tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-91521729454895495982024-03-13T05:08:01.496-07:00The life & times of Pedro ZoydbergI am Pedro Zoydberg...I believe myself to be borderline insightful, sometimes funny and mostly honest...these are my meandering thoughts that I hope will invoke some thought/emotion/reaction in your life....or not...either way, this is the shit my hamsters come up with.Pedro Zoydberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06434704501054067265noreply@blogger.comBlogger20125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9152172945489549598.post-48471492162274842982010-06-10T08:02:00.000-07:002010-06-10T08:03:52.921-07:00Highland’s apparition<span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;">I’ve been content. Truly happy even, over these past months. Context, which has probably led to me not blogging. It would appear, that my inspiration for writing, well, writing anything meaningful, my muse, is a darkness within me. A resentful, cynical place that festers like an infected wound that will not heal…especially because I keep picking at it, during these very times. That said, of recent, I have been in a place that hasn’t inspired any sort of rant or random opinion. Don’t get me wrong, I am still one judgmental bastard, that part of me hasn’t diluted, but for whatever reason, I have not been able to summon enough conviction (and strength of words) to actually put it down on paper.<br /><br />I have been moved. In a deep and profound way, that that part of me doesn’t crave its feedings as often as it used to. But, as I’ve said, it doesn’t mean that it isn’t there…<br /><br />You see, beyond meeting that person, I still feel contempt for the average person that I cross or re-cross paths with, mainly because one way or another, they validate my age old philosophy…that most of you are fucking retarded. Lacking self confidence, an appreciation for context, and most importantly, conviction. This judgment still stays with me, as the general stench of your weakness of character disseminates through a room.<br /><br />I have been through interesting periods in my life since my last post. Pretty high highs coupled with decently crippling lows…yet still, I feel like I see a world clearer that you. A world where people fill in the gargantuan holes in context with make believe stop gaps. Sticky taping square pegs into round holes or worse yet, not even acknowledging that those gaps exist. A weakness displayed either through irrational articulation or ignorant silence. Either way, I’m still, as I’ve generally been, pissed with the lack of thought process by the other pawns on this chess board.<br /><br />Of recent I have had to endure medical drama, family drama, financial drama, distractions, frustrations and most recently, the loss of a friend. Yet through all of this, somehow, I feel like I am one of a select few that sees things with a certain element of clarity. Surely, I am not as smart as I think that I am, the only one willing to appreciate and understand situations and their context, repercussions and legacy?<br /><br />Which essentially leads me to my core thought and inspiration for this post…how smart are you? For that matter, how smart do you think you are? Are you aware of your intellectual limitations? How aware are you of the emotional atmosphere of situations that surround you? How fucking aware are you in general? Are you a listless tool that merely chugs along like a meandering tugboat whose only purpose is to keep moving? Irrespective of what metaphorical cargo in whatever philosophical ship?<br /><br />How aware are you of the false relationships that you foster? How aware are you of the varying degrees of bullshit that you dish out to those participants? Are you convinced that they can’t see your cracking exoskeleton of insecurity? How confident are you that the moving parts of you aren’t merely held together by bubblegum and only given an impenetrable sheen because your audience lacks the insight and foresight to figure you out?<br /><br />How smart are you, friends? Emotional centering, amidst knee jerk decisions disguised as conscious thought and considerate communication? Romance based on filling in your partners deficiencies? Work relationships held together by subordinates not wanting to stir the bee hive for fear of retribution? And within that, peers not challenging peers due to their emotional maturity rivaling that of a used shopping packet?<br /><br />I realize that for more or less the better part of the last 2 odd years, I have exhibited fledgling signs of clinical depression. This is due to a catalogue of issues, self enforced and environmental. With all of this, I still feel that I get it, more than you do. I see the holes in our society more than you. I am more aware of the pseudo intellectual conversations we tell ourselves that we’ve had. I am more comfortable with the short comings of relationships. I am more convinced that I know what I’m talking about than you. I process faster and better and with more detail than you. How and why is this the case? Based on me not actually being as smart and as centered as I believe I am, how the fuck am I still working this out, whilst you, flitter in and out of your consciousness with reckless abandon, as if life doesn’t keep score…<br /><br />I do not believe in Karma, I do not believe in fate, I do not believe in a turning wheel. But continuous ignorance in your life, is like the retarded 4 year old running around with a pair of scissors, eventually someone will get hurt…so decide. Are you the person who is actually trying to be self aware and happens to get stabbed in the leg, or are you the mongoloid smiling at the shiny, sharp object as you run into a wall and have it impale your temple?<br /> </span>Pedro Zoydberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06434704501054067265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9152172945489549598.post-8164579305962668152009-06-09T13:33:00.000-07:002009-06-09T13:39:10.312-07:00Sometime around Midnight<span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;">As I performed my weekly ritual of popping around the nearby Spar to grab the boring weekly essentials for lunch, snacks and potential dinner ingredients, I saw a man, fairly shabbily dressed. He looked like the stereotypical bum. The quintessential wastage of society. Battered, bruised and certainly not donning the latest variation of Armani Mania, this man walked through the car park, into the store. As he took each step, almost leaning on this worn out back pack, his shoulders hunched like a man not wanting a world to see him, his cap pulled low, like a man not wanting to see a world, I noticed that he had with him a companion. An equally scruffy looking, mangy, medium sized dog. Casually walking beside him. No collar, no leash, no restriction. This dog calmly walked beside the man, as if in complete knowledge of the next destination. Not perturbed by the cars funneling in and out of the car park, nor the people hustling towards their next social stop on the busy Sunday that lay ahead.<br /><br />This, almost equal respect, that the two exuded for one another, had piqued my interest. On getting out of my car, I feverishly looked to confirm my initial suspicion that a man devoid of respect for and from my Northern Joburg suburb would have cavalierly walked in, with dog in tow. Instead, I was rather surprised to find our not recently washed Fido, calmly, casually, sitting at the entrance of the store. Still, no leash nor anything resembling a restriction. It surprised me that this dog, which in all likelihood, wasn’t formally trained was so composed and content with having to just…hang out, and wait.<br /><br />With my intrigue firmly activated, I grabbed my basket as I walked past the dog, and with me not taking my eyes off him, he propped his head, glanced at me and turned away. Almost to say…well, nothing really. It was as arbitrary a glance as people walking past one another in a mall with no specific intent to actually look at each other.<br /><br />I found the mystery man, picking up an unsliced loaf of bread. He didn’t stop for any other piece of consumable good. He didn’t pick anything else up, window shop in any specific isle or even look around. He just walked with his loaf of bread, to the check out point, paid for it and walked out.<br /><br />I feverishly grabbed most (my curiosity got the better of me) of my list and hurried through paying for them. I then grabbed my packets and made for the exit as if I had shoplifted the entire contents. To my sadness, I could no longer see our Rip Van Winkel, nor his well behaved companion. I then packed up the car and settled for the fact that my career as a purely voyeuristic private investigator was over.<br /><br />Until, as I turned out of the car park, I found the objects of my intrigue, nestling under a nearby tree. It was at that point that the man pulled out of his bag, a small plastic bowl along with a bottle of water. He pours a decent amount of water into the bowl and then breaks the loaf he had earlier bought in half. Both are gently placed near the dog, now comfortably sitting next to his friend. They both then proceed to dig into the loaf, stopping every now and again to wash down the dry bread with quick sips of water. The man, affectionately ruffling the fur of his canine companion.<br /><br />This image instantaneously brings a smile to my face. Not only does it remind me of pets gone by, but also instills in this low on hope individual, pure, unadulterated economy sized packets of confidence in humanity yet. This mans selflessness, for whatever reason, speaks volumes of the potential of the human psyche. Who knows why he looked the way he did. Who knows why he was the way he was. Sure, I run the risk of over romanticizing and over dramatizing the event, but the simple, undiluted fact is, it was what it was and he did what he did. The dog knew who his friend was and so did the man. Those few seconds that I shared remotely with them, made me wonder for many more hours about the very decency and emotional centering that exists around me.<br /><br />I am filled with rage. Passive aggressive with extra aggressive. I have become a whining malcontent within myself at the very callous personas that punctuate my life. The frivolous change of opinions and sheer lack of respect at the concept of processing things on an intellectual, logical level. The people shaped baskets that contained many, many egg shaped emotions are starting to come apart at the bloody seams and it feels like I am the only one who sees it. I am filled with contempt towards actions and behavior that has little to do with and minimal impact on me. I feel a growing void between myself and the rest of the world based on the lack of insight, introspection and analysis performed within those that surround me.<br /><br />With witless tongues we articulate without filters. We act on impulse and go back on paramount philosophies. We throw away who we are in the search for that most instant of instant gratifications. Consuming ourselves in trivial games that have little or too much bearing on our journey. We affirm shifting beliefs with actions hoping that they will become true. Though all they ever end up being are half truisms. We sleep walk our way through it all…passively acting on predefined scripts of what we think we are supposed to want and do.<br /><br />As I sit, perched on my crucifix, with my comfortable dwellings, clothes filled cupboards, more than decent salary and plethora of other proverbial creature comforts…I wanted to be this traveler, under a tree, breaking bread and sharing a drink with sincere friendship, loyalty and respect…in complete trust and honesty.<br /><br /><em>“live…love…fight”</em></span>Pedro Zoydberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06434704501054067265noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9152172945489549598.post-67191141281106667202009-03-01T09:11:00.000-08:002009-03-01T09:13:38.678-08:00Sooner or Later<span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;">In an era of the manufactured, the generic and the default, what exists for a purist that puts stock in the lesser spotted concept of hope. Yes, good people, I once again find myself delving in the plethora of self loathing that I embrace as my protective cloak from the rest of the world. I have found that time away from fellow mortals merely catalyzes self analysis and hamster processing about who I am, what I do and what I want. As I drown in an endless sea of pointless personas, the world chugs along…with dismissive disregard for this self proclaimed professional appreciator of life…<br /><br />Having experienced a recent period of cavalier binge drinking and party going amidst the corporate request of 40 hours a week, I have discovered that I am in a familiar, yet not recently seen doldrum. Whilst memories are made, acquaints acquired and self validation found, I can’t help but feel that though I have removed a decent portion of my head out of my ass, that I remain critical to the concept of the cycle I, and for that matter, others, find themselves in. Now though I believe I don’t contribute to the wonderful statistic that fall under the column of “working to jol”, I am, however, enjoying the cheaper thrills of this, the poor man’s New York.<br /><br />After now, spending a weekend in, with the most damaging substance possible, my thoughts, I find myself questioning the concepts of loneliness, companionship, friendship and essentially, all possible variation of relationships. See, I am in a weirdly needy place. Perhaps needy is a strong word, but it seems the truer articulation of “lonely, strong self loathing, fragile, sensitive” is just a divulgence too far…wait…damn!<br /><br />Like the teenager that after masturbation, no longer wants the object of his ejaculatory affection, but rather the nice girl, that “gets” him, that communicates and clicks as if it were dialogue from Juno, I too crave more connections with people that resemble a personification of context and insight…and intellect.<br /><br />My recent endeavors, be they quasi romantic or otherwise, have proven to be constant reminders of the vast void between myself, and so many others. Now, I know I project, but is it too hard to expect someone to be able to hold my attention? I am not of the MENSA brand, much closer to the MENS HEALTH variation really, yet constantly am exposed to life forms that are devoid of anything resembling interesting. I have been critiqued that I am too critical on others for the lack of ability to hold my attention, that I expect a certain word quota of enchanting and disarming. But is that such a ridiculous request…or hope?<br /><br />I do not read, so that absolves me of that sub culture, I do not go to theatre, I do not frequent dinner parties or other variations that carry the inference of “cultured”. I do not expect a girl to tell me of the glory of Kevin Smith movies. I do not expect her to tell me which formation best suits my Manchester United. I do not expect her to tell me that when she hears the Kings of Leon that she is in fact reminded of Terence Trent D’Arby. I do not expect her to want to try to keep herself attractive, not by virtue of ridiculously priced cosmetics, but rather going to the gym 3 times a week. I do not expect these things…but fuck me, I sure hope for them. Is that wrong? That I burden them, both potential exes and friends alike, with such unrealistic expectations?<br /><br />If so, why am I then judged by these very standards, if slightly varied? Why am I shunted into a specific percentile based on my inability to recite Shelly, to acknowledge the quality of the variations of wine, to appreciate the early work of fuck knows what author?<br /><br />We are the only species that makes excuses and care for the weak. We go against Darwinism, and rather manufacture and maintain environments in which the slow, the weak, the non ambitious, the unintelligent, the unimaginative, the inarticulate and the uninteresting can exist. What the fuck are we doing?<br /><br />My inference that we need to go on a massive population control program is purely based on my interaction with various demographics and with vastly varying context. For me, one of the most startling has been in the context of romance. I have no issues meeting women, but women that have the ability to keep me interested, by virtue of their opinion, history or the ability to articulate either, are far, far too rare. As I troll through both my facebook profile and phone book, I find a severe lack of intrigue, context, value…hope.