Archive for January, 2010


Conversation With Beelzebub

A few weeks back I got up on my high horse and pranced around the place (one of my favourite pastimes) because the Chairlady of our Body Corporate is Satan.



You can read all about it in this post right here, but basically Beelzebub and her Minions Of Darkness were pissing on my battery because they issued this snotty letter telling us we weren’t allowed to use the pool in the complex without filling in this whole roster thing because someone kept pulling the creepy out the pool and leaving it in the sun to shrivel up and die.

I was really keen to take drastic action and fill the pool with cement and made a list of actions of all this crazy stuff and asked you, my friends, what you thought I should do.

“Kidnap the creepy!” you all shouted, pitchforks raised, “that’ll teach her! The power of Christ COMPELS you! The power of Christ COMPELS you!”

In the end I elected to do nothing though. Passive resistance is still resistance right? Yeah, I showed her.

Then on Wednesday we arrive home and the minute I drive into our complex, I notice that something is wrong, but I just can’t quite put my finger on it…

“Something is wrong…” I muttered to J-Rab as we drove in, “but… I just can’t quite-”

“Are you blind?”


“Half the trees in the complex have been cut down!”

“Holy fucking hell! I think you just may be onto something there…”

“Wonderful. It looks like we live in Brixton now.”



What’s worse is the Syringa tree in our garden courtyard has been butchered by the chainsaw-wielding maniacs who pass as ‘landscape architects’ these days. All they left was the centre trunk, which means the neighbours across the courtyard now have a clear view directly into our bedroom and because of this there are now 3 videos of us on Redtube that I sure as hell didn’t put there!

Ok, maybe the one… but definitely NOT the other two!

And so, last night I came home after gym, showered, put on my best wife beater, crossed the River Styx and walked right into the jaws of hell.

It’s exactly like they describe it in this long and convoluted novel I read once called The Bibel (or something similar). It hones of sulphur, there are creepy demon-things everywhere with red leathery skin jabbing these wretched-looking motherfuckers with spears and pitchforks and flames! Fuck me running, there’s flames EVERYWHERE!

And there, sitting on a throne of skulls, was Beelzebub…



“Hullo,” I said.

“Hi. How are you?” she replied.

“I’m well and yourself?” I shot back, confident and ready to attack.

“I’ve been better actually. I’m not happy with the job the garden service did.”

“Oh yeah? Well, I’m here to give you a piece of my m- wait, what?”

“This garden service we hired, they cut back far too much in a lot of areas around the complex, but what can you do? We got three different quotes from garden services, the cheapest one coming in at R10,000 and for that amount of money, we told them to make sure that we aren’t going to have to call them back in six months time to do it all again, because we just can’t afford it. I’ve already had to raise the levy to cover the costs of hiring them, not to mention the costs of the creepy, which has been destroyed thanks to the kids in this complex, who go to the pool area unsupervised by their parents and run riot all over the place! I just don’t know. I’m leaving here soon so it won’t be my problem anymore, I’m tired of dealing with all the issues this place has. I’m tired of being the dragon.”

“Just back the fuck up there for a second, what is this bullshit?” (I didn’t actually say this, but let’s just go with it for the sake of making me badass. Remember, I WAS wearing a wife beater and I HAD just come from gym) “You’re not allowed to be human! You’re the evil lady who shits us out when we pack the flat like a sardine tin with all my buddies and proceed to drink our body weight with music blaring until the sun rises! Which reminds me, we’re having another party on Saturday, so yeah, um, can we use the pool area?”


“I’ve got the R250 you need for a deposit…”

“Oh, that’s more of a formality than anything else, just please leave the pool area like you found it.”

“No! You WILL take my R250!”

“Well, if you insist.”


“Thank you.”


“I won’t be here because I’m flying to London on Saturday night, but you can collect the deposit from iplqpo3is1n74m3 (don’t remember the dude’s name) at no. 19 on Sunday.”

Flying… to London… Saturday night… These words echoed like a death row pardon in my head.

Are you thinking what I’m thinking B1?

I sure as FUCK am B2!

Let’s get fucking wizasted!




I stayed for another 15 minutes talking to ol’ Beelz and came away with a different point of view. In this life, you gotta give people their 15 minutes, I’m usually pretty good at this, but my encounter with Beelz last night reminded me that I do still slip up from time to time.

