Hollywood or Bust

My closest brush with Hollywood was when a major US film studio called me up to explore turning a story I was covering into a movie. That was a few years ago and, so far, I have not received any invitations to to the land of palm trees, beaches and beautiful Rollerblade girls.
But today I discovered my second - if somewhat more indirect - link to Los Angeles. Their local, and much respected newspaper, LA Times, covered last week's release of the South African crime statistics. To avoid regurgitating old news, they tried to spice up their report with an interview with our new police chief. The interesting part, however, is that right at the top of their article, they quote a "South African newspaper"... the newspaper I happen to write for. And the quote they pulled out, was none other than the intro I crafted thick in the chaos of the statistics swirling around us in the newsroom. Check out the LA Times article here.

Tall People Conspiracy and Cats

There are a lot of tall people in Johannesburg. And last night, I'm convinced, a good number of them conspired to gather in row "i" of Monte Casino's grand theatre.
I know this because I sat in row "j" of the same theatre, attending the glittering opening night of the Cats musical and shifting from butt cheek to butt cheek trying to see the stage.
I'm not sure why tall people would want to hold a secret conspiracy meeting in a theatre, where talking to each other would clearly be difficult. Between the flashing lights, awkward seating arrangement, short interval and the goose-bump-inducing voices of the actors belting out classics like "memories", what possible plotting could take place? But there they were anyway, whispering in each other's ears and chuckling silently at the suckers behind them.
On a serious note, Cats was sensational. The theatre was transformed into a shadowy rubbish dump with cats crawling from under every crack. Returning from the interval, the cats started from the back of the audience and climbed over the rows to make their way on stage. They stopped to purr up against people, claw at their bags or steal a sip from the drinks. I managed to pat one on the head, and feel the bristle-like wig. It's an amazing experience to see the costumes so close up.
What struck me the most was how beautifully and flawlessly the cats moved. They were like one organism but with so many individual personalities, like Rum Tum Tugger - the feline version of Mick Jagger meets Michael Jackson.
Sure some of the music was a little dated and sounded like that horrible jingle you hear as the credits roll on Bold and the Beautiful or Sunset Beach. And yes, one dance routine seemed to last longer than nine lives. And if you really pick at it, you can't but assume that old Lloyd Webber must have been on some serious Acid to conjure up that Mongolian / pirate scene...
But overall, if you throw in a dinner, you can't go wrong for a fantastic evening.

The Chakra Challenge

Before I start, let the record show that I despise reality television. I think Big Brother was the first symptom of a terminal disease that threatens to kill global intellect. But if I were to flush my morals down the drain, and produce a reality show, I know exactly what it would be...
This morning I read a fascinating article in the LA Times about a group of Buddhists planning to live in the Arizona dessert for three years, three months and three days. The catch is: they will observe absolute silence for the entire 1190 days.
The group - most of whom gave up fancy jobs and six-figure salaries - will communicate through gestures and facial expressions. Even a pair of newly weds will have to abstain from any physical intimacy so as not to mess up their prana (inner energy).
Like in a Kibbutz, these enlightenment-seekers will grow veggies, meditate and do Yoga stretches. For three years.
Anyway, my idea is to do a reality show on this dessert retreat. Picture it: We have those well-edited inserts on their lives and what they are giving up. The parents sobbing, their poodles panting and their bosses wishing them well. Then they enter the new world - their wooden huts and wind-swept cacti.
Then... silence.
"Day 129... We are live now to the Buddhist retreat and things are exactly the way they were four months ago..."
"Day 473... the house mates are still meditating..."
"Day 864... was that a smile? No. No. That was just gas..."
"Day 990... Ooh... a new yoga position by Dreyfus..."
And so on.
Sad thing is, the world would probably lap it up.

