Wednesday, March 19, 2008

Bunnies, bunnies everywhere...

The White Rabbit is a creature of folklore and much mystery.

It (he) appears in many tales; Alice in Wonderland, Harvey, even Who Framed Roger Rabbit? And of course, at this time of year, there are many more bunnies about than usual.

The pooka is part real, part fantasty, part always good, part certainly unknown.

Anyhow, for the past 2 years in Antwerp, I've been followed by a White Rabbit. And this very week stumbled across another.

It's the same artist... I think. But it always appears to get closer to me each time... The first time I found him. Now, he seems to be finding me.

The closest thing I have to a name is Nightwalker.

Who is it? What is it? And why?

UPDATE: Here he is. Nuage.

Whichever the answer, it's quite delightful, mystical treat.

See:




Friday, March 14, 2008

I fought a lesbian and won.

She stared at me gobsmaked. As if she could not believe I had just done what I just had. To be honest, I could not believe it either. And neither could the ten or so onlookers, who were doing what onlookers are known to do, but from the safety of their bar stools.

Through her stare, I could tell that she was slightly upset, too. This was possibly to do with the fact that my right foot was firmly lodged in the crevice of her posterior. Possibly not the best place to lodge a foot, granted, but it’s trajectory and intention was firm and resolute. I had planted it there for a good reason.

That’s right. I kicked a lesbian. Right up her bum. Thwack.

I had my reasons and am unrepentant. Not that I am a lesbian hater. On the contrary. She could have been a donkey. The fact that I use the word ‘lesbian’ to describe her is neither here nor there.

Let me explain. I have inserted flights of fantasy in appropriate parts to make me feel better about the whole affair.

In my local bar, there is much tom foolery. Tom doesn’t appear to mind. But notwithstanding this, much is said and done in jest. I love it.

I was (innocently?) minding my own business (which means I was drinking my sixth or seventh Duvel, telling jokes to the barman), when the lesbian in question, also drinking Duvel, seemed to take an instant disliking to me. Sometimes my jokes are really bad and unfunny – which is what Duvel can do – so I almost empathised with her.

But anyway. She just seemed to not like the very presence of me. Call it a chip on her shoulder. Call it a dislike of bald, slightly chubby men drinking Duvel. Call it what you want.

I cannot fathom a reason for it; she just did not like me.

She began a bout of name calling. Now, as a native English speaker, I am particularly fond of the creative use of the language. Nothing thrills me more than the apt selection of words to accurately describe what you feel. When you convey, accurately, what you feel to another, and that other accurately understands what you intended, you can consider yourself a good communicator. Well done.

So I was rather disappointed when all she could fathom to speak was “Hey, gay boy!”

Strange. I suppose I should be impressed by her wonderful ability to state the obvious. But as a veteran bar-goer, I have learnt that such uninteresting jibes are best left on the bar floor. Which only seemed to incite the lesbian more.

She continued her verbal hissing, summing up her English vocabulary as best she could and continued with her attempted torment.

No problem. I had been abused by bigger, uglier and fiercer people than her. And perhaps she was letting off a little steam, and I was the whipping boy. Again, no problem. The world is surprisingly peaceful with a glass of Duvel in your hand.

However, things began to escalate when she repeatedly walked past me, bumping in and knocking my jacket and jumper on the floor. Repeatedly. Now, I know that my dress sense is perhaps somewhat lacking in that there is no sense, but to express it in such fashion was somewhat misplaced, I felt.

It was at this point that I became vaguely irritated. It was my favourite pink jacket that she was disrespecting. Call me what you like, but disrespect The Pink, and I become slightly perturbed.

“Just ignore her,” came the support from the barman. Ignorance I do particularly well. But repeated ignorance is difficult for me. As is silence.

At which point my transformation occurred. From gentile bar-goer to therapist.

Yes. Therapist. An attitude adjustment therapist. And I believed that my services were indeed required.

I then promised myself, that the next time she performed her usual trick, I would enquire as to the nature of her disagreement. Which meant I would ask her what the hell her problem was.

When she passed my way again, she did the same again as expected. I quickly got up; but then she began to run!

A glorious chase ensued. Which was quite impressive and amusing, as both my legs were far drunker than I had originally thought. And someone seemed to have installed a glass door which I had not noticed before. She ran outside, and I struggled with the new found door with an impressive amount of speed.

