Sunday, December 31, 2006

Saddam Hussein...

Saddam Hussein meets George W. Bush
...meets George W. Bush 30 December, 2006

After nearly four years ... Bush's biggest achievement in Iraq has been a lynching. Bravo Americans.

Riverbend | Baghdad Burning

Either you support the death penalty — whatever the nastiness or innocence of the condemned. Or you don't. C'est tout.

Robert Fisk | The Whole Bloody Thing Was Obscene

Wednesday, December 27, 2006

Tagged, Bagged, and Ungagged



Okay, so this time it wasn't Frank's fault. He tagged me a while back, but I resisted and desisted. Frank, despite his high military rank and Special Forces background, is your quintessential softie. I know he'll forgive me a million times over.

I know too he'll get even with me a million times over by continuing to do dumb things like tagging me to reveal the skeletal remains of secrets hidden from your interrogatory view, shuttered and shaded in the deepest, darkest folds of my cranium-closeted psyche.

So that lets Frank off the hook. And don't try following the links. His server's stuffed so he's hanging out at myspace.

If truth be told, it's Kat's fault. She's been probing and digging for the drift on this, that, Sessum, and Locke ever since she moved in. The sexiest women in the Western World — I assure you her thighs shape the boots — she is irresistible. I have been singing like a soprano since she rolled over and said "Not until you take part in my research project."

I could've told her what to do with herself but, as I was hell bent on being an active participant in all activity involving her rolling over, I could not say no.

Not for nothing is Kat Herding Media (KHM™) the world's pre-eminent pubic relations consultancy.

Where the hell was I? Oh yeah, rumpling the sheets with the world's most desirable woman. Nah... that wasn't it.

"You were gonna disclose five previously unknown facts about yourself and unlike that bitch Jeneane, you weren't going to welsh on me."

"Uh, yeah, sorry Father, for I have sinned."

"Never mind, asshole. Just get on with it."

Never let it be said Kat does not have Friends in High Places.

Not that one can count Outerbridge among them. The boy's a goddamn tail gunner — not that I've anything against queers and pansies, mind you; he's just such a bloody wet.

I've eaten 23,000 milligrams of Valium, Jeremy.

That's right: 23,000. And some people still think I'm awake.

Well, I do anyway. Who gives a Flying Continental what other people think, you mincing social disease. When it comes to imbibing vast quantities of industrial-strength synthetic drugs, other people fail to register on one's list of priorities.

But how's about that, eh? Almost a quarter kilogram. And I can still use this keyboard. What's more, it's on top of the 300,000 milligrams of beta blockers I've used to chase it down.

They're supposed to stop your heart.

Nothing stops mine.

Eat that and blog us the result, you sycophantic leech.

Maybe I'm being a bit rough on the little sodomite, but I've no formal education. So what if it shows? I don't care. I'd not bothered to admit to the fact by the way, so it does count as a so-called secret.

Shortly after entering high school, I decided it wasn't for me. It wasn't. I read a lot but, as far as schoolwork was concerned, I did nothing. I flunked mathematics and that precluded me going to university. I went to visit the registrar — to present him convincing evidence contradicting his application of a blanket ruling, but I found he had been to university.

I came away believing that, like high school, the place stood no chance of claiming credit for realising my immense potential.

It was a lucky escape. Had my superior intellect prevailed, I might have ended up like AKMA, the Tutor, Matrullo or, worse, someone like Locke.

Thank God for small mercies.

I did not date Kate Moss. I swear. Wendy will attest to this, as will Kat who has encouraged me — with what I can only describes as 'a steely menace' — to come clean on this one. Moss was just a fling...

[SMACK]

...don't know the girl. Never met her. Fucking cokehead.

We're all Clientologists now.

Jesus, this is more difficult than I thought. Maybe I will take the Sessum on this one...

[SMACK]

I didn't take the picture heading this blog.

Hell, that one was easy...

...the gain after the pain, I guess. Nah, Kat, leave me be...

Okay, one more to go. Kat's never been to a dentist. You can quote me on that. It's true, I swear. As a good Catholic boy, consummate professional, unpaid photojournalist, blogger, and hard man to boot, I would not kid you on this one.

Her skin too is flawless. Completely. All over. And, on this one, you'll just have to trust me because you'll never get close enough to find out. Suckers...

"What do you mean, that doesn't count?"

"It doesn't. You're supposed to be talking about yourself, you conniving bastard."

It's Father Christopher. She has a direct line to him as well. In fact, so persistent was she that I partake in this stupid charade I started muttering about Immaculate Conceptions. I wouldn't put it past the Old Sod and, given her talent, beauty, and skill, Kat has to Network.

They're in cahoots, those two...

[SMACK]

Those of you who haven't been following this blog for close on five years might think I'm being somewhat evasive or elusive. Fuck you. Where've you been all this time? Had better things to do, I suppose? Well, you've dipped out, my friends. To be quite honest, and to avoid the mundane (my teeth are rotting, my hair's thinning, and where once I was likened to Bjorn Borg — by a Cape Flats gangster, I am now likened to Bill Clinton — by a demented Chinese restaurateur), I have nothing left to disclose but secrets held for other people.

I'm taking the Jeneane...

...and will probably spend the rest of the evening licking Kat's boots from here to Kingdom Come.

Not that I mind. Being a professional and a hard man to boot.

Hoo-ha! Indeed.

Tuesday, December 26, 2006

2007...


Click to enlarge

You've been leading me | Beside strange waters | Streams of beautiful lights in the night | But where is my pastureland in these dark valleys? | If I loose my grip, will I take flight?

Bruce Cockburn | Strange Waters

Have a good 'un ... and thanks again to Mark.

Saturday, December 23, 2006

On the Beach...


Note: See Apocalypse Now and Then

This is the end | Beautiful friend | This is the end | My only friend, the end

KILGORE (continuing) ... we do a lot of surfing around here. Like to finish up operations early and fly down to Vung Tau for the evening glass. Have you ever surfed the point at Vung Tau? I liked the beach breaks around Na Trang a lot — good lefts.

He passes a twisted gun emplacement with about five bodies — sprinkles cards all over them.

KILGORE (continuing) ... we keep three boards in my Command Huey at all times. You never can tell when you're gonna run into something good. I got a guy in Cam Rau Bay that can predict a swell two days in advance. We try to work it in.

He stops at a particularly wild-looking Viet Cong who has died with his mouth agape — staring wild-eyed in horror at the sky. KILGORE pauses.

KILGORE (continuing; to himself) Hell, that's an Ace if I ever saw
one.

He puts the card in the gaping mouth.

