Lark: Tour Dates 2010

Lark is one of the top ten bands in SA by any measure: if you haven’t seen the perform – make an effort and you will be rewarded. Just make it quick – Lark tickets are as scarce as a politician’s virtues. Here’s where and when:

Fri 27 Feb, RAMfest IV, Worcester (CPT)

Sat 06 March, RAMfest, Emmarentia Dam (JHB)
only JHB show

Fri 05 March, Tings n Times (PTA)

Fri 12 March, Klein Libertas Theatre (Stellenbosch)
with SHE MAN LION

Sat 13 March, The Assembly (CPT)
with SHE MAN LION

For further reading on Lark the Band click here

The Enchanting Inge Beckman of Lark

The Enchanting Inge Beckman of Lark

King Buyelekhaya Dalindyebo Annexes South Africa

In the wake of convictions on criminal charges such as murder and assualt, King Buyelekhaya Dalindyebo of the abaThembu has carefully considered his options and, rather creatively, has come up with a brilliant solution to his pending incarceration: annex South Africa! King Buyelekhaya Dalindyebo gave formal notice to the Presidency, parliament and the NPA that following his humiliation at the hands of the High Court of Mthatha and the South African Media, he and his people – loosely estimated at 10 million – will be leaving South Africa, so to speak.

Now lets start with the basics, like who is this entertaining chap? Well he is the Mandela’s tribal chief (ouch) and he was convicted on various serious charges perpetrated against his community like murder, assault and kidnapping. And as to the annexing bit, I must appologise for my sensationalist header; he really is only annexing 60% of South Africa including parts of Gauteng (Johannesburg), KwaZulu Natal (Durban), and parts of the FreeState…and parts of the Eastern Cape – and oh yes, parts of the Western Cape like the beachfront property in Camps Bay.

Notice how he cleverly avoids any area that is economically insignificant like the desert for example although, to best of what I recall from Grade 3 history, he certainly has a better claim to the Karoo than Johannesburg . This is what is so interesting from a legal perspective: clients are always telling you the most amazing tales and fully expect you to put that version to the Judge without any consideration as to actual proof because he is obviously a moron who is going to believe whatever you say…suffice it to say this is not entirely the case. Who really needs proof anyway, right? “Yes your Lordship, Johannesburg could be construed as historically a Bantu area, however prior to the 1300’s…” Let’s stop that right there because this probably won’t reach actual trial stage.

Did I mention that the King also expects R 80 billion in compensation as well as fully expecting the Government to foot the bill for annexing our country. Only in South Africa :-) Well not entirely, remember Tibet? Still, we win for entertainment value and for further entertainment have a look at The Star and The Daily Dispatch

KIng

16 DAYS: Please Help to Break the Chain

Once upon a time when I still had time to watch Oprah, she did a show on child pornography in America: she showed a map with one red dot representing the origin of one pornographic picture of a little girl and within 24 hours the map of America was a vivid red. Most – yes most – of the perpetrators were doing this to their own daughters. Others drugged their daughter’s friends on sleep overs. There are even instruction manuals that catered for all ages starting when they are months old. On these videos you can often hear the girls crying.

This is in America where they are very much aware of what is going on but don’t have the resources to follow all the leads they have, one can only imagine our situation. You know that women get traded like commodities right? I’m blond and thus I would apparently fetch about R 20 000 in Africa, at least I was told that once when I was twenty-one.  The idea is as absurd as it it is real. Women and child abuse in South Africa, if plotted, would paint our map blood red and to me the most frustrating part is the amount of women who either go back or unfailingly choose the same type of boyfriend. So what can you do when someone you know is abused?

Most cities have Domestic Violence Centres which offer a very radical remedy: an all prevailing principle in law is that both sides of a story must heard before a judgment may be taken. At DV, an interdict preventing contact with the victim simultaneously with a interim maintenance order can be made on the victim’s say-so alone by merely filling in a form – the victim never even sees the magistrate who makes the order. A return date is given where the accused may state his case.  Should he contravene the order he may be arrested immediately.

