Issue 8

Well, after exploding computers, delayed aircraft and lost luggage aplenty, I have finally managed to scrape my sorry ass together to bring you this well worth waiting for, fabulous issue of TopBlogMag that you now see before you.

This weeks challenge for the writers was to send us a post based on "A funny thing happened to me on the way to...", and a rip roaring success it was too.

The Good Woman from My Wee Scottish Blog tells us of a rather surreal encounter she had whilst traveling through the African Bush.

The Expectant Father who, after reading the words "A funny" had every funny thought that every entered his head make a quick exit, tells us why it's not funny being an Englishman

and last but by no means least, our featured piece and winner of the Blog Of The Week award, Mama Zen, gives us a life lesson learned from trashy TV.

This week also brings us the start (or rather the continuance but with a real title and next week even a spiffy graphic if I can ever get my computer to work properly) of Voices to Hear, our weekly look at some brilliant but not very well known artists brought to us by John from altjiranga mitjina.

As always, each and every post you can see on this page is part of this weeks issue, so scroll right down to the bottom, leave some comments for our writers and click on over to see them at their own blogs for more of their writing.

If you wish to see your writing here with links to your blog along side other great writers simply send us an email (topblogmag@gmail.com) and we will be in touch.

If you have been in touch in the last couple of weeks but haven’t heard from us yet don’t panic, I have been away for a few weeks and am playing catch up at the moment so will get round to you, between putting on loads of laundry and scraping up puppy poo (don't ask), just as soon as I can. In the mean time, grab a cup of tea, put your feet up and take a leisurely stroll through this weeks posts.

Me and My Foreshadow

Written by Mama Zen from The Zen of Motherhood

A funny thing happened to me on my way to Edie. I ended up Lynette, instead.

I’m talking about Desperate Housewives, of course. A weekly break from reality that has become my reality. A cast of suburban stereotypes that I find strangely reflective of my own journey through life.

I guess I should explain.

First, you have Edie. Single and basically childless, she’s all about herself, her career, and . . . herself. In my younger days, I was pretty much Edie. But then, I got married and became . . .

Gabrielle. Young and sexy and very, very spoiled. Nice clothes, nice house, hot husband (ok, she’s divorced now, but you get the idea). Been there, done that. Good times, such good times, until I got pregnant and decided that I must become . . .

Bree. Obsessively perfect super mom. Gourmet meals. Spotless house. Model children (at first glance, anyway). All without a hair out of place. I accomplished this lofty, ego-driven goal . . .for about five minutes! Then, just as I was about to drive myself stark raving, soap-opera quality mad, reality set in, and I became . . .

Lynette. Here, we have life as a stay-at-home mom (all right, last season, work with me here). Sippy cups and sweatpants. Diapers and dishes. Chaos and crisis management. This is not Hallmark motherhood. This is adoring your kids, but realizing and admitting that motherhood is, generally, a thankless bitch. Good thing I like Lynette; these days, when I look in the mirror, that’s who I see.

Finally, there’s Susan. Sweet, loopy, artistic Susan. When I watch Susan in action each week, I feel like I’m getting a glimpse of my future. Why? Well, it’s not because she has an enviable creative career, though I am envious. And, it’s certainly not because she’s gorgeous, though I envy that, too. No, I see my future self in Susan because she is the mother of a teenage daughter and ditzy as all hell. Ten years from now, when motherhood has taken what’s left of my mind and left me a blithering idiot, I will be Susan.

Who says you can’t learn anything from trashy TV?

Mama Zen spends her days immersed in suburban housewifery and child rearing. She chronicles her efforts to figure out how the hell THAT happened at www.thezenofmotherhood.blogspot.com.

It's Not Funny Being an Englishman

Written by The Expectant Father

You know, it's not that easy being an Englishman. We're despised the world over because of the actions of our ancestors (Let me again apologise for “Carry on up the Khyber”, I can assure you lessons have been learnt.). But I can assure you, it isn't any easier being an Englishman in England. Every day there's a great pressure on you. Let me explain.

