A friend of mine recently and most unfortunately fell on her butt and broke her back.  Well, not quite broken, but a fractured spine all the same.  Which brought into my peripheral a new addition to our extended wardrobe – the sexy back brace.

 And what a beautiful accessory it is.  Hospital grey, with a lovely stainless steel trim and a white fluffy stability band that goes round your middle.  It even come with it’s own alan-key, which slots into a nifty little holder on above-mentioned fluffy waistband.  It really completes any outfit.

 I suggested that we should perhaps brighten it up a little.  Perhaps some sequins?  A little bit of neon spraypaint?  At least then, if she wonders onto a busy road in a drug- induced stupor, she’ll be visible in fog. 

 This particular friend is rather bullish, and likes to embark on ambitious little outings despite her doctor’s warning that she needs to stay at home and HEAL, for god’s sake.  I may fit her sexy back brace with a tracking device which sets off an insufferable wailing alarm every time she leaves the vicinity of her house.  Kind of like house arrest.

 I’ve come up with a brilliant business initiative.  I think I may start marketing standard issue hospital back braces to over-zealous parents as a means of contraceptive.  Put your daughter in a back brace and she’ll be safe from the amorous advances of any hormonal man.  Or woman.  The tracking device will let them keep tabs on their little darlings.  Brilliant.  (I should never have children)

 Perhaps I’ll work in conjunction with a company like Malice Clothing to produce a custom back brace range.  They’ll be black and alternative-looking, of course, with a hardcore skull detail.  Or a wonky spine print along the back stainless steel support.  That way the emo girls will feel a little better wearing them out to Gandalf’s.  They can even tell all their friends that they broke their back during a certain type of rowdy physical activity, if you know what I mean.

 However, breaking your back is never fun.  It can put a damper on the most enjoyable of everyday activities.  Like picking an outfit.  In fact, you can really wear whatever you want, you can’t really see it under all that back brace.  It’s hard to appreciate the cut of a shirt if its squashed under all that steel.  Not to mention that the back brace makes undergarments absolutely redundant.  No bra’s necessary, with all that squashing going on.  Shame.

 I can steal her things now – she can’t chase after me anymore.

 And now, ladies and gentleman, a guest review from a little cynical friend of mine… thank you Jeff.  Try not to be too depressed by this.

I had the pleasure of hitting the Karen Zoid show at Zula bar on Friday the 1August.  What a good show. 

 Now, I never was a big Karen Zoid fan.  I didn’t like her recordings – they don’t do her justice in the least.  What sold me was her live show, which I caught for the first time at the casino in Bloemfontein (when in Rome…).  She’s the most incredible story teller, and hysterically funny.  She grabs you and keeps you there.  It’s all very impressive.

 They brought in their own sound, though, and it wasn’t good, to be honest.  Zula’s resident sound man would’ve handled it much better.  It was hollow, no mids, just tops and bottoms.  A little bit of a let down, because most of the dialogue and banter was lost.

 Capetonians amaze me though.  The show was very well marketed, in print and on air.  I knew about it a month in advance, and you could even – whoa man – book at computicket.  But god forbid Capetonians think that far ahead. That’s too…restricting.  Like, totally unhealthy to think that far ahead man. .. What? Like, COMMIT and shit?… No dude…. Despite all this marketing, the gig was only 3 quarters full.  What a waste.

 Possibly the best part of the gig was the opening act, a solo affair by a muso named Andra.  She looks and sounds very similar to Linda Perry in her younger days.  A raw, grating voice with some seriously edgy lyrical content.  Keep an eye on her if you have the chance, she’ll do something significant for this industry.

 Anyway, by the by, it was worth the R90 ticket.  Good, successful, satisfying night out.

 Wasn’t that lovely?  It makes me feel rather warm and fuzzy inside…

 The first is the corset.  Oh, wonder of wonders – never since has there been a more glorious invention in all the land!  Beautiful to look at, (almost) always flattering and absolute punishment to wear.  What more could one ask for?

 But even more intriguing than the garments themselves are the girls who fill them.

 Corsetgirls.

 You’ll see them gliding around the dance floors of your local gothic hangout, ethereal and silent.  And almost always pissed off. Sipping on cheap box wine and looking eternally displeased with the general state of the universe. Disappearing for ages, only to reappear looking flushed and full of malice. There’s just something so… fascinating about them.

