FAT UPDATE

So it's been a couple of weeks - about three or four I think - since I made a vow to change what I can. Well. Here's my monthly update. Don't worry, it's not going to be boring - I'll put in some jokes to make it worth your while, I promise.

Well I've now totally given up milk, added sugar, as many processed foods as possible, and consciously attempt to by low-carbohydrate content, low fat foods. I try to eat fruit as often as possible, and I'm quaffing on average three litres of water a day. As a result of giving up the milk and sugar, I've also indirectly given up coffee and tea.

What is the result of all of this cold turkey you might be asking? Well it's interesting, as far as I'm concerned. My willpower has been sorely tested, many times. September is obviously the month a large portion of the planet (western world) was born. We've had four birthdays in our office. four cakes. Did I abstain? No. Did I eat two pieces of cake like I normally do? No. I ate one slice. Man it was good.

Most food tastes so much better as a matter of fact. I suppose it's because I'm not drinking sweet tea, or eating sugar every day. when we go out, I try to look for food that has a large portion of salady stuff with it. I leave off the skin, and most of the time any additional fat. Instead of snacking on biscuits or chocolate, I eat sesame seeds, or an apple.

The other day I was shopping, and accidentally walked down the milk isle. For those of you who know me, or who knew me, I could drink about two litres of milk a day without batting an eye-lid. Now, I'm drinking 0 litres of milk. I still have a yoghurt now and then, but not to excess. So I was walking past all these bottles of fresh milk, and I had to look away, I had to force myself not to stop. It was very difficult.

Now, when I walk past sweets, biscuits and so forth, I just look at the back of the box. If it's more than 50% carbohydrate I put it back. They usually give you the values in terms of 100 grams portions, so it makes life easy to do the maths. It's amazing how many things are full of carbohydrates. But look at this little bit of info I've gathered.

the next time you tuck into a standard pasta dish, know that the bowl pasta only contains 10 - 14% less carbohydrates then a bowl of maple syrup! Isn't that a gross idea? Instead of eating the pasta, just fill the bowl with syrup and down that. It's revolting to think that in terms of how our bodies see what we're eating, there is only a slight difference between a squirt of syrup and a spoonful of pasta...

Anyway, so I haven't yet started exercising. I've been in Durban, all over, running around like a mad man. There hasn't been an opportunity. Well at this moment in time, the willpower is so bent on keeping to the eating plan, that there is little room for adding gym to the equation sadly. I suppose once the food thing becomes a habit, the gym thing is next? I have resolved to go and buy some weights... yes I know the last ones I bought were used to prop up a bed and rusted into solid blocks of pig iron, but I've got to do something right...

So in the net result is that I've dropped a few kilo's... 4 to be precise. At the beginning of this enterprise I was 118, just shy of 120 or 240 pounds! Now, I'm on 114, which is what I was before winter last year. When I drop below 110 - which will be a weight I was in 2004, I shall be very happy. My goal is to crack 100 by the end of March or April next year. That gives me six months, or roughly 2 kilograms a month. I can, and will do it.

I have to. I made a vow. Next Gay Pride... I'm not going this year, but next year ... 2011... September I'm going in a speedo. Regardless of my shape or form. It will happen, and I will I know, have not an ab-washboard from heaven, I don't yet see myself as having one of those, but certainly as someone who is say around 90 kgs, and can wear a speedo without providing his own lower abdominal shade...

Fat, Lazy, Liar, know it all...

In about twenty two days and eight hours I'll be turning 30. This scares the hell out of me. Don't roll your eyes, this isn't one of those blogs... well actually it is. Sorry. I wanted to write this last night but my leg hurt to much. Yes. My leg. I was watching Boston Legal. It's a great show. But in it, was this huge - and I mean huge fat guy. He was sueing some drug company or something. But the episode wasn't about that specifically. That was just one theme. Danny Crane was taking some drug so as to not loose his memory. He didn't like what he was becoming, and here was a fat guy who didn't like who he was. Anyway, half way through the show the chair I was... the brand new fucking chair I was one. Shattered. One moment I was quietly sitting amused watching the show, the next minute - CRACK! FUCK! THUD! FUCK! ... FUCK!.

I was on my back, and my leg - as it has unconsciously flailed outwards in the hope of not ending in a foot (as it's done for nearly thirty years) but in a hand (as it's ancient DNA code once did) - had tried to grab hold of my desk. A lovely example of wooden 1950's desk-building. The leg is now bruised. The chair is now broken. This is the second time in as many months where my weight has caused my body, my person to fall uncontrollably to the ground. I am a big, fat, person. I am rapidly getting to that 120 kilo mark. And there is nothing in sight to stop it. As a matter of fact, just the other day I was at home working, and I ate on day 1 an entire box of Romany Creams. Day 2 saw me eat 8 twinkies. Am I depressed? Do I eat because I'm depressed? I suppose so. I do know that I eat for the taste or sensation. The sweetness or the smoothness, the tartness or the crunch.