A Maths Equation on a Zombie Outbreak

Four crazy Canadians have used complex mathematical equations (real Beautiful Mind stuff) to calculate just how screwed the world would be if an outbreak of the undead occurred.
Simpler put, how quickly would an army of zombies munch their way through the entire human population?
The equations look like that cheesy cyberspace screen from the movie Hackers, where a whole bunch of figures and "@" signs float around in a hypnotic whirlwind while the kids "hack the planet".
But the conclusion of the zombie study, done by university students, is fairly straight forward: unless we hit them, and hit them hard, we're toast. Check it out here and download their report.
No surprise then that:
"In summary, a zombie outbreak is likely to lead to the collapse of civilisation, unless it is dealt with quickly. While aggressive quarantine may contain the epidemic, or a cure may lead to coexistence of humans and zombies, the most effective way to contain the rise of the undead is to hit hard and hit often. As seen in the movies, it is imperative that zombies are dealt with quickly, or else we are all in a great deal of trouble."

Dead Man On The Highway

I was driving to cover a court case in Germiston this morning when I spotted a dead man lying in a flowerbed next to the M2 highway.
There were a few police vans around the body but nobody had put that tinfoil stuff over it to prevent motorists from seeing his pale stomach and rigid neck.
The photographer I was with pulled the car over (cnr M2 and Refinery Road) and we went to investigate - like the curious journalists we are.
The first man I spoke to was from the Albany factory across the road. He had been called to the scene, searched through the man's pockets and found a piece of paper with telephone numbers on it. He dialled some of the numbers and reached the man's son.
As we stood chatting there, the son arrived with a work colleague and was asked to identify the body. As a uniformed cop lifted the white material that had - in the meantime - been placed over the old man, he recognized his father. It took a spit second for his head to collapse into his hands. And there we stood, caught in this surreal moment that we now shared.
A maintenance worker at the scene told us the old man - "madala" as he called him - had been wandering the scene since yesterday, searching for water. The garden worker shared his bread with him and said he had a crazed, stressed look in his eyes. He didn't know where he was going or what happened to his car. The last thing he remembers was the old man sitting by a statue. This morning, he was dead.
I tried all day to speak to the family, hoping for them to shine some light on the mystery, but got nowhere.
What a crazy town we live in.

The House of Flu

When I was a kid, and watched ninja movies, I usually raided my mother's kitchen for jam tin tops to transform into ninja stars, which I flung (with great enthusiasm) at cardboard boxes. Later in life, when I watched movies with car chases, I couldn't help drive a little faster. So it was of little surprise that after reading way too much about the fabulous Drum magazine era, I got inspired to name our apartment and give it some arty, hippie, super-cool name. It was going to be the House of (whatever name I came up with). Like Can Themba's House of Truth.
My girlfriend didn't quite see the appeal. Neither did my friends, who were very firmly in the 21st century. But I kept the dream alive, the cinders flickering weakly in the back of my mind.
If I was to give our flat a name this weekend, I would call it: The House of Bronchial Infection, Inner-Ear Inflammation, Antibiotics and Endless TV Watching that Results in Frightening Mess of Tea Cups. The House of Flu, in other words.
It's been one of those weekends... We've been passing the infection around, snapping at each other through our headaches and trying to get better while being forced to leave the warmth and happiness of the home. Yesterday, to complete the picture of the miserable weekend, it hailed.
So forgive me if I have little to write about. But as I return to work tomorrow, I'm sure things will pick up again...

Flu and False Predictions

Yesterday, I boldly announced that the flu had released me. I spent the day covering a court case in Alexandra, hunting for a semi-decent restaurant in Germiston CBD (which, believe me, is not as easy as it sounds), sitting in the public gallery of a long council meeting and finishing the day at the Civic Theatre, sniffling my way through the Cheap Show.
This morning I am in bed, swimming in a small ocean of soggy tissues and getting ready to go to good old Dr Shein - my family's GP. I should have known better than to speak on flu's behalf - damn hearsay evidence.
The good news is I managed to finish a book I'm reviewing: Happy Chappie. It's written by a man called Tony Katzew, who is dying of Motor Neuron Disease (MND). MND has got to be one of the cruellest diseases in the world - over several years it basically shuts down your entire body, muscle by muscle. Tony, who lives in Hospice, has been completely paralyzed for over six years but is one of the most inspirational people I have ever met. I interviewed him for my newspaper and later spent two days with him to put together a short story called Eight Winters (still to be published).
In his book, which he dictated to a friend and launched last weekend, he had a beautiful message inscribed to me and signed it with a fingerprint. I'll post the review soon.

