I’m like totally passionate about life.

Boy oh boy, the bar has really been lowered on being passionate. This is what happens when you make something compulsory. Remember a few years back when everyone except Stephen Hawking was reading The Secret and thought you had to think positively all the time or else the universe would turn on you and poison your dogs or raid your petty cash box. Well now, everyone is talking and walking passion speak.

 “Live your inner passion and the rest will take care of itself,” says Oprah, Uriah Heep Mountain Schemer and that Nobel Laureate of Schmaltz – Paulo Coelho. Bullshit I say. The truth is that almost no-one is paid to do what they are passionate about. If they were, Atlantic Seaboard estate agents would be handing out their cards backstage at the Intimate Theatre or giving out promotional hand jobs at jam sessions in Obs. I grew up passionately wanting to be an international rugby player but I wasn’t big or aggressive enough and I passed like a male hairdresser. Luckily I didn’t combine my passion with too much persistence – that’s when gullible individuals really start haemorrhaging dreams.

Here’s Paulo on reaching passionately for your dreams, "There is only one thing that makes a dream impossible to achieve: the fear of failure." Very deep P-Dawg. Where does this guy get his information - Forrest Gump seminars? And all along I thought it was nature’s cruel distribution of talent and poverty that were major sticking points for the dreamers of this world. But wait, if what the Oracle of Mt. Platitude says is true, I’ll just have to listen to a few Anthony Robbins tapes before I’m ready to head off to Hollywood to awaken my giant within Penelope Cruz. 

 When writing a rant like mine, most people tell you that, “According to the Oxford English Dictionary, the word I want to define means such and such.” They might even fling in some etymology to sound clever and say, “You might be interested to know that fwumppage comes from the Latin words feume: to jizz and pagere: nonchalantly.” I hate it when people do this.

We all have a working knowledge of what passion is and we all know we are using the word too much. We are using it too much for the same reason that teenagers in search of coolness wear mesh and foam baseball caps when only fifteen years ago this brand of head-joy was donned by Klansmen after their meetings. Even rough girls prefer mesh caps to weirdo suits. That is to say, we copy role models. Oprah pretends to love Dostoevsky, so do the ladies of Graaff-Reinett.  

Someone started this passion fad. I don’t know if it was one person like Rhonda Byrne who transformed weight loss into the daftest theory of cosmology (The Secret) since Genesis told us that God made H₂O before he made light. (Modern chemistry acknowledges that you need light to fuse hydrogen and helium to make oxygen.) But Oprah punted The Secret and, instantly, hundreds of millions of women worldwide swallowed it whole without a moment of critical thought. And why was that? Well I can hazard a guess. Stripped of its feeble physics and selective quotations, the book claimed that you can have the things you want if you really – one might say passionately - want them and then it skipped out the hard work bit. That sounds nice. Wealth, love and satisfaction for the price of a well-maintained dream board and some daily manifesting or manuring or whatever you had to do. This was better than prayer because God is so mysterious he very seldom answers and even Santa has a good conduct clause.

Ok, so everyone is being passionate about their passion and everyone who doesn’t feel like they are following their passion is envious of those who are and wishes they could stop being the H.R. manager at Dop System Papsak Wholesalers in Paarl and go on the road with Die Antwoord. What is so appealing about this fad passion that makes someone say something as ridiculous as, “I’m passionate about sun downers on Camps Bay beach,” or, “I’m passionate about Swiss chocolate?” These really are non sequiturs. Almost everyone likes these things. If the net has been cast that wide, I suppose I am passionate about orgasms and free drinks at weddings. I think that what appeals to people about this wider definition of passion, outside the fact that it is fashionable, is that it seems, like the implicit promise in The Secret, to do a magic act on good old blood, sweat and tears.

You don’t hear a lot about the passion involved in working ruinous hours at an investment bank, nor how passionately the traders deal with the stress and tension that come with the job. It is very hard work. But these are the people who come calling on the estate agents for houses in Clifton one day. Perhaps when they have retired and reconciled with the first family they sacrificed to career, they can finally indulge their passion for remote location fly fishing, which is also likely to involve hard work and dedication before any satisfaction or reward makes an appearance.

