astertjie

[astertjie]

The rock just sits and is.

I watched this incredible movie tonight, thanks to Meerkat, titled I Heart Huckabees, or I <3 Huckabees, whichever your DSTv is approving.

18 SNL was a bit of a harsh rating... there was a pair of hideous imaginary manboobs and like, one sex scene. [Personal reminder: Never watch another movie on SABC 2 EVER again... too many ad breaks... who pauses a movie for ad breaks?!]

It largely deals with the themes existentialism, philosophy, capitalism, establishment and anti-establisment, psychology, psyche, identity and id. Your basic Introductory Psychology or Introductory Philosophy units at university should let you mull all these ideas over with some frame of reference... Since my encounter with Philosophy lasted roughly a semester of let-Astertjie-help-you-with-your-assignment and perhaps a couple of extracurricular readings thereafter, it boggled my mind anew.

Question: Did the self-help-book-author/ existential-detective-couple duo actually work together? It seems that, in the end, they realised the one can't exist without the other.

In Meerkat's own words, a 'smart' film. Give it a go sometime (although I understand it's not widely available but get a bootleg copy, right?)

I suspect such characters or similar ones rule the reality of my inner being as well.

Tuesday 8 April 2014

Astertjie's bedroom

[astertjie]

Happy Birthday @valkievancoke #vancokekartel #vck

[astertjie]

You know I sit daily behind my PC, I work on the internet on a daily basis. I tend to follow news that have interest to me like music, I have no real love politics even if it affects my life.

When I post about my excitement about a alternative rock band from Cape Town (Van Coke Kartel) new album...

[astertjie]

Almost Famous! (November 2013)

In no way has writing about it ever disappointed me. Especially not when you're writing about your adventures with the Van Coke guys, né, Astertjie?

Newly-single Meerkat nearly didn't go with me, maar Astertjie wen altyd. Ons het toe (hard by) Siedaar (gewerk) ses-nul opgeparty. Sy maaind gechange oor Van Coke Kartel.

My vorige ran-des-WOES met hierdie groepie het 'n groot glimlag nagelaat.

In die hartjie van Weltevreden Park het ek hul vasgetrek backstage vir 'n vinnige onderhoud (wat later in 'n lywige geselsie ontaard het). Dit na ek hewig met meneer-die-bestuurder daaroor moes stry. Nee, hulle is nog nie hier nie.

Nee, hulle is nog by hulle hotel. Nee, hulle eet gou aandete voor die show. What dinner? Nee-nee. So laat ek nie myself flous nie. Backstage we went.

Jinne het ek gebewe van opgewondenheid. I then learned that the ascertained bassist nou nog nooit sy wortels gekoester het nie, and ended up explaining where his Gauteng namesakes originated.

The guitarist would've been cute to most girls, all sweet and quiet in his corner, only speaking when spoken to and later shredding the stage apart. Drummerboy equally as shy, equally as enthused on stage. Meneer Van Coke wou net 'n lighter hê.

Dié keer was almal ewe vriendelik en siedaar! Nog 'n lekker geselsie is losgeslaan.

Het dit dié keer werklik gegaan oor die groep ontmoet en daardie droom vervul of was dit net lekker om ou vriende (sjoe ek wens) weer raak te loop? Een of ander fliek noem mense saam met wie jy een keer in jou lewe, maybe twice, kuier 'single-serving friends'.

Dit is Van Coke Kartel glad nie. Ek's gegroet asof ek 'n ou maatjie is (eek! fangirl moment) en dis afgespreek dat ons later 'n videotjie skiet na die stage rage.

"Môre sonskyn, môregloed, soek na vrede, soek na goed."

En het die fans nie. Na die tyd was dit net t-hemde en CDs en kiekies en 'n getekenry of note.

Uiteindelik sê Meneer Van Coke hy sal ons nou-nou catch vir daardie onderhoud, deel sy nommer aan ons uit, en toe sluk ons maar ons sappies eenkant in anticipation.

Sy blêrrie nommer is op my foon!

Ons is reg vir videotjie, nadat Meneer sy ciggie gelight kon kry.