The woman lives by herself in that flat, she lost her husband a few years back. She told me he was a fit guy, kept himself in shape, exercised at least twice a week, played golf regularly, played squash every week, but he was diagnosed with cancer and 6 weeks later, he died.

So I’m writing this post to take back the shitty things I said about her and set the record straight. She’s not some demon, she’s not the devil incarnate, she’s just a lonely old woman who’s fed up with always having to be the bad guy.

Food for thought right there. C’mere. Hold my hand. Let’s sing Kum Ba Ya…

Tune in tomorrow for a rushed and largely incoherent post because tomorrow it’s FUCKING PARTAY TIME MUTHUFUKKAHS! In case you don’t already know, we’re blowing this grey and rainy city and heading down to Cape Town to start a new life, me and J-Rab, living on a wine farm and raising Cheetah Cubs, but more about that later 🙂

In the meantime you look after your sexy selves and have a killer weekend.

Your buddy ol’ pal



The Parlotones Irritate The Living Shit Out Of Me

There are very few SA bands that I actually like, in fact I could probably count them all on one hand and most of them don’t play anymore.

Anyone remember Squeal? Early Nude Girls (before Carstens became a jerk)? Boo? Sugardrive? I used to dig those bands, they had a great sound and put out a good couple of albums that were pretty decent.



I find the bands playing these days largely uninspiring with a few exceptions, one of which is Lark – Inge Beckman is the kind of girl you wouldn’t look twice at walking down a street (well, depending on what she was wearing) but on stage she’s all kinds of sexy.

Then there are SA’s favourite bands, the Prime Circles and the aKings and the Goldfishes of this world and whatever you do, DO NOT fuck with their fans. They are fiercely loyal and won’t hesitate to swear at you loudly for ‘not supporting South African music’ if you tell them that those bands are shit.

And lastly, there’s the Parlotones. If you don’t know who the Parlotones are, then I’m not quite sure what you’re doing reading this post. Crawl back under the rock you’ve been hiding under and stay there, because fuck man, the Parlotones are EVERYWHERE!



That song that plays in Outsurance adds? Parlotones. The free album that came with your Sony Ericsson W995? Parlotones. The band that played at the last big corporate function you attended? Parlotones. The band associated with Gigabyte laptops? Parlotones. The only SA band to launch its own wine? Parlotones. The band you hear playing in your worst nightmares? Miley Cyrus. But when she’s too busy working the pole, you bet your ass, it’s the Parlotones.

To be honest, I didn’t really give a flying fuck about any of that. You think it’s easy for SA bands to actually make a living out of gigging and selling albums? Think again buddy, it’s fucking difficult. At least 95% of SA bands have day jobs because the music industry in this country is miniscule in comparison to the rest of the world and the sad reality of being a musician in this country is that is doesn’t pay the bills.

So by all means, get in bed with a couple of sponsors, why the hell not? Cash in on your hard work, atta boy!

BUT there is a line. And the Parlotones crossed it when they got in bed with that giant behemoth of the fast food industry: KFC.

‘We driiiiiiiiiinnnnkkk, we driiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnkkkkkk, we driinnkk from the cupa LIE-YEE-IF!’

If I have to see that advert once more on TV I’m going to tear my fucking face off.

If you haven’t seen it, it’s part of this new series of adverts KFC has shot that all feature this nerdy, glasses-wearing girl who’s wetting herself because she’s on set for the filming of the Parlotones new video.

Amidst the hustle and bustle and action of everything going on around her gets all flustered and in one ad has a Parlotones SnackBox thrust at her and in another one, an ice cream. I don’t understand the logic behind either of these adverts, but I think the underlying message is ‘Eat some KFC and shut the fuck up.’



I found both adverts cringe-worthy, but the newest one, in which our nerdy heroine is pretending to jam Parlotones frontman Kahn Morbee’s guitar in a dressing room when he walks in on her, is definitely a new low for a band that I didn’t think could top their previous efforts at whoring themselves off to the highest bidder.

Are they on crack?! What band in its right mind would agree to have one of their songs (I presume it’s their song) butchered by a girl with the acting talent of limp celery?

What’s even worse is after Kahn walks in on her and asks for his guitar back, she bashfully stands up, edges towards him and then lunges at his face for a snog.