Passion is the leveraging of talent through incredible sacrifice, not downloading free anarchist material and putting out a shitty strumming album every three years from your Kalk Bay bedsit while bathing in the undeserved kudos of ordinary people who have hobbies and dreams but have accepted they will never be a Beethoven, Hemingway, Clapton or Izzard. 

A very unlikely sex columnist.

Recently, I had an article placed in the South African edition of Gentlemen's Quarterly magazine. Rather brazenly perhaps, I had submitted it for consideration in their humour column. Glad though I am to have had a piece committed to print by an organisation bound by the need to turn a profit, I was mildly alarmed when I bought the July/August 2011 edition this week and found my offering in the sex column. Admittedly, this reduces the likelihood that no-one will laugh because claiming to be funny generally disposes people to make you work harder for their laughter. However, anyone reading this month's sex column will not walk away with stylistic guidance or consolation in numbers about a perceived failing of theirs. If a grim warning that has nothing to do with STDs is what they are looking for, satisfaction may be within their grasp. This piece is not my usual style and does make me come across as rather an embittered practitioner of the sexual arts. I may be embittered from time to time about sex but woe betide anyone who calls me a practitioner. One must consider one's audience though. Anyway, the editors at GQ lopped a few sentences off the original text and toned down some of the illustrative examples. Below is what I submitted. If you have the magazine article to hand, notice the difference in the final fantasy that eventually caused the couple to split. 

In the words of Ace Ventura, “Do Not Go In There.”

Sigmund Freud once wrote, “I am accustoming myself to the idea of regarding every sexual act as a process in which four persons are involved.” That’s two lovers and two fantasies. This is the kind of information that people wish they never found out. When I did, all I could think about was that during oral sex, I was the one developing cramps in my deltoids from prising apart her labia and repetitive stress injury from speed balling the clit for forty minutes with the tip of my tongue, while some twit from a teenage vampire movie called Robert was responsible for all the, “uuhs” and “yeses”, as well as the winning drop goal. Well fuck you little neck nibbler, you come round to the house the next time its leak week and knock yourself out.

I found the Freud quote in a book called Who's Been Sleeping in Your Head: The Secret World of Sexual Fantasies by Brett Kahr. Now this is not a book review, but this book is out there and it should be kept as far away from your partner’s bookclub as Robert Pattinson should be from her clitoris. Dr. Kahr got his material from 13 000 volunteers who were paid to be interviewed and 3 000 patients in his marriage counselling practice, so no-one can accuse him of ruining his sample by accidentally living next door to Mr. and Mrs. zooporn.com or across the road from level 33 freemasons who jerk off to images of the pope photoshopped into Victoria’s Secret catalogues.

According to some promotional bumf on Amazon, “Kahr, by unmasking the myths and destroying the guilt and ignorance surrounding sexual fantasy, offers readers a chance to lead richer and less conflicted lives.” Bullshit. Not if you are in a relationship. It is the relationship equivalent of fissile uranium and I’m referring to explosions that attract divorce lawyers, not Kleenex. I am not in a relationship at the moment mainly because I am sick of doing the cunnilingus trench digging for Jesus, her friend’s father, her friend’s brother, Vladimir Putin or that old staple of autoerotic and consensual sex bring-a-friend parties – Mr. William Bradley Pitt. Or, more specifically, William Bradley Pitt from Fight Club.

I lent this book to my therapist who has kept it for 9 months. Let me tell that when a therapist picks up her pad and pen, you know you have said something fucked up or significant. If she borrows a book from you and keeps it for 9 months, especially after you’ve let slip the odd pert-breasted, ramp-model-thighs, schoolgirl-in-tartan-skirt fantasy, don’t expect Discovery to cover your sessions forever.