42 CLOSE VIEW OVER THE VIET CONG
We SEE the Colonel and the others walk off — the dead Viet Cong and card are in the immediate f.g. The card has the shield of the CAV printed beautifully, and above it the motto: DEATH FROM ABOVE.

KILGORE Where've you been riding, Lance?

LANCE I haven't surfed since I got here.

KILGORE That's terrible — we'll change that — I'd like to see you work — I've always liked your cutback; got a hell of a left turn, too.


Click graphic to enlarge

Of our elaborate plans, the end | Of everything that stands, the end | No safety or surprise, the end | I'll never look into your eyes...again

DISSOLVE TO:
43 EXT. THE HELICOPTER - MED. SHOT
WILLARD is sitting with KILGORE on a couple of chairs by a table set up in front of the command copter. Everywhere we SEE armed men, sandbags, barbed wire, oil drums etc. Hueys are constantly ROARING over. ARTILLERY BOOMS in the far distance. KILGORE looks at the map.

KILGORE Why the hell you wanna go up to Nu Mung Ba for?

WILLARD I got bored in Saigon.

KILGORE What's the furthest you been in?

WILLARD Haiphong.

KILGORE Haiphong? Shit, you jump in ?

WILLARD No. Walked.


Click graphic to enlarge

Of our elaborate plans, the end | Of everything that stands, the end | No safety or surprise, the end | I'll never look into your eyes...again

KILGORE What'd you do for supplies?

WILLARD (he shrugs) Mercenaries — agents, traitors — they put out caches.

KILGORE Can you trust them?

WILLARD No. They put out two or three for every one I needed. When you get to the one you'll use, you just stake it out. If something feels wrong, you just pass it up. On one mission, I had to pass up three and ended up living on rats and chocolate bars.

KILGORE Nu Mung Ba. Last I heard, Walter Kurtz commanded a Green Beret detachment at Nu Mung Ba.

WILLARD When did you hear?

KILGORE 'Bout a year ago? Is Kurtz still alive?

WILLARD Who knows.

KILGORE Seems to me he got himself fragged. I heard some grunt rolled a grenade in his tent. Maybe a rumor. Helluva man — remarkable officer. Walter Kurtz woulda been a General some day. General of the Army. Shit, Head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Did you knew Kurtz?

WILLARD I met him.

KILGORE Don't you agree?

WILLARD He musta changed! (pointing to the map) I got to get into the Nung River, here or here.

KILGORE That village you're pointing at is kinda hairy.

WILLARD Hairy?

KILGORE I mean it's hairy — they got some pretty heavy ordnance, boy — I've lost a few recon ships in there now and again.

WILLARD So? I heard you had a good bunch of killers here.

KILGORE And I don't intend to get some of them chewed up just to get your tub put in the mouth of the goddman Nung River. You say you don't know Kurtz?

WILLARD I met him.

KILGORE You talk like him. I don't mind taking casualties, Captain, but I like to keep my ratio ten to one in this unit — ten Cong to one.

WILLARD You'll find enough Cong up there.


Click graphic to enlarge

Can you picture what will be | So limitless and free | Desperately in need...of some...stranger's hand | In a...desperate land

KILGORE What about this point here?

He puts his finger on the map.

KILGORE (continuing) What's the name of that goddamn village — Vin Drin Dop or Lop; damn gook names all sound the same.

He motions to one of his surfers.

KILGORE (continuing) Mike, you know anything about the point at Vin Drip Drop?

MIKE Boss left.

KILGORE What do you mean?

MIKE It's really long left slide, breaks on the short side of the point — catches a south swell.

LANCE Nice.

WILLARD looks at LANCE — then at KILGORE.

KILGORE Why the hell didn't you tell me about that place — a good left. (to WILLARD) There aren't any good left slides in this whole, shitty country. It's all goddamn beach break.

MIKE It's hairy,though. That's where we lost McDonnel — they shot the hell out of us. It's Charlie's point.

KILGORE How big it is?

MIKE Six to eight feet.

KILGORE gazes out across the parked helicopters.

KILGORE (to himself) A six-foot left.

WILLARD nudges LANCE — who gets the idea.

LANCE Boss. What's the wind like.

MIKE Light off shore — really hollow.

WILLARD We could go in tomorrow at dawn — there's always off-shore wind in the morning.

CHIEF
The draft of that river might be too shallow on the point.

KILGORE Hell, we'll pick your boat up and lay it down like a baby, right where you want it. This is the Cav boy — airmobile. I can take that point and hold it as long as I like — and you can get anywhere you want up that river that suits you, Captain. Hell, a six foot left. (he turns to an advisor) You take a gunship back to division — Mike, take LANCE with you — let him pick out a board, and bring me my Yater Spoon — the eight six.

TOM I don't know, sir — it's — it's —

KILGORE (hard) What is it?

TOM Well, I mean it's hairy in there — it's Charlie's point.

KILGORE turns and looks to WILLARD, exasperated.

WILLARD Charlie don't surf.


Click graphic to enlarge

Lost in a Roman...wilderness of pain | And all the children are insane | All the children are insane | Waiting for the summer rain, yeah

44 FULL SHOT - HELICOPTERS – DAWN
What seems like hundreds of Hueys standing, their rotors churning a great wind — Inside, the men of the 1st Cavalry Airmobile — toughest unit in Vietnam. KILGORE's helicopter is being loaded with ammunition and has surfboards strapped underneath.

45 MED. VIEW
KILGORE strides up to the side door, dressed for battle. He looks out, around. He turns to his door GUNNER.

KILGORE How do you feel, boy?

GUNNER Like a mean motherfucker, sir.

He turns to his R.T. man.

KILGORE Let's go.

46 FULL VIEW
Helicopter rotors build up speed — gas turbines belching fire from their jet pipes — dust flying as fifty helicopters rise; ROAR OVER CAMERA and deploy into attack formation.

47 NEW VIEW
Helicopters moving THROUGH the FRAME: almost a dance of dragonflies.

48 INT. COMMAND COPTER - MED. SHOT - KILGORE, WILLARD, OTHERS
WILLARD looks ahead — KILGORE sits near the door. Below they see the jungle whisk by and they are suddenly over the ocean, low and fast.

49 MONTAGE
CLOSE SHOTS of rocket pods — mini-guns in bizarre looking mounts.

CLOSE SHOTS of the three surfboards strapped below the command helicopter, next to the fearsome weaponry.

And finally, CLOSE SHOTS of the men — nervous, excited very few of them really scared — they fondle their rifles, grenade launchers, anti-personnel grenades, claymore mines; plastic explosives cord; flame-throwers; M-60 machine guns; expandable rocket launchers; mortars and bayonets.

