the whole enchilada here…

Edward Sharpe And The Magnetic Zeros

Before I start writing this, a confession. This is not a new album. It’s been out for just over a year now, BUT iTunes released the deluxe version of the album three weeks ago which, coupled with the fact that pretty much no one knows this band, is justification enough to review this gem of an album.

Not a whole lot is known about Edward Sharpe And The Magnetic Zeros and the few interviews I found with the band on YouTube are difficult to watch because frontman and lead vocalist Alex Ebert has taken a lot of drugs in the 32 odd years he’s been alive and has this way of staring off into the distance in interviews and making absolutely no sense.

That said, the band itself is nothing short of seriously awesome. Like Arcade Fire, Edward Sharpe is made up of enough people to start a slow pitch softball team. Everyone in the band sings, though Alex Ebert and Jade Castrinos handle the majority of the vocals.

Read the whole enchilada here…

Also look out for the “Tiger Bites” section on the site. That’s where I wrap up the week’s news in the music world.

We live in interestin’ times I tell ya. Interesting times indeed…

-ST

*WARNING: NEVER click more than 5 hyperlinks a day, it’s like feeding gremlins after midnight…

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slicktiger — Thu, 26 Aug 2010 21:43:03 +0000

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slicktiger — Thu, 26 Aug 2010 21:44:23 +0000

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slicktiger — Thu, 26 Aug 2010 21:46:03 +0000

In The Interest Of Boosting Site Views, I present to You: More Puppies

slicktiger — Thu, 26 Aug 2010 21:46:10 +0000

You want internet fame and fortune there are basically only three ways to go about it.

1. Porn
2. YouTube videos of people hurting themselves in hilarious ways
3. Babies

It’s a sad fact, but no matter how many great, funny and insightful posts I write about meaningful shit, I’ll still get 3 times as many hits by simply posting a picture of a hot girl with great breasts.

Such is life my friends. Such is life.

So with no further ado, here are pics of my favourite of the 14 puppies we’re looking after. This special little guy is the runt of the litter and I know it was fucking retarded of me to do it because we can’t keep him, but I went ahead and named him.

Ladies and gentlemen. Meet Rocko.

And just like that – KAPOW! Site views hit 1k.

My work here is done.

-ST

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slicktiger — Sun, 29 Aug 2010 14:23:10 +0000

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slicktiger — Sun, 29 Aug 2010 14:24:06 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 31 Aug 2010 14:46:43 +0000

Album Review: Wavves – King Of The Beach

slicktiger — Wed, 01 Sep 2010 06:00:00 +0000

Picture a random house party when everyone’s sitting around at 3 in the morning and the guy who’s spent the last hour drinking tequila straight out of the bottle picks up a guitar and starts trying to jam.

Now put that guy on stage in front of hundreds of ticked off fans and you’ve got a situation much like the one that happened last year when Wavves played their most notorious gig to date, the Barcelona Primavera Sound Festival.

Nathan Williams (frontman, singer and guitarist for the low-fi stoner rock band Wavves) ingested a cocktail of Ecstasy, Valium and Xanax before taking to the stage at Primavera last year and behaved like a giant asshole kid which, at the tender age of 23, is exactly what he was.

Well, good news is Williams is 24 now and has put such childish things as his highly publicised and cringe-worthy meltdown behind him to surge forward with Wavves third album, King Of The Beach.

Read the whole enchilada here…

-ST

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slicktiger — Thu, 02 Sep 2010 13:54:13 +0000

To Everyone Who Reads This Site, Thank You

slicktiger — Thu, 02 Sep 2010 13:54:16 +0000

I cracked the final 10 for Best Post Of The Year in the 2010 Blog Awards guys, how fucking amazing is that?!

Klap Gym Boet is apparently a firm favourite amongst the other nominees, but taking home the award isn’t going to be easy.

If you liked the post, hit me with a vote. Then wait 24 hours and hit me with another (weird I know, but yeah, everyone can vote twice as long as 24 hours lapses between votes).

Together we can KLAP this one charnas.

I love you all more than you could ever know. C’mere. Let’s hug it out.

To the people who have supported me throughout – J-Rab, Civilian, Guitar Jon, Peggles, Stikey, The MAEN!, El Guapo, Mr C, Tara, Desrie, Stickman, Jono, Toffee Boy, Flavid, Rich Willis, and everyone else I’ve by mistake forgotten – you guys fucking rock :)

-ST

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slicktiger — Tue, 07 Sep 2010 17:36:08 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 07 Sep 2010 17:36:52 +0000

Gig Review: Basement Jaxx

slicktiger — Tue, 07 Sep 2010 17:36:55 +0000

Remember back in high school when school socials would roll around and you’d get all excited about rocking out at them and having the time of your life, and then the big night rolled around and you realised all it was was a bunch of bored-looking people crammed into your school hall wishing they could get their hands on some booze?

Yeah. In one, long convoluted sentence, that was Basement Jaxx last Friday.

I’d never been to the Waterfront Lookout before, but the name conjured all kinds of majestic imagery of an open-air concert venue with a perfect view of the harbour and grassy banks where concert-goers could drink in the sights around them while taking a break from the manic crowds dancing like their lives depended on it by the front of the colossal stage.

I pictured giant luxury cruise liners floating by the Lookout with people in tuxedos and evening dresses sipping cocktails on the poop deck while the moon’s reflection shimmered silver on the ocean’s wavy surface.

Instead I arrived to find a fenced-in patch of gravel next to a hall that would be awesome for bingo. At the one end of said hall was a queue seven people deep for a drink and the other a cramped-looking stage with a couple of big screens and lighting rigs.

The patio on the other side of the hall ‘looked out’ at the back-end of the waterfront where the ocean gently lapped random pieces of trash while the wafting scent of rotten fish rolled in misty waves over the people gathered there to smoke and stare in disdainful silence at one another.

I don’t want to sound like a whiny bitch here, so I’m going to gloss over the performances of all the supporting acts and just say that they were all really, really nice (if you eatlivebreatheshit 5fm) and that I definitely would have boogied on down to their phat and original beats had I spent the afternoon drinking rubbing alcohol / had a large portion of my brain removed.

Then the main act took the stage! We knew this not because they came out guns blazin’ and instantly blew everyone’s minds, but rather because like magic, the queues at the bar disappeared and we could make an earnest effort at getting plastered on overpriced Millers.

Basement Jaxx played with very little heart and the crowd could tell. Halfway through their set most people had already left to beat the traffic home. It was embarrassing.

Sure, there were moments when they rocked out and got the crowd pumping, but sadly they were rare. Most of their set comprised of remixes of other artist’s material (including “Sex On Fire” which, for me, was a definite low point) with one or two Basement Jaxx classics thrown in and a long-ass middle section of beats that went nowhere.

However, this is not to say the night wasn’t still awesome for me. Here, in bullet-point form are the parts I liked best:

The part when my buddy-down-from-joburg The Glaze lost his mind in the drinks queue, shoved his money into my hands, said he had to go outside for some air and then dropped like a sack of potatoes on the stairs in a dead faint. I missed the whole spectacle (CURSE YOU DRINKS QUEUE!) but reliable eye witnesses said he threw his arms back dramatically in the air and keeled over in a graceful backwards swan dive. Haha! Priceless.
The part where my buddy Barbarian took an entire MDMA cap in one go because he thought security was watching him crack it open to take a hit and then spent the next hour fighting to keep his shit together. He ended up going home with two girls he’d just met. Legendary.

So the evening wasn’t completely wasted, but you can pretty much bet your ass any parties that crop up in future with the words ‘5fm’ or ‘Waterfront Lookout’ in them will not be graced by this Tiger.

But hey, that’s just like my opinion, man. I’m sure this will no doubt be greeted by the usual slew of personal abuse my writing seems to attract.

I mean fuck. No one wants to hear it like it is. But that’s a story for another time kids ;)

-ST

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slicktiger — Mon, 13 Sep 2010 05:52:42 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 13 Sep 2010 05:53:32 +0000

The Home Stretch

slicktiger — Mon, 13 Sep 2010 05:53:35 +0000

Wattup Party People.

It’s been pretty heavy going recently, I won’t lie. Work is boxing me in on all sides right now and I’m bleeding time like nobody’s business.

It’s weird, I’ve never felt like I’ve had such a loose grip on time before, it’s just sliding through my fingers continually and no matter how much of it I try to catch, it just spills out.

Blink once and it’s September already. Blink a second time and the year’s done. Too crazy.

Good news is that some crazy shit is in the pipeline so watch this space, things could get interesting ;)

Oh yeah, and before I go, a subtle message from the folks here at SlickTiger Industries:

VoteSlickVoteSlickVoteSlickVoteSlick

Yep, this is your last week to klap some votes for your buddy ‘ol pal in the 2010 SA Blog Awards. The previous post I wrote about the awards was BULLSHIT. You can vote every 24 hours for the blog you want to win, so let’s all of us KLAP this flippin’ interwebs popularity competition and VoteSlick every day for the rest of this week!

Then voting closes, I attend the awards ceremony, I win a kief prize and everyone lives happily ever after.

Here are the best reasons to vote for me:

This site klaps an average of 350 hits a day, 500 with a decent post and anywhere upward from 1000 for the good shit, so the stats are solid
I’ve gotten where I have with no advertising on the site and no sponsorships. I’ve hardly done any kind of viral marketing, the site isn’t SEO optimised or tweaked in any way to boost Google rankings or site views. I’m just too plain stupid to work ANY of that shit out
The content on this site is 95% original. It bears mentioning because most blog sites just act as aggregators for content they mooch off other sites. Me, I actually take the time to sit down and write all this crazy shit from scratch, irrefutable proof that I have indeed lost my mind
The pictures are funny
I got plans for the FUTURE. Plans to use this site for what it was originally intended. Secret plans that you’ll only find out if you VoteSlick EVERY DAY FOR THE REST OF THIS WEEK!

I honestly wasn’t going to go the grovelling for votes route, but then I read the mail that a certain wildly popular, lifestyle-oriented SA blog site sent around last week and fell off my chair laughing.

What kind of a Tiger would I be if I didn’t give my readers a chance to fall off their chairs laughing too?

A pretty lousy Tiger I tell ya, a pretty lousy Tiger indeed…

Until next time ;)

-ST

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slicktiger — Mon, 20 Sep 2010 06:32:12 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 20 Sep 2010 06:32:20 +0000

Tequilas on me!

slicktiger — Mon, 20 Sep 2010 06:32:23 +0000

It’s a fucking done deal guys, thanks to all your support and the endless hours you spent voting, revoting and re-revoting for Klap Gym Boet, it’s cracked the FINAL TWO for the SA Blog Awards!

I found out last night and started bouncing off the walls like a piece of loose shrapnel with J-Rab while the two of us laughed our asses off that a post about KLAPPING GYM could ever get so huge.

We drank Savannas because that’s all we had. We ate fish and rice for supper in our wooden shed and fantasised about being rich and famous.

But seriously you guys are the best. Without all you crazy fuckers backing me on this, God knows I’d still be banging out these words, drunk and belligerent, to an audience of about twelve people.

Big up to my good friend MJ though, she’s up against the Tiger for Best Post with this gem she put out there last year that gives a detailed overview of how District 9 was marketed on the web. It’s an excellent and well-researched piece of writing and if MJ bags the award on Saturday, I’ll be really stoked that for once, the good guys finished first.

In other news, you may have noticed that the site’s been a little thin on the posting side of late but truth be told, life, the universe and pretty much everything is scrambling for a piece of me and like I said in last week’s post, I’m bleeding time like nobody’s business right now and there’s only so much of me to go around.

I’m working on creating more of me though, but it’s proving tricky because to do that I need to KLAP 3 SESSIONS OF GYM, SMASH 6 PROTEIN SHAKES, 12 RAW EGGS, 5 STEAKS, 9 CHICKEN BREASTS and 3 INJECTIONS OF DANGEROUS ANABOLIC STEROIDS EVERY DAY!

So guys, tequilas on me this week and wish me luck for Saturday. If I KLAP this one, maybe some kind folks will help me redesign my site for free because let’s be honest, it’s getting a little ropey and I got plans to p1mp it out flippin’ HECTIC charna!

Good times I tell ya. Good times ;)

-ST

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slicktiger — Mon, 27 Sep 2010 08:19:38 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 27 Sep 2010 08:20:20 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 27 Sep 2010 08:20:42 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 27 Sep 2010 08:21:26 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 27 Sep 2010 08:21:48 +0000

The Tiger Loses At SA Blog Awards, Drops Trou

slicktiger — Mon, 27 Sep 2010 08:21:52 +0000

What can I say guys? I failed you. I failed you all and I’m a lousy, good-for-nothing faily-failure who gets right to the finish line and then fails.

I coulda had class. I coulda been a contender. I coulda been somebody, instead of a bum, which is what I am, let's face it…

I mean things started out well enough. J-Rab and I got all suited up and hit the One & Only for the pre-drinks at 5.30, made some pleasant chit chat with the people there and took sneaky hits off my tartan hip flask when no one was looking, on all counts it was a great start to the evening.

Oh, and did I mention that J-Rab looked smokin’ hot? You feel like the King of the world with that girl on your arm, no shit. You walk in there head held high because you know you’ve got the hottest girl in the place and nothing and nobody can fuck with that.

From the pre-drinks we were ushered downstairs where the blog awards were taking place and given fucking mind-bendingly strong tequila cocktails that went down like a freight train. Naturally I had one or two to take the edge off my nerves and then possibly another one or two because I needed something to do with my hands.

Next thing I knew we were all being asked to take our seats for the awards to begin which they did with an opening address by JP Naude that stressed a number of points to make the poor guy look better in the face of all the accusations being levelled at him that the nomination and voting procedures for this year’s awards were retarded.

Personally I couldn’t give a rat’s ass. I got to the final two in my category so I was happy.

The highlight of my evening was our Honourable Premier Lady Z’s speech she made at the awards. She’s a great public speaker and was actually really funny too which I wasn’t expecting at all.

Then came intermission during which J-Rab turned to me and in no uncertain terms said, “Babe, if you win there’s no question about it, you’ve got to go onstage and drop trou.”

“Huh. That’s a pretty crazy idea.”

“C’mon! You have to do it, this whole awards thing is so stuffy and boring. You have to drop trou if you win!”

“Lemme have a tequila and think about that…”

(3 tequilas later)

“Fuck! You’re a genius! I’m SO dropping trou when I win that fucking award! Ah man, this’s gonna be PRICELESS!”

“Atta boy!”

“I even practised in the bathroom, getting my jeans off, this is gonna be AMAZING!”

And so I marched purposefully back to my seat, really happy that I’d girded my loins with my “Tiger Scants” when I was suiting up earlier (the Tiger Scants are very sexy black undies with a growling Tiger’s face right where your junk sits).

I think there’s only one other pair of undies more badass than the Tiger Scants, but they’ve been universally banned because they killed a subway full of people with their sheer awesomnity.

I was ready. I was going to do it. I was going to unleash the Tiger and I already had four people waiting to give me a standing ovation as soon as my jeans hit the stage.

But yeah, in a profound Sad Trombone moment they didn’t read the name of SlickTiger that night, no, they read the name of Brainwavez and your poor buddy ol’ pal Slick’s hopes and dreams were shattered against the jagged, rocky shoreline of reality where he isn’t the blogging demigod he thinks he is.

He’s just a man with a clunky laptop banging out fightin’ words, a crazy man, maybe one day a great man, but not today.

From there things got a little blurry, but the anti-climax of not being able to drop trou onstage proved too much for me to bear so I spent the rest of the evening dropping my jeans at any given opportunity and “unleashing the Tiger” to large groups of unsuspecting people who reacted in much the same way they would had I unleashed a real tiger.

On that note, if anyone out there on the interwebs manages to unearth pictures of me “unleashing the Tiger” or just any pictures of me and J-Rab at the awards, I’ll reward you handsomely for your efforts by posting the pics IMMEDIATELY and writing a humorous limerick about you that you can show your friends.

Needless to say, we didn’t stick around for long after the awards. I could sense I was dangerously close to committing the kind of Tiger faux pas that gets you tarred and feathered in blogging circles. So we caught a taxi to The Fez instead and boogied on down with some of my closest and oldest friends who consoled me with drinks, pats on the back and kind words like “Fuck those fucking fuckheads man! You did good dude, you got the the top 2 IN THE COUNTRY! I mean that’s fucking impressive, that’s th – wait, are you even listening to me? Oh Christ, the tiger underpants again…”

To sum up, I’d like to quote one of my favourite novels of all time:

It eluded us then, but that's no matter - tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms further... And one fine morning -

So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

This is not the end.

-ST

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slicktiger — Tue, 28 Sep 2010 17:10:34 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 28 Sep 2010 17:11:11 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 28 Sep 2010 17:11:27 +0000

Happy Birthday TFW!

slicktiger — Tue, 28 Sep 2010 17:11:30 +0000

Today marks exactly one year since this site went live.

I feel like I should post something momentous to mark the occasion, like maybe a bunch of bullet points that clearly highlight my favourite moments since I started blogging or something, but I’m not going to do that cause you and I both know that nobody gives a shit about that shit.

I got a better idea.

Let’s get drunk. Fuck it all. Let’s get drunk and sing old Velvet Underground songs, who’s with me?! HUH?!?! WHO’S FUCKING WITH ME!

AWESOME! Ok, here, you get started on this fine bottle of single malt and I’ll tell you about a friend of mine, name of Jimmy Brown, he ain’t got nothin’ at all.

Not a shirt right off his back. He ain’t got nothin’ at all ;)

I’ve enjoyed writing this blog for all you crazy fuckers out there, you’re good people, exactly the kind of people I started writing this site to attract. Crazy diamonds.

And I’m sorry you know? Sorry if recently the content’s been thin and posts are few and far between, I still got all these fightin’ words in my head, just not the time to get them out in the right order.

I think this site might be here forever though. I think I’m re-thinking the whole thing with a long term goal in mind to just keep posting and posting and posting. And in time you’ll be able to cut through all this material like a saw through a tree and you’ll be able to read the circles in the trunk and tell the good years from the bad.

It’s like a beat-up old spaceship floating aimlessly through the ether and inside it are a tiny handful of people, my friends mostly, getting fucked up in the lamplight and talking a bunch of shit, sometimes laughing.

Other people, they get on and off, and in the credits of this movie they only appear as “Man By The Teleporter” or “Woman Playing Ukulele” and that’s fine, they have no place here, they’re free to come and go. I don’t mind.

So pour us another drink, easy on the ice, while I tell you about old Ginger Brown, walks with his head down to the ground, they took the shoes right off his feet and threw the poor boy right out in the street.

And this is what he said.

