Grand Cafe, Rosebank

Sunday, December 01, 2002

Service: * * * 1/2
Food: N/A
Ambience: * * 1/2
Babe Count: *

I'm procrastinating my late afternoon away, having an unnecessary cup of tea, and a delicious oversized slice of chocolate mousse cake at the Grand Cafe in Rosebank. It's raining sweatily outside, and even with the shopping mall's aircon, it's still quite a steamy day.

The reason I'm procrastinating is that I've got two promos to write for that client from hell that I fired a month or so ago. The production company was desperate, and said I didn't have to interact with the client. And anyway, making promos is what I do for a living, so it should take me less than an hour to bash out two of the damned things.

In the meantime, I'm chortling happily away over Safran Foer's amazing novel, EVERYTHING IS ILLUMINATED. It's quasi autobiographical, and involves a trip to the Ukraine to track down the place his ancestors lived. He hires an interpreter who is... let's say... relatively unschooled in the use of English. Hilarious. With dark clouds looming. My kind of humour. Black.

And I'm in that kind of space. Last week when I was having lunch in Melville, some dude scraped a tiny dent into my car as he parallel parked. He apologised, and agreed to pay. So I took it off to my mechanic and asked for a recommendation. He suggested a place where he sends all the classic MG sports cars he specialises in. One of these chip repair places. We're talking about a tiny dent, the size of half of my pinky finger.

So the dude gives me a quote for R450. I phone the chap who smashed my Mazda MX5's delicate paintwork. He agrees with the quote.

I say to Errol at the chip repair place, "Go ahead. But... NO body putty on my car! I want you to please PULL the dent out, and just buff it up. And if you have to use paint, it MUST match."

"No problem," says Errol. And his assistant whips out the automotive sandpaper and starts working on the spot, the spot no bigger than half my pinky. (Please memorise this size issue -- it gets important just now.)

"Uh... why's he sanding that spot?" I ask, suspecting that things are about to go pear shaped.

"No," says Errol, "he's gotta put primer on. Don't worry."

Now I dunno about you, but when I hear the words, "Don't worry," everything in me goes into alert mode. My hairs stand on end. My paranoia muscles twitch into spasm. It's like when the urologist starts babbling about the state of the Hong Kong stock market, and you go, "Huh?" and he waits for THAT moment to jam the Dickoscopy tool into your wee-tube. You just know.

"Hang on!" I say, as the assistant plops a blob of white goo onto a piece of cardboard. He then puts some blue goo with it and starts mixing. "That's body putty!" I say. "I TOLD you I don't want body putty on my fucking car!"

"No, no!" says Errol. "Don't worry. It's just primer."

Thwap. The dude slaps the body putty onto the dent. And proceeds to smooth it off.

"Come on guys! You're supposed to pull the dent!"

"Oh, we can't," says Errol. "They broke in last night and stole one of our compressors and all of the pulling tools. Don't worry. This isn't putty. It's microfill."

"Well take it out of the dent right now!"

"Can't. Once it's in, it's in."

Oh god. So now my original sports car, one of the very first to be shipped into South Africa in 1990, has body putty in a tiny dent. And these muthajunkas are busy sandpapering some more. And some more. And now, from a half a pinky, the area has grown to the size of a sideplate. And it's not even. And they're in a hurry.

We've passed the point of no return.

"Please at least get it straight and flat," I say, "and match the colour."

"No problem," says Errol, and I shudder. And walk away. I don't want to see my car abused.

And when I come back, there's a patch of orange-red paint on my firecracker-red car. And it's uneven. And there's paint spatters all over the door.

"Errol," I say, "I'm unhappy, and this is unacceptable. If this were your car, would you be happy?"

His chin is on his chest. It's three o'clock on a Saturday, and he's got a long drive home to Vereeniging. And he's messed my car up beyond belief. "No," he says. "You're right. It's not cool. Please bring it back on Monday."

Which is why I've accepted the freelance promo job. To pay for a full respray. Cos I know these characters are just schlumpers out to make a living, and that they can't actually afford to pay to have the job done professionally. And I'd be a schlumper myself if I gave the car back to them to mess up further.

So, I pay my waitress, say thank you in Zulu, which elicits a massive grin, and close my book. I've got some promos to write. I've got a car to respray before I get to Somerset West to meet my new soulmate, Heidi. Can't have orange spots on it, can I? Even though orange is one of her favourite colours.

Panarotti's, Cresta

Wednesday, November 27, 2002

Service: * * 1/2
Food: * * 1/2
Ambience: * *
Babe Count: * * * 1/2

I've got no food in my house, and I'm in dire need of nutrition. I've just been to gym, where I had a wonderful session on the rowing machine. As a consequence, my t-shirt is clinging to my unbelievably sculpted chest. And it's been carefully pulled away from my somewhat unsculpted stomach. Which needs at least nine months of work to get it to acceptable levels of tautness.