OK so he's a sad fucker lamenting that he eats to much. Deal with it bitch. Eat less. Drink more water. And that's what I hate. It is SO simple. That's all I need to do. But then I got reflective, as I lay in bed last night. What do I dislike about myself. These are the points I came up with:

1 - Overweight

2 - Liar

3 - Financially inept

4 - No self control

5 - Unfit (different from being overweight imo)

6 - Being a know-it-all

7 - Not speaking my mind

8 - Not standing up for myself

These are basically the eight points that I don't like about myself. I haven't included not being able to play the violin, being afraid of snakes etc. As I feel that is next decades problem. If I am turning 30 in so few days I need to know that I'm going to want to continue into the 30's. The 20's have been one hell of a roller-coaster.

If I'd known what they were going to have in store... America, accepting my sexuality, coming out to everyone, having sex, moving to JHB, lecturing, starting a career, finding debt, buying a car, getting so drunk I wanted to die... it has been one amazing ride. And yet, when you boil it down, it really just has to do with accepting who I am.

So if the 20's are for accepting who I am, perhaps the 30's should be for restructuring who I am. Now that I roughly know my inner being, it's time to change the bad points. That is what my 30's are for. My 40's perhaps will be where I set up myself for getting older. The 50's, more of the 40's. The 60's, more of the 50's. The 70's, more of the 60's. The 80's - perhaps I'll have a little time to relax. But I like this game plan. I haven't had one before - apart from living to 121 so I can win a bet. But I haven't had a personal plan to achieve it. Now I do. I suspect I'll revise this blog in about eight or nine years when I'm facing 40.

Is 10 years too long though? Am I going too slowly? I don't think so. You see the first couple years - say 2 years you're trying to identify just how to change things. It takes time to effectively alter the previous 10 years of thought. Then after 2 years, you now know what you need to change. So you work on the change. But after another 2 years, you achieve your goal, only to discover that that was the tip of the ice-berg. Then you spend another 4 years in this kind of morphic limbo, finding, checking, correcting one's self. That leaves you with 2 years to relax, enjoy who you are, and find out that in a years time, you'll enter another decade, and another round.

When will I have time to have fun? All the time. The things I've listed can all be changed with fairly little impact to my world. I'm fat. So I need to eat less, cut out milk, and go to gym. But I also need to be financially stable. So that may mean cutting back on stuff at the house. Less internet time and more personal time for myself. Why should I accept hollow, digital victories when I could be accepting real victories on this planet. When I die, I don't think the great scales of worth will judge - lost 180000000 matches of Starcraft 2 to a 13 year old Korean. Right in you go. I think God's online gaming team wants better...

So I know most of my friends are staring at 30 or 40 coming up. Have you needed to change yourself? Have you needed to accept something about yourself? Or are you fucking perfect, without hang-up and the world is just peachy? Do other people out there have the same issues I do? Do you dislike/hate/loathe something about yourself and yet not ever get around to fixing it? Why not? What's so important that you can't be bothered to make your own world better by fixing yourself? Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go look at the milk in the fridge for a while, and have a little cry that it's silky, smooth, creamy, taste is something that I need to go without for a while... say the next 90 years or so...

Comedy, tragedy, racism...

Comedy, tragedy, racism. That is what I experienced tonight. As a worker in the TV industry I know that there are two types of programs: Lowest common denominator stuff (stuff people can zone out on) and then niche high-concept programing (stuff that requires attention and focus). I make lowest common denominator stuff - music shows. I want to make high-concept but we can't really compete with the American or British stuff because our high-concept stuff is well... standard concept next to the international stuff as we're on budgets that are ridiculously low.

The same must go for comedians. Stand-up comics. The funny people. The people whose job it is, the people we pay money to see, to entertain us with their witty, humorous, jokes. Tonight I went along to a friends 'gig'. It was in a pub, was poorly attended and competing with the alcohol. I don't think the organizers did a good job in terms of arranging tables to accommodate. So it was a 'tough' crowd. South African TV producers have the same problem: Put my show before, or after a multi-million Dollar product with international superstars and it's also going to be competing for attention. Anyway. The MC, some old bugger from Ireland starts off the show with a wonderful round of racist jokes.