50 INT. COMMAND COPTER
KILGORE cranes his neck and almost leans out to watch the waves — then he sits back relaxed.


Click graphic to enlarge

There's danger on the edge of town | Ride the King's highway, baby | Weird scenes inside the gold mine | Ride the highway west, baby

KILGORE (to WILLARD) We'll come in low out of the rising sun — We'll put on the music about a mile out.

WILLARD Music?

KILGORE Yeah. Classical stuff – scares the hell out of the slopes – the boys love it.

51 MED. SHOT
POV behind the PILOT and CO-PILOT — the ocean rushes below.

PILOT Big Duke six to Eagle Thrust — turn on coordinates 1-0 — niner, assume attack formation.

The helicopter banks into a tight turn and bears toward the coast.

RADIO (V.O.) Eagle Thrust formation target 2800 yards — begin psch-war operations.

52 CLOSE SHOT - LOUDSPEAKERS
The ocean rushes below as suddenly the LOUDSPEAKERS BLARE out Wagner's "Ride of the Valkyries."

53 FULL SHOT - HELICOPTERS

From the water we SEE the massive grouping of Hueys — gun- ships — troop carriers — medevac and recon — ROAR over low in battle formation BLARING out "Ride of the Valkyries."

54 INT. HELICOPTER - MED. SHOT -CREW
POV behind pilot —

PILOT 700 — 600 yards — 500 — Commence firing.

The whole copter shakes.


Click graphic to enlarge

Ride the snake, ride the snake | To the lake, the ancient lake, baby | The snake is long, seven miles | Ride the snake...he's old, and his skin is cold

55 EXT. VIET CONG FISHING VILLAGE - FULL SHOT
A Vietnamese coastal fishing village built along the beach and palm trees — with rice paddies behind. This village commands a delta where ocean and river merge. Sampans are pulled into a cover where they are being unloaded. We SEE bunkers with N.V.A. regulars ambling about. Suddenly we HEAR the distant MUSIC — Everyone stops; they stare out to sea. Men scream orders — women run from huts bearing ammunition and rifles – Everywhere there is activity to prepare for the defense of the village. Camouflage is removed from anti-aircraft emplacements. People feverishly unlimber weapons of all types and run to tunnels and trenches.

The MUSIC GROWS LOUDER with the FAINT SOUND of ROTORS

56 EXT. THE HELICOPTER FORMATION - AERIAL VIEW coming directly at us; WAGNER BLARING.

57 HIGH ANGLE looking down through the helicopters as they approach the village.

58 INT. HELICOPTER - MED. SHOT – CREW
POV behind pilot
PILOT 700 yards — 600 — 500 — commence firing.

The whole copter shakes.

59 EXT. HELICOPTERS - MONTAGE
We SEE rockets ROAR from pods — MACHINE GUNS RATTLE — grenade launchers POUND away — and MINI-GUNS pour streams of lead and tracers with the SOUND of a DIESEL HORN.

60 FULL SHOT - HELICOPTERS
POV behind lead gunship. They ROAR in over the beach streaming FIRE from doors, pods and nose — The ground is alive with smoke and fire — a hut EXPLODES. The leads ship banks sharply up over the trees — men run below SHOOTING back.

61 MED. SHOT - ANTI-AIRCRAFT EMPLACEMENT
EXPLOSIONS crash around — the MUSIC and SOUND of the COPTERS almost drown them out. The gunner FIRES frantically — COPTERS are ROARING over – GUNFIRE rips around. The gunner is blown away.

62 MED. CLOSE ON WILLARD as the ship he is in swoops down, its MACHINE GUNS FIRING into the village.

63 MED. SHOT - SWOOPING COPTER
The Pilot leans out and SHOOTS a charging V.C. in the head with his .38, then ducks back in.


Click graphic to enlarge

The west is the best | The west is the best | Get here, and we'll do the rest

CO-PILOT We're down, Eagle Thrust — we're hit. We got a hot L.Z. here.

BULLETS RIP through the plexiglass. The Pilot FIRES back.

CO-PILOT (continuing) Hell of a hot L.Z. Need immediate air strike on the tree line, Eagle Thrust.

64 INT. COMMAND COPTER - MED. SHOT - WILLARD, KILGORE, OTHERS

KILGORE has R.T. equipment — he leans out near the door gunner.

KILGORE Big Duke Six to Hell's Angels Four — bring it in on along tree line and huts.

RADIO (V.O.) Hell's Angels Four to Big Duke Six — we'll need green smoke — suggest you have the FAC mark it.

KILGORE Haven't got time, Hell's Angels — lay it right up the tree line.

65 FULL SHOT - JET SQUADRON
Four F-4H Phantoms peel off and streak toward the coast.

66 INT. COMMAND COPTER - VIEW ON WILLARD AND KILGORE
KILGORE Fucking savages.

WILLARD Who?

KILGORE The enemy. Who else?

67 HELICOPTER'S POV - THE JETS
The jets streak by below laying in huge gobs of orange napalm along the trees.

KILGORE (O.S.) (on radio) Very good, Hell's Angels – suggest you follow with cannon fire.

68 INT. COMMAND COPTER - MED. SHOT
They circle the battle.

RADIO (V.O.) This is Baker Delta Four — Captain hit bad — need dust-off. Receiving heavy automatic weapons fire from huts about thirty yards to our left.

KILGORE Big Duke Six to Baker Delta Four — hold — we're right over you.

He turns to door gunner.

KILGORE (continuing) Right along the doors, boy.

The gunner FIRES leaning out –

KILGORE (continuing) Fine... fine... little higher. Through the roof; yeah, that's good.

He leans back in.


Click graphic to enlarge

The blue bus is callin' us | The blue bus is callin' us | Driver, where you taken' us

KILGORE (continuing) Didn't anybody bring me any bombs, grenades, claymores or anything?

LIEUTENANT You didn't tell me to, sir.

KILGORE (grumbling) You shoulda known.

Suddenly, BULLETS SMASH through the copter – Plexiglass SHATTERS; the copter vibrates and turns sharply. KILGORE is thrown down where he hangs on.

KILGORE (continuing) Sonuvabitch — anybody hurt?

WILLARD Automatic weapons flashes along those trees — probably eleven millimeter guns and AK-47's.

KILGORE The trees, eh...

He grabs the R.T.

KILGORE (continuing) Eagle Thrust Four — Big Duke Six. Join me in spraying some trees.

RADIO (V.O.) Affirmative, Big Duke Six — We're even got some rockets left.