Obviously it’s not this simple: if he knows someone at the local police station, the police may refuse to arrest him, fucked-up but true. My favourite episode at the DV was when a Muslim man stormed in and started yelling at the councillor: how could they tell him not to hit his children when it was his right to discipline them? So he broke the kid’s collarbone – next  time he’ll listen to his father.

The Muslim man broke my stereo-type but many more exit: I live in a well-to-do neighbourhood and the stories that I can tell are just as dark, the shame even thicker. One woman who lived in a white palace with high walls nearby, was kicked down the stairs one too many times so she gassed herself in her car. Abuse is a psychological game that knows no discrimination – it’s everywhere. And that’s why it should be the community who stands up against those who perpetrate these crimes – we should not allow the purposeful isolation that perpetrators contrive to enable then to keep a psychological noose around the victim’s throat.

Please be aware and when you do see something amiss, don’t turn a blind eye – get involved because it is always your place. Another way to help is to support the 16 Days 16 Charities drive: they provide a wide variety of services and are an important stepping stone for those who have nowhere else to go and no-one to ask. Please check it out.

16 Days of activism

Family Advocate: ‘n Onderonsie

You know, what really pisses me off? Well…many things, I’m slightly temperamental. But in trenches of the legal benches, bureaucracy and civil servants on their little power trips absolutely kills me. It’s kind of like small man syndrome only this gnome keeps the keys to people’s lives.

I had popped into the Family Advocate’s office to check up on an appointment for mediation between an unmarried couple who have been unable to come to an agreement regarding their daughter. The Family Advocate is an office where many family advocates are entrusted with ensuring that the best interest of the child as the first consideration in determining parental rights and responsibilities surrounding the child. As with many thing legal – this is the theory at least. There are a few who hold this office for whom I have immense respect. Others not so.

The particular one that had my blood boiling was allowing the mother to abuse the process: the mother had informed the family advocate that she needed to consult with her lawyer before she could attend a mediation session – a session where no lawyer is allowed to be present and no-one but the parents are at liberty to make submissions regarding their children. No such ‘right’ exists so that the family advocate is not obliged to indulge this request. Nevertheless, the family advocate had agreed and at the time of the visit, more than a month had passed with no appointment having been made and the father was denied access to his child by the mother. Even after explaining the situation to the family advocate she insisted that the mother could speak to the lawyer first which resulted in a shouting match, me insisting on a deadline or limit, up to what point would she allow this abuse process? Another week, another month? Would she let the mother deny the parental relationship between father and daughter which is a Constitutional right? It went back and forth for a bit – she didn’t budge and neither would I. I finally left in a huff, spitting with frustration as she had no right to allow what was happening.

Obviously one could apply to court for access but it is no closely guarded secret that a small minority of our country have the financial means to launch such an application. Apparently I did get my point across as an appointment was set-up within a week of my visit but it doesn’t diminish the sin of prejudicing fathers.

images

Sometimes I wished baseball bats are an acceptable remedy. But it’s not. The only advice that I can give fathers is that it’s an open office – walk in and demand that your rights are enforced as well.

Falling Down the Stairs: My View

Tie is a problem, said Lee.

I know, said Anna.

Do you think we need to request that someone be assigned to help us? asked Anna.

You know what they’ll say, she’s just  middle class white girl – even if she does live in Jo’burg, do you really think that we can justify that three angels be assigned to her? replied Lee.

They’d say we are incompetent, Anna completed Lee’s thought and together they sighed.

Looking down on her sleeping from where they were floating just above her bed, you‘d never think that one girl could walk straight into so many dangerous situations? Who elopes with Navy Captains twice their age anymore? He wasn’t even rich…bloody romantics! He could have done some horrible things to her; she didn’t know him from Adam. But crisis averted; one very random trip to Switzerland courtesy of an estranged uncle opened her eyes to possibilities in the world. And she left.