Die wremel van mense en klanke is so oordonderend ek hoor nie 'n oomblik van sy terugvoer nie, en hoop en bid maar dat die klank wat op Astertjie se foon opgeneem word, goed genoeg is vir die beeldmateriaal.

Toe nou nie, maar maak dit saak? Maak dit saak dat Kleinsus se hemp nie geteken kon word nie? Not so much, ons kuier dan by rockstars.

Al wat regtig aan my ouers na afloop van die aand saak gemaak het is dat karretjie 'n lekker hap weg het.

Een of ander rondslinger het hom in die parking lot gestamp toe hy wegtrek.

Dankie man. Astertjie vs Rondslinger met 4-0 ... verniet sappies geniet, een rockstar nommer ryker, CD geteken en Meerkat convert. Almost famous!

[astertjie]

The Record caught up with Whill van Staden, Thundermerwe's own carebear.

Read more about a Gauteng band called Thundermerwe, through the eyes of vocalist Whill van Staden. Mathilde Myburgh reports.

[astertjie]

Van Coke Kartel with then-new drummer Dylan Hunt (previously drumming for Pestroy) warming up for a gig at Rumours Lounge in Weltevreden Park, Roodepoort, Gauteng, South Africa on Friday 7 February 2014.

Photo: Mathilde Myburgh

[astertjie]

Pestroy's drummer, Dylan Hunt, is very excited to share the news that he'll be playing for Van Coke Kartel as Jason Oosthuizen leaves the band.

[astertjie]

La Ténsion, October 2013

Another Monday morning started with Astertjie frantically searching for her hair straightener 15 minutes before she needs to be at the office.

Why? Because dear sisters enjoy moving stationary hair tools from where they need to be for no apparent reason.

I believe the last time we spoke I told you how happy I am to be under my parents' roof — I did not, however, say that I'm as content with my siblings.

SputNic is cool ... He stays in his corner with his Alienware laptop and plays speletjies and does IT projects while the sisters have a tiff over who-knows-what.

This morning? A straightener. Tomorrow morning, probably a hair clip or a borrowed cardigan or my make-up. I don't wear a lot of make-up, los my paar goedjies uit!

I thus believe the time has come to skrop my eie nessie. I have a bed, dinnerware and cookware and a single sofa to my name, and a possible fridge.

Hopefully my straightener, once I find it. However, as we all know I only have R3 'n maand.

I'll need to find a suitable roommate, maybe someone like SputNic will be perfect, keeping to their corner and only creeping out for food and the occasional chat.

It can't be him, though, he's 16 and doesn't earn his own geldjies.

I want someone with class, a neat person with a comfortable personality and a willingness to cook with me and drink wine with me while discussing literature and have equal crazes about music and allow it to blare in the early morning hours.

Someone suitable. Hmm. Let's try to get this wanted ad in order here.

Roommate wanted.

Will be judged by amount of alcohol consumed and genres of music enjoyed.

No, now it sounds like you're looking for an alcoholic band member, Astertjie. Scratch that.

Roommate wanted.

Must cook and have own car. Smokers and occasional drinkers welcome, will be judged on music taste and insomnia.

Some kind of looney bin I want to open, hey? Metalheads sleepwalking through the apartment, drinking gin and ashing their cigarette everywhere. No-no. Clean it up, Astertjie.

Roommate wanted.

Clean, flexible male or female with own car. Smokers welcome. Preferably a music-lover.

Can't help but imagine an anorexic, smoking ballerina Mozarting it up or a gay male contortionist (or stripper?) practicing his moves in the living room.

Perhaps my imaginings are reminiscent of too many hours of playing Sims and watching too many college movies.

Maybe I just want another sensible person to share a living space with me during the few hours per day that I spend in my future humble abode.

Maybe another journalist who understands the drinking and smokes and types up a frenzy with good music in the background and stacks of books to put coffee cups on.

Or, maybe, just anyone who can afford their half of the rent.

[astertjie]

Expérience, October 2013

It wasn't half bad, changing my address for a total of four days. It might be more but who knows with this Astertjie's insatiable events calender.

I spent four days making arrangements for a wedding in March 2014 with my close friend whose fiancée is running around in Angola for his IT project.

Nog nooit was iemand so eensaam nie, but it wasn't she who felt the loneliness, it was me.

