A friend e-mailed me this article.

Wondering if he was trying to give me a message?

Well, at least a lot of things make sense now, doesn't it? Like at least half of my ex-boyfriends... and the way my hair looks before I put a brush to it in the mornings... although sometimes it looks even more barbaric and untamed after having been brushed!

On the other hand, the article also states: "The study, published in the journal Science, comes a week after another set of researchers looking at a different gene said Neanderthals may have been capable of sophisticated speech."

That definitely rules mumbling me out as a descendant then. Unless the eloquence merely skips a generation now and again?

My real name - that one that I have loathed and despised since birth - was just mispronounced live on an XM and Worldspace Satellite Radio station which can be heard live around almost the entire world.

Does a sort of mispronunciation mean that I am famous? Or does it detract from the fame?

What if the DJ gets your gender wrong? What does THAT do to the fame factor?

The station in question is UPop and I've been listening to them on my Worldspace Satellite Radio (thank you again, Web AddiCT(s)! It is honestly the gift that keeps on giving.)

About an hour ago, while poking around on the Worldspace site online, I found the station and when I heard that they were broadcasting live from my beloved D.C., I immediately e-mailed them:

"Hey there,

Just want to give a shout out from Stellenbosch - a college town in the heart of the South African wine country near Cape Town - where I am listening to you on Worldspace.

I lived in and near Washington, D.C . for nine years until the end of 2005, so it helps to stifle the homesickness I so often feel for D.C. when I listen to you guys.

Keep up the great work!" -- Yes, I know, I know. I am SUCH a sad nerd, e-mailing radio stations.

Then I proceeded to sign off with my real name, and the usual primer for English-speakers of how it is pronounced and what English name it should rather be translated to. (I used to get so sick of filling out my name on forms when I lived in the States, because I always had to add "pronounce as" in parentheses.)

I didn't add a request, so I didn't think I would hear anything from them. So I carry on working, listening to the music and to the DJ, Ted Kelly, chatting about what they will be up to in D.C. this weekend, and suddenly he says my name... Or well, kind of.

He actually said: "I hope I'm pronouncing this right." And then he SPELLED IT OUT and continued: "HE is listening to us from Stellenbosch in South Africa on Worldspace..."

By that time I was roaring with laughter. He continued to read the rest of my mail on air (about being in Stellies, and having lived in D.C.) and then said: "Hopefully he will send us his number so that we can call him and chat some more about South Africa and about his time in D.C. on the air next week some time."

When I open my mail a few minutes later, there is an e-mail from them:
"Hey there (Hideous Real Name), glad to have you listening. When you get back to DC visit us in the studio! Hey send us your tele # and we will give you a call next week on air. Always love to chat with our listeners! Ted Kelly."

When I wrote back to send my number, I added: "Thank you! I just heard you chatting to me and about me on air! What a thrill!

And well done on the pronunciation of my name. Not bad at all! But as I've said, it translates to ****** in English. Which makes me female, Mr. Ted Kelly! You are forgiven though for calling me 'he' on the air. My parents, however, will never be for giving me such a hideous name. Which isn't even all that common in South Africa either."

Minutes later, I receive this: "Well Ms. (English translation of my name added here in all caps), didn't want to make the assumption just based upon pronunciation....glad to have you as a listener. If it alrigth (sic) we will call you Monday around this time... Have a great weekend...! Tell your parents sorry for the gender confusion! Ha. Talk soon!"

So if you have XM/Worldspace and you want to hear my awful, not-radio-friendly-at-all-voice, just tune in to UPop on Monday!

P.S. How sad is my life that this is considered a highlight?

As all three of my imaginary readers know by now... someone has actually been stupid gullible enough to employ the likes of me. To blog.

To BLOG!

No, not on here. Geez, I KNOW I'm lazy, but not even I am THAT much of a slacker!

No, I actually write a few times daily on that other blog. Besides, it's so much fun, it hardly even feels like work! (Better not repeat that "W" word again, lest my body catches on that I'm actually being productive and immediately seizes up.)

What's that? Oh, you want to know what I blog about?

Well... Oh, look! It's a nice day today, isn't it?

Okay, okay, fine. It's not THAT bad, even though the beat I cover is widely considered to be at the very bottom of the journalistic totem pole - although I have been (unconvincingly) consoled by well-meaning folk that it is definitely still higher up than horoscopes and obituaries.

That's right. I'm a celebrity gossip blogger.

