Saturday, September 30, 2006

To the country

What a beautiful day. The sky was blue, like aquamarine. The light was turned to full warmth, full glow. The day positively sparkled.

Grand Final Saturday, not that I was getting out because of it, but it is still a good day to leave, none the less. I can hear the cheers of the MCG from my front gate.

Ah, the country train, sliding through the paddocks like a metal snake, watching the city fall away. Over the hills and through the valleys. The predominant colour has faded to pale green, no longer the wide open verdant green pastures it once was. It looked dry, faded.

I lay back against the comfortable seat, dusted with sunlight and half read the newspaper and half gazed at the country passing by out side.

One girl sat in the window seat, four seats behind me. Another girl sat in the window seat opposite and they talked all the way. One of them never stopped talking. Even when the ticket inspector got on, she had to talk to him about her trip to and, of course, her trip back.

She never stopped talking, about herself the whole way. Even as I slid my backpack on and headed to the door, vowing to go straight to the chemist for ear plugs, her mouth was still working.

Friday, September 29, 2006

Bugger it!

I smoked a cigarette. I couldn't get any pot. I'm an idiot. Nobody (read smoker) would blame me. Kill me now... you bunch of judgmental bastards.

Wednesday, September 27, 2006

The long way around

I can't go to my local milk bar to buy cigarettes for my joints. I was their most famous smoker, the bloke with the Styvo soft pack. Well, they made such a deal out of me giving up smoking that I'd hate to disappoint them. I had to tell them, as they got the cigarettes out as soon as I went in, without me asking, so I had to say. Otherwise, my modus de operandi when giving up smoking is not to say anything to any one, then the general public doesn't know if it doesn't work. It's amazing how many people do notice, though, especially other smokers.

Safety in numbers.

Anyway, now I have to walk to the 7/11. Well, it would be dishonest to say the cigarettes weren't for me, or that I haven't taken up smoking again, although, still no cigarettes.

Mark made me promise that I wouldn't take it up again, so then he could give up too. Soon.
Safety in numbers?

Tuesday, September 26, 2006


Indian call-centre employees are having to take self-esteem classes, because Australians are being so nasty to them.

A hidden cost of mindless capitalisim, which I guess will never really be fully explained.

I have one that calls insessantly for Aby. Which part of she doesn't live hear don't you understand, I groaned the last time, just before I hung up on him. One of her creditors catching up with her, no doubt.

I know one thing for sure, she doesn't want to hear from GE Finance, let me tell you.

Or are we already global enough, the Australian brand, to not be seen as racists?

Steve Irwin and all that?

Rex Hunt is to be the next big thing in the USA, now that Steve has cleared a path. Swings and round abouts.

Monday, September 25, 2006


The first buds have appeared on the Jacarandas. The thin tips of the branches have sprouted minute, hairy fingers reaching to the sky.

Like clock work, or is clock work like it? Every year, at exactly the right time. No matter who we love or hate, no matter if we live or die, the buds bloom in Spring.

Sunday, September 24, 2006


Sunday drift through, scratching

The rain comes down.
I've really got into this cleaning thing. I'm pulling shit out of the attic for the hard rubbish on Friday. It's amazing what's up there; sets photos of three boyfriends; stuff from numerous flatmates; pictures; sketch pads; paintings; old writing. I've got to force myself not to stop and just look at it all.
The front porch is stacked with rubbish to put out Friday.

I didn't go riding. I didn't go running. I didn't go walking. I didn't write any thing. I watched the rain come down instead.
Still no pot, despite everyone promising today. But, that dawned on me this morning, so I've tried not to think about it. I cleaned up my desk and then scraped it, and got two joints off it. It's where I make my mull, as I write. I know, gross. But, I spent the afternoon stoned trying not to think about it, at least. And I have a clean desk.
Nicotine is pulling me back.
I went to the supermarket.
Now I'm going to watch Idol.

The dope's on it's way. Yay! I'm only going to have one. Pathetic, I know.
I just don't know what got into me this weekend? Life adrift, the most exciting thing going was cleaning the attic. My ex has gone back to Sydney. She rang me from the taxi on the way to the airport. She still thinks I'm a pig. Of course, pot isn't good for that. It's not one of life's biggest motivators. But once I got the smoking thing in my head yesterday, it was intense, really insane. It was constant, I just couldn't shake it, not completely.
The weekend is over. The sun has gone down. Time to iron a shirt.


24th Sept 1996

Tom called early and suggested lunch in the Castro, and we agreed to make our way to their hotel. Probably the best position to get a cab, was to walk along the one way street, we were staying on, a block, or so. The streets are all one way, and to get a cab outside our hotel, it would mean a cab ride around the block, or walk one block ourselves. This short cut soon had all the symptoms of our first night, and the simple walk to the Eagle, which turned into a trek across town. Besides, they were on the corner of Sixth, and something, which was practically at the bottom of the one way Street, down which, we were walking. Well nearly, it just doesn’t look that far on the map, but we walked none the less. It wasn’t that far.

San Francisco is a strange place, in as mush as, the very best suburbs, can co-exist next to the very worst. So with in a block, if you’re not paying careful attention, you can find yourself, suddenly, in some pretty seedy surroundings. Tom and Tom’s Motor Inn was, basically, in the next suburb, (by Australian standards) but where our neighbours were Masey’s, their neighbours were a twenty four hour doughnut shop, with bullet proof glass and bars. I’m even sure there were car bodies in the street, well, perhaps in the motel car park. It looked like the kind of suburb, in which, the rooms would be rented by the hour, rather than the night. I noticed that Tom and Tom kept the curtains drawn, while we were there, perhaps under the advise from the proprietor.