Eensaam is not necessarily negative. A good exercise, 'n tydjie om myself 'n bietjie vas te vat.

Yes, she's good company and the MasterChef reruns were nice to watch, but it gave me a lot of time to think positive thoughts while I cuddled her besige Jack Russells.

Die groter prentjie.

Then the Rocci Business of the Year 2013 nominees cocktail function put it all together for me afterwards — I told you, an insatiable events calendar.

I'd like to be such an entrepreneur. I want to be that award-winning entrepreneur.

Dit hoef nie wêreldwyd te wees nie, I learned, you could be serving the locals.

That foundation in Roodepoort could be the perfect platform for a life-altering business nationally or even internationally.

Isn't it how these nominees got here?

In a big sense my dad's mid-life crises brought about my sense of business.

Quitting the commercial banking industry for a quieter life of buying and selling was a daunting task; he struggled out of those corporate suits and into his plakkies.

In no way his life is now struggle-free and stress-free, "but the stresses are different", he told me once, "and I find that I have a higher quality of life".

Ek bedank die heelal elke dag vir my salarissie, but imagine not working for a boss, meeting personalised deadlines and rather than taking a fixed salary home with a pat on the back for helping a corporation, investing in the growth of the economy, the creation of jobs and your personal proliferation?

Met die rondgetrekkery tussen my huis en Wilgeheuwel, I also experienced the pushes and pulls of advice from my parents, business owners and even a few student friends.

"You're better than writing headlines." That made me angry, I love writing catchy headlines.

"Dis nie so maklik nie en jy gaan sukkel, skat." I'm not a skat, skat, and if it weren't for struggles South Africa wouldn't have existed - I feel up to the challenge.

Entrepreneurship, I believe, is about growing yourself and then your occupation, and so I started researching life-enhancing opportunities.

Ek kan weer gaan swot, nie voltyds nie, maar wat? What are the costs involved, when will I have time?

I can become a Toastmaster. My dad did Toastmasters and is an aspiring and successful businessman, and so are all the well-spoken guys and gals I meet at Toastmasters every other Tuesday, Thursday.

Maar hierdie Astertjie is skaam.

I can attend more Rocci events. It's on my office social calendar, and by extension, my events calendar, anyway. Network, Astertjie, skryf profiele oor hierdie inspirerende besigheidswesens en leer by hulle.

I missed the deadline to sign up for that communications course I'd have loved and paid to attend and who cares?

For other opportunities are around the corner, at the next event.

Of in Michy se voorhuis, as jy lank genoeg dink en 'n besigheidsplan sommer op daai troukaartjie templates skryf.

Eendag haal ek nog jou tea lady oor en maak haar my executive communications expert.

Sy praat die belangrike tale, kommunikeer effektief en jy kan jou eie koffietjie maak.

Haar gegradueerde dogter kan selfs my marketing specialist wees.

Groot drome, my skat.

[astertjie]

Autonomie, October 2013

Truth be told I get annoyed with every second person telling me to "stay in your parents' house for as long as you possibly can".

Why? What have I to gain, as a 21-year-old Astertjie who shamefully still lives here in Witpoortjie, with my (grandmother-included) parents, siblings and pets?

In the past few years being a teenager, student and fairly fresh employee, I've had enough absolutely wonderful experiences in this somewhat giant house. I've had a sleep over with one friend drunk and one friend high, listening to AC//DC all night and dressing up for our own entertainment.

I was so frightfully awake following some alcohol abuse that I comforted the usually-unreachable high girl in her unexpected fit of tears until 7am the next morning.

This other guy, a skater and guitarist and my then-best friend who went on to become a journalist and editor strummed away at some Rise Against songs in that living room.

We both did. I can't even think what else I listened to at that stage in my life ... oh, maybe Litterbox?

I've hosted some wild parties there complete with my parents' consent and all.

At the braai area where I held my Star Wars-themed 19th birthday I was the Darth Vader that Queen Amidala near-poisoned by pouring bottles of tequila into my Yoda Soda and playing too many games of kings with me.

I've also had that sleepover-turned-sour, the discomfort of bringing certain friends home and the seeming ignorance at who Astertjie is.