“Oh sweet nothin’
She ain’t got nothin’ at all…”

-ST

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slicktiger — Wed, 29 Sep 2010 05:56:11 +0000

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slicktiger — Wed, 29 Sep 2010 05:56:25 +0000

Album Review: Philip Selway – Familial

slicktiger — Wed, 29 Sep 2010 05:56:28 +0000

There’s no two ways about it, drummers are a special bunch. Quiet and stoic, they have a gentle way about them not unlike idiot savants or people with severe autism.

This is, of course, a gross over-generalisation. There are at least three drummers that come to mind who are exceptionally gifted with both intelligence and musical ability, and one of those three is Philip Selway.

Selway was well on his way to becoming a full-time academic back in the early 90s, studying English and History in Liverpool, before he joined arguably the best alternative / indie / experimental rock band of all time, Radiohead.

There are only a few drummers in the world that boast the chops and muscle that Selway does behind a kit and can still pull off the shuffling, syncopated twists and turns that gave Radiohead classics like “Idioteque” and “There There” the bones to stand tall and strong.

Question is, is Selway worth a damn as a solo musician, or does his material sound like watered-down Radiohead B-sides?

Huh. Not an easy question.

Click here for the whole enchilada…

-ST

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slicktiger — Fri, 01 Oct 2010 19:03:26 +0000

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slicktiger — Fri, 01 Oct 2010 19:04:47 +0000

Red October

slicktiger — Fri, 01 Oct 2010 19:04:51 +0000

It begins today. Last year, when I first started this blog, I posted everyday for the month of October, and turned every day in the calendar you see on the right red with posts.

This year I aim to do the same.

The beauty of setting goals on a blog, where everyone can read them, is that failing is awesome. It’s like going onstage drunk as a hobo at a gig and passing out after three songs.

Which is why I aim not to fuck this up ;)

Sure, some posts will be banal. Some will just be plain lame, but it’s the principle of the thing y’know?

So here we go. Nine o’clock on a Friday night.

Post number one of thirty one.

Let the good times roll.

-ST

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slicktiger — Sat, 02 Oct 2010 18:19:55 +0000

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slicktiger — Sat, 02 Oct 2010 18:20:24 +0000

Post on a Saturday

slicktiger — Sat, 02 Oct 2010 18:20:27 +0000

The only people madder than me in this world are my family.

Here is a picture of my cousin, Captain Albatross, spraying the hosepipe at his kids who are standing on a trampoline, holding an unbrella.

Good times :)

-ST

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slicktiger — Sun, 03 Oct 2010 21:02:13 +0000

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slicktiger — Sun, 03 Oct 2010 21:05:51 +0000

What It’s Like To Be Six

slicktiger — Sun, 03 Oct 2010 21:05:55 +0000

If you want to remember what it’s like to be six, you gotta wait for a really, really hot day, then you gotta buy a giant softserve (with a flake inside), dip it in chocolate and eat it sitting right by the beach.

Then, if you’ve done that right, this should happen.

Now what you’re dealing with is a race against time. Things get frantic. You want to eat the ice cream, all of it, as much as possible before it all ends up dribbling away.

Then you hit the cone and you have a different problem altogether.

The serviette starts turning gooey and becomes impossible to remove from the cone.

See Exhibit A.

So naturally you get a little panicky, you get a little fidgety, you start picking the paper off quick as you can, people are staring, some douche keeps taking pictures of you with his phone, you try go a little quicker, you turn the cone round and round and round in your hands, unravelling the soggy serviette, trying to get that stubborn bastard off and the next thing you know…

Hey presto.

You’re six years old again ;)

-ST

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slicktiger — Mon, 04 Oct 2010 21:22:13 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 04 Oct 2010 21:24:13 +0000

Bubblegum On My Boots

slicktiger — Mon, 04 Oct 2010 21:24:19 +0000

Hahaha! I just read the fucking weirdest comment I think’s ever been posted on this site. Christ, I love the internet.

I found this one pending approval on my “About” page. I trashed the comment, but copy / pasted the text and decided to give it a post of its very own.

This one works on a couple of different levels but at face value, what we have here are some intensely passionate bubblegum Steri supporters enlisting the help of the Tiger.

Sit down for this one ok? I don’t want you surfing the internet standing up while you read this.

Are ya ready kids?

Dear SlickTiger

You may have heard of the Steri Flavour war that is breaking out right here in the beloved mother city. Cape Town Girl has been inundated with requests to ambassador for unofficial flavour fan clubs; we’re HUGE fans of Bubblegum and are looking for a blogger who is the epitome of what we’re all about.

Beware that Tashtober and Movember are upon us and that REAL South African boytjies, are out there cultivating some of the most hairy lip slugs ever witnesses by mankind, some so manly that would leave MacGyver feeling hopelessly inadequate. There is something magnificent about Bubblegum Steri Stumpie in the manner that it leaves a luminescent blue stain on your tongue. If you’ve been blessed with the god given talent to nurture a prodigious set of handlebars, taking a swig of the Blue Milk Magic will leave you with a mystical blue shaded tash.

You’re probably sitting down, wondering “why the fuck should I endorse some unofficial fan club for some arbitrary Steri Stumpie flavour in a war that will probably never reach my doorstep?” We can say only this, bubblegum is an underdog, we believe that we should be measured, not by the size of 12x5cm plastic container, but rather by the power of its contents to leave a sticky residue on your fur loaded upper lip. Bertrand Russell, a famous war dude, once said, “War does not determine who is right – only who is left”. Given the obvious stickiness of Bubblegum flavoured milk you will realise that long after the flavour of last nights shwarma feast has faded, the scent of a loving long street lady has paled after a morning shower, the blue stain will remain, unfaltering, everlasting reminder of your loyalty to the greatest flavoured milk to walk this crazy-ass planet of ours.

The unofficial official bubblegum steri stumpie fan club are massive fans of SlickTiger and love spending their free time reading his ludicrous blog posts, the madder the better. Will you join us in a crusade to get people to Save the Flavour with Bubblegum Steri Stumpie?

Hugs and Kisses
The Bubblegum Flavour Savers
http://www.facebook.com/pages/Save-the-Flavour/138205386225707?ref=ts

A wise old man once said to me, there are two reasons why anyone does anything in this life.

The good reason.

And the real reason.

The good reason always comes first, it’s the worm on the hook, coated in a thick, slimey sheen of gooey, ego-massaging goodness. Nomnomnom…

Then comes the real reason, hard and barbed. In this case I happen to know the real reason why The Bubblegum Flavour Savers are contacting me and it’s pretty innocuous all in all, so fuck it.

If it’s help you want, it’s help you got. You guys want a platform that speaks to some crazy basterds, you got one.

There’s just one small catch…

I’m gonna need your souls. Just sign a piece of paper that says “I [insert full name that appears on birth certificate] hereby give my soul to SlickTiger for ever and ever. Amen. [Signature must follow]”.

I don’t think it’s much to ask for really. Paper and ink boys, that’s all it is. Hand over 1 x soul for each of the founding members of The Bubblegum Flavour Savers and let’s get you charnas (in)famous!

Bada bing, bada bang! ;)

-ST

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slicktiger — Tue, 05 Oct 2010 21:44:30 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 05 Oct 2010 21:45:26 +0000

Quick, Everyone! In The Crate!

slicktiger — Tue, 05 Oct 2010 21:45:31 +0000

My favourite moment as a blogger is when people ask me what other blogs I read.

“What?!” I invariably reply, “there are other blogs on the internet?! Holy shit, no! I don’t read that garbage, it’s bad enough that I write one, why the hell would I want to read someone elses?”

But the sad truth is that I too get miserably bored at work sometimes and find myself gravitating toward other blog sites, mostly just to affirm the fact that I am pretty much the Anti-Christ of South African bloggers and probably always will be.

Shaun Oakes has his moments too though – that whole Marine Taxis debacle that went down a few weeks back? Hilarious! And brilliantly handled too, made me wish some crazy old bat would bless this site with her incoherent, hate-fuelled ramblings. A guy can only hope…

And so I stumbled on his post about some Smirnoff hamper he was giving away on his site for this new thing Smirnoff is doing where they are going to put South Africa’s nightlife in a crate and ship it to some random country overseas.

Then they open it in the middle of a huge party with hundreds of people gathered there and BAM! Out jump The Parlotones!

Hahaha! Sorry, couldn’t resist ;)

No, they open the crate and BAM! Out jumps something, or at least a whole bunch of somethings that people have voted into the crate on Facebook.

The final say as to what exactly goes into the crate is decided by DJ Euphonic and DJ Fresh which totally defeats the object if you ask me because with stand-up guys like that calling the shots, there’s no way any crazy shit’s gonna get in there.

And, as anyone who’s truly experienced it can attest, SA nightlife is ALL about the crazy shit.

Me, I’d put David Kramer in there, no question about it.

Imagine everyone’s surprise when ol’ Dawie jumps out on the other side, banging out “The Royal Hotel” or “Biscuits And Biltong” on his guitar to a totally bewildered crowd of snooty, too-cool-for-school partygoers who have probably never once in their lives sat around a blazing fire with their buddies talking shit and listening to Mr Kramer’s classic ballads intermingled with the distant sounds of lions banging somewhere.

I think it’s a cute idea and all but I just don’t think what comes out of our crate on the other side is really going to blow anyone’s mind – does that make me a cynical basterd?

All we can hope, hope and pray, hope, pray and dream is that we get Columbia’s crate.

Now THAT’S a party I’d give a toe to be at, hooooooooooooooooo-weeeeeeeeeeeeee!

But seriously, am I the only one who thinks a crate packed full of Vuvuzelas, boerie rolls and Freshly Ground is a sure-fire recipe for a distinctly average night out?

-ST

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slicktiger — Wed, 06 Oct 2010 19:40:13 +0000

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slicktiger — Wed, 06 Oct 2010 19:43:21 +0000

Album Review: Linkin Park – A Thousand Suns

slicktiger — Wed, 06 Oct 2010 19:43:24 +0000

When they came out of nowhere, guns blazin’ back in 2000 with their killer debut album Hybrid Theory, Linkin Park broke so much new ground in the rap/nu metal genre that even the most hardened music critics couldn’t help but admit the boys from Cali were packing the musical equivalent of a hand full of aces.

Hybrid Theory was stacked full of powerful, catchy riffs and hooks, which were perfectly accentuated by the irrepressible anger of front man Chester Bennington’s shredded vocals and Mike Shinoda’s excellently written rhymes.

Now, nearly a decade later Linkin Park have released their fourth offering, A Thousand Suns, and sadly it’s even less appealing than 2007’s Minutes To Midnight, which pretty much makes it the band’s worst album to date. When a band opens an album with not one, but two tracks that are largely just a collection of different noises overlaid with a spattering of vocals and a 50-second sound bite, you know right then and there that they’re running out of ideas.

Read the whole enchilada here…

-ST

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slicktiger — Thu, 07 Oct 2010 14:35:57 +0000

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slicktiger — Thu, 07 Oct 2010 14:37:38 +0000

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slicktiger — Thu, 07 Oct 2010 14:39:48 +0000

A Text-Book “Red October” Post – WITH PUPPIES!

slicktiger — Thu, 07 Oct 2010 14:40:19 +0000

On the internet, repetition is king. Don’t think just because you’re a sometimes-funny fucker who got through to the finals of the SA Blog Awards and then dropped trou and showed everyone his Tiger Scants that people actually read your shit.

So to reiterate – last year, when I first started this fucking junkyard site, I posted everyday for the month of October and turned every day on the calendar you see on your right (scroll down a little... theeeeeerrreeee you go) red with posts.

This year I’m trying to do the same, but as I stated in the post I put up on the 1^st, that means that some posts will be kak.

This post is kak. Make no mistake. I’m about to go taste some fine whisky at 15 On Orange so I know for a fact that I won’t be posting later tonight.

So, as a peace offering, here are cute pictures of the puppies we are currently raising. Keep a special eye out for Rocko, the fucking raddest little guy the world has ever known.

Also, send this around to all your friends, especially the girl ones, as proof that as long as you have cute animals (or porn) on your site, nobody gives a rat’s ass about what you write.

Lemon curry.

Ok, now I’m going to have to issue a disclaimer. What you are about to see is Rocko. He’s the coolest fucking dog ON THIS PLANET, so just take a few moments to accept that fact and prepare yourself for what you’re about to see or your head might explode with awesome.

And that. Is that.

Until tomorrow.

-ST

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slicktiger — Fri, 08 Oct 2010 21:09:49 +0000

Rocking The Daisies: Prelude

slicktiger — Fri, 08 Oct 2010 21:09:57 +0000

The National plays while we pack. Tomorrow’s an early start before the madness begins.

We’ve got everything covered. The fine balance between taking too much shit and taking too little.

J-Rab sits curled in the couch opposite me, looking through the pictures on her phone while I bang this out, , both of us tired from a long week and looking forward to that sublime moment when we hit the lights, curl up and sleep like the dead.

In the beaches of our dreams, the days are always sunny and clear and the water’s always fine. We meet there sometimes and watch tropical birds fly overhead and listen to the lazy sound of the ocean lapping the shore.

Good times ;)

-ST

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slicktiger — Fri, 08 Oct 2010 21:26:11 +0000

Congratulations!

slicktiger — Sat, 09 Oct 2010 06:00:00 +0000

You’ve found a secret post!

-ST

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slicktiger — Sun, 10 Oct 2010 20:31:39 +0000

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slicktiger — Sun, 10 Oct 2010 20:34:53 +0000

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slicktiger — Sun, 10 Oct 2010 20:38:04 +0000

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slicktiger — Sun, 10 Oct 2010 20:38:40 +0000

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slicktiger — Sun, 10 Oct 2010 20:40:07 +0000

Rocking The Daisies – A Photo Journey

slicktiger — Sun, 10 Oct 2010 20:40:12 +0000

“Sarah?”

“Yes, hi…?”

“Hi, we’ve just arrived so um, where can I pick up my ticket?”

“Come meet us at the Nokia tent, we’ve managed to get you media accreditation, so you just need to head over to the tent and we’ll meet you there.”

“Ok, cool. But, um, how do I get in?”

“What…?”

“I mean, do they have my name at the gate or something?”

“No, your ticket was –“

“In the mail Olga sent me? Yeah, I printed it out but left it on my desk, total fuck-up.”

“Ohh… kaaayy…”

“Can we make some kind of plan?”

And BAM, there we were, 20 minutes later with Sarah slipping me a media band and me walking through the glass-Nazi security check-point and straight into Rocking The Daisies at around 12 midday on the sunniest Saturday you ever did see.

Thank you Nokia, seriously. You guys are the shit – bailing me out when I forgot to take my ticket with, fuck yeah. You guys made my festival possible.

As for the festival itself, fahk, where do I start? I was seriously impressed.

From the outset, I could see we were dealing with a different kind of festival, one where they take care of the details. It was everything from guys with wheelbarrows helping you lug your shit around, to the heavy emphasis on environmental friendliness and recycling and even something as simple as the exclusive loos (we never used any, but I’m sure they were a huge relief to people who didn’t want to face the possibility of opening a porta-loo door and finding… AN ANACONDA!).

We set up our tent in an area that soon became overrun with shirtless charnas, about 6 or 7 in total, who had the most hilarious collection of crusty old tents J-Rab and I had ever seen. They were actually pretty funny fuckers, but J-Rab and I didn’t really hang around much after we’d set up camp, it was like a sauna in our tent, the kind of day where the horizon shimmers and all you want to do is find a giant body of water and float in it with a bottle of cold beer.

We hopped from one island of shade to the next, people-watching and sipping on the waterbottle full of ice-cold vodka and lime we snuck into the main arena.

We caught a few New Holland tracks which I remember thinking sounded pretty cool, but we didn’t stay for long enough for me to give them a decent write-up. We were more focussed on beer at this stage, that and tracking down the Captain Morgan people who were filling up our now-empty “water-bottle” with free premixed Captain and coke.

I remember swimming in the dam.

I remember J-Rab and me heading back to our campsite, dragging our mattress out the tent and under the shade-cloth the charnas had set up, staring at a blue, blue sky. Giant love affair…

We drank a lot of beer just lying there and ended up napping in the sun before heading back to the mainstage later that evening to catch Boo! who played a killer set.

Chris Chameleon’s vocals were clear as a bell, and, dressed like the Wicked Witch of the West, he rocked out onstage with a mike headset while banging out the basslines to songs like “Lucky” and “Champion” and getting the crowd jumping and rocking out.

Ampie was his usual, clownish self, thanking everyone like a kid in a highschool who’s buddies have all showed up to the garage gig he’s hooked up because his parents are away.

Him and Chameleon still have the same, infectious chemistry they always did, but Ampie did seem to be struggling to hold some notes on the trumpet and looked a little flustered sometimes. They’re not the 20-something punks they were when they first started, but they did an impressive job of rocking out like they were.

As for the Nudies, it was an interesting set.

They played all the Nude Girls’ classics like “Blue Eyes”, “Giant Love Affair”, “What Would You Say?” and the ever-popular grunge / alternative rock anthem “Bubblegum On My Boots” and for the most part, they almost sounded like the ground-breaking, energetic and charismatic SA rock band they were back in the late nineties.

Theo rocked out like a metal stalwart. He looks meaner than I remember him, meatier, like a man who’s seen and done a lot because, well, he is.

Arno looks like an only slightly aged carbon copy of his younger self. He looks like he’s taken pretty good care of himself, must be the Top Billing-type lifestyle he’s been living for the last 8-odd years.

As for his vocals, they were hit and miss. The man’s got a great scream, he always has, and when he unleashes it the earth itself shakes and it’s still as spine-shivering now as it ever was.

But it sounded like he missed more than a couple of queues and at times was missing notes completely, but I think people forget, especially South African audiences, is when you pay to see a band play live, you pay to watch their mistakes as much as you pay to hear the moments when everything comes together, the band explodes with energy and the crowd absorbs that explosion, amplifies it and feeds it straight back.

MASSIVE FAIL for bringing Jeannie D onstage while the band sung “Jeanie” though, that was a gag-inducing moment if I ever saw one.

The dfnniest part was right at the end when they invited ‘Sailor Jim” to join them onstage.

“Sailor Jim” wore a sailing hat and some kind of brown coat (if I remember correctly…?) and was a podgey, happy-looking kind of chap.

“Who’s that?” I remember J-Rab asking.

“Why, I have no idea… but judging by the hat, I’d say this is Sailor Jim.”

It was only ten minutes later, when he took his hat off, that I realised it was Ard from Just Jinja.

If I could have done anything different, it would have been to stay for Taxi Violence after the Nudies, but in truth my skull felt like it was going to split open at that stage, and we had no painkillers.

We passed out listening to the drunken revelry of the campers around us and their hilarious stories about running into barbed wire fences and finding strangers passed out in their tents.