Before you mock my profession, I want to remind you of all those times that you have sneaked a peek at the tabloids while standing in line at the grocery store check-out. And all those times that you have gone even further than that and actually paged through, for example, Heat (if you're in SA) and the National Enquirer (if you're in the States) while you wait. And all those times that you went beyond that and actually slipped it in with the rest of your purchases, to secretly read at home/work/wherever later on! Yes, see? I KNOW.

Well, rest assured that you are NOT alone. I know that too, because that blog actually receives more than 0 hits a day, and boasts more than three imaginary readers. (There are at least seven imaginary ones.)

Although I write a lot about the shenanigans of Britney and Paris and Lindsay and Nicole and the like, I do actually try to give some coverage to South African celebrities as well.

Now, keep in mind that many people in South Africa still don't even have Internet access. (Internet access here is RIDICULOUSLY expensive.) So needless to say, many people here don't quite know what exactly a blog is. (Or a blob. As my mom calls it when she tells people about her daughter, the blobber.)

Funnily enough, those South Africans who have come across the blog, haven't been shy about commenting on some of the posts. Especially the ones dealing with their favourite local celebs.

But don't be mistaken: their comments are not at all a sign that they actually like my writing. Or even, more likely, hate it! In fact, I might as well be chopped liver, because I am entirely ignored. Instead, all of them direct their comments to the celebrity I have written about.

That's right. I am actually getting celebrity fan mail! Only, it's not really mine, because it's not addressed to me. It is really, really strange. As if I'm a medium through which they can communicate with their favourite stars.

Just this past week again, an Afrikaans guy left me (or rather, a local female singer) a lengthy ode about how he absolutely loves and adores her and how he thinks she is the absolute BEST singer EVER in the ENTIRE South Africa. After buttering her up with compliments (and he really lay it on thick!), he abruptly changed his tune: "Look, I just happen to also be a song writer. Here are just some of the songs I have written for you to sing..." and here he proceeds with a lengthy list of titles so sappy, even Mills & Boon would flinch and possibly throw up from it. If you don't believe me, I have taken the liberty to translate some of the titles he sent: The Orphan (Sweetest gift), Lonely without You, Another waltz with my father and - because singing songs that don't contain actual words are huge in Afrikaans circles - Ting Tong Tingeling Too (Deceased Soldier).

I am totally not even kidding about the parantheses and its contents. Just when you think: Ting Tong Tingeling Too! That sounds like a really cheesy but upbeat song! Then you are instantly deflated and brought down to earth by the Deceased Soldier bit.

Now, usually, I let those Dear Celebrity-in-question comments slide, because who am I to burst their bubble? So I allow them to think that their comments probably reached their desired targets.

This time, though, the guy just seemed to have so many career aspirations riding on his comment. It is also evident from those song titles that he is a really sensitive type, no? So I took the trouble of sending him a personal e-mail back:

Dear *Guy's real name inserted here*

Sincerely,
The Jetstreaker Team.

As you can see, I stopped just short of telling him: She does not actually live in these pages...

But I have to admit, I was rather charmed. I mean, it's probably the closest that I myself will ever come to being adored by legions of fans, and to see how devoted some of them are is really touchy AND creepy at the same time!

So my job? It is totally akin to being a celebrity.

I suffer from every single ailment under the sun, except...

Don't avoid black cats today...

Last Thursday night ("Thursty Thursday"), my beloved Bookstore Diva came to pick me up in her trusty chariot for a Night on the Tow... 'burbs.

It was all part of a brazen effort on her part to Save Red from Herself, an intricate, complex process requiring gallons of medicinal drinking.

So I made very sure that I was suitably "Thursty."

Would you believe that I actually blogged about my night out immediately upon my return?!? (Apparently the procrastination part of my personality loses strength when my drunk slightly inebriated and therefore very spontaneous and impatient self appears.

Luckily for all five of you and for everyone else involved, I forgot to press "Publish."

Today, as I was aimlessly wandering through the cluttered back corridors here at Redsaid's, I stumbled upon a dog-eared file marked: "Drunken Blogging equalsh DLOGGING! YEAH! DLOGGING! That'sh BRILLIA...zzzzzzz."

It reeked suspiciously of alcohol.

Most of the file's contents were, if not completely incoherent, unreadable from being covered in liquid stains and lipstick smears.

Here is some of what I managed to make out:

"Ociffer, Ociffer! I shwear that I will NEVER drink and drive! Naaah! I jusht pull over when I wanna take a shwig."