Provided you can keep it to yourself, this book will help anyone who thinks they jerk off to crazy stuff or did when they were teenagers – and I’m not just talking about an English teacher with a perm and a landslide ass. For those with residual guilt about their teenage onanism (fancy dinner party word for masturbation), this book is like a five star hotel pool in the Seychelles with a lie-low that features four slots for cocktail glasses. For starters, most of the priests and youth pastors who told schoolboys to, “Banish lustful thoughts from your filthy minds!!” were getting so worked up because, on a nightly basis, they were conjuring up scenarios in their heads that would have got them chucked out of the Playboy mansion. The book didn’t actually feature fantasies of the clergy as a separate topic – the author had some dignity – but the probabilities are not on the side of the Church being populated with the pure of mind. One guy featured in the case studies was a wealthy, fit banker who was dating an employed, as opposed to aspirant, model and had regular sex with her taut, flawless body. Yet most nights he put on a DVD featuring fully-clothed lesbians with boxing gloves who hit the shit out of each other and, as they did, he beat off to it. You see what I am talking about.

Here’s another little bit of information you’re gonna wish I never told you. A sizeable handful of men in the UK make their money enacting rape fantasies for, mainly, women. There are rules of engagement here but I couldn’t help thinking, “What do these guys call themselves and how do you register dissatisfaction as a client.” Take names for starters. If you want to enact a rape fantasy, you aren’t going to hire ‘Ned Flatley The Tender’ or ‘Come Screw With Hugh.’ No, you want ‘Vladnorg the Persistent’ or ‘I Am He Who Understands None of the Parts of No.’ Now in terms of feedback, can you imagine a disappointed customer saying, “Vladnorg, I have to level with you. I really do not feel sufficiently violated or even tempted to take a 5 hour shower. Let’s just call it £100 pounds for the whole fiasco and I’ll cover your Tube fare.”

If you take one thing from this book, it is that you must not be tempted to ask your partner her most private fantasy. In response to his question on this matter, a Polish guy was informed by his partner that she often flicked her bean over the thought of being taken from behind by a man of Caribbean descent with a monster whopper. The four year relationship came to a shuddering halt as the image lodged itself in his head. You were warned.

The art of getting perishable goods refunded.

Greetings Reader(s)

On the off-chance that you were wondering about this, I called my blog The Melted Laptop because about a month ago my good friend and occasional mentor, Paul S., left my old laptop on a hot tray in the run up to dinner. I went outside to search for cellphone signal and returned to find a scene of mild carnage and a foul smell of charred plastic and last rites computer components. Because I was raised in Bronze Age Zimbabwe, I thought of backing up as something one did in the presence of hungry lionesses rather than anything to do with mere data. "Single event lesson," as they say in evolutionary psychology. So I resolved to commit some thoughts to Google's computer clouds or whatever they're are called. Safer in mainframe banks under Nevada salt flats than on my friend's hot tray is my current motto. Not an elegant one, I concede. In addition, my other good friend, and more frequent mentor, Tudor, informed me that if I worked from home and refused to network properly, then I must brand myself by other means. Blogging was one of the suggested alternatives. Prepare to be underwhelmed because, as we all know, satisfaction is relative to expectation.

I lived with my parents for much longer than ovarian-bearing bipeds considered proper. In fact, in the parlance of those who dish out social opprobrium based on the oracle of Cosmopolitan, "I still lived with my mom at 34." Until the day that I conceded that things had to change, I would quibble as to why the focus was placed on my mother when my dad was also in the house and contributing to just as many of my bills as she was. "Teh! These modern gals," as Edmund Blackadder would say. Besides, it was perfectly feasible to bring a lady friend home when my parents went away on weekends during times when I was employed. At such times, both a double bed and disposable income were available to that end. In addition, a selected bouquet of DSTV channels was available for snuggle time. Bridget, wherever you are, I'm sure readers would appreciate a little comment on how much you enjoyed your 36 hours at our family homestead, although I would like my one-laugh-per-pedestrian T-shirt back if you can organise that sometime. Readers, FYI, the T-shirt was blue and said "Psychiatric Ward - Outpatient." It featured a very realistic barcode and an equally convincing "Patient Number." Oh, the hilarity! With all due respect Bridget, I doubt you look very convincing in that T-shirt since you were a leggy blonde who talked about Paris Hilton - not exactly DSM-IV loopy, although any strange topic of conversation would've gone better with my bowl of Kellogg's All-Bran Flakes.

