There are only six days left to the biggest, queerest party of the year - the Mother City Queer Project. It's not a gay party, mind you, though I think it's fair to argue that it started out that way. No, it's a queer party. It's a space in which one can be utterly and deliciously queer, no matter what your preferred bedroom (or hotel room, kitchen counter, public park, etc etc etc) partner looks like once their clothes come off (or don't - whatever turns you on, folks. VampyreJourno doesn't like to judge.)
I am delighted that I've got my tickets, and some superb friends with whom to share my fourth MCQP experience. My, how different it'll all be to my first, back in 2000 when I was a wide-eyed and still partially closeted 19 year old. I went to that particular party, the Toy Box Project, with a straight male friend. We spent the entire night gawping at the weird and wonderful characters who writhed past us on various dancefloors and checked us out at any of the tens of bars dotted around the Good Hope Centre. Such larks! Such hi-jinks! And so much to take in for a young woman who hadn't yet truly started the agonising process of self-definition.
Fast forward a year, and I headed off to Farm Fresh at the River Club, dressed as a savvy sheep in the city. By then, I'd taken a big and faltering step out of the closet: I'd told my mum, with many long anguished pauses and plenty of stammering, that I was, you know, a bit, well, like, I had, not a boyfriend but a girlfriend and IthinkImightbegayandpleasedon'tlovemeanyless. She didn't, for the MF is a wonderful woman with a gigantic heart who knows better than to curse difference. She confided in me then that my habit of favouring PF's suits over her delicate dresses when I was a plucky toddler had offered some hint that her eldest daughter might be a little "other".
Then I took a six year break from MCQP, simply because I wasn't in Cape Town or didn't have cool people to go with, or any number of excuses. I made my less than triumphant return at 2007's Matric dance - what a STUPID theme that was, even if I looked dapper in a shirt and tie worn over a t-shirt which declared me "Most likely to bring sexy back" (I've been accused of many things during my 28 years on this planet, but modesty isn't one of them).
This year, I'll be strutting what passes as my stuff at the Toolbox Project. I have rejected VJlet's costume idea: "Just walk around hitting on people all night and tell them you're a hammer."
Instead, I've rounded up some great mates, killer costumes and - most importantly, to this rambling blog post at least - a trio of badges which declare that "Gay is the new straight", "I like girls who like girls" and I am a "gay icon".
Why are the badges so important? Because sexuality, particularly in South Africa in 2009, is a political statement. I don't really want it to be. I am not a very political animal. But I have no choice. By defining myself as a gay woman in a country which rejects femaleness, feminism and particularly anything "deviant" (that is, loving women rather than acknowledging that men are all-powerful providers and partners), I am making a statement. I am stating that I celebrate my body, and I celebrate love, and I celebrate women's incredible power and beauty. That offends the hell out of people.
On Saturday night (or Sunday morning!), when I'm setting the dancefloor alight - probably literally, I'm a terrible dancer - at MCQP, I will be among many people who have been lucky, like me. Their families, and friends, and some pockets of society, have accepted their sexuality. We hold down good jobs, and we move freely through our city and country. Should we be targetted by homophobes, we have recourse, support and - in lots of cases - the necessary self-belief to fight back. But we're the lucky ones, and I hope to G-d that we won't ever forget how unlucky many of South Africa's gay population is.
Loathing, exile, violence, brutality - corrective rape is not a myth, nor is the sport of beating lesbians and gay men to death because they asked for it by bucking convention - are a reality for so many people in my beautiful country. Let me, and others like me, never forget what it means to be different. Let us celebrate our own difference, and let us step up to fight for others whose difference dooms them rather than setting them free.
We have lots to be proud of, but when the party's over, there's still work to be done.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Monday, December 7, 2009
50 minutes
Madonna and Justin Timberlake have only got four minutes to save the world, or to nauseate listeners with predictable pop music. Yesterday I had only 50 minutes in which to go absolutely moggy while waiting for my cellphone "service provider" (arf arf!) to answer my call. Below, an extract from an email I wrote to a friend while waiting:
"I am currently on hold, waiting for MTN - a company to which I pay lots of money each month - to answer my call. It's a free call. I want them to fix my voicemail. It's broken. I like voicemail. It's nice. I don't have it. I have asked MTN six times to fix it. I asked Blackberry, too, but they said it was MTN's problem. So here I am. On hold. Thank god for hands-free - I have been on hold for the past 35 minutes.