There’s a lesson here kids, if you’re rocking a music festival, take a LOCK.

The next day this apocalyptic wind was blowing the walls of our tent in and out like a sails. We poked our heads out to see hordes of people packing up their tents while the sky got blacker and blacker and the wind blew all their trash around.

We stayed to check out Checked Zebra who were really good. Imagine Chili Peppers meets Boo! meets a punk / ska band (maybe like Sublime) and you get Checked Zebra.

We would have rocked out to their whole set, but the wind was blowing so hard it felt like we were in a cyclone, so we eventually headed back to camp, packed up and headed home.

The best part of any festival is the first shower you have back at home and the afternoon nap that inevitably follows.

You drift off to sleep, thankful for the little things in life like clean linen and a comfortable bed, and don’t surface until you’ve nailed at least a solid 2 hours, warm and safe while the clouds gather and rain down on the roof above you and the wind whips tree branches and kicks up clouds of swirling dust devils outside.

Rocking The Daisies was an amazing festival. A special mention goes to the guys handling the AV for the main stage gigs on the Saturday night. The camera work and visuals were professionally executed and looked pretty fucking amazing.

Next year I’ll definitely try get their on the Friday though, it all went by too damn fast.

You gotta do the whole hog if you want to truly experience a festival, next time I’m taking the leave and doing shit right, going with a huge group of friends, packing a LOT of tequila and possibly even hanging out with the bands.

Sky's the limit I tell ya ;)

-ST

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slicktiger — Mon, 11 Oct 2010 19:43:05 +0000

The Beauty Of Taking A Number Of Heavy Blows To The Head

slicktiger — Mon, 11 Oct 2010 19:43:12 +0000

Is that you find cartoons like this one really, really funny.

I can’t even explain to you why I think this cartoon is hilarious, but it made me burst out laughing at the cubicle farm a few weeks back, which usually only happens when I entertain crazy-assed ideas like going to client meetings naked or seeing how much I can secretly drink under my desk before someone asks why I’m standing on the boardroom table, belting out “We Are The Champions” in my Tiger Scants.

And I guess that’s the lesson here kids. If you damage your brain enough, well, Christ, you could find pretty much anything funny.

[Roll credits]

-ST

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slicktiger — Tue, 12 Oct 2010 17:10:58 +0000

A Thought For Lisa

slicktiger — Tue, 12 Oct 2010 17:11:01 +0000

I understand that people have their own idiosyncrasies and kooky things they say and do, that’s the beauty of being human, I get that.

Some people, when they’re taking a photo they say “cheese” – that’s pretty stock standard. We’ve all been cheesed at some point in our lives.

Other people, they might say something more fitting for the occasion, like say they’re taking a shot of a winning sport’s team, they might tell them to all say “FUCK YEAH!” or something else along those lines, I dunno, fuck me it’s been a long day.

Everyone in our office got a huge shock a few weeks back when one of the women we work with (we’ll call her Lisa) who we love dearly and who is married with two kids was diagnosed with cancer.

I personally have all the time in the world for Lisa because she’s an honest, hard-working and happy person who I’ve always gotten along with really well and who I have a lot of respect for. It was a hard blow for us all when she announced she had been diagnosed with cancer and was starting chemo treatment the following week.

She’s too young for this shit. Why the fuck. Why the fuck do the worst things happen to the best people?

We all wore bandanas to work today and posed for a group pic that we could send to Lisa. Something small, a gesture of kindness at a time when she needs it most.

We had to get someone from the office next door to take the pic and when this person had the shot all lined up, what did she tell us to smile and say?

“Cancer.”

She told us to smile and say cancer.

It was a moment of sublime ignorance, one that would usually make me crack up because of how wrong it was, but not today.

Today my faith in our kind decreased by one, I dunno, today I just felt shitty about everything, just fucking shitty about fucking everything.

I think that people block a lot of life out because if you had to stop and think about it all you’d lose your fucking mind.

Lisa shouldn’t have to suffer like she is.

If you believe in the healing power of a kind thought, spare one for Lisa. She’s a good person, one of the few, and I know she’ll get better, she has to get better.

I know she’ll get better.

-ST

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slicktiger — Wed, 13 Oct 2010 10:31:51 +0000

Gig Review: The Show Must Go On (Queen Tribute Show)

slicktiger — Wed, 13 Oct 2010 10:31:53 +0000

You gotta dig a guy like Freddie Mercury. It’s practically a law! Not only was he a musical genius and a phenomenal singer, but the man was rumoured to have once thrown a party so wild it had midgets roaming around with trays of cocaine strapped on their heads for guests to schnarf off.

His life was the stuff of legend – he wore crazy outfits, he had the stage presence of a young stallion and he sung some of the most memorable rock songs and ballads of all time.

Just watch the passionate vehemence with which people act out the coda (“I’m just a poor boy from a poor family…”) of “Bohemian Rhapsody” before last round gets called at the local bar and you’ll know that for as long as there is music, there will always be Queen. And so it was with realistic expectations that I went on a Thursday to the opening night of The Show Must Go On at the Roxy Revue Bar in GrandWest Casino and to be honest, it was exactly how I imagined it – a lot of fun, if you’re 45 or older.

Click here to read the whole enchilada…

-ST

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slicktiger — Thu, 14 Oct 2010 20:20:09 +0000

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slicktiger — Thu, 14 Oct 2010 20:21:10 +0000

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slicktiger — Thu, 14 Oct 2010 20:21:44 +0000

Help The TIger Find A Flat And Win!

slicktiger — Thu, 14 Oct 2010 20:21:48 +0000

Guys, some crazy news.

J-Rab and me are moving out of the wooden shit-shack we’re been living in for the last 8 months in Stellenbosch and are heading into the beautiful sea-side city of Cape Town itself, PRAISE JESUS HALLELULYA!

It hasn’t been easy living out here on this wine farm in Stellies. I mean, people come around to visit the place and they’re all like “Aww, it’s so cosy!” Which pisses us off no end because it’s not fucking cosy, ok?

It’s a fucking hell-hole of sleeplessness, anguish and rats. That’s right, rats. Our shed-of-a-house is infested with large, nasty, fucking smart rats who break in at night and stomp around eating our food like they own the fucking place!

Or at least they used to. Eventually the lack of sleep drove me insane(r) and I bought enough Racumin to poison an army of the fuckers. I then waited for nightfall and crept around in the dark, mumbling incoherent nonsense and giggling under my breath as I lobbed little sachets of the poison under the house and imagined the evil fuckers twitching and writhing uncontrollably while the poison ripped through their central nervous-systems like loose shrapnel.

And don’t even fucking get me started on the owls, Egyptian geese, Anatolian Shepherds, roosters, tractors and other random shit that robs us of our sleep nightly. I mean fuck’s sake, what the fuck did we do to deserve this hellish existence? What?!?!

Sure, it’s rent free. Sure living here is part of J-Rab’s job, but y’know what? They can shove this shack-of-shit, we’re done here. The commute in and out of the city centre where I work is killing me, as is the insomnia and the smell of dead, rotten rats under our floorboards.

Anyway. Enough about that.

So here’s the deal. We need a new place, a nice 1-bedroom, 1-bathroom flat somewhere central in Cape Town with a great garden (communal is fine), a killer view, parking for two cars, a nice kitchen and a robot like they have in The Jetsons to clean the dishes and wash our clothes and stuff.

If you know any friends moving out of a place that fits the bill, fire a mail off to tellthetiger@gmail.com and you could stand the chance to win an official SlickTiger Them’s Fightin’ Words T-shirt that is guaranteed to get you laid.

So don’t delay! Write in now and this amazing T-shirt could be yours! Oh, and I’ll also put up a post about how you are an exceptional human being, cooler than Jesus even.

Fair deal right? ;)

Have a killer weekend.

-ST

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slicktiger — Fri, 15 Oct 2010 16:19:48 +0000

The Halfway Mark

slicktiger — Fri, 15 Oct 2010 16:19:50 +0000

This is officially the halfway mark on my Red October mission. It is also officially the end of a long-ass week that I’m really thankful I got through alive.

To celebrate, I plan to do the following activities in my wooden shit-shack:

Drink

So while I’m smashing my way through some exceptionally fine single malt (I feel a cheeky dram of Talisker coming on) I would like you to meet my friend Melissa Riso.

What do you reckon? Five out of ten? Six? I think six is fair. Good job Melissa, that bonus point is for always flossing.

Aaaaaaaaand, I’m done.

-ST

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slicktiger — Sat, 16 Oct 2010 20:28:21 +0000

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slicktiger — Sat, 16 Oct 2010 20:49:57 +0000

Saturday On The Farm

slicktiger — Sat, 16 Oct 2010 20:50:03 +0000

It’s not all bad. I know I wrote that post about how living here is hellish, but it has it’s moments.

We took these pics today when we got back from spending the afternoon on the beach.

Good times ;)

I guess sometimes the shitty things make you forget the good ones.

That’s the lesson today kids. Remember to always remember that when you take a step back to appreciate it, your life is pretty damn amazing.

-ST

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slicktiger — Sun, 17 Oct 2010 18:35:42 +0000

Hai-ya!

slicktiger — Sun, 17 Oct 2010 18:35:47 +0000

People tell me they have crazy families, but I just keep quiet.

This is my cousin She-Ninja, inches away from kicking her brother, Captain Albatross, right in the head.

You wouldn’t believe how many times we had to try this to get it right, but man, it was so worth it ;)

-ST

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slicktiger — Mon, 18 Oct 2010 20:46:31 +0000

Goodbye Rocko

slicktiger — Mon, 18 Oct 2010 20:46:35 +0000

I knew it was going to be rough for J-Rab when she eventually had to say goodbye to Rocko, our favourite of the fourteen Anatolian Sheepdog puppies we’ve been raising, so it was no surprise to me when she called in tears to say he was gone.

But what killed me was how fucking unhelpful the Express Air staff were. They left J-Rab completely by herself to pack the four puppies who were too little to be proper sheepdogs into these tiny crates so they could be flown up to Joburg.

The crates were full of shit-covered old newspaper and were so small the puppies couldn’t turn around in them, so naturally J-Rab lost it completely, tore all the newspaper out the crates and used the puppy blankets she’d brought with to line them instead.

And all the while the puppies didn’t make a peep and let her put all four of them inside their crates without making a sound because they’ve learnt to trust her and they know she’d never hurt them.

But when she had to shut the crates and lock them, one by one the puppies started crying and there was nothing she could do, nothing at all except walk away and probably never see them again for as long as they live.

Fuck, I felt all choked up when she told me the story and I wasn’t the one who watched every one of them be born and who fed them from when they were little furry worms right up until today, when J-Rab kissed them goodbye for the last time.

Life is just plain fucked up sometimes. On Wednesday the rest of the puppies go and I guess life just goes back to normal, like none of it ever happened.

I’ll miss Rocko though, he was an amazing dog. I just hope he gets a good, loving home and people who’ll look after him and treat him right.

Good luck to ya Rocko little buddy, grow up big and strong and brave. Life ain’t gonna be the same without you, but for as long as this junkyard site stands we’ll remember you and probably even if it doesn’t.

Your dad.

-ST

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slicktiger — Tue, 19 Oct 2010 20:22:21 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 19 Oct 2010 20:24:02 +0000

My New BFF Smirnoff – The Plot Thickens

slicktiger — Tue, 19 Oct 2010 20:24:05 +0000

You guys aren’t gonna believe this.

So despite the fact that I shot holes through their new campaign and had a laugh at DJ Fresh and Euphonik’s co-written response (click here for a recap), it would appear that the folks at Smirnoff still wanna be pals.

I cracked the nod to attend this exclusive event Smirnoff are hosting on Friday where they’re going to be revealing all kinds of stuff about this whole Nightlife Experience shebang including, but not limited to:

What South Africa has packed in its crate!
Where we’re sending it! and
Which country’s crate is coming to us!

And there I’ll be, at ground zero when this all gets revealed like some kind of sold-my-soul-to-Satan corporate whore blogger.

But I mean c’mon, it’s high time the Tiger got some kick-backs from this whole blogging gig. I mean, I share a cubicle with Nash from Bangers&Nash and that guy gets so much free shit it’s embarrassing.

Next on the Tiger’s agenda: write a post about how lousy Maseratis are, how X-Boxes are a dying fad and how houses in Camps Bay are shit.

Don’t hate the player hate the game yo!

-ST

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slicktiger — Wed, 20 Oct 2010 21:58:10 +0000

Computer Retarded

slicktiger — Wed, 20 Oct 2010 21:58:13 +0000

My uncle is a fucking cool guy, but he’s computer retarded.

And yeah, I know what you’re thinking – maybe he posts dumb updates on Facebook or clicks ‘reply to all’ on emails and says things that make everyone cringe, but no, it’s much worse than that.

He uses a mouse that has a ball in it and the ball’s so full of gunk you end up looking like a complete spazz when you use it because you have to push the mouse across the pad five times to move the cursor from one side of the screen to the other.

Doesn’t phase my uncle though. He uses the machine because it has Microsoft Word and email, both of which he can sort of use. I tried to explain the internet to him once, but he flat out refused to understand what I was telling him.

So I take him three audio CDs that I’ve burned him and he tells me it’s cool, he’s recently learned how to play CDs on his computer, so he’s gonna give it a go.

I stand back and watch while he pushes the mouse backward and forward across the mouse pad a couple of times, all the while dragging desktop icons randomly around the place and dropping them into folders where they don’t belong.

Finally he positions the cursor over Winamp and double clicks it.

‘Cool,’ I say, ‘yeah that should be able to play the CDs.’

‘Yes. My friend showed me how this works.’

‘Ok,’

We stare at the screen. Nothing happens. My uncle double clicks again.

‘Um. I think just give it s-‘

He double clicks again.

‘Just give it a little time to open th-‘

He double clicks again.

‘Um.’

We stare at the screen. Still nothing happens.

‘Maybe just put the CD in and see if it picks it up,’ I suggest.

‘Ok,’ he says and switches the computer off. We stare at the screen.

‘Why… did you just do that?’

‘Oh shit. Is it off?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh. Sorry, I was trying to open it.’

‘Ok, that’s this button,’ I said, pointing to the eject button next to the CD drive. ‘So just… switch it on again…” I said and patiently waited while Windows Professional 2000 rebooted.

Once it was back up he wasted no time in double clicking the Winamp icon again and then one more time just to be sure.

‘Cool… lemme just put the CD in…” I said, hitting the eject button.

He double clicks again. The CD drive closes. He double clicks again.

After a few seconds, the CD drive makes a sound like an old hoover and starts playing t. he. C. D. lik. e. th. is.

‘Is it broken?’ he said, baffled.

‘Um, no. You’ve opened Winamp six times.’

‘Ah, I see.’

‘So let’s just close a few of these… hit play again… and… it’s a done deal…’

‘Ok, now it’s playing fine.’

‘Cool, can you remember that?’

‘No.’

‘Ok,’

‘Want a beer?’

‘God yes.’

And that’s what it’s like with computer retarded people. You can’t change them, but as long as there’s beer, everyone’s happy.

-ST

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slicktiger — Thu, 21 Oct 2010 17:39:59 +0000

Album Review: Brandon Flowers – Flamingo

slicktiger — Thu, 21 Oct 2010 17:40:02 +0000

The Killers had a good thing going. Both Hot Fuss and Sam’s Town shook up the music scene with their hook-heavy indie ballads, foot-tappingly infectious riffs and Brandon Flowers’ primal sincerity in nearly every line he sang.

But with the release of Day And Age music critics began suspecting that the band was losing the magic that made The Killers killer. The band did what every band does when they start running out of ideas, they played it safe and as a result Day And Age had very little going for it and ended up turning a lot of diehard fans off The Killers altogether.

So it was no real surprise when Brandon Flowers announced he was striking out alone and even less of a surprise when the first single off Flamingo landed sounding almost exactly like the material Flowers used to play with The Killers.

Give it a few listens though and it quickly becomes apparent that while there are a lot of similarities between The Killers and Flowers’ solo album, there are enough differences to keep it interesting and given time, Flamingo reveals an amazing depth that it’s easy to miss if you aren’t listening carefully.

Click here for the whole enchilada…

-ST

SlickTiger Industries Presents: The Tiger Life

slicktiger — Fri, 22 Oct 2010 20:15:00 +0000

So I checked out the Smirnoff gig at The Grand Cafe where the big announcement was made saying which country we are swopping crates with and actually had a rocking time.

I made a whole bunch of new friends who, like me, are pretty crazy fuckers and even got an opportunity to interview DJs Fresh and Euphonik using the new shiny N8 that the kind folks at Nokia have given me to review for the next month.

So who are we swopping crates with? Well, instead of doing the usual SlickTiger thing of just writing a whole load of blahblahblah, I’m upping the ante on this one slightly and I’m gonna cut together the video I shot at the event into an all-new web series that I plan to make a regular feature on this site.

Starting Monday, you can watch all the crazy shenanigans your buddy ‘ol pal SlickTiger gets up to in a radass show I’m calling: THE TIGER LIFE – shot entirely on the N8.

Watch this space muthufukkahs, shit’s just about to get interesting ;)

-ST

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slicktiger — Sat, 23 Oct 2010 14:20:51 +0000

Saturday

slicktiger — Sat, 23 Oct 2010 21:49:00 +0000

Looked like this.

That’s all I got.

-ST

Fuck You Windows Movie maker

slicktiger — Sun, 24 Oct 2010 14:01:00 +0000

Because that’s what I’ve spent my entire Sunday doing, fucking editing like a maniac to get the first episode of The Tiger Life ready for tomorrow and I’ve still got about another 5 hours to go before I’m there. Hopefully.

All I can say is if anyone out there knows a free video editing programme that has decent functionality and doesn’t need a Trojan of a machine to actually run, please let me know.

Thank you. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to drill my brain out.

-ST

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slicktiger — Sun, 24 Oct 2010 21:52:50 +0000

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slicktiger — Sun, 24 Oct 2010 22:02:34 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 25 Oct 2010 21:45:14 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 25 Oct 2010 21:45:17 +0000

It’s ALIIVVVEEEEE!

slicktiger — Mon, 25 Oct 2010 21:45:21 +0000

At long last, after much hair-tearing, swearing, drinking, bashing stuff, swearing some more, crying in exasperation and contemplating suicide, I’ve finished cutting the first episode of The Tiger Life together and guys, I don’t wanna blow smoke up my arse here or anything, but wow!

It’s sort of ok.

I could do better. Given more time and a more powerful editing suite, shit, I could make magic.

So come back tomorrow when I can use the company’s bandwidth to upload this sick puppy.

Good times

-ST

The Tiger Life – Episode 1

slicktiger — Tue, 26 Oct 2010 10:26:12 +0000

Alrighty, let’s do this!