All in all I found love there, my heart was broken there, and I found myself brave enough to leave home after I completed Monash.

I've since looked at apartments to the painful realisation that I can't afford them alone.

Then a somewhat perfect experiment came my way, without my meaning to initiate it.

The feisty fiancée friend of mine called saying that her dearest is in Angola for work and that I must come over, she refuses to stay alone.

Yes! I thought. Can't afford the apartment right now but I sure as hell can go drink to my heart's content in Wilgeheuwel for a few days. My temporary residence.

So wrong, love. So very, very wrong.

Firstly, fiancée is on a diet meaning she threw out all the sleepover food and replaced it with gallons of water and fruits, no vegetables.

I was able to convince her to buy vegetables on one of these nights and came to the shocking realisation that vegetables, yogurt, fruit juice and a few pieces of chicken is trés expensive.

The next morning at 7.10am, I became aware of how much of the R300 worth of petrol in my car I've spent driving to-and-fro between the office and her place (which is not within a 3km radius of my parents' house). Nearly all!

There goes my petrol budget, blown on a few days' driving.

Yes, petrol prices will decline again one of these days with say 15c, but I promise you, 10 days later it's up with another 50c.

I also cannot depend on the household stock of toothpaste, shampoo, washing powder, dishwashing liquid, milk and bread.

Here, we buy our own and oh, how much it is to buy.

The next person who says it's wise to stay with your parents I'll tell that I know. I know, because I made the decision by default (can't afford peanuts with R3 'n maand) and because I tried independence, and frankly, it sucks in comparison.

I know that nothing will feel as great as leading your own life and making your own decisions and I know that nothing is as comforting as your mother finding your missing sock, reminding you to take a jacket and serving you all the veggies you desire.

Besides, those extra randjies I didn't spend on toothpaste, washing powder and rent I'll use to study with next year, to put a deposit down or to make a preliminary purchase of a fridge or washing machine for that dream flat.

Although the experiment continues and I really am having a wonderful time staying with my close friend, I'm shameless about living with my 'rents otherwise.

[astertjie]

rAge 2013

The views, the news and iconic graphics of the annual really Awesome gaming expo (rAge) as hosted by the NAG magazine at the Coca Cola Dome had this Astertjie sleeplessly submerged in the gaming world over the past weekend.

Launched in 2002, the 11th annual rAge Expo prepared for more than 30 000 visitors and 2000 LANers (the bleeksiele that make a trip of the weekend expo and stay overnight to complete a gaming bonanza of 52 hours).

Yes, the food was expensive. As it goes with every single exhibition you'll ever attend.

But between myself and gamers SputNic and Br1dge, we saw to the regular consumption of R24.95 breakfasts at Maxi's and R30 - R35 lunches and dinners at Spur, King Pie and who knows where else at the nearby Northgate Mall.

We were too tired, too hyped and our minds too distracted to really care.

Let me break expo food down for you cans of cold drink at an average of R17 per can, chocolate bars at an average of R8, chips at an average of R20 per (tiny) serving and mini doughnuts (I guess it's considered food?) at a staggering R22 for 12. The bargain R20 for a 2 litre Coke was a favourite choice. We had those jool plastic cups ready for it.

McDonald's saved us at 3 am when the stomachs grumbled and your fellow gamers just didn't let you sleep.

As SputNic once told me, for rAge, you're expected to have ticket money, food money and Coke money. He even made a list, listing himself as the number one thing you simply cannot attend without.

But was it a blast!

The real deal about this whole event is that you're supplied with free, fast internet (that doesn't lag) and wifi.

Between us we uploaded about 2 terabytes of files to share and downloaded a brilliant 23 terabytes of just... stuff.

I won't have time enough to watch all these pirated movies, play the games and listen to the music before the next rAge.

The other advantage that us bleeksiele made use of was the exposure to the latest or upcoming gaming consoles and new game titles.

I'm talking Watch Dogs with the added bonus of one of the European developers giving you a walk-through of the game.

Call of Duty: Ghosts.

Battlefield 4.

Xbox One (or it's unfortunate nickname, xbone).

Playstation 4.

We LANed until we passed out on our keyboards or under our desks, playing non-stop Call of Duty: Modern Warfare co-ops and endless games of Dota 2 and League of Legends.