I prefer not to shower at the Cresta gym, cos of some unwelcome attention I've had from one or two guys touching their hardons in the showers. I kinda prefer not being leered at when I'm showering. I'd prefer people to respect my sexuality. And heck, surely there are more polite ways for men to hit on other men? When I hit on women, I really hope I don't come on so strong. Sheesh.

So that's why I'm in Panarotti's unshowered, sweaty, gym-stricken. But it's okay. I'm not a stinky sweater. I seem to have inherited sweet perspiration glands from my dad. He could do a hundred pushups on command, even when he was 70 years old. Last time I could do one hundred pushups was when I vice-captained the St Martin's School 2nd rugby team to a 55-0 defeat against the St John's College 5th team.

I'm all nostalgic. I'm sitting on the cusp of new things and remembering old times. Antoinette and I used to order the Panarotti's Greek salad often. We'd get the big one and share it, and it was a wonderful meal, with the most impressive feta cheese available in restaurants.

So I've ordered the small size, and a foccacia with three cheeses on it. I've asked for a small foccacia, but they don't seem to understand such things, and it's the size of a normal pizza. And maybe it's the absence of Antoinette, or my frustration at not yet having met Heidi, but the salad just doesn't taste as good as it used to.

Hmm. On reflection, I think it's to do with the salad dressing. I think they've changed the recipe. Yup. That's it. The old dressing had that same feta in it, and it was rich and creamy and delicious. The dressing I've splashed over my salad tonight is just plain boring.

I wonder if there's a Panarotti's in Somerset West? I wonder how Heidi and I will deal with change if we decide that we're gunna be an item beyond cyberspace? I wonder what feta cheese will taste like with her?

Cafe TriBeCa, Rosebank

Saturday, November 16, 2002

Service: * * * *
Food: *
Ambience: * * * *
Babe Count: * * * * *

There are some occupational hazards involved with driving a convertible. On my way to the Rosebank Mall this evening, I arrive at a robot, looking left and right and back and front, being hyper vigilant about Johannesburg's finest -- the hijackers.

I'm listening to Pulp on the sound system, singing along. Suddenly this Bohemian white boy lurches across the road. He's running towards me, and one hand is in his belt. He could be about to pull a knife, or he's making sure his dagga stompie or his crack rocks won't fall out as he stumbles towards me.

I'm checking the robots, trying to gauge exactly when I can pull off safely without getting rammed. I'm in first gear, and I'm revving hard. I've unclipped my seatbelt, and I'm ready for violence. I will apply my tai chi training if the robot doesn't change.

"Hey!" says the dude, slurring, "Gimme a fuckin' lift you poes!" and he tries to hop into my passenger seat. The robot's changing, and I dance the car out from under him.

But I digress. I'm sitting here in TriBeCa with my famous Afrikaans actor buddy, Andre Stoltz. (I have to mention that he's famous, otherwise noone would know it.) Since my last bad experience at TriBeCa, I've decided never to waste my time attempting to eat anything here.

Andre is none the wiser. So he orders a toasted chicken mayo sandwich on brown. "Don't do it to yourself," I say. But he smiles charmingly at Zahra, our extremely gorgeous young waitress with alluring dimples, and orders it anyway.

"Do you have any Snapple?" I say, doing my charming bit.

Zahra says, "Uhm... We've got Smirnoff Ice."

"No! Not alcohol! Fruit juice. Snapple. Made from the best thing on earth!"

She blushes, and apologises. It's clear that in the world of TriBeCa, people who don't automatically order alcohol are a rarity. I'm not entirely sure, but I think this wins me a few brownie points with her. I order strawberry juice.

Andre says, "Roy, she wants you, my boy."

Which makes me think of Warren Zevon, the singer dying of lung cancer as I type. One of his lyrics goes, "I went home with a waitress... the way I always do... how was I to know... she was with the Russians too."

Which makes me think of me. I've never successfully gone home with a waitress. Once in Melville a waitress actually hit on me, but we didn't have sex. She didn't do sex on the first night. And another time in Parkhurst, a few months after I broke up with Antoinette, I took this babe waitress to Hartebeespoort Dam in my car, but we ended up not having sex either. So my batting average with waitresses is zero.

"Here's your strawberry juice," Zahra says.

"And you're ABSOLUTELY SURE there's no alcohol in this? You didn't maybe slip me that date rape drug, did you?"

She blushes, and her dimples get seriously pronounced, and for a moment I think it would be great if I could sit there till midnight and wait for her to get off work, and then be like Warren Zevon just once. But I'm saving myself for Heidi in Somerset West.

Andre's so-called food arrives. It's a limp, lightly toasted sandwich made from regulation government brown bread. There's MUCH too much mayonnaise. There are two small shreds of lettuce on the side, with an onion ring slapped on top. And there are FIVE rather over-sized potato chips. Five. I counted.