From Dusk Till Dumb

Life is a never-ending lesson. Early on, we learn not to run into busy roads and are taught that heroin is not a sustainable hobby. Later we feel our way through love, sex, heartbreak and, ultimately, death. But at what point do we learn that just because a movie touches that special place in your soul - as movies do - doesn't mean you should tattoo its name (along with the names of the two lead actors) across your back. (Yes, it's real).
I write about this because, quite coincidentally, my girlfriend and I watched Twilight for the first time this weekend. We finally gave in. All our friends had read the books, seen the movie and bought the special 2-disk DVD sets. While it was beautifully filmed, and was very romantic (in the traditional forbidden-love way), it hardly pushed me to add to my tattoo collection. With the craze around it, it just feels too much like the vampire version of Hanna Montana (for teenagers as opposed to children and without the singing).
But, in my eternal quest to be an objective journalist, I am open to arguments against these sentiments and in defence of the "film name" tattoo. I am still deeply haunted by the movie Blindness - but that wouldn't make a great tattoo, now would it?
Here's a photograph I took a few weeks ago. Believe it or not, there were two fighters with the identical tattoo. Bad Boy must love them.


Moving on... check out this link. It's a brilliant story that appeared in the news today and is about how Mugabe's government got conned by a woman claiming she could magically extract diesel from a rock. Bob's ministers jumped at the opportunity, claiming the country's woes were over and paid her a hefty 500 billion Zim dollars (which, come to think of it, is probably a box of smokes in SA). But the con was priceless.

Squatter camp or proud piece of history?

Well, I finally know what a true dilemma feels like: the university professor who holds the key to a BA degree you've slaved away at for two years insults your newspaper and calls its legendary Sauer Street offices a "squatter camp".
Talk about being caught in the middle.
Somewhere in my subconscious is buried a very vivid memory of traveling past 47 Sauer Street as a child and looking up at "The Star" sign on the wall - it's letters faded and proud. Something about that building always made me think of the romantic side of journalism: the smoke-filled offices, typewriters, giant presses and journalists in hats and rimmed glasses sneaking sips of whiskey between deadlines. When I joined The Star in 2005, I loved the old marble staircases, heavy iron furnishings in the toilets and the relics of an era vanishing into the quicksand of time. It was history - and it was beautiful.
But all indications are that by today, Independent News and Media (The Star's parent company in Ireland) will file for bankruptcy - like many proud newspapers have already done in the US. The future of the local operation - with its 14 titles - is uncertain, with questions over who will buy it.
In a column this week Wits professor Anton Harber, who heads up the journalism school in which I'm enrolled, wrote about the collapse of the Independent group and called it "the best news of the week". It's owner, Tony O'Reilly, has always been accused of using his friendship with Nelson Mandela to set up the media juggernaut and milk it to fund the overseas business. Last year, our hard work gave O'Reilly 26-million Euros but he has, Harber argues, failed to put money back into his most profitable operation.
"In this time, very little has been invested in infrastructure, with the result that the printing presses are decrepit and the Sauer Street headquarters are like an office squatter camp," Harber wrote.
47 Sauer Street is not a squatter camp. Yes it needs modernising. Yes the canteen may be a heath hazard. But a part of me cries out to defend some of the building's magical history. To blend the old with the new. To find a way to fight off the death of the newspaper. To slow the advance of the very technology that makes this blog possible...

