Better luck next time

In life, more so in advertising, it’s not often that you get things right the first time. Every frowned brow, every “I don’t get it” and each” It’s just so layered” stinging more than the last.

So you go back, use some of the resilience that came as standard issue when you signed up for advertising, and continue scamping - until the pencil starts chaffing the skin off your middle finger.

And then one day, in one glorious review, a choir of angels sing from the heavens and history is made.

I’m holding out for my choir.

Blast from the Past

Hello, my name is Lyle and I’m a child of the 90’s.

It was the decade that symbolised my education – where my character was moulded and formed both in and out of classroom. But apart from all that character building shit, the movies and TV series were freegn awesome. The likes of Steel Magnolias, Pretty Woman and Dying Young kept me in my PJ’s and in front of the Telli on a Saturday morning; Julia Roberts, holding the key to my heart.

So about a month ago I found myself researching the 90’s for some or other project. One Wednesday morning, during the week of research, something quite extraordinary happened. (This story has a point, I promise).

I woke up feeling quite chirpy, skipped towards my door, which I had locked the night before to keep it from banging as I slept with an open sliding door. Horror of horrors: the fucking thing wouldn’t open. I struggled for what must have been 30 minutes, at which point I just said fuck it! Lying on my bed, living through my darkest hour, the memories of the 90’s came flooding back.

“What would MacGyver do?”

I reached for my tweezers and with gusto headed towards the door, but all that I was left with was a mangled tweezer and a locked door. I wouldn’t give up yet – it was a matter of life and death – it was a Mission Possible. If he had only witnessed what I did next, Tom Cruise would have been so proud. I hitched my gown between my legs and hopped onto the ledge outside my bedroom window. The fact that the ledge was the width of a loaf of bread wouldn’t have been that bad if I hadn’t lived on the thirteenth floor. I made my way towards the lounge sliding door, which thank the universe, was open. As irony prescribed, my bedroom door opened perfectly from the outside. My ordeal, thankfully, came to a glorifying end.

Let this be a lesson to all those 90’s bashers out there: if it wasn’t for the 90’s I might not have been here to tell my tale.

Oh how far I've come

I rather enjoy making up stories – the taller the better.

A few weeks ago I met a new friend, TamTam. She makes pretty pictures on a freelance basis and this week she was hanging out at the palace. So the other day I was regaling TamTam with one of my flights of fantasy, and up until I told her I was lying, she believed all that came spewing forth from my mouth.

At first I found this surprising, but I then realised, of course she wouldn’t have caught on. Because you see; TamTam wasn’t there when I was developing my story telling skills, she hadn’t been burnt by my trickery yet, therefore she was none the wiser to my dubious past.

But Dee on the other hand was. Dee, an aspiring lawyer and I come along way. At an utterance of a tall tale, he would either hand me a cup of shut the fuck up, or indulge me – all depending on his mood.

From drinking Sambuca in the Parking lot of Vincent Park Shopping Centre as tweens, smoking behind the high school pools, Dee and I then graduated to other types of escapades, one of which landed us on the pavement of Greenacres Hospital in PE, drunk and still drinking from the night before. Up until today, all present that morning are still unsure to exactly what went down.

Point being: back home there was never a need to consciously make friends; you grow up with people, they become your friends, and that’s that. These people would then know that the reason you’re behaving like that was because of X that happened 3 years ago, which was then compounded by Y which occured at some or other shitty varsity party about 2 months ago .

So you can imagine the shock when I moved to Cape Town and had to proactively start making friends. I found myself having to explain, even excuse certain behaviours. But after two years and many excuses, explanations and skyscraper high stories, my CT clique have finally come to understand and even tolerate my antisocial behaviour.

Hail Caesar!

From day break, an air of peculiarity descended on the kingdom, hanging thick like mist on Table Mountain. I remember it clearly, as if it was yesterday (in reality it was probably a month ago).

Behind glass doors the Generals conspired, speculated and strategised.

Deflecting from his austere commitment to punctuality, Caesar had not made his appearance yet.

Whispers started permeating the hallways.

Then the workmen came. Piece by piece they disassembled Caesar’s portrait that for decades kept a watchful eye over the court. From where I was sitting I could see gold birds, roaring lions and other gilded statues being carried from the thrown room – destined for the same brown box as the regal portrait.

The whispers got louder.

At the hour of 4, the court assembled to hear the news: Caesar was not coming in today; Caesar was not coming in any day.

From the ranks a warrior rose, brave and true. She would lead the kingdom into the battle that lay ahead.

As bizarre as the day seemed, people who have lived in the realm of advertising eons longer than I have, still maintain that stranger things have happened.

Enchante

It's kinda grey, not in a bad way - just pantone wise. I like that.

She said not to be self-conscious - can't help it though - everyone is staring at me.

It feels like first day of Sub A (yip, that's what it was known as back then) - except for the tears and smell of guava juice. Or even the first day of Thinking School - except for the perfect shiny blonde soon-to-be suited girls and their rugby playing, Headboy-type counterparts.

She also said not to be nervous, everything that will be will be. I wish she was here (said with knob in my throat) .

Ok, maybe I should introduce myself - "please to meet you, and you, and you, frantically trying to close your window, because your fag creative director is sashaying up behind you.

And the last thing she said was "If you start a blog, you'll get lotsa ass".

Ok, I made that up. But if I look at her rate of "ass-getting", starting a blog certainly worked for her.