<br /><br />When faced with our own mortality, are there key figures in our lives that we would wish to spend our last few days? How many couples would be forced to say that their partner features in the countdown, due to the Labrador like companionship that they have evolved in to? How many would choose their random left field friend that was honest, sincere, interesting and funny, as opposed to their boyfriend that has nothing to say since he played in a schools cricket week that one year in university ten years ago? Would we look around the room and do a quick calculation of the percentage of remarkable personalities that surround us? Or do we merely just slide deeper into our metaphorical bed and pull our safety blanket a notch higher?<br /><br />There are far too few people that have the ability to tell a story that you will remember as opposed to the regurgitation of factoids. There are far too many that will give you the manufactured, the generic, the default. Lacking soul, heart, wit or intrigue.<br /><br />I have met too many that remind me that Vanilla runs strong. For God’s sake, can I please have some Rum and Raison or Blueberry?<br /><br /><br /><em>“It was the best of times…if only someone had told me.”</em></span>Pedro Zoydberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06434704501054067265noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9152172945489549598.post-38819016516924743922009-01-05T03:57:00.000-08:002009-01-05T03:59:56.950-08:00CalifornicationThe title for this particular post is yet again borrowed from a song of recent past. Though apt by virtue of one of its definitions, it is actually inspired by the TV series where in Hank Moody, the lead character, essentially mirrors my life’s experiences and thought processes…ok, minus the ex long term partner and love child….and minus the woman-a-day philandering…and minus the Porsche…and successes as a novelist…and maybe minus the super quick wit and vocabulary…and binge drinking…ok, ok…But, he is strongly opinionated, is a writer, has a failed (yet vastly more continuous) sprinkling of women, a huge volume of awkward situations, and quite importantly, a decent bevy of self loathing…and therein, lays the empathy.<br /><br />This impressive, dark and twisted series aside, I have decided that in this post, I shall reveal yet more behind the famous façade that is ultimately the front that a majority of men walk around with…you see, the series itself, is based very strongly around the sexual exploits of our star man, along with a few of his dreams and fantasies, we are very much exposed to his endeavors. These famously clichéd and sometimes far fetched exertions combined with my own events have destined this post to be about the second part of its amalgamated title…fornication.<br /><br />Sex, as opposed to Wet, Wet, Wet’s 90’s hit, is all around us. It is heavily used in advertising, music lyrics, music videos and themes of movies. Media pushes the philosophy that sex is fairly easy…both to acquire and accomplish. I however, oppose this theory. Though on paper I am no better than our beloved Hank, I have to speak up against the fact that it is all straight forward. For as much as I have had decent “practice runs”, it always seems borderline unreal that it is actually happening…and, to me.<br /><br />From the first awkward experience in the back of a car behind a public library (classy, I know) to the more vanilla of the bedroom, sex has always seemed something surreal to experience. Now before anyone thinks this is going to be an over romanized diatribe about how beautiful the whole thing is or should be, settle down, for I chastise the very basis of the festivity of copulation and its by/pre products. <br /><br />Yes boys and girls, for all of the conquests, the checks on the “guy list”, proper romantic passions shared and one night stands endured…I loathe the pressure put by the fact that its “only natural”. Bull! The fact that everywhere around us, we are told that it’s a simple case of girl mildly likes boy, boy doesn’t care just so long as girl holds still long enough, boy inserts penis, girl moans, everyone (not the girl) climaxes, end scene, infuriates me. The simple truth is that I have regularly suffered one version of erectile dysfunction (ED) or another during many if not all of this, the most simple and “obvious” of human activities.<br /><br />ED is a mechanical failure as much as it is a psychological one. Studies have shown that when the hamsters are too busy upstairs, things south of the border don’t feel like playing their part. Like the footballer that begs the coach to put him in, then pulls a hamstring making his first pass, I have enjoyed the crippling effect of the latter.<br /><br />I am proud, in some sort of really dysfunctional way, to say that I have endured some of the biggest character building situations in modern day history. From the lack of the ability to climax, to the lack of ability to find where on earth its supposed to go, to the final piece of the holy trinity, equipment failure! Now, we could easily place focus on the fact that my penis is just as self loathing as I am, or that the one affects the other (because I do sincerely believe they are two separate entities) but I think the context that exists has to be appreciated…and well, articulated.<br /><br />See, my initial thoughts as a younger man pre sex, was that prematurely taking the penalty kick was the worst thing that could happen. As such, my hamsters banked this fear as priority above classified and I think, put the proverbial “cap” on any clichéd experience. Then there was my first sexual experience. Being with a woman that was experienced, I expected that all I had to bring to the table was an erection…wrong. It appeared that I needed to have a vague idea of where to put my penis along with what seemed to me as the most unnatural thing in human behavior, the dreaded missionary thrust!<br /><br />Now, to say that my little soldier did his darndest would be a grave under appreciation of his attempts. That said though, I believe that the awkwardness (emotional and physical) led to a decent amount of loathing being festered toward myself for not knowing what to do, and towards my unwitting partner. All this did, was portray sex as the devil. I’m of the opinion that I then even somehow developed what I believe is clinically called “Vagina Fear”…the documented medical definition being when the penis is erect and unsure if the next step, being penetration, is really what it (said penis) wants.<br /><br />Anyway, all that led to drama, tears, and me smoking…and loathing. Not entirely the Hollywood-esque routine of man, woman, sex, climax, nicotine. Moving forward, my next encounter was a few months later and as my penis had the memory (if it was the only thing resembling the related size) of an elephant and proceeded to freak out. Though full penetration was obtained, happy feeling felt, climax proved unattainable. Enter further thought. Considering that partner was pretty much anything a hot blooded hetro male would want, I struggled with the notion that it wasn’t enough to get me off…for God’s sake, I was an Olympic medal winning masturbator, this was the same, but better…right? Wrong again.<br /><br />Enter more thought. For along with penis size, premature ejaculation and the lack of a homing beacon guiding my way, I then began to contemplate my nakedness, my ability to physically keep up (this would be the thrusting motion) and lest we forget, the self loathing. See, for me, sex for some reason, always seemed surreal. The concept that someone would put themselves in such a vulnerable position, for me, seemed, awesome, in the context of how the word awesome was meant to be used, not like the teenage mutant ninja turtles way. It almost always seemed like something that shouldn’t have been happening to me. Though I know that I should take full responsibility for the actual opportunity presenting itself, I couldn’t help thinking…”I wish my friends were here”. Not in a vile voyeuristic sorta way, but to high five me that I was actually getting laid. Needless to say, the plethora of thoughts hindered performance beyond the realms of my actual physical profile.<br /><br />As I became better at the game of getting women to actually want to sleep with me, my thought process about being a premature ejaculator faded, but many (thoughts) of the others remained. As such, sex with me became like a Keith Sweat song theme…all night long. Essentially only stopping when one or both parties were tired or one (not me) was tired of getting off…and subsequently got off. I was left, unsatisfied. Many were left, questioning.<br /><br />It was sad to note that perhaps a majority looked within themselves as they felt responsible with not being able to do this simplest of human activities as per its predefined script. The truth however, was, as much as it sounds like a cliché, it wasn’t them, it was me. And so the numbers continued to tally up, the positions changed but the coital climax still remained elusive. Until…<br /><br />With a greater thought processes within myself (one of the hamsters decided to re prioritize the “thinking during sex file” again), my once steady and reliable penis, had begun to fail me. With what I thought was newly discovered mechanical failure, I ventured forth trying to essentially “walk it off” with a trial and error philosophy. Let’s just say that the test subjects weren’t all that impressed.<br /><br />As the erections (with partners) continued to fail in differing context, the self confidence so too continued to die down (pun unintended), like…er….going to leave out the simile for that one. And so began the sexploits with my “umm friend”. Which though sporadic over a decent amount of time, became the go to scenario. And yes, at that very point, it was 5 years of sexual quasi experience, but never a climax in any way, form or semen shape. Until she did something really right. And then it happened again, and then again, and then again. In fact, she got so good at doing that, that that’s all she wanted to do. Unfortunately, that thing was not penetrative sex, and so, the already Grand Canyon rivaling void with “normal process”, grew larger.<br /><br />The most pressing inspiration for this post is in fact, that since her, I have “tried” to have sex with another, with comedic consequences. For during that latest foray into what has become a predefined path of carnal knowledge, I have had the most humbling of experiences. Mechanical failure beyond Elizabethan or Biblical proportions. For when a man hears the line he rates up there with such cult horrors as, “there is a lump”, “your sperm is dud” or “Liverpool have won the league”….”Is it in yet?”, everything changes!<br />I found it hilarious. For some retarded reason, all I could do, was laugh…for during the process of which my penis went from being erect, penetrated and dead, I had play by play questioning commentary…in my head.<br /><br />With each thrust that my erection became weaker (which wasn’t many), I began thinking that I was more just bashing her nether regions with my groin than making Don Juan de Marco type love. When she eventually asked the question, all I could do, was refer to the questions that were already in place…”Am I even in?”, “I wonder if she can feel how fast its fading?”, “I wonder if I shouldn’t have done triceps at the gym today?”, “oh shit, am I even hard?”, “holy crap, I went from hard to soft whilst being in her, does that mean my penis is minute?”, “can I use the fact that she is so wet as an excuse or take it as a compliment?”, “I wonder if United will buy another striker this season?”…<br /><br />She took it like a trooper, and we agreed that it was funny. Since then, my beloved member has come to the party, on occasion, as further attempts (she still let me) to have sex lasted longer, but a similarly disappointing ending. One thought kept bouncing around, the fact that it was missionary (queue flashback memories). As I believe I am a heavy boy, with a less than grandioso penis, this allegedly most natural position, is most unnatural to me, as yes, I had become very much a girl-on-top or boy-behind-girl type of guy. My council tells me, that as with a dodgy golf swing, only with practice, will the problem be exorcised…and that, my esteemed audience, are where we are at…<br /><br />To conclude, I share a few of my meandering thoughts about the matter of coitus, or in my case, coitus interruptis. ED, with its most recent starring role, has definitely made itself an important fore and after thought in my day to day dealings. I now question whether I will be able to even have children, for should the erection last, the climax seems as existent as the clitoris (I’m just kidding ladies). But yes, it is a weird sorta fear, even though I have no interest in having children at this point.<br /><br />Due to my lack of actual sexual ability, which I gladly disclaim and advertise, I have become pretty damn epic at the concept of foreplay and acquiring a non penis penetrating related orgasm out of the core demographic. Though some have chosen to enjoy the fruits of my self deprecation, many have chosen to focus on the fact that it was either sad that that’s what I would prefer doing (which is pretty awful I think, considering I am trying to get you off here!) or even worse, condemned me, for being this good, means I am actually pretty bad, in the context of practice makes perfect…the inference being that being a philanderer allows the technique to be tested and proven.<br /><br />The human psyche is an intriguing piece of engineering. Well, that’s as logically as I can state it. The well documented fact that women can go from hot to dry (yes, that is an actual path) in 0.2 seconds is exclusive by virtue of genitalia, is in my opinion, wrong. For though, on occasion, by penis has shown its more tenacious side, it too aborts mission pretty dramatically based on a rift in the force…be it a tasteless statement, or maneuver poorly executed or any other number of dramatic fails.<br /><br />Where does it all end folks? Do I just need to get drunk every time to start getting over the enormous load of issues my hamsters choose to process? Do I seek salvation in the little blue pill and hope that my thoughts won’t override drugs? Or do I just wave to a world lacking context, passing by? Libido…check. General working parts….check. Does not prematurely ejaculate…check. Comfortable in own skin….check. Clear mind….I dare you…<br /><br /><br />“A pair of powerful spectacles has sometimes sufficed to cure a person in love.”Pedro Zoydberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06434704501054067265noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9152172945489549598.post-13421647640584149642008-11-12T08:00:00.000-08:002008-11-16T23:34:00.818-08:00Blurry<span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">I have spent the last few months, post last blog, proactively trying to live my life the way I want to…amongst other things, salsa lessons, attempts at learning to play the guitar, reading, writing my screenplay and going to the gym…in the moments that work (and self indulgence in the form of laziness) has not consumed me…<br /><br />These times have been punctuated by the odd attempt at quasi romance and include pearler one liners such as “what does this mean to you”, “I’m not normally like this” and “It’s so comfortable with you”…all have dripped with bullshit. The only bit that’s an epiphany to me is the fact that that bullshit is not only from one party.<br /><br />In the time since my last post, which proved to be terribly therapeutic and cathartic, despite the castigation and worries of friends, I have felt better than I have for most of this fucking year…a year that somehow managed to be more of waste than the regrettable drudgery of 2007.<br /><br />At a place of all too familiar confusion, apathy and yet, frustration, far too early in the year than normally experienced, too much of this fucking year has hinged on the whims, reactions, retorts and actions of others. For a person that considers himself to be fairly centered and well rounded, I have let myself be affected by far too many of the inane and dispensable category.