KILGORE Take her in low, Lieutenant.

69 FULL SHOT - THE TREES, HELICOPTERS

The two helicopters swoop up out of the smoke and blast the trees with ROCKETS, MACHINE GUNS and GRENADE LAUNCHERS. Other copters join — The V.C. break and run through the rice paddies in the f.g. — BULLETS EXPLODING around them — they scream and fall FIRING back.

70 INT. COMMAND COPTER - MED. SHOT - KILGORE, WILLARD
KILGORE looks out as three V.C. break and run through the rice paddies — the helicopter turns and follows them — the door gunner swings out and BLASTS two of them into the mud. He takes a bead on the third.

KILGORE Hold it, boy.

He puts his arms across the sights — the gunner swings back inside.


Click graphic to enlarge

The killer awoke before dawn, he put his boots on | He took a face from the ancient gallery | And he walked on down the hall | He went into the room where his sister lived, and...then he | Paid a visit to his brother, and then he | He walked on down the hall, and | And he came to a door...and he looked inside | Father, yes son, I want to kill you | Mother...I want to...fuck you

KILGORE (continuing) Take her up to 300 feet, Lieutenant.

They rise above the paddy — the man below runs for all he's worth. KILGORE motions to the door gunner who steps aside. KILGORE buckles himself into the gunner's harness.

KILGORE (continuing) Rifle.

A hand passes him a M-16.
KILGORE (continuing; hard) My rifle, soldier.

There is some fumbling and then a hand passes him a 300 Weatherby Magnum with a zebra wood stock — mother of pearl inlays and a variable power scope. KILGORE takes it and opens the bolt.

71 VIEW ON WILLARD
Amazed at these proceedings.

72 VIEW ON KILGORE
as he loads the rifle with huge cartridges. He gets into the sling and slams the bolt shut.

73 MOVING POV. ON THE V.C.
He is running hard, but starting to sink into the mud. The Huey DRONES overhead, its huge shadow behind him on the mud. He turns and FIRES with a pistol.

74 INT. COPTER - MED. SHOT - KILGORE, WILLARD
KILGORE leans out; pulls the gun in tight – takes careful aim and the Cong is BLASTED flat into the paddy. KILGORE leans back, opens the bolt, ejecting the spent cartridge out the door. He hands Weatherby back into the copter.

75 VIEW ON WILLARD
The gaudy rifle passed by him.

SOLDIER (O.S.) That's 27, sir.

WILLARD Anyone got a card?

Somebody hands WILLARD the deck. He takes a card and flips it out of the copter, never lifting his gaze from KILGORE.

DISSOLVE TO :
76 FULL SHOT - BATTLEFIELD - THE CAV, V.C.
Americans run through the hooches FIRING and throwing GRENADES. Helicopters swoop overhead — JETS ROAR by — Uniformed N.V.A. regulars burst from a tunnel entrance and charge the Americans. The SHOOTING is at point blank range — automatic, as the V.C. are cut down.

77 INT. COMMAND COPTER - KILGORE, WILLARD, LANCE, ETC.
KILGORE leans out carefully, looking over the battlefield. He has the R.T. He leans back, deliberately avoiding WILLARD to speak to LANCE.

KILGORE The L.Z.'s cooling off fast — we'll move in another company an' then we'll own it. (he laughs to himself) Charlie's point.

He looks out toward the ocean.

KILGORE (continuing) Good swell.

LANCE What, sir?

KILGORE I said it's a good swell – hell of a good swell 'bout six feet. Let's get a look at it.

LANCE looks at WILLARD and then agrees.

78 FULL SHOT - COPTER, SURF
The pilots are used to this — they bank sharply and swoop in on the lineup of waves, coming in low over the point and streaking down a long, lined-up green wall as if surfing it. They tip up over and up at the last minute as the wave breaks.


Click graphic to enlarge

C'mon baby, take a chance with us | C'mon baby, take a chance with us | C'mon baby, take a chance with us | And meet me at the back of the blue bus | Doin' a blue rock | On a blue bus | Doin' a blue rock | C'mon, yeah

DISSOLVE TO :
79 FULL SHOT - BEACH HUTS, SOLDIERS
Americans line up blindfolded Viet Cong and N.V.A. regular troops outside a burning hut. GUNFIRE is DISTANT and sporadic — an occasional MORTAR round SCREAMS in. A soldier yells in Vietnamese in a southern accent and the prisoners are marched away. Other soldiers are already setting up heavy weapons emplacements — 50 cal machine guns etc. Three Hueys ROAR in, fanning the smoke with their wind. The center one, the command ship, lands. JETS SCREAM over and the two gunships pull up at 200 feet. Another Huey zooms in low and lands behind the Colonel's. The doors open, guards jump out, check the situation, and out steps KILGORE and LANCE. From the other copter are more guards, KILGORE's surfers and others of the P.B.R. crew. WILLARD follows.

80 FULL SHOT - THE POINT
They stride out across the debris-strewn beach. KILGORE stands majestically on the point watching the waves. A SHELL SCREAMS overhead.

SOLDIER Incoming !

They all dive, except KILGORE. He is watching a big set — the SHELL EXPLODES in the water about a hundred yards away, sending up a huge geyser of spray. KILGORE is unmoved.

KILGORE Look at that.

They look.

LANCE This L.Z. is still pretty hot, sir, maybe we oughta stand somewhere else.

KILGORE pays him no mention.

WILLARD I'm waiting for the fucking boat, Colonel.

KILGORE (without looking) It'll get here, soldier.

He turns to Mike and Johnny who have their faces in the sand.

KILGORE (continuing) Change.

MIKE Wh — what?

KILGORE Change — get out there – I want'a see if it's ridable — change.

MIKE It's still pretty hairy, sir.

KILGORE (bellowing) You want'a surf, soldier?

He nods yes meekly.

KILGORE (continuing) That's good, boy, because it's either surf or fight.

They turn and hurry off — KILGORE grabs an M-1 from one of the guards. They all think he's going to shoot the surfers or someone. They move back uneasy.

KILGORE (continuing) I'm gonna cover for 'em — that's all.

He cocks the weapon. LANCE looks around uneasily. The Colonel walks over.

KILGORE (continuing) You think that section on the point is ridable, Lance?

LANCE I think we ought to wait for the tide to come in.

A SHELL SCREAMS OVER — they all hit the dirt except for KILGORE. It EXPLODES throwing sand through the air. KILGORE leans down yelling over the NOISE.

KILGORE Doesn't happen for six hours.

LANCE looks up at him terrified, holding onto his helmet.

KILGORE (continuing) The tide — doesn't come in for six hours.


