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Description
DITL - hellblazer

It's four-something in the afternoon and I'm in my car lighting the first joint of the day. I've just left my parents house more than an hour late. The joint requires a couple of puffs before lighting properly. The car lighter has to do because for some mysterious reason I've never been able to keep a lighter for any extended period of time. Chelly actually gave me a Zippo for some birthday, I guess she hoped the attachment would make it important enough not to lose. Can't remember where I lost it... I wonder how she's doing over in Ireland.

My phone rings. It's Eddy. He wants to know if I'm lost, because I should've been there by now. It's kind of tricky to drive half-stoned with a cellphone in one hand and a lit joint between your lips, but I don't really care. "Hold on. It's Sunday, chill the fuck out asshole!" After explaining my situation, I hang up and manage to finish the joint without killing myself. What the hell, creative automotive antics is nothing new to Jo'burg. Fuck, this is really good weed.

Well then, Lenasia has expanded a tad since I've last been on this road. When did they build that off-ramp? Ah Soweto. I remember the knot of fear I felt in the back of our family car on this same road, fourteen years ago. The rampant xenophobia of the old regime is still woven into the fabric of this city. Lenasia for the Indians, Soweto for the blacks and Roodepoort for the whites, everything nice and neat. Three suburbs bordering each other, fourteen years ago they where three different worlds. The walls between them built with fear of the unknown. Fear fuelled by terror. Two cars are standing next to the highway on the other side. Three guys are trying to push start it, while a woman looks on. It gets me thinking of what they would've done fourteen years ago, they sure as hell wouldn't have tried that. Abandon the break down and flee back to Roodepoort in the other car? Probably. A smile creeps across my face as I realize, yeah, the walls are almost gone now. Eleven year old's no longer have to deal with the paranoia of dying in an attack of hatred or retribution. Today they have to deal with live as AIDS orphans. The one's that haven't died of AIDS with their parents. I wonder what that inbred Texan has been up to, but it'll have to be pretty extreme to beat Bob Mogabe. God, why am I listening to the news? I change the radio station and Sade melts my heart to a puddle of sticky goo.

My phone rings again. "Ahoy matey!" Derek and I make beautiful music together. He's bored out of his skull, home alone the whole weekend. At least the desperation has driven him into writing a song. Cool, he's been too shy with his lyrics. It's amazing to see him jam away on a guitar and sing perfectly in tune at the same time. Especially because I have trouble holding two different beats at the same time, never mind two melodies.At last! After three years of more serious fucking around than singing in the shower, the title of aspirant vocalist isn't too much of a stretch to fit me. Not since I've been hitting the high notes. Derek hangs up after I promise to swing by his pad after my get together and tell him all about last night's Jamiroquai show. Besides, we've got this agreement to play at least one song properly every day. Fuck! I missed my turn off! Crap, another farking delay.

The highway turns to run between two old mine dumps. Thar be gold in them thar hills! HW compared Johannesburg to an anthill or Moria. He plays bass. We sometimes make beautiful music too. The tricky part of jamming with him though is out-performing his sixty watt amp. He also came up with the word capitalust, quite fitting for Johannesburg the city with the streets of gold. Ha! Gold to sell to first world countries to pay-off interest on debt owed to them. Fattening their already bloated industries with natural resources from the third-world to further rape mother nature. We've become their serfs and they our lords. Hey, with a little work that could be fucking cool lyrics. We've become slaves to the lords of industry. God, that sounds like cheesy seventies metal band, but speaking of Him.

Howzit dude, wha' up? You've been throwing me some really whacky shit lately. It's time for some help here. Nothing spectacular, just the normal vague hint please. I mean come on, I'm practically radiating a purple glow of sexual frustration here.
LOVE
I suddenly remember why I've been single this long and why I'll wait even longer before committing myself again. Instant relief. Thanks

But globalisation, yeah, got to love it. The wheels of capitalust turn and we all dance to keep it going. I've got a maniacal grin plastered across my face while taking the turn-off at 130 kph in the slow lane, stoned like a horse. I wonder what kind of booze Eddy got for tonight.