During that time, I have:
1. Started to prepare dinner. This involved pre-heating the oven, covering a dish in foil, waiting for the light to go off, re-reading instructions.
2. Polished my boots. Carefully, as they are genuine leather and in need of TLC. Both boots are now winking at me in a shiny fashion. They will be dry soon, and ready for me to give them a final buff. I may still be on hold during that process.
3. Memorised MTN's range of services. None of which involve answering my phone call.
4. Gazed at the lovely view from my balcony. Become concerned that something may have died there...suspicious dead smell. Decided that tomorrow's treat is to clean balcony and wash it down with Dettol.
5. Started writing you an e-mail.
6. Hung one load of laundry (a small load, to be fair to MTN). Put another load into the machine.
42 minutes. Still on hold."
After 50 minutes, I gave up. I flung the phone down...well, no, I just pressed the red phone button very firmly, but that sounds less dramatic...and I officially rejected the notion that my call was important to MTN. Coming hot on the heels of them losing my personal documentation - and then finding it in an employee's personal locker! And not understanding why that might upset me a little! - it's left me very angry indeed. Typical, of course, that I have just signed a contract and now discover that the company I'm giving wads of cash to is barkingly bloody useless.
On the plus side:
*dinner was lovely
*my boots are extremely shiny
*clean laundry!
*I get to spend my afternoon inhaling Dettol in pursuit of a clean balcony.
"I am currently on hold, waiting for MTN - a company to which I pay lots of money each month - to answer my call. It's a free call. I want them to fix my voicemail. It's broken. I like voicemail. It's nice. I don't have it. I have asked MTN six times to fix it. I asked Blackberry, too, but they said it was MTN's problem. So here I am. On hold. Thank god for hands-free - I have been on hold for the past 35 minutes.
During that time, I have:
1. Started to prepare dinner. This involved pre-heating the oven, covering a dish in foil, waiting for the light to go off, re-reading instructions.
2. Polished my boots. Carefully, as they are genuine leather and in need of TLC. Both boots are now winking at me in a shiny fashion. They will be dry soon, and ready for me to give them a final buff. I may still be on hold during that process.
3. Memorised MTN's range of services. None of which involve answering my phone call.
4. Gazed at the lovely view from my balcony. Become concerned that something may have died there...suspicious dead smell. Decided that tomorrow's treat is to clean balcony and wash it down with Dettol.
5. Started writing you an e-mail.
6. Hung one load of laundry (a small load, to be fair to MTN). Put another load into the machine.
42 minutes. Still on hold."
After 50 minutes, I gave up. I flung the phone down...well, no, I just pressed the red phone button very firmly, but that sounds less dramatic...and I officially rejected the notion that my call was important to MTN. Coming hot on the heels of them losing my personal documentation - and then finding it in an employee's personal locker! And not understanding why that might upset me a little! - it's left me very angry indeed. Typical, of course, that I have just signed a contract and now discover that the company I'm giving wads of cash to is barkingly bloody useless.
On the plus side:
*dinner was lovely
*my boots are extremely shiny
*clean laundry!
*I get to spend my afternoon inhaling Dettol in pursuit of a clean balcony.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Mirror, mirror
The bane of singledom continues. Clearing out my spam mail a few minutes ago, I discovered that about 47 of the 133 messages were imploring me to "Have better sex now!"
Of course I didn't click on the link. What do you think I am, desperate?
Anyway, it's not my extremely fulfilling and wonderful love life that I want to discuss today. Rather, I am contemplating childish things. It's something I think about a lot, and think about particularly often when I've been forcibly reminded that 18 is just a distant memory and 21 is never coming back.