It's not Zahra's fault that the food's so cruddy here. So, despite the food, if things don't work out with Heidi in Somerset West, I'll have to come back to TriBeCa to order more Snapples. And maybe next time, if I have a waitress in my passenger seat, I won't have anyone attempting to jump in. Although, looking at Zahra's good looks, maybe there'll be MORE people trying to get in.

Mezza Luna, Melville

Sunday, November 03, 2002

Service: * * * *
Food: * * *
Ambience: * * *
Babe Count: * * *

I've just arrived in Melville from Parkmore, where I've been eating Alfred and Gowrie's chicken samoosas. In my boot is an amazing gift. Alfred has painted an exceptionally perceptive portrait of me. In return, I've given him the last remaining print in my first rubber stamp edition. I'm still going to give him his pick of a charcoal drawing.

Damon has SMSed me. "We're at Mezza Luna!" it says. I get there and sit down.

Karl Kikillus is sitting at the next table, flexing his gym-built shirt sleeves. "Classic biceptual," I say. The word rhymes with 'bisexual', and refers to a class of guy in love with his own upper-body strength. And yes. It's a word I coined. So please use it, and make it find a place in the Oxford Dictionary.

I'm with Damon Berry, filmmaker extraordinaire and puppeteer for Takalane Sesame Street, and his girlfriend, Wendy New, singer songwriter with New York edge.

Wendy and I start singing the happy birthday song to Damon.

He blushes, stands up, and does a big-voiced, "I love you both!" and we all hug. It's starting to feel like a threesome until my innate mischievousness kicks in.

"Hey," I say in a stage whisper, pretending not to look at Karl Kikillus, once a tv star, hero of Popshop, the music video program that ran on South African television in the eighties. "Isn't that Martin Locke???" Martin Locke was also once a tv star.

Damon and Wendy break down into giggles, and I'm saved.

Maria, our Bulgarian waitress who also happens to be a fully qualified dermatologist by day, brings a surprise -- an enormous chocolate brownie in melted chocolate sauce, with scoops of vanilla icecream. One lone candle sways in the breeze. "Wish!!!" says Wendy, and Damon blows. We all eat the cake. Me especially.

Now I have to break to explain something here... Heidi, the babe I'm falling for in Somerset West, has sent me an email telling me that I must focus more on the waitresses in my Coffee-Shop Schmuck columns. She fears that readers will be bored hearing exclusively about her. So...

Maria is short, has long, frizzy/wavy dark brown hair, and brown eyes. She's really very shapely, with a neat, protruding bum, and pert breasts. Her nose is slightly bulbous in a cute, eastern European way. "I came from Bulgaria when I was twenty-two," she says.

"So you became a dermatologist here then?" asks Wendy.

"No, there. I finish school when was sixteen. I study. My father not pay. He say I must pay. When I am fifteen, I come back from swimming trip with school, and I see bags packed in flat. I say, 'Are we going somewhere?' They say, 'No. We are leaving. You old enough now to make living.' They leave. I work. Now I am in South Africa. Work four nights here. And have practice in daytime."

Phshew. What a... uhm... uh... progressive family she came from.

When Maria flits back to the kitchen to bring me my roast vegetable pasta (which, by the way, turns out to be rich, nicely cooked, heavily loaded with olive oil, tasty, tangy, enjoyable), Damon says, "The Somerset West girl sounds like a better bet."

Mugg & Bean, Sandton City

Wednesday, October 30, 2002

Service: * *
Food: *
Ambience: * *
Babe Count: * * * *

I'm with Carine. We met in an art supply shop a couple of months back during the annual sale, and flirted vaguely in the checkout queue. We've had coffee before, and it's been made clear that she's not interested in shagging me.

We're together tonight because she wants to introduce me to two of her friends. The idea of matchmaking has entered her mind cos of an SMS Haiku I sent to most of the people on my cellphone. (See below, Thurs 26 Oct 2002, Espresso, Parkhurst.)

"Heather and you would be IDEAL!" she says. She pulls out a company calendar, which has all of the staff members of her pharmaceutical giant company posing with exotic cars. "This is her..." she says, pointing to an elf-like blonde babe with a very pretty roundish face. "She buys children's clothes from the age twelve section. That's how small she is! And she's arty, like you!"

Well, Heather and I might possibly be ideal, but she lives in Port Elizabeth, which is very far away from Somerset West (where Heidi lives).

Then Carine says, "But you've also got to meet Andrea. In fact, strangely enough, she's here tonight, downstairs, doing the wine tasting. She's going to be representing a wine maker from Stellenbosch. Would you like to go winetasting?"

"Actually, I'm really hungry, and haven't eaten all day," I say, "so maybe we could go after I've eaten?"

I order the chicken and beef pockets. The beef is stringy. And gristly. And hard to chew. The chicken tastes mildly like fish. I find a piece of salami on the plate. This is a dish I have to abandon before I've eaten my fill, and I get very grouchy when I'm low on blood sugar.