Aaaaarrrrrggghhhh! WWWWHHHHHHYYYYYYY?!

The saddest part of the whole thing though is that in researching this piece (yes, I actually do that sometimes, don’t look so shocked) I got a hold of both Radio Controlled Robot and A World Next Door To Yours (the Parlotones 2005 and 2007 albums) and I have to admit, grudgingly, that they’re OK. Not mind-blowing, not life-changing, but also not utterly crap.



I even took things a step further and found out how much it costs to hire the Parlotones for a corporate function and get this, the booking fee starts at R70k which, after you’ve divided it up between their agent, their manager, their technicians, logistical costs of moving their equipment etc, etc, etc probably only works out to be a couple of thousand, if that, for the band.

A couple of thousand to stand in front of a room of fat, balding men and bored, middle-aged women while you belt out songs about how colourful you are. That’s gotta start destroying your soul sooner or later.

Maybe what this piece should have been is an indictment against the South African music industry and how it forces bands who want to actually make it big in this country to turn themselves into big fat whores in order to do so, but the music industry in this country has always been like that. It’s not going to change, no matter how much we bitch and moan about it.

Local bands would do well to take a page out of Saron Gas / Seether’s book. They had the talent to make it internationally and so that’s exactly what they did. Sure, they’ve been called traitors for leaving SA and turning their backs on the country that made them, but seriously what the fuck else were they going to do?

Have their faces plastered all over KFC SnackBoxes? Fuck. That.



Making it big in Europe or the States should be the end goal for any local band because the sad fact of the matter is that the music industry here doesn’t have the money and resources to properly support and promote local talent unless you sell out in the most degrading way possible.

Never do this though. No amount of money in the world can replace your integrity as an artist and once that’s gone, it won’t be the cup of life you’ll be drinking from my friend, it will be the cup of crap you’ve irritated out of people.

1 Band 1 Cup, now featuring the Parlotones!

I rest my case.



Californication And My Thoughts On Love

I don’t know how many of you out there watch Californication, but it’s one of my favourite TV series and has been since I watched the first episode.



I was instantly hooked because as a writer I identified with the main character Hank Moody (David Duchovny), and couldn’t help but like him because he destroys the stereotype many people have of writers as secluded introverts who sit diligently in their pyjamas every morning with a steaming cup of coffee, lovingly coaxing words out of their laptops while small birds tweet outside.

Hank Moody is a different kind of writer. He’s like a modern-day Byron (only not bi-sexual) and has this kind of easy-going, cocky-funny charm that makes him irresistible to women.

The thing about Hank is that he’s got a good heart underneath it all and that’s what draws women to him. Hank doesn’t chase women, he’s 100% devoted to Karen (Natascha McElhone), the love of his life and the mother of his daughter, even though at the beginning of the series she wants nothing more to do with Hank and is engaged to Bill (Damian Young) who Hank affectionately refers to as ‘the dial tone’.



Ironically, the women in the series seem to sense Hank’s emotional unavailability, and pursue him with greater urgency the more he tries to brush them off. What makes it believable is that Hank doesn’t fall into bed with every woman that offers herself to him and also, not every woman he sleeps with is super-model gorgeous.

J-Rab and I have just finished watching the third season of Californication, which was probably the weakest season thus far, except for two things. The first was this awesome explanation Hank gives Felicia, the Dean’s wife at the varsity where Hank starts teaching, as to what it is about women that fascinates him:

‘It’s my purgatory really, dinner, drinks, whatever. I’m never really all that interested but I find myself telling her how beautiful she is anyway cause it’s true. All women are, in one way or another. There’s always something about every damn one of you, there’s a smile, a curve, a secret. You ladies really are the most amazing creatures, my life’s work. But then there’s the morning after, the hangover and the realisation that I’m not quite as available as the night before. And then she’s gone and I’m haunted by yet another road not taken…’

Powerful words. There is something about every single one of you, I agree 100% and it’s part of the reason why I never understood men who hate women or speak about them in derogatory terms. I never identified with guys like that because I suspect that they are secretly scared of women, but are too fucking stupid and proud to ever admit that fact.

Fucking mouth-breathers. But anyway, like I was saying…



The second thing that saved season three for me was the final episode. Throughout the season, Hank has his usual encounters with numerous females of the species, encounters which become less and less believable as the season progresses until he finds himself in a situation that is so ridiculous it’s difficult to take the show seriously.