I was born into the English middle classes. This meant I inherited a great tradition that has been passed from generation to generation of middle classer: a duty to aspire to become an upper classer.

An aspiration that is rarely achieved but one that must be followed nonetheless. In our futile pursuit of this goal, us middle classers behave as we think the upper classers would. We are polite, dignified, gracious and always, always terrified of offending others.

It is mainly this fear of offending and the shame that it might bring that keeps us middle classers going. In Japan, if you have shamed yourself or your family the popular options is hari-kiri. In England, things are not so easy. You have to endure years of dirty looks, Baines not inviting you to the Norfolk Broads on his yacht and having your car parking space taken away from you at work. This is clearly intolerable.

So the Englishman has developed an anti-shame defense mechanism, the “stiff upper lip”. This is not acquired by a white collar-starching accident but by years of institutionalised bullying and abuse. It enables an Englishman never to show his emotions (or otherwise behave inappropriately). It is endless useful, as there is no greater shame for an Englishman than to allow his to lip to wobble. Even when watching his dearest, most loyal and trusted hound/butler being put to sleep. It is embarrassing for him and more importantly it is embarrassing for the vet.

The stiff upper lip comes into play with an Englishman's children too. Children are dirty, noisy, disobedient and, in all, just plain offensive. It is best to leave the wife to look after one's offspring. On top of this, an Englishman is too busy wondering why Baines hasn't invited him to the Norfolk Broads on his yacht this weekend to be dealing with children. Unless, that is, his children need disciplining. Dishing out a jolly good spanking, like those he received at Boarding School, is the sole responsibility an Englishman has towards his children. If he shows them he loves or cares about them in any way, they will not respect him nor fear his spankings.

Yes, the stiff upper lip is an Englishman's metaphorical “back bone” (the back bone is his literal “back bone”).

But a funny thing happened on the way to me becoming a father: I discovered maybe I wasn't such a stereotypically Englishman after all. My stiff upper lip has disappeared; I cried when my wife had a miscarriage a year ago and I cried again when she told me she was pregnant this time. And God help me, I'm pretty sure I'll cry when I hold my son in my arms for the first time. What's more, I'm going to be the one staying at home to look after him. As I'm not the violent type, spankings are out of the question but will I be able to show my son I love him?

As an expectant father it's something I genuinely worry about. Nearly as much as worrying why Baines hasn't invited me to the Norfolk broads on his yacht this weekend...

Ian gave up his job as an exotic dancer in the Gin Joints of Lichfield to become an Expectant Father"

A short journey through the African bush

(Or never make assumptions when there's a horn involved...)

Written by The Good Woman from My Wee Scottish Blog

'Just get out of your car and push him out the way.'

The suggestion may have sounded sensible, if a little aggressive, in a different setting. But we were in the African bush and the 'him' in question a two ton rhinoceros. Neither of my two companions could speak Afrikaans but a quick bit of translation brought them up to speed. Incredulous looks all round.

It sounds like laughable advice, but this nugget came from the gatekeeper at a game reserve. Surely, he knew how best to deal with a stubborn, armoured wild beast? Surely?

We had arrived at the gate a half hour before, around sunset. This same gatekeeper had instructed us to follow the single track to another gate, behind which stood the reception block and the comfort of our overnight accommodation. Not ten metres from this gate we found our rhino. In the half light we assumed he was a statue. But then he turned to get a closer look at us.

For fifteen minutes we watched him from an uncomfortably close proximity. We watched the moonlight reflect off his hide and took turns guessing the length of his horn (anything from 85cms to a meter by our expert reckoning). We named him 'Long Prong Silver'. And then we got bored.

Conventional wisdom, in dealing with rhinos, is to keep very still. Their eyesight is poor and, usually, they have a short attention span. If you don't move, they can't see you and will move away. This one had clearly not read the Behaviour Guide to African Mammals. So very slowly and steadily I began reversing back up the track, planning to enlist help from the gatekeeper.

'Okay, if you're too scared to touch him just throw a few stones at him. He'll move off.'