Click graphic to enlarge

Kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill

DISSOLVE TO :
81 FULL SHOT - SURF - MIKE AND JOHNNY
They walk through shallows carrying brightly colored boards. They look very scared. JETS SCREAM overhead, FIRING CANNONS. Helicopters wheel by carrying out wounded. They wear olive drab surfing trunks with the Cav's shield on the left leg. The same shield is emblazoned on the boards along the word "Airmobile". They edge into the water and paddle through the mild shorebreak.

82 FULL SHOT - THE POINT - SURFERS
They paddle up the point in the calm channel – the beautiful waves breaking beyond them.

83 CLOSE SHOT ON JOHNNY, MIKE
They paddle on their stomachs, keeping low – breathing hard and constantly looking around scared out of their minds.

84 MED. SHOT - KILGORE AND LANCE
KILGORE looks at them with his field glasses. LANCE kind of sits below taking cover in a shell hole.

KILGORE They far enough?

LANCE Sure — fine —

KILGORE turns and takes a giant electric megaphone from a waiting lackey.

KILGORE (through megaphone) That's far enough — pick one up and come on in —

85 FULL SHOT - THE POINT, SURFERS
They line themselves up on the point. A good set is building. Mike turns strokes into it — takes off — drops to the bottom and turns — trims up into a tight section — everything right except he keeps looking around frantically.

86 CLOSE SHOT ON LANCE AND KILGORE
Another SHELL SCREAMS over and EXPLODES down the beach. LANCE looks over at WILLARD.

LANCE (to himself) Maybe he'll get tubed.

WILLARD What?

LANCE Maybe he'll get inside the tube — where — where they can't see him.

A SERIES of SHELLS ROAR in.
WILLARD Incoming !

LANCE ducks — puts his hands over his head. The SHELLS SCREAM over KILGORE and out towards the point. KILGORE looks through his glasses — two EXPLOSIONS in the water are HEARD.

KILGORE Son of a bitch.

LANCE looks up and out toward the point in horror.

87 FULL SHOT - THE POINT
Two surfboards float in the channel bobbing up and down on the waves.

88 MED. SHOT - LANCE AND KILGORE
LANCE (to himself) The tragedy of this war is a dead surfer.


Click graphic to enlarge

This is the end | Beautiful friend | This is the end | My only friend, the end

WILLARD looks over, beginning to think LANCE is crazy, too.

WILLARD What's that?

LANCE Just something I read in the Free Press.

KILGORE They just missed a good set — the chicken shits !

LANCE looks up.

89 FULL SHOT - THE POINT, SURFERS
They come up near their boards and climb on – smoke hangs over the water.

KILGORE (O.S.) (megaphone) Try it again, you little bastards.

90 BACK TO SCENE
He turns to WILLARD.

KILGORE (continuing) I'm not afraid to surf this place. I'll surf this place.

91 CLOSE SHOT ON KILGORE
He turns, glowering to his lackeys.

KILGORE Bring that R.T., soldier.

He grabs it.

KILGORE (continuing) Big Duke Six to Hell's Angels — Goddamit, I want that treeline bombed — yeah — napalm — gimme some napalm — son of a bitch — yeah, I'll take H.Z. or C.B.U.'s if you got any of them — just bomb 'em into the Stone Age, boy.

He throws the R.T. back to a soldier — another SALVO WHISTLES over — everyone drops.

KILGORE (continuing; to himself) Son of a bitch.

As the SHELLS EXPLODES on the beach behind him, KILGORE raises his M-16 and EMPTIES it full automatic in the general direction of the trees. He mumbles a few un-
intelligible swear words and jams a new clip into his rifle turning to LANCE —

KILGORE (continuing) We'll have this place cleaned up and ready for us in a jiffy, boy. Don't you worry.

He FIRES another clip as the JETS SCREAM overhead.

92 FULL SHOT - RIVER - COPTERS
A sky-crane without pod descends slowly toward us — The P.B.R. hangs below it.

The Chief, Mr. Clean and Chef stand watching this sight along with other soldiers. A man guides the descending copter till the boat settles carefully in the shallows. The Chief and others leap aboard; unshackle the hoists — load on ammunition and fuel. The battle is still going on around them. They all look up as a wadge of PHANTOMS streak over low and peel off one by one to begin their bombing run.

93 FULL SHOT - PHANTOMS - MONTAGE
Phantoms RAKE the trees with 20 mm CANNONS — FIRE five inch ROCKETS in salvo — "Bull Pup" MISSILES – drop H.E. (high explosives) and C.B.U's (Cluster Bomb Units) and finally an immense amount of NAPALM.

94 FULL SHOT ON THE P.B.R.
The Chief is at the helm —the engine starts; Clean and Chef work feverishly, ducking for cover every-so- often when an EXPLOSION hits nearby. The boat begins to back out of the shallows. The EXPLOSIONS of NAPALM are reflected on their faces; the ROAR of the FIRE drowns out almost everything.

CHIEF
Forget that extra drum — it's too damn hot.

CLEAN Clear on starboard — Where's Lance an' the Captain?

CHIEF I saw that Colonel's Huey on the point —

Two HELICOPTERS SCREAM over FIRING ROCKETS.

CHIEF (continuing) Let's just get outta here.


Click graphic to enlarge

It hurts to set you free | But you'll never follow me | The end of laughter and soft lies | The end of nights we tried to die

95 FULL SHOT - THE POINT - KILGORE, WILLARD, LANCE, OTHERS
KILGORE watches the waves with his field glasses — smoke drifts over. LANCE crouches below. WILLARD is up looking off in another direction. SHELLS SCREAM over, but even their noise is drowned out by the fierce SHRIEK of the PHANTOMS and the deafening BLAST of HIGH EXPLOSIVES. WILLARD stares at the tree line where it comes down to the river. The JETS are making a hell of the tree line; a hell of fire and bustling steam that nothing could live in. WILLARD's glance goes further downriver through the black smoke and there merging in the river — small and vulnerable, is his boat.

WILLARD (to LANCE) Look. There it is; the boat.

LANCE looks over — a tremendous relief on his face. But still there remains the threat of KILGORE, standing stark against the sky. WILLARD silently motions LANCE toward the boat.

LANCE (whispers) He'll kill us.

WILLARD He can't kill us. (realizing as he says it) We're on his side.

KILGORE FIRES another clip at the tree line, and then strides back without looking at them.

KILGORE (almost to himself) You smell that. (louder) You smell that?

LANCE What?

KILGORE Napalm, boy — nothing else in the world smells like that –

They reflect the glow from the burning trees.