A Year of Driving Dangerously

In the end, we went with "Top 10 Excuses". We had to, we're a family newspaper. But if I had my way, I would have called them the: "What the hell were you thinking Awards"... or something a little punchier: "The McBride Awards", "for the policeman who really, really shouldn't be behind the wheel of a car".
But let me start at the beginning...
Sunday shifts are tedious. All your friends are picnicking, watching movies, eating long lunches and, well, not working. You, on the other hand, are stuck writing about traffic accidents, following up stories published in the weeklies and attending press conferences that are so insignificant the organisers were too embarrassed to schedule them on a real day.
Add a migraine "aura" (blind spots followed by nausea and a pounding headache), plus a looming university deadline on the effects of new media on journalism, and you'll understand how I felt this Sunday morning.
There was, however, one silver lining: a great story I was working on about how many cars the Ekurhuleni Metro Police officers (Robert McBride's former minions) have wrecked in a year. A source of mine had slipped me a list of each accident - all 225 of them - and a detailed breakdown of what happened. And, I should add, this was during a year when taxpayers dished out R88-million for a new fleet of 500 cars for the EMPD. The excuses and explanations are priceless. Here are the top 10 as recorded in the EMPD books:
1. “Officer shot himself accidentally and the projectile entered the fuel tank of the vehicle”
2. “Officer not on duty, misuse council vehicle, officer under the influence, transported civilians in vehicle”
3. “Officer (from the K9 dog unit) collided with a dog and failed to stop after accident, action caused extra damage to vehicle”
4. “Umbrella came loose of pole in windstorm and landed on windscreen and bonnet – loose object (nature)”
5. “Officer ignored red robot and collided with lamp pole – had no permission to use patrol vehicle”
6. “Officer start vehicle in gear and drove into wall at house”
7. “Vehicle parts of new car was removed (and replaced) with old parts – undisclosed damage on vehicle
8. “Officer responded to assist his pregnant wife who went into labour and drove into pillar at his gate”
9. “Officer drove into tree and left vehicle on the scene”
10. “Bird flew into vehicle damaging the light of the vehicle”
You can't make this stuff up.
What I want to know is: how much this costs council in civil claims, how Joburg's metro cops compare (or are they too busy trapping motorists to do any actual driving) and why, oh why, were these guys ever allowed to get into a car?
You can read the full story here. I'd love to hear your metro police story / story suggestions.
p.s: Out of 184 officers involved in accidents, 110 were at fault. They have just made the "I Suck" list.

The Curious Incident of Two Funerals on One Day

We were having breakfast at this little bistro under the escalators at Cresta when my friend Kenneth asked us whether we knew where the Fourways Memorial Park is. His grandmother (96) died recently and the funeral is due to take place on Monday.
"That's strange, I've also got a funeral there on Monday," my girlfriend said, rather surprised.
The father of one of her best friends died recently after loosing his battle against lung cancer. His funeral is due to take place at the same place, but a little later in the day.
I took a break from my scrambled eggs (perched on a warm croissant) to ponder the unusual coincidence.
Going down on holiday to the same spot, watching the same movie, buying the same T-shirt, phoning a friend at the exact moment they phone you... the world is full of weird coincidences and serendipitous surprises. But two funerals, on the same day, at the same place?
It made me think about death and how even a funeral - such a personal and emotional affair - is placed on a conveyor belt and ushered through our busy world.
And speaking of funerals, I learned today that Walter Cronkite has died. Cronkite was the super-anchorman, the Voice of America, the legend who narrated everything from the Kennedy assassination to the Vietnam War. And each time he finished a broadcast, he gave us the beautiful benediction: "And that's the way it is".
There is a great piece on Cronkite on the NY Times website. The video is worth watching - it's like a mini (5-minute) documentary. Click here to check it out.
And finally, I was having a haircut on Friday when I caught a contagious question. Some kid had asked my hairdresser why sideburns are called sideburns. Sure they are on the side, but they don't burn, he reasoned. She didn't know and, in telling me the story, passed the question onto me. I had to research it and discovered that the answer is nothing like I expected...