Oh, the babes. Yes, the bleeksiele had tons of smoking hot girls to gawk at with the Cosplay competition on Saturday 5 October.

Cosplay, my dear Roodepoorters, is a fun nerdy activity where girls and guys dress up as their favourite video game characters and animé (japanese cartoon) characters.

These girls had obscene amounts of next-to-nothing on, some of them even body painted to make up comic book-like impressions of characters.

How proud am I to announce that one of my close friends, Lauren, a fairly new Cosplayer, won a prize for her impression of a Bleach character.

One girl even made the smart move of dressing up as Roxy, NAG's own rAge character, complete with pink hair.

I overcame my own fears of Slender, a first person horror game, by posing for photos with a guy that dressed up just like the legendary Slender Man.

I'm serious that it's scary some people get very drunk to play this game. Refer to YouTube for proof.

If only I could have given you a guided tour and photographs of the event, I would.

(Although I'd prefer not to show all of them, I'm sleepless and thus terrible-looking but also, my state made for some blurry pictures.)

Excited, yet? You should've gone.

Gamers might be considered an icky subculture but even your little brother plays Fifa 20-whatever. Join us.

[astertjie]

Décorum, 23 September 2013

This Astertjie was stressing her wedge heels off when the tweets came through warning about a hostage and/ or shooting situation at Westgate "Mall".

Just seconds ago I spoke to a student friend who told me her friend saw "things" at Westgate Shopping Centre and believes there's a shooting happening. Now I'm worried. As a journalist, it is my job and my thrill to go cover merciless accidents, heavy heist aftermath and informal settlement riots ... but a hostage situation? Would I go?

I scoured twitter to see whether I read correctly. Go to the external links, Astertjie.

Now... Brace yourself.

Phew!

Westgate Mall in Nairobi, Kenya, is under siege, you stupid girl, not Westgate Shopping Centre in Roodepoort. Not your area.

But what about that shooting? The metro spokesperson doesn't know anything when you call for information, so you move on.

Sometimes my job can be more merciless than the terrible accident scenes I've photographed... I went about my Saturday and Sunday (my weekend to work, we take turns) covering a local pet store protest and attending some skyfskiet thing.

I didn't give it a second thought until Monday morning's The Star headlines: Terror in Kenya mall.

My heart nearly came to a standstill. Stupid, consumer-driven uninvolved unsympathetic me didn't even bother to learn that a 6-months-pregnant journalist got shot in the mayhem. That could've been me. Ghanaian poet and statesman Kofi Awoonor succumbed to the siege, his son wounded. That could've been Meerkat. A South African journalist helped a severely shocked woman to a car that drove her off to hospital, never learning her name. That could've been Jeanou.

What if my team were there? What if that siege was here?

I can only hope that the Kenyan government gets the situation resolved soon and that those terrorists are prosecuted for their inhumane deeds.

Kenyan civilians and tourists have nothing to do with your war, people. They have no information, so move on.

My deepest admiration goes to journalist Tom Kirkwood for helping that woman. I hope you learn her name. I hope she learns yours.

I hope my middle class, mediocre fears are overcome so I can become one of the great ones.

What a lie it really is, Owen: Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.

[astertjie]

Fausse pudeur, September 2013

Thank you for the drink the other night, history-driven Roodepoort author.

I mean, which author buys the journalist that is pestering him a brandy and Coke?

Then telling her all sorts of fibs to get her off his back?

Did you think I was desperate for a drink I couldn't afford? Brandy and Coca-Cola, if anything, is quite the Caxton drink.

Affordable. Goes at R20 to R25, depending on where you want it.

In Potchefstroom a "double" triple brandy and Coke cost me R8 in 2012.

Unfortunately, Yoof closed after that. For someone who doesn't drink beer at all (yes, I had this discussion with you last week, people, I'm a brandy type of girl) it's the only real alternative. Unless you drink Smirnoff Brutal Fruit-who-gives-a-hoot sletsappies.

Don't dare judge me for the few times I had these sletsappies; my inconsiderate friends might have taken me to a really expensive watering hole (or I could've had too many brandy-and-coke specials or I only had R18 and not twenty warranting me a less potent, less tasteful drink).