By the time we got there, Tom and Tom had, had a disagreement, so it was just Tom de B who’d be accompanying us to the Castro. He passed it off as Tom B (Tom B now lives in Melb and writes his own blog) was pissed off that Tom de B had shown us Tom B’s dildo, when he had a reputation, to up hold, as an infamous top. So Tom de B says. Like I had asked, I'd have to add. We decided to walk straight up Sixth, and catch a tramcar up Market, to the Castro. Tom and Tom’s Motor Inn was about six blocks from Market At Mission, one block from Market street. The tram car was in sight, Mission and Sixth is the closest thing I’ve seen to a ghetto, all broken down, or dosed up, with faces in every doorway, misery the most prevalent expression.

Tom, resplendent in black framed glasses and a bleached Mohawk, caught some pan handlers attention, surprise, surprise. A panhandler is someone who begs for money on the street. (2006 - funny how in 1996 terms a panhandler was so foreign to a boy from Melbourne that I had to give an explanation of what they are) They are on every corner in San Francisco. You can’t walk anywhere with out somebody stopping you, every couple of metres, for money. It happens just every where. And don’t think the Castro is immune; where do you think all the prettiest boys beg for money? Some people even live in door ways, sleeping when it is dark, and holding their cups out when it is light, without hardly moving. The pan handler who noticed Tom was a fat, loud, thirty five year old white man, with an aggressive attitude. He made some remark about grunge bands, a misconception Tom says has happened, more than once, because of his Mohawk. Some kid blabbers on about some band called the Screaming Turnips, to which Tom returns his best "it all means nothing to me" expression, and they soon get bored and leave him alone. A tactic he decided to use on this occasion. So with a withering look, it was eyes straight a head, and onto Market street, for Tom. This guy was not to be put off easily. He managed to get a word out of Tom, and once he had heard the accent, he had a road in. He was all G’day’s and bewdy’s, after that, but still no further acknowledgement from Tom, still the main focus of his attention. Tom almost swatted him away with the back of his hand, as he fled, or perhaps that’s what I expected to happen next, and it actually never materialised. Tom’s attitude had a definite "School ma’am" quality, perhaps just a little around the edges. Tom's nose was moving like a rabbit's.

This guy was not to be ignored quietly, and was soon yelling abuse after us, as we scurried up the street.

"Just because I live in a ghetto, you don’t have to treat me like shit" and, "I’m not just a piece of shit, you know." As we turned and ran, well almost.

Safely on the tram stop, in the middle of the road, we let our guard down, and waited for a trolley car. Perhaps we looked like poofters, I used to think that was a power only poofters had. And Tom’s white Mohawk probably didn’t help. Buses use the trolley car stops also and when not blocked by public service vehicles, cars are free to use them as well. So you can have trains, buses and cars passing you on both sides, and it can be a hectic little island, buffeted from all angles. As a tram stopped, and a bus pulled in behind it, passengers struggle to get by, when Mark was shoved hard, which I thought was an accident, until the bus pulled away and saliva rocketed towards us, followed by the scream "Die all faggots." After which, we concluded the shove was anything but accidental. Two assaults in nearly as many minutes, what kind of city is this, I thought, as I began to feel, decidedly, uneasy.

I think we ate in the equivalent of “The Spaghetti Tree” for lunch. The food in America is definitely not one of its best points. It is very bland and nothing really tastes all that fresh, succulent, or tender, or young, or at all. It is very ordinary. If you can eat it and enjoy it, you are well a head, believe me.
After lunch Tom, Mark and I wandered up the hill to Anton's flat, (2006 - Anton was the black boy I was having the holiday affair with. Cute. Athletic. Really nice. So sweet. I should have stayed in contact with him. Why didn't I? The foolishness of youth.) where we consumed some more of the dope we obtained the night before. It was a lovely afternoon, with the daylight shinning in through Anton's big bay window. We chatted lazily, and I found my comfortable spot, in Anton's black swivel chair, with Anton. I could turn slowly, in a one hundred and eighty-degree motion, letting my foot slip across the wooden floors as my head rested on Anton's chest. That slow circular motion can be so relaxing, like the lapping of the water on a boat, or the gentle rock of a train in motion. It was a place to be lazy, and we were.

Anton was handsome.

As day turned into evening, we decided to go to a bar for a drink. We decided on “The Detour“, as none of us had been yet, and we should taste the fruit of all the bars, when in a new city. It was a short walk, so in the fashion that Anton transverses San Francisco, we set off. Through the back streets, across Haight Street, through the park where the under ground railway returned above ground, our station, if we were coming from our hotel to Anton's place. We walked along a beautiful tree lined street, the address I would chose, if I lived in San Francisco; Noe Street, San Francisco. It reminded me of Victoria Avenue, in Melbourne, where the politicians live, but the architecture wasn’t right. It reminded me of Paddington, around the Number 96 building, all tree lined with terrace houses. The house’s were big, and grand, although I’m willing to admit that the beautiful trees, the branches of which met tip to tip in the middle of the street to form an arch, helped make the houses look bigger and grander than those in other parts of the city. As we walked along, I could picture myself living in this street and living a gay, San Franciscans life. Of course, such day dreams are of a transitory nature, such a house would only have me in it briefly, as I stopped over on my way to some where else, or on my way home, to Melbourne.