For the past few weeks Tie had been driving without her contact lenses, tomorrow she has a trip to Pretoria planned…and she’s not going to see that truck in time. How will her angels keep her from going? It’s urgent – the advocate has to be in court next week and Tie is determined to get his brief to him come hell or high water. But if the angels don’t do something a very big truck is definitely coming.

The next morning a worried couple of angels watch ed Tie as she ran back and forth, up and down her office, getting ready to leave for Pretoria. Lee turned to Anna: I have an idea but it could be tricky.

Anna nodded, going against her better judgment (tricky means dangerous when it comes to Lee…she wonders about him sometimes) but then almost dead is better than dead, isn’t it? Well according to the living anyway.

Tie leaves the office and stops at the lift where a man is already waiting.

“Hey baby” says the stranger and in a flip decision she skips the lift and heads for the stairs at a fast pace. Down to the first landing she skips and as she turns to go down the next flight Lee, waiting on the landing gives her a little push. Her shoes, as Lee knows, are very slippery and both feet fly out underneath her – documents and limbs are flying but in it all Anna manages to catch her that she fell exactly on the bone of her lower back.

That’s gotta be sore, said Anna as they watched a dazed Tie recover.

Well that was the idea, said Lee. She‘s not crying though, hope it’s sore enough.

She’s in shock – give her a minute, she’ll be crying fountains.

And I did.

Yes I did actually fall down the stairs and the fall put my whole week into a blender…I’m hoping, for no reason that I can explain, that there was a point to falling down the stairs. So I wrote this and I felt better!

falling :-)

District 9 Premier Fashion Faux Pas: C’mon work with me people!

When Vincent told me that we’d be attending the Premier of District 9 I thought, “Yai! A chance to play dress-up and just be a girl!” The schlep of a day job leaves little chance for being a woman in the va-va-voom-look-at-me sense. It’s early mornings, grabbing the first suitable thread and make-up in the rear-view mirror for the most part. Remember the school days when parties were events for which out-fits were surgically put together, every element considered from hair and what goes in it to the tips of your toes, the stockings and shoes that clad them? My house would turn into a frenzy of giggling girls, trying on outfits, exchanging clothes, doing each-others’ hair – the whole process could take an entire afternoon. And then the party, the boys and the poor parents trying to keep order…oh, to not have a care in the world…

Unfortunately, I didn’t have the whole week to plan for the premier. A Chanel boy-suit ensemble finished with pearls dripping down an unbuttoned white shirt and red lips would have to do. Besides, the dress code was something like smart but not formal but no jeans…hu? Well it’s not astro-physics but if it’s cold and legs aren’t your best asset, it’s a bit tricky. Either way – I knew I wouldn’t be the only one who frowned over the dress code and the results were a mish mash of near hits and misses and a few bravos;

The obligatory matric dance dresses with stoles were the most obvious…well actually not: the prats who decided to flip the bird and go in jeans, takkies and tracksuit hoodies were the sore thumbs. I know they think that they’re being individualistic and they’ve got nothing to prove but they’re wrong on both scores. There was more than one of these so they’re not so individualistic and this film, a 95% South African production deserved some respect as number one in the American rankings. We as South Africans still do have something to prove to the rest of the world and strolling in looking like a slob simply detracts from the whole occasion, stealing a bit of well deserved glamour for those who worked hard to make this film and this event a success – shame on you!

Fortunately, most of did try. Understated with a detailed coat seemed to be the safe-bet of choice. The food was quite nice, the wine not too bad and the company brilliant :-) We had Tim to thank for our invites and I met his vivacious girlfriend Jo for the first time looking elegant-but-naughty in an off the shoulder LBD by a friend (handy friend to have around, hu?) and killer candy apple red heels.

All I can say is GO WATCH THAT MOVIE! I haven’t been so proud since Charlize won an Oscar. Bravo boys and girls, well done.

Perske Reens, A Poem

rain

I heard myself laughing
-the melody of happiness-
my long black dress was dancing
around bare legs and bare feet
to a thunderstorms’ heartbeat
with wind-sprites in my long blond hair;
together we waltzed down the street.
My spirit lifted to the darkened sky
and the mad elements let loose therein -
beautiful chaos let fly!
Mukuru pounded the earth
with electric white until
the clouds gave birth
and Africa sighed:
the time of plenty has come -
Summer has arrived.