"Let Go (of the wheel) and let God (drive)! Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!"

Shouted into the dark field surrounding the bar's parking lot in the direction of a suspicious rustling sound which we hoped was being caused by a deer (although Bookstore Diva insisted it could quite possibly have been a gigantic bat): "Be a deer and if you were born here and not in Canada, marry her so she can get a Green Card!"

That Bookstore Diva girl has the most amazing super powers, because not only did the dear deer agree to elope, BUT ALL THE DRINKS WERE ON THE HOUSE!!

Hey, Diva girl! It's Thursday and I'm THURSTY again.

Don't look at me that way! YOU have created this monster.

I've never belonged to any clubs in my life.

Well, unless you count this one time when I was around six or seven and I belonged to the Afrikaans version of the Girl Scouts (without the door-to-door cookie sales).

My membership to this particular club was rather brief, because it didn't take the club's leaders very long to figure out that I was never going to be able to hoist or squeeze or push my round body over or through or under the obstacle courses. And unfortunately for both me and the leaders, those very same obstacle courses made up a large part of the club's "team-building" activities. In fact, one could even say that the manoeuvring of one's not-at-all-aerodynamic body over or under or - most dreadfully - through those torturous obstacle courses, was at the very heart of the club's mission statement.

Now that I think about it, those obstacle courses may well have been the sole reason for the club's being!

Oh, and then there was the time when I belonged to a country club. But before you roll your eyes and mutter about what an insufferable snob I must be: I was only a member by association. And again, before you start to mutter about the snobs I associate with: They paid me to associate with them. (Wow, that makes me sound... well, I don't know quite how that makes me sound. Expensive?)

Before I talk myself deeper into the marshlands of misunderstanding (it's a gift I have, these miscommunication skills), let me explain: I was a nanny for a family who belonged to a suburban D.C. country club. I had to take the kids there during the humid summer months, to lounge by the pool (what a tough job!); and during the long, cold and dark months of winter, to ice skate and sip large cups of hot chocolate. (As I've said, it was a tough job!)

But silly me, instead of spending my country club days productively by snagging myself a strapping young member of the preppy set, I wasted my time by scribbling furiously in my notebook all the insights (if one can call it that) and observations I had of American life. Oooh, boy, and if you think I write drivel NOW..!

I felt most comfortable in the country club setting when I got to mingle with my own kind. So when I wasn't engrossed in the task of filling up my notebook, I struck up friendships with various country club employees and other nannies. We all shared the common bond of being "the help," a bond strengthened even further by the fact that we were all aliens in a strange land.

Oh, and apart from a few book clubs and a brief time in high school when I founded a foreign film club (it wasn't wildly successful, because I showed films so obscure that on the whole of planet earth, apparently only I wanted to see it), that then concludes my brief club member history.

Until last week, when I, thanks to the boy, joined another club.

You see, the boy and I have finally emerged from the Dark Ages of dial-up to a high speed modern day DSL modem. I haven't been offline since we installed it a few days ago. (A fact which hasn't been reflected in the activity on this blog, I know.) The SPEED of it all! It's amazing! It's making my head spin. (And the pages STILL download faster than the dizzying speed at which my head is rotating as it tries to wrap my mind around it!)

Oh, and let's not forget that I can now speak on the phone AND SURF THE INTERNET AT THE SAME TIME!!!!! What a fantastic concept!

This DSL connection has opened corners of the World Wide Web, which, as a dial-upper (wouldn't dial-downer be a more apt description though?) have been out of my reach until now. Like STREAMING VIDEO! And RADIO (without buffering every 2 seconds for 60 seconds at a time) and opening some of my favourite arty blogs in a snap AND then being able to see all the pictures!

So since I'm now able to stream video and radio, the boy did something exceptional for me. He subscribed me to this amazing service which allows me to watch SOUTH AFRICAN TELEVISION!!!

This is remarkable, because there is no way to beam South African television this far into the Northern Hemisphere. Believe me, I've pleaded with Direct TV to at least TRY, but alas, I've been assured that it's impossible. "And no, missy," the Direct TV guy said when I asked him if it's because their dishes are too small, "It really has NOTHING to do with the size of the dish!"

So with a membership to this Kudu Club, for a mere $9.95/month (I'm not sure how much it costs in other parts of the world), one gets unlimited access to HOURS of content in the form of movies, various television shows, variety shows, news programmes, etc.

