The One

I think it’s finally happened. 

I think I’ve met “The One”

The One who is always there when you need them. The One who listens to you, respects you and doesn’t fuck around. The One who knows what you need before you need it. 

The One who goes beyond their description, becomes your friend and confidant. The One you can rely on and who you know if you tell them something, they will use that information to make your life better. 

The One who has what you need when you need it. The One who is consistent, friendly and market related.

Yup, I’ve found the Pot Guy for me 🙂

My Spirit Animal is a Bobcat – Part 2

I think before we start on part 2, some education may be needed.
This is Bob- he is (according to google), the executive chef at a place called the laughing cat. This is blatantly a lie, because cats lack the required physiology to laugh, and even if they could laugh, they wouldn’t. This is not the Bobcat I refer to.

Bob The Chef- Noted Salad Dodger

This is Bob the Cat- who makes this shitty London busker different from others in that his music stimulates cat hormones and makes them comes into heat. Bob hangs out with this dude for all the pussy he gets. Also not MY BOBCAT

What the fuck is that on his guitar? Not the cat, the friggin sage sprig. What a hippie.

This is Bobcat Goldthwait – who you may recognise from the Police Academy movies. If you don’t… Get out. Get right the fuck out. Now. I mean it.
Unfortunately, this is also not my Bobcat

Who would not have sex with this man? I thought so.

This, IS a Bobcat- but only to his friends, if you look closely you can see he is in fact a Robert Cat- a subspecies who sided with the British in the American War of Independence and are now rare, if not extinct. Count yourselves lucky to have seen one. Not my Bobcat.

Robert Wilfred Roger Cat- The Third. Last of his Line.

THIS, is my Bobcat- magnificent, isn’t he.

Known Affiliates: Ninja Pete
Hobbies: Being Imaginary, Guiding Spirits

Part Two
The kindly strangers laughed off my fuckedness, well no, they were disapproving but gave me a lift back anyway, one of them taking care to salvage at least some of the shrimp, the rest having made their escape under my nose (read: I knocked over the bucket) – and they took me back to shore, where instead of the relief and welcome I thought I would get, I was greeted by a pile of people too fucked to notice I has even left. Apart from DaveBear. What a legend.

He relieved me of my responsibility, thanked the strangers, and began baiting hooks. My mind, now free from the heavy burden of Prawn Transportation, left for a loo break- and I can’t remember the next few hours. I’m pretty sure I just sat around, smoking bongs, drinking beer and listening to Jimi Hendrix. There is a quote that comes to mind: “Jimi. Good for trippin”
And it was definitely ‘trippin’ not ‘tripping’, and Jimi is good.

The next thing I recall I was being ushered into the house to witness the Kat lab in action. The fan had allowed whatever needed to evaporate to do si, and a new batch was going to be made, and Si thought I should see this. I don’t know why, I had no interest whatsoever but hey, go with the flow, youre tripping right? Si also took this opportunity to get changed- I was loving the 70’s style mattresses with their flowers and felt like I was in a cut scene from… sigh… I tried to find a better reference… That 70’s show. Si threw his belt onto the mattress I was staring at, whereupon the stylised black and red ladies on the belt started to dance. For me. Provocatively. Running their hands through their outline hair, bumping their imaginary hips and feeling their boobs up. I could have watched those ladies all night, and who knows, if I played my cards right we could have had something beautiful- am I right Michael Hutchence, or am I right?

Kat lab expidition over, I went to frolic once again, and sat down at the edge of the lagoon. Looking to my left, I see an entire family of normal people within 2 metres of me. Getting a little freaked out that I’m tripping all the balls and there is a 5 year old who may want to converse with me, I subtly move over- by diving in the lagoon again, splashing around and climbing out. Subtle like a ninja yo. As I summitted the retainer wall, there he was.

Some people call him the Space Cowboy, some call him the Gangster of Love. I call him Smitty.

Shining in the sunlight, and staring me right in the face from about 2 metres away, I knew he was a Bobcat because other cats are not that big and we hadn’t seen a single cat all day. He looked at me, I looked at him and I just knew in my heart of hearts that this cat knew me. Maybe even better than myself. I could sense he was there to guide me and that his wisdom was beyond that of even Yoda.