Anyhow, I caught up with her, just outside the front of the bar. And without hesitating for moment, lodged my foot into her backside.

It seemed to have the desired effect. I walked back in. To some degree of applause and cheering. And the barman shouting out at the lesbian that she was not welcome back inside.

But for the next few hours, up until now, I felt pangs of guilt for kicking a woman.

What a ghastly and utterly detestable thing to do. But then again… if a woman can forget to be a woman, then can a gent forget to be a gent?

And perhaps, some people only understand a thwack. No amount of patience, talking or cajoling will achieve the speedy, quick result of a thwack. It gives clarity to a bad situation.

But I don’t think it will make me popular with the pacifists.

It does make for a good bit of story telling, though.

Sunday, March 02, 2008

Whatever happened to honesty?

I’ve lost patience with the people who practice patience and try to ‘protect’ feelings. Whatever happened to honesty?

Everyone just accepts everything from anyone, these days.

I have a friend who has a sexually transmittable disease. It is fatal, if untreated. Or if you don’t know that you actually have it. Yet he sleeps without protection with many, many people. But he says nothing. Knowing full well what he has. He is killing the innocent. Or even the semi-innocent, depending on your view.

I have another friend who is having an affair with a married man. She thinks it is cute and lovely and fabulous to have a man who “loves” her in return and spends good money on her, purchasing lavish gifts. But sweetie, there’s a clue in the title. How can you trust and dedicate your love to a man whom you met whilst he was cheating on his original love? Do you think, honey, that faithfulness is a particularly strong character trait in your new love? On the other hand, do you know what it would feel like to be the wife of a man who cheats on you? Can you imagine how utterly destructive and worthless that would make you feel?

I know another who has an attention deficit disorder. Whose family dumped him when he was very young. Whose aunt had to raise him instead. People understand that he “had a hard life”, and are thus very accepting and forgiving of him. But this of course now gives him an excuse to be disruptive wherever and however he finds himself. This of course gives him an excuse to be socially inept. This gives him an excuse to behave in an inappropriate way in circumstances that absolutely depend on appropriate behaviour (whatever that is). Many words are spoken by this man. But there is little substance. He craves for attention. He gets it. But again, there is little substance to this man. The performance he gives on a daily basis is fake and based on the past. The long, forgotten and perhaps not so bad, if even, unnatural past?

I know of another friend, who craves for a relationship. She is 31 years old. Yet she has spent most of her lived and living life with her parents. Or failing that, locked in her own house. Trying to meet the man of her dreams. But locked away – by her own choice – in her living room. Watching TV on a Saturday night. But, at every opportunity that she gets with me, she will complain, cry and be frustrated that she is still alone. Still not met the man of her dreams. Or the father of her children.

“Do what you’ve always done and you’ll get what you’ve always got,” I tell her. She doesn’t seem to get that, just yet. However, when she does – if she does - , she may be 63, and too old to do anything more about it without assisted help.

I know even another friend. Who has been violent with the very people whom he tells me that he loves. He has been violent not once. But thrice. Violent. Physically. The people he loves (or loved) then carried visible bruises, blood and broken bones.

And yet not one says anything. Nothing.

For fear of upsetting. For fear of hurting their feelings. For fear of ‘getting involved’.

Before I go any further, you should know, if you don’t already, that I am not Mother Theresa. And I could be one or all of the people I have just described.

“They are grown folk. Let them sort it out on their own.” confident and trusted advisors tell me.

But I am tired of being sweet. Of being nice. Of being considerate. Some things just need to be said.

Am I the one to say them?



Far too many people are taking the horse-whisperer approach. Whispering sweet nothings to the injured, sick horse who really needs good, solid help. Without which it will surely die.

That horse really does not need a soft whisperer, but the sight of a cocked, loaded gun point to its head.

The time is short, and this fairy tale that you live in is all but about to end unless you realise that the crap that you believe or are performing on another r is hurting someone. It could be you, it could be someone else.

Bottom line is that somewhere, somehow, someone is going to die, whether physically, mentally or even just a part of their incomplete character. Unless you change what it is you are doing.

If you listen, you can at least take the responsibility for causing the extended, happier life of someone. Instead of impending doom and / or unhappiness. Which, if prolonged, I believe ends in doom anyway.

Can we… should we… be a just a little bit more honest with each other? The cost could be high. But the cost of not doing so is, I am almost certain, even higher.

I could use your honesty. Could you use mine?