<br /><br />I have not blogged for a while because for a decent part of my accidental sabbatical, I have been ok. As this page has become my safe place to rant, bitch, vent or judge, I lacked the required material to populate with anything worth reading, or for that matter, worth writing. I could have blogged about rainbows and butterflies and the sweet smell of rain in the fucking morning, but that would be too much of a stretch even for my imagination. For though I have not been as fucked off, as disenchanted, as disinterested as I normally have been for this God forsaken year, I haven’t quite felt an inkling of contentment, let alone the sight of happiness on any proverbial horizon.<br /><br />In a world filled with valor and bullshit, honesty and cowardice, hope and regret, I find myself continually affected by the fucking variables that people are. Though this post was inspired by specific events, ultimately, the combination of recent events have provided the ambition and back bone of it.<br /><br />Yet again, despite my not so squeaky clean endeavors, I find myself affected by the fucking opaque and vague actions of people…<br /><br />As has become form, my posts tend to have a theme…a defined bitch or rant, a question with conviction…this particular post finds me just needing an outlet with a need to ask the simple, age old question…WHAT THE FUCK?<br /><br />With waning interest in the very things that stirred my soul for decades, the shock at how others aren’t chocked or even swayed when their articulations drip with bullshit and a lack of faith in the general populace to acknowledge what the hell is going on and who they are, I find myself completely and utterly confused as to how to not want to say more than I have, which as it turns out, are volumes more than they would.<br /><br />With recent experiences ranging from half truths, to lack of empathy, to falseness in small doses, to bullshit in large doses, to down right lies, to self absorption, I can but see myself standing in a crowded space, screaming expletives without anyone even hearing a fucking word…well, something like that.<br /><br />The contrasting personas of people continue to intrigue me, as a person that borders voyeurism with a healthy interest in human behavior, I am constantly astounded by the fucking irresponsible retards you are.<br /><br />I am no martyr…I myself may have helped situations along their path, though pre defined some have seemed or even manufactured pheromones to assist a certain process along, but I still, despite any heed of “man codes” or reasoning within myself that people need to deal with their own lives, I have articulated truths…as often as I could, as sincere as it was…<br /><br />The period between the last post and now has included experience after experience beyond the norm. As my independent census has shown, these experiences, their sequence in time and their drama levels, do not oft occur…they have, however, in my life…and as such, I am fucked off!<br /><br />Burdens of perceptions that other people manufuckingfacture in their minds of a situation with people that don’t exist should not be my concern. Double standards and articulations of do’s and don’ts, questions for reaffirmation and not to leave the lesser spotted, down right fucking lie…<br /><br />Though I am a person who very much lives in his own head, with varying degrees of success, I find the lack of self analysis as shocking as it is fucking hilarious…What on earth are your hamsters doing? No deeper thought process of what one is saying, doing or as bad, projecting, yet with James Bond like confidence, resolute on the stance that the soap box they find themselves perched on is immune to questions, quizzical looks and just good old fashioned context…<br /><br />Ah, context, I love that word. For me, no other word should mean more to any one person, perhaps, its only decent competitors are “hope” and “empathy”. Whilst one contributor (to this post) is dismissive to the realities of life, love and everything else, another manufactures a perception of a situation, not leaving out others that down right just don’t process a damn thing or as harsh, are dismissive to how damaging the double trouble combo of “double standards” actually is.<br /><br />I guess its just a case of my cup runeth over, with regards to the lack of context and empathy that people have had, and the of course, the fact that those “issues” have been either one of, caused by me or happened to me.<br /><br />One insightful, eloquent, and very centered contemporary ventured the thought that we are in fact our state of mind and tried to make sense of my mental state. His words were sharp, to the point, honest and fucking true. Despite what was an awesome case for the defense in the trial of “Context versus bullshit”, he over looked one critical factor, or rather, and with a certain amount of validity, dismissed the issue of empathy…mine in particular.<br /><br />With ambition that rivals the next Everest summit party and Obama combined, I can’t help but fucking feel and hope…this is the Achilles heel to my Brad Pitt…that despite my best efforts to control my own universe, I let people in, and allow myself to see them as people with similar thought processes, and for that matter, thought in general…how wrong I am to give such hope and empathy to people that lack the respect for context…<br /><br />I am tired. Emotionally. The pendulum swings as high as it does evenly and its imaginary Comet like tail leaves with it a residual of deep, depressing, introspection and all too little, the after glow of growth and improving self worth…<br /><br />We are taught to worry about ourselves, with an eye to not fuck anyone around more than is absolutely needed, if in fact it is needed. We are taught to be strong, self reliant and street smart. Eloquent and articulate. The one thing we aren’t taught, is how to fucking grow up and even if our life depended on it, deal with the fact that there are things we should control, things that we cant control but should accept and things that we can do to make someone else’s journey that little bit less arduous, and empty…even then…its just a case of context, I guess…<br /><br />I know that this post has nothing but grey all over, alas, a more truthful rant would be less affective towards me dealing with these issues and far too direct for the hapless fucktards that stirred the thought process in the first place. Suffice to say, that the levels of bullshit and complete lack of respect for context that I have recently experienced is as overwhelming as it is real. The sick cycle carousel continues and people shan’t change. These are things I know all too well, but without hope that people grow, deal and make the necessary upgrades within, I face the very disheartening option of an even lonelier existence. Because as the list of people that appreciate the person that I am, in context, shrinks, the constant reminders that I am very much, the only one that will completely get me grows…<br /><br />A rousing fuck you to those that impose, manipulate, chastise, critique and generally don’t appreciate context. I hope you grow as a person. In context.<br /><br /></span><em><span style="font-size:85%;">“Make the most of your regrets; never smother your sorrow, but tend and cherish it till it comes to have a separate and integral interest. To regret deeply is to live afresh.”<br /><br />“This is your life, and it's ending one second at a time.”</span></em></span>Pedro Zoydberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06434704501054067265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9152172945489549598.post-85648411188519479052008-08-19T15:12:00.000-07:002008-08-19T16:00:36.904-07:00Disenchanted<span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;">As inspired by David Benioff in 25th hour…<br /><br />Fuck societal institutions. The need to find a safe and secure place in your life. Go to school, the false perception of a higher education, find a job, find a girl, get married, settle down, buy a house, have dinner parties, have a child, buy another house, have another child, have a braai, buy a better car…when does it fucking end? A never ending search to find a fucking pillar that you can rely on, but what the fuck does that mean? A reliable job, a reliable partner? Raise a child to continue your name in ignorance? Fuck that, and fuck all those people that accept this as a standard that they should strive for in their lives.<br /><br />Fuck social standards and perceptions. Fuck the pampered boys and dolled up girls. Fucking manicured toes and designer gear. All adding to the fucking façade that you are. You aren’t fooling anyone you dumb fuck! Grow your hair into a mow hock, shave it off, grow it back longer, color it in, cut it again, give me a fucking break you fake piece of shit! The girls with the breasts perky, asses out, selling themselves for whatever fucking retard that best compliments them as yet another fucking accessory. Honey, you look like a real life blow up doll, worth a look you may be, but what you inspire in me, is fucking violence. The boys strolling around like fucking peacocks trying to attract the maximum number of looks based on the coolness they exude. Shut the fuck up with the grandioso hook ups and parties you false, fake, walking, talking insecurity.<br /><br />Fuck the institute of marriage and what its done for an old school romantic retard like myself. People settle down with the no importance on the word fucking “settle”. A perception of what they want, what they believe they can only get or fuck knows what else. The removal of some of the financial burden with the “dual income” concept. Are you fucking serious? Men, have their head turned by every other tart, forking out tons of money on strippers and prostitutes, how the fuck did you let it get to this, and willingly! Women looking around and realize that their men aren’t anywhere near happy and that their set up is more of one of companionship fueled by the fear of being alone (which is true for men too) and more of a fucked up platonic friendship. One where trust quasi exists because neither party has enough energy to articulate how fucked up it really is to come home to another “how was your day, dear” conversation. This is your fucking life and you are watching it pass by. People go through the fucking hoopla and drama of going through the fucking ritual, invitation list and catering only to go back on their word and call it a day, for reasons that vary from infidelity to just “not working anymore”, are you fucking kidding me? If you weren’t blinded by the concept, you may have realized how retarded he is or how superficial she was. Play the fucking victim and blame the situation at home as validation enough to fuck someone else. Own your fucking situation; put your hand up and fucking leave with some sense of self worth still in tact!<br /><br />Fuck beauty/health magazines and the pressure they put on me to lose 10 kg. The fucking impression that when someone describes someone as “average weight and build” they don’t fucking mean me, who the fuck are they? Preaching grooming techniques, work out techniques and cunnilingus techniques, give me a fucking break! Hairless washboard abs, completely disciplined lifestyles, fitted suits, am I supposed to buy into the hope that this is what a real man is right now? In the absence of the “hunter gatherer” concept this is what will constitute me finding a decent mate and a comfort within myself, fuck you! Women’s magazines preaching techniques on how to dress this summer and how to blow your man next winter. What the fuck does it matter when on the one page that they preach how to please your man, and on the next, they articulate the need to not feel objectified. News flash you fucking retarded journos, that’s why men watch porn. Do me a fucking favour and think about how the term fuck is used in context of sex, not her fucking him, but him fucking her, as a fucking object!<br /><br />Fuck family and their neediness and attachment to the perception of fucking “duty”. Just because you are born into a household you are expected to fulfill someone else’s fucking belief system with regards to religion, sexual preference and general relationship management. Fuck that, I didn’t ask to brought here, yet I’m supposed to be fucking thankful to you. Well, allow me to thank you…for the first time I was dumped and felt heartache, for the first time you didn’t have money for something I wanted, for the first time I didn’t have money for something I wanted, for not protecting me against life’s harsh realities and having to deal with it before I should have, for me having to go through the concept of not being good enough, for me hating myself and for fuck loads more of other unnecessary disappointments that I have had to put up with. It is expected that I am supposed to be a certain brand of family member, caring, giving, considerate, why the fuck? Just because of blood ties I am expected to keep in touch, reciprocate affection and thoughtfulness. Fuck that! The concept of having a child has been severely warped. People need to look within themselves. Younger people looking to older people to help them, older people looking to younger people to need them, fuck off, is that why I am here, to validate your existence?<br /><br />Fuck the different degrees of friendships and the need to not so subtly be yourself in it. To preach loyalty and not act accordingly. Murmurs of gripes and difference of opinion. Give me a fucking break. If you want to be there, be there. Don’t fucking fake it, I would rather be alone, jerking off than have to believe that the perception of my quality as a friend is me making myself available to fix your fucking problems. They are your fucking problems. Busy fucking passing comments and thought about how you are better in a plethora of ways that I cant comprehend. Grow the fuck up and deal with your own fucking shit. Realize the short comings you have before you believe you have a stance to look down on me…look down on me, fuck you! Seriously, take ownership of your life, but is it that hard to not be a dick, if it is, then I guess that’s enough detail for me. I am fucking tired of giving the affectionate ear to repetitive stories and dramas, being the understanding, sensitive idiot whilst you don’t give yourself the time it would take to properly process the shit you have going on. Wake the fuck up and smell the java. You aren’t as cool as you think, you aren’t as funny as you think, you aren’t as witty as you think, you aren’t as good looking as you think and sure as fuck, you aren’t as smart as you think…own your own shit. Fucking whining malcontents that refuse to be more than they are. Holes in their perception of friendship and their fucking lives. Don’t judge me when you can’t even identify your fucking deficiencies!<br /><br />Fuck exes. Seeking random bits of validation and affection. What the fuck for? There was a reason you broke up with me, or I with you. Why do we go through the fucking circus of needing to give the perception that there is genuine care there. If you dumped my sorry ass, why the fuck are you still seeking to keep in touch? The fact that you broke up with me, doesn’t make me any less funny or witty or cool or fun to be with, sorry sweet heart, but this shouldn’t be news to you. Now you want all of the friendship and sincerity but none of the admin, fuck you! And for those that I broke up with, I guess I am the weaker one in that I want to make sure you are ok…I don’t seek validation or affection or random bits of flirty shit from you. More often than not, anything I have done, has been for some sort of warped sense of me bettering myself as a person. If I didn’t want to keep dating you, it must be for fundamental fucking reasons, along the lines of you being full of shit, or a variation there of…leave me the fuck alone. To both sets of exes, what we had, is long since dead, go fuck up someone else’s life. A few key thoughts, say what you mean, do what you say, stop using teeth during head, at some point, an erection needs to be used, I really don’t care about all of the fucking details in your day and the fact that your friends are giving you shit isn’t my fault, don’t fucking project! You having past admin that you didn’t deal with is also not my fucking problem and when you dump a guy, be honest, cos fuck knows, that would help him not want to smack you with a wrench when he sees you on the street. Stop hedging your bets, don’t bother with the perception that anyone is going to judge you for the things you do behind closed doors and at what times in your relationship, it’s just you and your partner. Start with dealing with your fucking baggage. I gave you all of me and you weren’t a first team player. I can only be sorry for that.