The Detour is a cramped bar with industrial style d├ęcor, divided up with metal bars and wooden, box type, benches creating sections. It is basically a shop front, long and narrow with a bar at one end, over which is placed its famous sign. It’s a bar, and busy the day we visited, where you stand around and drink, watch the Pool competition, or get involved in small talk, as the never ending pushing, of somebody passing by, bumps and jostles you. The famous sign is a narrow strip of, red, neon lights, about a meter long. Looking directly at it, it appears as a long red line, but as soon as you divert you eyes, from the corner of your eye it shoots out horizontally to spell Detour. As soon as you look directly at it again, it is back to a straight line. It is only in your peripheral vision that it spells Detour. Many an hour can be whittled away, in between small talk, playing eye games with the sign. But eventually it was just another gay bar, in which we were standing, with no room to move and no where to dance. So our interest waned, and we got restless for another space.

Mark walked out the door, in front of me, but returned to collect me, a ruse I suspected to hurry me along. We left Tom and Anton at the bar, in the throb of the music and the cloud of smoke. Tom was biding his time, before he went to another club, “The hole in the wall bar,“ his favourite in San Francisco. Once on the foot path, I realised I was wrong about being hurried up by Mark, as there, sitting on the street, directly in front of the door, was a pristine Volvo P1800S, looking gorgeous with polished, grey paint work, red leather interior, and mirror finish chrome, with Mark pointing at it, waiting to see my reaction.

We just wanted fresh air, and a change of scenery, and we wandered out to the street. We found ourselves wandering down Castro, cuddling and wandering to no where in particular. Mark had wanted to try out the doughnut shops, so we soon found ourselves sitting in a tacky, nineties style, twenty four hour doughnut shop, eating sugar coat creations, washing them down with bad, brewed, coffee, from Styrofoam cups. Linoleum on the floor, laminate on the tables, and harsh neon lights, turning every thing cold. A steady stream of people wandered in, looking quite vacant at the display case, waiting for the solitary shop assistant, with a sense of the last stop before who knows where. We sat and watched the world go by, for a while.

Soon we’d had enough of the doughnut shop, and its vagrants of the night, people who look as though they have endless amounts of time on their hands, but no where to go. We decided it was time to mingle with gay boys again.

Tom had been raving about “The whole in the wall” bar and had indicated he may end up there, so off we headed. Back to the South of Market area, a brightly lit bar overflowing with people, a little oasis in an otherwise quiet street. The traffic still thundered along the road, but none of the other buildings were showing any signs of life. Going inside “The hole in the wall” bar was like entering another dimension.

The whole place seemed dirty, run down, and busy, with an air of uncertainty and menacing, and it all seemed to function as if seen through the haze of an acid trip. Faces came into focus suddenly, and then were gone. People were ugly, with strange features, unkempt with dirty ratty hair and beards like bird’s nests, with animated mouths and strange pale gums, and lips. It was like a scene out of “Mad Max” crossed with a biker’s convention, threatening me with each gaze that came to rest on me. As we moved toward the back of the bar, it was like disappearing down a sewer, inhabited by more menacing creations of the urban jungle. We didn’t stay long, and though it wasn’t big, it was a whole other acid trip to get back to the front door. We extricated ourselves, straight into the grips of yet another panhandler, in waiting outside.

Standing before us was an emaciated, short, man in a beret, who proceeded to talk the moment my gaze met his. His cheeks were sunken in, and his tomb stone teeth seemed to be trying to part company with his gums, every second one of which seemed to be missing. A large, brown, jacket covered a thin body, the bottom half of which was clad in black leggings, and sandals. His skin looked healthy enough, but around the corners of his mouth there seemed to be a white substance, not unlike the consistency of glue, wood glue, which frothed and bubbled, as he talked. During his rapid speech he spat saliva and the white substance, with each syllable, directly at me. He held my attention completely, with his monologue about homelessness and Aids infection, which he got through a long, and complicated, ordeal full of betrayal from loved ones, violence, and even the government, I think. The jettisoned wreckage of society stood before me, and giddy for a moment, I found myself, caught in his web of failure and despair. The unfriendly world seemed to eddy around me, as a piece of refuse, snatching at life, grab at my heels. I can’t begin to tell you how I felt with this apparition before me, surprise, revolution, immense sorrow at the worlds failure, and a sense of hopelessness for him, and for me to make any difference, all at once. And my head spun a little more. I was in the middle of a retreat to safety, from the volts of hell, stopped by the thing we all dread becoming. I was in a different space, another place, for a split second, before Mark's voice, pulled me away.

As I took, what seemed like two giant steps, to the corner, about twenty metres away, to a cab waiting, with open doors, another drug fuddled beggar tried to stop me, but I was ricocheting from something much, much worse, and not even a glance did she get. The door closed, and if I didn’t command the taxi driver to “Just drive,” I certainly wanted to.

The drive around south of market was along wide roads, which crossed each other in a grid pattern. As this was the area we were drawn to the most, it was fortunate that I liked the taxi ride home. No matter what we had encountered whilst out, the taxi ride home relaxed me. There was some thing cool, and relaxing, skimming through the night, along those wide streets, of a cosmopolitan city, in the limousine sized (but not necessarily appointed) American Taxi’s. The deserted landscape, all lit by street lighting, purposefully urban, straight lines and square buildings, down each cross road, as far as the eye could see. Dick Tracey could have been working south of Market it was his style. And our street, where our hotel was located, up the hill from the leather district, looked more like a deserted department store district, in comparison.

Saturday, September 23, 2006

Dogs & Cats

My ex and I had break fast together. She lamneted that Sydney didn't have the cafes Fitzroy has. Then I walked her to the train and she headed out to see her mum.