Like I said, this is ok – I had to scale down the video quite a lot to get it to upload right so the visuals have lost a bit of their sharpness and clarity, but overall, the best part of doing this whole thing was shooting it on the Nokia N8 I’m using right now.

So kick back, grab a froo-froo vodka cocktail and check out The Tiger Life – Episode 1.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uNGzu2BYB30&w=448&h=252&hd=1]

Stay tuned for more Tiger shenanigans in next week’s episode!

-ST

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slicktiger — Wed, 27 Oct 2010 21:34:21 +0000

Stop, drop and roll

slicktiger — Wed, 27 Oct 2010 21:34:25 +0000

All I’m doing here is writing something, anything so that I don’t break the winning streak I’ve got going with the Red October posts (ie. posting everyday for the entire month of October).

Originally I was going to just put up a picture of another SERIOUSLY HOT BELTER, but J-Rab put her foot down for all the single ladies (all the single ladies) all the single ladies (all the single ladies) and insisted I post a hot guy.

So yeah. Ta-daa.

Da doom.
Tsshh.

-ST

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slicktiger — Thu, 28 Oct 2010 21:11:28 +0000

I Wish I Had Something Better To Post Than This Awesome Poster Of Nancy Botwin

slicktiger — Thu, 28 Oct 2010 21:12:21 +0000

But I don’t. So if you’re ok with that then so am I.

At least you all know what I did instead of writing something worth reading.

Yeah. Season six baby ;)

-ST

Another Ugly Week Down…

slicktiger — Fri, 29 Oct 2010 18:47:00 +0000

And next week’s going to be even more batshit crazy.

But right now is beer o’clock, so if you’ll excuse me…

-ST

BLOGS OFF PHONE

slicktiger — Sat, 30 Oct 2010 21:03:00 +0000

I’VE FINALLY GONE 100% GEEK-TARD. IM WRITING THIS ON MY PHONE.

WAY TO DRUNK FOR THIS SHIT.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN BITCES!

-ST

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slicktiger — Sun, 31 Oct 2010 18:48:10 +0000

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slicktiger — Sun, 31 Oct 2010 19:04:49 +0000

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slicktiger — Sun, 31 Oct 2010 19:39:48 +0000

Red October – A Smashing Success!

slicktiger — Sun, 31 Oct 2010 19:39:52 +0000

Well, you may or may not remember the goal I set to post every day for the month of October, but yeah, I flippin’ KLAPPED IT CHARNAS!

Thirty-one days of straight, never missing a beat posting and yes, some posts were a little on the thin side, I’m the first to admit that but considering work is drilling me like a Deepwater oil operation in the Gulf of Mexico, I think I’ve done a killer job of keeping this shit up.

I’m also stoked because I put the second Tiger Life to bed today, cut the whole thing together and managed to actually make Window Movie Maker work for me. Episode Two, unlike the first one, is fucking cool and if you don’t get a few laughs watching it, I’ll eat my shoe.

What was even more impressive was the fact that I put it together with the mother of all headaches from the tequila I smashed last night. Nothing quite like taking taxis out, it’s like playing a ‘Get Out Of Jail Free’ card.

So to give you an idea of what it’s like to party in Stellenbosch, I present to you the following video which not only captures the music perfectly, but also the people of Stellenbosch.

Watch the whole thing. You think it can’t get any better, but it does.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZDHSbrPZH4A]

Yeah. Enjoy hearing that song in your head for thee next three days.

Heh heh heh.

-ST

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slicktiger — Mon, 01 Nov 2010 21:58:25 +0000

Small Things

slicktiger — Mon, 01 Nov 2010 21:58:29 +0000

I looked down the old and dusty road I drive home today and for the first time saw that it was summer.

All around me the vineyards were green and exploding with life and the evening was warm and the sun was setting slow and late behind the jagged mountains that flank us.

I shopped in my shorts for the week’s groceries and instead of rushing around the store to get all the stuff on our list as quickly as possible, I just walked between the aisles and watched the sparrows that nest in the ceiling swooping around the Pick ‘n Pay, free.

I listened to old Kings Of Leon after supper and remembered what summer is like back up in Joburg. The smell of freshly cut grass on a sweltering day, the feel of your fingers pruning because you’ve been swimming too long. Coke fizzing up with ice.

I’m not sure how I’m supposed to be living, who I’m supposed to be hanging out with, what I’m supposed to be wearing or saying or thinking or doing. I don’t know if I’ve got it all figured out, I don’t know that I’ve got anything figured out, but I know that there’s something in a summer day that somehow makes every single damn thing worth it.

Tonight I’ll hold my girlfriend, warm, sweet-smelling and beautiful, and we’ll drift off to sleep together and we’ll be happy.

It’s my birthday on Wednesday, I’ll be 27 years old and while I ain’t changed, I know I ain’t the same

I hope it’s a sunny day on Wednesday, that’s all I want for my birthday. That and to wake up next to her.

The small things.

-ST

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slicktiger — Tue, 02 Nov 2010 06:20:32 +0000

The Tiger Life – Episode 2

slicktiger — Tue, 02 Nov 2010 06:20:34 +0000

Ok. Now we’re getting somewhere.

This one turned out a lot better than the last one and without sounding like a total douche, I’m really proud of this little piece of random interweb video.

Please join me as we enter the world of the 27Dinners to interview geeks and gamers and watch the new XBox Kinect system in action.

Good times

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GjIdEMA_ejg&w=448&h=252&hd=1]

-ST

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slicktiger — Wed, 03 Nov 2010 09:40:08 +0000

It’s my Birthday

slicktiger — Wed, 03 Nov 2010 09:40:11 +0000

So yeah, donations welcome (email tellthetiger@gmail.com to set up an EFT).

I’ve got a crazy assed day lined up as I’m in the business of fine whisky and today the Whisky Live Festival begins, so think of me while I’m toiling away at the festival until 10 tonight when I should be getting fanned with palm leaves and enjoying a dram of the good stuff.

Here’s an appropriate picture…um, kinda…

Later masturbators.

-ST

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slicktiger — Thu, 04 Nov 2010 06:38:39 +0000

Captain Stu Are Fucking Cool

slicktiger — Thu, 04 Nov 2010 06:38:43 +0000

And if you don’t believe me, I want you to know that you’re wrong. And no, this isn’t one of those situations where it’s ok to be wrong and you say ‘Well, let’s just agree to disagree’ and slope off to have a crafty wank behind the tool shed.

Captain Stu are fucking cool because not only are they carving out a sound that is fresh, funky and infectious, but Ryan the bassist gave me first dibs on their new video for the track “The Day” off their radass new EP that they’re launching on Friday night at Zula.

But wait. It’s get’s better.

If you head on down to Zula on Friday, they’ll give you the new EP FOR FREE.

All that hard work. All that time spent slaving away in studio, coaxing the sickest jams you could ever hope to hear from the tender birth canals of each and every band member’s twisted mind and they give it away FOR FUCKING FREE.

OK, so the new EP is called “Free Music” but still. I think that’s pretty fucking cool.

So here’s the new album cover:

Aaaaaaand, here’s the new video:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ongIE_JGlr0&w=581&h=325&hd=1]

What do you guys reckon? Invite them as guests on the Tiger Life, ingest large quantities of LSD and go 10-pin bowling?

Holy shit. That’s EXACTLY what I was thinking!

Group hug.

-ST

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slicktiger — Mon, 08 Nov 2010 08:06:11 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 08 Nov 2010 08:06:28 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 08 Nov 2010 08:06:45 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 08 Nov 2010 08:06:58 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 08 Nov 2010 08:07:12 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 08 Nov 2010 08:07:18 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 08 Nov 2010 08:07:20 +0000

Whisky Live FEstival – CT Leg

slicktiger — Mon, 08 Nov 2010 08:07:23 +0000

Last week was insane.

There really is no other way to describe it. I work exclusively on whisky clients so you better believe when the FNB Whisky Live Festival hits, all there is to do is batten down the fucking hatches, grit your teeth and plough through it.

Wednesday, Thursday and Friday I worked between 14 and 15 hours straight. If I saw J-Rab for longer than an hour on each one of those days, it was a long time.

Thing is, in the evenings I was working one of the stands at the festival, pouring fine Irish whiskey and trying my best to teach people a thing or two about what I strongly believe is the most magnificent spirit ever distilled.

After three nights of doing so, I became and expert at reading the people at the stand and was able to divide your average festival goer into one of the following categories:

1. The Guys Who Go There To Get Hammered

The worst of the lot. These fuckers don’t give a rat’s ass about whether your whisky is triple distilled, peat smoked or distilled by God himself, all they want to do is get wrecked and then boast to their friends about how they went to the festival, learned nothing, staggered drunk in the streets and spent the night in jail.

Here’s how a typical conversation went with these fuckers:

“How much to taste the 16 year old?”

“Three tickets.”

“Three tickets?! Fucken ‘ell!”

I smile warily.

“Tell you what. I’ll give you ONE ticket,” the Guy Who’s There To Get Wasted replies.

“No, you’ll give me three.”

“Ag, c’mon man! No one’s looking!”

“That’s not the point. The point is the festival promotes responsible drinking. If I give you free whisky, you get drunk and make us look bad.”

“Ja, but the other stand didn’t take tickets.”

“Yes, well that’s because their whisky is shit.”

“Hahahahahahhahah! Ok, well how much is THAT one to taste?”

“That’s one ticket.”

“Do it! And make it a double!”

“Please die.”

They then hang around, stinking up your stand for at least another 20 minutes talking loudly to one another and waiting for an opportunity to top up their glasses when you’re not looking.

Filthy vagrants. How they ever afforded the R180 tickets is beyond me.

2. The Wine Drinkers

The Wine Drinkers have got it down. They swirl the whisky in the glass just right, check the colour, check the legs, nose it whilst holding the stem of the glass delicately between thumb and forefinger and then, FINALLY, actually taste the stuff and recoil instantly like a snake just bit them in the face.

Wine drinkers aren’t used the the high level of alcohol in whisky, so they make this cute little face after they take a sip like someone just fed them a handful of sour worms and then try and say something polite about it like, “Mmm, very smooth.”

Fuck me. If I had R10 for every time I heard someone describe whisky as ‘smooth’ I would have walked out straight out of there and into early retirement.

Guys, work on your fucking adjectives, seriously. I think you can do better.

3. The “Experts”

I love these little jerkwads more than you can imagine. The “experts” are a dime a dozen at festivals like this, they arrive in their fancy 3-piece suits with their work colleagues, honing of Aramis while they saunter up to the stands with the hottest promo girls and proceed to wow them with how little they know about whisky.

One such expert and his three cronies walk up to my stand and before he’s even said one fucking word to me, starts helping himself to my ice bucket, loading about five blocks into his glass before addressing me like I’m a piece of turd he’s stood in and saying, “So. What’s good here?”

“For a discerning whisky-drinker like yourself sir, I’d recommend the 16 year-old”.

“Ahh. Yes. And how much is that?”

“Three tickets.”

Tear, tear, tear. I take his glass and immediately dump all his ice in the spitoon.

“Hey, what are you doing?”

“If you’re going to taste a fine whiskey, I would recommend first doing so neat and only then adding ice or water.”

“But the ice mellows the whisky!”

“No. The ice locks the flavours of the whisky in, thus limiting what you’re actually going to taste.”

“Oh. Well. I’ve heard differently.”

At which point crony No. 3 jumps in with the classic, “I see you don’t have your 12 year-old available tonight.”

“There is no 12 year-old in the family sir.”

“The 12 year-old? Yes there is! Comes with a blue label, I drank some the other night at a mates place. 12 year-old. Look it up.”

“Really? And how late was it when you drank this 12 year-old because, to put it simply, it doesn’t exist.”

“I think you’re wrong.”

“Probably. I mean what do I know? I’ve just worked on this brand for the last year of my life, dedicating countless hours to studying every facet of its history, heritage and intrinsic brand benefits, but yeah, you’re probably right.”

“Good. Now make sure you have some for tomorrow night, people are going to want to taste the 12 year-old. In my opinion it’s the best one.”

Face. Palm.

4. The Students

Sometimes these guys are actually pretty cool. They’re interested in learning more about whisky and don’t mind admitting the fact that they don’t know much to begin with. As a general rule, I prefer chatting with them than I do most other festival goers.

But once in awhile you get The Student who is an expert in the art of faking and comes up to the stand all eager to broaden his knowledge and literally pogoing on the spot with enthusiasm.

“So the whisky, it comes from barrels?”

“Yes, all whisky has to be matured for a minimum of three years in wooden casks (mostly oak) to be legally classified as whisky.”

“WOW! And While it’s in there, that’s where it gets the flavours?”

“Yes. Whisky gets all its colour and at least 70% of its flavour from the cask.”

“FLIPPIN AWESOME MAN!”

“Um, yeah. It is pretty amazing…”

“And the different spellings of whisky, one with the ‘e’ and one without, which one is which again?”

“Irish gets the ‘e’.”

“IRISH GETS THE ‘E’! Hahahaha! I flippin’ KNEW IT! How’s that hey!”

“Wonderful.”

“So ja… how much to taste the 16 year old?”

“It’s three tickets.”

“Tell you what. I’ll give you ONE ticket.”

“Tell you what, I’ll call security and get your wasted ass thrown out.”

“One ticket it is! Hahaha! Irish with the ‘e’, I flippin’ KNEW it…”

5. The Suicidally Bored Housewives

Their husbands drag them there. They’re hating every minute of it. They wish they were at home putting a fine bottle of Pinotage to bed. Don’t try and converse with them. They are suicidal.

“Hi there ma’am, would you like to taste some of our fine whisky?”

“Oh, no thanks, I’m here with my husband” (Translation: Do you have any prescription-strength tranqs? I’m about to die of boredom).

“Well, you might as well taste a little whisky while you’re here.”

“Yes. I suppose I should” (Translation: Bring a glass of that vile-smelling stuff within three feet of me and I’ll eviscerate you with these uncomfortable fucking high heels my husband insisted I wear.)

“Here you go, give it a nose and tell me what you’re getting”.

“Mmm… smooth…” (Translation: Mmm… godawful…)

“Ok, now take a sip. You should pick up some softer honey notes at first and then a bit of spice around the sides of your tongue and some light, citrus notes on the finish.”

“Yes. Very nice.” (Translation: Are we done here? Because you know as much as I do I’d rather be at home right now banging the pool-boy).

So yeah, as you can imagine, last week was a lot of insanity followed by more insanity. Of course there are those who go to the festival and are lovely people and want to taste new whiskies and learn about them, in fact most of the people there are like that.

They just aren’t as interesting to write about as the others

So wish me luck this week and apologies if the content gets a little thin. I’m flying up to Joburg tomorrow so come stop by the festival if you wanna say hi. I can’t say the stand I’m manning, but here’s a clue:

It’s Irish, and it’s 402 years old.

Peace out party people, have a killer week.

-ST

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slicktiger — Mon, 15 Nov 2010 16:14:21 +0000

Back In THe Game

slicktiger — Mon, 15 Nov 2010 16:14:24 +0000

It’s been rough, rough, rough, rough, rough, rough, rough going, but I think my life is slowing down a little, just long enough for me to grab some time to post again so you, my loyal readers, don’t have to keep coming back to the site and reading about the Whisky Live Festival.

The last week has been chaotic, but amidst the maelstrom of travelling back to Jozi, doing Whisky Live up there, hooking up media interviews for a certain whisky celebrity and checking out the world’s first ‘Stunt Snail’, I met The Simpsons!

Also, all those of you who have been digging the Tiger Life Episodes, hang in there, the next one will be up soon and it should be pretty amazing.

Important thing here is: I’m back posting again. So don’t be a stranger.

Your buddy ol pal,

-ST

Sandton City Parking - Taking Things To A Whole Other Level

slicktiger — Tue, 16 Nov 2010 07:13:00 +0000

It’s a known fact that parking in larney shopping centres, whether they are in Joburg or Cape Town, is ridiculously expensive.

I’ve been fleeced for as much as R10 for parking for 5 minutes which may not sound like a lot, but when you spend as much time in shopping centres as I do, that can add up to as much as R10 a month!

In my recent trip to Joburg I was forced to pay a visit to the Nashua Mobile in Sandton city to get an upgrade on my 3G card and on arriving was SHOCKED and DISMAYED to find that parking in said shopping centre seems to have undergone the same hyper-inflation that Germany suffered post World War I where a basketful of money would buy you two Chappies.

Unbelievable! Not only is the parking ridiculously priced, but it would appear that the MINIMUM amount of time people are allowed to shop for is 12 HOURS!

And the maximum is 45?!

Who the fuck in their right mind would shop for 45 hours?! Sure, I understand that we are a consumer society and all, but 45 hours of shopping is taking things a little too far if you ask me.

And what’s the deal with the R1 111 amount and the R2 345 amount? Do you get to choose? Who is his right goddamn mind is going to pay R1 234 MORE than they have to for parking?

The world has indeed lost it’s fucking mind.

So just be warned guys, if you shop at Sandton City they will TRAP you for 12 hours and make you pay anywhere between R1 111 and R2 345 for parking.

Unbelievable.

-ST

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slicktiger — Wed, 17 Nov 2010 07:13:58 +0000

Album Review: Kings Of Leon–Come Around Sundown

slicktiger — Wed, 17 Nov 2010 18:14:00 +0000

After Kings Of Leon released Only By The Night the die-hards who’d been following them since their Youth And Young Manhood days became instantly polarised, some saying they had finally sold out and some saying Only By The Night was their greatest album to date.

Either way you looked at it, it was going to be a tough album to follow and while their latest offering Come Around Sundown does pack a lot of great material, if Only By The Night is the only Kings album you know, the new album will probably fall short of your expectations.

From there I go on to extoll the virtues of this album and write a review that will blow your fucking mind.

Click here to get it…

Or listen to the opening track “The End” below and see if you dig it:

[audio http://slicktiger.files.wordpress.com/2010/11/01_-_the_end_-_come_around_sundown.mp3]

-ST

The Culprits!

slicktiger — Thu, 18 Nov 2010 07:34:00 +0000

If you read this blog regularly (seek help) you might have stumbled on the post I wrote awhile back about how living in the shit shack J-Rab and I have ended up in is driving us completely nuts.

Well, a big part of that were the owls. Right outside our wooden shed were a pair of Spotted Eagle Owls that would hoot, loud as fuck, all through the night until J-Rab and I were driven totally shit-your-pants mad.

Eventually we resorted to standing on our balcony at 2 in the morning and trying to pelt the fuckers with onions because that’s all we could find to throw.

Good thing we don’t have neighbours because trust me, if they had to see me at 2 in the morning, carrying on like an asylum escapee on our balcony, firing onions into the darkness whilst screaming, “FUCK YOU OWL!” they’d definitely call the police.