<br /><br />Fuck the sanctity of self improvement and the need for me to better myself. To gain control of a life I am not sure why I’m living. To know when to stop, to know when to go on, to want to be more. More of fucking what? Be spiritually centered? Be comfortable with the facets of life that are all in limbo at any one point? Better my vocabulary, my literary reference material so that I can participate in conversations of fuck all importance? Why the fuck do I need to better myself? You fucking better yourself and find your emotional centre…maybe then you would wonder what the fuck its all for when you need to better yourself further still, cos fuck knows, it never ends.<br /><br />Fuck the perception of ambition. The need to grow my CV. Gain work experience, diversify my finance portfolios, expand my education through distance learning and off site courses. For what reason? To increase my salary band? The only immediate gain being that I get to buy more dvds which in turn leads to me not going out and interacting with fucking people. The need to travel the world? And find more of the same shit but with different accents? Pretty new buildings (to me anyway) with history laced bricks that have fuck all to do with who I am or who I will be? Fuck the perception of ambition and the fact that those that believe they have it are better than those that just don’t give a fuck!<br /><br />Fuck racial prejudice. Well, for that matter, fuck religious prejudice, fuck class prejudice and fuck homosexual prejudice. Judging someone because they chose differently from you? Fuck you, you short sighted, retarded fuck. Its fuck wits like you that stagnate the human race. Gather some fucking like minded friends, go to a random barn and commit mass suicide. You will not be mourned, you will not be missed. You dumb fucks.<br /><br />Fuck stereotypical fuckheads that force me to spend hours picking my name off the floor. Based on my skin tone and place of birth I have to spend fucking eons answering questions on how come I’m not like the stereotype or being judged on it without a defense. Fuck the need to fit in and its knock on effect on the concept of every stereotype. Jews are miserly with their money, Muslims are terrorists, blacks are violent and steal, Indians in this fucking country are like those from fucking india and whites are afraid of everything not like them. Fucking idiots that buy into this bullshit should not procreate. But what’s worse, is those of the stereotype, perpetuating it further…Jesus fuck, be your own person. Stop being a fucking sheep for a weekend and maybe, just fucking maybe you may actually figure out what the fuck you want and truly enjoy, as an individual.<br /><br />Fuck you Zoydberg…fuck the need to feel like a fucking victim. Like you are the only fucking one going through the mass overflow of thoughts and emotions. Fuck the need to be a whining bitch about the things you have the power to change. Fucking retarded complaints about all that is not well and as per your fucking wants, but do you do anything about it, no, just sit on your ass, and vent about how fucked up the world is, as opposed to how you hide behind your apathy…Poke holes in every facet of life and all the things you don’t like for whatever reason, but in the end, nothing changes. You are still in the same fucking hole as before and need to pull your finger out. Fuck you and your self perception of well articulated insight that shields you from yourself…Fuck you Zoydberg…<br /><br /><em>“We are the middle children of history. No purpose or place. We have no great war, or great depression. Our great war is a spiritual war. Our great depression is our lives.”<br /><br />“Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else's opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation.”</em></span>Pedro Zoydberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06434704501054067265noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9152172945489549598.post-62120060404573719792008-07-04T00:19:00.000-07:002008-07-04T03:50:42.519-07:00Butterflies and Hurricanes<span style="font-family:verdana;">This post is more of a question than my usual strong opinionated or random rant efforts. What is this Zimbabwean million dollar question you might ask, well, it’s “Am I good luck Chuck?” When one of my closer friends strongly suggest I see this movie (read Good Luck Chuck) I immediately thought it was in reference to my affection for the uberly hot Jessica Alba (who is in the movie). Instead it was his not so subtle suggestion that it was a movie that compared closely to my actual love life. See, the basic theme of Good Luck Chuck, is that every woman that he dated/hooked up with ended up finding the person she would be with for the rest of her life after him. As in, the very next person they were to date was their quasi soul mate/life partner/person that completes them. Now, before anyone thinks that my 25 year old self absorbed, highly insecure existence is thinking about settling down and finding Miss Right, the motivation for this post was due to recently discovered information as well as thoughts of the past.<br /><br />In Good Luck Chuck, he would date a woman, they would break up with him (or him with them) and the very next person they were to date became their husband. Granted, some of you romantic cynics out there may see this as a curse more than some sort of positive outcome, I however find just it disconcerting.<br /><br />A little re-cap and historical context. The recently discovered bit of information is that my first ever girlfriend (and only girlfriend in high school, yes, yes, I was the cool, indifferent loser) that I dated for an entire 2 week period, has gotten married. This “relationship” of ours was all of 8 years ago. She started dating her now husband, the very weekend we broke up…THAT WAS 8 YEARS AGO! We lasted 2 weeks, in awkward conversation, some sort of physical attraction (well, I thought she had really blossomed) and she dated him for 8 YEARS! Sounds like no biggy, right? Well, strap in, prepare yourself for quite the ride.<br /><br />That was in 2000. My next girlfriend of note was in 2003. She, though a harlot and eventual philanderer, was the other part in an awesome month long rollercoaster romance. The tears had barely dried when she began dating someone else. THEY ARE STILL TOGETHER. Even the village bicycle has managed a relationship for the past 5 odd years. Yes, she may have had multiple partners whilst still being with before mentioned dude or been the dismissive disarming princess she was to me (maybe more committed), but they still lasted 5 years. Seriously now, what the fuck?<br /><br />The other ex from 2003, proceeded to date her next boy for approximately…5 years. Yes, that’s right. Their tumultuous and tempestuous relationship has gone on and on and included at least two engagements. They are still together and nearing engagement number three. We dated for 2 months. She is STILL DATING HIM.<br /><br />Members of the jury, I now turn your attention to the evidence of 2004. I dated her for almost 5 months. It was interesting, and sometimes really, really good. She started dating someone else a week after we broke up as a quasi revenge offensive. THEY ARE STILL TOGETHER! We, as what I refer to it, extreme dated for 5 volatile months before the dramatic end (in which I ended it because I was tired of being told what a shitty boyfriend I was and met someone else) yet she and her new dude are all systems go and well on the path to marriage. Am I the only one seeing a pattern here?<br /><br />We are now presented with the reason for above break up, the other relationship of 2004. I ended it and she didn’t take it too well. After a sabbatical from all things relationshipy, she started seeing someone in early 2005, yes, you guessed it…THEY ARE STILL TOGETHER! This is stuff that the greatest romance/thriller/fantasy/conspiracy theory novelists couldn’t come up with, even with guest contributions from Quinton Tarintino and Robert Rodriguez. She was a broken woman after our relationship, yet picked up the pieces and missioned ahead with her new guy. They are well on their way to marriage and aiming to emigrate together.<br />The drama of 2005 references the ex that actually saw suitors whilst we dated. Though those were decently ominous signs as it was, we dated for a record 6 months. It was generally good, till she validated an ex boyfriend more than me. They hooked up, again, after a 2 year period apart and …no prizes for guessing, they are STILL TOGETHER! I mean, what the hell man? We were good together, it was all rainbows and butterflies, but at the first instance of drama, it was death by conversation. Instead, she works it out with the very person that was a real dick to her during dating and even post dating.<br /><br />We now get to undoubtedly, my most favorite story. The romantic tragedy of 2006. She was pretty awesome, we were pretty good together, her other personalities showed up and out voted the ones that liked me, that was that. We dated for a Nelson Mandela-prison-sentence rivaling 3 months. She started dating someone half an hour after me and…all together now, THEY ARE STILL FUCKING TOGETHER! We barely had a chance to discuss each others child hoods, favorite colors and other relationship shit yet she and her new man, have emigrated together. What the fuck dudes?<br /><br />Right, now that the evidence is in, we retire to our chamber to pass judgment. They could have just got on better with the next. The next could have been easier to be with. The next could have been better than me in every way possible. In certain cases, the next may have had more personalities than me and as such, been a better fit. The next could have been wealthier and perhaps have a bigger penis and uber abs. But seriously now…it was like I was bringing a knife to a gun fight, in hindsight.<br /><br />What do you think? The good people of the public domain. Some of you know me personally. Some even closer than that and some of you have just longed from afar. My best friend ventures the insightful “maybe it’s you dude”. As deep and profound as that may sound, I, a student of people and logic, can’t fathom that such a caveman conclusion fits. And even if it is the final prognosis, what are the symptoms and surely, sweet Jesus, surely there must be some sort of pharmaceutical experimental drug out there to aid my terminal state.<br /><br />Just a sequence of bad choice, bad luck, bad timing…or deeper issues on one party’s side? As I have articulated before, I’m not that bad looking (have been accused of being handsome by the odd sober woman), I am decently insightful, intelligent, charming and witty. I have a decent job (for those old fashioned retards that factor that into a man’s worthiness); I am good with kids, pets and old people. Moms love me, fathers at least don’t generally hate me and I play well with her friends. What might be the problem?<br /><br />Am I Good Luck Chuck and to be doomed. Destined to be some sort of lucky charm for women in their quest to find their preferable perfect fit? Resigned to fall, be left or leave and end up alone, whilst everyone else picks up the pieces and makes happy postcard-esqe memories. Sunday afternoon “comfy” sex and romantic weekends away? Fighting over what movie to watch, which shade of tan to paint the living room with and where to holiday? All, only after me?<br /><br />If that is the burden I bear, the cross that I carry, then pretty please, dear Santa, all I ask, is where the fuck is my Jessica Alba?<br /><br /><br /><em>“Rather than love, than money, than fairness, give me truth”</em></span>Pedro Zoydberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06434704501054067265noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9152172945489549598.post-78400767586256661272008-06-25T02:29:00.000-07:002008-06-25T02:31:17.430-07:00For reasons unknown<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";">Right…for the first time in eons, I went out clubbing a week or so back. It was a Friday night and part of the itinerary tied to a friend’s birthday. I am not generally the clubbing type. It’s not that I believe I’m above it, or too old or anything like that. It’s just that I’m over it. Yeah I bob my head to certain dance tracks on the radio here and there and fall into a nostalgic place when my home PC stumbles across old MP3s. But for the better part, the Zoydberg that enjoyed the concept of clubbing is well and truly in hibernation. Safely tucked away from the chaos of hard house, tribal beats and ecstasy filled evenings. I am not like those now non-smokers that chastise the cancer stick now that they have quit…clubbing was cool, just not my fit anymore.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";">Anyway, I digress. The one thing that always intrigued me about going to clubs (be them the hardcore ones I used to go to or the preppy, tartish efforts in suburbia) was the, as Martin Lawrence’s character once called it “scattered ass”. No disrespect to women, in fact, I have the highest regard for women, but the hootchies that go out, all dolled up, with next to nothing on, putting on a show on the dance floor with “fuck me” looks. It’s almost an audition for a new Brittney/Christina music video. Again, please heed the disclaimer; this is not me painting all women that go to clubs as this brand of female, but definitely, a large, large proportion. As a hot blooded man, with a decent libido, above mentioned hootchies certainly catch the eye and quickly enough accomplish their mission of gaining their fair share of looks from their core targeted demographic.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";">I can’t, for the life of me understand how such a grave number of women put themselves out like that. It’s almost a true animal planet-esque sighting…”and here we see the 19 year old uber hottie with midriff and severe cleavage showing and micro mini hiked up even further to attain the affection and attention of men she doesn’t even have interest in. Quite the task she has as she battles the massive amount of alcohol she has had, the massive amounts of alcohol they have had as well as her<span style=""> </span>6 inch heels. ” Again, please don’t get me wrong, ornithology (braces himself for impact from female friends for that one) is one of my favorite past times but the way that the whole thing plays itself out is quite fascinating.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";">See, I’m no Brad Pitt or Jude Law or Johnny Depp, I don’t have old money or too much of new money and there certainly aren’t washboard abs nor huge penis burdens for me, but I have been ok with the ladies. They seem to like me, though in warped shows of affection and tumultuous endings, but they like me enough to at least stick around for stints of time and don’t mind being seen with me in public. But I have never been able to chat up a woman in a club, properly, or with any sort of suave or swagger. The 4 times that I was successful (there is context, put the pitchforks away) all have their own interesting stories attached.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";">The first was by accident, she was attractive, uninterested in my come hither looks and couldn’t care less, I left, came back and was going to attempt to hit on her, but found some random drunken guy hitting on her, she found me a slightly more attractive option and said that I was her boyfriend and he was to leave…that catalyzed conversation, and led to high school action…after, and only after, she found out that I was funny, witty and charming.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";">The second (note, the 2<sup>nd</sup>, 3<sup>rd</sup> and 4<sup>th</sup> were all on cricket tour) was me playing wingman to my mate…he scored her very attractive friend I took her out to eat some hay…was painful, but was for the sake of the Man Code.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";">The 3<sup>rd</sup> and 4<sup>th</sup> was me, not really caring, them noticing that<span style=""> </span>I was part of a cricket squad from natal and returning soon enough, and everyone was decently tipsy to drunk…and that was that…they were more interested in the concept of than the actual person. I am convinced of this.