But I digress.

I didn't know what to make of this author.

I don't know whether he was really beskeie or treating me to a shot of false modesty.

Instead of speaking to the journalist about his views, his creative process and his vice, he told me about the two other men (also attending the book launch) Mill and Bill who supposedly gave more input than he did.

I mean, sure, the book handled Mill's life as a detective in apartheid years and Bill was, I guess, a brilliant point of reference but you wrote the damn thing, sign it and smile and be more perky.

I know that's the thought that would've crossed or might one day cross my mind when I have the book launch and after party at a Lindhaven watering hole, especially of my third successful book.

However, I admire you.

Verraaiers was the best I've seen among post-apartheid Afrikaans films and it's all because of your historically accurate, nee, historically contributive first book.

Since I had seen saw the film and got the gist of the story, I bought Boerekryger at this launch party and was about to leave to withdraw some more money from my R3-'n-maand bank account for the new one when you finally did smile, told me not to worry about it, and signed the book. Mill did too. Secretly I was over the moon.

I'm on page 52 and I'm marvelling at every researched word. Mill might be one of my favourite "characters"; he reminds me of my grandfather a lot.

A lot. My usually critical father is very excited to read it when I'm done, which will be soon.

And seriously, Mr Author Man, who launches a book on a Monday night and doesn't tell a single media house about it? Who?

[astertjie]

Verskroeide aarde, September 2013

We struggle with English, vernacular and all the rest. A hard Afrikaans word could get us all confused because we're from Witpoortjie and our ambition withered with the last dagga rokie in the back yard.

Ourselves and all our idols drink at the local bar (see, a grammar error) and we can't talk about niks meer gekompliseerd than biltong, braaivleis and rugby nie.

That's what the world tells us about ourselves.

That's what my supposed Monash friends teased me about — being a boeremeisie, a poppie (shoot me now, skat, I'll never be), always being warm and wearing summer clothes because Afrikaans people don't get cold, eating bland food as compared to chilli and dried-and-feisty leaves and finally, for preferring brandy to beer.

The other day, out for some dinner, I entertained the last of the ignorance about who I am and who my people are.

"That war was useless and you were fighting over something that wasn't yours to start with. Apartheid, racism, inequality blah blah blah ... you 'suffered' nothing and fought without cause."

And then something about the brilliant British imperialism tactics in China. Tsjaina, you has no idea.

I don't want to sound like the stereotype, I'm just working to bring a point across.

I take pride in my capabilities in Afrikaans, English and French and look forward to expanding those capabilities and to put you in your place in all three languages.

Ons wou nie oor goud óf grond baklei nie. The war wasn't really about gold or land. La guerre n'était pas sur l'or ou des terre.

As much as you battled your way down Africa or from slave ships or from Europe or Asia to South Africa to have a peaceful new beginning and to prosper, I did.

The Myburghs did. So did the Ferreiras (previously, Perreiras because they were Portuguese and had to flee their country and change their identity) and the Bothas, the Schulze and the Leibbrandts.

The Schulze fled Nazi Germany to raise South African children.

I'm sure members of my own family and around 28 000 members of most now-Afrikaans but then Dutch, German, Polish and French families died in the cruel British concentration camps, under the scorched earth policy of Lord Oom Kitchener.

Verskroeide aarde. Technique de la terre brulée, oui, les damnés de la Terre.

Ons het vir ons tuisgemaakte kultuur se bestaansreg geveg. Vir Afrikaans, vir familie en plaaswerkers en vee.

We fought for our homemade culture, for our Afrikaans, for family, farm workers and livestock.

La guerre était sur la liberte, la culture et la famille.

Gryp jou bier en kom ek vertel jou bietjie wat régtig gebeur het, want let's face it, géén handboek gaan nie. Lewer jou uitspraak eers daarná.

O brandewyn laat my stáán. 

[astertjie]

La Responsabilisation, August 2013

I've recently been dubbed the "pet shop lady" by Meerkat, referring to all my dealings with local animal protection authorities, animal rights activists and supposedly concerned residents.

I've dealt with managers, inspectors, owners and responsible sellers of pet products, each of those mentioned more extreme or convinced that they are right.

I've heard of a possible solution to shelter animals that are not adopted.