Then I remembered I was tripping and all that Smitty really was, was a figment of my imagination. But a bobcat? The fuck? I had never seen one or harboured a liking for these creatures ever before. Explain that, Freud!

I felt pretty chuffed about finding my spirit animal, and decided it was now time to commune with nature- and in this case, communing with nature meant climbing our tree at sunset. On Old Years Night.

NOw let me explain something- out of the more than ten people there, only one was not on hallucinatory drugs- Riccardo. He was loving the Kat. I was loving the bobcat. Those sentences are not related, it’s just an FYI for later. There may be a quiz.

I climbed the tree- which is much harder than you would think when you can feel the tree breathing and the trunk refuses to stay in its place- and settled myself down for some communion. I started to notice other people in the tree with me, and one girl climbed so high she disappeared into the canopy. I was tempted but at this point I couldn’t tell where the tree ended and air began, or how high up I was, so I decided to stay put. Fast forward to what appeared to be only a few minutes later, and I hear a voice in the distance telling everyone that its 5 to 12, almost 2009- time to get my party shoes on, but mainly to get out the tree. I had problems:

1. Am I even in the same tree? (80% certainty)
2. If so, how high am I? (Look down, see swirly magical sea of unknown)
3. Does the tree want me to get out of it? (Discount thought as rambling hippie shit)
4. Do I want to get out of the tree? (Yes)
5. Why again?
…
…
Oh yes, New Years.
6. Can I get out the tree? (Not now motherfucker, this tree is changing colours and shapes and shit and you’re still tripping all the balls)

So the countdown began, I joined in from my perch, and just after the shout of ‘Happy New Year’ a bottle of bubbly got handed up to me, followed by a joint. I passed these up to the rest of the tree dwellers (not one had descended, but I have no idea if they weren’t able or just normally spend new years in trees) and decided it was time- lack of reality perception be damned, and fuck this tree.
I made sure of my grip, hung down from my branch and dropped.

All of 50 centimetres.

About an hour later, I could finally start to discern reality from fucking awesome and we all started chatting around the fire. Spending the whole day tripping will take it out of you and we were all pretty fried, but one person was noticeably absent. Riccardo.
Understandably, being the only person not off playing with the fairies- or bobcats- probably made him go and look for a more suitable party for his kat-fueled inner party animal. We discussed this at length before I said: “I bet you he’s found a dance party where they have fed him Tequila or Jagerbombs and any second now he’s going to want us to party with him”
We laughed, but this is where the magic of Smitty comes in. I closed my eyes and had a vision of Smitty the Bobcat, my spirit animal, smiling and somehow I knew he was saying goodbye…

Just then, Riccardo burst around the corner, sweaty, fucked and exclaimed: “Guys, I’ve found a rad party where they’re all dancing and they just gave me Jagerbombs!”

Thanks Smitty, wherever you are…

My Spirit Animal is a Bobcat- Part 1

In the spirit of positivity and because I just had a lot of fun with them, for Mo and Stace, here is what I remember of the Hardest Trip Ever.

In 2008 some friends and I travelled to Port Elizabeth (The highest per capita drug use city in SA btw) in order to embark upon a mescaline trip.
Our friend Si had some homies who grew peyote cacti and were about to harvest the next crop, which was ripe after a 7 year growth period. This may seem like a long investment in order to get off your tits, but really- what else is there to do in PE? Numbers? Is that still a thing?

At this point, I knew that mescaline had been consumed by both Hunter S. Thompson and Native American shamans, the former to provide my inspiration and the latter to find their spirit animals. Sounded crazy. And amazing. And craymazing. I have tripped before, but never so much that I could not determine reality from fantasy, unless you count that one night I spent with Natalie Portman. Sigh.

We got to a great place on the lagoon just outside St Francis, with about 12 beds in 3 dormlike rooms with a tree outside and jumping access into the lagoon on the front yard. Boom. Also, a massive bong and a Kat laboratory in the shower. Double boom.

We got settled in, I decided to sleep in the back of the open combi, and we got started. The Cactus King, a ginger with a handlebar moustache and a Masters Degree in Biochemistry (hence the Kat lab), gave us a cupful of pureed cactus, warned us it was bitter, and told us that about twenty minutes later we would be nauseous for about 2 hours. Not so much fun. But we came all this way. Only one choice really.