To make things worse, Karen just forgives him for all his transgressions, despite the fact that they are supposed to be starting a new life together in (SPOILER ALERT!) New York.

But then the last episode hits and it hits pretty damn hard. To go into any kind of detail would be to give everything away, which I hate doing. Instead, you should get your hands on seasons 1, 2 and 3, and watch them all, you’ll be doing yourself a favour.

After the episode ended, J-Rab and I lay in silence for a good long while, both lost in our thoughts. It was a really strange moment, nothing we’ve ever watched together has had that effect on us, it cut right to the bone and got me thinking a lot about the things her and I have been through and how it really is true that sometimes in life you end up hurting the people you love the most.

If you follow this blog and have been doing so for awhile, you probably have an idea of J-Rab and my relationship through the things I post, but what I realised last night was that perception is probably skewed.

Simple fact is I would never air our dirty laundry on this site, it’s just not a boundary I’d ever want to cross. As such our relationship might come across as all rainbows and lollipops and I can’t abide that, because it just isn’t true and the last thing I wanted when I started this blog was to spin a bunch of bullshit as the truth.



The reality of our relationship is that like most couples, we’ve been through a lot of heartache, we’ve fought with each other, screamed at one another, thrown shit all over the place and all but strangled each other to death more than once during our two and a half years together and the honest truth is if I had to go back in time I would do it all again, exactly the same, because it’s made us who we are.

Sometimes I look at other couples, the way they tip toe around one another, the way they’re full of fake smiles and forced familiarity when they’re around other people, and I feel really sorry for them because none of it’s real. I don’t know why, but people have this weird way of making a huge public spectacle of their ‘happiness’ in order to somehow affirm it which I always thought was total bullshit.

I love the Leonard Cohen song ‘Hallelujah’ because it says it exactly like it is:

‘I’ve seen your flag on the marble arch / Love is not a victory march / It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah.’



We’ve been there. I know exactly what that cold and broken Hallelujah feels like, what it feels like to reach that point where all hope has died and you wonder how the hell you’re ever going to be able to look that person in the eyes again, never mind save your relationship.

But J-Rab and me, we found a way. We toughed it out, we fought until there wasn’t any fight left in us and then we started down the long, hard road of forgiveness and I’m glad we did because she’s the best goddamn thing that ever happened to me.

I’m not interested in fluffy toys and heart-shaped chocolate boxes and ‘I love you pumpkin’ messages on Facebook. I want a companion, I want a lioness, as ferocious as she is kind, someone who’s got my back and keeps me on my toes, someone I can laugh with and share this life with and grow old alongside and J-Rab is all those things to me.

Don’t tell her I said this, but I never knew how I got so goddamn lucky.

She means the world to me, and if that’s not worth fighting for, I don’t know what is.



It’s raining planes

The world we live in is one crazy place, that’s for damn sure. I walk into the office this morning and read on the front page of The Star that yet another plane has crashed, this time in Beirut. Authorities are saying the plane exploded after take off because of adverse weather conditions, which boggled my mind completely.

How exactly does a plane EXPLODE because of bad weather? Was it struck by the mother of all hail stones, which in turn ignited the fuselage and turned what was once a plane into a blazing ball of fire?



Sounds a little fishy to me, especially considering how many planes seem to be plummeting from the heavens these days. Just check out the site for all the most recent plane crash statistics… or maybe don’t, depending on how terrified you want to be the next time the plane you’re on starts experiencing turbulence.

In 2009 alone there were three major plane crashes in which over 150 people died in each one – the Air France crash, the Yemenia Airlines crash and the Caspian Airlines crash. In the case of the Air France crash, it’s largely a mystery as to exactly what happened that caused the Airbus to plummet into the Atlantic Ocean, but I got’s me a theory, hot damn!

My buddy Mus is a pilot and he’s told me some VERY scary shit about the planes he’s flown. From what he’s said, there’s hardly a plane in the sky that doesn’t have some kind of fault or other that the pilot sometimes only finds hours into the flight.



In most cases it’s something minor, maybe an instrument here or there that isn’t reading accurately, but in other cases there can be seriously fucked up shit going on, and it’s in cases like that that an excellent pilot will make the difference between everyone ending up dead in the ocean, or back safe in their homes.