Piza e Vino and Goodmans Butchery

The air is electric – literally! As I type this, the first real thunder storm of summer has doused Jo’burg! As if by magic, it never fails to fill me with an incredible sense of joy. I wrote this poem five years ago and it still describes exactly how I feel tonight despite the long day behind me.

This year has just whizzed past and the recent change of seasons leaves me more dreamy than usual (which is virtually sky-bound for pisceans who naturally live with their heads in the clouds). Optimism fuelled by new green shoots on the trees in Parkhurst and the sound of hatchlings has me building castles and unusually for me they’re not only in the sky. But as I can’t say anything about that just yet – here’s the run down since I’ve been so absent lately:

Vincent’s parents were here this last weekend and we were spoiled rotten as they always do; they love food as much as Vincent and I do so we always have to try new places when they come around.

Friday night we went to our new favourite pizza spot in Jo’burg: Piza e Vino in Melrose Arch. Mr Hof wasn’t blown away by Sugo (which we still go to often) so we held our breath to see whether our new find would live up to his high expectations. The interior is modern/retro and as a centre piece stands a beautiful mosaic oven decorated with a large blue ‘Ed Hardy’ swallow suspended mid flight in a yellow sky. For starters we shared crostini – two each of caprese, salami and chickpea spread. The bread was perfect; soft and chewy and the toppings were quality ingredients, all three was fantastic! Then the pizza and yes indeed, this time we got it right. Well almost: Mr Hof thinks he can improve the tomato sauce but really it is a brilliant pizza no matter what topping you choose. If nothing else proves this it’s that Vincent for the first time in five years regularly tries pizzas other than parma and rocket. A special word must be said about Piza e Vino’s steak topping – the pieces are cut think, almost more than a mouth full and it prepared far better than 99% of steak restaurants in Jo’burg - honestly, cross my heart.

The next morning, Vincent insisted that we go in search of the Swiss-Geneve bakery on Kotze street in Braamfontein. Alas, all we found was the memory of where it once was in brightly painted building. And even the memory wasn’t so easy to find: the problem with dating a gadget obsessed man is that he thinks that consulting a map before you actually go looking for a place is old fashioned and maps are only required once the Google or the GPS on his iphone says “Eish! Ga ke tsebe!”Nevermind, Vince’s parents haven’t seen Hillbrow for a few decades – now they know where not to get lost in Jo’burg.

The next treasure on our hunt was a German butchery. The Hofmanns hail from Germany (Mr Hof is first generation South African) and German cooking is a specialty of his. Goodman’s Butchery on Republic is proper German – the owners speak German, therefore they must know what they’re doing, right? Well I don’t believe anything is ever a sure bet and I’d only seen this place from the road on my way to court. Thank heavens! It was awesome; the owner greeted us as we walked in with a piece of boerewors on a toothpick (brilliant – Vincent shamelessly procured three :-) and it continued with two fridges packed solid with wors alone. We left with an armful of shopping only to discover that we’d walked into (no really, it’s so full there was no parking and we had to park outside) a little market of sorts: each shop is old school-owner run and among them there was a flower shop, a dairy and a baker (a large block of a man who gamely shared his secret to dark coloured rye bread with Mr. Hof.) Now we can’t wait to move into the closer.

Flip it’s late and there’s at least three more restaurants that need discussing – I’ll have to get to them on Thursday: tomorrow night is the premier of John Kani’s play turned movie and I’m looking forward. So ‘till Thursday then – ciao.

PizaEVinoMelroseLogoPizaEVinoMelrosePic4

Peasants Raisng Their Own Taxes For The Sheriff?

It’s winter and so I’m more aware of beggars than usual. In Joburg they’re everywhere but have you ever considered them and their trade? Every so often most people give them money, an exchange happens, a transaction of sorts – that is after all the point of money; a tool facilitating bartering. What is it that we, the givers of money buy exactly? Do we buy absolution from illogical guilt? Do we buy self-esteem? Perhaps we buy our own little pat on the back because giving to the poor makes you a Good Person.