Thank you (muchas gracias)

Like an army of cyberspace Zorros - without the Antonio Banderas accent or cheesy one-liners - you have come to my rescue. Thank you. An Unquiet Day is now the proud home of 55 members. I'm not sure how I can repay you, but if you have any questions about the media world or story ideas, I will be glad to try and help.
Oh, I know. Perhaps I should share out the 1 316 463, 00 UK Pounds I won today. That's... let me do the calculation... R18-something million... divided by 55... R335 000 each... not bad... and who says the Internet is only for porn.
Of course, we have to verify the winnings. I have my suspicions... and they all lead to Nigeria. You see, I received an email today that announced:
"Dear winner
Please find the attachment and send your information to your claims agent immediately
Thank you,
Uk NATIONAL LOTTERT"
Attached was a fairly nice looking Word document with a fancy background. Apparently all valid email addresses in the world were chosen for the draw and I was the lucky winner. "Congratulations! Congratulations!" the letter shouted.
There were a whole bunch of codes, to make it look official, and some telephone numbers to call to claim your prize. I wondered how many poor old people across the world were busy dialling...
"LOTTERT"? Seriously? Can't they at least get 4 lines right? Can they spell "419 scam"? Do they know how Caps Lock works?
Anyway, it's not like we don't have stupid fraudsters in SA. I am busy investigating a KZN businessman on trial for defrauding the Department of Education of R200-million. He allegedly had an insider, got a huge tender and was hired to buy textbooks and stationery for distribution to schools. He promptly opened another company and used one business to sell to the other business and sent the invoices to the government. What was he thinking? That no one would make the connection? Eish.

Painting for Madiba, burger thieves and R Kelly

Since there was no mad rush for the 50th membership spot on this blog I am resorting to bribery. Whoever puts me out of my misery (of watching and waiting) will receive a free Mercedes-Benz ML 63 AMG (kindly sponsored by the Gauteng Department of Agriculture and Rural Development) and five bottles of Johnnie Walker Blue Label.*
I had a rather unusual morning yesterday. I spent it painting the walls of a building that was once the headquarters of "Non-White Affairs", where the notorious passes were issued to black workers. The building, 80 Albert Street, downtown Joburg, is now the home of a ministry housing teenagers, mothers and their children. As a newspaper, we are doing some volunteering there for the 67 Minutes for Mandela initiative. Our work includes repainting the television room on the floor where the teenage girls live and revamping a small outside yard.
My team was in charge of finishing the first coat of paint, doing some wall repairs and messing paint on every inch of the floor and every fibre of clothing (including my Levis). But what a soul soothing experience...
When I got back to the office, I was reminded how crazy the crime and courts beat can be. There were three stories that caught my eye:
The first was about seven men arrested "for failure to pay Wimpy". As the headline suggested, the seven guys ate up a storm (R890) but came up with a feast of excuses when it was time to pay. They said one of their friends had run away, leaving them to wash dishes. The owners of the Soweto-based Wimpy were not exactly interested and called the cops, who promptly arrested the lot for theft. At least they won't go hungry in the holding cells.
The second was about a waiter from Kauai Juice (that healthy place we all look at while lining up at Steers) who was arrested for scanning credit cards. The 31-year-old failed to rock up at court, claiming "an inflamed throat and diarrhoea". An arrest warrant was issued. I wonder what gave him the diarrhoea? Too much Super Green smoothies?
And finally, during some absolutely random court case in Durban, it was announced that R Kelly will not be called in to testify. Apparently the accused, a woman arrested for defrauding pensioners, implicated R Kelly (yes, that Michael Jackson wanna-be) as an accomplice. And our brave prosecutors actually managed to get a statement from him and decided not to summon him to court.
I wonder how much play these stories will get today in the shadow of the 2010 World Cup strike agreement and other important global events.
On a serious note, a story worth reading is the one about the couple who committed suicide at a clinic in Switzerland. As a journalist, not much penetrates my skin, but this story did. It's tragic, beautiful and perfect.
* A small problem with the Merc AMG is that it was stolen and is currently missing in action. It was spotted in Swaziland, but remains illusive. If you can find it, maybe you can keep it. And, since it belonged to a politician, it probably had the Johnnie Walker in the boot. (A bit of trivia: A few weeks ago I actually got an MEC fired for splashing out R920 000 for a Merc but not bothering to insure it. It was hijacked from her husband less than 24 hours after it left the showroom).