So we end up not going to the wine tasting. Instead, Andrea arrives, bringing Greg with her. Andrea is a seriously shapely babe, with waist-length curly black hair, large breasts, and a hard mouth, set from years of pain. In her eyes and the set of her jaw, I read 'hardship-endured'. Turns out she's been hijacked recently, amongst other things.

Greg has brought some of his wine, a sauvignon blanc, from the show, and he's got his handy all-in-one wine opening gadget with him. He attracts the waiter. "Do you mind if I open this wine here? I'm from the show downstairs, and these are my clients. I have to give them a sample."

He sits poised with his gadget ready until the waiter comes back. "It's fine," says the waiter, who starts to leave.

"Hang on!" says Greg. "Can we have some glasses?"

So Greg pours, and frivolity ensues. But Greg really can't grasp why I'm happy to nurse my third-of-a-glass of vino. Where he comes from, someone who doesn't drink litres of wine must be ill. "Is my wine THAT bad?" he asks, studying the label and sniffing the cork.

"Nah," I say. "I just don't really drink, and this is enough for me."

He and Andrea polish off the bottle, while Carine and I stay sober.

"I want to learn to tango!" says Andrea.

"I tango," I say. "Took lessons at the Tanz Kafe a few years ago. It's the most erotic dance imaginable."

She stands up and tugs at my arm. "Show me!" she says.

I do a few turns, twisting her lithe frame this way and that, steering her aggressively, the way the Argentineans demand. Her breasts feel good against my chest. But her sadness feels hard against my heart.

Espresso, Parkhurst

Saturday, October 26, 2002

Service: * * 1/2
Food: *
Ambience: * * *
Babe Count: * * * * *

Alistair and I have just finished thrashing each other at backgammon. We ended up square -- nil-nil. So while I feel bruised and battered from the ups and downs of the game, at least I'm still able to sit. Normally, Alistair is so much better than me that I end up with a very painful backside. He doesn't use Vaseline, see? He's gone off home to sulk, and I've been driving around trying to find a suitable parking spot, so I can catch a bite in the trendy part of Joburg.

Espresso is great, since there's a parking space right outside, and I can sit at a sidewalk table with my car winking at me. I like being able to keep my eye on it.

Actually, there's more to it.

Waitresses and managers tend to treat me better when they see me emerging from a sports car. They seem to think I'm more important than I really am. And I do nothing to discourage such thinking.

I've just received an sms from Heidi telling me an email has been sent. Naturally, I can't wait to get home, so I whip out my trusty Psion 5MX palmtop, and my less-trusty Nokia 6310i (it's a dog -- it drops my internet connection if I try to send emails larger than 1kb, and seems not to be able to send faxes larger than one page; my old 7110 could, so why can't this one, huh, Nokia techies??), and grab my email.

Yup. There it is. A message from Heidi.

Just as I'm counting the number of picture attachments, Erich arrives en route to Sandton, so I have to stop myself from being rude. We talk for a while. He and I are in business together. He's kind of taken over from me as the chief engine of Barefoot Press. We're trying to make some serious money out of the poetry tablecloths I introduced the world to two years ago.

Erich leaves after an hour or so, but, before reading my email, I order a chicken prego roll with chips.

And look at the pictures.

Heidi has had a blind mole following her around, and she's taken some digital pics of it. They kinda look a bit abstract on my four-tone grey-scale screen, but the textures are amazing. I'll look at them on a real monitor when I get home.

Half an hour later, and after reading the long and engrossing email, I notice that I'm really hungry, and my food still hasn't arrived.

"Excuse me," I say to the waitress, who is clearly not impressed by my car or my palmtop computer. "Have they forgotten about my prego roll and chips in the kitchen?"

"No, it's coming," she says, and before she can turn away to go check on her blatant lie, another waiter brings my order to the table.

So I eat the chips while typing away one-thumbed on my Nokia, composing an sms haiku inspired by Heidi. (If you're wondering, a haiku is a Japanese poetry form, comprising three lines, the first with five syllables, the second with seven syllables, and the third with five syllables. The pure form must contain a reference to nature, and cannot have any rhymes.)

SHELL

an sms haiku by Roy Blumenthal

Inland; ears straining.
Dial Heidi on my cellphone:
listen to the sea.

I send it to about a hundred people. Christian Blomkamp, a key writer for the soap opera, GENERATIONS, sends me a reply almost immediately: "2 out of 20, Roy. But keep trying."

Then my long-lost buddy, Brett, sends me a message: "When are you coming to Cape Town to visit?"

I tell him I'm cyber flirting with this remarkable Somerset West babe, and that I've gotten my act together to apply for leave. So I'll be in Cape Town over December. (I have this real problem with things like holidays. As a compulsive workaholic with a thousand projects on at any given time, holidays are weird things for me.)

By this time the chips are finished and I'm ready to start on the prego.

It's edible. That's about it. Nothing special, and I won't be ordering it again. Not at R32.