Why should Afrikaans people drink Guinness beer? Because it's the only time the whites will be on top of the blacks again. He said this to a crowd of white people, with black waiters running around serving us. There was a collective plastic grin on all our faces. For the first time in my life I felt, I really felt ashamed that another human being could be so callous, and so out of touch. Sure he ripped off the Indians (rather poorly), the Brits, the gays, the blacks, the blacks... Now is it wrong that he attacked the blacks? No. Not at all. He should be free to make jokes about anyone. But to rip off the politics of black versus white and white versus black to me is just plain bad form.

Then once he'd finished putting us all on edge, another comedian came in who seemed more bored then we did. It felt like he was trying to make his mates laugh. They would laugh because they'd all be drunk. I know I wish I was. He ripped off sports commentators that I would hazard no-one knew about, because well... no one laughed. Oh we were a polite audience. We chortled politely. But like all good producers of TV, we know, it's not what you find funny, it's not what you like, it's what the audience wants that is important. This audience didn't want racist jokes, we didn't want sports commentator jokes. We wanted a few minutes of fun. Anyway, once the comedian had finished talking to his sock (and giving it to an audience member) on came my friend.

It was like switching to an American version of Boston Legal after watching the Hansie trials. Something decent. (OK so that wasn't a funny joke, it was old, tired and rather inaccurate as no one watched those trials, but I was reading in the urinal at the pub, I lingered as long as I could without drawing suspicion, not because there was some cute boy there, but because the smell of old urine, and the advert for laxatives was more interesting then the comedy, and one of the signs up above the really, really, high urinals was about Hansie and the devil or something.) Anyway, my mate goes up and he uses a self approach to humour.

Instead of attacking audience members/members of the public about their hand-bags, or their hair, or their skin-colour, he attacks himself. And the audience responded to him. As I said to a friend on the way home, he came across as a man doing his job, and doing his job with pride and dedication. His job is to make us laugh. If he takes it seriously and puts effort into it, and doesn't need to resort to one-liner rip-offs or hack jokes about gays/blacks/blondes, then he deserves to be rewarded with audience applause. And he was. He was a professional amongst hacks, and we all knew it. What did it cost him? Did he have a multi-million dollar effects budget? Nope. It just cost him some time thinking. Thinking...

So just what the fuck is the point of this post I hear you ask... although by now, if you've read most of my posts you'll have given up on looking for a point, and will only be looking for the PENIS or SPERM reference so you can skip it in case the boss catches you... the point is well. Just what is the point? Oh yes. Comedians. Comedians can teach us a lot about ourselves. The bad ones can show us our stupid, basic, cave-man side, the non-thinking side that just laughs cause our little brain when - hehehe funny noise go plop plop. Good comedians can remind us what is pure and noble about the human, insofar as creativity and performance are pure and noble. Because in order to find the joke, we as the audience have to be creative and attentive, as much as the comedian does. So we have a collaborative effort which makes us better people. And average comedians, or below par comedians can remind us to sometimes know when to just shut up and sit down.

So ask yourself - my audience (be it co-workers, partners, loved ones, employee's, employers, students, strangers on a bus) - are they waiting patiently for your to just die so you stop making an ass of yourself? Or are they nodding, looking at their watches/cellphones/shoes/paint job on the wall, and occasionally making 'ah, yup, huh' comments? Or, and this is the moment we should all strive for - are they watching, listening, and waiting for you to continue talking? I know I illicit (is that the right word? Or should it be ellicit?) all three reactions, often within the space of the same blog post...

If you can't sense when you're doing it, just stop talking and see what happens. That's a good test. If you stop and everyone nods and wanders off, you really need to work on your stories/jokes/small talk, and perhaps think before you start speaking. If they ask you what's wrong, it means they were actually listening and want to know more. If they go 'gosh. Well. Those annual report figures? Do you have them?' then you know they were just waiting for you to finish.(Or you're in the wrong company and should have turned left at the robot's and not right).

Are you a comedian, a tragedy, or just plain cave-man? Me... I'm sorry what was I saying? I wasn't listening.

Why old people scare me...

I love old people - plutonically of course - I really do. They are typically full of wonderful information and although sometimes yes I'll admit, a tad tedious; their ramblings can contain insight or perhaps useful information. I also find they are generally more interested in history then the younger generations, something which I sometimes find painful. Now where is this blog going you wonder? After all, it's titled 'Why old people scare me'.