Fred has come to stay, my sister dropped him off. Mum's going away for a week, to visit my brother in QLD. Blue lead. Lambs wool bed. Two types of food. A brush and a comb. Missy is dark! She's stomped off outside, plotting Fred's death, no doubt. I've been playing with him and the camera, he's such a doufus. Shit he's funny. He is such a character. Ugly. But a character. He makes me laugh.

Apparently, Nicholas' bloke has been out all night doing drugs at some party and can't supply the pot.

Poor show, we all agreed. Nobody could get any, so we settled for wine and got pissed. It's a very poor substitute. Funny how it is so socially exceptable. You can't drive on it, you can't talk on it, you can't treat people well on it, you can't stay civil on it, you can't even screw on it.

Fred didn't quite get the hang of the photo shoot.



Nicholas is getting me some pot, I text him just as he was going to collect it. Yeah, sure, no problem, he said.

I've been hanging out all day for it, don't know why. Why today? Of course, as soon as I gave in and asked for it, my craving has gone nuts! I'm sooooooooooooooooooo hanging for it, I can't begin to tell you how much. Screamy much!

It's the nicotine in the tobacco that I'm crawling the walls for. Usually, when I have the craving I just breath and relax and it subsides and goes away, pretty quickly, normally. But once I've decide to succumb, the breathing trick, the relaxing trick, my steely resolve, doesn't work. The craving just fires, zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz, like it is a beast that has to be sated.

And, of course, you guessed it, Nicholas is now having a problem getting it. He never has a problem getting it. Of all days, when I've given in, because I thought I would have it about two hours ago, to have trouble getting it!

Ahhhhh! I'm going insane!

Modern Times

We get ulcers
worrying over
car phones and lunches
and in the real world
people starve.



It's funny my friend's reaction to me saying I'm not going to get a car for the sake of the environment.

Don't be ridiculous, you have to get a car.

How can you live without a car?

What do you mean you are not getting a car for environmental reasons?

What is this nonsense about not getting a car?

Are you saying you are never going to buy a car?

You've got to get a car! Don't be stupid!

Friday, September 22, 2006


Give people more than they expect, willingly.

Marry a man/woman you love to talk to. As you get older, their conversational skills will be as important as any other.

Don't, believe all you hear, spend all you have, or sleep all you want.

When you say, "I love you," mean it.

When you say, "I'm sorry," look the person in the eye.

Get to know each other, before you commit.

Believe in love at first sight.

Never laugh at anyone's dreams.

Love deeply and passionately. You might get hurt, but at least you lived.

In disagreements, fight fairly. No name calling. (or biting or scratching)

Don't judge people by their relatives. (I know it's tempting)

Talk slowly but think quickly. (Talk slowly, wait for the light to go on in their eyes, talk some more)

When someone asks you a question you don't want to answer, smile and ask, "Why do you want to know that?"

Remember that great love and great achievements involve risk.

Say "bless you" when you hear someone sneeze. (Ed note - oh, maybe. Optional, at best. Twelve sneezes in a row and you're dead, though, some say)

When you lose, don't lose the lesson

Remember the three R's: Respect for yourself; Respect for others; and responsibility for your actions.

Don't let a little dispute injure a great friendship.

When you realise you've made a mistake, admit to it.

Smile when picking up the phone. The caller will get good energy.

Spend some time alone. Don't be afraid.

Thursday, September 21, 2006


Spring clean

My ex-girlfriend is coming to stay. She's down for two days. She told me I was a pig, the last time she stayed. She complained, mostly, about the toilet. Girl's are precious, aren't they? What do they think they are going to catch?

Any way, I'm cleaning like a demon, I'm going to impress her. I want to see the look on her face, even if she doesn't say it. But, she will.

It's so easy to live in clutter. It only takes a relatively short time to clean it up. I had 12 jackets on my otterman. And the last 5 t-shirts I bought... a couple of months ago. I'm not going to tell you how many pairs of shoes were... um, are under... well, she's not going to look under there... my coffee table.

I think it is much better psychologically... to tidy your... tidy my life.

The last time she stayed, she said I was the most un-gay poofter she knew. Oh, just because my towels didn't match. Or, I didn't have enough candles, or something.

Wednesday, September 20, 2006

The Dark Prince

"Come to the dark side, Luke," I said. "You know you want to? It's an easy step..."

"No, you shall never have me," said Luke. "I will not succumb to your evil powers."

Real words - I love my chats with the gorgeous Luke. Smart, funny, good looking, what's not to like?
(I was imagining him in tights, as he made his declaration, just as an aside)
Of course, Luke and I were talking about my famous powers of cynicism, which take me over into the realm of the Dark Prince... to the dark side.

But Luke saying that "I'll never have him" and that "he will never succumb", like he protested too much, like it was a challenge for me to try a little harder, didn't half give me a boner.

Ah, I love my chats with Luke, in the afternoon, when he comes into my office to chew the fat - he, he, he - gaze out the window and talk about the book he's reading, or the idea he's had.

Curse that straight gene! It will only make him fat and responsible for recalcitrant children, in the end.

No good will come of it...

Tuesday, September 19, 2006

Hot day to be normal

Twenty nine degrees and then the rain came out. The hottest September day since records have been kept. You know, records have been kept for a few hundred years, at most, for a multi-million year old planet. So do you think such short records can be taken too seriously? (I guess they're all we've got) And we're about to find out, from all accounts. Hello politicians? People in charge? The inconvienent truth.

Apparently, the Muslims want to kill the Pope? Of course, I blame this on George Bush... and, of course, little Johnny. I'm not fan of the pope, I'd say poor pope even, as it will, of course, do nothing for world peace. As I've said so many times previously, the only thing war begets is more war... you bunch of fools.
The scariest comment I've heard all year is... There is a group of people who are tenacious enough to take on the fanatical Muslims, they would be the fanatical Christians. Religion really is going to bring about the destruction of the world. Everyon'e armageddon is everyone's heaven.