So: last night, there I was, having a bit of a shimmy around the lounge in the Flatlet of Fate. I rent, rather than own, said flat, so some of the decor is not my fault. I'll take full responsibility for the floral chairs, which are a work in progress (Hetero Lifemate has insisted that she is willing and able to recover them for me), but I refuse to acknowledge that the enormous, gilt-edged mirror in the lounge has anything to do with me. And for a change, I'm not kidding. The mirror came with the flat, and despite valiant efforts to remove it, it's still firmly in place against the main wall. It seems to be stuck down, which is both improbable and deeply frustrating. I like the mirror just fine - it adds lovely depth to the room and why do I feel like I should be either a vapid blonde Brit or a flaming queen to pull off a phrase like "lovely depth" and where was this thought going again...? - oh right, I like the mirror. I just loathe the faux gold frame.
Anyway, there's no way to dance around my lounge, which is something I do frequently, without passing the mirror. Unless you dance on the couch, which is too old to handle that sort of brutality. I try not to dance facing it, unless I've not slept for several days and am hallucinating myself as a rock star. Yesterday, though, I danced past it, caught sight of myself in its placid surface - and stopped. Not because, as you'd imagine, I'm so ravishingly gorgeous that I'm worth gazing at, but because I'd just noticed new lines around my eyes.
I'm something of a disappointment to both my mother and VJlet, both of whom take great care of themselves and believe that ageing is a horrid side effect of life. Me, I sort of like getting older, and even looking older. There again, I looked 16 until I lopped off all my hair about six years ago, and even then I tended towards the jail bait look. I'm holding out for what 'experts' call my "beauty decade" - the ten years during which I'm expected to be at my hottest. I'm banking on my 40s, because hopefully by then I'll look about 25.
But while I look young if you glance at me quickly, closer inspection reveals that I am getting older. I found my first grey (silver!) hair a couple of weeks ago, prompting a tiny happy dance and a Facebook status update. And then yesterday, I saw these lines. They're what are commonly called crows' feet, I believe, and they are inevitable if you smile, laugh, go out in the sun or generally wear your skin. I think they're lovely, and I'm delighted to find some on my own face.
When I first started developing teeny little lines alonside my eyes, I pointed them out to my mother. She took my casual observation to be the beginning of a nervous breakdown, and promptly bought me some "anti-line/anti-wrinkle/made out of unicorn blood" gunk that was designed to fix me. I said, at the time, that I didn't see why I should fight the inevitable march of time. She looked at me in that wonderfully baleful way which MF has, and told me that I was just being silly because I was unemployed, broke, a little depressed and had no social life.
That was then, though, and three years on I am employed, earning money, a little glum occasionally and believe that referring to the characters from Dollhouse by their first names means I have a great social life. Also, I have more lines.
I think I've blogged before about one of the verses in the Bible that I actually like. It's from 1 Corinthians (13:11, says Google), and reads: "When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things."
I am delighted to see both the child I was and the adult I'm growing into in those lines around my eyes.
And I'm hoping like hell I end up with an awesome silver streak like Rogue from the X-Men! What, me, childish? Pffffft.
Of course I didn't click on the link. What do you think I am, desperate?
Anyway, it's not my extremely fulfilling and wonderful love life that I want to discuss today. Rather, I am contemplating childish things. It's something I think about a lot, and think about particularly often when I've been forcibly reminded that 18 is just a distant memory and 21 is never coming back.
So: last night, there I was, having a bit of a shimmy around the lounge in the Flatlet of Fate. I rent, rather than own, said flat, so some of the decor is not my fault. I'll take full responsibility for the floral chairs, which are a work in progress (Hetero Lifemate has insisted that she is willing and able to recover them for me), but I refuse to acknowledge that the enormous, gilt-edged mirror in the lounge has anything to do with me. And for a change, I'm not kidding. The mirror came with the flat, and despite valiant efforts to remove it, it's still firmly in place against the main wall. It seems to be stuck down, which is both improbable and deeply frustrating. I like the mirror just fine - it adds lovely depth to the room and why do I feel like I should be either a vapid blonde Brit or a flaming queen to pull off a phrase like "lovely depth" and where was this thought going again...? - oh right, I like the mirror. I just loathe the faux gold frame.
Anyway, there's no way to dance around my lounge, which is something I do frequently, without passing the mirror. Unless you dance on the couch, which is too old to handle that sort of brutality. I try not to dance facing it, unless I've not slept for several days and am hallucinating myself as a rock star. Yesterday, though, I danced past it, caught sight of myself in its placid surface - and stopped. Not because, as you'd imagine, I'm so ravishingly gorgeous that I'm worth gazing at, but because I'd just noticed new lines around my eyes.
