No KTV For Me.

I only realised fully today that I will never be a KTV presenter. Strange as it may seem, I think a part of me still believed that my inherent children's television programme linking abilities would eventually be recognised. I have always felt that I would be perfect for the job, but as I approach my thirtieth year on this earth it finally dawned on me that even my chances of presenting 'Twentysomething' are slim, never mind finding myself in that skilled and eloquent stable of continuity presenters to be found at the SABC! I went to school with Jeannie D the presenter from Top Billing. I am sooooooo jealous of her. She gets to travel EVERYWHERE! Look fabulous ALL the time, and get paid to flirt outrageously on screen with Janez Vermieren (underwear model and D.I.Y. presenter.) She must have had a series of really shit former lives because the girl's certainly got it good in this one!
I think I would make a great presenter. I can be funny and when I don't have a acne break out that are like replicas of Lionshead (like now!) , (Not a word Jacob!!!!!), (bitch.) I can clean up nicely and lull you into not changing the channel. The irony is that I don't watch TV myself. I hate TV. I like being on it but it bores me if I watch it. I can watch about twenty minutes of Crime and Investigation (morbid I know, but I am fascinated with psychosis) and the odd Oprah Winfrey or Catherine Tate (same thing really) then I have to go and do something constructive like seeing if my soya milk has curdled in the fridge. I think I just may have A.D.D. or A.D.H.D or O.C.D. Whichever! All I know for sure is that I do not have K.T.V!

Muse-ou

I have to talk a bit about my greatest Love. And this would have to be music. Even though I cannot play a musical instrument, I know that in my soul I am a musician. There is nothing else that gives me more joy than creating and performing music. When I sing I struggle to make eye contact because I feel that the great wooden doors of my being are flung open and I am completely exposed to the naked quick. I fear that I will be seen for all that I am and that this may not be enough. Yet I am slowly learning to be seen, as I sing. I feel guilty about how much I enjoy any work relating to music because to be paid to make it seems so drastically to my advantage. Even if I never earn a cent from music I will never stop making it. But I pray that that does not end up being the case.
“Singing takes the pain away. Singing helps you face another day.” These are the lyrics of my latest song entitled Lovely Old Lady. It speaks of how I truly feel about singing. When my heart has been broken and flinching in a corner like a trampled cockroach, music was the bostik that I used to put it back together. I have sung all my life. In the shower, on the loo (Yes Tipsy Tart I know you do too! ;)
When in the studio working on a song I forget about everything and just zone in on the layers of sound being weaved together. (Yes Jacob, even Gaydar!) Time speeds up and all of a sudden I’ve been sitting there for six hours without thinking about myself or analysing my existence. I have been purely consumed with the creation of a something that provokes feeling. I am not able to do this alone (Thanks Zayne!) but it feels like the truest purpose I have ever served. I love acting and writing but creating a song and then performing it, make them both pale in comparison. If God spoke I think He/She would sing.
I hope to create many songs and share them with the world. Songs that tell stories and songs that bring relief. I want people to feel my songs stir something inside them. I want my lyrics to tug at their hearts and quieten their minds. I also want to make songs that make people smile and laugh at themselves. If I was trapped on a deserted island all alone it would be the songs in my head that would keep me company and prevent me from losing my mind, as they do now.
Love and Songs are so intricately linked together and even though I am still perplexed as to what Love really is I know in my gut that it has a lot to do with music.
“It’s like losing control; it’s like being a part of a whole. It’s like losing your mind, trusting your soul, just letting go... For better or worse how I love music.” – Lebo Mathosa R.I.P.

Sour Grapes?