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";">As the above summaries surmise, none of these cases actually have anything to do with the girl liking me. In fact, it was either due to her getting to know me, or just going with the flow of the context that I was able to put the proverbial points on the scoreboard. Which all just further backs up my age old ethos about myself…”I’m quite attractive once you get to know me”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";">The thing about me is, that I would, I guess, like to be found attractive for who I am, as that would validate my critiquing of those more superficial than me. Yes, very counterproductive, I know, but still how my warped mind works. That said, I don’t believe I am completely dodgy looking and have had the affection of some attractive girls. That is, however, only because I had the chance to speak to them. You see, a club does not afford someone like me, who puts so much stock in my abilities with my tongue (pun unintended) to err…eventually get to use my abilities with my tongue (pun intended). The music is too loud, the people are too tipsy and unfortunately, it’s more a case of first impressions that works the magic. I have fundamental issues with having to buy a girl a drink in order to buy her time as this infers prostitution (yes, yes, so does the date concept of dinner, movies, etc). The thing about the drink thing is, did you honestly get all dressed up and picture guys walking up to you to buy you drinks in order to flirt with you to get in to your pants? You seriously didn’t expect the man of your dreams to rock up and sweep you off your feet with you wearing hootchie heels and matching skank skirt? What does that say about him…you also could just have been out for a girls night, still looking like above mentioned 2 bit ho? All of this leads to the other fact, of which most of these women are aware and participate in, which is, to have the invisible “open for business” sign up.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";">The first thing a girl sees of a boy in a club is his looks, then his dancing ability. Both infer so much more about so much more. How he looks , speaks to his actual genetic makeup, his dress sense infers certain things about his taste in clothing and class factor as well as a certain something about the money he has access to. The way he dances infers his comfort with his own body and his confidence levels…all of which is conveyed in 2 simple minutes. Unfortunately, it would appear that most of these women that look attractive and have that sign up, are only looking for the best possible looking guy they can attract with the above mentioned qualities. I unfortunately, base any game I have on my ability to talk…which is nullified by the loud music, by the fact that they clam up already based on how I look (and what that infers) and a perception of what they want , and the fact that I am sober and they sorta aren’t…<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";">To conclude, my excuse for not being able to pick up a girl in a club are because she would have made her mind up before I have even delivered my hilariously funny, witty and charming opening line. And as such, I shall remain on my soap box, cos who wants those uber hot, low moral fiber tarts anyway! Give me a girl with context, for goodness sake!<o:p></o:p></span></p>Pedro Zoydberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06434704501054067265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9152172945489549598.post-87967566608947312382008-06-05T10:11:00.000-07:002008-06-05T10:13:56.867-07:00Straight jacket fashion<p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">These last few weeks I have been spending a lot of time on my own. Awaiting the alone time that the 5 PM bell brought on a Friday afternoon. In this time, I have, as expected by those that may know me, spent most of those evenings watching random movies and comedy shows. Most have not been toilet humor and as such, with some sort of message embedded throughout the running time or at the very end. Random thoughts were provoked about pretty much every facet of my life. My career, friendships, relationships and family. The one particularly random thought that popped up was…”who?” Nope, not whom I would wed, or who I want to become or whom I want to leave my enormous (err…ya) wealth to, but rather, who are the top 5 people I would like to meet…dead, mythical or alive.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">I have been blessed in this regard as the combination of my personality and circumstances have afforded me plentiful opportunities to interact with many interesting people. I guess if one of those people was someone that was genuinely kind and generous and selfless, I have already met him; in fact, I had the esteemed pleasure of growing up with him (my middle brother, Doc). If on my list was to meet the most beautiful girl in the world, well, I see them (there are two, equally gorgeous) every week and they shower me with unadulterated affection (my beloved nieces). If it were the funniest person that does not have a commercial contract, well, we email every week or so.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">But before this sounds like a mushy ode to my family members or friends, this is in fact a list of people that I think would fascinate me in the entire length of a 3 hour, once off session. It’s a case of where they’ve come from, what they became and how they have intrigued or touched my life.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">It is worth articulating, that I don’t read, so that rules out the great authors of our existence. I can’t respect the amazing literary efforts of certain documented geniuses because I just lack context. I’m sorry, and I’m sure that if I had the want or exposure to great pieces of literature, I would definitely have had at least some of them on my list. The same upfront excuse goes for my respect of most great historical figures. Your Churchhills, Napoleans and such….unfortunately, I just don’t know enough to know that I would want to slot them in. I know Napolean was a hobbit and Winny had a drinking problem and it did sound like he was an inspiring character, but ya, not enough to crack the nod, sorry guys…<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Right, enough with the foreplay…who makes the grade and why…<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Let’s start off with the slightly commercial choices…the first being, Robbin Williams. Yes, Mrs Doubtfire, Mr Keating, Man of the Year. I am sure that most of what he has done from a movie point of view was all a part of the great scripting process by some guy in his basement (or office, based on his success) and not uber improv, but there is something about Robbin Williams that speaks louder than his impersonations. His ability to mimic and quite competently impersonate people, situations and red necks (because they seem to be a category on their own) is entertaining and engaging. But my want to meet him is primarily for some of the roles he has played. No they haven’t been Oscar winning movies and expensive, over the top Hollywood efforts, but the dialogues that he signs up for, speaks volumes of the man. His eyes articulate so much more than the average quasi A list actor and when you couple that with his actual comedic abilities, you can’t help but want to have a sit down with the man and get to know him a little better…if the age old adage of “the eyes are the window to the soul”, then this man certainly is worth delving into, well, my thoughts.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Right, time for the second…yes, yes, it’s a bit of a cliché but its Tiger Woods. The man (a young black one) took the world of golfing (run by old white men) by storm and has remained there for eons. The ability to excel at the level of competition that he has is one of unimaginable heights. The concentration required to unequivocally dominate is truly remarkable. Only Micheal Schumacher, Valentino Rossi and Roger Federrer may have rights to be on that same podium, but even they have such blips on their CV that its questionable. Sportsman of the year a few times over and quickly catching the great Mark Nicklaus (who played till he was 233) are only 2 milestones on his impressive run of world dominance of a sport that requires much more than brute force, supreme physiques and outstanding technological advances. Then there are the typical issues of how he has stood the test of time, fighting the stereotype of being a huge US sports star (with endorsement deals that would solve world hunger) and being black (well, sort of, he has like 5 races in him) and the fact that the sport that he is king of is one of supremely managed concentration. I think Tiger could teach us all a thing or two about how we could apply our minds better in our day to day dealings.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Then there is Mathew Bellamy. The lead singer and guitarist and pianist of Brit band Muse. No, my interest in him is not only that he kicks ass on stage, belting out uber rock songs, but also his appreciation of the ability to improvise. His instrumental talents are spellbinding and to work just one of those instruments would be a dream accomplished for most. I cannot articulate just how talented this man (and his writing skill) is and I’m sure that pound for pound there are only a few others, past or present that would rival his abilities. It’s not just that he can do what he does, but with the ease and grace of someone that is so comfortable and confident with his skill, plus, the music they make is out of this world. His singing style is another not so typical stance on how music should be churned out. <span style=""> </span>Then there is the fact that he is a strong believer of life on other planets and is a champion conspiracy theorist…the making of an interesting meeting, I think so.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">And then there were two…Step up Adolf Hitler. Yes, as cruel and insane as his crimes were, from what I know of the Holocaust, this man had the ability to inspire (or brainwash or put fear in) an entire country. To make so many people, probably decent people that would have lived normal, vanilla lives do such horrible things to innocent people, are truly remarkable and must rank him as one of the greatest motivators ever. From what I know, he muscled a few situations but somehow, with whatever techniques, made so many follow his will and more importantly, his vision. Can you even imagine how he must have been with his friends, outside of killing innocent people based on his delusional thought process? Did they sip a beer and discuss how their favorite team was playing without their Jewish midfield playmaker…or did they discuss stuff like how traffic is a bitch if you a working in town? Or how children these days grow up so fast? I mean seriously, what the fuck went on in that psychos mind, bar the retarded concept of purification? I don’t even know where I would go on to, from “Hi Adolf, I’m Zoydberg”…perhaps “So, killing people in really fucked up ways, what’s that like?”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">And finally, and if he existed (or not even)…Jesus Christ. Yes, as someone who is agnostic or Religion Light as I like to call it, I question whether JC even existed. I mean, he has this massive worldwide following, had wars fought and blood spilled in his name and is the reason why at least 2 women I have dated did not put out, obviously the man has got some pull. The question of his existence is not under examination here, it’s just that it would be pretty cool to ask him questions related to how things started, that supreme A-hole Judas, and of course, how things turned out since. Again, not a topic I am incredibly well read up on, but from what I know, I think it would definitely make for an interesting Q and A session. We could bounce across these allegations of homosexuality being a straight path to hell (do not pass begin, do not collect R200), we could talk about how faith in him is the only path to heaven (or be faced with Route 666) and we could talk about those 2 women that didn’t put out…I’m thinking the water and wine stuff would come up, and most importantly, is this how he wanted it to turn out (as in was he maybe just spreading the rough teachings of Buddhism), was this his vision of what it was going to be or did people take it and royally fuck it up and how? I guess, I know how I could start the conversation…“So, play any sports when you were a kid, or would that have been unfair in the “My dad” argument?”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">“<span style="font-style: italic;">The only thing that we can be sure off, is that we don’t know enough</span>”<o:p></o:p></span></p>Pedro Zoydberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06434704501054067265noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9152172945489549598.post-57816409772116700842008-05-18T23:30:00.000-07:002008-05-19T01:00:47.624-07:00Endlessly<span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; font-family: verdana;">It’s been a long time coming, but I think I have finally accumulated enough (who am I kidding, I was ready to write this in 7<sup>th</sup> grade) context to write an autobiographical account of my life’s romantic tragedies. Granted, I have previously articulated my thoughts on romance, but purely from a philosophy or “how it should be” or “what I think it should be” sort of view.<o:p></o:p></span> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">We date back to my first ever “dare to be great” moment in which I(grade 7) revealed to my first crush, let’s call her A, that I in fact had this funny feeling in my tummy every time she entered the room and made me lose control of my brain whenever she looked at me and all I wanted to do every time I saw her was to awkwardly kiss those gorg</span>eous lips and hold that soft hand. After all, what did I haveto lose?<span style=""> </span>It was the last day of school and she and I were going to different high schools. How bad could it be right? It would turn out to be a rejection that only I would know about and would not have to face on a day to day basis. WRONG! On revealing this childish, pubescent feeling I was greeted with: “well, Zoydberg, I don’t like you like that. I actually have a huge thing for Random_Boy.” Instead, he wasn’t that random, he was my best friend. I then proceeded to hook them up….every romantic experience since, as John Cusack’s character once said, has been a different version of the same thing….Zoydberg the martyr.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Skip forward a few years to high school…let’s call her B. Smart, witty, God damned attractive and super popular…”Err, B, I have to tell you, that my mother told me never to tell a girl I would move heaven and earth for her, but for you, I would”…”sorry, Zoydberg, I see you as a gay best friend and feel comfortable enough with you to change clothes in front of you, but what’s up with Random_Guy2, he is so hot!” Also, not that I seek such circumstances, but random dude turned out to be new best friend in high school. He didn’t need much help (or quasi permission) to cure her curiosity. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Fast forward a few more years and I start dating the first woman I was to fall in love with, C. Granted, she had a wee bit of a reputation before we hooked up. I however, soon discovered that there was a plethora of awesomeness to her that she needed to realize. I validated her, she proceeded to be philandering and dismissive partner that ensured I owned the title of “broken ex boyfriend”. Christ she looked stunning the day she dumped my ass!