Almost There

I thought today was going to be the day. Now and again, I peeked at my blog hoping to find that some kind person out there had become the 50th member of An Unquiet Day. But as I prepare to call it in for the day, the count stands frozen at 49.
Don't get me wrong, 49 is fantastic. For a blog that was started just several weeks ago, I'm excited to have an opportunity to interact with this many people (and all those who keep an anonymous eye on things here). So far, I have had just under 500 visits.
But 49 is so damn close to 50 that the numbers are starting to haunt me. It's like driving somewhere, waiting for the car's odometer to click over onto some nice round figure like 70 000km. You dare not concentrate on the road for fear of missing the crucial moment. What if the next time you look down you see 70 002km? Could you forgive yourself?
So, if you are the 50th member, please announce yourself so I can dedicate a post to you. I would offer you a prize, but I best leave the bribery to the politicians.
Today also marked the start of my part-time photojournalism course at Wits. We were lucky to have Shahidul Alam as a guest speaker. Listening to his stories, and looking at his photographs, was spellbinding. Expect to see more photography on this blog in the weeks to come.
And finally, if you ever need an excuse to be struck by lightning... check this out.

Pigeon Peril

In a bid to protect the humming air-conditioner fans outside the window at my office, the men in blue (overalls) created a death-trap for pigeons. The chicken wire they wrapped the fans in allowed the birds to sneak through onto the ledge, but made it impossible to escape. After the slow death of two pigeons, I took matters into my own hands.
With some effort, I managed to pull open the wire and made it possible for the pigeons to fly away. And, since then, I have fought a long battle to get a permanent solution to the pigeon problem. Which is not an easy crusade when your newspaper faces a global recession and a battle to stay alive in the Internet era.
News that I was a pigeon-protector must have spread across the bird world and a small splinter group has taken to sitting inside a small empty flowerpot on my balcony at home. I cannot say whether these pigeons are related to the ones at my office in Joburg CBD - but they could be.
Anyway, the ones at my home have taken on a new hobby, flying across the security sensor on my balcony at the break of dawn. This sets off the alarm, forcing me to leap out of bed naked, run through the house, open a security door and silence the siren. Yesterday (Saturday) the alarm began to scream at 7.30am - five hours after we crawled into bed after a comedy night at Montecasino. And today (a warm sunny Sunday) the birds arrived at 8am.
On weekdays, this doesn't trouble me because we are awake and getting ready for work by the time they swoop down. But on a Sunday? Have they no shame? Do they not realise I have taken down the pot and hidden it? Do they not know that you should not bite (err... peck) the hand that feeds? Do they not want a protector?

Buzz, Palin and the Beauty of Absolute Randomness

The CD had been in my car since May. Since the day I decided, very suddenly, that I hated all my car music and needed a fresh collection. So I burned a stack of new CDs - including Desmond and The Tutus.
This week I started listening to them and discovered the beauty of absolute randomness. One song is about a girl named Peter, another about a crazy rebel, a soggy bottom Speedo swimmer and a high five which is just too damn hard. So today, I will scatter my topics like a pensioner feeding pigeons in the park.
News just in: Sarah Palin (the neo-Nazi governor of Alaska and top candidate of the "I Suck" revolution) has resigned. On Independence Day. Perhaps it was her gift to the liberals and free-thinkers of the world.
Reports suggest she is planning to run for president of the US in 2012. If she succeeds, I am leaving earth and starting a colony on Mars.
Speaking of which, Buzz Aldrin (the real moon walker) has said that the time is right for mankind to start colonising other planets, and especially Mars.
"I feel that at this juncture in time that a leader of the world of some nation has the opportunity to initiate a clear pathway that can result in creatures from the Earth beginning to settle on another planet in this solar system," he told the BBC.
Adding to the Nasa moon landing topic, which has been going for a few days, I found a great gallery of photographs which show controversial aspects of the moon missions. Check them out.
What also caught my attention is a business merger between a huge Russian oil company (Gazprom) and its Nigerian counterpart (NNPC). The merger will generate billions of dollars and milk Africa for a bit more of its precious resources. But the best part of this is the name chosen for the new company, a mixture of Nigeria and Gazprom: "Nigaz". I can just hear the "African American" gangster teenagers in the Bronx...
The conclusion of the quantum physics poll: It's been up for a couple of weeks and asked whether there was a paradox in the plot of the new Terminator movie (with the son sending his father back in time). 50 percent of the 20 voters just didn't care enough to vote either yes or no. Those who had an opinion, were evenly split - but remained a majority. The time has come for me to admit that I am alone in these ponderings and will post a new poll today.
And finally, if you want to watch the funniest video created by mankind, click this link. It's a rip-off of "Total Eclipse Of The Heart" and is a masterpiece.