Anyway, turns out the little bastards were hooting incessantly because they had babies.

Imagine my excitement. MORE fucking owls.

Here’s a pic I snapped of momma owl with baby owl standing in front of her, staring at me with this arrogant “that’s right, I’ma keep you up ALL NIGHT, BITCH!” look on his face.

In my mind I quietly reached for a 9ml under my seat, took aim and laughed maniacally as both owls exploded in a cloud of brown / black feathers.

And I used to be such a nice guy.

-ST

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slicktiger — Thu, 18 Nov 2010 18:09:25 +0000

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slicktiger — Thu, 18 Nov 2010 20:52:10 +0000

Tell The Tiger (Episode 11)

slicktiger — Fri, 19 Nov 2010 06:05:00 +0000

It’s time.

People on the streets are dying. Mothers. Killing their children. Children. Murdering on another on the steps of churches. Human / elephant pornography. Justin Bieber.

The world has indeed fallen apart, the very fabric of society has come undone and no. It’s not because of wide-spread government corruption. It’s not because of poor school systems or the mass media rotting the minds of our youth.

It’s because everyone’s emails that they’ve been sending in the thousands to tellthetiger@gmail.com have gone unanswered for far too long.

So long in fact that people have clean forgotten that this amazing service to mankind even exists anymore and for that all I can say is I fucked up guys. And I’m sorry.

But starting today, I want you all to know that Tell The Tiger is back up and running so please, please, don’t suffer in silence. Send all your embarrassing secrets and sexual failings in life to your buddy ol’ pal SlickTiger and I’ll sort that shit out.

I’ll help you. Because making people’s lives better is what Tigers do best. And mauling. Making people’s live better and / or mauling their faces off.

So here is this week’s lucky recipient of my Tiger love and wisdom.

Let the healing begin.

Nice To Meet You,
My name is Miss Monica guei, As I whisper my prayer tonight and went into search for a nice friend and I came across your contact,at(prashish.wordpress.com) My mind and my heart told me to contact you for friendship, A friend who truly understand his or her friend and share their feelings together. please kindly accept my request, I believe that distance or age can never be a barrier but let's love connect us because love is a bridge that connected far distance to be close to each other, I will send my pictures to you immediately i receive your reply at my email address
yours In Love,

Huh. Not really the kind of Tell The Tiger mail I’m used to, but yeah. We can work with this…

First off Miss Monica, let me just say that judging from your email you clearly have a number of severe mental issues that I think you need to sort out as soon as possible or you’ll probably end up married to an alcoholic douchebag who abuses you physically and emotionally because, well, you are retarded.

Where did you get my email address from? What the fuck is prashish.wordpress.com? And what kind of surname is ‘guei’? What were your forefathers thinking?! Let’s line up every vowel in the alphabet and turn it into a surname?

Also, what in God’s name did the English language ever do to you to make you want to butcher the living shit out of it so badly? “Went into search”? “A friend who truly understand his or her friend”? “Let’s love connect us because love is a bridge that connected far distance to be close to each other”? What the fuck does that even mean?!

I’m not sure you understand the dynamics of Tell The Tiger at all, but it’s very simple – you write in with an embarrassing problem under a cleverly thought out pseudonym and I give you the worst possible advice on how to conquer said problem so that me and my internet buddies can have a good laugh at your expense and high-five each other later in the bar because your life is shittier than ours.

Come back when you have something juicy to share, like how your boyfriend thinks it would be fun to try anal fisting but you’re not keen on wearing a butt-plug for the rest of your life or how you’re in love with your step sister or how you fantasise about lathering your entire body in marmalade and having a threesome with a priest and the TV repair guy.

And with those wise words, I leave you in the capable hands of my panel of expert Tell The Tigerers. That is, if they still even exist…

Later masturbators.

-ST

Saturday Saved us

slicktiger — Sat, 20 Nov 2010 17:10:00 +0000

Saturday saved us,
First time in awhile
Showed us something
Made us smile.

-ST

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slicktiger — Sun, 21 Nov 2010 20:10:58 +0000

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slicktiger — Sun, 21 Nov 2010 20:37:04 +0000

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slicktiger — Sun, 21 Nov 2010 20:37:08 +0000

The Maen Comes Over

slicktiger — Sun, 21 Nov 2010 20:37:10 +0000

Sundays here are a mixed blessing. On one hand it’s quiet I got time to create content, which is a good thing, but what invariably ends up happening is I get lost in the solitude of this place and instead of using the time I got effectively, I procrastinate, think too much about my life and where it’s not going and slide into a funk.

The MAEN missioned out here today, found the place the first time (an impressive feat considering my address is “The R44”) and broke the monotony of yet another Sunday where I could feel myself sliding again.

It’s an exciting time in The MAEN’s life, shit is coming together for him like I always knew it would. He’s an unstoppable force, he’s got enough life in him for three men at least and he’s totally fearless in every conceivable way.

I drank some whiskey and listened to his crazy ramblings and plans for the future. We stood on my balcony and looked out over the empty space around us and unlike almost everyone else who visits this place, he said how it was nice and all, but he could see how after living here for awhile, I person could lose their fucking mind.

We shot the breeze for an hour or two and after he left, I felt better. Like at least one of us is getting his shit together, kicking some ass out there and living the dream.

I spent the entire day editing the next episode of The Tiger Life and I’m happy how it turned out because truth be told, I get more of a kick out of shooting and editing those stupid clips than I do slaving away at the grindstone.

Ain’t that wonder?

Next Tiger Life goes up on Tuesday. Hope you like it

-ST

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slicktiger — Mon, 22 Nov 2010 21:23:37 +0000

Scar Tissue That I Wish You Saw…

slicktiger — Mon, 22 Nov 2010 21:23:41 +0000

Possibly one of my biggest regrets about my life as it is right now is that I don’t read.

It’s fucking tragic when I think about how back at varsity when I was reading English Honours I was motoring through about a book a week, some of the best literature ever written, and now I read about a book a year.

And it shows too. I used to be all clever and stuff and could write good, but now all I can do is shoot a buncha shit on my cell phone and work computers to make dorky internet videos and stuff.

Anyway, I digest.

For my birthday, J-Rab got me “Scar Tissue”, Anthony Kiedis’ autobiography and I’ve eaten that book alive, devouring entire chapters whole as the words rushed into my mind to fill the empty space that literature used to occupy.

It also helps that it’s a pretty amazing account of the life of one of the world’s craziest motherfuckers still alive.

I mean we’re talking about a guy who lost his virginity to his dad’s 18 year-old girlfriend when he was 11. And what’s even crazier is that not only did his dad know about it, but he brokered the deal after Kiedis asked him to!

It’s a wild read, but while I’ve loved every page of that book, it’s also made me think long and hard about my own life and how tame and boring it is in comparison.

The funny thing about life is that all those naughty kids back in school that everyone thought would amount to nothing seem to come out of the system with an edge that ends up getting them really far in life.

I think it’s because they get used to being confronted and put on the spot and being the centre of attention and those experiences actually equip them really well later on in life.

The people that break all the rules are the ones who end up making them one day.

If only I’d known that back when I was a kid maybe I wouldn’t have wasted my childhood and a good portion of my adult life so far colouring in the lines instead of drawing my own.

-ST

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slicktiger — Tue, 23 Nov 2010 08:16:31 +0000

The Tiger Life – Episode 3

slicktiger — Tue, 23 Nov 2010 08:16:35 +0000

This one’s taken me ages to finally get around to editing, but it’s finally done and I think it’s pretty badass.

In this week’s episode I attended a Heavy Chef session where Seth Rotheram and Rich Mulholland spoke on the topic “Is Blogging Dead?”

I would have loved to include all the stuff Rich said as well, his talk had everyone in stitches, but sadly I’m trying to keep these clips to 5 mins a pop so I had to be pretty brutal in the edit.

Anyway, enough jabbering, enjoy

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WyDk07bj9-U&w=594&h=332&hd=1]

-ST

The Tiger Life – Episode 4

slicktiger — Tue, 30 Nov 2010 08:34:28 +0000

Just when you think shit can’t possibly get any better right here on Them’s Fightin’ Words, the Tiger whips out yet another FLIPPIN’ INTENSE episode of The Tiger Life!

This one breaks all previous records for “number of ridiculously famous people interviewed” and has vox pops from the likes of Khaya Ntini (SUCH a legend), Sias from 5FM, Davie Jacobs and Roxy Louw.

Yep, comin’ up in the world, can’t trust NOBODY, gotta look over my shoulder CONSTANTLY.

Enjoy this week’s episode, I hope it blows your mind and don’t worry about the lack of content the site has been experiencing over the past week, more good shit’s in the pipeline! (Wow. Worst. Sentence. Ever.)

KAPOW!

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eNjYhYwiIEs&w=580&h=324&hd=1]

-ST

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slicktiger — Tue, 30 Nov 2010 14:07:15 +0000

Kings Of Leon Are Coming To SA And I’m The First Person To Blog About It!

slicktiger — Tue, 30 Nov 2010 14:07:17 +0000

Fuck I’m amazing!

Um. That is all.

-ST

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slicktiger — Tue, 07 Dec 2010 07:24:48 +0000

The Tiger Lifeless

slicktiger — Tue, 07 Dec 2010 07:24:51 +0000

There will be no Tiger Life episode this week, sorry boys and girls.

I’m sick. SickTiger. I have an ear infection so bad I’m deaf in my left ear. Last night I got out the ol’ cotton swabs and you don’t wanna know what came out of my ear.

So that’s my excuse for not posting yesterday. My excuse for not posting for the six days prior to that is just sheer laziness. That and an uncharacteristic lack of any kind of inspiration.

My creative energy feels like it’s ebbing away, like in Spiderman 2 when he keeps firing blanks instead of webbing while he’s in mid-swing and ends up falling 50 feet and eating pavement.

We sat through a presentation of up-and-coming SA blog sites yesterday and it was depressing as all hell.

It was like, “And here’s blog x, it’s a wine blog, and here’s blog y, it’s a fashion blog and here’s blog z, it’s a lifestyle blog…” and all the while I was checking these sites out I was thinking, “What the fuck is my blog?”

Who fucking knows. One thing’s for sure, it’s not something that is any any way marketable. It’s not something I could ever make a cent off because it’s purely a project I started to find my voice as a writer and I’ve found that voice now and proven to myself that some people, not a lot, but some people out there actually want to hear that voice.

Boys and girls. I think it’s time for bigger things. I’ll still post on this site whenever I have a moment and I’ll still shoot and cut together the Tiger Life episodes cause I enjoy that, but it’s high time I got started on the script that’s been rattling around inside my empty skull for the last few years.

But yeah, I just want you to know it’s not you, it’s me and we can still be friends. I can’t imagine my life without you.

We’ll always have Klapping Gym, boet.

Your buddy ol’ pal,

-ST

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slicktiger — Mon, 10 Jan 2011 12:06:19 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 10 Jan 2011 12:06:29 +0000

The Party

slicktiger — Mon, 10 Jan 2011 12:06:31 +0000

Guitar Jon called me up the other day, asked me about the site and I told him that it had been over a month since I posted last.

“Blogging,” I said to him, “is like ice skating up a fucking hill. It’s hard fucking work. You’ve got to post and keep posting, as often as possible and be topical and relevant and all that crap or people just wander off to play somewhere else on the interwebs.”

“Sure,” he replied, “nobody really gives a shit whether you do it or not. It’s like a party – if you don’t show up, nobody’s going to stop the party, it just carries on whether you’re there or not.”

Which really got me thinking, because what the fuck? I like parties…

It’s about time I got back in the cockpit of this rusted old junkyard spaceship and started piloting it through the ether once more because if not me, then who?

And so, no fucking around, I hereby declare Them’s Fightin’ Words back up and running for 2011 – BOOYA!

God DAMN that felt good!

Oh yeah, and Merry Christmas and Happy New Year and all that stuffs.

Hug? Hug.

Your Tiger pal,

-ST

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slicktiger — Thu, 13 Jan 2011 06:57:32 +0000

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slicktiger — Thu, 13 Jan 2011 06:58:01 +0000

Asphalt Battlefield

slicktiger — Thu, 13 Jan 2011 06:58:04 +0000

When you drive roughly 44kms to work everyday, its pretty much a guarantee that at least 3 days out of 5, somebody somewhere is going to have an accident. When everyone’s back at school, varsity and work its a fucking mess because if there's one thing South Africans are great at, its crashing their cars.

I remember reading somewhere that back in 2006 we killed more people on our roads than the total number of British and US troops killed in Afghanistan and I can believe that because its a fucking warzone out there! As I write this, I'm sitting in gridlocked traffic on the N2 that started about 1km from the R300 and looks like it's going to be like this all the fucking way in and the longer I sit here crawling along in first gear, the greater my thirst for carnage grows.

See boys and girls, that’s what traffic does to you. After months and months of moving sluggishly down the same fucking stretch of road because some asshole who got his license in a lucky packet has tail-ended some other asshole who was smsing his asshole friends on the highway, you start getting a kick out of that moment when you finally get to see what it was that fucked your morning up.

It becomes an addiction. I see gridlocked traffic and I swear to god my neck turns to rubber in about 3 seconds flat.

I want to see bashed up cars and don’t give me two, I want FOUR goddamnit! I want to see ambulances, I want to see police cars, fuck, I want to see fucking FIRE TRUCKS! I want to see total Armageddon because that way I feel satisfied and God help anyone who has to deal with me if I DON’T see that shit because I’ll tell you right now that as a long distance commuter, there is nothing as fucking lame and frustrating as half an hour of 1st gear traffic and no mangled cars at the end of it.

It’s a joke without a punchline, it’s fucking Diet Coke and I’ll have none of it thank you very much.

Lately it’s so bad that I’ve started actually taking pictures of the accidents that fuck my mornings up, and in extreme cases, videos (courtesy of my slick and shiny Nokia N8 – PRODUCT PUNT, KAPOW!).

And THAT is why I’m moving the hell out of Stellenbosch, FINALLY!

Tomorrow I get the keys to my new place in Vredehoek and goddamn! As much as I’ve become addicted to the fucking asphalt battlefield out there, I can’t wait to hop in my car and hop out 15 minutes later at work.

To anyone who has to brave the long-haul to work everyday, I feel your pain and yes, you are more than welcome to share your pictures and videos of roadside carnage, you know I won’t judge

-ST

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slicktiger — Mon, 17 Jan 2011 16:20:48 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 17 Jan 2011 16:21:11 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 17 Jan 2011 16:21:27 +0000

SlickTiger:1 Moving:0

slicktiger — Mon, 17 Jan 2011 16:21:31 +0000

They say that moving is right up there with the most stressful things life can throw at you like losing a loved one or getting fired. They’re all supposed to be on the same level which I always thought was a little over dramatic.

I mean moving ain’t that bad right? Load up a bakkie with all your stuffs, drive from A to B, offload, rinse, repeat.

So Captain Albatross and myself borrowed a bakkie from a buddy on Saturday and got rolling.

We loaded up two couches, a bookshelf, the washing machine (FAHK those things are HEAVY!), a couple of boxes, a heater or two, and tied it all down so tight you could pluck the ropes like guitar strings.

We nailed the drive from Stellies into Vredehoek and everything was easy breezy. We get to the other side and started unloading stuff and taking it upstairs and even that was going well until we hit one major fucking snag.

My one couch is fucking HUGE.

It’s the Triple H of couches, nearly two and a half metres of soft, maroon leathery goodness that is the most comfortable basterd I’ve ever had the pleasure of passing out on. I mean, I’ve written some of my BEST posts lying utterly inert on that radass couch. Through the good times and the bad, that couch has always been there, it’s like a long, large maroon extension of myself.

(That’s what she said.)

Anyway, you think we could get that couch up the narrow, twisty stairwell leading up to our flat? Not a fucking chance. We wrestled that thing, we twisted it, we pushed it, we tried to walk it up the stairs one goddamn step at a time and eventually all we managed to do was wedge it in there so tight, we couldn’t get it out.

Which was when we came up with our killer idea of removing the sliding doors to our flat and hoisting the basterd up the balcony with ROPES!

I love rope. I’ve always loved rope. The old-school hemp kind is the best. Soon as I get my hands on that shit I just wanna lasso a fucking horse or climb a mountain or hang a guy. Ropes are the answer to EVERYTHING!

So we set the couch down the way it would normally sit, made two loops around each side of the couch, went upstairs and got hoisting.

CHRONIC fail. Don’t try that shit without gloves yo! What the hell were we thinking?! Also the couch kept twisting and turning and refusing to cooperate in any way, so we set it back down and had a beer.

Second time around we got the bright idea of standing the couch upright to do the hoisting and tying ropes around it like ribbon around a Christmas present. Right about then, the dude who lives downstairs arrived home and offered to help us, which I found pretty hilarious considering he looked like about 70 kgs of cookie dough and admitted to having just come back from Ratanga Junction where he smoked a joint and went on all the rides by himself.

We told him to go upstairs with J-Rab and to hoist for everything he was worth while we pushed from the bottom. At this stage, drenched in sweat and tired from taking all the other stuff up the stairs, I was pretty convinced the couch was going to kill us all. Soon as J-Rab and the Ratanga Junction Stoner yoinked it up, the weight would pull them off the balcony and they’d end up landing, couch and all, right on top of me and the Captain.

“RIP SlickTiger. His favourite couch killed him.”

All I remember after that was dicking around with the ropes, checking they were all alright before we commenced the yoinking and then BAM! the couch was halfway up the building and into the lounge!

I bolted upstairs, grabbed a hold and helped the Ratanga Junction Stoner and J-Rab get the rest of it in and stared in total amazement at the RJS who had basically single-handedly pulled our entire couch up a second story balcony and into the flat faster than I could blink.

“Babe,” I said triumphantly to J-Rab, “whatever that man is smoking, I want some.”

I tell ya, you haven’t lived until you can honestly say you’ve yoinked a couch up to a second story balcony with ROPES!

SlickTiger:1 Moving:0

Next week we haul the final load so that’s the bed, fridge, other couch and TV cabinet, so stay tuned for the next enthralling update because you know as well as I do that there’s nothing better to do on a Monday morning back at work than read stories involving stubborn couches, Ratanga Junction Stoners and ROPES! ;)

-ST

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slicktiger — Mon, 17 Jan 2011 16:25:47 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 18 Jan 2011 15:53:28 +0000

My Girlfriend Fell Down The Stairs

slicktiger — Tue, 18 Jan 2011 15:53:31 +0000

For real.

On Sunday night, J-Rab slipped on the top step of the wooden staircase and ended up scraping the shit out of her right arm as she caught the balustrade whilst landing squarely on her bum on the edge of one of the steps.

She also gave herself mild whiplash, bruised her left forearm and tore a lot of muscles in her side, so the poor girl is a bit of a mess.