 A friend of mine (a confirmed corsetgirl herself) explained the mysterious lure as such:

• A) When wearing a corset, it is very difficult to breathe, making conversation not only difficult, but potentially life threatening. Silent glaring is always best. When in doubt, glare silently.
• B) When wearing a corset, one can only bend at the waist, making slow ethereal gliding the only practical method of locomotion.
• C) When wearing a corset, one spends one’s entire night in a state of deep discomfort (only achieved, she explained, if one is ‘wearing it right’).
• D) When wearing a corset correctly, one may indeed be in danger of slipping a disc or at the very least compressing the T11 or T12 vertebrae. Any sudden grabbing of the tiny tempered waist (commonly experienced at the hands of drunken gothic men) could lead to spinal injury. It is therefore prudent to emanate a clear message of “Fuck off and Die” with one’s general demeanor, to avoid such dangerous incidents.
• E) When a corset wearing individual disappears temporarily, it’s probably time for them to breathe oxygen for a bit. Never fear, they’ll be back stronger than ever in a few minutes. Whatever you do, do NOT follow them.

 Now, this is all very well.  But woe betides the poor sorry sod that actually falls for the Corsetgirl’s lure.  This is where my second item of apparel which I thank god for every day comes in.

 It is my pair of mohair socks.

 These must be worn when one is moping at home in front of the television, eating ice cream and crying softly after Corsetgirl has broken one’s spirit.  They are very comforting in such situations, I’ve found.  They are thick and woolly, and good for mopping up the blood of a broken soul (if we were to be terribly emo about it).

 Malice Clothing does not yet make corsets, but I’ve heard they’re making the most amazing killer military boots ever. Boots for kicking ass.  Or kicking corset girls.  Mohair socks sold separately.

 ‘How peculiar.’ I thought.  ‘This song is doing it for me.’

 And so it was.

 I realized something then.  I’d been waiting for this song for a long, long time. More accurately, it’s one of those songs I wish I’d written. Where had it been all my life?  I’d been waiting for someone to write this song in particular, because Lord knows I wouldn’t be able to. And here it was.  Dirty, raw, simple.  Strong chorus. A rugged androgeny.  I was whipped.

 It’s only polite for one to get to know a new lover (before it jumped me in the car today ‘Oh Yeah’ was just a song, not a lover) And when one is trying to get to know a new lover, one must always google them (or is that just me?).  And, oh,  the joy! – The Cliks are an all girl band.  Well, sort of.  The lead singer is a gorgeous transgender called Lucas Silveira.  He is responsible for ‘Oh Yeah’. They’re all very nice to look at, might I add.  I hope they tour South Africa eventually – I’d like to thank Mr.  Silveira for a great lay.

 Which brings me to my next interesting little incident for today.

 At a robot in Rondebosch, I was accosted, once again, by one of those guys trying to sell ugly little wire bead flowers.  This particular guy has accosted me many times before.  This is how the encounter went:

 ”Hello my lady!  Would you like to buy a beautiful Valentine’s rose?!”

 ”No thank you dude.”

 ”But they are sooo beautiful!! And for you – a special price.”

 ”No thank you dude.”

 ”Eish, but they are so nice! Special price!”

 ”No thank you dude.”

 AND THEN…. he points to my frontloader (an ominous gesture, under any circumstances):

 ”Hey! Janis Joplin!  That is some GOOD MUSIC! (sings) Take another little piece of my heart!  She was at Woodstock!”

 I blink at him. 

 ”Fine, how much?”

 I had been successfully coerced.  I mean, come on.  The guy knew who Janis Joplin was. THAT’S as good a reason as any to buy an ugly wire bead flower.  I’m telling you, shock tactics are the easiest form of a hard sell.  To be honest, it made my day.

Maliceclothingmaliceclothingmaliceclothing.  So there.

Doom doom doom.

 I feel substantially better already.  I think I may continue, if you don’t mind.

 Ehem.

 DOOM be upon the makers of the evil Marlboro cigarette, for creating such a delicately flavoured, deliciously toasty, yummily aromatic stick of death, from whose clutches I cannot seem to liberate myself.  I am going to buy shares in British American Tobacco.  I’m probably single-handedly responsible for their generous profit margin.