<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Skip through the puntuatory(yes, just made that up) dates or random hookups and we have documented experiences of dating someone that actually met “suitors” set up by her family(D)… then, super emo who was oh so promising then turned out to have more personalities than a talented ventriloquist (“I love you like a brother”, thank you E), another that was also uber emo and uber promising and didn’t want to broach the issue that despite my best efforts I had her unhappiness on a hair trigger (F), the “I-think-you-rock-and-I-actually-do-want-you-but-we-can’t-be-due-to-insert_reason_here”, G and the made for TV in true Bollywood style, I-think-I-love-you-but-we-can’t-be-together for…err…still figuring that one out…H<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Not to leave out the initially promising I, who chose to try to “save me”, be dismissive and judgmental of those less fortunate, then want to shag me to keep me…J, who is smart, uber intelligent, cultured, liked me enough to want to be with me, but not enough to not want to mould me and make damn sure I articulated just how lucky I was to have her…K, whom I had a huuuge crush on, validated her more than her piss poor selection of boyfriends, and on rejection from them (always horribly inebriated, of course, cos she has too much pride otherwise) decides to articulate my awesomeness, before sobering up the next day, in which I was again safely tucked back in the Dawson’s Creek friendship box…Uber posh(and hot) L, who loved spending evenings in with me, but was too chic for such public displays…etc…etc<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Before you jump on your horse named High, there is much context to each. There always is. In every single one of these scenarios, be them in cases of me actually getting to date/be with X, Y or Z or merely trying to woo and win them, I have given and given and essentially, been the cavalier romantic fool I have given every impression I am. I’m the one that believes in the Hollywood romance of her getting off the plane after some uber epiphany that I really, really, do rock or the even less likely, her calling me to say she would like to give this a shot because life is too short and to regret is the worst thing in the world.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">I continually find myself convincing women to be with me. Trying to get them to see that I am actually attentive, sensitive, insightful, witty, charming, low admin and will make you feel like the most desirable woman on this planet. I remember the small, arbitrary details and glorify the important ones. Yet still, they enjoy the preview but don’t bother buying the season ticket. Dogged by perceptions of who I might actually turn out to be, their own unchecked baggage filled history or just confusion of what they want, I am the loser left with my heart quite literally on my sleeve.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Many quotes come to mind. There are no half martyrs or if you put everyone before you, you eventually end up last or it just wasn’t meant to be, but the one that echoes most eerily is that of you should never have to convince those that already know you.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Despite their best efforts, I choose to remain this terribly optimistic, hopeless romantic. Maybe a re-evaluation of my own worth and a lowering of the “BS acceptance meter” is called for, but if I don’t have the tenacity and lack of fear, who will?<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">“<i style="">It’s better to say too much, than never to say what you need to say</i>”<o:p></o:p></span></p>Pedro Zoydberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06434704501054067265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9152172945489549598.post-59741243786649609342008-03-30T04:49:00.000-07:002008-03-30T04:51:44.735-07:00Citizen Erased<span style="font-family:arial;">Life has become fairly stable…even good to a certain degree. As I continue to contemplate a career move, I make progress in other facets of my life…one of the notable mentions is that I have seen the almighty Muse live and as such have checked one more on the “To do” list. I haven’t blogged for a while cos I guess; I have been fairly ok with how things are right now…no specific need to vent or articulate frustrations or bitch really.<br /><br />So, I have been thinking about certain things and the re-watching of the Eternal Sunshine of the spotless mind has catalyzed a thought about not playing any exaggerated role in a few peoples lives. My martyrish take on things yet still trying to live out the carpe diem bit sorta conflict one another. This has led to me developing relationships with people whom have expectations of me, be it by action or reaction.<br /><br />I seriously question whether they would have been better off without the “disappointments” supplied by me. Whilst I am sure, that they would deny this and rather counter my thought process with a decent case of “I would rather have than not”, I doubt they have thought as much about it as I.<br /><br />Is it too selfish to want people to deal with their own shit or is it actually a very self absorbed thought. I really, really, don’t mind being a pillar or an ear or an audience, whatever the fuck they need at that point, but should they then not realize that they need to deal…in the end?<br /><br />Whilst I like helping people because I sincerely believe I can sort my own shit out better than most (melancholic bouts included) should they not at some point realize that this is the fucking hand they have been dealt, stop being a fucking victim and move forward with some sort of a game plan, resolution tactic or stop gap scenario?<br /><br />What I do find is that most of this shit that stirs in the pit of their souls causing this random bout of expectation from me, is in fact, history…stuff from a past. An action that needed more thought than they were willing to offer. A statement that should have been articulated in a more diplomatic manner, a guy that shouldn’t have been nuts after looking so promising, etc…or is that me being self absorbed again.<br /><br />Seriously, the fucking victim card thing pisses me off. I vent and bitch and in the end I fucking deal with it myself…I try to fix other peoples shit as well as my own. Is it fucking higher grade to realize that you are processing shit on a standard grade level and that hoping that other people will put up their hands to go salvation army on your sorry ass is retarded?<br /><br />I’m sorry that your life is not rainbows and fucking butterflies, I really am, but it is your shit!<br />If I had not existed in their lives, not assisted with being that pillar or ear or audience, would they still not have dealt with their shit but also not be disappointed by yet another person in their life?<br /><br />Honestly, I do wish for world peace, gender equality, the ceasing of animal cruelty, but for fuck sake, can you realize that you are going through either a mildly shitty or completely shitty time and deal? Do not make random, left field requests and believe that all is fucking well and fine when you go of the reservation and even worse, hope for validation when you have your own fucking shit to sort out!<br /><br />As dumb human beings, we try to validate our existence by wondering about what is the fucking reason….we are fucking animals, here to live, breed and die…the continuation of the fucking species. Yes, we have a greater logic and the continued ability to learn and that alone separates us from a fucking pack of hyenas, but they sort out the fact that they are hungry, that their litters aren’t reaching optimum age or they are lacking fucking water. We just bitch, whine and hope that somefuckinghow our problems will be solved. The way the world looks at us, the way that your job doesn’t fulfill you, the way that life is not working out the way you hoped…sorry, hoped? That would infer that you fucking thought about shit at least once in you life, what is so difficult about doing that again, at least this time, some of the variables have been mitigated. Would any of this be any different if you didn’t know me? Or would some other sad bastard be the one wondering if he could do more?<br /><br />Seriously, I give decent amounts of me to many people and I do it sincerely. I try my utmost to help others by either just listening or giving advice or even acting on thoughts. When I do that, I don’t expect a fucking Nobel prize, I just want you to realize that there is value in the people around you. In context if I am available to assist you, then that context would define how you handle me. If I wasn’t around, would you deal with your shit anyway or am I just the one that is projecting internally about your fucking problems?<br /><br />Relationships are all about fucking context…realize and respect the context and the relationship will no doubt flourish. All of this means shit if you are busy non processing your shit with half lies, evasions and fucking innuendos.<br /><br />I have met a plethora of glorious, super fantastic people that have made-for-Hollywood shitty lives and continue to be dealt shitty cards, but they mission on in a courageous and graceful manner and not hamper other people with wanting solutions or assistance to their sagas. Not only that, they continually give all of who they are, without condition whilst dealing with their own problems…and winning.<br /><br />Your life is not that bad. You are attractive, you are not that fat, you are smarter and funnier than you think, people do like you and find you interesting, he will accept it and move on, you will find another, you have to hope that you will start to feel better and in the name of Zeus Fuck, do you really think that asking “how can this happen to me” or “how can my life be this shitty?” would have any validity considering how you have treated, judged and manipulated in the past? But then again, maybe if I didn’t exist, you would have come to this conclusion anyway, without one more person that offered disappointments.<br /><br />Get over it, grow up and as Tim Robbin’s once Andy Dufresne said, “<em>get busy living or get busy dying</em>”…<br /><br /><br /> </span>Pedro Zoydberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06434704501054067265noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9152172945489549598.post-25425080069344624422008-02-17T06:37:00.000-08:002008-02-17T06:43:41.700-08:00In Pieces...<span style="font-family:arial;">Tagged!<br /><br />So, this is in a fairly random post and I guess infers that I don’t have anything too insightful or thought provoking to blog about. Should you need some insightful or thought provoking reading, please scroll to earlier posts.<br /><br />This post is in response to the almighty </span><a href="http://goldenbeagle.blogspot.com/"><span style="font-family:arial;">Golden Beagle</span></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> and her “tagging” which, if you haven’t read her blog, asks that I share 7 random or weird things about myself. Lucky for you guys, I am self absorbed and am only too happy to continue divulging arbitrary detail about me. These are, of course, the life and times of Pedro Zoydberg.<br /><br />Here goes:<br /><br />1) I am reading my first book since 1994 (yes, I didn’t even completely get through my set works in matric)…that book back in ’94 was Animal Farm and I was 11. I guess I will have to get rid of my adage “I don’t read, ever”<br /><br />2) My first kiss was just before my 17th birthday and my first sexual encounter was shortly after my 21st birthday! My memories of my first kiss is one of me talking and her pulling into me, mid convo! (tongue and saliva were not held back!) and my memories of my first sexual experience was “Good God, is it supposed to be this awkward… please stay up, please stay up, please stay up!”<br /><br />3) Sort of a follow on from the previous point…I have never climaxed during sex…ever! Since that first faithful day, a few women have found me mildly interesting enough (I wish my friends were there!) to shag me…that said…I have never even remotely been close to climaxing…*sigh*<br /><br />4) I cry during movies and certain sporting events. That is right, I am a stallion in the prime of my youth (certainly not a “Man’s man” though), but Braveheart, Gladiator, The Notebook, Shaun Pollock retiring, United winning the Champions League in ’99, amongst many, many others have drawn tears…that’s right…I’m a weeper.<br /><br />5) When I prepare to go out to bat (for cricket), I prepare the left side of me first…don’t know why, but its just this random habit that has popped up…left sock, right sock, left shoe, right shoe, left glove, right glove…I think you get the point<br /><br />6) I view my life as a movie…and every movie I see or song I hear, contributes to thoughts of whether I would have that bit in my final script/soundtrack (hindsight view of my life, post death) or not…from what songs would fit where (The Shins, Collective Soul, Seether, Coldplay, Lifehouse, etc) to which scenes resemble my life (The Notebook, Love Actually, Legends of the Fall, Fight Club, Garden State,etc)…it is true, movies almost seem more real life than real life does.<br /><br />7) My very best days (yes, there are a few), are…the day I played at Kingsmead Cricket Ground (the home of cricket in Natal), watched Collective Soul (a bit of a life goal, as the first time they were here, I was broke, studying for exams and a million miles away from seeing them due to other contextual life reasons), paying off my last installment of a R50 000 student loan on a really, really (you have no idea!) shitty salary in 16 months and finally, watching my brother graduate to become a doctor! My very worst day…the day I realized (and yes, I get the inconsistency) that amidst my martyrish one liners and actions, I will never know if I will ever truly be validated…<br /><br />There you have it…a quick peak behind the curtain.</span>Pedro Zoydberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06434704501054067265noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9152172945489549598.post-12958144017179879682008-02-04T23:50:00.000-08:002008-02-05T00:00:11.304-08:00Sad Story<span style="font-family:arial;">Right, to my masses that have been waiting with baited breath for my next post, the time of reckoning (and reading) is here. We first re-visit the plethora of dark, heavy and very emo thoughts that punctuated my last few months…they were all dark, heavy and very emo indeed. I have however overcome a great deal of them. I am pretty sure that a decent amount of the heaviness was exorcised with my decision NOT to go to the UK and rather choosing to seek employment elsewhere in this city. It is to be seen where this process will take me, as it is in its infantile state. But yes, it would appear that I had placed many tonnage on what and where my life would continue…I am happy to say, right here.<br /><br />Not soon after becoming comfortable with my above decision, Eskom decided to level up and completely and utterly fuck up many things…traffic and fresh coffee being the most important. I am however refusing to be a part of the masses of doom profits that have the opinion that our power dilemma coupled with the impending Zuma reign are the beginnings of an end. I think we will be OK. I think its going to be tough, but as a country, we will come through it…many candles later.<br /><br />Regarding my funk, well, the birthday was also a huge contributor to the dark cloud of depression that is usually reserved for talented musos, poets and artists. It was then, that with massive surprise that many people that I know made an enormous effort to validate me on this day…most notably, an unnamed, unknown friend/admirer/stalker proceeded to punctuate the day with a “gift hunt” across my employers many campuses. It was interesting, fun and very fulfilling…as of yet, I still have no clue who this wonderful person is and why they went to such great lengths to make me feel not so arbitrary, and I thoroughly appreciate your efforts and only wish I could thank you…however, if you for some really, really sad reason read this blog…THANK YOU!<br /><br />I had, what turned out to be quite a lovely birthday. To further the amazing race of gift hunting, a surprise birthday dinner was thrown with some of my closest friends and my beloved doc. A great evening was had and further validation felt.<br /><br />Now, on to the business end of things, as it has appeared to me, that I have over come my temporary funk and moodiness and am back to my self absorbed, self proclaimed inspirational, thought provoking, insight invoking self…<br /><br />It seems that I know too many people that are oh so comfortable with their own state of vanilla. I’m not saying that its not allowed (as prior posts will tell you, I feel that everyone has full right to this), but to hold on to it, and make it all you have with regards to feelings and experiences is terribly short sighted and severely life limiting. These people that I speak of are interesting, smart, charming, witty and attractive individuals, yet in my opinion, they lack any real desire to enjoy new experiences. They do have hope for these new experiences, but in my opinion are held back by their past, be them bad or good historical knowledge…they either linger on how glorious the past was or how deep the scar was or a good measure of both!