Yet, Cataract could not give one decent comment, and the one time I told her that the call is being recorded, she dismissed the conversation and forwarded a half-hearted press release.

Is she really turning so much of a blind eye to the organisation's defamation of their own name?

I'm talking about a bold press release stating that their services are only available to desperate, desolate Roodepoorters. Nevermind the well-meaning Florida Hills residents that earn a lot, sure, but that have big families and thus big expenses. The scapegoat of being an animal protection authority enables know-it-alls to judge whether or not you can afford a private veterinarian.

Don't even get me started on the backlog of supposed charges that have been laid against the bad pet owners. Why do we never get a press release about how they were arrested or fined or seen to in whichever manner, Cataract?

Who has really ever dealt with the Animal Protection Act, or the Performing Animals Protection Act for that matter? Do you know that it expects you to look after your pet and does not expect you to pay thousands to do so?

I suppose those Acts are decaying in dust in the corner of her office, for her perusal only when she needs to take on a big bad pet shop. We're all quick to jump on our high horses over a pet farm not operating as it should or a Davidsonville doggy infested with maggots, but what about the protection of the average, responsible animal owner?

What about this average Astertjie?

I earn drie rand 'n maand (so the office joke goes). Not that I'm complaining. But every time Darce Vader (Darcy, my beloved Jack Russell) needs an injection or looks pap I need to deal with it and I need to do so without spending all of my rand. And it can easily run that high, what with x-rays and IVs and you-name-it, if pup is really sick.

I respect the little waentjie they send out to a Lindhaven corner on weekdays. That waentjie has ensured that my puppy is vaccinated, time and again. It's not like you see careless owners there, no people are holding their pets or have been walking their pets there, some are veteran waentjie visitors.

These people care.

Yet, the uninterested organisation wants to chase them away to make space in the queue for owners such as the Davidsonville doggies. News flash, love, those people will never queue. They did not even care to bring their pet to you, they had you fetch it.

My uncle recently adopted Buksie from a colleague of mine. Healthy, cute cross-breed, certainly not considered a pavement special. He's healthy because of that waentjie. He wants to play at 4am.

My suggestion is, if you really want to take the veterinary waentjie away from responsible Roodepoorters, replace it with one that finds and catches those that are not (if you still have funding, aren't you running out of generous waentjie veterans?).

Send me a press release of what happens to those bastards, would you?

[astertjie]

Le deuil, 16 August 2013

Death.

It is imminent and so unexpected that it just breathes its cold, heartless breath in your neck as you attempt to type up an article.

A woman, huisvriendin of my parents, died tragically on Friday 16 August. My mother ran into my room in hysterics, waking me up by yelling that she's dead and falling onto my bed.

The freak accident occurred in Roodepoort, my area.

What is more terrifying is to have given up her family's contact details so yet another newspaper that lacks conscience and compassion can intrude in private misery just to get online hits off an impersonal profile.

Problem is, I can't really say that about my colleagues or our publication.

I understand that it is the general view and that newspapers tend to intrude.

However, the Record's Jeanou is probably the best journalist to speak to any mourning family.

He will comfort you and write such a careful and caring profile that telephone conversations will feel like hugs.

His condolences are real, he's not just another media moron.

I've heard it, I've read it.

Meerkat though, seeming ruthless at times, took some careful steps in speaking to the woman's daughter, a once-upon-a-time close friend of mine.

I spoke to her for the first time in three years on Saturday, and she choked on her tears.

The conversation ended abruptly then, but Meerkat extracted the necessary information painlessly days later.

I cannot feel less of an idiot for sharing her details.

I apologise. I can imagine that any single phone call from anyone, be it family, friend or foe, would upset a mourning person.

I also truly feel bad that, when I was in my teens, I insulted the woman for being such an overwhelming and overprotective matriarch, that I felt annoyed when she visited and that I was abrupt when she asked unexpected questions.

I truly learned from her. She was a morning person and on the few occasions that I slept over, breakfast would be ready before I awoke and the house already cleaned.

She enjoyed quaint coffee places and frequented them with me.

We went shopping for snyerspakkies and she taught me about makeup and hair care, much like a mother.

Here is a woman I once knew.