Away with such desultory weakness. The topic at hand is the art of getting perishable goods refunded. I've noticed that some disgruntled consumers in South Africa walk into shops and read the employees the Group Areas Act, so to speak. That is to say that this category of people generally consists of either verkrampte Afrikaners with resentful English accents or wealthy folk with English accents that no-one in the UK has recognised since The Great Exhibition in 1851. I reluctantly invoke the Group Areas Act because, at this stage in the TBWA\Hunt\Lascaris-Rainbow Nation ©, most of the disgruntled consumers tend to be white and most of the refund firewalls tend not to be. I am writing from the fanciest Cape in all the world, so I admit to a large margin for error. 

Needless to say, unless the store or chain mandates unconditional refunds, what I have described is a dimwitted approach. The employee can usually draw on a Yellow Pages's worth of legitimate grievances against the consumer's forebears and, "You wont get no customer satisfaction." 

What I saw in a Woolworths in Sea Point a few weeks back, on the other hand, was very clever indeed. A well dressed elderly lady approached an assistant, looked at her name tag, used the name more than once in the introductory exchange and then asked to see the manager. When told that the manager was in a meeting, the elderly lady smiled and said she was quite happy to wait for him. The manager's meeting was over in far less time than he was rumoured to be anticipating and he emerged through the swing doors by the fish counter, looking slightly put upon. The elderly lady extended a hand in greeting when he introduced herself and then, to my surprise, as I helped myself to another of Rafaginor's promotional chicken strips in a Mensa IQ-memory sauce, the lady began to give the manager a potted life history: how long she had lived in the area, what Sea Point was like in the 50s, how she missed her grandchildren in Canada and some strategic references to her iffy hip and other health concerns. This unsolicited information was cleverly fused with declarations of her loyalty to Woolworths, including how long she had been using this branch since it opened and how - since her husband passed on - Mr. So and So used to drive her to Cavendish because she felt that only Woolies fruit and vegies were up to snuff. 

The manager was wearing a glazed expression at this stage but how could he be angry with this kindly senior and her history of loyalty to Woolworths. She was wearing him down with boring details and that secret weapon of old age - slow, rambling stories-cum-parables with minimal tonal flair. He had things to do, she wasn't inadvertently reading him the Group Areas Act and he sort of believed her. So that is the first secret to getting perishable goods refunded - attrition. Wear the firewalls down by being an object of sympathy, a loyal customer and the opposite of a raconteur about your life so far. Secondly, produce the merchandise. This, you can't avoid. The elder lady in this field report took a box of allegedly sub-standard, "Easy to peel," Clementines from her bag. I didn't think of it at the time, but perhaps this is a wise stratagem. Keep the bone of contention concealed until the contention. Then she hit him with the killer blow, implying that these Clementines had bought shame on Woolworths, its growers, its packers, its drivers and, by extension, him. She brought down this shame like parents and teachers since the dawn of time by expressing disappointment in the failure to reach the high standards she had set. This is how she did it. In the same slow, gentle voice, she said, "This is not what I have come to expect from Woolworths. This mould is not something to be proud of. For years, you have given me the best fruit, and now this. Mr. So-and-So, surely you agree that Woolworths owes me a refund or a new box. I mean, do you want me to have to walk down the road to Shoprite for my fruit now?" That was the killer blow. No Woolies manager was going to have his fruit compared to a store where oncologists faint at the polony counter. And so the elderly lady got what she wanted, and probably deserved, for it is possible that the fruit should have been finished a day or two earlier. The art of getting the refund was concealing outrage, shaming the corporation, not the individual, and giving the impression of having all the time in the world.