Dion Scher sends me an sms. "I'm in the movies." I send him one back: "I'm also in the movies. I write the things." Hahahaha. (Well, at least I got to have a laugh.)

JB Rivers, Hyde Park

Thursday, October 24, 2002

Service: * * * 1/2
Food: * * * *
Ambience: * * * *
Babe Count: * * * *

I take a short cut from Auckland Park to Hyde Park tonight. I drive up Beyers Naude Drive all the way to the concrete highway, drive north, exit at the William Nichol offramp, and go South until I reach the parking lot of my favourite shopping mall -- Hyde Park Corner. I'm sitting at JB Rivers, and I've got ink all over my hand.

But before I get into details about my meal, you may be wondering what the heck I'm talking about with this "short cut" business. Yeah? Well, if you're not familiar with Joburg, it's probably a good idea to tell you that I turned a seven-minute trip into a half-hour marathon.

But you know what? The time flew. And that's cos I was talking to Heidi for the first time, trying to not find a destination, trying to find an excuse not to stop. (If you're a traffic cop, please note I was using my little walk-and-talk hands-free thingy for the entire duration of the call, right up until Heidi's battery ran flat and left us both in the lurch.)

Who's Heidi?

Oh, just this babe I've never met, but have connected with profoundly via email. (She's an Aquarian like me, but seems to have none of my antisocial traits. Neat huh? Only thing is -- she lives in Somerset West, a mere 16-hour car trip if I don't take any short cuts. But her honey-soprano voice is good enough reason to keep on dreaming.)

So I'm here at one of my keenest hangouts, a place where horse-riders hang out, with their tight jodhpurs, saddle-sore inner thighs, and wind-burnt blonde hair.

I've had an exhausting coupla days. On Tuesday evening some dude calls me just as I'm about to leave work and race home to compose a Ben-Hur epic email to Heidi. "Are you available to do a corporate video?" he begs. What? Is the Pope fond of communion wine? Am I trying to amass enough personal fortune to buy a video projector? Of course I'll damn well do the job. I'd sell my mother to get movies sprayed on my lounge wall. Oh, hang on. I've already sold her. That's how I got the surround sound.

So I rush off to his office to get briefed. Seems like a cool job. A 13-part series of 3-minute advertorials for a major retail chain. We agree that I'll call the client the next day to set up a meeting.

So it's Wednesday. I spend an hour battling driving rain all the way to Fourways, and spend a pleasant two-hours mollifying her. It appears as though this situation has spun out of control. Bad writing from the previous scriptor. And a client nearing panic. She's a tall, thin, pert, ex-model sorta jaded-beauty. Thick Afrikaans accent, but keeps speaking English when I speak Afrikaans. I give up.

"Can I have a script tomorrow morning?" she asks, her voice shaky and thick with anticipated doom.

"Uh... I'll certainly give it a shot," I say, not believing a word of it myself. "But maybe lunchtime is a better time to aim for."

I drive away and call the production house. I've got to pick up all the files crammed full of info. He says cool, and how did the meeting go?

"Jeeesus. She's extensively pissed off with this whole process, and I had to do some serious damage control on your behalf," I say. "I hope you've got lots of money in your budget for me."

Laughter. Non sequiturs.

I pick up the files, head for Wiesenhof in Cresta, and spend a very tiring three hours reading all about this major retailer.

I decide not to write the script that night (being last night).

Instead, I get to sleep at 11pm, and set my alarm for 5am.

I wake up this morning, turn on my computer, and start typing faster than a supermarket shopper with a piss on board. I get a draft done, go to the loo, brush my teeth, eat a dried hunk of smoked goatsmilk cheese from my almost-empty fridge, then reread my attempt. I judge it way better than the previous writer's lumpen prose, and email it to the prodco and the client. Shower. Go to my day job at the SABC.

Get a phone call from the client at around three o'clock.

"Roy, I've got your script in front of me. I've got it right here in front of me. Right here. Can we talk about it?" Her voice is filled with suppressed rage. Quivering. She could actually be on the verge of tears. If I play this wrong, she's going to burst a bra strap.

"Noreen," I say (not her real name; name's have been changed to protect the innocent, namely myself), "I'm hearing the frustration in your voice. Obviously the script isn't up to scratch. Do you want to tell me about it?"

"Up to scratch? UP TO SCRATCH? It's completely unacceptable!!" Twang. There goes one bra strap.

"Okay... I'm listening. What about it doesn't work?"

"Nothing works! You clearly didn't listen to a word I said last night!" Twang. The other strap's gone. This woman's in free range territory now. "This... this section about... about... about how many people we employ and how many shops we have... it's just completely wrong!"

"Okay... I'm looking at my notes. 44 000 employees and around 400 shops. And it said the same in the press kit."

"But I told you to look on the website for the most up-to-date information! It's not 400 shops! It's 412!!!" Schplit! The dress itself seems to have come adrift, and I'm fighting back a vast and scornful laugh. This woman is an honest-to-goodness suckwit.