And that’s not to mention other shit that could go wrong. Take US Airways Flight 1549 for example. One minute they’re taking off and climbing steadily toward cruising altitude and the next BAM! Flock of geese outta nowhere!

The pilot of that flight, Captain Chesley Burnett "Sully" Sullenberger III became a legend when he safely landed the plane on the Hudson River and saved all 155 people on board. He was ranked second in Time Magazine’s Top 100 Most Influential Heroes and Icons of 2009, I just read the Wikipedia entry about him and it’s really inspirational stuff, I definitely think you should check it out.



But anyway, back to my theory.

I reckon with the recession that hit last year, aviation companies started cutting corners when it came to maintenance and proper safety checks of their planes, which is why planes seem to be literally dropping out of the sky all over the goddamn place.

So yeah, think about that the next time you climb in a giant steel bird and ascend heavenward, but don’t let it bum you out too much cause let’s face it, if a plane crashes and explodes in a blazing inferno it’s tickets for you pal, no matter how tight you do up your little seatbelt.



Existor: A Whole Other Level Of Reality TV

So I’ve got this idea for a killer reality TV series, I’ve had it for awhile actually and I’m gonna lay it on you, but please promise me you won’t steal it, I like you and wouldn’t want to have to track you down and feed you to the pigs.



Everyone has watched the mother of all reality shows, Survivor, at some stage or another. It was the original reality show (except maybe Big Brother? Not too sure…) and people lapped that shit up because it exploited our twin desires to indulge our voyeuristic tendencies and fantasize about what it would be like to be ‘stranded’ on a tropical island with a bunch of complete strangers.

The show was wildly popular and has spawned no less than nine-fucking-teen seasons (according to WikiAnswers, but I’m not sure how this is even possible? If they make one a year, this means they started in 1991, wtf?!). I’ll admit, I still watch them. It’s just such a rad way to watch human beings interacting with and manipulating one another. If you got a hold of all 19 seasons and watched them all, I swear to god, you’d be able to write the most mind-blowing thesis about the human mind when augmented through the lens of ‘reality’ TV.



But anyway, enough of that bollocks, I think I’ve introed the fuck out of this thing, let’s get to the juicy bits already!

My reality TV show would be called EXISTOR, and yes, it would be written all in caps like that, because it would be THE BEST REALITY TV SERIES EVER!

The premise is dead simple. You launch a MASSIVE worldwide viral campaign calling for entrants from the age of 18 upward, then select 42 of the people who apply, making sure you get an accurate worldwide demographic and you dump those fuckers unceremoniously on an island in the middle of fucking nowhere, say ‘too-de-loo muthufukkahs’, and never interact with them again.



Meanwhile, the island is rigged to hell and back with literally thousands of cameras and mics, all remotely operated, as well as about 30 broadcast-quality live cams that the contestants are given to do whatever they want with, but that’s it. There are no cute little challenges to determine who gets the rice or not, there are no immunity idols and there is no getting voted off the island.

It’s not Survivor, it’s EXISTOR, there is one goal, and only one goal – don’t die.

The audience would watch as the people on the island formed natural alliances and built real shelters and hunted and cultivated their own food, because basically, those people we dumped on the island? They’d never leave. That would be their LIFE, and we’d get to watch it all either in highlights packages every week, or live from the cameras we give the contestants or the thousands of other cameras around the island, which the audience would be able to flick through and operate themselves… somehow (I’ll leave that to the tech guys to figure out).

The only interaction between us and them would be when we sent technicians to fix the cameras and drop off new cameras and batteries for the contestants, but even those people would be deployed in the dead of night and, like fucking ninjas, would creep around and swap out dead cameras with new ones.



Over time, the contestants would fall in love with one another, they’d have children on the island, a whole new generation would grow up on camera and take control of the island and we’d get to sit back at home, in the comfort of our living rooms and watch the miracle of human life unfold before us, untainted by the promise of reward or fame or any of the other bullshit that makes reality TV anything but.

People would die on the island. They’d get married, they’d promise to love one another for all time, they’d cheat on one another and in a jealous rage, they’d fight and maybe even kill one another, and we’d keep the cameras rolling, always rolling, for all time.