Truth be told, really old people scare me. People who look like they should have died a long, long time ago. My only surviving grandmother is one of these people. She turns 93 this year, 7 days before I turn 30. She is wheelchair bound, looks haggard, and doesn't really remember things very well. Or so I'm told. I haven't spoken to her in about three years. In fact, on her 93 birthday it will be exactly three years - I last saw her at her 90th.

I didn't find her too interesting when I did see her, when she was younger. Oh she was a granny, a delightful old dear, but her stories were really just family news updates about uncle so and so and aunt Tilly, Milly, Willy or whatever. So I never bonded with her. Not like my other grandmother who shaped me, twisted me, broke me, formed me, inspired me, destroyed me, taught me. The reasons are very obvious: Living gran is from my fathers side. Dead gran is from my mothers side. I lived with Dead gran. Living gran I got to see once a year, maybe twice after my father divorced my mother, which was when I was 10. So Living gran didn't get much of a chance to make an impression.

Now it so happens that her daughter, my aunt, has had the responsibility (along with her brothers and my father) of taking care of Gran in her dotage. After all her pension and investments were never intended to go on for 33 years after her husband had finished working. And his planning didn't take into account that she'd outlive him by 28 years and counting. My father has terrible family relations. He doesn't talk to his sister or older brother. His younger brother screwed him out of a lot of money and there is no longer communication there.

So my poor mum is left having to take me and my sister to see Living Gran. We don't get on with the rest of the family - on my fathers side, or truth be told much on my mothers side. My sister and I are just not interested. Blame it on the divorce, call us horrid people... we just have our own problems to worry about and don't much care for theirs. Nonetheless my aunt has run out of money to pay for my living gran's upkeep at the frail-care facility she has to live in. So she's turned to us to help supplement the payments. My sister refuses point blank. Good for her. As she points out, although living gran is technically bonded to us via DNA, she has four children - none of whom really talk to us (and vice versa) all of whom have children who are actually close to Living Gran. Will any of them help us take care of our parents?

We doubt it. Possibly because our parents have alienated themselves from them, but the point is she feels it is our responsibility to look after our parents, and them to look after their's and so forth. I do contribute some small fee which probably covers a single day's costs. Why? Well I do it because I do feel some small measure of responsibility for Living gran... or is it guilt? Guilt that I'm not calling her once a month to chat. I don't call my own mother once a month... but the point is now that I'm a contributing member my aunt now includes me in the 'family e-mail' chain. So I get to see photo's of a family I don't know, care about, or am the slightest bit interested in.

But I get to see pics of Living Gran. I don't want to see them. I don't want to know about it. My Aunt writes inane little passages like: "Gran's been watching the new construction of the medical wing with enthusiasm. 'I bet she knows how many screws and nails they've used!' Says the matron. My God does anyone else want to puke at this statement? Here is a woman who is 93. She's survived through one son dieing of diabetes, through a daughter-in-law dying of cancer, through two son's divorces, she's raised how many grandkids (excluding my sister and myself)? And now this old woman gets reduced to sitting and watching nails being hammered into ceiling boards?

Her photo's reveal the sad truth that that's all she seems capable of. What the FUCK is the point? She can barely remember things, her words get muddled over time, she gets tired quickly. She needs to be wheeled around. How, explain to me, how is that living? It isn't. It's waiting to die. Or in fact, avoiding death for as long as possible. My dead gran was bed-ridden. But she was active. She was engaging. She kept herself busy. Living gran isn't living. To me when I see her I feel a terrible sadness. I don't know what to do with myself. I certainly don't want to be anywhere near her. Is that terrible? I think it is. Why do I not have the ability to cherish her, and want to make her days full?

Because it seems futile? Like a waste of time. Is my time so fucking important that I can't give some to her? Would it make a difference? I don't know. Part of me says perhaps it might bring something to her to hear of how her estranged grandson is doing 500 kilometers away. But wouldn't the world be better off if she just quietly passed away? With some mental dignity retained? Instead of being treated like a 'poor old dear who watches nails being hammered into wood for fun'. That to me is the insidiousness of it all. It's that kindness, that gentle 'knowing smile and nod' that her time is near an end and we must be nice and kind and belittle her because well, she's old.

I swear now to anyone who cares or who will be around - when I am so frail that I cannot keep myself going, I will end it. In some kind of wonderful display. I'll hire some beautiful young boy off the street to take me some stage, where I'll have organized as massive blow-out function. Something filled with an amazing spectacle - bodies, art, dazzling performance, whatever. Then I'll have someone slip some lethal poison into my drink. I won't know which one, but I'll keep drinking until I fall asleep and die. I will not be some incontinent old bastard whom everyone patronizes. At the first sign of 'poor old Guy. He's had a good run you know' - that's it spectacle and death for me.