I'm something of a disappointment to both my mother and VJlet, both of whom take great care of themselves and believe that ageing is a horrid side effect of life. Me, I sort of like getting older, and even looking older. There again, I looked 16 until I lopped off all my hair about six years ago, and even then I tended towards the jail bait look. I'm holding out for what 'experts' call my "beauty decade" - the ten years during which I'm expected to be at my hottest. I'm banking on my 40s, because hopefully by then I'll look about 25.
But while I look young if you glance at me quickly, closer inspection reveals that I am getting older. I found my first grey (silver!) hair a couple of weeks ago, prompting a tiny happy dance and a Facebook status update. And then yesterday, I saw these lines. They're what are commonly called crows' feet, I believe, and they are inevitable if you smile, laugh, go out in the sun or generally wear your skin. I think they're lovely, and I'm delighted to find some on my own face.
When I first started developing teeny little lines alonside my eyes, I pointed them out to my mother. She took my casual observation to be the beginning of a nervous breakdown, and promptly bought me some "anti-line/anti-wrinkle/made out of unicorn blood" gunk that was designed to fix me. I said, at the time, that I didn't see why I should fight the inevitable march of time. She looked at me in that wonderfully baleful way which MF has, and told me that I was just being silly because I was unemployed, broke, a little depressed and had no social life.
That was then, though, and three years on I am employed, earning money, a little glum occasionally and believe that referring to the characters from Dollhouse by their first names means I have a great social life. Also, I have more lines.
I think I've blogged before about one of the verses in the Bible that I actually like. It's from 1 Corinthians (13:11, says Google), and reads: "When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things."
I am delighted to see both the child I was and the adult I'm growing into in those lines around my eyes.
And I'm hoping like hell I end up with an awesome silver streak like Rogue from the X-Men! What, me, childish? Pffffft.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
So, do you come here often?
I have forgotten how to flirt.
Some months ago, I joined the ranks of the unattached (interesting: if one is in a relationship, one is attached. One could argue that "hinged" is a synonym for attached. Does this make single people unhinged?)
There's a peculiar aura of loss, grief and discomfort around a single 20-something, I've discovered. When people I haven't seen or spoken to for a while find out that I'm not seeing anyone, their reaction is almost always to cock their head to one side - you know the kind of head-cock I mean, it's accompanied by dropping your voice several octaves, laying a hand on the poor single sod's arm and asking, very gently: "Are you OK?"
Once I've explained that yes, I'm doing just fine and am in fact still a functioning human being despite my inability to sustain a lasting relationship, the next question is: "Are you seeing anyone new?"
Well, no. I've been eyeing some old people, but that's just to test whether my contact lenses are working.
What on EARTH does "seeing" someone mean? Are you seeing someone once you've consumed a cup of coffee together? Discussed your life's dreams and ambitions? Started splitting the bill when you go out for dinner? Met each other's families? Removed clothing in each other's presence? I do not speak this pseudo-PC language. Can't you just ask if I'm dating again?
No, wait: don't do that. Then I'd have to admit that I don't really know how to date.
I have not dipped my toes into the icy water of lust, love and rejection for some time now. I am so out of practice when it comes to meeting/liking/flirting that I'm afraid any foray into the large arctic ocean of dating would end with me being eaten by a shark.
All of the goalposts have moved! Now it's considered acceptable , I am reliably informed, to invite someone as a friend on Facebook before you've even met, in order to suss out whether the two of you should "see" each other some time. Isn't that a bit arse about face? Doesn't "seeing" come before poking? Erm. I need to rethink my metaphors.
Some time ago, I posted a little extract from a "how to flirt" article that I'd read in one of those dire women's magazines. It suggested that one should point at one's brain (subtly, mind) while chatting to the object of one's affection. This, the writer told us, would indicate that you were really very clever and thus worth shtupping. So rusty are my flirting techniques that I am remembering useless information from Glamour mag and starting to work on subtle ways in which to point at my brain.