We choked back the pulp, which was both the most bitter and organic tasting stuff I have ever tasted- a bit like living snot mixed with vinegar and a bar of soap, and then spent the next ten minutes eating marmite off the spoon, drinking straight black coffee and eating gherkins to try and get rid of the taste. This was about as effective as drowning an elephant by throwing damp sponges at it
Just as we overcame the bitterness, the nausea hit and I had to lie down to keep from chundering- doesn’t this sound wonderful so far?

Anyways, after an hour, I was over the impending vomit and asked what would happen if I did not wait and ride out the next hour.
“If you throw up now you’ll trip even harder as the mescaline gets absorbed all the way up your oesophagus” I was told.
Sweet deal.

I went to the bathroom, threw up thoroughly, and as I lifted my head I saw the stem of the fake daisy on the cistern start to twitch. Time to strap in and enjoy the ride, I could tell this was going to be… different.

After venturing back into the awesome sunshine of the Eastern Cape I took a seat next to my friend and told him that I already felt better- until I started sinking into the ground. It felt like the ground had the consistency of marshmallows and that I was ‘stuck’ in it, not unpleasantly, but more like the embrace of a mother welcoming her son home. My friend G said he felt the same thing, so I lay down next to him and just went with it. The ground slowly gave me its hug as the clouds spat forth multi-coloured triangles and hexagons. G said that for him, everything seemed to be based around the number 3, so clearly the triangles and hexagons were something we were sharing. How special.

Shortly after the trip began in earnest, Action Man Dave came around with mini toasties he had made- whilst tripping on mescaline. This man was clearly something special. If I had known who Bear Grylls was in 2008, then Dave would have had to be the Hunter S. Thompson reimagining of Mr Grylls- the same physique, the same constant calls to action and of course, the same recipe for the toasties (citation needed)
Dave said he was going to paddle across the lagoon to pump some prawns to use as bait for when he wanted to fish later (I know, how the fuck do you do these things whilst tripping right?), so I volunteered to join him.

I asked if it was safe to swim, upon which I was told it was so ‘clichéd’ to go swimming on mescaline. Of course, being my first time, nothing was clichéd, so I got up, ran to the edge of the grass and dived in- only thinking mid-air “How deep is this actually?”
Theres a lesson here.
Luckily, the lagoon was plenty deep enough, and as I hit the water, I had the closest thing to a religious epiphany I have ever experienced.

Like a total hippie, I felt like I understood EXACTLY how the universe was put together, that it was all made of energy and I was part of it. I knew my place, my impact and my direction- it was amazing. Then I remembered I had to breathe.
Spluttering to the surface, I emerged to an extremely entertained ginger moustache right up in my grill, which I promptly threw up on. Now THAT was really special.
LUckily, Dave/Bear (DaveBear?) was there to defuse the situation- and the bomb Hans Gruber placed in the Nakatomi Corp building. Little known fact.
Dave and I paddled across the lagoon on a paddleboard and started pumping prawns, which sounds disgusting but is actually boring as fuck- especially when you are tripping. Even more so when you are tripping all of the balls. ALL OF THEM.
The swim back across the lagoon now seemed like a venture once more into the breach, and by this point I was having difficulty discerning what was real and what wasnt, which is quite unusual for me- nonetheless DaveBear did what any rational person would do when confronted with someone in my state: He put me in a Position of Responsibility.
Handing me a bucket full of pumped prawns- which are really shrimp who have undergone pumping, he put me on the paddleboard and pushed me in the general direction of home.
Within 2 minutes, I had lost all sense of urgency, direction and was being talked to in serious tones by the shrimp, who were deriding both my choice if swimwear and my choices in life. I found all of this nothing short of hilarious, and can only imagine what I looked like to the people who pulled up next to me in their speedboat.
“Are you ok?” The man (I think) asked
“Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!” I replied
“Do you know you’re drifting out to sea?”
…
“Can I get a lift?”

To be continued…

Oppikoppi 2012 – The Aftermath

The Sweetest Thing

Its all over. We made it.

We made it through the dust, the drugs and the devil music. We made it through the hiking, hangovers and Jose. (Its an ‘H’ phonetically ok)
We made it.