Whatever the trade, a ‘poor’ person selling his poverty and a ‘rich’ person buying it is at least reasonably logical. But what I find fascinating is ‘rich’ people who sell poverty to ‘poor’ or at least ‘poorer’ people – and they buy it! One such a man lives in a good neighbourhood, drives an expensive car and although he certainly doesn’t charter jets, anyone with one waking brain cell can see that the man is not in dire straights. Yet whenever he receives a service or goods are bought, he will complain to high heavens of all the bills he has to pay. Not all his debt mind you – never would he tarnish himself with the foul stuff, it’s his bills that become due and payable in due course which he laments to all within ear shot. And so he bargains, gets discount or leave to pay at a later stage interest free and this is obviously long after be had bargained down the original price already.

Smart man? Warren Buffet is probably the most famous example of such a man; he is forever evaluating value for money and only buys when he believes that he is getting a bargain. He’s certainly not doing so badly.

But there is a problem; a profound crisis of authenticity. If someone feels cheated – even when he agreed of his own free will – he is bound to compensate. He may refuse to work with the ‘rich’ person again or he may only deliver the quality or quantity of work he feels is truly justified by the tender received. So when the rich guy thinks he’s winning he shooting himself in the foot really.

Yet it happens every day; the rich selling poverty – quite fascinating in itself but that people actually buy it when they’re free to say no? I’m sure even Adam Smith would reconsider the rationality of consumers.

I dont like the drugs, the drugs like me

Nodding along to Manson, I contemplate my filthy habits. I don’t do drugs mostly because I couldn’t be a lawyer if I got caught, I hate the thought of not being in complete control of my faculties and I have all the self-control of a two year old. Someone awesome said that this is because I have underdeveloped frontal lobes – the area that controls inhibition – and I’m happy with that explanation as any. In my current financial straights (not the Recession – the crap that article clarks get paid) my complete inability to control my spending is a stellar example of why I shouldn’t try drugs:

I’ve tried to give up cutie pies and at five bucks a pop that would equal – gasp!- R150 that will probably amount to a fortune at compound interest by the time I’m too old to spend it. Magazines are another addiction because I love reading and I don’t have the attention span or the time to actually finish a book (this is no trifle – there are at least ten books covered in dust on my bedside pedestal…no I’m not addicted to cleaning and no amount of pharmaceutical help will ever change this, my will is too strong).  Here I’ve made the compromise of skipping months but the remorse when I open the letters section and have no idea what they’re yodeling about for the Gucci bag prize is quite substantial so I try to avoid this particular form of saving.

Instead I’ve been saving on beauty products. Let’s face it  – I will never have the patience to iron my hair ( the first time a hairdresser asked me if I’d prefer ironing my hair I laughed so hard thinking that she was joking…no one else was laughing, apparently people actually do this) but generally, I will admit that skipping The Butchers (my pet name for hairdressers) where they force me to listen the last time they got ratfaced (probably last night, again)/ the looser boyfriend (who they’re still with) etc. and I have to sit still for two hours being pulled/blown/ randomly hit by errant brushes  – is no big sacrifice. Neither is missing my french manicure, waxing (I don’t care what they say it DOES NOT STOP HURTING AFTER A FEW YEARS) or…well anything that involves someone else grooming me. That is until I’m walking hand in hand with Vincent and either this glamazon is obviously checking him out with her perfectly waxed eyebrows arching ever so slightly or he has more men in Parkhurst looking at him than at me. Now I care. I care very much – no woman’s vanity can stand this! And so pretty soon I’ll be forking out another grand so that some Butcher can torture me for two hours.

The moral of the story is that I’m just not that strong and though I don’t like the drugs, they bloody well like me :-( Also, I’ve had the epiphany that controlling my spending is not the answer – it’s by lack of income! So I’m working on that instead – slim ne?