So anyway, it turns out that most of her feedback is actually on stupid issues like that. Like the order of a set of attributes of this wonderful retail giant. "Lowest prices has to come BEFORE widest range!"

So I rewrite the thing and send it to her at around 6pm.

And in the interim, the production house calls and agrees that I ought to be paid a serious amount of money for the way I'm managing to keep this client feeling as though she's in the loop.

So as soon as I get my cheque, I'm going off to buy that video projector, a DVD machine, and a new computer. Viva retail!

As for my food at JB Rivers -- excellent as usual. This time I've opted for a turkey, avocado, tomato, provolone and lettuce open sandwich on wholewheat bread with honey mayo. Superb. And the waiters love watching me parody their over-wealthy under-tippers with my sketchbook and dip-ink pen. Hence the ink all over my hand.

And I'm missing Heidi already.

Codes, The Zone, Rosebank

Wednesday, October 16, 2002

Service: * *
Food: * * * *
Ambience: * * * *
Babe Count: * * * *1/2

Right. No excuses for my long absence. Except to say that I've been pretty busy playing backgammon, writing a corporate video (which was shot yesterday and the day before by Envisage Multimedia), kickstarting my Screenwriters' Spitballing Sessions (we meet two Saturdays every month to talk about movie writing).

And also, if I'm frank with myself, I think I've been avoiding Coffee-Shop Schmuck for a while cos it means I have to face some stuff.

One -- I've only progressed marginally in my feature script since last I spoke about it.

Two -- my friend Kim, the one who got date-raped twice on that radical drug, has been a burden on my conscience. I'm not speaking to her, and I suspect our friendship has taken a serious dip. But time will tell.

Three -- my mom and brother asked me to deal with their debt situation, and I narrowly avoided falling into the trap of becoming a tough guy, the sorta guy my father was.

But that's okay. I'm sitting here at Codes, after a three-month boycott. They messed with me, you see. One Saturday, Alistair and I sat down to some vicious backgammon warfare, and the management started getting very stroppy without being straight about it. Instead of the dude coming up to us and asking us kindly to move to a different table, he started applying pressure to us to leave.

A deeply unpleasant character is David, in my opinion. Tonight when he saw me, he avoided eye contact, even when I waved at him. So hey. Perhaps I won't be back. Even though the balcony is very pleasant indeed. And I'm finishing up my "Castro and Coffee", an open potato-Jalapeno omelet, served with a bottomless cup of (normal) coffee. Like all other idiotic restaurants in Joburg, decaff isn't bottomless, even though it must surely cost the company a similar amount of money.

But it doesn't matter. I'm happy to pay for the decaff refill, and the omelet is one of the best I've ever eaten. Except for an impromptu one a one-night stand made for me once. Oh man. It was better than the sex.

The Adventure Zone, Norwood

Monday, October 14, 2002

Service: * * * *
Food: * * * *1/2
Ambience: *
Babe Count: * *1/2

I don't know why I haven't mentioned this place before. It's where the backgammon club meets every Monday night, mostly because it's owned by Cliff, an authentic good oke, and a serious backgammon player. He could play me blindfolded and still unerringly rip my lungs out.

I apologise for the warfare that seems to be entering my speech lately. It's just that I saw something this morning that I don't really relish having seen. Yup... a program coming to SABC3 soon.

Hans is cutting promos for something called FIGHT CLUB INTERNATIONAL. It's authentic cage fighting, and we'll be screening it 10:30pm on Friday nights for a while. And it's deeply disturbing on many fronts.

Firstly, these guys realllllly hurt each other. Badly. They're trained fighters, some of them killers. Here's how it seems to work. Two guys get in the cage with a referee. Two rules: no eye gouging, no mouth hooking (in other words, you're not allowed to try to puncture the other dude's cheeks with your hands). Everything else goes. The fight ends in one of three ways: either you give up, the ref stops the fight, or you go out for the count.

Secondly, this stuff normalises vicious fighting. I'm sure that there'll be kids watching this program for tips. And they'll take them to the playgrounds. And because it's "as seen on television", it has a kinda legitimacy to it.

Thirdly, as repelled by it as I am, it appeals to a primitive killer instinct I know I have. My dad taught me how to look after myself as a kid, and I specialised in beating up bullies in primary school. Which was thrilling. But I don't really want to be like my dad, and watching stuff like this puts me there. And I don't like the fact that I saw this dude having his face pounded to mince until the ref stopped the fight. And watched the slow-motion replay. And asked Hans to rewind it so I could be sure of what I was seeing. I don't like the idea that when my busy period eases off, I'll probably surreptitiously borrow the tape and watch it quietly in my viewing room at work. In surround sound.

But back to backgammon and The Adventure Zone.

I'll say this.

