Friday Flashback…

Nando's grabs it by the balls...

So, Joost Van Der Westhuizen, one-time national rugby superstar, has confessed (for the overseas readers, Google please). “It are me in der sexy-tape.”

Yes, Joost, it are you.

Shock. Horror. Another national sports-hero who just couldn’t handle the fame. Well played, Joost. Well done for living the dream…dumb-ass.

By the way, that’s “hooker” as in “prostitute”, not the the guy in the front row of the scrum. That said, this sex tape is 3 years old and anything could have happened since then.

Personally I still think Joost is a great role-model. Hundreds of young men aspiring to be a Springbok and coming up through the ranks are going, “OK. If I’m gonna sniff cocaine off a hooker’s ass, I’m not gonna record it. Gonna do this undercover. In another country. Dankie Oom Joost (Thanks, Uncle Joost).”

So some good came out of it….

Anyway, here’s a flashback to something else that was good. Joost, you don’t have to watch this. There aren’t any hookers here.

Have a great weekend…and if nothing else, take heart that yours will be a little better than the next 48 hours in the Van Der Westhuizen household.

Live the dream.

A Life Worth Its Years…

A friend of mine suggested recently that I take a gander at the  lyrics of Cat Stevens’ (aka Yusuf Islam)”Father and Son”. Since my own father passed away not so long ago, I’ve done my best to avoid the track, but this time around I felt compelled to read it. For those of you who can’t be bothered to read, here’s the track:

So…

Yeah. A bit depressing, right? Yup.

Here’s the thing: as much as the song has a point about the impetuousness of youth and the wanton disregard for the wisdom of  a life’s worth of experience (something that marked the relationship my dad and I had), the fact is that you cannot expect to grow by sitting and listening to others.

Yes, you need to take heed of those who have gone before you, if only to know what pitfalls may await you.

But you cannot let them live your life for you.

You need to make mistakes. You need to fall. You need to lose your way. You need to take risks. You need to fail. That’s what life (and creativity – see how I tied it back? Slick!) is all about. Creativity is all about mistakes, doing the unexpected, the frowned-upon…

People will always tell you through deeds and words what is expected of you, what is allowed, what can never be considered… You can listen to them – and live a life of no consequence. You’ll achieve nothing, not professionally, not personally…

Or you can do like Chris Columbus, Roald Amundsen, Chief Sitting Bull, Ghandhi, Barack Obama, John F. Kennedy, Abraham Lincoln, John Lennon, Amelia Earhart, Cleopatra, Marie Curie and a host of other historical and contemporary figures who decided that doing what they wanted with their lives was what mattered and the  nay-sayers be damned.

Your path through life has two distinct forks at all junctures: do what is expected – or do what makes you happy.

And very seldom are either the same choice.

The decision and its consequences are always yours. And the experience can never be substituted or stolen from you.

So..what’s it gonna be?

[It's been 2 years since I lost my father. I miss you, old man.]

Hey Baby…

The world's number one form of contraception...

I hate kids. Babies especially; alimentary canals with no satisfaction at one end and no responsibility at the other. So, you can imagine my joy at the discovery of “GREAT EXPECTATIONS” – a show about babies, kids…

Personally, I think it’s all quite vulgar.

So what am I moaning about? Why don’t I change the channel? I do. In fact, one look at Sam Cowen’s smug meant-for-radio-face and I find myself feeling physically ill. Not to mention the references to expressing breast milk and nappies and the like…

Excuse me. I think I threw up in my mouth a little.

What gets me is that there’s a market for this condescending content. Women will happily sit there and let some complete stranger tell them what’s best for their kids, a one-size-fits-all situation. Don’t you have any real friends? Parents? A mother? C’mon! What makes you think any of the daft bints on the screen know any better than you? Are we that insecure that the TV has become the expert on raising your children?

Is it any wonder then, that after being indoctrinated into parental instruction by the box, you then use it to babysit those very same little rugrats? And then you freak out when your spawn learn all the “wrong” things. You want to have kids? Then be a damned parent. And no, you silly mutt, you can’t let the TV do it for you…

Anyway, the (forgettable) sponsor probably gets their mileage, though dear god, it’s a long, dull road…for me anyway…

It’s not all bad though. The one episode I did manage to sit through gave me enough reason to never have any of the mind-debilitating, soul-destroying little bastards. So that’s nice…

Vanilla Why.

Alright, stop. Collaborate and listen.

Yup. He’s back. Vanilla Ice. The original white rapper. Yes, he was there before Eminem. No, don’t argue. Go ask your parents. Anyway, he’s back, fronting a beer label.

Yeah. I got nothing – and I’m guessing neither does Ice, if this outing is anything to go by. Too bad. He used to be cool.

Fresh Hell (on Earth)…

Continuing the theme of creative masturbation dressed up as advertising, may I present the Timberland Earthkeepers’ ad? Hit play and prepare to experience the ATL equivalent of having someone blow their wad on your face…

Now you know why pornstars get paid as much as they do.

Sea monsters, angels, gondoliers…the presentation must have set the world record for the largest collective Dutch Rudder attempt. Seriously. What the hell does this have to do with shoes? Do I care if they’re 100% recycled material? Not really. I want to know if they look good, keep my feet warm and won’t break after 2 days of wearing them.

Keep the pseudo-philosophy for your less-than-intelligent cousins. Really. All I want to know is that I won’t look like a douche if I wear your shoes and that they’re cooler than your competitor. Lie to me…but don’t treat me like an idiot…