Personally, this year was the best Oppi I have been too. Everything combined just made it incredible.
Here are some of the lessons I learned this year:

Having a shower whilst tripping is pretty amazing
18 grams of mushrooms are not too much for one man. They are far too much for one man.
Bring your own shade with you
Magaritas are a valid breakfast
The vegan food stall is the only place where vitamins live
Make as many new friends as you can
Take as many old friends with you as you can
Get there at least a day early
Babylon Circus, Tidal Waves, Thieve, Black Cat Bones, Shortstraw, Fridge Poetry, PHFat, Jeremy Loops, The Stellas, Eagles of Death Metal and Enter Shikari will make your face explode with awesomeness
Hug Attacks make everyones life better
Disco Jesus and the Christmas Chom will make a reappearance
Make sure you’ve packed your Johnnyboys and Dreamers- no one we asked had a single one of either.
Try not to poo. If you do, give yourself enough time to get to top bar.
Give. You reap what you sow.

To my new friends, Ben, Chad, Nick, Chrissy, Ricky, Lyle, Alex and Adam- thank you for being amazing. Chrissy and Cremer- you guys are legends.
To my old homies, thank you once again for being just as amazing. Phil, Vicky, Dave and Ryan- you guys partied like the rock stars you are.

They say a picture is worth a thousand words, and seeing as it has taken me almost 2 weeks to cobble this together- I’ll let the cameras do the talking. All credit to where it is due for these photos.

The Devil’s Dustbowl

Tom- Shortstraw

Carrie from Fridge Poetry- Mmm mmm mmm

Alistair – Shortstraw

Yes, yes I was.

From passed out to party in 15 seconds

The Christmas Chom and the Drunken Pope

I dont know who these people are. They are awesome though. Although he did drop my joint in his drink

Margaritaville’s finest

The Vanilsh Gorilsh

Disco Jesus and Flea

See you all next year. Hail Satan.

Oppikoppi – Prologue

The Holy Land

I seem to be addressing lots of posts to people who live under rocks lately.
Henceforth- Morloks.

My Dear Morloks

Oppikoppi is the oldest and most successful music festival in the world. San bushmen first discovered the Holy Site in the North West of what is now South Africa over 25, 000 years ago- and some allege that this is where they first cobbled together Riaan Cruywagen 1.0
In addition to creating excellent and timeless newsreaders, Oppikoppi also falls along ley lines that connect it to EVERY OTHER MUSICAL FESTIVAL IN THE UNIVERSE- a sight which results in visitor’s psyches being altered forever, in many diverse and pleasurable ways which may or may not include hallucinations and delusions of actually being a San bushmen.

Other delusions may include thinking you are a gay bear- and may result in attempts at homosexual bear sex- as seen below.

Bear Sex- You could be it’s next ‘victim’

Oppikoppi, as we know it, is a 3 day festival of ‘music’ – but it goes further than that. It is 3 days of human bonding- in the biblical sense, on a psychic level and of course the special bond only humans can share- the bond of music. Music is the glue of the world, according to Mark from Empire Records- and nowhere else is this more true than at Oppikoppi. Generally when people who don’t know each other get together and imbibe various intoxicating substances there is a level of aggression, especially in the fast-paced, high-pressure world we find ourselves in. Well, if you’re from Joburg at least.
At oppikoppi, this happens:

I dont actually know anyone in this picture

It’s difficult to explain Oppi to people who havent been. These guys try:

I am no longer an Oppikoppi Virgin

http://www.tailsofamermaid.com/2011/08/oppikoppi-what-to-take-brought-to-you.html

And the best Oppi survival guide I have read: http://www.mojodojo.co.za/2011/08/02/oppikoppi/

I’ve been to many music festivals around the world, and I can confirdently say that most don’t even hold a candle to our beloved Oppi. Organisation of world-class standards, excellent food, cheap drink, brilliant bands and a devil-may-care attitude of all the disciples. It’s as if the laws of the country outside of the farm don’t exist from the moment you snap the bangle round your wrist.

Last year I saw rastas asking cops for directions with a massive joint in their hands, I saw dudes braaing someone else’s chicken for them at 4am. I shared my tent with strangers, I slept in strangers tents. It was like a magical hippie music wonderland.