It's really quite a hopeless case. As summer tiptoes into Cape Town, coy as ever, and very many beautiful people come out of their hiding places, I find myself having a Barney moment nearly every day. That's Barney from How I met your mother, not Barney the large creepy dinosaur. In one rather hysterical episode of HIMYM, Barney suffers from "the yips" - a disorder that means he's forgotten how to flirt. I, too, am all yipped up. I'm afraid that if an attractive woman actually ever approaches me again and suggests that we should see each other some time, I'm going to respond with something totally witty like, "How're YOU doin'?" or "Habadahabadahabada erk!"
*sigh* Out of the bleak midwinter, and into the socially inept start of summer. Hey, have you seen my amazing brain?
Some months ago, I joined the ranks of the unattached (interesting: if one is in a relationship, one is attached. One could argue that "hinged" is a synonym for attached. Does this make single people unhinged?)
There's a peculiar aura of loss, grief and discomfort around a single 20-something, I've discovered. When people I haven't seen or spoken to for a while find out that I'm not seeing anyone, their reaction is almost always to cock their head to one side - you know the kind of head-cock I mean, it's accompanied by dropping your voice several octaves, laying a hand on the poor single sod's arm and asking, very gently: "Are you OK?"
Once I've explained that yes, I'm doing just fine and am in fact still a functioning human being despite my inability to sustain a lasting relationship, the next question is: "Are you seeing anyone new?"
Well, no. I've been eyeing some old people, but that's just to test whether my contact lenses are working.
What on EARTH does "seeing" someone mean? Are you seeing someone once you've consumed a cup of coffee together? Discussed your life's dreams and ambitions? Started splitting the bill when you go out for dinner? Met each other's families? Removed clothing in each other's presence? I do not speak this pseudo-PC language. Can't you just ask if I'm dating again?
No, wait: don't do that. Then I'd have to admit that I don't really know how to date.
I have not dipped my toes into the icy water of lust, love and rejection for some time now. I am so out of practice when it comes to meeting/liking/flirting that I'm afraid any foray into the large arctic ocean of dating would end with me being eaten by a shark.
All of the goalposts have moved! Now it's considered acceptable , I am reliably informed, to invite someone as a friend on Facebook before you've even met, in order to suss out whether the two of you should "see" each other some time. Isn't that a bit arse about face? Doesn't "seeing" come before poking? Erm. I need to rethink my metaphors.
Some time ago, I posted a little extract from a "how to flirt" article that I'd read in one of those dire women's magazines. It suggested that one should point at one's brain (subtly, mind) while chatting to the object of one's affection. This, the writer told us, would indicate that you were really very clever and thus worth shtupping. So rusty are my flirting techniques that I am remembering useless information from Glamour mag and starting to work on subtle ways in which to point at my brain.
It's really quite a hopeless case. As summer tiptoes into Cape Town, coy as ever, and very many beautiful people come out of their hiding places, I find myself having a Barney moment nearly every day. That's Barney from How I met your mother, not Barney the large creepy dinosaur. In one rather hysterical episode of HIMYM, Barney suffers from "the yips" - a disorder that means he's forgotten how to flirt. I, too, am all yipped up. I'm afraid that if an attractive woman actually ever approaches me again and suggests that we should see each other some time, I'm going to respond with something totally witty like, "How're YOU doin'?" or "Habadahabadahabada erk!"
*sigh* Out of the bleak midwinter, and into the socially inept start of summer. Hey, have you seen my amazing brain?
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Seasons of love
Seasonal Affectedness Disorder is not a lie. As summer hooks its hot little hands into the Mother City, I can feel myself cheering up; my circadian rhythms realigning to cope with the fact that it's fully light at 5:40am (I know this because I am looking out of the office window right now and it's completely light - aaaaargh! It's a world gone topsy turvy!)
My wardrobe begins to change. This morning, with absolutely no hesitation, I selected a white t-shirt and *looks down at legs speculatively* sort of...stone-coloured...pants. The only black I'm wearing is my belt. What's going on? Am I broken?
Even my eating habits alter. It's 5:50am. I'm craving a salad. And a smoothie.
Plus I want to go for a swim. You would, too, if the mercury was set to hit 34 sodding degrees.