Once I'm dead my Will will be opened. It will be a map. A treasure map. It will also be a TV show. Part of the clause will be that whomever takes up my treasure hunt must be filmed. It will be spectacular. An ultra-web broadcast. At the very end the treasure will be a copy of all my blogs, a digital download of my consciousness, and the rights to my TV show - The Gay Guy, Can you solve him? It will be watched by billions of people. My family - which would have to be my gay lovers family, my sisters family (if she starts one) will not have time to morn, because my Will will be released onto the internet (ultra-web) in one of the greatest media hyped events of the 21st/22nd century.

Anyone will be able to follow the map. It will be amazing. It will be worthwhile, and for one brief moment I won't be thought of as that old has-been, the once glorious now sadly only capable of wetting himself bugger who gropes all the male nurses (and female ones on bad days). Instead of going out remembering the good old days, I'll go out knowing that someone is going to be using my death to make themselves better, and that I could only hope and dream for. It will of course be a moot point as my body will be cryogenically frozen, or temporally locked, until they find a cure for death. At which point I'll come back to life, with the rights to the show about my death... MWAHAHAHAHAAHAHA...

But to die in bed, and then as a final word spoken over my corpse before it's burned to ash being 'he had a good run, or well we expected it, or poor fellow, it was for the best', that to me is the most miserable thing that could happen. Of course it could be worse - it could be: 'Another one's gone, change the sheets and bring in the next one...' or 'For fuck sakes, finally. Jesus he just didn't ever want to leave'. Or perhaps 'Thank God, that's over...'. Actually that last one would make me laugh. Anyway the point is, if you're a better person than I am, make contact with your old ones, hug them, cherish them, and for god's sake don't fucking patronize them.

Critical criticism is crucial...or so I thought

OK so you all know me. My brain runs at ten billion miles a second when working on some kind of creative puzzle, and about one mile a year on mathematical or logical problems. And I pride myself on my ability to 'insert a giant banana' into any creative problem and find a solution. Although of course last week I couldn't and that got me down. And all you wonderful people rallied and said that I'm sometimes to harsh on myself.

Now I want to know am I too harsh on others? For example this past week I've been writing proposals for SABC and company and working with a producer whom I only met on Wednesday. Each day he'd come into my apartment - thankfully clean now that the maid has returned - and we'd brainstorm ideas from 0900 till 1800. We'd attack one another's ideas furiously, looking for weakness, uncertainty, and most of all better angles from which to tell the story.

I like stories. I like hearing them, and I like making them. I think I do a pretty good job at both. So when I get presented with a story I like to make sure it works for me - which means it needs to be captivating, and niggly details need to be in place. But crucially the tale needs to told by someone who believes in their story. So this producer and I would make sure that we believed in the idea first.

Once you believe in your story you can fight out the details later. So when someone discusses their ideas with me - story, life plan or other idea - I look for the belief in the story first, and then the actual story. I know my boss does the same, and until I learned that is what he was looking for, I was damned irritated by it. I couldn't work out why he was interested in some minor point rather than the bigger picture. Now I realize he's attacking the small points to see if I remain true to myself. The correct answer of course to someone picking up a thread of uncertainty or weakness is: It doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things because X.

However what I also learned, and what came to be painfully true but from another friend of mine was that sometimes those loose threads will unravel the whole plan, no matter how good it is. And the loose threads need to be tied up, sometimes before the rest of the plan can be put into action. In fact he was so negative about all my plans, that - and I remember it clearly - as he walked down my drive way I told him about some hair-brained scheme or other, and he shot it down. I remember telling him that if shot all my plans, my dreams down, I didn't need him in my world anymore.

Thankfully he realized that dreams, that plans, are sometimes all that we have. All that we can call our own, and genuinely believe it. Those little schemes, which might not lead anywhere, have at least opened us up to a different perspective, a different way of seeing things. And that might very well lead us to completing one of our dreams. Which would be fantastic. Now I'm forced to admit that I use my mental faculties far to often - again as some of you, and my therapist pointed out - and so whenever someone presents an idea to me, those little grey cells flare up, and begin building patterns of narrative, looking for angles, both good and bad.

What I learned today from my office staff, is that the good angles, the praise, is often put aside, and only the negative, the bad options vocalized. So instead of giving the originator of the story hope and encouragement, all that comes out is a barrage of possible weakness's, potential faults, and solutions to problems which may never arise. Whereas it should have been a barrage of encouragement, and of support, with the voicing of the negatives delivered later, or perhaps only upon request.