And it's worth every penny, because the service also includes access to several South African radio stations and newspapers. Also, new content is added almost daily. It's obviously not live (call me crazy, but the main reason why this bothers me is because after so many years of being away, I'd really like to see some South African commercials again. Our ads are REALLY good!), but as far as I can tell, some shows are made available on the same day they air in South Africa.

So I've been glued to this computer screen every second since the boy has signed me up for this club, and although I'm starting to develop aches in unusual body parts, it's been a marvelous experience. Never mind that the garden has shriveled up and died (but not to worry, because several new things are growing in the refrigerator), I just can't bring myself to... well... do anything else!

Thus I've spent the past few days weeping at the drama, laughing at a very silly tabloid show called Voorblad (Front Page) and I've winced at some of the revelations made on an investigative journalism show called Carte Blanche.

I've managed to spread the joy by getting the boy hooked on this riveting South African drama series called Snitch (yes, it's in Eengleeesh, so he understands) and I'm all warm and fuzzy with pride to see how impressed he is with the high quality of the plot and the acting. (Or perhaps he is more impressed with the fact that I went to school with one of the lead actresses? She is utterly gorgeous and she plays a stripper, so the boy has plenty of opportunity to sample her gorgeousness. All I can say is: When I went to school with her, I had NO IDEA that she was so flexible!)

The epitome of my joy, however, is seeing Afrikaans television again. I've just spent a marathon session watching a thirteen-episode (of one hour each) Afrikaans drama. (And here you've been thinking all along that I'm not sporty!)

The boy thinks I should pace myself and occasionally take a break to do something constructive like say... writing? But I argued with him that, if I should take a break to work, then that wouldn't really be "taking a break" at all, now would it?

But despite his grumblings about my lack of productivity, I think he is grateful. Because apart from the soft hum of the computer and the Afrikaans voices coming from the speakers, this house has been as quiet as a monastery where the monks have taken a vow of silence.

No one has been chatting his ear off when he gets home. No one has been telling him in great detail about who or what was on Oprah today, because no one has even glanced at Oprah (or at any American television apart from Jeopardy!) since last week. As I've said, this house has been the picture of peace and (almost) quiet.

That's right. I have not said anything more than "You're home already?", "Watch this!", "Coffee please!" and "You're going to work already?"

But surely that wouldn't have been the reason why he signed me up for this club, right?

RIGHT?!?

P.S. In case you haven't yet, and you feel so inclined, please sign my Green Card Petition! To all of you who have already signed it, THANK YOU!

Last night, while having dinner, the boy asked me: "So, do you like this buffalo wing flavour?"

In my best imitation Jessica Simpson, I said: "But sweetie, buffaloes don't HAVE wings."

Without missing a beat, he deadpanned: "Well, what do you think of these buffalo nuggets then?"

Remember how that woman faked finding a severed finger in her Wendy's chili recently?

And remember how this guy then found a piece of a real finger in his frozen custard from a Kohl's Frozen Custard store in North Carolina? At first everyone thought it was another scam or a hoax - especially since the two incidents followed so closely together - but it was the real deal.

It's enough to whet one's appetite, isn't it?

Well, since the Wendy's finger wasn't real, I'm sure customers are warming up to the chili again. Business at Kohl's Frozen Custard might be hurting, though - not to mention that poor employee who used to own that finger.

They shouldn't fear though, because with all this free time I have, I've come up with an honest ad campaign for them to draw those custard-loving customers back in.

Kohl's Frozen Custard: The best finger food in town!

Kohl's Frozen Custard: So good we can hardly keep our fingers out of it!

Or, if we want to take advantage of the lawful comparative advertising practices here in the States, we can go with this:

Wendy's fakes it, but here at Kohl's Frozen Custard, we serve the real deal!

(You can blame him for this. He once told me that I could have a wonderful career in copy writing.)

Happy Friday, everyone!

P.S. Thank you for the car suggestion. Boy's considering the Volvo wagon. Safe, reliable, and yet still roomy enough for presentation boards and a large grinning Labrador Retriever.

Two of the gorgeous gals I was in the play with last year recently left their shoes at my house. Now, this wouldn't have been such a problem if my feet were oh... say... TEN SIZES SMALLER and SIX INCHES NARROWER!

As it is, these dainty lil' leather mules and shiny slingbacks with their stacked heels serve as a mocking reminder of just how abnormal I am! (See why I prefer how-to books over shoes? Books don't give my already-gnarly toes blisters. Books don't make me fall flat on my face. Well... unless I pile them up on the floor... but that's another story. But most importantly, books never make my big feet feel even bigger. Books don't mock me with their gorgeous covers only to humiliate me when I page through them. No, books never make me feel and look as if I have hippo feet!)