Here is her white car, much like that of her daughter's, purchased recently as one of the few treats she afforded herself crushed mercilessly as if to accentuate that her time has come.

Being named Mathilde, this Astertjie regularly suffers nicknames like Tillie, Tilly, Tilda, Tildy and Tilla. She called me "Tilsasa, great female warrior", which I guess originated from the meaning of 'Mathilde'.

Nevertheless it was strange, unique. She had a funny sense of humour, and laughed wholeheartedly.

This is by no means an obituary I'm just wandering after a lost version of myself, one that she befriended. Of all the nicknames, I'll hold this one dear.

[astertjie]

Musique Populaire FM (2013)

I was hoping to show her the true meaning of the ever-popular opelugkonsert.

She was meant to have the experience that became so famous in the 60s and that I enjoyed in Pretoria at the joolplaas with other students, singing along and dancing to Fokofpolisiekar without a care in pouring rain and mud.

Granted, I couldn't afford the Oppikoppi experience this weekend (Bewilderbeast, right?) so this radio-station hosted orchestra-backed nature reserve gig was the next best thing.

It probably was my fault that we struggled to get in; I hardly ever remember to confirm my own attendance.

It took some sweet-talking to get those tape-like bracelets weighed down by the responsibility to take decent photographs for a story to be handed in on Monday.

Finally, I convinced the security management services to fetch them from the Kloofendal Nature Reserve offices, where four press tickets were stashed.

I only needed two after all, I explained.

We struggled to keep the wine bundled up in that picnic blanket (am I guilty or nonchalant?).

Other people had to hand over their liquor at the entrance or sneak it in (with the help of these "security" officials) by pouring it into disposable water bottles.

Once through the gates (at around 2.15pm while the concert started at 2pm) the next mission was to find a patch of grass to relax on.

Quite the mess, considering that about 2 000 people were expected but that 4 000 people already were allowed into the grounds.

It is not ideal for a journalist to camp out at the very back but hey, we were late.

Now I had to try and catch up on what Karen Zoid already had said and sang.

Sadly, Aeroplane Jane was her introductory song and I couldn't enjoy it fully while searching for a picnic spot.

My grandmother finds her weird and unattractive, but I felt she was quite the host.

Definitely the best one, among competitors Rian van Heerden (Rian from kykNET's Rian) and some radio presenter.

I don't know his name and shoot me if I ever listen to a popular radio station — I do not even listen to my absolute favourite tracks three times a day and I will not voluntarily listen to any Minaj, Ke$ha (huh?) or whatever the hell it is that South Africans are apparently into.

That being said, this show focused on hits from the 80s, 90s and now.

Did they realise that 2000 to 2010 should also be considered a category?

No. But whatever.

I already cringed when Karen Zoid started singing a Bruno Mars song, but with the backing of the orchestra it turned out quite brilliant.

Although some performers weren't all that bad (I recognised Karen Zoid and local artist Lily Million, whom I met at a previous charity concert) the chosen songs were somewhat terrible.

I can mention two, maybe three songs that fell within acceptable taste parameters.

And it always goes South from here — Nicholis Louw graced us with his falsetto version of a repertoire bo sy vuurmaakplek and Karlien van Jaarsveld, dear old Bôbby's sister, made one Katy Perry song even worse than it originally was.

The spectacular aspect of the show was really the dedication to the inclusion of local performers, which included a brass band, a set of drummers (they were packed so neatly on stage that they looked like matryoshka dolls) and a child orchestra comprising tiny musicians between 8 and 12 years old.

But by the time the grand finale was announced we were packed up and ready to start the search for my car, parked in some serious rooigrond with all sorts bushes and burnt grass.

The real mission was to get away from this not-worth-R180-per-person mediocre mess.

I am thankful for those plastic cups they handed out, though; they saved me the trouble of unwrapping new wine glasses.

I mean no insult to the organisers since the money raised, I heard, is going towards some Angels programme, but I should've saved up for that Oppi ticket.

The aftermath was a radio-less trip home with no superb photos — even the media wasn't allowed beyond the clear barricades that separated musical intelligence from Roodepoort intelligence.

I have enough to write that story, but what to write?

"Aeroplane Jane's gone insane."