It’s one thing to be all alone in your own home. But tonight I am, once again, on my own in somebody else’s home. Well not completely alone because there are two very skinny dogs with me. Dogs that would much rather have someone else other than me here and I’m afraid the feeling is mutual. They are very sweet and affectionate but they are not mine and in truth I prefer cats. Cats are independent and far less irritating. I feel guilty for feeling disgruntled because the reason I am alone is because a very good friend of mine (who usually lives here) has met and connected with someone in the most amazing way. He has the most hysterical Cheshire cat grin on his face and his feet hardly seem to be touching the ground. He has waited long and hard for this and deserves every moment of this starry eyed brain-mushed bliss. But frankly, it is very inconvenient for me. In truth even when he is here he has his “friend” with him and although he is lovely in every way and I see him becoming a close friend too, When we're together, I come down with a chronic case of Thirdwheelitis. Three really can be a crowd. (Sometimes I fight the desire to be the bigger person.) I have lost my hunting partner. The person who I would go clubbing with until the early hours, in search of “the one”, only to return unsuccessful, and then compare failed strategies with me over a mug of tea, is now cuddling up to DVD’s, getting a good night’s sleep on a Saturday night and having sex, regularly. We can’t even argue properly, because he always has someone with him who is predisposed to being on his side, even if he’s wrong. (Which is all the time! ;-) Even as I write this the dogs are driving me mad. They are psychotically chasing one another around the microscopic lounge and have already knocked a mug of scalding med-lemon onto my lap. (I have a cold.) I am ignoring them because I fear that if I were to try to discipline them, I would resort to capital punishment and their delicate “rexic” frames wouldn’t cope with it, and besides it’s far too late. They kept me up all night barking at Casper the friendly Ghost recently so they are definitely not in my good books. (Had to be a ghost because no one with a pulse was anywhere near the area they were barking.) So yes, I am happy that my friend is happy. But I am not happy that it leaves me on my own with company I would not freely choose for myself (like a certain Turkish breed I was also left alone with the night he met his squeeze.) Imagine if you and a friend are both starving. You go out in search of food together. Then, your friend finds something to eat that is only enough for him. You are happy for your friend but you are also still hungry and now left to forage for food on your own. Sounds like the perfect ingredients for a self-pity party to me.
This is nobody’s fault. This is not anyone else’s responsibility (Jacob there is nothing YOU can do.) This is just a circumstance that I need to bitch about. I have a gorgeous little flat, full of my favourite things, close to my amazing family and even occasionally containing a gorgeous cat (on loan from my downstairs neighbours.) But it’s over a thousand kilometres away and I can’t go there until mid June. So I am a sour grape dangerously close to becoming “a grape of wrath” with these dogs. This is not so bad really, because fermentation is a natural process and without it there would be no fine wines and yoghurt would stay milk. As a school boy I would often be told by patronising adults that “my time would come.” And in many ways they were actually right. (I am no longer short and fat and sporting a dodgy “step” haircut.) But, when will my “time” to hang up my clubbing shoes come, so I can settle in with an amazing man and rather invest in decent linen and a flat screen TV? I suppose that this will ensure that I REALLY appreciate it when I eventually find it. I know how delicious just about any food tastes when I haven’t eaten for a long time. The problem is I am still going to be living in different cities for the rest of the year (touring musicals) so I am really more ‘1820 Settler’ than someone to ‘settle in with’ at this stage. I agree with Eckart Tolle’ (author of The Power of Now) It is pointless to fight against things the way they are. I guess I’m expressing my current discomfort with my circumstances in the hope that it will help me take action to prevent this situation in the future. What are my options? Refuse to take work that uproots me every three months and risk unemployment? Change my career entirely? (I have been considering studying Kinesiology, as it will provide me with a good excuse to touch strange men.) Or maybe do like the cheesy church hymn says and “trust and obey for there’s no other way”. At least the dogs have settled down now. I must admit, they are quite cute when they’re asleep.