KILGORE (continuing; nostalgically) I love the smell of napalm in the morning. One time we had a hill bombed for 12 hours. I walked up it when it was all over; we didn't find one of 'em ... not one stinking gook body. They slipped out in the night -- but the smell -- that gasoline smell -- the whole hill -- it smelled like ... (pause) victory...

He looks off nostalgically.

WILLARD You know, some day this war's gonna end..

KILGORE (sadly) Yes, I know.

IMSDb | Apocalypse Now


Click graphic to enlarge

This is the end

The Doors | The End

Monday, December 18, 2006

Surf-ability



You seldom see these guys get in or out of the water. They appear for the first time in the viewfinder and, later, in greater clarity onscreen. So I've no idea who this guy is and have no way to thank him for some great, or satisfying, shots.

Funny thing about good surfers. If you're as blind as I am, you'll not be able to identify them in the viewfinder — there's far too much else going on; the speed of their movement, the horizon, the wave, composition, and what might or might not happen next. So you don't really get to see them until you go through your downloads.



And it's then that you realise that the good surfers will always catch, and make the most of, any wave. Over the past six months, the size of the surf hasn't really mattered to me. Or, it seems, to the better surfers. It's what the person riding the wave does with the energy available to them. Time and again, I find the same old boards and wetsuits tearing it up.

Also, though these two snaps might be similar, such similarity is deceptive. Each wave is very different, the first a smooth, hollowed bowl about to explode and the second a more predictable ride demanding that the surfer gets on with it and 'makes it happen'.

Weird. As with any activity requiring skill or expertise, that skill or expertise can reduce the extraordinary to something seemingly ordinary. Until one takes a closer look...

Bantu Steven Biko

Rethabile remembers...

More than Sobukwe's death, Biko's murder and Hani's assassination profoundly affected my generation and the course of our country's history. Frequently lost in the horrendously callous detail of Steve Biko's brutal killing, the contribution Sir Sydney Kentridge QC made to exposing the heinous indifference of a doomed state warrants recall. As for Jimmy Kruger, the Minister of Police responsible for our loss — his death left me cold.

Sunday, December 17, 2006

The House on the Hill


1958 and a bit of each succeeding decade...

I've been told about the house on the hill | So high and old, the house on the hill | Say that there's a King Rat who wears a judge's black cap | And I wouldn't go near the house on the hill

When I was two-years old, I used to spend an inordinate amount of time hanging out of my parents upstairs bedroom window overlooking Sea Point's Golden Mile and the sea from the heights of Signal Hill, an adjunct of the more famous, flat-topped Table Mountain.

Beneath me the long, sun-speckled sweep of the Table Bay coast, fronted by white buildings and wave-washed beaches, stretched across my field of vision, a line drawn between the world and the deep, slow moving waters of the cool, deep Atlantic from which shards of brilliant gold and blue light would glimmer, spit, and sparkle. Ships leaving Cape Town would take a day to pass my window on high and hours slipped by under my picture of the world as a stunningly beautiful and ordered universe bathed by the benevolent warmth of a hot-buttered sun.

At two, this was my world...


June 5, 2002

What interests me is not "things past" but how to achieve simultaneously two I's through remembrance: one is long dead, the other is still living. According to a traditional custom in China, "the dead take priority." In the old days, for example, a feudal official traveling with his entourage would have his subordinates drive everyone else to the sides of the road and make them stand in silent awe. But if there was a funeral procession on the same road, the official and his entourage had to make way for the procession; it did not matter if the dead in the coffin was a nobleman or a commoner. My I in the present looks at the I in the past with the same kind of respect. However, the present I often instills into the past I certain "possibilities"; in other words, I let him do, within the realm of fiction, certain things I wanted to do then but did not or could not do.

MuXin | A Dialogue with MuXin


Finding the sun...

The story goes 'bout the house on the hill | That when it snows around the house on the hill | The rat becomes a maiden, her soul endowed by Satan | And I wouldn't go near the house on the hill

Without lay the magnificent beauty of the wide ocean luxuriating under a warming sun. But within, lay forces of darkness beyond my two-year comprehension. The thunderclap of my Eden exploding was to resonate down the years to my adulthood. I was caught in the middle of the blast and felt myself to be so until I realized it had been "just another day".

June 5, 2002

Did you ever find that there is room between the two opposing rules of a paradox? That space between two almost opposite rules is the ground where I play and write.

MuXin | A Dialogue with MuXin

I owe Frank much for eliciting that bit of information from me. And, again, Mark Woods, whose blog so frequently prevents me reading others'.

But, yeah... I visited the old house today. We moved out of there 45 years ago. Who'd a' thunk it, eh? The result of my visit — made on a whim given no surf, was pleasantly surprising. Nothing's changed. Sure, given a bit of dressing the house looks like 1958 with a bit of every decade thereafter tacked to it. A leftover from some B-Grade horror movie. But, I guess and in many ways, so do I.

Is there any need to dress pictures of it in sepia and obliterate the modern car in its drive? Nah... on a warm, sunny day, the windows from which I'd first glimpsed the world so many years ago — ideally positioned alongside the green fronds of a tropical tree, were the only ones open.

It seems I was, and still am, in.

As is her sin, yeah, in the house on the hill | She lures travellers into the house on the hill | Enchants them with her charms then she falls on and devours them | And I wouldn't go near the house on the hill.

Audience | House on the Hill

Magic Seaweed...


In full flight...

The surf report? So what? It's a habit. Everybody has one — a habit, that is. I go to the beach, sit on a rock, and watch others work. There's nothing wrong with it.

Mmm... after seven or eight hours, the old photojournalism associate generally starts getting a tad tetchy.

Never mind. I can handle these things. The only way I'll ever get to take surf pictures is to take the damned things, no matter the wind, swell, or surfers that go to making a decent picture.


Chasing the light...

Llandudno's fast becoming my hide of choice and Magic Seaweed's damned good at enabling me monitor conditions there.

It also allows me to toss the odd surf pic on to its site. Measuring oneself against others never hurt anybody and, while there are a host of damned fine photographers out there, I'll bet they're all wielding SLRs.

I've said it before... surf photography's not an easy gig with a digicam but, hey, it's fun seeing what comes out.

These almost did.

Saturday, December 16, 2006

Still Life


The Drowned Sailor and the Death of Rodin

"Ultimately photography is about who you are. It's the seeking of truth in relation to yourself. And seeking truth becomes a habit."

Leonard Freed

Okay, to get back to the point...

If I've learned one thing from the likes of Hockx, Powers, and Ward, it's that closing one eye at the viewfinder forces one to open both to the image created. There's always more to a photograph than meets the eye; so use both.