On a brighter side...
I'm not a diabetic. I don't have cancer. My cholesterol is a little high, although it is done on a risk factor, now a days, combo of good cholesterol and stuff - no smoking, big smile - I'm at 3% risk of heart disease. All I've got to do is eat some fish oil and, hopefully, that will raise the stats on no heart disease.

Monday, September 18, 2006

Monday roundup

Big suck. Deep inhale. Half closed eyes, luxuriously long blow towards the ceiling. Feet up. Lay back. The fire burns.
Tomato and cucumber and tuna and beans never tasted so good.

I ate Nutella toast, over the weekend. What was I thinking?
My eating had been really good for a week. Fruit and vegetables.
I only rode one day out of two, even though I could have ridden on both.
I smoked a lot of pot.
So, it finished badly. Oh well.

Slippery slope. The ache for nicotine is back. What was I thinking?
Nothing but green tea and exercise for me for the comming week.

I think I'm doing alright with the no car thing. That's my bit for the environment, I'm not having a car, for however long, to help the planet.

I smoked all the pot, so I can't smoke any tomorrow.
I'm smashed. I'm going to bed.

Sunday, September 17, 2006

Wind Down

I raided Luke's dope bag, when everyone was off doing something. I ain't going riding. Track suit pants, open fire and teev from here on out. Lovely.

Everybody should get stoned.

In country

I had a nap in the morning, I had a nap in the afternoon. The thing I do best. Sleep. I went for a bike ride, in the late afternoon. Oh, I just had to. I can't justify banging on about my weight, if I didn't. Well, of course, I can, but it sounds hollow if I'm just lazing around eating Nutella toast. I made myself.

Pushed myself. To the point where the next thing I knew I was sailing down the street rubbing the sleep out of my eyes thinking, where am I? As Victoria Parade loomed large, I wondered if I was, in fact, still stoned?

My legs are like pistons. Actually, I do have good legs from riding, I can say that much. The sun was shining, the sky was blue, a cold breeze blew. I wound the tension out of my legs with every turn of the peddles.

Lots of people were out in the bright day.

I caught the 7pm train out of there, last night. Glide out in the mass of steel worms slithering through. Chick chick. Chick chick.

I like Southern Cross Station, even if I don't like the name. There's nothing wrong with the name, itself, but why change it? Where's their sense of history? Why does branding always have to win? The new building is big and cavernous and purposeful. It reminds me of the great train stations of Europe, in design if not in style. It reminds me of a gigantic hanger; all noise and movement. It's like a world, all on its own. Pumping. Throbbing. The engine room.

It's another world on the train, other people, other lives. I got a nuff-nuff with a girl kid and a baby boy kid, with bright orange hair, in a pram, who bore no resemblance to the older sibling. (Like there's a shock) At the beginning the girl, Grace, stuck her hand through the gap between the seats and tickled me, saying how well she could tickle. She learned quickly from my wide eyes and look of surprise that she shouldn't do that again. She'd sit in the seat behind and say hello through the crack, after that. Later, she told me she had been taking her crazy pills; I wondered if that meant she had a garot and knife back there.

The mother sounded like an out-of-it dimbo. I realised, quite soon, that "the crazy pills" was an expression that came straight from her drug ravaged mother's mouth. I soon wondered how the child could seem so sweet, smiling and saying hello and then flitting off, as her mother wailed from some where behind me,
"Graaaaaccce, Graaaaaccce, don't disturb that man. Graaaaccce, Graaaaccce, don't disturb that woman. Graaaccce, Graaaaccce, don't run around the train. Graaaaccce. Graaaccce..."

I found it more disturbing that they got off at my stop. I wanted to say to Grace, "Come with me, I can't promise you anything, except that it will turn out better than - glance at her mother, look her up and down - that!"

However, my attention was soon taken by the Bolago lads who got off ahead of me, the kid and the wailer-mother. Eighteen year olds, out on the town. Their arses were face height as we climbed the stairs to the flyover, them in front of me. Soft cotton pants and pert, eighteen year old boy's arses.

Lunch, anyone? Two of them were unbelievably pretty. They met another gaggle outside the train station.

The night was cool. I walked down to the highway. I love arriving some where, on my own, under my own steam, there is something exciting about it, even if it is only Bolago on a shiny, Saturday night.

Luke picked me up a few minutes later.

I caught Grace and her mother and the baby brother in the pram, out the corner of my eyes, scuttling down the main street in the shadows, as Luke and I motored out of town.

Saturday, September 16, 2006

Thick head

I'm a bit fucking groggy, let me tell you. It turned into a drunken pot-fest here, last night. Tim had to find pot for a grumpy Nicholas, who was unbearable because he hadn't had any all week. Apparently, Nicholas was rude to his drug dealer and was told to piss off and not to darken their doorway again.

Now there's something that doesn't happen every day. So, over a bottle of white, for Tim and a bottle of red, for me, we set about the task.

Good old Guido came to the rescue. While Guido has retired to his warehouse, in Carlton and his farm in country Victoria, he did put us onto a young pup, kind of Guido's protege. He took over the family assets, if you get my drifteroo.

We sang, we danced, and Nicholas was turned back into a human being. Poof!

Me, I'm fucked. Bejasus! Let me tell you.

I sang, Mamma Mia, to Missy, at first light in the kitchen this morning, over a can of the best fish and I sounded like I had advanced throat cancer. The only thing missing was the voice synthesizer instead of the strangled Mulligrub.