If you cant tell, I’m excited.

Last year I almost broke myself because I partied too hard, so this year I plan on taking it easy, taking lots of photos and educating you all further. This is the prologue.

Me vs. The World- A Completely Objective Comparison

I’m pretty awesome- but you already knew that, otherwise you wouldn’t be here reading this and you wouldn’t be racked with jealousy that emanates from your very core, almost crushing… Enough of that. This post is about me, not you.

I recently turned 29- and I thought it only worthy to perform an objective analysis of myself versus most other 29 year olds I know. You know, excluding those dudes who were already awesome when they were 5 (Mozart- who by the way was a complete perve and reeeeeaallllly liked farts) or those who were awesome by 19 (Steve Jobs) – no, I’m talking about run-of-the-mill awesome, like that kid who could ollie a dustbin in primary school or the first 11 year old to finger a girl in school (I’m from the border fo the West Rand, don’t judge- and big ups to Ryan Galloway)

So, in a completely scientific and well researched study conducted as i write this, I will explain to you my awesomeness.

1. Rock and Roll

I am fucking rock and roll. No literally, Rock drunk dials me almost every Thursday and Roll cleans my room just for the chance to taste my secret sauce. Most other 29 year olds twenty years ago gave up their dreams of making it big in the music ‘biz, but I’m still plugging away (hopefully plugs are the next ukuleles) and one day, I’ll be kind of a big deal. The height of my fame was reached when I stage-dived at the Brixton Academy after feeding my beer to the guitarist from the Dropkick Murphys, but the one festival I played was quite rad too.

2. Sexy Time

Besides the aforementioned slutbags Rock and Roll, I have had my fair share of lady loving. While I cannot compete on the man-loving stakes- I will happily sacrifice the title of “Most Hairy-nought Rimjobs” or “Most Shots Taken in The Ring” to the Rainbow Warriors, Poo-stabbers etc. Not that I have anything against gays (in fact, the opposite is true- nothing of mine is against gay people) but I prefer the sweet smelling, less hairy, boobalicious half of our species.

If my friends are anything to go by, the average 29 year old has slept with between 10 and 30 women. If this is the case then I am a Sex Jedi (These are the nuts you’ve been looking for). I have no idea how I do it, but I have had more than my share of partners, and I have (in some cases miraculously) escaped all STDs. I feel sorry for the dudes whose share of ladies I’ve stolen (Sorry Graeme) but in general, I am doing much better than the rest of my peers (lack of standards notwithstanding)

3. Money

I could not write this column before this year- mainly because I did not have this blog, but also because I had no money. Now I have a bit. About the same amount as most 29 year olds. Well played peers, well played- BUT – have you slept with hundreds of women and fed beer to an Irish-American Punk Rock Guitarist in London? I thought not. Now sit down.

4. Friends

According to Facebook, I have over 700 friends- at least 10 of which I actually know and I’m not actively stalking. Actually, I’m lucky in that I make friends easily (Hello Ladies!) and people seem to like me. No idea why… Oh wait- its because I’m Awesome.

At least 3 of my friends would take a bullet for me- because they’re in wheelchairs and I ensure I take them to any and all potentially dangerous places so I can push them in front of the bullet and later use their wheelchairs to fashion either weapons or getaway vehicles (One of the wheelchairs is electric, so I have plans for a Battlemech)

I think I beat most 29 year olds here too- because of the diverse, normalish, weird as fuck, funny, smart and downright sexy people I call my friends

5. Life Experience

In most cases, this entry would be exclusively about drugs. But seeing as you probably know me, I assume you have taken drugs, probably with me- and we can all agree that mostly, drugs are great.

How many 29 year olds can say they’ve survived a broken neck? I did. And I never even got treatment- true story. I got bounced off a jumping castle when i was 3 and landed on a rockery. I found out 11 years later when having Chuck-rays taken (X-rays not being strong enough to penetrate my awesome hide)

I’ve been to 12 countries, and most of them actually exist. I think once again i trump most of my peers.

Amsterdam however is still on the list. I know its not a country fuck-wits.

So as I reflect on the year ahead I know one thing: So far its been fucking awesome and I look forward to tons more fun with all of you beautiful people!