"UTE" of ILL REPUTE

As many of you know we have a huge assortment of gay men in Cape Town. So many in fact, that we have started to develop different categories in which we can classify ourselves. There are “Twinks”. The young, fresh faced, skinny boys, with spiky hair and eager, puppy dog eyes. They’re particularly endearing because most of them still believe in Love and monogamous relationships. Then you get the “Preppies.” They are often seen out in something striped or knitted. Their clothes indicate that they may be students or sportsmen and some will even wear a pair of fashionable spectacles. Their hair is very neat and short and like “drag queens” they may shave their legs, but only because they wish to minimise injury to their legs should they come off their bicycles during the Argus. They spend a lot of time in straight clubs and bars claiming to be non scene and then wondering why they never meet any nice guys who are actually gay and not just up for the occasional drunken blow job in the men’s room. There are “Hobbits” or “Oompa Loompa’s”, as I call them, who are short stocky gay men. There are big burly “Bears” who look like the grisly yet seemingly huggable creatures they are named after. And then there are “Cubs” which are bears in training. Then you get my personal favourite “Muscle Mary’s”. I love “Muscle Mary’s”. The only problem is that “Muscle Mary’s” can only really love themselves or other “Muscle Mary’s”, and despite my every effort and having consumed a mountain of protein powder, I am not a “Muscle Mary.”
I am a new breed of homosexual and I am not alone. I am a “Ute.” Yes a “Ute” and it is no coincidence that it rhymes with cute. “Ute” is short for the word “Utility” and this is apt for many reasons. "Ute's" are user friendly and handy to have around, sort of like the Swiss Army knives of the gay world. “Ute’s”, like me, drive utility vehicles or “bakkies.” This is considered quite butch but in truth mine is silver and it sports a rainbow sticker. We are practical gay guys who like to throw the things we own onto the back of our “bakkie” and then hit the road. We are usually quite slim or athletically built but not bulky enough to be “Muscle Mary’s”. “Ute’s” lack the mass or the sufficient amount of body hair to be “Bears” or “cubs” and we are a little too unkempt and less inclined to wear stripes to be “Preppy”. “You have to be younger than 25 to be a “Twink”, and most “Ute’s” are in their early thirties or approaching that age. “Ute’s” are lucky in that they can date gay men from other classifications quite easily. “Bears”, “Twinks” and “Preppies” like “Ute’s” and I myself have been able bag the odd “Muscle Mary.” We have great cross-over appeal. “Ute’s” live in their jeans and corduroys. They are not as obsessive about their hair as “Twink’s”, “Preppies” and “Muscle Mary’s”. “Ute’s” prefer Hang Ten hoody’s and Billabong clothing and accessories to the Abercrombie and Fitch and Diesel fixation shared by many of the other groups. “Ute’s” are not overtly feminine nor are they excessively masculine. They glide along blending into the straight world very well until they come across another “Ute” and then their true rainbow colours come out. They are very animated story tellers and are unafraid to use the upper registers of their voices to make a point. But you can easily take a “Ute” home and introduce him to your parents and they will think he is a very colourful and likeable character rather than a queen that knocks on your back door.
I have a few friends that are “Ute’s” and have noticed an increasing amount of “Ute’s” emerging. Walking their dogs on the promenade and camping one another in D.I.Y stores. It’s comforting.
The problem with being a “Ute” though is that sometimes we are “utilised” a little too often. “Ute’s” must guard against being messed around by the other “moffie” types. “Twinks” often use “Ute’s” to learn how to experience their first break up. “I’m sorry but you’re just too intense and I don’t love you anymore. I love Lance because he also uses gel to spike his hair and he rides a cool scooter and not a “bakkie.”” “Ute’s” need to watch themselves with “Muscle Mary’s.” Most “Muscle Mary’s” will secretly always be looking for another “Muscle Mary” and that’s if you don’t find yourself replaced by a portable mirror. I realised that I didn’t seem to fit in any of the other categories and have developed a reputation for being a nice guy (with a tendency for taking off his clothes and occasionally playing a woman.) I felt lost and invisible being unclassified and unable to crack the nod into the Bulging biceps club. Then I noticed that there were other men like me floating around in this gay “no man’s land.” Other men who were not quite one type or another and also prone to long term relationships followed by long periods of being on their own. I even met and befriended one whose career also requires that he wear skimpy clothes and dress in drag. (Come on Adam don’t be shy!)
But because “Ute’s” are built to carry heavy loads and go the distance they manage to cope quite well.
“Ute’s” make the perfect boyfriends because you always have someone with a “bakkie” on hand to help you move heavy furniture.
You don’t have to spend a fortune on birthday and Xmas presents because they don’t need labels and designer fragrances. Anything in the male section of Body Shop will do.
A “Ute” will make you many cups of tea and will keep you entertained with many hours of animated story telling. Or sit quietly next to you on a Sunday reading his book.“Ute’s” are the best of both worlds. He will cuddle with you under a duvet watching a soppy DVD and then help your dad build a fire for the braai. “Ute’s” are not afraid to get their hands dirty but are very hygienic and always smell good. I love being a “Ute”. It also rhymes with “astute” and “parachute.” Both are apt descriptions, because “Ute’s” cover great distances and as you fall the experience can be quite exhilarating.

Let Him Know Then Let it Go!

I have had an epiphany! I decided to inform someone that I have a crush on him. I was only slightly braver than the first time I did this which was five years ago via sms. I did it last night via an internet dating message. Strange but I feel liberated! I have not had a response yet and am not feeling optimistic about it but, I am so glad I did it. Now it’s his problem! So do it! Go out there and tell him, or her, how you feel so you can get on with your life. Let’s start a revolution, in which all those bound by their secret feelings are set free! It is so shit to harbour an infatuation and sit on it like an old egg that never hatches. My mind-bending realization is that it is better to have a bruised ego than a broken heart! If I had sat and secretly squatted on the fact that I wanna lick his face like a dog and then acted like I felt nothing every time I saw him, my infatuation would have gotten too much and would eventually flatten me (which is why I believe it’s called a crush.) I have done this many times before and it’s sore and eventually tedious for your friends, who have to hear you agonize about how amazing this guy is, “if only he knew I adore him.” Your time is better spent replacing your bulbs with the energy efficient type.
I find that you can actually start aching for a person like your stomach can ache for food. But, I know that if the other person [whose leg (amongst other things) I want to hump] knows how I feel then the pain is diminished. I’m not sure why that is. Auditioning for show after show and then only landing the odd one, I have come to terms with the fact that there will be times when I am rejected. So I have decided to translate this into my love life. I get a lot of “no’s” in my industry but that doesn’t stop me from going for the big roles. So now I’m going to go for the guys I always thought were out of my league, like I go for the most challenging roles. When I get rejected it hurts but I can dust myself off and move on safe in the knowledge that this clearly was not meant for me, this is not my "Kismet", my destiny (thanks Jacob for teaching me this wonderful word). Then I gotta move on to the next challenge. It's better than staying at home on audition day and envying the lead that does get cast. I have already received a few “no’s” and am expecting to hear more “no’s” but just think how phenomenal it’s going to be when I get a “yes!” ;-)