What’s bad though is it happened really late on Sunday night so we ended up going to sleep at a ridiculous hour cause we stayed up while I bandaged her up and treated her scrapes. When we did eventually get to sleep, it wasn’t very restful because there was basically no way she could lie that didn’t hurt like shit.

I arrive at work on Monday tired and unshaven and so naturally when people asked me why I looked like hell I told them I didn’t get much sleep the night before because my girlfriend fell down the stairs.

Just pause I moment and read that sentence again.

Yeah. Now I’m one of those guys.

“Wow, how did your girlfriend get all those bruises dude?!”

“Um, she fell down the stairs.”

“Really? Oh well that settles it then. Fell down the stairs. Sure, that sounds legit… I’ll just be over here if you need me… calling the police…”

Luckily her clothing covers most of the bruises so you can’t really see them. Thank God for small miracles right? Hahhahaa… wait, that sounds bad too…

Let’s just end this post shall we?

Send good vibes J-Rab’s way and pray she heals fast because at this rate, I’ll be in jail by the weekend.

-ST

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slicktiger — Wed, 19 Jan 2011 16:31:48 +0000

The Tiger’s Top 10 Albums of 2010

slicktiger — Wed, 19 Jan 2011 16:31:50 +0000

Yeah! Music stuffs! I used to post music stuffs all the time and the thing is I still post music stuffs, just not on this site, on www.pulpmag.co.za. If you go there right now you’ll see that I pretty much OWN that site content wise and it’s awesome!

If you want awesome content on your site too why the hell don’t you just mail me at tellthetiger@gmail.com, pay me a modest fee and prepare for your site views to hit the mother flippin’ ceiling yo!

I’m a gun for hire these days, which is the badass way of saying I’ll lick your balls for $5.

The Pulpmag gig helps me to pay the rent, but the diehard fans of this site get pissed off when I post my Pulpmag stuff here because I usually give the opening few paragraphs of a review and then make them hit Pulpmag for the rest.

But seriously. I think it’s time we moved past such petty grievances. This is 2011, clicking on a little link to take you to another page for content isn’t going to kill you.

Man up fer chrissake!

So check, check, check it out yo, here are my top ten albums for 2010 so you can laugh at my girly taste in music…

The Tiger’s Top 10 Albums of 2010

-ST

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slicktiger — Thu, 20 Jan 2011 19:58:45 +0000

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slicktiger — Thu, 20 Jan 2011 19:58:57 +0000

When You Open The New Marie Claire You Immediately Crap Yourself

slicktiger — Thu, 20 Jan 2011 19:58:59 +0000

I’m seriously late jumping on this bandwagon, I know at least one other blogger (Brandslut) who’s already given the current Cell C ad in the February issue of Marie Claire a solid bollicking and she did that more than two weeks ago (great job by the way), but I just couldn’t resist.

The lowdown is that the new Marie Claire (and apparently the new Cosmo too) has a four page Cell C ad in the middle of it that is topping pretty much EVERYONE’S lists as the kakkest ad ever.

Four pages of our buddy Trev doing his retarded Cell C monkeyboy routine is bad enough, but the real kicker here is that the fucking ad speaks to you.

“Welcome to the world of Cell C. The power is in your hands” it says, and you immediately crap yourself because what the hell just happened?!

Then the new Cell C jingle plays and sounds exactly like I imagine a jack-in-the-box would if it were underwater, or if you’d taken too much acid and KAPOW! the full effect is achieved.

About 3 seconds after being verbally assaulted by the ad I dropped everything I was doing, cancelled my Vodacom subscription and signed up with Cell C.

Right after that I ran to the nearest tattoo parlour and got the logo inked on my forehead, and as soon as I get home I’m gonna [change my pants and] get down and dirty with J-Rab so in nine months time I can name my first child “Cell” and 18 months after that, the second one “C”.

The advert was that powerful! Well done everyone involved!

All we can hope and pray for is that more magazines adopt this novel approach because it’s exactly what we all need in our lives – MORE advertising being shoved down our throats.

Cell C I can forgive. I never gave a shit about the brand so no love lost there. They thought they had a rad idea but it was kak. Too bad.

Marie Claire I can forgive as well. They need to sell advertising or the magazine shuts down, it’s a simple fact.

An advertiser comes to them and says, “Hey, we’ve got this great idea. In the next issue we want to include a four page advert that, when you open it, sends a signal to launch every nuclear missile the former USSR ever created, targeting every major city around the world.”

“Never!” the magazine replies, indignant, “We would never allow such an atrocity to be commited, not in our magazine!”

“We’ll pay you half a bar.”

“Sold!”

But the person I really can’t forgive here, not for this, not for anything to do with the campaign, is good ol’ Trev.

Why dude, why?! You were a great comedian, one of the few South African comedians that cracked me up with pretty much every sentence you spoke and then you went out and agreed to all this and you know what I think every time I see at you now?

Whoosh. The sound of all your integrity and credibility leaving the building.

Whoosh.

-ST

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slicktiger — Mon, 24 Jan 2011 05:50:20 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 24 Jan 2011 05:50:50 +0000

SlickTiger:2 Moving:0

slicktiger — Mon, 24 Jan 2011 05:50:52 +0000

Compared to the shenanigans of Part 1, Part 2 of our epic move from Stellenbosch to Cape Town was executed with military precision.

In one day we managed to move every remaining stick of furniture loaded in a solid brick of stuff on the back of the bakkie I was borrowing from a buddy of mine.

It was every Tetris player’s dream – a double bed, a fridge, a two seater couch, a TV cabinet and a table all stacked and packed so perfectly together you couldn’t even squeeze a hand between any of the gaps and that was before Captain Albatross got to work tying it all down.

I now know that J-Rab and my life can be packed up, uprooted and moved anywhere in 3 car loads and 2 bakkie loads as long as one of those bakkie loads looks like this:

And so, by 3 o’clock on Saturday afternoon there wasn’t so much as one toothpick of our stuff left in the shed which over the past year we’ve come to call home.

Funny how you can still feel nostalgic about leaving a place that drove you completely insane every second that you lived there. Our little wooden house had a certain charm to it and when all the animals living around us finally shut the hell up it was peaceful out there.

I got some great writing done there. Sundays would roll around and J-Rab would go off to work and I’d get up early, make myself some fresh coffee and wander out onto our balcony into the blue morning and soak up the vineyard and mountains surrounding us.

We walked out to the secret dam near our house for the last time before we left. Captain Albatross, J-Rab and I stood looking over the giant Lillie pads that dotted the surface of the dam and watched some ducks float on by while a Cormorant swooped silently overhead and way off in the distance a car glided past on the R44.

I asked the Captain to get a picture of J-Rab and I before we left.

And so we left Stellies and finally moved to the Mother City to start a new chapter in our lives. My morning commute has now gone from roughly an hour to 6 minutes and the flat we’ve moved into has actual cupboards! And a kitchen! And a spare bedroom! And no rats!

Life couldn’t be better

-ST

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slicktiger — Tue, 25 Jan 2011 06:31:33 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 25 Jan 2011 06:31:53 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 25 Jan 2011 06:32:16 +0000

Everybody Buy The New FHM! Do It! Do It Now!

slicktiger — Tue, 25 Jan 2011 06:32:18 +0000

Sources tell me it hits shelves tomorrow and hoo-wee! It’s going to be a KILLER issue because why?

Because your Tiger pal’s in it

That’s right ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls – they ran with the “Klapping Gym Boet” piece, but they couldn’t use the awesome pics I did because some are low res and also FHM doesn’t have the rights to use them.

They used an illustrator instead who drew all these cartoony pictures to replace the originals. Does it work? Is it still as funny as the original?

You guys are going to have to be the judges here because honestly, I’ve read that piece so many times my eyes have started bleeding at the mere mention of it.

So yeah, hit CNA tomorrow buy the new FHM and let me know what you guys think. It has new material in there, two additional steps to klapping it that aren’t in the original piece and I had to tone down the swears a bit.

If you like it, do your ol’ tiger pal a favour and pop an email to FHM telling them it rocked and they should hire me.

Bada bing bada bang!

Group hug!

-ST

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slicktiger — Wed, 26 Jan 2011 05:42:47 +0000

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slicktiger — Wed, 26 Jan 2011 05:42:56 +0000

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slicktiger — Wed, 26 Jan 2011 05:42:58 +0000

New Categories!

slicktiger — Wed, 26 Jan 2011 05:43:00 +0000

Stop the press everyone. I’ve added new categories to the site.

Scroll down a little and cast a wary glance over to the right and you’ll see some intriguing shit indeed.

“Being Slick”? “Killer Posts”? “Tiger Guides”? “Satire, Irony And Vitriol”? “Events”? What the hell does it all mean?!

Stay calm. I don’t want you running off in a flat panic to go read some other douchebag site out there because your Tiger pal’s shaking things up a little. Here, hold my hand. It’s not what you think, let me explain.

“Being Slick” is a collection of random moments and memories from my life. I made this category because I like talking about myself.

“Killer Posts” are all my favourite pieces of writing I’ve banged out so far. Some of them got a buttload of hits like the one about kakking gym or some such nonsense.

“Tiger Guides” are the pieces where I give step by step advice on how to do stuff like raising baby humans and dealing with dick cupcakes. I made this category because I like telling people what to do.

“Satire, Irony And Vitriol” is where I go to vent. People love this shit because there’s no better way to unite people over the interwebs than to stage a public lynching. Fact.

“Events” is a tricky one. I could try to explain it to you, but seriously, it’s better if you experience this one yourselves.

I’ve only gone through about two thirds of the content on the site so far though, I’ve still got another 100 odd posts to sort through and recategorise so if you hit some of those categories RIGHT NOW you’ll dig up some way old stuffs from before you even knew this site existed.

I figured with Klapping Gym appearing in FHM it was high time I made the content on here more accessible. I was sitting with 218 posts in the “uncategorised” category, that’s a lot of rambling nonsense that I could be exposing random visitors to much like a homeless person in a trench coat flashing his junk at people in the street (and their children).

Good times I tell ya. Good times

-ST

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slicktiger — Thu, 27 Jan 2011 05:33:10 +0000

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slicktiger — Thu, 27 Jan 2011 05:33:19 +0000

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slicktiger — Thu, 27 Jan 2011 05:33:27 +0000

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slicktiger — Thu, 27 Jan 2011 05:33:34 +0000

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slicktiger — Thu, 27 Jan 2011 05:33:42 +0000

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slicktiger — Thu, 27 Jan 2011 05:33:50 +0000

Rock The Met Right

slicktiger — Thu, 27 Jan 2011 05:33:52 +0000

Without getting into too much detail, I’m working closely with the J&B Met this year which has been a mind-blowingly intense experience so yes, you can touch me and no, I don’t have free tickets for you.

This morning we were behind the scenes at the Expresso show that was being shot where something like 40 couples rocked up at 5 this morning dressed in their Met finery in the hope that they’d get chosen for automatic entry into both the main marquee and the Most Elegant Couple competition on the day.

If you’re headed to the Met and are wondering what the hell to wear, be cool. Your Tiger pal got a few pics of the couples this morning because I care about you and don’t want to have to call security because your meat dress is dripping.

So yeah, that’s the general vibe. What am I wearing you ask? Well the theme’s “larger than life” so I’ll be rocking the following:

Later party people.

-ST

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slicktiger — Fri, 28 Jan 2011 06:06:45 +0000

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slicktiger — Fri, 28 Jan 2011 06:06:47 +0000

Do Fuck All Friday

slicktiger — Fri, 28 Jan 2011 06:06:49 +0000

As your lawyer, I strongly advise against doing anything productive today.

You’ve worked like a dog all week so give yourself a pat on the back, kick back and do absolutely nothing. I mean it’s Friday fer chrissake!

Plus, I’ll be working hard enough for the both of us today so don’t worry, if your boss kaks you out, just tell him SlickTiger has it covered and send him a link to this post.

And so, to begin the slacking, I present to you my good friend Michelle Baker.

What do you reckon? Five out of ten? Four? I think five is fair

You can see more of Michelle over at Holy Taco, the perfect place to dick around, watch funny videos and begin what is going to be an awesome day doing jack shit.

Make me proud guys.

Have a killer weekend, see you at the Met.

-ST

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slicktiger — Mon, 31 Jan 2011 06:31:11 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 31 Jan 2011 06:31:20 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 31 Jan 2011 06:31:33 +0000

The Tiger And The Met

slicktiger — Mon, 31 Jan 2011 06:31:35 +0000

To put it in five words: the Met was fucking mindblowing

Sure, it was my first Met and yes, I was in the best marquee on the grounds so my perception is going to be biased, but good god. It was a killer party.

We got some great pics, but sadly I can’t pull them off J-Rab’s camera until tomorrow, so here’s what I pulled from my N8 in the meantime.

You had to be there. Seriously. The food, the marquees, the decor, the bars, the salons where you could get a foot massage or where girls could get their make-up redone and hair styled, it was all so slick and amazingly well executed.

If you sat anywhere for long enough, you’d see a cross section of TV presenters, models, actors, news crews, entertainment crews, sports celebrities and socialites in some of the craziest, sexiest outfits you ever saw, strutting like they were on a giant catwalk and the world was watching.

And then bam! Two people with horse heads pirouette into the crowd and ballroom dance randomly in what looks like a creepily well choreographed out-take from a nightmare sequence in Equus.

By the time the sun had set and Fedde Le Grand was punishing the decks, the evening had become one huge party. People danced, they laughed, they ducked off to eat piping hot, delicious oven baked slices of free pizza and drank J&B in every variation known to man.

I remember taking this pic right near the end of the night. It’s the only other one I have right now that came out well, but soon as I get J-Rab’s camera I’ll put up more.

Anyone else get anything sick from the day? Send in what you got to tellthetiger@gmail.com and I’ll put it up here and punt your awesomeness to the interwebs.

There was more, much more, but it’ll have to wait until later.

-ST

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slicktiger — Tue, 01 Feb 2011 07:24:35 +0000

Album Review: Cake – Showroom Of Compassion

slicktiger — Tue, 01 Feb 2011 07:24:37 +0000

Some bands find a sound that works for an album, some find a sound that works for five and very rarely, some find a sound that works for every album.

Was I disappointed that Cake’s new album Showroom Of Compassion sounds strikingly similar to their previous five albums? No. In fact to be quite honest, I was relieved because I’m a pretty firm believer that if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

Frontman John McCrea’s vocals are just as full of the esoteric ennui that captivated listeners back in the late 90s, Xan McCurdy’s guitar tone still sounds stolen from a jangly country and western song and he still works his fretboard like he’s reinventing musical scales by ditching all the crap notes.

Get the rest of the review here…

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slicktiger — Wed, 02 Feb 2011 09:25:04 +0000

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slicktiger — Wed, 02 Feb 2011 09:25:07 +0000

Promises Promises

slicktiger — Wed, 02 Feb 2011 09:25:11 +0000

So I know I said I’d post a whole buttload of pics from the Met on Saturday once I got my hands on J-Rab’s camera, but having gone through the pics she took, they were kinda ok, not really mind-blowing.

Still though, here’s a nice pic of J-Rab and I sitting on a couch / giant flower that went well with my red and black 1930’s gangster get up.

It was such an intense fucking party, seriously. And at the end of it all, the kind folks from Road Trip drove us home for free as part of the package.

Would I recommend entering every goddamn competition known to man to win tickets to the J&B main marquee for next year’s Met?

Does the pope shit in the woods?

Oh yeah, and incidentally we did bet on the horses if you were wandering and pretty much lost everything, which is officially my excuse for the copious amounts of tequila that followed and the awesome / mildly terrifying moves I was whipping out on the dancefloor.

Good times I tell ya, good times.

-ST

SlickTiger Rides A Segway, Doesn’t Die!

slicktiger — Thu, 03 Feb 2011 06:59:00 +0000

Life was good for Jimi Heselden. He came from humble origins and built a name for himself when he invented a collapsible wire mesh fabric container called Hesco bastion that was widely used in war zones to quickly and effectively erect blast walls and fortifications (thanks Wikipedia!).

In 2010 he bought Segway Inc. at which time his estimated worth was somewhere in the region of R1 947 831 890, a figure which I have painstakingly converted because I can’t find the pound button on my keyboard.

Then one day Jimi went for a lazy afternoon ride on his Segway (fitted with special off-road tyres), drove off the edge of a 24 meter cliff and died.

When I heard this, my entire conception of these quaint little machines that look like something out of The Jetsons changed immediately.

“Killing Machine” is a strong term but right now, two whiskies in, I can’t really think of a better one.

On Sunday, J-Rab gave me strict instructions not to get too hammered at the family lunch because she had a surprise for me later that afternoon and boy was I glad I listened to her (for once).

We took a drive through to Spier Wine Estate in Stellenbosch where she used to work where she let the cat out the bag that we were going on a sunset Segway tour around Spier! With special Segways fitted with off-road tyres!

Did visions of my mangled body lying at the bottom of a 24 meter cliff start flashing through my mind? No. For one, there are no 24 meter cliffs on Spier and for two I’d seen six year old kids on those things, how hard could it be?

And that’s just the thing, it wasn’t hard at all. All you have to do is hold onto the handlebars and lean, you’ve got to be a special kind of retarded to get that wrong.

Our tour guides Saul and Dan took us through the basics of driving the Segways and after about 20 minutes of riding around on an old tennis court we all had the hang of it and were ready to take the Segs off the ‘turtle’ setting and tear up the dirt roads of Spier.

To put it simply, if you ever get a chance to visit Spier and you don’t jump on the Segs to take a tour of the vineyards, you’re missing out in a huge way.

The machines are seriously fucking cool – you hardly have to move a muscle to get them up to top speed and they’re so responsive you can whip out a 360 degree turn in a circle as tight as the wheelbase is wide.

Dan and Saul are definitely onto something. With the off-road tyres fitted the Segs can handle some pretty rugged terrain and it beats the hell out of actually walking, think of all the unnecessary wear and tear you’ll be saving on your legs!

We found the perfect spot on the edge of the vineyard and got off the Segways to watch the sun set. All around us there was just acre upon acre of rolling green land framed on all sides by the mountains rising like stone giants as the shadows they cast lengthened in the fading light.

I don’t know when we’ll go back to Stellenbosch again. We don’t live there anymore so probably not for a long, long time, but as far as last memories go that afternoon riding around the vineyards is possibly the best we could have left with.