Today, I sent them this ransom note:

Girls,

I have your shoes. The ransom is a bottle of wine and yet another long evening in my company within the next week. Only then will they be returned to you, unscuffed.

Don't bother getting the American fashion police involved. Because once they find out that I'm from South Africa, it won't be difficult to convince them that the fact that I'm wearing any clothes at all (even if is ill-fitting factory rejects from the clearance racks at T.J. Maxx, Marshall's and Ross*) and not just prance around in my freckles and a few strategically placed animal skins, is a great personal accomplishment and a step towards civilization.

I know how precious these shoes are to you, but if you don't respond... well, let's just say that 'time wounds all heels'!

Regards,
Big Foot.

Ladies and Gentleman, I have FINALLY arrived!

No, no... I haven't left town. Or the house. And no, I haven't gotten a job or a Green Card either. (Damn, suddenly I'm starting to feel bummed out.)

But before you dismiss me with an impatient click of the mouse to move onto the sites of other, far more interesting bloggers who actually have jobs, and lives, and the ability to write and tell you about it all in a captivating, eloquent way, please humour me (as usual) and read on.

Yesterday afternoon, as I was wading through the spam in my inbox (or should I just go ahead and call it a spambox? Because that's all I seem to be receiving nowadays) and deleting it... lo' and behold! I actually stumbled onto a REAL e-mail, an e-mail written especially for me by a guy named Josh (Hello, Josh!). And what Josh wrote me made me absolutely giddy with delight!

Here's what Josh wrote:

And now that I have your attention...

Please humour me (as usual) and read the following out loud.

White, white, white, white, white, white, white, white, white, white, white, white, white.

(No I assure you… I haven’t gone completely off my rocker… well, all right, perhaps a little, but my insanity occurred shortly after birth. So really, it’s been so long I can almost be considered sane. Like I said, humour me a little. There IS method to my madness today.)

So, as we were saying out loud: White, white, white, white, white…

Now, answer this question: What does a cow drink? Scroll down to the end (but return immediately to read the rest of my labour!) for the correct answer… but know this, if you said

Last week those fun-lovin' censors at ABC prevented actor/comedian Robin Williams from performing a song during the Academy Awards ceremony.

Yeah, yeah... so that's not exactly hot off the press newsworthy or anything (what else do you expect from a procrastinating journalist?), but hold yer horses, for I'm about to deliver.

Before I do (and I swear I'm not just procrastinating now for the sport of it), allow me to enlighten those of you who are perhaps still not familiar with this story.

During the Oscars, Williams was to have performed a song making fun of conservative critic James Dobson, whose group had recently criticized the popular cartoon character SpongeBob SquarePants for appearing in a video it deemed "pro-homosexual."

I say Mr. Dobson and his friends have way too much time on their hands. Most of us... well, you. (But for the sake of this stellar piece of journalism, let's forget all about what's already been written on this website about my fondness for American television, and include me in that remark). So, most of US hardly have any time to watch television, let alone study and dissect children's shows!

Or would it be wiser to speculate that Dobson and his friends are watching shows intended for children because that's what their intellects limit them to?

Whatever the case may be, Dobson and co. are hardly original.

In 1999, a publication edited by Jerry Falwell identified one of the giggling, gurgling Teletubbies - the purple-clad Tinky Winky - as a homosexual.

In the song that was yanked from the Oscars, Williams was going to refer to several other cartoon characters and describe their dark and seedy sides.

But Williams was gagged and the lyrics of the song was never revealed.

Until last night, when Williams was a guest on The Tonight Show with Jay Leno.

When Leno asked him about the controversy, Williams pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and, to the delight of the audience, read a few lines from the song.

To all of you who've missed it... you can thank your lucky stars that I'm such a dextrous transcriptionist!

Here, for your Tuesday pleasure, are some of the lines from the unsung cartoon song. (Lyrics by Marc Shaiman, who is my new hero.)

If you think you are tough enough to handle the truth, read on.

You pour cereal into the coffee maker.

And a skylight in the bathroom?

VERY QUICKLY.

P.S. Before you get too jealous, the skylight is the vintage tower kind commonly found in older rowhomes. It was built for the practical matter of ventilation rather than for any esthetic reasons. (The pattern on the safety glass reminds me a lot of chicken wire.) The natural light it provides while I'm "being human" (My mom always said that if people intimidated me I should just remember that they also have to go to the bathroom because they are just human like the rest of us) IS very nice, though.