Back To The Office

Returning to work yesterday, after two weeks of study leave and full-time classes, was like walking onto a railway line and getting smacked by a speeding train. Within minutes, I was fighting with the Department of Health, begging the police to provide information, shouting at our IT guys for more bandwidth, calling off-the-record sources, getting comment from controversial lawyers and trying to track down the businessman at the centre of the Oilgate scandal. It was a wild day at the office.
The leave I had just finished was the first time in my life I had experienced "student life" and, if truth be told, I rather enjoyed it. Not forever, but it made for a great break from the day-to-day. Long tea breaks, late mornings and fun little outings where you get led around like a family of ducks through some random places where people stare at you like a parade of lepers.
In the real world, the never-ending strikes were ongoing, there was still mystery about whether we have a police commissioner or not and another plane had nosedived into the ocean. The strikes, in fact, have got so bad that workers were striking to show solidarity (yes, comrades) with metro police officers who were being disciplined for striking illegally on the M2 highway and shooting live ammunition at the other cops sent to disperse them. Let that sink in. Uniformed metro cops go on the rampage, bring the city to a halt, clash with the riot squads, shoot at them on the highway (bullets whizzing past motorists), get pushed back into their compound and throw rocks at the negotiation team succeeding only in hitting and denting their own cars. I know, I was there covering the story.
Now, when the time comes to stand up to a disciplinary hearing and take the rap for your actions - which some cops have described as treason - you get your mates at the licensing stations to down tools in protest. And why not, the doctors are striking, the nurses are striking, the firefighters are striking, the construction workers building our stadiums are striking, the teachers are kind-of striking and the taxi drivers are threatening to strike.
Let's see what today brings...

Quiet Introspection

A week has passed since I launched An Unquiet Day and the time has come for some introspection. Normally, when I allow my mind to turn inwards I sink into the quick sands of melancholy, play out-of-character music and write short stories that frighten me a few days later. But this, I'm sure, will be nothing like that.
What have I learned since diving into the blogosphere?
a. It's a lot more difficult to attract attention in cyberspace than I ever imagined. According to Technorati, there are at least 184-million bloggers out there, some who have been doing it since before Google came to steal our souls and take over the world. So thank you to all of you who are supporting me. As I return to the newsroom tomorrow (from study leave) I hope I can start delivering some interesting posts from the battlefield.
b. Not nearly as many people as I thought spend their time wondering about the paradoxes of time travel. Especially when it comes to trashy movies like Terminator. Forgive me, I got a little carried away after watching Star Trek. According to our poll, almost 50% of people simply don't care. So I'll make the next one about sex or religion, or both.
c. While I've been in denial about the online world (assuring myself that when I'm old I'll still have a newspaper to spread over my lap as I sip my Earl Gray tea on the creaky rocking chair) a lot has happened. I'm now plugged into it again and will, without a doubt, see you there.
d. It's great to have guest posts on the blog. It adds new dimensions, fresh voices and opens up conversation. So if anyone would like to contribute, please let me know.
On another front, the "I Suck" revolution is picking up momentum. Out of all the names I received, the most obvious one (which I should have remembered) is Sarah Palin - the right-wing governor from Alaska. If there was ever one person who so beautifully personifies everything wrong with the conservative, intolerant and poorly-educated mind, it's her. As for the person I least expected to see on the list is Michael Buble. That's not to say he doesn't suck. Because he probably does. But he looked a little odd next to great architects of genocide like Omar Al-Bashir.
And finally, unlike the rest of the country (and especially our toyi-toying doctors - please god don't let me get sick in the next few days) I am not on strike and will continue to blog!

p.s: Interesting story on a new You Tube centre for citizen journalists and an investigation of whether vegan food served in restaurants is really vegan.