 DOOM be upon the heads of the makers of the new Kylie Minogue album.  Because I actually like it and on the scant occasions when I am CAUGHT OUT singing along to the masterful pop melodies I am filled with shame and humiliation.  They’re just so…damn…catchy, darnit.

 DOOM be upon the two girls who disappeared into the bathroom stall of the Corner Bar for half an hour the other night when I’d had too many vodka cranberries and the other stall smelled like human emissions.

 And DOOM be upon the head of the old lady who scowled at my beautiful Hoodie of Doom in the Pick ‘n Pay this morning.  She had a face which could, if utilized correctly, end the world.  I shall buy her a Malice Clothing Hoodie of Doom.  Which wouldn’t help, I suppose, because you’d still be able to see her face.

 Sigh.  I feel much better, thank you.

 I’m currently trying to find a way to get a Hoodie of Doom to the White House.  Imagine George Bush going about his merry day, playing golf and walking his dogs, finding new and creative ways of killing millions of people with his think tank, sending more helpless little soldier people into warzones, all the while wearing a Hoodie of Doom.  In fact, I would love to send his whole cabinet Hoodies of Doom.  They could all sit in congress, wearing matching hoodies of different colours, perhaps with numbers on the back.  But I doubt they’d wear them in congress.  But perhaps on team-building day. 

 In case no-body has noticed, Cape Town is cold.  Freezing cold. Unbearably cold.  This week in particular.  There is snow on Table Mountain, which is against the natural order of things and subsequently adding to my doomful mood and making the acquisition of a warm, fluffy yet suitably alternative hoodie a must.  If you are considering the purchase of a hoodie this season, check out the Malice Clothing Hoodie of Doom.  It’s wonderful.  Please don’t buy those awful ones from the skate shops.  They’re not wonderful.  I’ve noticed they come in pinstripe now.  A pinstripe hoodie.  Have you ever? And they’re made in Chinese sweatshops by small nimble-fingered children who have never been allowed to watch spongebob squarepants.  Or speak.  NOT COOL.

 Doom doom doom.

 Have a nice day.

 I am Malice Clothing’s Number One Fan.

 This may not make sense to you currently, but all shall be explained. In due course. With time, you shall understand.

 Disclaimer:  I would like to state categorically for the metaphorical record that I am in no way affiliated, de jure or de facto, to the company Malice Clothing. Neither I am in any way directly or indirectly affiliated/associated/involved in correspondence with any of its members.  I am just a fan.  Pure and simple.  Perhaps obsessive would be a more apt description.  Stalker, if you must.  But I prefer the term ‘enthusiast’.

 I fall in love with companies.  Strange but true.

 For those of you who do not know what it’s all about (shame be upon your households!), Malice Clothing is a South African label specializing in alternative and music related fashion. They’re focusing on t-shirts, hoodies, printed military boots, stickers and badges at the moment, but they’re soon going to be doing belts and buckles and leather accessories. It’s enough to make me swoon.

 Now, why, you ask, has this particular company caught my attention?  Why the obsession?  Well, one thing caught my eye to begin with. Malice Clothing is the first clothing label to understand, grasp and execute (with elegance and precision, might I add) the elusive yet vitally important component of any alternative wardrobe – the Skull Shirt.

 Yes, the Skull Shirt.  Draw a skull.  Print it on a t-shirt.  Simple enough, surely?  Clearly not. Skulls have been used in fashion for centuries.  Look at the Aztecs, although those were generally real human skulls, which is way cooler, but illegal nowadays. In more modern times, the skull has been incorporated everywhere. But how many companies have actually done it well, without making it look like some sort of stoned pirate emblem?  Look into your own wardrobes, fellow alternative fashion enthusiasts, inspect the Skull Shirts in your possession and tell me, honestly, whether or not they are truly successful examples. Now do yourself a favour.  Go and check out the Malice Clothing Skull Shirt here.

 See what I mean?

I was sold.

 Their stuff is all heavily design driven, and the designs their coming up with so far are quite simply awesome.  A South African label has never done anything like this. They’re doing what Iron Fist and Element tried to do, only much better and for a fraction of the price. They’ve managed to get the edgy alternative aesthetic down in a way which communicates beautifully onto shirts.

 I’m in love.