However, last week, when I went to the bathroom during the snow storm, I felt prickly, fiery sensations shooting up my bare legs. (Don't worry, the story isn't getting any kinkier than this.) Since I'm so quick on the uptake, it took me a while to realise that my pain wasn't being caused by a seizure or a heart attack (think about it... when you're sitting down your legs aren't as far away from your chest as they normally are, so you have to admit that my fear wasn't that outrageous), but by tiny bits of ice. Yes, it was actually SNOWING IN THE BATHROOM courtesy of that very same chickenwired skylight.

Needless to say, THAT loo experience was also a fast one.

Prepare to stick me in the freak archives right now because of what I'm about to tell you:

In this early 21st Century year of 2005 AD the boy and I do not possess cable television. Or satellite. Or even TiVo.

But sit down and clutch your trembling heart, for it gets worse: We do not own any of those things BY CHOICE.

Do you wanna be shocked senseless some more? Well, then take THIS: We still use a dial-up modem (remember those, kids?) but that is NOT by choice.

Yes, indeed, I'm coming at ya from this side of the internet at the tremendous speed of about 00.01 kbps (if it's a good connection, I should add), but that is only because we haven't decided which high speed cable we want to zip through the world wide web with. (Actually, I think the boy is afraid that if he gets us high speed internet, he'll NEVER be able to pry this mouse and keyboard from my hands ever again! 'Cause as it is, I have to log off every once in a while in order to call him and tell him that I'm still alive. Yeah, remember the archaic concept of ONE PHONE LINE?)

Anyway, this is about how and why we're stuck (voluntarily, but still stuck!) with... shudder... network television. The boy wanted to get satellite, bless his aching heart, but I put my flat foot (yeah, it's really flat. I'm a medical freak marvel) down and said the one word despised by men the world over: NO.

But I cited wonderful reasons of course. I said: "There are books to be read, music to be listened to, dining room tables to be dined at, words to be spoken, dogs to be petted (albeit OTHER PEOPLE'S dogs... hint, HINT HIIIIIIIIIIINT!)..." and so forth.

So no cable, satellite or even TiVo. Only a Netflix subscription and N*E*T*W*O*R*K television.

Earlier this week, the boy was ailing, so he stayed home.

When he woke up, I was on the couch, glued to the Today Show. (But it's strictly for research. I want to determine once and for all whether Katie Couric is a robot, because I've never met a real person who is so bloody chirpy that early in the morning!)

He went back to sleep. When he woke up again, I was watching Regis & Kelly. (Don't judge. You would be too if you didn't have any other choices.)

He nodded off again. When he came to again, we had breakfast while Ellen was on.

Noon. Good Day Live on UPN. By now the boy is slowly catching on that I change the channel way too punctually for this to be a random occurrence.

Lunch. Click remote over to Brit Wit on PBS.

1:30 Bold & Beautiful (DON'T JUDGE!).

2pm More Brit Wit.

3pm Our resident shrink, the good Dr. Phil.

4pm Oprah, of course.

5pm News.

5:30pm BBC World News on PBS.

6pm Syndicated sitcom reruns. Several choices, for a change! There's a bit of vintage Will & Grace. Or King of Queens, if the mood should strike you.

At about 6:30pm, when I switched over to watch The Simpsons, boy said - nary a HINT of sarcasm in his tone - "You're right. We can't POSSIBLY get cable or satellite, because then you might just start watching television all the time and never read, or write, or blog, or ..."

You can attend his funeral at... just kidding.

"Fame! I'm gonna live foreeeeeeeeeeeeeeever, I'm gonna learn how to fly. FAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAME..!"

No, you have NOT stumbled back into time and right onto an 80's Music Hit Parade (Would it even be humanly possible to step 'onto' an 80's Hit Parade? Because duh, of course one can step back in time. I do it whenever I run into trouble - which is often - by simply jumping into my bed and assuming fetal position).

The reason for my little manic outburst into song is this: Just after midnight this morning, I was interviewed by a reporter from the SABC (South African Broadcasting Corporation... I'm writing it out in a desperate attempt to lend even more Importance to this story) for an Afrikaans radio station.

Stop laughing! I'm serious!