But that leads me to my dilemma. If I can see problems, shouldn't I voice them? As friend, employer, lecturer, general busybody is it not my responsibility to voice issues if I see them? The balance I suppose is called a shit sandwich. A term my students begged me to use, and take to heart. For those of you, like myself, the idea of a shit-sandwich, was a little repulsive. But this is what is means: It means you start with something nice, a supportive comment, then you hit them with the negative comments - the shit - and finally you finish off with a good compliment to bolster spirits. Now personally I think whomever came with the idea of a that was an idiot. Firstly, bread, almost regardless of the contents of the sandwich, can at best be described as neutral, not good. Secondly bread comes with crusts, which is a tough, nasty bit.

But I get the point. I sometimes just find it difficult to include the bread with the sandwich it seems. So to all of you who have presented me with an idea or a plan or a dream, that I've just shat on without providing any pastry (is bread a pastry? or is it a dough? or what? who cares? But for those who do, I encourage you to answer [see I can do it... although I think we all hear the sarcasm in that sentence... sigh, back to the drawing board.]) I do apologize. But then I think - and this is my last thought for the week I promise: Surely we should believe enough in our own dreams that the words of others, that the shit of others should count little? I know all that bumpf about us being social and genetically required to seek approval from others, but you get some people who can take shit, look at it, absorb some of it, and toss the rest back. OK I agree. Time for another metaphor, there's too much shit here...

When should we as humans step back and accept criticism, and change, and when should we defend to our dying breath our idea? Isn't that the problems with religion? Politics? Family? We can't define it. Some people are good at accepting criticism, some seek it out (some to their own determent), whilst others take it so personally that it causes great strife and rifts. Why are some more open than others? Is it all to do with self esteem? Is it to do with the fear of rejection? Or is it the ultimate fear that the dream is just an illusion?

I don't know, and I hope that when I get critical responses to my ideas that I am gracious enough to look at the criticism and learn or adapt or defy it. How one chooses which of the three options to go with, I do not know. So what are you then dear reader? A shit-sandwich salesman? A shit sandwich eater, or just a shit stirrer? Or like me just a shit?

(I am only joking about the last bit, I'm not a shit, I'm a pompous git... who thinks rhyme at this time of night is funny...)

Failure...finally

This isn't going to be a long one. I promise. But I feel it needs to be written, perhaps as a confession, perhaps as a way of absolving myself. I don't know. For much of my considerable life ( considerable in comparison to say a field mouse or a gnu) I have bull-shitted (Bull-Shat?) my way through. Whether it's lying about being able to do something, lying about facts, lying about information, lying about how I feel, it has all really been a smoke-and-mirrors type of game with me being able to pull a rabbit out of the hat at the last moment and save myself.

There are certain times for sure when I've realized that I couldn't do something. Loose weight for example is one of those things that I doubt will ever happen. Or giving up milk. That certainly will never happen. But when it comes to my profession, the thing that I love doing the most because it allows all my bull-shit to work, I have never encountered something that has been impossible. Oh I've worked hard, and that is no bullshit. I've spent sleepless nights working to get something done that others would have never dreamed of attempting. But I did it.

And although a lot of the work I do is really just bull-shit dressed up in fancy clothes, people buy it, and comment on how nicely it works. It has always been a secret fear of mine that someone will see it for what it is. And some of my friends do point it out, painfully so. And it causes me deep shame when they do because no matter how I try to bull-shit my way it's merits or values (implied, or non-existant) I know deep down that they are right.

So for a con-man, a bull-shitter, to be caught out, and not be able to worm a solution is a very humbling thing. For it is the mark of the ultimate fail. A piece of work that is held together with smoke and mirrors, promises of delivery delayed through words and loop-holes, these are in many regards successes. And Heaven forbid a bull-shit that actually works. That's just heaven. I'm very close to achieving one of those, with the aid of some hard workers that I've managed to con into believing I know what I'm doing.

But tomorrow I have to admit that there is something in my profession that no matter what technical trickery, what magical smoke I blow across it just will not work. I cannot do it. I couldn't do it if I spent a week doing it. And yet I said I could. I know perhaps I'm being too hard on myself, and that no one else can do it either. There might be some arsehole out there who'll spend his whole weekend doing it, and get it right, or some other cunt who will do it half-arsed and it'll be accepted because of time pressure, but I cannot get the work done to my usual level of bull-shit.

