May 2003

Sunday, May 25, 2003

Service: * * * * *

Food: * * *

Ambience: * * * *

Babe Count: * * * * 1/2

Erich has invited 40 of his closest friends to breakfast at his place. Most of us arrive around 35 minutes later than the stipulated 9:30am.

Now one of the things about Erich is that he knows some seriously attractive women. And luckily, he’s about to get married, so it’s okay to flirt with as many of them as I want to.

By ‘okay’, I mean, okay by me. In other words, I’m not treading on his turf. Except when I flirt with Janet, his fiancée. But I do that in front of him, and he knows my errant ways. And he knows I’d never try and shag her. Cos I’m not into relationship-busting.

But when I say ‘okay’, I have no idea whether or not I’m coming across to the hordes of babes as some kind of sex-starved drooler. Hmmm. Actually, I’ve thought about this statement for about a quarter of a second, and I withdraw it. I have a pretty good idea that I do INDEED come across as a sex-starved drooler. Which is pretty darn accurate now that Heidi in Somerset West is off the scene. Praise be to Jah.

So anyway. Jacqui is emminently flirtable-with. So’s Darryl (as in Darryl Hannah). So’s Claire. And countless of the others, whose names I don’t recall, and who are married or attached anyway.

I spend my morning walking from cluster to cluster with Roger von Oech’s CREATIVE WHACK PACK in my hand, offering people the opportunity to pick a card to solve a problem they’re facing.

“Oooh, no,” says one of the delectables, clutching her chocolate croissant as if it were garlic warding off a vampire. “I don’t really like tarot cards.” She pronounces it as ‘tah-rot’. I correct her…

“That’s ‘tah-row’,” I say, “but these aren’t them. These are just idea jolters. Try one. They’re not evil.”

So she draws a card. It’s number 45… DON’T FALL IN LOVE WITH IDEAS. It advises her to “let go of a previously cherished idea. Be free to look for new ones. What part of the idea are you in love with? Kiss it goodbye!”

“Oh!” she says. “This is so cool! Can I try another one?”

Crystal walks down the driveway. Her shoulders are all hunched, and she’s pretty dazed. “What’s wrong?” says Erich. He’s wearing some kind of North- or West-African sarong. When he springs up, his tackle shows briefly, and he rearranges it quickly.

“They’ve stolen both of my back wheels!” says Crystal.

Her car is parked just behind mine in the street outside. Unbelievable. Broad daylight. Back half of the car on bricks. These dudes are experts. Sheesh.

Always one for a pun at someone else’s expense, I can’t help myself. “Hey Crystal,” I say, “you a wheeler dealer?”

Jacqui groans, and covers her head with both hands. Four of us are sitting on a blanket out in the winter sun in Erich’s garden. She’s lying just out of reach. Not that I’d try and reach her, you understand. Cos that would blow any chance I might be under the illusion I have with her. But I think the pun blows things worse than any invasion of body space might.

And then I clinch it.

“So, Crystal,” I say, plowing in where angels fear to tremble, “are you feeling… TIRED?”

Jacqui sighs extravagantly and starts talking to Darryl. And I start having fantasies of them being lesbian lovers on my futon. And I sigh extravagantly.

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Friday, May 23, 2003

Service: * *

Food: N/A

Ambience: * *

Babe Count: * * * * 1/2

Aryan Kaganof, Dick Tuinder, and I, are here to play some pool. It’s Friday night, and kiddies’ curfew hasn’t yet kicked in. So Stones is filled with an abundance of cross-cultural under-age babeflesh. Most of which seems to be attached to gorilla boys, most of whom are going to strike it a hell of a lot luckier than I will tonight.

Tables are all booked. But there’s one that’s being dominated by two succulent honeys. The one, the dark one with the sun tattoo between her shoulder blades, the one with delicious, broadish hips and a tiny waist, is dream material for me.

I kinda wish she were older, cos then I’d consider working my way round to proposing marriage.

Instead of marriage, I propose that Dick and I challenge them for the table. The blonde one points at the pile of coins on the edge of the table. “Everyone wants to challenge us,” she says, a smug smile on her face.

“Beauty will do that,” I say. It just slips out. I had no control over the statement, and I expected retribution and further smirking from them.

Instead, a pause. “Okay,” says the blonde one. “You’re on. We’ll call you just now.” A shared look between the two of them.

I dunno. I certainly TRY to be a charmer. And I often succeed. But I really don’t understand how it works. Surely a statement like, “Beauty will do that,” MUST be regarded as Hick-honcho dorkiness incarnate? Surely?? I mean, heck, it’s not as if these two honeys have run short in the looks department. They must have creepoids pawing them constantly. So surely originality has to enter the equation. I dunno.