My prospective notoriety has nothing to do with this blog. Alas, no... although I've heard about people becoming famous for their ability to sing really badly (think William Hung from American Idol), I'm not aware of fame doled out to those of us (me) who manage to slaughter language and the art of writing. If they do, I'm sure I'll be eligible for that and DON'T YOU DARE TELL ME THAT I'M NOT GOOD ENOUGH AT WRITING BADLY TO BE AWARDED A PRIZE FOR IT!!!!

Where was I? Oh, yeah. Why on earth the station decided to interview me.

I don't really know either, since it was about my plans for New Year's Eve, and well, I'm such a social butterfly (which is why I'm at this computer at 10:33 in the evening) I don't even HAVE plans for Friday evening.

So I did what I do really well (although not quite as well as writing badly), and I lied. To a reporter. While I was being recorded. During my radio interview. Which is going to be heard by all of South Africa on Friday morning. (Well, at least all South Africans who happen to be tuned in at that exact moment to that exact Afrikaans radio station.)

And I was nervous (since I was lying and all) so I talked reallyreallyfastlikethis and then I became quite breathless butIkeptongoinganyway*gasp*likethis, so I don't remember exactly what I said, except that I talked a lot about sub zero temperatures and spectacular fireworks and lots of fun and dancing and being popular with lots of friends (I TOLD you I was lying) who never leave me high and dry on New Year's Eve when they all go off to exotic and warm places to do exotic and warm things.

And then she asked me about my New Year's resolutions and I told her something lame like: "My New Year's resolution is not to make any New Year's resolutions since I always break them before I even start."

AndthenIcontinuedwiththebreathlessmumblingsaboutexerciseorsomething.

I TOLD you it was lame.

Oh, well. To quote that crazy chick Lady Macbeth: "What 'tis done cannot be undone." Or something like that.

Anyway, I've always been told that I have a face for radio.

So the one question now weighing heavily on my mind is one I'd like to address to Andy Warhol:

I know this falls under the you-had-to-be-there category, but I still can't resist sharing.

After studying West Africa on a map, I held out a box of Macaroons and asked the boy: "Would you like to have a Cameroon?"

He is STILL teasing me. Small things, me dear, small things...

Then, on Christmas day we were over at a friend's house. She poured my drink into a beautiful new wine glass, handed it to me and said: "These are so delicate, they really shouldn't be washed in the microwave."

Yeah, okay, so you really had to have been there, but believe me, after sampling a variety of potent potables, it was hysterically funny.

Cue the infomercial music:

Have you ever listened closely to a rap artist speaking during an interview and thought to yourself: "Oh, what extraordinary linguistic skill! How I wish I could command the English language like that! After all, I've always strived to sound exactly like an individual hailing from the ghetto."

Well, thanks to Snoop Dogg and this site*, now y'all too can sound like dat! (Well, they'll translate any written text from the web, but if you read it out loud enough times, I'm sure you'll sound stylishly ghetto in almost no time at all!)

So, ever wondered what Snoop would sound like if he's asked to recite a Shakespearean sonnet?

No? Well, tough luck, my sibling, fo’ ya’ll iz about ta find out.

NOT that I'm encouraging them or anything, but I simply have to point out how some of my spammers are becoming increasingly creative.

Earlier today the comments section of this blog was graced by the following poetic masterpiece:

Netty. Bog. Loo. Privy. Dunny. John...

No, these aren't suggestions for the 2005 Edition of the Book of Baby Names. Of course, specifically pointing out that it's NOT baby names probably won't prevent some people from naming their kid Bog... So, if you are out there: I'm really, REALLY sorry, Bog, that I unwittingly inspired your parents to name you after a slang word for a toilet.

Oh, and I promise not to tell your parents that the guy mistakenly credited for inventing the modern toilet is called by the unfortunate name of Thomas Crapper. (Yes, 'Thomas' is an unfortunate name indeed, isn't it?) But more about that, and him, later.

Anyway, yes indeed, all of those are words used worldwide and through the ages for a place that we are still surprisingly too coy about to call by its real name. Yet, whatever we call it and whether we are rich or poor, and no matter how much we try to shy away from admitting it, the fact remains that we all need one.

You may be wondering (or you may not be... I never know with you lot!) why I'm writing this potty post. (And no, it's not JUST because I've been on a gross post streak since yesterday.)

It's because today, November 19, 2004, is a very, very special day indeed, and hopefully I'll be the first but not the only one to say:

On the late news two nights ago we saw a segment on how American doctors are increasingly turning to nature for a bit of help in curing some of their more stubborn, slow-healing cases.