Description
DITL - hellblazer

It's four-something in the afternoon and I'm in my car lighting the first joint of the day. I've just left my parents house more than an hour late. The joint requires a couple of puffs before lighting properly. The car lighter has to do because for some mysterious reason I've never been able to keep a lighter for any extended period of time. Chelly actually gave me a Zippo for some birthday, I guess she hoped the attachment would make it important enough not to lose. Can't remember where I lost it... I wonder how she's doing over in Ireland.

My phone rings. It's Eddy. He wants to know if I'm lost, because I should've been there by now. It's kind of tricky to drive half-stoned with a cellphone in one hand and a lit joint between your lips, but I don't really care. "Hold on. It's Sunday, chill the fuck out asshole!" After explaining my situation, I hang up and manage to finish the joint without killing myself. What the hell, creative automotive antics is nothing new to Jo'burg. Fuck, this is really good weed.

Well then, Lenasia has expanded a tad since I've last been on this road. When did they build that off-ramp? Ah Soweto. I remember the knot of fear I felt in the back of our family car on this same road, fourteen years ago. The rampant xenophobia of the old regime is still woven into the fabric of this city. Lenasia for the Indians, Soweto for the blacks and Roodepoort for the whites, everything nice and neat. Three suburbs bordering each other, fourteen years ago they where three different worlds. The walls between them built with fear of the unknown. Fear fuelled by terror. Two cars are standing next to the highway on the other side. Three guys are trying to push start it, while a woman looks on. It gets me thinking of what they would've done fourteen years ago, they sure as hell wouldn't have tried that. Abandon the break down and flee back to Roodepoort in the other car? Probably. A smile creeps across my face as I realize, yeah, the walls are almost gone now. Eleven year old's no longer have to deal with the paranoia of dying in an attack of hatred or retribution. Today they have to deal with live as AIDS orphans. The one's that haven't died of AIDS with their parents. I wonder what that inbred Texan has been up to, but it'll have to be pretty extreme to beat Bob Mogabe. God, why am I listening to the news? I change the radio station and Sade melts my heart to a puddle of sticky goo.

My phone rings again. "Ahoy matey!" Derek and I make beautiful music together. He's bored out of his skull, home alone the whole weekend. At least the desperation has driven him into writing a song. Cool, he's been too shy with his lyrics. It's amazing to see him jam away on a guitar and sing perfectly in tune at the same time. Especially because I have trouble holding two different beats at the same time, never mind two melodies.At last! After three years of more serious fucking around than singing in the shower, the title of aspirant vocalist isn't too much of a stretch to fit me. Not since I've been hitting the high notes. Derek hangs up after I promise to swing by his pad after my get together and tell him all about last night's Jamiroquai show. Besides, we've got this agreement to play at least one song properly every day. Fuck! I missed my turn off! Crap, another farking delay.

The highway turns to run between two old mine dumps. Thar be gold in them thar hills! HW compared Johannesburg to an anthill or Moria. He plays bass. We sometimes make beautiful music too. The tricky part of jamming with him though is out-performing his sixty watt amp. He also came up with the word capitalust, quite fitting for Johannesburg the city with the streets of gold. Ha! Gold to sell to first world countries to pay-off interest on debt owed to them. Fattening their already bloated industries with natural resources from the third-world to further rape mother nature. We've become their serfs and they our lords. Hey, with a little work that could be fucking cool lyrics. We've become slaves to the lords of industry. God, that sounds like cheesy seventies metal band, but speaking of Him.

Howzit dude, wha' up? You've been throwing me some really whacky shit lately. It's time for some help here. Nothing spectacular, just the normal vague hint please. I mean come on, I'm practically radiating a purple glow of sexual frustration here.
LOVE
I suddenly remember why I've been single this long and why I'll wait even longer before committing myself again. Instant relief. Thanks

But globalisation, yeah, got to love it. The wheels of capitalust turn and we all dance to keep it going. I've got a maniacal grin plastered across my face while taking the turn-off at 130 kph in the slow lane, stoned like a horse. I wonder what kind of booze Eddy got for tonight.