-ST

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slicktiger — Fri, 04 Feb 2011 06:00:00 +0000

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slicktiger — Fri, 04 Feb 2011 06:01:07 +0000

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slicktiger — Fri, 04 Feb 2011 06:01:18 +0000

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slicktiger — Fri, 04 Feb 2011 06:37:57 +0000

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slicktiger — Fri, 04 Feb 2011 06:38:27 +0000

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slicktiger — Fri, 04 Feb 2011 06:38:29 +0000

Sing a U2 Song, Win Tickets To Watch Them Live!

slicktiger — Fri, 04 Feb 2011 06:38:34 +0000

A lot of people out there love U2 and I can’t say I blame them. They wrote some killer, killer stuff back in the day and Bono does all kinds of stuff to save the planet which is a lot more than you can say for most bands who seem content to blow all their money on holiday houses, yachts, prozzies and, well, huge piles of blow.

So hats off to U2, they’re a great band. Not so sure about the whole Spiderman musical thing happening on broadway right now, but yeah I’m not judging until someone swings me some free tickets to check it out, which should be any day now.

Speaking of free tickets, how radass is this: from Monday next week you best follow @947Highveld on Twitter (#U2Highveld) or check for updates on their Facebook page because a mobile stage is going to be driving around Gauteng, popping up daily in different locations until Friday and if you get your ass ON that stage and sing your favourite U2 song, you could win tickets to the show.

There’s even a YouTube channel to watch everyone’s heartfelt attempts at getting their Bono on (http://www.youtube.com/user/947highveldstereo.) which is guaranteed for at least a couple of laughs while you’re at work.

What’s even more flippin whoresome is the fact that this gig, this very U2 gig in good ‘ol Saffrica, is going to be the BIGGEST CONCERT U2 HAVE EVER PLAYED!

Soccer City’s current capacity is roughly 100 000 and the biggest crowd the band’s played to thus far was 96 000 in California. Can I get a fuck yeah? Bono?

Thank you.

I think you want to be a part of that. I think it’s about time you turned all those hours you spent singing “The Streets Have No Name” in the shower or “One” while you were heartbroken on karaoke night at the local pub to good use.

WIN those tickets! Show ‘em who’s boss! And when you’re up there, belting out “Sunday Bloody Sunday” on the Highveld portable stage with everything you got, be sure to tell ‘em who sent ya

Go forth my children. Make papa proud.

-ST

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slicktiger — Mon, 07 Feb 2011 05:57:26 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 07 Feb 2011 05:57:49 +0000

You Gotta Love Models

slicktiger — Mon, 07 Feb 2011 05:57:52 +0000

So Klap Gym Boet! went into the latest FHM which now means there’s an FHM lying around our flat which I can honestly say is the first one that’s done that in about 5 years.

Naturally I find myself gravitating towards it from time to time, mostly when I’m supposed to be doing things that actually require brainpower such as writing a blog post or boiling the kettle.

Instead I veg out on the couch and flip through the pages, marvelling at how large woman’s breasts seem to have become and thanking my lucky stars that I’m a guy and don’t have to compete with those ridiculously over-airbrushed, over-sexed and under-dressed brainless sirens.

I love the ‘what qualities do you look for in a man?’ question because they always say the same fucking thing.

“Confidence and a great sense of humour are sexy. He must also not be afraid to show his sensitive side. And he must be honest. And he must have a nice six-pack. Hahahaha!”

It’s all the same shit over and over and over again!

South African models are the worst. For the most part they are so fucking boring I’d rather push a fork through my eyeball than read an interview with them.

Take this month’s cover girl Genevieve Morton for example, who answered the following questions in the following ways:

What do you find attractive in a man? Confidence and a sense of humour
What do you do on your days off in New York? Browse the fresh food market with hot, non-alcoholic apple cider
You must have had some cool jobs since we last worked together? I spend a lot of time in Dallas working for a department store
Do you enjoy jogging in Central Park wearing insanely tight spandex? I got totally lost one day, so haven’t spent too much time there
It’s a tough country to stay in shape in, how do you resist Dunkin’ Doughnuts? Actually, when I travel I never eat the nice, tasty foods… because I am scared that I will like it too much and then not to be able to stop myself
What exciting career projects are you looking forward to? Finishing my degree

And so on and so on and so on and so on.

I’m probably not the best person to gauge these things by, but seriously, what a boring interview!

The American girls interviewed at least had some pizazz, but I’m sorry, our local girls are a buncha limp noodles. They wouldn’t know a party if it crawled up their leg and blew a bong hit their doe-eyed little faces.

That Powerbalance launch I went to when I met Roxy Louw is a great example. We went to the bar after the interview and I ordered her a tequila. No, tequila was too hectic, she’d had a bad experience (hahaha! Like anyone drinks tequila and has a good experience). So I ordered her a Jagy, no she didn’t want a Jagy either. An Apple Sour? No, not that either.

She ended up doing a shot of red wine. Then her boyfriend arrived, gave her a disapproving look and marched her off to sit in a corner with him for the rest of the night.

You gotta love models because magazines and TVs and a bazillion other forms of mass media bludgeon us with their half naked bodies and perfectly sculpted faces all the time and we sit there like cartoon wolves, tongues lolling from our heads and hearts beating through our chests and then you actually get to meet them and you know what?

The baglady down the street is more interesting.

-ST

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slicktiger — Tue, 08 Feb 2011 07:04:03 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 08 Feb 2011 07:04:28 +0000

When All Else Fails, Terror Is Always An Option

slicktiger — Tue, 08 Feb 2011 07:04:31 +0000

Kommetjie in many ways is an idyllic little town by the sea. People there are chilled out, they enjoy a relatively stress-free life and are known to indulge in the odd marijuana cigarette from time to time whilst staring vacantly at the sea.

We hit Longbeach Mall on Sunday, which was bustling with a fine cross section of Kommetjie locals, some of whom looked like their parents might be cousins, which I guess is the other, darker side to living in a quaint little seaside village with very little to do in the evenings.

Long story short, I was already slightly on edge whist walking around the mall, which is what made the following discovery all the more terrifying.

But wait, it gets better.

Shop mannequins are creepy as fuck at the best of times, but these puppies take the cake.

Do these faux-humans make you want to buy clothing? They make me want to hide under my bed and never come out again… much like my day job actually…

-ST

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slicktiger — Wed, 09 Feb 2011 06:35:51 +0000

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slicktiger — Wed, 09 Feb 2011 06:36:22 +0000

Is This Year Kicking Your Ass Too?

slicktiger — Wed, 09 Feb 2011 06:36:27 +0000

I don’t know what the hell is going on, maybe some kind of cosmic realignment of the planets or a massive, fundamental shift in the universal ebb and flow, but a lot of people I’ve spoken to recently are all saying the same thing:

This year is kicking our asses.

Deadlines, last-minute projects, clients freaking out, agencies freaking out, pressure building to the boiling point, stress levels maxing out, traffic fucking with our shit and people just wandering how? How the fuck did it get like this?

We’re only one month into 2011 and already Christmas and New Year feel as though they happened in a different lifetime, it’s insane!

Of course, the only people I really interact with are my colleagues and the other people in my industry, which is fairly pressurised even on a good day, so I could be way off here.

Maybe you’re having a nice gentle start to your year. Maybe you wake up slow and easy, make a delicious, piping hot breakfast, catch some morning news while you’re getting ready, drive at a normal pace to work, greet everyone with a big smile in the office and knuckle down for a few hours before taking an hour’s lunchbreak to eat your sarmies outside with the pigeons.

For a lot of people I’ve spoken to it’s a vastly different situation as we sprint, as fast as humanly possible, through a minefield of one catastrophic fuck-up after the next, praying for the weekends to deliver us from email, but when they come we’re never free to truly enjoy them because work is always, always, always there, SOMEWHERE, burning like a lit cigarette inside your brain.

Do you feel it to? How’s your year working out so far?

I’m interested to know because holy shitballs, at this rate I’m dabbling with the idea of running away to an exotic island somewhere to mix cocktails on the beach far, far away, where my only concern everyday will be where my next bong hit’s coming from.

-ST

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slicktiger — Wed, 09 Feb 2011 06:39:07 +0000

08_-_secret_mobilization_-_deerhoof_vs._evil

slicktiger — Thu, 10 Feb 2011 06:34:34 +0000

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slicktiger — Thu, 10 Feb 2011 06:42:17 +0000

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slicktiger — Thu, 10 Feb 2011 06:42:19 +0000

What We Need Today Is Music

slicktiger — Thu, 10 Feb 2011 06:42:21 +0000

We need some music today, what do you guys think?

“Fuck Yeah we need some music! Whaddya got?”

Well kids, how about we try out a little Deerhoof for size?

“Deer-who-the-fuck?”

That’s exactly what I said. Deer-who-the-fuck. Then I got my feelthy mits on this album (Deerhoof vs. Evil) and man-o-man, I LOVE this shit!

It’s this weird, irreverent mix of a whole bunch of different genres all melted into each other with what sounds like a 12 year-old Japanese girl on vocals. Usually this schizophrenic, disjointed and downright confusing approach to writing music doesn’t do much for me, but in this case it hit the sweet spot.

Anyway, enough preamble. Kick back, relax, put your headphones on and dig this shit.

[audio http://slicktiger.files.wordpress.com/2011/02/08_-_secret_mobilization_-_deerhoof_vs-_evil.mp3]

Friday’s on it’s way people. We can do this

-ST

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slicktiger — Fri, 11 Feb 2011 08:23:33 +0000

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slicktiger — Fri, 11 Feb 2011 08:24:10 +0000

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slicktiger — Fri, 11 Feb 2011 08:24:38 +0000

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slicktiger — Fri, 11 Feb 2011 08:24:52 +0000

What If Kurt Cobain Was Still Alive?

slicktiger — Fri, 11 Feb 2011 08:24:55 +0000

I was a good kid until I was 11 years old. I did what I was told and didn’t give my parents too much shit, I worked hard at school, played sports (badly), climbed trees and kept myself out of trouble.

But even from an early age, there was something else about me, the hint of something darker. I loved reading and burned through a lot of books as a kid which meant I quickly got bored of the standard Enid Blighton / Roald Dahl fair.

When that happened I went straight for the jugular and started reading Stephen King and Dean R Koontz and a whole host of other very, very twisted literature that children probably shouldn’t go anywhere near and those words took root in my brain and sprouted a thick, dense jungle of thoughts and ideas that is expanding exponentially as I get older.

I grew up an only child and as is the case with all only children, I spent a lot of time hanging out with grown ups. My life in many ways was an endless procession of well-mannered dinner affairs with my parents and their friends where I was told to sit up straight, finish my food and behave, which I did.

Fast forward to Christmas in 1994 – my parents and I are staying at a place called Highlands Run, a trout farm near Dullstroom, it’s about 6 in the morning and I’m tearing through my Christmas presents like only an 11 year old kid can.

A friend at school had said to me that his older brother was listening to this band and it was the best album of all time which piqued my curiosity and prompted me to ask my mom for the album for Christmas.

At the time I was big into really, really crap music like 2Unlimited, Midi, Maxi and Efti, Haddaway, 12 Inches Of Snow, that kind of shit, so you can only imagine what happened when I opened my Christmas present, put the cassette tape into my walkman, put my headphones on and pressed play.

“Smells Like Teen Spirit” tore like machine-gun fire through my mind and I loved every second of it. Here was this guy screaming his fucking head off, banging out these loud, angry three and four chord riffs that hooked me instantly and to this day, have not let go.

Everything changed after that day. The flood gates were opened and in poured an ocean of noise which quickly became the soundtrack to many a wasted night and day spent getting fucked up with my friends when I was way too young to have any idea what I was doing to myself.

Anyway, the point of all this is Kurt Cobain changed a lot of people’s lives the way he changed mine. He was the sole reason my entire generation started playing guitar and dressing like they’d stolen their clothes from a Salvation Army donation bin (they probably had).

I’ve heard so many people over the years say he was murdered by Courtney Love and spent countless hours arguing with those people because I refuse to believe that. The man was a mess! The drugs, the fame, the overwhelming commercial success of his music, the legions of screaming fans, he couldn’t handle it, it made him miserable as sin because he’d all of a sudden become the poster-boy for an entire generation, some kind of over-inflated grunge hero and he hated the pressure and the pretence of it all.

He’d lost his will to play and with it, his will to live. The same way he exploded onto the scene, he exploded off it, and I know it’s not really the popular opinion, but I think eating a shotgun is a seriously badass way of offing yourself because it sends a very clear message that what you did sure as hell wasn’t a cry for help.

A lot of people have speculated what it would be like if he hadn’t painted the ceiling with his brains, some saying he would have eventually come right and possibly gone on to write material that would be even better than his previous stuff and become an even more influential force in rock music, but I’m sceptical.

This piece that Chuck Klosterman wrote for Spin Magazine is probably the best prediction of what would have happened if Kurt Cobain were still alive http://www.spin.com/articles/what-if-kurt-cobain-didnt-die.

It’s a pretty hilarious read because in Chuck’s version of events, Cobain fizzles into obscurity and despite his half-hearted efforts, never quite manages to top the successes of his early career.

The universe has this funny way of working out sometimes. Can you imagine a 44 year-old Kurt Cobain? Some doddering, irrelevant middle-aged junkie, stinking up awards ceremonies and becoming the butt of the Justin Bieber-era entertainment industry’s jokes?

To be quite frank, I’m glad Cobain isn’t around to see what became of the industry because it’s the fucking Mickey Mouse club out there!

There are things in this life that are worse than death and Cobain still being alive to see how ridiculously over-commercial, overly-sexed and painfully shallow mainstream music has become over the last twenty years would definitely be one of them.

-ST

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slicktiger — Fri, 11 Feb 2011 12:10:20 +0000

Terror is always an option (part 2)

slicktiger — Fri, 11 Feb 2011 12:10:22 +0000

I posted some pretty goddamn creepy pics of shop mannequins earlier this week on the site, and got a mail from Tasty Katy, a regular SlickTiger supporter, with a buncha mannequins that put the ones I posted to shame.

May I present to you, a scene out of some kind of special hell reserved for paedophiles and grown adults who collect dolls:

Um. Have a great weekend?

-ST

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slicktiger — Mon, 14 Feb 2011 07:06:22 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 14 Feb 2011 07:09:43 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 14 Feb 2011 07:09:58 +0000

House Warming Shenanigans

slicktiger — Mon, 14 Feb 2011 07:10:01 +0000

Here’s a quick, honest breakdown of what happens when you invite people to a party you’re throwing according to racial and geographic breakdown and of course, personal experience.

If you’re in Joburg and you invite 20 white friends to a party, 13 actually show up. Conversely, if you invite 7 black friends, about 15 – 20 show up of which, somehow, you only know 3.

In Cape Town, it doesn’t matter if they’re black, white, Indian, Chinese or Austro-Hungarian, you invite 20 people to a party, 2 show up and they’re three hours late.

By those standards, the housewarming we threw on Friday night was a roaring success. Here’s a couple pics of the insanity that went down.

After that point, all kinds of shit went down, so let’s just leave it at that shall we? My mom reads this blog.

It was a killer, killer party and went on until some ungodly hour at which point people started dropping like flies, but not before we got this pic of the Slain Barbarian.

And now it’s Monday and life continues from where it left off, in my cubicle somewhere, meek and mild.

And people will ask me how my weekend was and what the hell will I tell them?

“Fine and yours?”

Stay tuned for part 2 at Sidewalk Cafe the day after, where we had beer for breakfast, tequila for dessert and dug our heels in for a good five hours of Bloody Marys.

Until then…

-ST

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slicktiger — Mon, 14 Feb 2011 16:38:39 +0000

New Radiohead album lands on Saturday!

slicktiger — Mon, 14 Feb 2011 16:38:42 +0000

It’s probably already old news, but Radiohead announced that their new album, “King Of Limbs” is going to be available for digital download from the site http://thekingoflimbs.com/ on Saturday.

King Of Limbs costs £6.00 for the MP3 version, £9.00 for the WAV version, £30.00 for the “Newspaper album” version in MP3s and £33.00 for the WAV version (which comprises 2 x 10” vinyls, a CD, a whole lot of artwork and other rad stuffs too!).

I’m fucking excited guys. This band can do no wrong in my eyes, pure and simple. I have every album they’ve done in studio and a couple they haven’t plus a few of B-Sides and some acoustic versions of their stuff and never once has an album disappointed me.

Mark my words, 2011 is going to be a great year for music.

Thanks to Civilian for giving me the heads-up on this one. Love your work dude

-ST

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slicktiger — Mon, 14 Feb 2011 16:44:03 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 15 Feb 2011 06:32:25 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 15 Feb 2011 06:33:19 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 15 Feb 2011 06:33:44 +0000

Saturday At Sidewalk Cafe

slicktiger — Tue, 15 Feb 2011 06:33:48 +0000

If you don’t already know Sidewalk Cafe in Vredehoek you need to head on down there one Saturday and grab a bite because the food is incredible, the vibes are awesome and if you’re lucky enough, Dave will be your waiter and for however long you stay there, life will be about as perfect as it can be.

For us life was as perfect as it could be for about five hours. We rolled into Sidewalk at about 9.30 on Saturday morning, J-Rab, Jennyjenjen, Barbarian, Goff-girl and myself after waking up hungover as hell from our housewarming the night before and marvelling that we were all still alive.

We went to meet up with friends of Goff-Girl’s who were just finishing a scrumptious breakfast of fresh fruit juices, muesli, yoghurt, honey and tea, so naturally we all sat down and ordered a round of beers.

From there the wheels came off completely. By 10.30 we were onto the Bloody Marys and sometime around lunchtime a round of tequilas came out followed by a police van that parked in the street right next to us. We knew we had total immunity as long as we stayed put though so that’s exactly what we did and sooner or later they moved on, all of us smiling and waving at them like a bunch of asylum escapees.

It felt good not to give a shit. It felt good to spend the morning getting loaded at a ridiculously early hour with my friends while other people went jogging up the street or came to Sidewalk in their loafers to enjoy a quaint little meal and saw the chaos that was unfolding at our table.

And all the while, Dave endured. Like some stalwart captain of a ship full of maniacs, he stood his ground because he’d seen this before many, many times and at least we added a random element into his day that he seemed to enjoy.

“I want a big flower for behind my ear,” J-Rab turned around and randomly blurted out as Dave was walking past and I swear to God, the man didn’t even flinch or look surprised or perplexed or off-guard in any conceivable way. He just said “Sure” like it was the most normal request he’d ever heard, walked over to a nearby tree and came back with the perfect flower.

It was good times I tell ya, Sidewalk Cafe gets the Tiger stamp of approval. Go there every day this week and the week after and the week after. Dig the view from the stoep outside and have a Bloody Mary or 10.

Life really doesn’t get much better than that

-ST

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slicktiger — Wed, 16 Feb 2011 06:25:49 +0000

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slicktiger — Wed, 16 Feb 2011 06:26:50 +0000

Nokia Loves The Tiger

slicktiger — Wed, 16 Feb 2011 06:26:53 +0000

Why is it that of all the bajillion brands out there, Nokia is the only one that has the balls to approach a crazy basterd like me, jump into bed and bang me like a salvation army drum?