But when I say 'natural,' I don't mean the usual suspects like medicinal marijuana, or any other Asian or African herbal remedies, acupuncture or even an ecclectic Native American tribesman coming to your house to smoke out your blocked chi and cleanse your aura. (No, I'm not confused any more than I usually am! After all, I DID say that the man was ecclectic!)

No, we are merely talking about good old fashioned - but FDA approved - maggots.

Pull up a chair and grab some munchies, 'cause what I'm about to tell you is in such good taste that it's bound to stir up your appetite!

So in the comments of one of my previous posts, hordes of you (okay, two... but that amount, sadly, makes up the majority of my readers) expressed concern (okay, so no, not concern exactly, but that has to do for now for lack of a better word. Yes, I know: I'm soooo eloquent!) that I've gotten... ha ha ha .... I can hardly write it because it's so funny...

Before last night's premiere of NBC's new reality show about weight loss, titled "The Biggest Loser," (how original of them!) while they were in the home stretch of plugging it, Boy looked up from the book he was reading just in time to see and hear the last bit of the promo, delivered by that movie trailer voice-over guy with the raspy voice, saying something like this "... to find out just who will be the biggest loserrrrr."

Boy, looking puzzled and a bit amused at the same time: "How on earth are they going to determine who the biggest loser will be?"

Me: "...?"

Then it hit me! Having caught only the tail end of the promo and after not really paying attention, he thought that they meant biggest loser as in shape-your-thumb-and-forefinger-into-an-"L"-and-slap-it-against-your-forehead kind of loser.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Can you imagine what the premise for that show will be?

Imagine movie trailer voice-over guy (who moonlights for NBC on the side) dramatically saying: "Viewerrrrrrs, forrrr five rrrriveting weeks you'll decide who the biggest loserrrr will be: the 30-yearrrr old unemployed guy who still mooches of his own motherrrr orrr the serrrrial womaniser who steals costume jewels frrrom vulnerrrable old ladies?"

Fox, don't you go stealing this idea now, you hear? I know it sounds awfully tempting, but trust me, this won't allow you to stoop even lower. I think you've already outdone yourself with shows like "Married by America" and "Man vs. Beast."

Advertisers, rejoice: Apparently people do read the store catalogues they receive in the mail.

Not only that, but they seem to pay attention to the finer details inside.

Where does one take an illegal outlawed alien on a Friday night?

"Urgh!"

"AAAARGH!"

"Urgh!"

"AAARGH!"

Anyone who still doubts the fact that men and women are wired very differently has clearly never seen an episode of Classmates, that “reality” show which allows people to reunite with former and currently unsuspecting school/college/military friends (or bullies, or enemies, or old flames) after several years.

Now, you may be wondering why on earth I’m watching such tripe to begin with. Or you may very well not be wondering at all. Either way, you know that I’m going to tell you why!

I've been laughing so hard all afternoon that the neighbours have started banging on the walls in frustration.

Actually, they're doing some sort of extreme home makeover, but I rather like the idea that they could also be slightly annoyed by my ongoing, manic and hyena-like cackle.

The reason for my ab-strengthening outburst (does laughing-so-much-that-it-makes-your-stomach-ache-and-leaves-you-breathless count as exercise? Shall I hold my breath for six-pack abs?) is the always witty and creative Diana Goodman and her ongoing commentary on parents picking extremely bad baby names.

The awful names are actually just plain sad. But her comments are a scream! EVERY PERSON SHOULD READ IT BEFORE REGISTERING A BABY NAME.

So, pass on her URL to anyone you know who are about to have a kid. It may be too late for poor little Ms. Apple Paltrow-Martin and countless other innocents, but let's see how many little souls we can save from at least that one burden!

Warning though: don't read whilst consuming food or beverage. Could be fatal, or at the very least, incredibly messy.

P.S. If I'm not mistaken, parents somewhere in Asia were (thankfully!)prevented by a court from actually naming their kid after the devil a few years ago. I've tried looking it up online, but now I can't find it. Does anyone else remember it? Oh, and while looking - and just when I thought that it couldn't get worse - I stumbled onto this.

Anyway, if only all the crazy-name enthusiasts out there who procreate could be curbed by the courts...

"In America, you don't ask for help, you demand it."

Spoken with a beautiful lilting accent by the older of the two little Irish girls in the movie "In America."

I have a new favourite quote!

So, in the spirit of the statement, can anyone swing Red a Green Card... NOW?