Cape Point's a weird place — the sort of place pictures make themselves. I've a scattergun approach to photography — point and click; often. Something's bound to happen. It kinda melds with the way I approach life. You put yourself in the way of chance. If you ain't there, it ain't ever going to be the right time. That sort of shit. And, yes, no regrets. They serve little purpose.

An aside:

A psychologist once asked me my greatest regrets. I told her: "All the things I've not done."

Her response? "That's the saddest thing I've ever heard."

Weird things, words. Besides having done most things, I've always been aware of that vile notion, "choice". Doing one thing precludes doing the other; in any situation. However, we live with our choices and cannot know that which we do not (sounds a bit Rumsfeld-ian I know, but I hope you get my drift).

I've either no regrets or refuse to entertain them. "What's done is done…" or, as another mind infinitely greater than my own put it: "Never recant." If I regret only that which I chose not to do, there's very little to get worked up about. I guess the psychologist's response said more about her than it did about me.


Where were we? Yeah... Such an outlook is bound to leave photographs to constitute themselves. And, at Cape Point, this happens more easily than at most places. I'll call the above picture The Drowned Sailor and the Death of Rodin. It's entirely self-created. I had nothing to do with it. No choice in the matter, so to speak.

And it gives pause for thought.


Water...

This one, Water, is no different. Like Niek, I'm spending more and more time looking at the sea. Why? God knows and He ain't telling. But this photograph's for my "anti-American" friend, the first person to link my snaps to music. Well... he didn't...I did. But read his entry and you'll figure out why I did.

Look, these guys are pros. I'm starting a hobby but, like and through people such as Mark Woods, I'm awed at the power of the picture. Bearing in mind his and Jeff's notion's of air, I find myself considering the camera an alternative reality — but one that, through paradox, can lend added or different meaning to our 'generic' reality. Using and traveling through and at the speed of light, it cuts sound to silence, action to stillness, three dimensions to two, and yet offers something either more or different to the alternative of its possible nothing.

When sea and sky melt so effortless to one at the click of a shutter, something's happening. It's much like the Publish button. Photography, more than anything I've come across besides blogging and other people, is — despite being a somewhat solitary pursuit, a conversation. Internal, external, dialog, monologue... it doesn't matter. What is not... is. What is dead lives. Etcetera. And that's pretty awesome.

Nothing illustrates better photography's power than Mark's posting of Wall Street by Leonard Freed. How's that for a Kodak moment stilling the moment to silence? Or for reflecting both 'what is' and what previously 'was not'? The insular, self-absorbed maelstrom of capitalism and corporatism stopped dead in its tracks and displayed forever in all its grim ugliness. Photography, by nature and like the quest for truth, is an act of creative defiance. Whether taking snaps or making art.

We are what the seas
have made us

longingly immense

the very veery
on the fence


Lorine Niedecker via wood s lot

I dunno... there are many sides to everything. Ask Kat about this. She's the media person. She understands these things.

Friday, December 15, 2006

Getting to the Point...


All things considered...

Haven't posted to the old blog for a while, have I? Becoming a bit like old Shugart — or Bruce, for that matter. A dilatory or itinerant blogger. So what? I have far better things to do. I think.

Those last two sentences are meant to make you think, by the way. Ambiguity's my middle name.

Okay, so maybe I haven't — what the hell would I be doing tapping away at this damned thing had I something better to do? Never mind. When I did have better things to do, I did them.

Last weekend, Wendy and I followed up on something that's been nagging me since buying my first camera in March / April. And it has much to do with photography, blogging, and the people who do these dumb things.

Unlike General Bush, we are not pre-emptive, lack clout, and have no interest in obliterating Russia, subduing India, and conquering China — which, as all but Americans know, is what the Little General's Middle Eastern Holocaust is all about. Deny it all you like, but believe me, there's life outside of the USian cocoon.

Digression was my baptismal name. Umm...yeah, we went down to Cape Point in March and took the requisite tourist snaps. That's the big bugger above. Taken above the point, it plumbs the depths, shooting down southern Africa's steepest sea cliffs to the rocks shoring the south-western tip of the continent.

Pretty impressive, eh?


The point of the matter...

The caverns at the base of Cape Point (centre left) got to me and I decided a picture from a different vantage point would be what we in the photo-journalism trade call a good thing. The picture above's an example. The weather was lousy, but the winds and tide were right. I'd recommend tourists stick to Dias Beach rather than attempt this little trip. It's a rough coast and it's taken many lives.

I dig the sea. I respect and I love the sea. I'm wary of its moods though. I know it can be impulsive. Still, being a professional photojournalist, a blogger, and a hard man to boot, I turned my back on it. To take some snaps of the cliffs soaring above, you understand.

Turns out that, though the tides and wind were reasonably good, the moon wasn't ideal. You need a really low tide to get to the base of those cliffs. But a dunking failed to deter me and, besides, my new camera was okay (I'd really dig to get an SLR, but have you checked the prices of those things?).

It wouldn't okay be a short while later — my camera, but we'll get to that. Either way, I didn't get swept off the ledge and can now spend a boring evening at home contemplating grim weather tomorrow.

And my camera's been repaired. But, as I said, we'll get to that.

The rock eroded by the wind and sea forms part of a stratum found also at the base of the Sentinel. It's of a weird sandstone or lava-like type and lends itself to nature's sculpting. The wind? It sculpts too. This is where the camera comes in. The winds around the Cabo das Tormentas can be vicious and, given the inlets, cliffs, ledges, and whatnot, it's become adept at mugging unsuspecting or ignorant hikers. We rounded a small point and, before we could hit the beach leading to the next set of rocks — KAZAAM! — we got sandblasted.

Picking up only one error message I didn't know it then, but it damaged the camera and knocked out both good zoom and focus.


From the inside out...

Good grief, blogging's a bore. What am I telling you this stuff for? We reached the caverns, which are pretty impressive. Not as impressive as the bird life, cliffs, rocks, flora, or ocean but awesome enough. My camera packed up once we'd walked back up from Dias Beach. The lens motor ground itself out and I could feel it juddering in my hands. Asking for some zoom, I received what I later learnt was the good old E18 error.

Capitalism is an extremely ugly thing. For now though, I'd rather see it as the Cost of Living.

And I'll get an album together, probably later than sooner.

So, the nut of it is, my friends, that after eight months, I finally got to take my picture from inside rather than atop Cape Point. And this leads me to something else (and perhaps much more), but it'll keep for now...