In the interim, Kaganof has engaged the attention of a tall strawberry blonde in a pencil skirt. She’s trying to get him to dance. But he doesn’t do that sort of thing. So she eyes me from the dance floor, and beckons me to join. This is a babe I spotted as I came in, and she and I had done a bit of eye-contact swapping.

I join her. “I didn’t catch your name,” she shouts into my ear.

“Roy,” I shout back. “You?”

“What?”

Her name is Catherine. “Cat for short,” she says. I make a clawing cat motion with my hands, hissing as I do. “No!” she says, and throws back her head and laughs. “More like a kitten!” And she purrs, and tucks her hands up under her chin as if she’s sleeping. I think this might be love. She’s got that perfect cello shaped body. Curvy all the way. And such a pretty face.

We chat a bit off the dance floor. She’s about to study graphic design at Damelin, so she can join an ad agency. “But that’s not my dream,” she says. I spur her to reveal more. “I want to be a pilot.” That’s so cool. A friend of mine is a pilot. Leigh. Has his own microlight plane. He’s pretty impressive. “But right now I’m just a receptionist.” And she shrugs, and her face looks all defeated. And all I wanna do is take her home and give her a big boost of self-esteem.

I show her my sketchbook, and she sits looking at it, enjoyment all over her. It’s so gratifying having one’s art appreciated. Thanks, Cat.

Her friend has been hovering around, looking all svelte and breasty. Her name’s Cindy, and she wears a hat, despite the Stones ‘No Headgear’ policy. “I was in a car accident,” she explains, and pulls the hat off very quickly. Her face took a bit of glass. Now she wears the hat to hide what she thinks is her hideousness from the world.

“Do you really think you’re hideous?” I say. “Cos you’re serious babe material.”

“Well,” she says, “before the prang I was seriously pursuing the supermodel route.” And sure, this chick is model material. Blonde hair. Incredible tits. (I know they’re incredible, cos they’re pretty much in plain view.) Very slim.

Aryan kicks in at this point. “My camera is in for a service right now, but gimme your number and I’ll call you in three weeks, and I’ll make you a video portfolio.”

Aryan happens to be one of Europe’s most prominent filmmakers. He’s the first filmmaker to have made a feature film using digital video. It’s called WASTED, a drug movie that made it huge in Holland and the rest of the world. About twelve South Africans have seen it.

“But,” says Aryan, “I have some conditions. I film you without makeup, with your scars in plain view. I want to show you, on video, how beautiful you are.” She flaps her hands. “Wait,” he says, “sure, we can do a version with all your makeup and stuff. But a no-makeup version too. Okay?”

She writes her numbers in his artist’s notebook. And he’ll call her in exactly three weeks.

Cat’s finished looking at my book. “I’m also an artist,” she says. “I do oil paintings.”

Dick says, “Hey! You should carry them around with you, like we do.” He mimes putting huge framed paintings under his arm. “That way you can attract the attention of nice boys.”

“Let’s go,” Aryan says to Dick and me. We’re off to play pool in Fourways, near Tovey’s. The babes I tried to get a game from earlier have some younger and better suitors, ones with better lines. And Cindy and Cat are ready to go home, not party some more. Sigh. These young people are just not made the way they used to be.

But I’ve got to try this line on Cat, cos between Cat and Cindy, I would LOVE to make love with Cat. She’s just totally sumptuous. Not that Cindy isn’t. It’s just that Cindy is way too thin for me. Forty-nine kilograms! And she thinks she’s overweight! Tells me her ideal weight is forty-three! Jesus. I can bench press two of her.

So I say to Cat, winking extravagantly, as if I were being ironic, and demonstrating said irony, “Hey Cat, since we’re both artists, how about you coming round to my place and modeling for me? And if you like, you don’t even have to take your clothes off at first.”

“At first?” she says, and she’s smiling. And oh god, I wish pickup lines worked. Cos she’s kinda almost vaguely contemplating the idea of modeling for me with her clothes on.

But it’s okay. The line hasn’t worked. And I know that lines don’t work. So it’s time to go shoot some pool somewhere. But just in case, I hand Cat and Cindy my ‘Coffee-Shop Schmuck’ business card, and get more laughs. Cat comes up close to me, and purrs in my ear, “How do you pronounce this? Is it ‘Sh-muck’? That’s so funny!!!” Please phone me, I think, as I’m walking to my car. Prove me wrong.

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