Wendy... you're a superb player. (She's just beaten me 7--0. Which is even better than Tuesday night's drubbing. She took me out 7--1 at her place. And then broke my kneecaps at Scrabble. And we didn't even get to kiss properly.)

And Cliff. Anything I've said about other establishments having the best chicken salad in the world is gross exaggeration. This is it... The Adventure Zone -- a kiddies concept-playground on top of the Norwood Hyper, a place parents can bring their kids while they shop -- prepares the ultimate chicken salad. It rates as the best I've had. And I've had it several times now. 10 out of 10 to Vincent, the chef, and Andrew, the waiter/kitchen assistant. You guys rock!

My Flat, Cresta

Wednesday, October 09, 2002

Service: *
Food: *
Ambience: *
Babe Count: *

I'm on the internet chatting on ICQ to a buddy of mine in Canada. I've forgotten to go to Woolworths, so I don't have any food in the house. And no milk, so, no tea, no Milo. Well, no Milo in liquid form. I'm eating it dry, with a spoon. I might get desperate just now and start snorting the stuff.

Roy, 09-Oct-0 11:59: "I can't chat too long. It's midnight here (almost), and I've got an early doctor's appointment. // Hey... I wrote a corporate video on Monday night (on two hours notice), and the client approved final copy today (after a quick and simple rewrute last night). So now I've got myself half way towards owning a video projector!!!!"

Kristen, 09-Oct-0 11:59: "Roy, I am sad. I woke up this morning and my fish Bombay was dead. DEAD! I only had him two weeks. This is very sad. And Caesar looked depressed. Oooooh! a video projector? congratulations, but you need to type in eng for me, doll. *lol* and I always knew you were brilliant. Please. :)"

Roy, 10-Oct-0 12:00: "And this evening I went off to my composer's studio, to witness the recording of the final piece of music for ARIA! (He needed to record the tenor bit. And honest to god, our tenor is a dwarf!!! The real tenor, I mean, not the actor in the movie.) // Sad news about the fish. How're you serving him?"

Kristen, 10-Oct-0 12:01: "hey, who cares as long as he can sing like a tenor. I love tenors. And that isn` funny about the fish. I am crying. In the computer lab at school. You be quiet. when do I get to see this masterpiece? and why does everyone think it is funny that my fish died?? I was so happy to bring him home!"

Roy, 10-Oct-0 12:02: "Apparently this dude has this 6'1" blonde buxom wench as a girlfriend. Wild. You brought your fish home??? How? In a Tupperware lunch box? You've got to keep them in WATER, Kristen!!!!!!"

Kristen, 10-Oct-0 12:03: "he is definitely compensating. *lol* And HE WAS in water you fool."

Roy, 10-Oct-0 12:04: "COLD water!!!!! You're not supposed to put PET fish in the kettle!!! Sheesh, Kristen. I thought YOU were smart too!"

Kristen, 10-Oct-0 12:05: "*siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiighs, crosses her arms and just waits*"

Roy, 10-Oct-0 12:06: "Maybe I can recommend something to take your mind off your fish... I'm listening to the new Red Hot Chili Peppers album. It's AWESOME! I've been listening to it on repeat for about two weeks now. Yummy stuff!! // So now what's happening in Kristen's life?"

Kristen, 10-Oct-0 12:08: "in Kristen's life? Jeez. Where to begin with the excitement!! I almost sent you something to read but you know. Didn't. I just climbed back on the meds bandwagon after 7 days without any due to $$$ lackage. Uhm, actually might make it to all of myclasses this week. First time at least four years. Shit! The boy is good, and oh yeah. Got my grad pics done. That is a bit scary. pretty groovy, eh? I have a monetary...dearth? right now. Like, I have ZERO dollars. ZERO! So I couldn't buy my meds when I ran out. That lasted a week. Really truly fucked me up. Counsellor = one psychiatrist and one psychologist. Pretty good stuff I'd say."

Roy, 10-Oct-0 12:13: "I'm totally confused. I have no idea what tone you're using when you say, "Pretty good stuff I'd say." You've lost me in the cyber gaps, I'm afraid. Can you give me an indication as to whether you're being ironic or straight? And what meds are you on? And why aren't your parents paying?"

Kristen, 10-Oct-0 12:14: "*giggles* I am so sorry. I am being slightly...okay, very...cynical/ironic. My parents aren't paying because I can't ask them for any more money. I am on two different meds, one for anxiety and one for depression, I think. Going cold turkey on them is a real fucking bitch that's fer shur."

Roy, 10-Oct-0 12:16: "Jeeeesus, Kristen. Of course you can ask them for more money. Get back on the fucking meds immediately, you daft girl! (I'm gunna get frigging heated up about this, cos a friend of mine has just come out of a rehab clinic, which he landed in precisely because he didn't ask anyone for help.) Don't be stupid about this. And shove that pride nonsense where it hurts a male nurse. Actually, depending on the stance, that'll hurt a female nurse too."