And who knows the effect it would have on us? Would we even be able to watch it? Maybe we need the hosts on TV and the elaborate immunity challenges to remind us that no matter how real it feels, it’s not real.

I can see it now, the initial hype would be HUGE! People would watch non-stop, they’d be glued to their TVs, completely addicted, but over time their attention deficit would cause their interest in the show to dwindle. Then one day, years later, they’d read about one of their favourite contestants dying on the island, or falling pregnant, or falling in love, and they switch back to EXISTOR, and there they’d all still be, but they’d be different and the contestants would tell their kids about the world they came from, a polluted world that was ruled by machines and guns and war and they’d explain why they chose to leave that world and never come back.



And 100 years into the show, children would be born that wouldn’t even understand what the cameras were and they’d walk barefoot, quiet as still water through the jungles and forests of the island, hunting wild boar, completely unaware that they were being watched by billions and billions of audience members that knew more about those children and their parent’s lives and their parent’s parents lives than those children would know or ever care to know.

EXISTOR. You heard it here first 😉



This post could have been about any number of things

This post has been written and rewritten more times than you’ll ever know. This post could have been about any number of things, at first it was about my dreams when I was a teenager, here’s an excerpt from that post:

I dreamed I was a rockstar for a few years. It was a good dream when I think back on it, a dream you have when you’re just out of school and you think you know how bad it gets, but you don’t know how bad it gets, you’re just a kid, invincible and naive.

I lived that dream once or twice, maybe more times than that, on creaky wooden stages around Grahamstown. I got up there, sometimes by myself, sometimes with some friends, and I played the stuff I wrote and told myself that somewhere out there someone would hear it and it would have great significance to that person and it would echo in his head, or her head, even in their dreams.

Then it was about what I would do if I was in charge of this world, here’s how that one was shaping up:

I’d make the oceans rise and I’d crack the continents apart and I’d bring fire raining down from the sky. I’d send swarms of every poisonous creature into Wallstreet and I’d sink corporate skyscrapers into the lava pits. I’d flood silicone valley with sewerage and I’d laugh while the internet fizzled out and the information super highways disintegrated and crumbled down to dust.

Then it was about Love, the kind spelled with a capital ‘L’ and how it’s the only thing that will save us, but it came out really lame, so I’m not going to paste an excerpt from that one.

I went down all those roads, but they became tangled and convoluted and contrived. Those roads left me feeling lonely and alone and that, coupled with the miserable grey weather we’re having and the fact that J-Rab was at work, all added up to this empty feeling and I started staring at nothing and sighing from somewhere deep down.

It was right about then that I heard this thud-squeak and turned to see Random Cat staring up at me with her wide green eyes. She jumped up on my chest and nuzzled her face against mine, like she could somehow feel what I was feeling and wanted to make it better.

It’s funny the way life works, the way something as simple as a Random Cat can make everything better sometimes.

This post could have been about any number of things, but I want it to be about Random Cats – may they find you when you’re down and, arriving with a thud-squeak, make you smile when your days are grey.





Where is the sun?

Is it just me, or did Joburg not used to be an altogether sunnier fucking place than it has been over the last few years?

I don’t remember summers being like this when I was a kid. I remember sweltering hot days and brief afternoon cloud bursts that started at 4 and were done by 5, leaving clear skies in their wake and that fresh feeling that comes after summer rain.

For the last two weeks all it’s done here is rain and I’ve had just about enough of it. I mean, for fucks sake, PLEASE can we have some sunshine? I think I’m getting some kind of seasonal cabin fever here, another week of this grey, rainy shit and I’ll be smashing through the doors with an axe screaming ‘Here’s Johnny!’.



Would you like to know what I did today? Ok… are you sure? Jeeze, how bored are you? It’s Saturday, you shouldn’t even be here – go outside and throw a frisbee or something. Oh wait, I forgot it’s PISSING DOWN WITH FUCKING RAIN OUTSIDE.


I got up early and dragged my sleepy ass to the gym to sweat some blood for awhile, then I came back home did domestic stuffs like washing dishes and shit like that, shopped for some groceries with J-Rab, made lunch, had a 15 person orgy with a pile of pure Colombian cocaine and Russian strippers (oh good, you’re still awake. Just checking) and then had an afternoon nap.

It’s been chilled.

What you been up to?


A Word From The Kind Folks At Nokia

January 2010