<br /><br />I can’t understand it…for the life of me, I can’t. I am by no means the most interesting person I know, but these people are way more well versed with world knowledge, have their opinions and arguments in check and are just all round fantastic, but, they are chicken shit…building walls upon walls and taking a stand against life itself…it borderline infuriates me with how shamelessly they seek to take the safe haven of constants and not bother too much with the variables of this world and its people. How? How on earth can this be enough…how can such enchanting personalities be happy with such mundane thoughts about certain things so important…?<br /><br />To put yourself out there, is a very daunting thing, but to live a life protecting yourself from even the joys it offers, is truly criminal. For their sakes and for the people that they will touch, I hope the walls come crumbling down and human reaction/emotion runs free…for the world is a poorer place with such people running in neutral…<br /><br />“<em>You would say we were just a big mistake, I think its worth making…worth repeating</em>”<br /><br />And just cos it’s good to feel alive again…<br /><br />“<em>It’s not the years in your life that matter, but the life in your years</em>”</span>Pedro Zoydberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06434704501054067265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9152172945489549598.post-27358053658328773182008-01-07T08:26:00.000-08:002008-01-07T08:31:37.325-08:00No Surprises<span style="font-family:arial;">For the first time since I have started working, I have been away from it for 11 days (the most ever) over this most festive of festive seasons…and I felt…numb. Which is a bit of a paradox in itself…but none of that festive cheer bullshit or the feeling of giving or anything really?<br /><br />My folks were up here, so this time involved juggling my family, mates and the area that needed the most attention, my self. This insomnia ravaged time means that I am spending a decent amount of time in bed, waiting to fall asleep, or even worse yet, waiting for my mind to calm the fuck down enough for me to feel even an inkling of peace…but to little joy.<br /><br />Before I continue, I have to speak to recent conversations with fellow bloggers that have commented adversely about my blog. I’m sorry, but this is me, for the better part, in any case. I don’t seem inspired enough to write about just about anything. I do however thoroughly enjoy reading your rants on the randomness of life, but fear my cynicism on life at present would just lead to dark reviews of darker movies and enlightening tales of albums that do in fact highlight heart sore and aggravation. Then there is the case for idiot co-workers and recent acquiesces that require acts of violence to kindly shut the fuck up….I really, really don’t fucking care about what you did, ate or experienced!<br /><br />This Christmas, I spent a decent amount of money out of duty on those close to me, they did however have a greater amount of thought applied to them…more so than usual…the only gift that I hope adds serious value to someone’s life and shows them what they mean to me would be that of a gift to my beloved Doc. You fed my passion, I hope I have contributed to yours, in however insignificant manner.<br /><br />As I sit awake, on yet another fucking evening, well beyond normal sleeping hours, listening to random dark, morbid music filled with angst, I contemplate writing what a possible suicide note would read, or even better, a self eulogy…I however fear that that would attract the wrong sort of attention from those that read this that know me…everyone just calm down, I’m not going to kill myself…<br /><br />As my mind tosses and turns trying to wrap itself around a potential expedition to the UK for work and life purposes I find myself deeper in the chaos of my thought than usual. Often the harder thing to do, is nothing, but what sort of answer is that to life’s great quandaries?<br /><br />Right, back to the Christmas and New Year bit…as the title suggests, it has been par for course. Nothing particularly joyous (bar time with my nieces and nephew) struck nor decent insight into my sense of self. Yes, this is all really heavy and becoming very boring, I’m the last person that needs to hear it, but I just don’t fucking care about the random, arbitrary shit going on at that time of year that people indulge themselves in.<br /><br />I contemplate if this would have been the last New Year in this country for a bit or if this will become standard issue for the next little while. New Year, did however, once again underline all the usual bullshit of people.<br /><br />And no, I did not go in with the most morbid of morbid attitudes, I actually was quite neutral to the whole fucking thing…I did enjoy decent laughs, interesting conversation and way too much alcohol, but what the fuck…I could not be an absolute downer for all and sundry…<br /><br />I had no expectations, hope or agenda attached to this time period, other than to chill out and not concern myself with the rigor of work. Instead I experienced a visit from the ghost of Christmas past, someone close to me experiencing their own turmoil and the standard issue apathy to most else.<br /><br />Fuck, what I would give for a good nights sleep!<br /><br />I’m not entirely sure how I am processing shit at this point because it just seems like a plethora of chaos…I do however think the UK thing will probably fall through due to my reservations of my financial standing. Which then infers that one situation in my life would be nearing resolution, but who knows…<br /><br />My usual “best of the year” music cd compilation also no longer grabs with the same passion it once did and I find myself watching The Legends of the Fall, Fight Club, Donnie Darko, Garden State, Little Miss Sunshine, Closer, Stranger than Fiction and musical DVDs of Nirvana, Keane, Collective Soul and other randoms (30 Seconds to Mars, Panic Channel and The Kooks)….common factors amongst them? Not sure…Tristan is wild at heart, all those around him die and he is tormented by factors of his life; Edward Norton can’t sleep either and decides that anarchy is the route along with creating another personality to handle his deficiencies; Donnie has hallucinations, also becomes an anarchist and eventually dies with a plane engine falling into his room; Zach Braff something or the other accidentally paralyses his mother as a child and his father has him on valium into his mid 20s; Steve Carrel’s Frank failed in his suicide attempt and is roped along on an insightful, dark road trip; Jude Law’s philandering ways are rewarded with loneliness; Will Farrel is faced with his imminent death and then there is the music, with Nirvana in general, being dark and tainted with Kurt’s apathy in their most popular gig just before his death early the following year, Keane’s Bad Dream and Everything Changes contribute, whilst How do you love?, Needs, The Kill, Why Cry and Naïve all play their part too…<br /><br />Whatever, fuck it…I’m just tired…I guess I’ll shake it off soon enough…here’s to hoping cricket season gets going really soon!<br /><br />“<em>Pain is the suffering we endure to attain happiness</em>”</span>Pedro Zoydberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06434704501054067265noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9152172945489549598.post-8182720111214518902007-11-21T00:20:00.000-08:002007-11-21T00:21:24.767-08:00I'm ok (I promise)<span style="font-family:arial;">Every year, at this time, like clock work, my world is thrown into tail spin of what it is I want, what is lacking and what I really shouldn’t give a shit about…every year, at this time, like clock work…I remain confused.<br /><br />The new years chaos brings with it unavoidable introspection and retrospection about what I prioritize in my life. Given recent context (the aunt I reference in my last posting has since passed on) this self analysis has been exaggerated. I have always been a firm believer that ones life can easily be illustrated as a pie chart…each wonderful piece signifying a partition that contributes to ones self. A piece for family, one for work, one for hobbies. One for the general bunch of friends and one for the really close ones. Then there is a piece each for a section related to “the romantic real” and another (probably the most important) for ones self. This year end stock take, provokes thoughts around contribution and management of each and every piece.<br /><br />Those that have availed themselves to my meandering thoughts, will know that this time of year nears 2 of the saddest days of the year for me…the silver going to the uber commercialized “New Years” and gold (by a country mile) to my birthday that follows not soon after. Yes, yes, its all about perception and mindset and all that jazz…but my mindset and perception and attached jazz saddens me, as these two days, till this, my soon to be 25th experience of it, have all been anticlimactic. No new year has been a complete and utter thoughtless event surrounded by good friend and family and no birthday has ever been glorified or validating. I should be bigger than this. I know, but screw it…if not on this, the most important day in your life (as one ex referred to it), then when else does one get spoilt and completely self absorbed? The completely over commercialized February 14th?<br /><br />What aggravates further, is that in general, I have moved heaven and earth for those close to me, to at the very least, know that on that day, they are all that matter. With the exception of one this year (I’m sorry, but I adopted this philosophy given context and this thought process and you got caught in the cross fire), I have been good in this regard.<br /><br />As I process them chronologically (which came first, the birthday or the new year) I look back on another year of short comings, lack of articulation, disappointments and lack of commitments, both from and to. Ranging from not being able to quit smoking entirely to a continuation of the romantic tragedy it continues to be (and everything in between) I am saddened at how I did not follow through on the undoubted potential that the unknown holds. Granted, there have been many positives from this time period (time period being the last new years till this) with regards to career, sport, friendships found and lost and interactions that have fueled both thought and action…something has been lacking. What exactly it is… I cannot pin point.<br /><br />For those that read this that know me, please remain calm, I am neither homicidal nor suicidal, despite the dark rings around my eyes. I am merely thrown into a period of deep and analytical thought. Seeking what it is I should change and what, of the regrets that I have accumulated, that I should rather look fondly on or merely remember as incidents of a past or seriously consider putting on the “crap, I wish I could have changed that” shelf.<br /><br />2007 was meant to be a year in which I pulled my finger out and took control of an existence that I felt, in certain realms, I was merely floating along in. The year began with heart ache, continued with confusion, was punctuated with frustration and has reached this junction. Before I sound like my life is completely a helpless and hopeless situation, I have to admit to shining lights of happiness and clarity that have popped up here and there…be them in the context of my career moves, new interactions (and the re-emergence of old ones)or the growing personalities of my stunning nieces.<br /><br />I am however, bored. The pieces of the pie interest, but sorta fail to intrigue…how did this happen? Well, simple. Continually giving without condition and hesitation has left me a wee bit tired and listless (lacking list). It’s not melancholia, but it’s certainly not rays of fucking sunshine.<br /><br />I’m more tired, more often and one observer even ventured an analysis…”It must be lonely being you”. A perception that’s not entirely off the mark. Though I very much enjoy being by myself, I am filled with infinite thoughts of what’s missing, what do I want and what do I want to ignore.<br /><br />I am my own island! (Contrary to Jon Bon Fucking Jovi) I do not owe anyone, anything. There is no case of me being selfish, because, as Hugh Grant’s once character said “I can’t be selfish, because there is no one to put before me, it’s just me.”<br /><br />So what the hell am I missing…its not kids, it’s not a stable relationship, its not more money (though that would be very cool)…The glass is not half empty, most of the time anyway. But I am just frustrated at the plethora of grey. I guess its simple enough for me to acknowledge that I need to take the proverbial bull by its proverbial horns…but I would need to figure out first if I wanted it to be a nice domesticated pet or a nice juicy steak.<br /><br />To any of you that read this, that do know me; should the thought arise to try to inspire a change of opinion, please do not waste your time to rectify the years of vanilla. This will not be held against you and this post was never meant to insight action. You are as I see you now and this New Year or birthday, will not change my fond opinions of you (if I do, in fact have fond opinions of you) This is just a vent. An unadulterated, unjustified, minimal context, no validation vent.<br /><br />Well, whatever the case, I guess I’ll figure it out in time. This sort of intense, deep, dark and generally self imposed depression fades shortly after the “gold” day…after yet another acknowledgment of what my role is to so many… but don’t worry. I’m ok. I promise.<br /> </span>Pedro Zoydberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06434704501054067265noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9152172945489549598.post-68191841235316201312007-11-05T08:05:00.000-08:002009-04-22T22:55:19.105-07:00Thoughts of a dying atheist<span style="font-family:arial;">Last Saturday, I, for the first time in my life spoke to someone that was dying. Yes, yes, I know we are all dying in the physical/metaphorical sense. But my aunt is losing traction in her long battle with cancer.<br /><br />An interesting woman that I was never too exposed to, she has exuded valor, strength, courage and determination through this torturous time. It’s absolutely amazing that this woman, whom has played such a peripheral role in my life, is the sole catalyst in a lot of introspection right now.<br /><br />Her relationship with my mum is bound by the ultimate element…happy memories of a long since past. My mum and she were tennis champs together and supreme conquerors when it came to the doubles format.<br /><br />I have my opinion on why my mum takes such great strain in this time, considering, growing up, I don’t recollect massive interaction between the two. Yet now, as I’m sure my mum does worry about her son and exhausted husband, it is their memories, forged in the realm of sport in an era of hardship that twists the knife in my aching mother’s heart.<br /><br />Whilst chemo eats away at her, the core of who she is still shines through in no diluted format. Last week, after a battle longer than 2 years, she mentions to me “Took a bit of a bad turn last night, but are we still on for that game?” It took all of me to not start bawling then and there as she referenced a quip of mine regarding me playing her on her return to full health. There was, however, an undertone, a hint, maybe just an atom worth of exhaustion in her voice…something that I have never heard, even pretty much immediately post chemo.<br /><br />As her condition has worsened since that last conversation, I think of her more and more each day and how pieces of me continue to bleed for my mother and my cousin’s heart.<br /><br />To lose a sibling for me, with all of my creativity, would be unimaginable. To lose my mother, would be devastating. And as blasé as we try to be with ourselves, it is a near impossibility to pass “death is a part of life” of as a realistic mantra. If you are a person that had even an iota of your heart touched by a person that has since passed, you shed a tear…physically or otherwise.