So yes: summer has arrived, and I'm in a good mood. Slightly dampened by the fact that I've just written an entire blog post about the weather, but one can't have everything (as evidenced by the fact that, after years of devoted Christmas wish-listing, Eliza Dushku still hasn't arrived on my doorstep dressed in tinsel).
Another mood-dampener: the Westboro Baptist Church has my email address. Poot. The WBC are the kind, gentle, truly Christian folks behind the "God hates fags" campaign. They picket outside soliders' funerals, bearing placards that read "God hates fags" and "Turn or burn" and other such delights. They believe 9/11 was God's way of punishing America for normalising homosexuality. There used to be a graphic on their website (godhatesfags.com) which depicted young Matthew Shephard burning in eternal torment. Shephard was the young American man who was tortured, beaten and left to die tied to a fence near Laramie (Wyoming way, methinks). The WBC bunch think it's swell that he died so violently. He deserved it. Dirty queer.
So now they're emailing me to invite me to events. Oh, if only I lived in America! I would so love to indulge in a little homophobia. Particularly when the weather's so fine.
My wardrobe begins to change. This morning, with absolutely no hesitation, I selected a white t-shirt and *looks down at legs speculatively* sort of...stone-coloured...pants. The only black I'm wearing is my belt. What's going on? Am I broken?
Even my eating habits alter. It's 5:50am. I'm craving a salad. And a smoothie.
Plus I want to go for a swim. You would, too, if the mercury was set to hit 34 sodding degrees.
So yes: summer has arrived, and I'm in a good mood. Slightly dampened by the fact that I've just written an entire blog post about the weather, but one can't have everything (as evidenced by the fact that, after years of devoted Christmas wish-listing, Eliza Dushku still hasn't arrived on my doorstep dressed in tinsel).
Another mood-dampener: the Westboro Baptist Church has my email address. Poot. The WBC are the kind, gentle, truly Christian folks behind the "God hates fags" campaign. They picket outside soliders' funerals, bearing placards that read "God hates fags" and "Turn or burn" and other such delights. They believe 9/11 was God's way of punishing America for normalising homosexuality. There used to be a graphic on their website (godhatesfags.com) which depicted young Matthew Shephard burning in eternal torment. Shephard was the young American man who was tortured, beaten and left to die tied to a fence near Laramie (Wyoming way, methinks). The WBC bunch think it's swell that he died so violently. He deserved it. Dirty queer.
So now they're emailing me to invite me to events. Oh, if only I lived in America! I would so love to indulge in a little homophobia. Particularly when the weather's so fine.
And now I'm back, from outer space...
Ladies, gentlemen, spambots: I'm back. Yes yes, I know you're beside yourselves with excitement, but please try to remain calm. After an extended hiatus, I have returned to blogger.com in a valiant attempt to revive Petrichor. Can you believe it? Not only has New Moon finally opened (oh Edward! Oh Bella! Oh Jacob! Oh Bella! Oh SHUT UP!), but the interwebs' finest blog is back. I'm getting a lump in my...throat...just thinking about it.
Much has changed over the past few months, and once again the blog's focus is shifting. I have a new(ish) job, a newfound passion for news, and a propensity for using the word "news" four times in a sentence. I read a great deal, and I think a great deal more about my world, and most particularly about my extremely beloved but bonkers country. Next year South Africa is hosting the Soccer World Cup, and excitement on that front is reaching fever pitch (ha! A soccer-related pun! Ha!)
So I intend to use Petrichor as a space in which to reflect upon SA news, and upon our preparations for next year's watershed event.
I've also fallen increasingly in love with Cape Town over the fast six months or so, and started exploring its strange and wonderful crevices. Which sounds vaguely dirty, doesn't it? Anyway, dirty minds aside, I'm hoping to use Petrichor to write a little bit about this weird/wonderful city and its weird/wonderful people. There may even be pictures.
I should also, as a point of clarity, provide you with a list of acronyms which are going to appear frequently in my blog posts. Here goes:
*DJ = my day job (news editor at one of Cape Town's biggest newspapers)
*PF = pater familias (my old man)
*MF = mater familias (the mother)
*VJlet = VampyreJournolet (teenaged sister + housemate)
*Mr G = Gonzo Dog, the finest canine in all the land(s)
*Crackberry = my super duper very impressive terribly larney phone which makes me look supremely professional but cannot, alas, make me coffee or fetch my slippers. Fail.