Oh my thick head!

And this was going to be my exercise weekend.

Although, I think I have lost weight already. I replaced my pasta carbonara, at lunch, with salads. That was just a bad habit I got into, comfort food in the middle of a stressed day. I ditched the muffin for morning tea. I replaced the chocolate bar, with apples, for afternoon tea. I'm back on fruit and vegetables for dinner. I felt like I'd lost a few kilos when I walked around to the milkbar for the newspaper, just now. And that's with minimal exercise. It's that easy.

I rode my bike, last weekend and I walk to work.
What are all these fat chicks problems? All you have got to do is walk to the supermarket for vegetables, instead of driving to the 7/11 for a Mars Bar.

Bashful Luke

We all gathered around to eat cake for a staff member's birthday, yesterday morning. I was eating banana cake, Kate had chocolate, as we talked real estate. Kate's selling her Fitzroy house, so she can renovate her Fitzroy warehouse. Cute Luke walked up. Kate and I looked over at him. Luke looked all bashful, smiling self consciously, looking from me to Kate.

He gazed at his feet. Uneasy. I'm sure he blushed.

"What's wrong with you?" I said. I have impeccable Luke-dar.

"Nothing," said Luke.

"What's up?" said Kate?

"Nothing," said Luke, as he kicked at the carpet with his foot.

"It sure looks like it," I said.

"No, nothing," said Luke.

"You can tell us," said Kate.

"Yeah, you can tell us Lukey-boy," I said.

"I'm scared of Kate," said Luke. He looked away.

"Scared of Kate?" I said.

"Scared of me?" said Kate.

"Did you know?" I asked Kate.

"Well, he hasn't made eye contact with me, yet," said Kate.

"That's pretty good, Kate," I said.

"I thought it was pretty good," said Kate.

"How did you do it?"

"I'm not sure," said Kate.

"Can you make him cry," I said. My heart would dissolve with his tears, if he cried.

"I'm going," said Luke. He turned and walked away.

"Oh Luke," Kate said.

"Oh Luke," I said.

He's just adorable, I thought. I wish I could effect him that way. Sigh.

Friday, September 15, 2006

Aussie values

When Howard stated that Menzies was his hero, who thought he meant he was bringing back the white Australia policy.

Adhere to Australian values, or get out.

Speak English or you're out.
Isn't that an insult to all the great Australians who don't speak English and who bought their cultures here at the enrichment of Australian society? Many of the Greek and Italian migrants didn't speak English, some still don't.

No wonder Bob Brown refers to this government as disgusting.

White and Anglo please step right up.

These Australian values? Where are they written down? In English only, presumably.
What Australian values is John Howard referring to -
A fair go for all in the workplace?

Not using minorities as scapegoats?

The ability to say sorry to wronged members of society?

Not engaging in wars for dubious reasons?

It's a shame that in this latest push, the Howard government can barely hide its 1950's racist view of the world. It's no surprise to me that Howard bought in sedition laws. Of all the Australian Prime Ministers...

Thursday, September 14, 2006

Sept 14th

It's my birthday, today. Peace to the world.

And a big birthday hello to Sean Preston... spookily enough, my big brother Will has the same birthday as Sean Preston's baby bro... a couple of days ago.

Will and I barely talk, only at family gatherings. I left a birthday message on his voicemail, he did the family thing and sent a card from him and his wife and the kids.

Wednesday, September 13, 2006

Random Wednesday

I floss with supermarket carry bags, if that is all that is available, I don't have too many pretensions.

I walk around with my shoe laces undone. I like to live dangerously.

I think I should buy a treadmill before I buy a car, my expanding, nicotine deprived, waistline is telling me so.

Pluto always was a Mickey Mouse planet.

I deny the fact that my last casual fuck calling me an accountant put me off casual sex.

Life's only rule, Don't cheat. It's the only thing that means anything.

I like the smell of my own farts.

Britney spits out another trailer-puppy. Actually, she had a cesarean, so it was more like having something removed. There's another drug habit just waiting to mature. What do you think the chances of Sean Preston & pup 2 having their parents together on their eighteenth birthdays?

I've decided to do my bit for the environment and not buy a car, for now anyway. I don't really need one, I'll see how I go. If I spent 30K on a WRX mostly it would just sit out the back and gather leaves.

Tim tells me that his drug dealer has retired... @ 35. Bugger! Just when I decided that a part of my weight loss strategy would be to pop a couple of pills - okay, 3 - and dance Friday night away. I'm now officially drug dealerless. Any contacts would be greatly appreciated.

I like watching straight porn. I like watching straight couples doing it. Is that peculiar?

Arachibupyrophobia is the fear of peanut butter sticking to the roof of your mouth.
Johnny Dep has a fear of clowns, coulrophobia, which reminds me, I have a half finished script about a cynical, kid-hating clown. Must dig it out.

In Melbourne, breast reduction is more popular than breast enhancement.

My heart goes out to Anna-Nicole Smith on the death of her son Daniel.

It was my beloved great aunt's birthday today. I loved the way she'd laugh heartily at her own, whicked jokes, often unable to get the punchline out for tears. Happy birthday auntie, I still miss you.
Every year I live, my family shrinks a little bit more.

Tuesday, September 12, 2006

Bloody smoking

I worked late, but still managed to get to the supermarket to buy vegetables to start my new healthy eating. I started last week, last Thursday. No crap since then. Except some gourmet yogurt, 4% fat, not that bad.