Which of course makes me stop and think: If my bull-shit is a little more polished, a little more dedicated to being a better kind of bull-shit, does that make mine worth more than some other bull-shitter? Does that make me a better person? Or just a slightly better bull-shitter? I don't know. I really don't. I guess that's also why I can't trust other people - intrinsically, and possibly why relationships are doomed to fail: I see everyone as being a bull-shitter. Some good at it, others not. I also see some who are perhaps not bull-shitters, but who are real. Who are honest. And although they are really nice people, they don't seem to have a spark.

The spark of course is the excitement of carrying a bull-shit beyond just a thought. The spark is putting something out into the world, and watching it grow, change, develop, and turn into something solid that others then use. It's like a perverse way of altering the universe. It's sad to think that the only way I'll alter the universe is by smearing my bull-shit onto it. And yet, sometimes my bull-shit is meant with the very best of intentions. So perhaps bull-shit is the wrong term? What could I replace it with?

To bull-shit is to offer up something that is not real, as being real. The reason for offering up something can be motivated by a few things: Greed, envy, social pressure, love, hatred... there are many reasons for bull-shitting. When we offer a sympathetic ear to a friends woes, and offer them advice that it'll be better, or that their decision was a good one - technically we don't know for certain (we can't right) so we're bull-shitting. When we accept more responsibilities at work, we're bull-shitting that we can do it, either to ourselves or our bosses. When we have children we bull-shit everyone (we're capable of raising other humans). I mean which parent on Earth raises their first child with complete confidence?

No we all bull-shit to some degree. Could I replace bull-shitting with: Decision making? I make a conscious decision to exaggerate my abilities to a client in the hopes of getting business? I make a decision to make my friend feel better by saying to him that he's a wonderful dresser? So why bull-shit? Why lie? Because we're programmed to do it. Only some of us have little moral codes that jump into the way: I don't lie. Really? Tell your mother-in-law what you really think of her?

I don't lie - so keeping silent about the affair you know of is not lying? It's what? None of your business? Surely the other person would say: if you knew why didn't you say? No I think evidence far outweighs all arguments: As Humans we lie. Social requirements. So it's just some Humans who say that certain types of lying is good or acceptable and other types are not. Oh God I know, I've spoken about my lying before. It's irritating. I lie. I don't like it. I can't help it. It just happens. Well tonight I lied and now tomorrow I have to admit it.

And if fucking sucks. So why do we do it? Ah fuck. Humans! Who fuck'en want's 'em? I don't. So how do you bull-shit? And how do you feel when you're stuck in a lie? And it keeps going? Or growing? Who are you lying to at the moment? And is it really necessary? (Stop shaking your head, of course you think it's necessary, cause you're bull-shitting yourself that it is...).

Anyway, all of you wonderful people have a great evening (see how easy it is to lie. I don't care if you have a great evening or just a normal evening...) and think about it: If you stopped bull-shitting for a day how many friends/family would you have to politely tell to go fuck themselves? Really...

Sperm... and its results...

Sperm. Eeeeewwwww... Ick! Sis... Gross! Hand me a tissue... What's that on your face? I first discovered sperm whilst in the bath tub. I must have been around 12 or so. For a few years before I had managed to achieve erections, but without anyone around to tell me what to do, I'd just kinda stare at it. Then in the bath one night, I was lathering myself up with soap... all innocent when Johnny one-eye pops up. So I soap him up. Suddenly my whole body spasms and I feel sick in my stomach. But in a good way. My first ejaculation.

Well... that was the start of a whole new world. I could suddenly jerk off. If I was religious I'd say it was God's gift to mankind. Ironic then that most religions say it isn't... I knew by then that I was gay. It's difficult not to. So it was only a matter of time until I tasted it. Yes, yes... stop squealing.

This blog is about that very reaction.

I never had the 'wet dream' that is the eternal embarrassment of most young boys. I guess I either didn't get horny enough or and this is my feeling: I was so self conscious of being gay, and what gay sex represented that I didn't allow myself the option of getting to the point of physical ejaculation whilst sleeping. Until I was about 22 all my erotic dreams involved me watching other people have sex. I was never a participant.

Sex, and all it's associated fluids, were so taboo, so evil, that I daren't associate myself with it, even in my wildest fantasies! Oh when I was conscious I could whack off with images of my best friends, male actors, hell... anything. But never with myself as one of the participants in sex. Always as an observer. Of course by the time I was 16 I had the internet at home, and black and white pictures of naked men would slowly download themselves in front of me and my frantically jerking hand. Sometimes being left handed and using a right handed mouse has it's advantages...