Kristen, 10-Oct-0 12:17: "*LOL* It's okay. I got them now. Monday, as a matter of fact. I had to finagle some money out of my investments, which might as well be called my back up bank account, since I've all but depleted it. But that is for another day. Thank you (quite truly and honestly) for your concern..."

Roy, 10-Oct-0 12:18: "And talking of male nurses, guess what I'm going to have done tomorrow?"

Kristen, 10-Oct-0 12:18: "*LOL* not sure I want to know, but I was about to ask how you were... tell me."

Roy, 10-Oct-0 12:21: "When I was in high school, playing my first ever squash game, I got smacked in the right bollock by a muthafucka who was pretty good. He set me up at the front of the court, and nailed me one at about 120km/h (around 65mph). WHAMMO! Down! Out for the count. Limped for two weeks. // So now I've got some sort of cyst on the one testicle, and I have to have a friggggggging urethroscopy. They thread a camera into my bladder through my urethra. And I don't need to tell you where they gain access to the urethra, do I?"

Kristen, 10-Oct-0 12:22: "No sir, I don't think you do."

Roy, 10-Oct-0 12:23: "And my urologist is lying, I'm convinced about it. He tells me it's a ten minute procedure, under local anaesthetic, and that I'll walk out of there, no problem. "Slight discomfort," he said."

Kristen, 10-Oct-0 12:23: "*giggles* it might be ten minutes, but I am going to say that when the anasthetic wears off, you might be in for a bit more than slight discomfort, sorry old pal. dude you are falling apart."

Roy, 10-Oct-0 12:25: "Yeah. I don't think I'm going to get into any stimulating conversations with anyone tomorrow. Problem is, I FORGOT about the appointment, and I have a date with a prospective babe tomorrow night. (We've dated twice now, and we're at that wonderful stage of doing small, moist kisses, without any actual tongue motion. The kinda, "Friends before anything else" stage.) I just don't really feel like telling her, "Hey, Wendy, I'm afraid I'd like you NOT to wear the WonderBra tonight, cos there could be medical complications. Wanna see my urethroscopy scars?""

Kristen, 10-Oct-0 12:27: "*tries to stay of chair, but laughing too hard, falls off, much to the amazement of fellow computer lab users* hey I love those kinds of kisses. I am not big on the tongue thing. AT ALL. But that sort of sucks. I am so sorry. But...*evil grin*...perhaps she'll play nurse for you and uhm, give you a massage..."

Roy, 10-Oct-0 12:27: "Oh god. The massage. I'm fairly frightened of the implications of this intrusion. Frightened stiff, as a matter of fact."

Kristen, 10-Oct-0 12:27: "*LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOL* You'll be fine, really."

Roy, 10-Oct-0 12:28: "Hehehe. I think I'll have to transcribe this conversation on my COFFEE SHOP SCHMUCK site. Haven't updated it for ages. Too much stuff to do!!!!"

Kristen, 10-Oct-0 12:29: "*laughs again* I'll look out for it. So when do I get an update on the potential date, the soft, moist kisses, the camera in places I don't need to know about, and when do I get to see the movie?"

Roy, 10-Oct-0 12:30: "Kristen... I think it's time for me to head for slumberland. I'm glad you're back on your meds, and that you're taking care of yourself. And maybe you can take TWO of those anxiety pills and send me your story. And I'm really not going to be some kinda asshole about it. A pisser, maybe, but after tomorrow, who knows how I'll aim?"

Kristen, 10-Oct-0 12:30: "*stuffs fingers in mouth to keep from laughing out loud* Sleep tight, Roy, doll. *hugs*"

Roy, 10-Oct-0 12:32: "Oh... the movie. The movie. The so-called movie. Okay. Look. It took me threatening Dan (my composer) with stapling his lips to his trombone to get the final music composed. So he's RECORDED it now. All he has to do is mix it. He's promised me FAITHFULLY that he'll do it tomorrow. I said, "WHICH tomorrow?" and made the stapling gesture."

Kristen, 10-Oct-0 12:33: '*LOLOLOLOLOLOLOL* You are cracking me up over here, you goof. Now, go and get a good sleep and be all bright eyed and bushy *well, fill in the blank* tomorrow for the good doctor. *giggles*"

Roy, 10-Oct-0 12:34: "So... the movie. When I get the music "tomorrow", after I've stapled Dan's lips to his trombone (he's a trombonist -- did I mention that?), it'll take a good few weeks for us to do our audio post-production. Blah. So... you'll uh... you'll see the movie "tomorrow"."

Kristen, 10-Oct-0 12:34: "Good to talk to you and good timing. My class (evidence) starts in half an hour. Woohoo...tomorrow is just when I have a spare moment. *g*"

Roy, 10-Oct-0 12:34: "By the way... do you realise how pissed off a trombonist can get when you wee in his trombone?"

Kristen, 10-Oct-0 12:35: "Uh, yeah. I used to play the trombone. :)"