Conan The Barbarian and Other Existential Questions

There are a lot of things on my mind: Japan considering doing away with cash currency; the looming remake of Conan the Barbarian (which, you'll agree, is a matter of global concern); the Natural Born Killers soundtrack I've rediscovered after more than a decade; the brilliant Scientology expose series I finished reading last night (see previous post); the 27 kind people (so far) who have joined this blog; my hands stinging from the freeze; and other such thoughts.

But the most interesting idea popped into my head yesterday, as I walked from my car to my flat, doing my best to avoid our nosy caretaker with that weird Eastern-European accent and my lesbian, parrot-on-shoulder neighbour Dolly. I thought about the two weeks of study leave I'm busy with and how strange it feels to step away from your job and look upon it from a distance and with fresh perspective. It's like unplugging from the Matrix. Sitting up on Northcliff Hill, looking down at your world and the tiny people and cars that run around in it like anxious insects.

I've been in journalism for seven years. And it occurred to me that I have spent those years fighting in the trenches. Covering the mayhem of the xenophobic attacks, getting inside the world of an Austrian father who kept his son locked up for four years or getting our MEC fired for splashing out on a R900 000 Merc without bothering to so much as insure it.

This morning I read my own newspaper with a front-page story which - because of the university course I am doing - I had to pass on to a colleague. I was happy to have someone else investigate it, to avoid the risk of getting scooped by another newspaper. It was done really well and was a welcome break from the violence and despair the front pages scream way too often. A part of me wanted to rush back to the newsroom and get stuck into the thrill of breaking a big story, while another calmed me, telling me to savor the chance to look over the battlefield without being a soldier. I wonder how many people feel the same way about their worlds?

Links:

Conan reboot (God help us)

Japan and their cash

Scientology series (read it, it's fascinating - especially the part about the cult / church's battle against the taxman)

Picasso Summer

It’s not quite Pablo Picasso at the Hermitage State Museum, but this masterpiece caught my eye this weekend as I stood in a toilet cubicle at the Wits theatre.

I was attending the annual production of the Johannesburg Youth Ballet (my best friend’s sister being one of the organizers) and could not resist taking a photo of our president dancing his heart out next to a roll of toilet paper, which was flapping around like a national flag. It made me think of several things: isn’t it wonderful that we live in a country where students take the time to draw political satire on walls where the norm is naked women, disproportionate penises and badly spelt invitations to sexual acts you pray your children will never find out about. I also thought about how ridiculous it is to have a president whose trademark is a shower head (relating to his rape trial) and an outdated revolutionary dance calling for a machine gun. And I thought about Zapiro – the creator of the shower head – and the effect one man can have on a nation. Remembering just how much contempt I have for politicians, I strolled off to the ballet to get lost in the uncontaminated smile of one of the young dancers.

Speaking of Picasso, I read a magnificent story this weekend by Ray Bradbury. On one of my shopping sprees to the Exclusive Books in Hyde Park, my favorite place in which to disappear for a few hours, I picked up a collection of Bradbury’s short stories. The author has been in my family for as long as I can remember and my parents read his stories (translated into Russian) while we still lived in Moscow. Picasso Summer is a story about a man on holiday with his family at the same resort as Pablo Picasso. When the man looks at the sky, the sea and the beach, he sees Picasso’s paintings and their brilliant reds, blues, yellows… He is obsessed with Picasso but can’t afford to buy his paintings. And then, one evening, he comes across Picasso drawing in the sand with an old ice cream stick. He freezes as he watches the artist create a string of breathtaking works in the sand. He panics, wondering if he has time to run to the hotel to fetch his camera, or hire a builder to excavate the sand or fill it with concrete to capture the images. As Picasso strolls off, the man realizes he cannot own the images and walks up and down looking at them until the sun sets. At dinner that night, he asks his wife: “Can you hear that?” “Hear what?” she replies.
“The tide coming in.”