*FML = f**k my life. This will feature often. And I can't even write the full word because the IT department still hates profanities. FML.
*any post tagged TLTDNSIN refers to my woefully non-existent romantic life. I'll give R50 to the first person who figures out the acronym.
OK, this is a lot to take in. I'll leave you all now to contact the papers and start planning your online tributes to my genius.
Love and rockets
VampyreJourno
Much has changed over the past few months, and once again the blog's focus is shifting. I have a new(ish) job, a newfound passion for news, and a propensity for using the word "news" four times in a sentence. I read a great deal, and I think a great deal more about my world, and most particularly about my extremely beloved but bonkers country. Next year South Africa is hosting the Soccer World Cup, and excitement on that front is reaching fever pitch (ha! A soccer-related pun! Ha!)
So I intend to use Petrichor as a space in which to reflect upon SA news, and upon our preparations for next year's watershed event.
I've also fallen increasingly in love with Cape Town over the fast six months or so, and started exploring its strange and wonderful crevices. Which sounds vaguely dirty, doesn't it? Anyway, dirty minds aside, I'm hoping to use Petrichor to write a little bit about this weird/wonderful city and its weird/wonderful people. There may even be pictures.
I should also, as a point of clarity, provide you with a list of acronyms which are going to appear frequently in my blog posts. Here goes:
*DJ = my day job (news editor at one of Cape Town's biggest newspapers)
*PF = pater familias (my old man)
*MF = mater familias (the mother)
*VJlet = VampyreJournolet (teenaged sister + housemate)
*Mr G = Gonzo Dog, the finest canine in all the land(s)
*Crackberry = my super duper very impressive terribly larney phone which makes me look supremely professional but cannot, alas, make me coffee or fetch my slippers. Fail.
*FML = f**k my life. This will feature often. And I can't even write the full word because the IT department still hates profanities. FML.
*any post tagged TLTDNSIN refers to my woefully non-existent romantic life. I'll give R50 to the first person who figures out the acronym.
OK, this is a lot to take in. I'll leave you all now to contact the papers and start planning your online tributes to my genius.
Love and rockets
VampyreJourno
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Voting angst
I had such great big dreams about how I would contribute positively to voter education by posting links to party websites and trawling through manifestoes so that we could really debate the issues here on my humble little blog.
But then reality intervened, and suddenly there's less than a month to go until the national elections, and I haven't read manifestoes (manifestos? Lordy, my spelling is poor). That's a terrible thing to admit, but it's the truth. I haven't found/made the time. And it's one of the things that is contributing to my terrible indecision regarding who will get my cross - or crosses, since one votes provincially and nationally - on election day.
Who do I vote for? There isn't a single party in South Africa that stands firmly for the things I believe in. Do I spoil my ballot? Or is that a flagrant waste of my right to vote? Do I vote for the same party nationally or provincially, or do I split my vote in two?
I'd love to get a debate going with some of the people who I know read Petrichor regularly, I'm keen to see what people think of, particularly, the issues of ballot spoiling and split votes (nationally/provincially). Electioneering is welcome, of course - this blog is not a no-go area. ;)
But then reality intervened, and suddenly there's less than a month to go until the national elections, and I haven't read manifestoes (manifestos? Lordy, my spelling is poor). That's a terrible thing to admit, but it's the truth. I haven't found/made the time. And it's one of the things that is contributing to my terrible indecision regarding who will get my cross - or crosses, since one votes provincially and nationally - on election day.
Who do I vote for? There isn't a single party in South Africa that stands firmly for the things I believe in. Do I spoil my ballot? Or is that a flagrant waste of my right to vote? Do I vote for the same party nationally or provincially, or do I split my vote in two?
I'd love to get a debate going with some of the people who I know read Petrichor regularly, I'm keen to see what people think of, particularly, the issues of ballot spoiling and split votes (nationally/provincially). Electioneering is welcome, of course - this blog is not a no-go area. ;)
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