I was beginning to think that I would have got better advice had I just spoken to the Rhino directly.

'Just get him to radio the lodge!'

'The radio. He is brokened!' came the African English reply.

Fully anticipating a lengthy night time vigil in the bush, we made our way back down the track.

He was still there when we got back, but something in the air must have caught his attention and, after a few minutes, he trundled off. We snuck though the gate in the darkness and, on finding reception closed for the night, went to find the manager's house.

Just in front of her garden gate was a Blesbok, a small, goat-like antelope who seemed to be welcoming us to her home. The man in our party gallantly held it by the horns as we darted past to the front door.

The manager was relieved to see us. She'd been worried that we'd lost our way. We explained our problem with the rhino.

'That's Spike.' she chuckled. 'He's tame. Orphaned as a youngster, he grew up playing with my oldest son.'

We laughed. She laughed. Of course, I thought, I still don't see myself cuddling a rhino any time soon....

'Let's show you to your room.' she said, grabbing an umbrella.

'You really don't need that,' I pointed out. 'There's not a cloud in the sky'.

She glanced up into the star-washed darkness. 'I know. I need it in case we run into Headbutt. He's this Blesbok that managed to get into the enclosure and keeps attacking the guests...'

The Good Woman is a South African expat wife, now living in Scotland. Read more of her adventures and thoughts at her wee Scottish Blog. Please drop by. She loves visitors.

Voices To Hear

Written by John Holland of altjiranga mitjina

After enough begging and whining Heather has decided that the easiest solution to dealing with me is to just give me a weekly slot here to talk about music. So this week’s column starts the official debut of Voices to hear. Not much is really going to change from the previous posts I’ve done here. My goal is to spotlight music that doesn’t get enough notice in today’s media driven world of who is the biggest, not always who is the best. Now and than I might slip an album review into here or talk about a concert. What you won’t find here will be reviews that bash some artist or album. The purpose of this column is to promote and showcase, not tear down.

Today’s column is going to spotlight an American treasure. This man should be much better known than he is. No Depressionmagazine (a great magazine about music) named him the artist of the decade for the previous decade. Who am I talking about? His name is Alejandro Escovedo and unfortunately most of you reading this have probably never heard of him. He’s not a new artist, he’s been singing and making great music for decades. His voice echoes the weariness of life, his music a combination of rock, folk and country.

He was born in San Antonio to a large family. His niece is the singer/drummer Shelia E. After moving to San Francisco for college he formed one of the seminal punk bands of the Bay area, the Nuns. After awhile he moved to New York where he joined forces with Chip and Tony Kinman (from the Dils) to form the country-punk band Rank and File. Their first album rates as one of the classic pieces in what is now called Americana. The band moved to Austin where he quit and formed a new group with two of his brothers called True Believers. After a rocking first album the group was dropped by their label just before the release of their second album.

Now a solo artist Alejandro began to make music that really fit in no neat little box. He played a combination of rock, folk, country, blues mixed in with the music of the Mexican-Americans from his home state. His voice is a rich deep sound of a life lived hard but still filled with small joys one can find. His songs tell the story of such a life and the lives of his parents and family.

In 2003 after years of living a rock and roll lifestyle and the hard drinking and drug use that goes with such a lifestyle Alejandro fell critically ill before a concert and was diagnosed with Hepatitis C. After a long bout of recovery he release a new album last year called The Boxing Mirror.

His discography is not large. His first solo release was Gravity followed by eight more albums. He has played with a rock band, acoustically and with a string quintet and a 13 piece Orchestra.

Live he is amazing. I saw him perform with just another guitarist, David Pulkingham. The two sat on the stage and played some of the most amazing music I have ever heard. In between songs Alejandro would tell stories of his youth and of his Father coming from Mexico. It was one of the most amazing shows I have ever had the privilege.

______________________________

By the time you read this John Holland of altjiranga mitjina will be back from his trip to Washington D.C. but as he writes it he hasn’t even left yet, so he hopes he had a good time.