<br /><br />My aunt, the athletic woman she kept herself to be until chemo and cancer robbed her off her physical presence, remains a competitive soul. After that conversation with her (curtailed by a sudden tiredness) I was left in pieces, sitting on my bed, wiping my eyes. Wondering what it was that was going on in her mind and more importantly, in her heart. Is she realizing that she may have suffered one relapse too many, or is she still giving the grim reaper a two fingered salute? What, strength pending, would she articulate and to whom? What are her last thoughts before bed and her first, each morning? Does she hate her God or give a metaphorical shrug of the shoulders and write it off as the hand she was dealt?<br /><br />Is she angry, sad? Does she have regret and if so, what?<br /><br />Does each eve feel like the last and is each morn a painful reminder of her physical state? Does time not even exist in her world and is it just a matter of piecing together moments?<br /><br />One thing I do know though, she has shown me what the term “heart” truly is. I know it in a sporting sense, but in this very real life situation, she has been a true gladiator.<br /><br />The strong hug I received from her in February, shortly after another one of those chemo sessions was not one of strength of God or advancement in medical technologies. It was one that came from the heart. To see a nephew that she wasn’t all that attached to, visit her at her home and speak to her as a long lost aunt that has just been away for a bit. She played the doting aunt and I was the good little nephew that constantly kept in touch. It mattered to neither of us that there were decades that slipped through the cracks…just that she wanted people to be sincere and that’s what I offered.<br /><br />I am saddened that I never got to absorb more of her now. Who knows, if circumstances had offered us more time minus this context, I may not have even like her…but that’s if our hands were different.<br /><br />As she lays in a nursing home, on oxygen permanently and shunning away visitors, I know for a fact of what a warrior she is. Her fight has been a long and exhausting affair and all I could wish for her is that she feels complete and utter bliss and peace in either a path to recovery or that alternative reality that we shall all be faced with one day.<br /><br />Should a grieving family member or friend be given ones full attention when they wish to show affection/sympathy/or just to see that person? Or is it not one’s right to be dismissive of others in this time of personal discomfort?<br /><br />Who has right?<br /><br />This blogger’s thoughts have shifted to him. Being placed in a situation of personal terminal illness or one of instantaneous death like a car crash…I find myself digging up an age old fear: Did I do anything in my time here? To elaborate, did I manage to positively touch someone’s life? Did I validate them? Did I give them something that fed their soul? Well, only time will tell on that one, and when that day comes, may all that I have done that has caused harm, with whatever reasoning behind it, be temporarily forgiven…for if not then, then when else would the thoughts of a dying atheist be heard?<br /><br />To my aunt…you validated, you invoked, you inspired…</span>Pedro Zoydberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06434704501054067265noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9152172945489549598.post-61862561269536204122007-10-11T22:51:00.000-07:002007-10-11T22:52:50.475-07:00Accounting, Economics, Business Management and Mr. KeatingAfter finishing 2 out of 3 exams tied to an attempt in vain for a BCOM Informatics, I am daunted at what my life resembles. Why am I writing these exams? Spending hours, sacrificing life, time with mates, action cricket fixtures and Rugby World Cup review/preview programs.<br /><br />Logically, I know why I am registered for this degree. To pretty up my CV. No real intention to finish this in a hurry, but with all the ambition in the world to start it. Now they expect me to write exams for the bloody thing too! How about an honorary degree based on intent, surely that’s worth something?<br /><br />It is becoming glaringly clear to me that I have fallen into the rigmarole that is a corporate. As a young man, fresh out of school, I was faced with options of Pharmacy at Rhodes, Physiotherapy at Wits and IT at Natal University. No gap year or Euro tripping or bumming around on parental grace, just a student loan pertinent to a selected field. I folded and flaked at the last moment and did IT at Natal Technikon. A half compromise in my eyes. I did hold out till the very last week of registration and had a much cheaper student loan loom over my head.<br /><br />These exams remind me of the very questions I had been faced with at Matric and Tech final exams. What the hell for? In my life I had made cavalier decisions, but only socially. My family’s financial standing meant flamboyance was limited to my circle of friends. Nothing near career path or life planning, just whether to drink beer or whiskey on the night….beer was cheaper.<br /><br />As I strive to make heads or tails of where I am and where I am heading, it has dawned on me that I will never figure it out. All I can do is try to make the best of it…when it comes to my career anyway.<br /><br />You see, I have been seduced by my lifestyle. Affluent, it isn’t, comfortable, it is. I do not count Rands and cents when I go to a store or worry about what is the exact minimum I contribute to a group restaurant bill. It works for me. But, it has shortened my minds eye (sight) with regards to following my dreams and passions…when it comes to my career anyway.<br /><br />For a day, I am King…every Saturday, during cricket season. My job finances these fantasies. As it has Optimus Prime, my overly priced cricket bat, ventures to movies, the car I drive, the DVDs and CDs I collect and the gigs I review.<br /><br />I fully understand that round pegs fit square holes in this working world, this is how it works. We need to live, in the monetary sense, that is.<br /><br />However, there is on last world where we can truly be philosophical poets. Dream on dreams and toss away our fears. Fling away inhibitions and hope above all hope that you are not alone with your perceptions and stand point. Doctors, Lawyers, Bankers, these are all noble trades that are necessary to sustain life. But love, laughter and romance…these are what we live for! Poetry, affection, shrieks of laughter, these are the things that fuel us getting up in the morning, hoping that inner flame will be awakened from the dormant glow that simmers in the pits of our souls.<br /><br />If there is one place, just one place (read with William Wallace accent) in this modern, intellectual age where we get to be cavalier and flamboyant, let it be in the romantic realm. Believe in the fact that you will fix yourself, should the outcome be negative. Believe that giving something a chance, when it ekes even half an iota of potential, is the right thing to do. You are broken and cracked, so is everyone else…discover this knowing that whatever the final chapters read, you did so with minimal hesitation. Let the Elizabethan degrees of romance be something that you liken your attempts to. Do this knowing, without an ounce of reservation, that your life will actually turn out OK. And know that you did all you could, it’s the least you could ask yourself.<br /><br />We work jobs we don’t like, for shit we don’t need…why not let this one facet feed the soul and make it all worthwhile. Like only it can, romance stirs insanity, along with it, those damned butterflies, sweaty palms, animal noises (when you speak to her) and animalistic feelings (when you touch her). Somewhere along the line, age does something to taint and tarnish this most whimsical of theories. We are taught that prudence is to be exercised when getting into something with potential. It is true, you cannot live on love and fresh air….but love does make you come alive!<br /><br />And laugh a little too, it might make that analysis document that much more bearable.<br /><br />“…<em>the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?”</em>Pedro Zoydberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06434704501054067265noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9152172945489549598.post-63359036610330728742007-09-26T05:50:00.001-07:002007-10-31T00:21:05.291-07:00calm down...<span style="font-family:arial;">Right…seeing that I have an audience that surpasses every expectation (lets just say that I thought 2 would be it), I am now required to comment and post with more vigor astuteness…<br /><br />Firstly…for the tabloids that slander my impeccable character with talks me being scared by the harassment, well, this is preposterous and uncalled for! I did not have sexual relations with that woman!<br /><br />I have been approached (harassed) to divulge the proverbial skinny on a few issues…my place of work, my tattoos and my most recent sexual exploits…interesting indeed…<br /><br />So far as my employers go…(removed due to the fact that should someone stumble across this and make me, as the author...a painful sequence of events could follow)</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />My tattoos…each very, very dear to me and prior to me having them, they did not exist. This is true, my tats are unique. Each encapsulating their own massive chunk of who I am. The first (wrist) is my “fuck you to the world”…essentially glorifying my existence and a constant reminder to me that I am who I am, for all my alleged eloquence and charm, ignorance and wit…this is me, like it or not, I’m going to live this life. Yes, it may seem hard core…ish (and borderline cheesy and clichéd), but it’s more a case of a manifestation of the inner me…of all that I am. And it’s who I am.<br /><br />Granted, I have compromised on that promise to myself here and there (as Kevin Spacey said, “today is the first day of the rest of your life, unless if it’s the day you die”) but who hasn’t choked every now and again. So that’s the high level coverage about the one on me wrist…<br /><br />Next, an ode to an old friend (left shoulder)…a pavement special extraordinaire…his name was Ranger and he was anything but of pure blood but certainly all of royalty…that’s right, a tattoo dedicated to a dog. He had character, but not like just some random personalities that people talk of their mates (not using the word “pets”), he really had charm, charisma (to burn) and a sensitivity and insight beyond his years…truly an awesome soul that suffered a very tragic ending (as is the case with epic heroes, I guess)…he was a great friend, an awesome fellow adventure and a fearless personality…character was him.<br /><br />And lastly…a bond of infinite strength, though time wears away at both our hairlines and joints…I wear on my right shoulder a connection to the best person I know, my brother…affectionately known as “Doc”…the purest heart that I have crossed paths with, no other has exuded such sincerity and genuine care for others. Not just because of his profession, but also because of his duties as a brother (which have been sorely surpassed) He has excelled with regards to selfless acts and thoughtless gestures…and remains the man I am proud to know despite many adverse moments in his (our) life.<br /><br />And now to the juicy…the down and dirrrrty….my recent past….<br /><br />Damn! Gotta get back to work…will return to regular broadcasting soon...</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">later bloggers...</span>Pedro Zoydberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06434704501054067265noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9152172945489549598.post-7862378569263921502007-07-30T08:06:00.000-07:002007-07-30T23:31:13.687-07:00Context vs BubblegumI go to bed this eve, the very tiredness that accompanied this morn stays with me still. Can’t shake it, can’t contemplate it, can’t correlate it…<br /><br />Days like these ask the question of life, love and all its peripheral plug and play add-ons. As easy as fast food and just as effective and wholesome.<br /><br />The humorous, sarcastic, less made for TV version of myself, reminds me how dramatic reading this will one day make, As a child of 24, trying to string it all together in my spare time. Lacking the ambition to truly reveal all that stirs within, but never short of a whimsical quip to trivialize such thoughts in a forum.<br /><br />Henry David Theroux wrote of himself making a trip to the woods to live life with vigor and essentially, truly personify and animate that very term… life. Personally, he may have meant that all he needed was to step out for a few minutes, synchronize his heart beat with the flickering leaves dancing to the anthem of the wind, or maybe to settle his thoughts that insisted on jumping around like ecstasy filled teenagers or maybe, in fact, those are my wants.<br /><br />The question begs itself all too often, who is flying this plane? With everything from made-for-TV movies to made for TV friends, getting into character has become part and parcel of what we are, even scarier, it’s become integral to who we are!<br /><br />How on earth did such farcical behavior and insincere gestures become a societal norm? Easy, commercialization. Everything from VD’s to brands of humor have been, well, branded. People dressed in suits are described as “very Bond”, those appreciated for their sense of humor/intellect/wit, can only be done so as a novel case, or likened to something less ordinary and mainstream. Essentially, it’s going to become so passé offering more than the average. In effect, inferring that being specifically and specially different would make you a sheep.<br /><br />Pink is the new black, reading meaningful literature is the new cultural norm and knowing yourself, yet still exuding confidence has become standard issue overalls.<br />The nerd in the corner of the class is no longer a minority and thanks to John Cusack and Hugh Grant, bumbling wit, means they have also become charmingly attractive. Like an indie band that only she knows of, a girl articulates the glory of her unquantifiable attraction to Dexter.<br /><br />People get on with moving on faster because they get on with falling in fake love faster. Closure is no longer premium and the concept of “internal growth” deemed highly overrated and in some instances, negligible.<br /><br />In a society where 40 something’s find themselves wanting less and loving more, 30 something’s find themselves, 20 something’s find their careers and teenagers find orgasms, bubblegum culture grows in strength as its packaging morphs to fit to size any age or cultural or gender grouping.<br /><br />How does context even stand a chance with that? Maybe I over-romanticize the matter of unrequited love or even love lost or arguments about right and wrong or why David Beckham should have stayed at Real Madrid, but the <strong>Context vs Bubblegum</strong> war forges forward. We, as living, breathing, semi-coherent beings need to wind back the megabytes, channel our energies into what used to matter, what will matter and what does matter… now… to you.<br /><br />The transition will by no means be something easy, with little thought placed on the why and too much on the how. A long and winding road awaits. I implore all ye that pass, do so with caution, hesitation and massive amounts of contestation. But chin up, so long as the want to know more, be more and feel more is inherently coded in our default processing, hope is with us. If Chandler and Monica can make it, so can we!Pedro Zoydberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06434704501054067265noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9152172945489549598.post-29213598731735635592007-07-30T03:22:00.000-07:002007-07-30T03:34:13.234-07:00This is me...Growing up, I dreamt of fame, glory and uber hotties so hot that... well, they were really hot... as I grew up, I realised that though there is so much adversity in this world, and twists from bad to worse in this life... that, I was in fact deluded... welcome, to the life and times of a passionate, cynical, optimistic, slightly wound up, highly chilled professional appreciator of life....<br />I am Zoydberg...Pedro Zoydberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06434704501054067265noreply@blogger.com3