Anyway I digress. So one day I decided instead of blasting my load (how many different words are there for sperm?) onto my stomach and then mopping up with a cum-shirt (I had an old t-shirt which was used exclusively for clean-up operations) I thought... let's taste this stuff. Well I tasted it. For those of you who have not it's nothing special. It's a salty, slick taste. Sure different food groups change the after-taste slightly, but in general it has a fairly bland taste. I nearly threw up though. And not because I don't like salt.

The idea of it in my mouth was what repulsed me.

How stupid is that? I don't vomit when tears run down my cheeks and into my mouth. I don't vomit when I swallow my own spit. It's not urine or shit. It's not a by-product, a waste product. It's an excretion. Like sweat. Like tears. Like spit (shut up I know some are called secretions but you get my point). So why then do we freak out about it? Just because it's salty? Or because it represents life? I mean we're all here because our mothers allowed our fathers to blast their man-goo inside them. Should we be repulsed at our own beings? For heaven's sake: we're made from sperm and egg. Why should ingesting either be repulsive? (Are we afraid it's a bit cannibalistic? Or would that be pre-cannibalistic? Or proactive cannibalism: before the womb! Fresher is better?)

We eat other animals fluid/sexual bits: Milk, Eggs, caviar... I'm currently eating nut granola (muesli to the uneducated apparently) and milk. Plant sex bits, washed down with cow excretion. Surely I should at least be eating those nuts with human milk? Home made fresh from the breast. Isn't that more appealing than from some other animals 'breast'? No? Why?

I couldn't ejaculate with another man next to me. I didn't know why. No that's a lie... I couldn't help myself even though I knew why. I was still ashamed/embarrassed t o cum in front of someone else. I couldn't see myself in as a sexual participant, even though I was, technically! It was only with the help of a very special person who refused to leave until I'd splooged myself. He was very dedicated to making sure it happened. Since then, I haven't had a problem. In fact it gets easier each time.

(I hope you're keeping track of all the words for sperm and ejaculation...)

Now, since moving up to Johannesburg my scope of sexual experience has increased. I've slept with all the major racial groups on the planet: whites, blacks, Indians, Chinese, and all those in between. It's not that many people but it's across the board. I like that I can sleep with any male, it means I can appreciate beauty for beauty's sake. I'm not aesthetically racist. Or should that be sexually racist? Each group has a totally different approach to sex. And to sperm.

What I also find interesting, and this is just an aside - I've only slept with non-circumcised men. I long to sleep with a cut man. The reason being is that the uncircumcised boys are very delicate when dealing with the penis. Cut men, being less sensitive due to constant exposure of the nerves would be a bit more... rigorous. Which is more my cup of tea. But anyway, that's perhaps another blog.

Stereotypically it's true: blacks have bigger penises, indians and chinese have small ones, and whites are in between. What that says about evolution and the human male I do not know. Some research here may be interesting. I'm sure its been done, I'll leave it up to my resident researcher to find it. But in terms of semen... it all comes out the same way, and all looks the same. I haven't plucked up the courage yet to swallow another man's sperm. Again with the eeeew? Surely by now you'd be used to the idea? No? Me neither. Why does it represent another level? A newer type of intimacy?

I kiss other men, and swap spit like it's going out of fashion. Why not swap jizz? What is it that keeps us so rigid... har har about spermatozoa? I can only assume it's because since the time of Jesus it's been bad. Apart from the idea of swallowing thousands (if you catch it all) or hundreds of potential babies (OK, even I'm grossed out now) it's really just a salty substance. Tequila, lemon, and salt with a dash of Amarula cream... or as it's know Woman's Revenge (it's a shooter) comes pretty close to approximating the taste, without the burn of the cheap tequila.

Now something that has always fascinated me is: What do straight boys do with their wad? If you angle your penis away from you, it jerks and spits in all directions and you end up wiping little bits of crusty hard white substance off your computer monitor for weeks. Aim it towards you and you hit yourself in your hair, and the back of your chair... and the oppose wall if you're good. I hate cum hair. It really does stick together. So what do you do? Throw a sock over it? Aim for your stomach? If you don't have as expansive a one as I do, that's a narrow landing strip. Or just hold some tissue in place? I really don't know, and I'd love to know - once the eruption of the one eye'd trouser snake is over then what? Klenex as the recent film 'Kick Ass' suggested? Do straight guys get freaked out about touching their own baby batter? (Isn't that a lovely one?)

Or do they quietly mop up without thinking? And what about all my women readers out there? What do you do with your mans jism? Lick it up? Mop it up? Tell the bastard to clean up his own mess? Hope it doesn't make it's way all the way up and found a new child? Just what do you do with spattered protein shake? And why are we all so terrified or repulsed by the stuff? So dear reader... just what do you do with yours?