Last week, I just seemed to get fat, just like that. It's been six, or seven weeks off the cigarettes - last week in July - and my metabolism has surely slowed down. Fuck, I hate that about quitting smoking, the weight gain. Bugger! Everyone says they don't notice, but they must just be being polite, because I can surely feel it. I feel like a whale!

I've got to hit the footpath, jogging or riding. I can't be a fat person, I'll start smoking again, no doubt.

I was listening to this woman bang on about smoking a while ago, she said that not only was she affronted by smokers milling around the entrances to buildings, but she had to put up with the rancid smell of their dirty habits, as she walked up the street.
I thought, Oh die you whining, fucking bitch!

I'd just need to have the excess fat liposucked out and sprayed at her, in retaliation - for being boring as much as anything else. "Shut the fuck up!" Wait until she's mid rant, right in her gob. A mouth full of fat - and not in a good way - could you imagine?
"In ya eye, bitch!" Then I'd tell her I had AIDS, just to see her reaction, just for a knee-slapping laugh.
(I've had 3 glasses of red, it makes me a bit feisty)

Today, I was walking up Bourke Street behind a smoker and thought, Wow man that really fucking stinks.
Funny what a difference 6 weeks can make, hey?

Monday night, middle of no where

I crashed Tim and Nicholas' dinner of silverside and potatoes, they had lots, they insisted. I smoked bongs with Nicholas - the nice glass bong I bought him has been replaced with a skanky fruit juice bottle and a length of hose - like riding a bike, not one cough. Welcome back lungs. Of course, that's two days running, smoking, if you count the joints with Luke on the weekend. Slipery slope, I know.

I banged into shelves at Safeway, afterwards, my head was spinning. I did get to laugh at myself, stumbling about. Just look straight ahead, I said to myself. Don't catch anyone's eye and they won't catch on. Boof, into another shelf. I did get the muesli, though, so no buying it tomorrow at five bucks a tub - a whole packet costs less - from Nashi. Who do I think I am... um... James Packer?

Then I fell asleep on the couch and have just woken to iron a shirt @ 2am. Damn! Now I've got to crawl into bed, get some shut-eye. I need a tissue, my nose is dribbling. With all of the extra vegetables I'm eating on my new trim down diet, my farts are rank and jet-propelled. Fucken putrid!

Missy won't let me play with her ears. She's a bitch, just catty. (I hope she goes bald from her excessive licking) She just opened one eye, when I tried and then moved her head just out of reach and then shut the eye again.

Monday, September 11, 2006


If we had evolved as a species, by the 21st Century we'd have learned that wars don't solve anything. We'd have realised that fighting gets us no where. No one wins at war. But here we are, half of us still hate the other half. Nothing has changed in thousands of years.

Interpretive Dance

Who really cares about what happened at the World Trade centre in 2001? Other than those who want to use it as a political tool of fear. If you were there, or had family there, sure, remember, grieve, whatever, but half the world is starving and some say the environment is past saving, hello.

Did the CIA do it, so America could invade Afghanistan & Iraq to get its hands on the oil - what is it, 10% of the population uses 40% of the resources. I'm not saying that that is true, but few people would doubt that it is a possibility.

Modern terrorism started that day? So says Little Johnny and Dubaya? Oh please? America has meddled in Middle Eastern politics for so long before that, for it's own gain, that it has earned some of that hate. If the war started that day, all of Western Societies complicity becomes void, is that how it works? Modern terrorism started that day?

I'm not saying that some idiot should have flown those planes into those buildings, I'm not saying any one should have died, but 9/11 didn't change my life, as it didn't change the world, any number of American Spin doctors will not convince me otherwise. (Should we ask the folks of Hiroshima what they think, perhaps?) As far as body count, it really wasn't significant on the world stage of atrocities - was it under 4000 dead, in the end? There have been so many worst disasters. Americans are full of themselves to now talk about the world pre-911 and post-911.

Sunday, September 10, 2006

Manny Boy

I sat on the side of the train where the sun was shining in. It was so gloriously warm, I dozed all the way, gazing, in between eye flutters, out the window at the view. It's a nice way to travel, I decided, as my book fell to my lap from my hands. I've always found the rythym of the movement of the train hypnotic.

Chicka chick. Chicka chic. Chicka chic.

I got home around 2pm, I made coffee and lay back on the couch to read the Sunday newspaper. I woke, sometime later, as the day was changing to night. Lazy, lazy Sunday. I was going to go for a bike ride, I did nothing.

Manny came over, he looked so handsome, in his black T-shirt. I kissed him, I squeezed his nipples, I played with his... well, you know what I played with. I felt self-conscious because I've put on a few kilos. Manny didn't seem to notice. We lay the blanket out in front of the open fire, and held each other in each other's arms.

We blew all over each other, as the last Idol contestant sang, When the war is over. Manny's cum is thick and white, it dribbled down the side of my stomach and onto the blanket, as Marcia gave her judgment. We dripped sweat. We wiped each other down, slowly, with the red towel with the coarse fibres; makes your skin feel alive.

Manny said I love you Chris. I told him I loved him too. I do love him, he's adorable, what's there not to love. I'm just not in love with him, that's all. Maybe that's better, who knows? I don't ache to spend the rest of my life with him, just some time in the night.

Sunday morning in the country

It was dark, when I awoke, when I opened one eye. I could hear the water bubbling in the creek, behind me some where. The room went off in the wrong direction. I opened my other eye. Cabinets, a stone fireplace, where my balcony doors ought to be. A straw ceiling? Ah, the country, as my brain switched on.

I'm in the bush and I'm wide awake.