Actually wait. I think that last sentence might have just answered itself…

Still though, it really says a lot about a brand when they aren’t afraid to associate themselves with someone who doesn’t follow the 2OceansVibe formula to becoming a successful blogger, ie. towtheline towtheline towtheline ADVERTISE towtheline towtheline ADVERTISE towtheline ADVERTISE ADVERTISE!

That’s what blogs do. That’s the South African (and in many cases international) way of blogging. You build a brand by writing deliberately controversial tabloid-style posts about scandalous topics (that aren’t really that scandalous), you post funny YouTube videos of people getting kicked in the nuts, you put boobs on the site, you pretend to be this smarmy asshole until you are one, and brands fall over themselves to associate themselves with you.

But not Nokia. They never incentivised me, they never made me feel like I was selling my soul to Satan, none of that bullshit. They just read the site, liked my style and started showering me with free shit.

On Friday I’m checking out U2 thanks to Nokia. J-Rab and I are heading through to what people who caught them in Joburg are saying is one of the best concerts SA has seen in a long time and it’s all thanks to Nokia.

You guys rock. Nearly a year and a half of blogging and you’re the only brand that has proven yourselves to be different from the rest because you have the stones to associate yourselves with a guy who is stupid enough, or crazy enough, to blog honestly about what he thinks and feels.

So yeah, this post serves no purpose other than to punt Nokia, but I’ll gladly do that because while I don’t believe in selling out, I do believe in paying respect where it’s due.

-ST

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slicktiger — Wed, 16 Feb 2011 08:27:01 +0000

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slicktiger — Wed, 16 Feb 2011 12:32:33 +0000

Something For The Mid-Week Grind

slicktiger — Wed, 16 Feb 2011 12:32:35 +0000

Two posts in one day?! Has the Tiger lost his flippin’ MIND?! No. Calm the fuck down. Two posts in one day is going to happen from time to time so I want you guys to be ready for it and to definitely come back TWICE everyday just, you know, in case I’ve put something amazing up Here’s a little track that perfectly sums up how I feel today. It’s a rare one from Nirvana that Civilian sent after my post on Friday entitled “What If Kurt Cobain Was Still Alive?”

The song’s called “Curmudgeon”, enjoy! [audio http://slicktiger.files.wordpress.com/2011/02/nirvana_-_curmudgeon.mp3] -ST

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slicktiger — Thu, 17 Feb 2011 05:46:59 +0000

Three Great Reasons Why Never To Watch The Human Centipede

slicktiger — Thu, 17 Feb 2011 05:47:03 +0000

Here, in no particular order, are three great reasons why never to watch the horror movie The Human Centipede:

Reason No.1: Only One Person In The Entire Film Can Actually Act

I don’t think I have to go into too much detail here except to further explain that that one person also happens to be the mentally deranged surgeon who is the film’s main antagonist and who randomly decides one day that it would be fun to kidnap three people and surgically attach them to each other ass-to-mouth to make, well, a human centipede.

I’m not joking. Someone actually made this film.

Reason No.2: Who The Hell Wants To Watch A Movie About People Who Are Surgically Attached To One Another Ass To Mouth?

Who indeed. Shelve your morbid curiosity for this one, you’ll be a lot better off in the long run without the mental images of three people crawling around on all fours, “feeding” one another.

Reason No.3: You See The Deranged Surgeon’s Naked Butt

Which is pretty much twice as terrifying as the actual monster he creates and then spends the rest of the movie hanging out with.

“Fetch the newspaper human centipede! Fetch the paper! Goooooood human centipede!”

I shit you not. This is the worst movie ever created. EVER.

Final Verdict: 1/10

-ST

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slicktiger — Mon, 21 Feb 2011 11:54:33 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 21 Feb 2011 11:55:44 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 21 Feb 2011 11:56:23 +0000

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slicktiger — Mon, 21 Feb 2011 11:56:52 +0000

The Tiger Hits The U2 Concert, Has The Time Of His Life

slicktiger — Mon, 21 Feb 2011 11:56:55 +0000

I wouldn’t call myself the world’s biggest U2 fan, so it’s safe to say I went in there with pretty much zero expectations and had my mind blown in every conceivable way.

J-Rab and I hit the Cape Town stadium at about 4.30 to beat the (non-existent) traffic and make sure we got into the VIP lounge that Nokia very kindly provided us with tickets for. Problem was the lounge only opened at 6pm so we bought a couple of beers and killed a bit of time wandering around the stadium and checking out THE CLAW.

THE CLAW has gotten a shiteload of press over the last two weeks and for good reason. It’s possibly the single coolest staging rig I’ve ever seen. It’s colossal and looks like it could get up and start walking like some giant killer spider-robot, blasting the audience with intense death rays at any minute.

We got a lot of pics of it before it was all lit up, much to the dismay of one of the security guards we had a chat with who was like, “You’re not allowed to take pictures.”

“What?” I said, “We’re allowed to take pictures?”

“No,” he replied, “not allowed.”

“Ok,” I said, and took some pictures. He smiled at me, I smiled back. What a rad guy.

Once they opened the VIP lounge, I was so excited I bounded in there and immediately ordered two suitcases (what?! They didn’t have any tequila ok?) and a couple more beers. Nokia really pulled out all the stops – for the next two hours I was like a kid at Christmas, munching all manner of froo-froo finger ding-a-lings, taking goofy pictures with J-Rab and drinking suitcases like there was no tomorrow.

At 8 they closed the VIP lounge and we headed upstairs to catch some of the Springbok Nude Girls set, which would have been a lot better if the sound was sorted out. As it was, it sounded a little like the guys were playing underwater which is apparently an old trick that’s been used for years in the industry – the headline act gets the killer sound and the supporting guys play through amplifiers made of rusty tin cans.

After the Nudies finished up, J-Rab and I went in search of some more free drinks and were immediately drawn, like moths to a flame, to this mesmerising green light that was glowing at the Heineken VIP bar.

“What do you think that is?” J-Rab asked in awe.

“I dunno...” I replied, “but Jeannie D’s in there so it must be important.”

“Go see if you can get us some free drinks.”

“Roger that.”

I approached the security guy at the entrance with the kind of total confidence only 7 suitcases can give you and proceeded to walk straight past him.

He gripped my arm like a vice.

“Where’s your wristband?”

“Right here brother,” I said, proudly displaying my white Nokia lounge VIP wristband.

“That’s the wrong colour,” he said, sternly.

“What! I’m the wrong colour?! What the hell is this, the Apartheid Bar?”

“Your WRISTBAND is the wrong colour.”

“What in God’s name are you talking about?”

“It’s white. It’s supposed to be black.”

“So it’s the REVERSE Apartheid Bar? Man, I can’t wait to blog about this unfair discrimination!”

“Please step aside sir, this is for people who were invited to the Heineken bar ONLY.”

“Cool. Whatever. I’m too white for this bar. It’s cool, I understand...”

As I was sulking off to tell J-Rab the bad news, I saw a MAJOR flaw in the security setup. White blocks.

They were at the perfect height for sitting on and then, when no one was looking, casually swinging your legs over onto the other side and then casually standing up and WAPOW! You were in the Heineken Reverse Apartheid Lounge.

The second both J-Rab and I had executed this security-defying manoeuvre we whipped out the camera and took about 15 pictures of ourselves pulling more goofy faces while we talked to each other in very snooty voices indeed because we were in the HEINEKEN LOUNGE BABY!

We swanned over to the bar to start klapping some more free drinks and very quickly froze in our tracks. The people here, they all had cards. Heineken cards! And these cards, you had to produce them to get the sauce – no card, no sauce. J-Rab and I hovered at the bar, furiously trying to think up some way to beat the system when who stepped in front of us? Liesl Van Der Westhuizen, that’s who!

Now, I know what you’re thinking, Liesl V, Schmiesl V, who cares. Well, I’m here to tell you that Liesl Van Der Westhuizen is a fucking cool person. The second her and her boyfriend stepped in front of us she turned around to apologise for cutting in front of us to which I calmly replied, “No sweat. We’re not even supposed to be here, we slipped past security to score some free drinks but apparently you need a green card or something...”

“Do you guys want some drinks?” she said, without even skipping a beat, “We’ll get you some!”

And that’s how we ended up drinking in the Heineken bar for free with Liesl V. Until security kicked us out. That was kinda embarrassing. But we met up with Liesl outside again and they got us a SECOND ROUND OF DRINKS!

What a lovely person, seriously. I don’t care what anyone says about her, Liesl is cool in my books. She helped a Tiger out so I’ll have no more Liesl-bashing on this site thank you very much. Um. Not that there ever was any to begin with, but yeah. Just so you know.

After that U2 took to the stage and THE CLAW came to life in a multitude of colours and images and flashing lights. Unfortunately by this stage J-Rab and I were about twelve sheets to the wind so it’s hard to recall the exact details of the concert, but I can confirm this much – U2 put on an INCREDIBLE show and no, I’m not just saying this because I was there and you weren’t.

About halfway through the set, J-Rab and I somehow managed to get into the outer golden circle to get some pics from the ground just in time for them to play “Sunday Bloody Sunday” and “One” which, I’ll be honest, was an emotional moment for me. It’s my favourite U2 song of all time and hearing the guys play it live right there in front of us was intense.

Not sure if I was cool with all the Nelson Mandela / Desmond Tutu references and imagery that we were bombarded with and the snippets from interviews with both of them, I just think it’s a pretty obvious ploy to get the crowd all gooey with emotion (it worked like a bomb).

But I’ll let it slide because U2 have always been a political band and have actually done a lot of good in this world. Also, in all fairness, I don’t think I’ve ever watched a band play in this country and NOT mention Nelson Mandela or Desmond Tutu in some way so I’ll reserve judgement on this one.

It was a brilliant experience and an amazingly well-executed concert. Big up to Nokia for making it all possible, you guys spoiled us and we really appreciated every second of it, let’s be pals forever.

In closing, here’s a pic of THE CLAW in its full glory after a massive CONE of TV screens extended down towards the stage like it was going to tractor-beam the band into space.

Good times

-ST

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slicktiger — Tue, 22 Feb 2011 06:38:57 +0000

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slicktiger — Tue, 22 Feb 2011 06:39:08 +0000

The Melissa Riso Police Nailed Me!

slicktiger — Tue, 22 Feb 2011 06:39:11 +0000

You guys might have noticed that last week Friday there was nothing on this site which may have seemed a little weird if you’re a regular reader and had noticed that I’ve gotten into a badass routine of posting every week day, sometimes more than once!

Well kids, the reason why there was no post last week Friday was because Wordpress had BANNED me from posting on my own goddamn site! Can you believe that shit?!

I had banged out a seriously inspiring, thought-provoking post about immortality (still saved in my drafts, I’ll probably publish it later this week) and the second I tried to upload it I got the following bullshit message:

So I jump into my site’s back-end (God that sounded wrong) and the following message is sitting there, glaring at me like my boss when I show up at work drunk:

“Warning: We have a concern about some of the content on your blog. Please click here to contact us as soon as possible to resolve the issue and re-enable posting.”

It felt like I’d been called into the headmaster’s office for innocently lifting the cute English teacher’s skirt with a stick to see if she was wearing undies or not (she wasn’t).

It later transpired that Wordpress had been served a legal notice because I’d posted a picture of this belter called Melissa Riso last year in October and I was in violation of some copyright law or other.

So they unceremoniously axed the picture from my FTP server and let me post on the site again. Thanks Wordpress. You just made me realise for once and for all that it’s time to host this crazy-assed site elsewhere.

Until then, here’s a picture of a belter I found on the internet, not sure if you know her? Name of Melissa somebody-or-other

So yeah, if there’s no post tomorrow you know why.

-ST

New Radiohead album – What’s The Feeling?

slicktiger — Wed, 23 Feb 2011 06:28:00 +0000

It dawned on me the other day that in almost every aspect of my life I’m probably in the early majority / late majority hump on the adoption curve, except music.

With music, I need it NOW! A new album gets released and I have to have it inside my skull as quickly as possible. That’s how it was with the new Radiohead album, King Of Limbs. They released it for internet download on Friday and by 2pm I’d already heard the album twice.

What’s my overall opinion thus far? I’m not sure it can hold a flame to In Rainbows. As with all their material, maybe it will grow on me, but my initial impression is that they’ve backslid into Amnesiac territory on this one and musically, guitars have taken a backseat to pianos, electronic blips and beeps and shuffling drum machine beats.

The first single, “LotusFlower” is a great track though and Thom Yorke’s spazzing out is something you gotta see to believe.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cfOa1a8hYP8&w=645&h=362&hd=1]

Sadly though, the main topic of conversation doing the rounds on the interwebs right now seems to be, “Is Radiohead the most overrated band of all time?”

I didn’t think so before King Of Limbs, but this paltry 8 track effort has disappointed me on the first few listens and shown an uncharacteristic lack of inspiration from this band, who have always rated highly in my top 10 bands of all time.

What do you guys think? Anyone out there heard the new album yet?

-ST

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slicktiger — Wed, 23 Feb 2011 06:38:43 +0000

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slicktiger — Thu, 24 Feb 2011 05:28:20 +0000

Immortality

slicktiger — Thu, 24 Feb 2011 05:28:22 +0000

Who wants to die? What a load of crap! One day you’re you, walking around, hanging out with your buddies, doing whatever it is you do to kill time and the next BAM! You’re worm-food and that crazy, unique, fucking cool person that was you is just gone.

Of course, religion steps in at this point and tells us that there’s some amazing imaginary place that we go to (or some dreadful, torturous, fire-and-brimstone hell-hole where you spend eternity on the worst acid trip EVER) and that’s fine. If that’s what you want to believe, by all means believe it – I would too if I could, but hinging all my hopes on something that may or may not exist after this life is already over seems a little futile.

This is now. I got bills to pay goddamnit, I got a life to live! Heaven, hell, God, Satan those are just words to me. I try to do good and live well and not screw people around – those things are more important to me than what may or may not happen after I die.

I stumbled on this site the other day that takes things to the extreme and poses the question, what would happen if ALL of us died? If there was some cataclysmic event that wiped us all off the face of this planet for good and what I read was pretty amazing.

After 2 days without pumping, New York’s subways would impassably flood
After 7 the emergency fuel supply to the diesel generators that circulate cooling water to nuclear reactors would run out
After 1 year a BILLION annually doomed birds would live when radio and communication tower warning lights ceased blinking and high tension wires grew cold. Animals will begin to return to the sites of nuclear reactors which would all have melted down or burned. Human head and body live will have grown extinct
After 3 years buildings will start to collapse as their innards expand and contract. With no heated shelter, cockroaches in temperate cities would die after one or two winters
After 20 years the Panama Canal would have closed, reuniting the Americas. Common garden vegetables will have reverted to unpalatable strains
After 100 years populations of small predators (weasels, raccoons, foxes, etc.) will diminish due to competition from a human legacy: immensely successful feral housecats (kitteh!)
After 300 years, New York’s bridges would fall. Dams worldwide will have silted, overflowed and collapsed. Cities built in river deltas will have washed away completely
After 500 years, forests would stand in the place of most suburbs. Amid the trees aluminium dishwasher parts and stainless steel cookware would lie, their plastic handles splitting, but still solid
After thousands of years, the only human structures still intact would be underground
After 35 000 years all the lead deposited during the smokestack era will have finally been cleansed from the soil
After 100 000 years, CO2 levels will have returned to pre-human levels (could take longer)
After 250 000 years the levels of plutonium in plutonium bombs would be lost to the Earth’s natural background radiation
After hundreds of thousands of years microbes will have evolved to biodegrade plastic
After 7 200 000 years vestiges of Mount Rushmore will still be intact, barring asteroids or violent earthquakes. Toxic manmade substances such as PCB will still be intact, though mostly buried
After 10 200 000 years, bronze sculptures will still be recognisable!
After 3 billion years, life, albeit in forms we can’t even imagine, would still thrive on earth
After 4.5 billion years the half-million tons of depleted Uranium-238 in the US alone would have reached its half life. Earth would begin to warm as the sun expands. Microbial life forms resembling the first life forms on earth would out-last everything
After 5+ billion years the Earth would burn as the dying sun swells to envelope the inner planets

There is one final point at the end of the timeline, one that has had a profound effect on me ever since I read it because it proves that immortality in a certain form, is possible.

Right at the end, it simply says:

Forever: Our radio and television broadcasts, fragmented as they may be, will still be travelling outward.

Humans will never fade into complete obscurity. There will always be some trace of us, some proof that this beautiful and fucked up race existed, it’s already out there, reverberating through the ether like a dog without a bone, an actor all alone…

And THAT’S why, more than anything else, I need to get famous

What the hell would space be without your Tiger pal bouncing around up there like a piece of loose shrapnel, freaking out the aliens?

Hold my hand, we’re going to Vegas.

-ST

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slicktiger — Fri, 25 Feb 2011 06:24:37 +0000

It’s The Weekend Baby!

slicktiger — Fri, 25 Feb 2011 06:24:44 +0000

Here at TFW he love taking things as literally as possible with very little room for liberal interpretation.

That’s why all I’m posting today is this flippin’ whoresome video sent in by Civilian of what I like to call a ‘weekend baby’.

Don’t do what the baby does this weekend. Behave well, stay at home, watch a sensible DVD and clean the house. DON’T drink the draincleaner!

I’m watching you.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cds7lSHawAw&w=662&h=372&hd=1]

Party on Wayne

-ST

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slicktiger — Sun, 27 Feb 2011 18:28:53 +0000

02 - Santa Maria De Feira

slicktiger — Sun, 27 Feb 2011 18:46:57 +0000

Don’t Let Monday Get You Down

slicktiger — Mon, 28 Feb 2011 06:00:00 +0000

If you live in Cape Town you’ve probably just had a killer weekend. It’s been sunny and beautiful throughout, great weather for floating in large bodies of cool water not thinking about anything.

The longer you live here, the easier it gets to really enjoy your weekends on a level people who live and work in Joburg will never understand. I’ve always said there’s an art to getting weekends right and since we’ve moved to Cape Town and out of the wooden shitshack we used to be holed up in in the middle of a wine farm in Stellenbosch, we’ve had a pretty good run. Of course it makes Mondays tricky, but they needn’t be. Just put your headphones on and listen to my good friend Devendra Banhart’s chilled out melodies and take a deep breath. [audio http://slicktiger.files.wordpress.com/2011/02/02-santa-maria-de-feira.mp3] Feelin’ better? Good. Now calmly pack your desk up, walk out of your office and never go back. Buy a ticket to somewhere sunny and make a living mixing cocktails on the beach and spear fishing in your free time. We don’t need to be here. -ST