Note: My daughter-in-law (I'm getting used to saying that) tells me she and her classmates visited the above beach on a class outing. I expect octogenarians with sticks and perhaps the occasional physically challenged person in a wheelchair may also be found wandering the cape's blasted shores, but these things make the place no less dangerous. Local knowledge is imperative if you're to avoid putting yourself in a position where other people might have to risk their lives to save yours.

Tuesday, December 05, 2006

Third Rock from the Sun



We are all seeing rather less of the Sun, according to scientists who have been looking at five decades of sunlight measurements. They have reached the disturbing conclusion that the amount of solar energy reaching the Earth's surface has been gradually falling. Paradoxically, the decline in sunlight may mean that global warming is a far greater threat to society than previously thought.

...

Even the most pessimistic forecasts of global warming may now have to be drastically revised upwards. That means a temperature rise of 10 degrees Celsius by 2100 could be on the cards, giving the UK a climate like that of North Africa, and rendering many parts of the world uninhabitable.


BBC | Why the Sun seems to be 'dimming'



Starvation and cannibalism were part of everyday life for a population of Neanderthals living in northern Spain 43,000 years ago, a study suggests. Bones and teeth from the underground cave system of El Sidron in Asturias bear the hallmarks of a tough struggle for survival, researchers say. Analysis of teeth showed signs of starvation or malnutrition in childhood and human bones have cut marks on them. Details appear in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences. Some bones appeared to have been dismembered and broken open, possibly to allow access to marrow and brains.

"Given the high level of developmental stress in the sample, some level of survival cannibalism would be reasonable," the scientists wrote in their research paper.


BBC | Hungry ancients 'turned cannibal'



US space agency Nasa has said it plans to start work on a permanently-occupied base on the Moon after astronauts begin flying back there in 2020. The base is likely to be built on one of the Moon's poles and will serve as a science centre and possible stepping stone for manned missions to Mars.

The US has already said it plans to build a new lunar spacecraft to succeed the last Apollo mission in 1972. Funds will be moved from space shuttle flights, due to be scrapped in 2010. The structure of the base and the exact duties of the astronauts stationed there have not been decided. Nor is it clear when the base will begin functioning.


BBC | US plans permanent base on Moon

Typical... bitten in the ass while gazing into space.

Monday, December 04, 2006

Cutbacks...

Right there...
Right there...

Yeah, well, this photography thing is becoming a bit embarrassing — especially the surfing side of it. I'm starting to feel a piece of the furniture down at Llandudno and along the Sea Point breaks. One day though, I'll get it right and head for the hills — picture taken.

"Who's that old #$@*?"

"Dunno. He's always there. Does nothing else. Sits and takes pictures of the sea."

"Mad #%$@!"

"Yeah. It takes all types."


As indeed it does. After a week from hell and only one day resting at work, we decided to get out of town and do what we do best, i.e. sit on rocks and stare at the sea. During summer, there's very little surf to be had in Cape Town. Winter brings a howling north-westerly, rain, and a dip into the south Atlantic storm swell. During summer, the weather's reversed, there are no waves, very little rain, and a howling south-easterly generally drives people berserk. My favourite headline, Dinner Table Gun Battle Kills Three, kinda sums it up.

To compound the problem, we're talking South Africans here. They're already off the rails. Come summer, 'psychosis' does not do us justice. The best thing to do is head out of the city and lie low until the explosions, screams, and gunfire die down.

Llandudno and Sea Point are not 'out of the city' but, given the sea washing their crazed coasts, they are bearable. Saturday we spent eight hours in the sun taking photographs of by-now-well-known surfboards desultorily carving an indifferent two-foot swell. It was cloudy, balmy, and the ozone layer had buggered off to Australia.

Smacking the lip...
Smacking the lip...

If it's hot on the rocks, it's not so in the water. Although as kids we'd surf these breaks in baggies, I know the Atlantic coast's bloody cold. It gets down to 10 or 11 degrees at times and is considered pretty warm at around 16. Around the corner in False Bay, it gets up to 23. Back then, we'd spend half-an-hour in the water and two weeks in bed with hypothermia. Today, as old Bob points out, "Things have changed." Baggies are found in California and surf ads. People who spend the day in the water are fully covered, their faces protected by peaks.

As someone who likes to photograph the innate speed and grace of surfing, these bodysuits are bloody ugly. They're not photogenic and don't cut it in terms of style. And no wonder so many surfers are getting chomped by Great Whites. They're all seals now.

Eventually, a lack of rideable surf and decent pictures drove us from the rocks of Llandudno towards those of Queens on the off chance it might be working. There were three guys out and the waves were coming in larger and more surfable than at Llandudno so, though the light was bad, we planted ourselves on our usual rocks, maintaining a low profile while travelling incognito.

"HI! ARE YOU MIKE GOLBY OF YBLOGZA?"

It was like a sonic boom. I ducked under the nearest rock and pulled my .44 Magnum.

"Who wants to know?" I screamed. "And get your hands in the air, you demented fucker."

"Hey, there's no need..."

"You from the CIA, NSA, Revenue Services or what?" I snarled, pulling Wendy in behind me to back me up with the 30mm cannon borrowed from the hood of Marek's Caddy.

"I'm Hugh."


Spiderman heads south...
Spiderman heads south...

I must admit that every hard man, good Catholic boy, and blogger to boot has a soft spot. This startlingly frank admission by the obvious thug confronting me disarmed me totally.

"The poet?"

"Umm...yeah, except that I'm not a poet."

I was about to shoot.

"Except that Spike says I am."


I lowered the weapon. It was indeed Hugh 'Hectic Drop' du Toit, my resident. He's been living in my comments box ever since he moved down from Jo'burg ten years ago (you know what they say — "You can take the boy out of Jo'burg..." etc.?). A Sea Point local, he rouses himself whenever matters pertaining to waves are raised. He has enlivened and generally raised the tone of this blog by his informed presence.

The poet thing? It's the job description of the guy listed above him in a series of articles featured by Wavescape.

"Hugh, you dumb bastard!"

"Heya Mike, you @#%$ idiot!"


It's a Cape Town thing, but it happened just like that. Ask Hugh. He's as open and friendly on the Web as he is in what some term the 'real' world.

Which kinda gets back to my original observation, if you will. Heading for the mountain or the coast, I escape the town, the city, and the 'real', respectable, obligation-laden world of this, that, and other mundane things whenever possible. So my finding the surf pictured here while speaking to a friend met here meant a melding of the so-called 'real' and so-called 'unreal'.

Unreal, eh?

And really good to meet you, Hugh. Who are these two, by the way? They really tore into (or worked with) the good stuff that came along after you'd headed for home.