Manny was coming up, but I didn't call him. I thought about him being here, wished I'd called him; I'd just start playing with his cock, it would be warm in my hand, it would start expanding, as soon as I took hold of it. He'd kind of grunt, as I'd start to rub it. He'd moan, like a puppy. Good morning, his croaky voice would say, as he pushed himself into my hand. I'd kiss him.

I so wanted to sleep for hours, sleep till noon. But no. I tossed and turned, but I knew I was awake for the day.

Crap! It was still dark outside.

I brewed really strong coffee and rolled a joint and sat on the top step in the garden, as sun came up. Ah, just beautiful; cool, fresh air, like all the central heating in the world has never done me any good, alive, in the world being reborn right before my eyes, like the city can only ever dream of, with it's bins being emptied, it's street lights turning yellow along deserted roads and it's clubbers holding each other up as they hunt for taxis'.

The wattles are a blaze of yellow through the gums, like a ring of yellow encircling me. Daffodils are smiling every where. Birds call, whistle, melodies melting like honey on the leaves. Echoing in the forest, drip, drip, drip. The sky is blue, not the colour of bile, as I see it from my 40th floor, office window. The red wattle looks like raspberries scattered amongst eucalyptus green. The swans glide across the unbroken, surface of the lake.

The shadows run from the foot of the trees, as the sun rises, brightly in my eyes, to the right. A brand, new ball of crystal, burning for the new day. I squint, as it breaks through the trees for the first time, but it's only a reflex, city living; it is warm on my face, gentle, lush. The feel of golden.

The world is on soft focus. The wind buzzes gently in my ears.

I feel the tongues of ex-lovers, as the marijuana messes with my mind. My eye lids droop. I need a piss. The joint dies. My coffee is finished.

Friday, September 08, 2006

Gavin meets Steve

Gavin pulled his undies out of the crack in his arse with his thumb and pointer finger, leaning over on his left hip, pulling his right buttock off the bed, a bit. The relief felt great.

He yawned and stretched, both arms behind him, shoulders scrunched together. There was a good hurt all down his spine. His head spun. He stretched his neck, pulling his chin to his chest. He shivered all over.

He rotated his head from one shoulder to the other. Then one ear to one shoulder, then the other ear to the other shoulder. He opened his eyes wide and stretched again.

"Come on sleepy head," said Steve. "Unless you intend to spend the entire day in your undies?"

"No," said Gavin. He stood. His foot hurt, momentarily. "What time is it?"

He scratched his back with both his hands over his shoulders.

"It's time," said Steve. Steve stepped towards Gavin and unexpectedly kissed him on the cheek. Gavin could feel Steve's stubble brush against him. He pulled his head away. "For me to go," said Steve.

Steve pulled on his jacket. "It's 7am." Steve smiled. "Do you have to work?"

"No," said Gavin. He couldn't remember, momentarily, what it was that he had to do that morning, but he was sure it would come to him. "No, I'm on holidays. Uni holidays."

"Lucky you," said Steve. "I gotta go." Steve left the room, headed into the hallway, towards the front door.

Gavin followed him.

"Thanks for last night," said Steve.

With every step after Steve, Gavin realised he was hung-over. His head hurt. Was he still drunk?
"Yeah... yeah... it was great," said Gavin, vaguely remembering he had a good time. His father was in Cypress, then he was heading to London to see Gavin's mum. Gavin had the house to himself.

"Monday morning, huh?"

Steve laughed. "Yeah, Monday morning, buddy." Steve opened the door and smiled. He held Gavin's gaze. "I really had a good time."

"Yeah... yeah... it was great."

Gavin knew he was sounding lame, he'd never been in the situation before. He was trying to remember the night. He remembered how nervous he was. He hung out around the pool table. Steve sneaked looks at him, he realised that pretty early. He remembered how sweet Steve was, asking him to play with him when Steve won the match. Gavin was so nervous he fumbled the first few shots.

"Don't worry," said Steve. He touched Gavin's shoulder and squeezed gently. "We can take all the... time we want." Gavin touched his shoulder where Steve had touched him.

Steve smiled. "Do you remember my name?"

"Um... Steve." That came from no where."

"Have you got my number?"

Gavin fumbled in his jeans pocket, only to realised he was standing at the front door in his jocks.

"Yeah..." Gavin looked back towards his bedroom. "In my pocket... my jeans pocket."

"Well..." Steve smiled. "Use it." Steve smiled again and was gone.
We must respect all religions... and all their stupid gods.

We must respect all religions... and all their stupid gods.

We must respect all religions... and all their stupid gods.

In the same way they respect us...

Thursday, September 07, 2006

Casual Friday

I bought some new T-shirts, after I had my hair cut last week. Last Friday, for casual clothes day, I picked one up and popped it on, without giving it much thought. It was my “cunning stunt” T-shirt.

I tell ya, they are not slow on the old takeuproo at my work. One girl took one look at me, as I walked in and said “CHARMING!”

I looked down at my chest, juggling a long Mac and my brief case and jacket, pulling it together, getting it, finally.

I said in my best dead-pan voice, as I pawed at it. "What's wrong with it? Cunning stunt? What?" My best mate at work, Jen, laughed and raised her eye brows. Nobody said anything.

A couple of people came into my office during the day just to look at it.

My very favourite, Luke, kept breaking into his gorgeous, gorgeous smile, whenever I saw him, saying, “That T-shirt is so wrong.” It was all worth it, just for that. I just wanted to lick him. Slurp.

At the end of the day, I was invited to partake in the executive drinks, wouldn't you know it.

"Come and joint us," said Kate.

What to do, what to do? Should I just duck out. Nah. Should I just go as I was? Nah. I had to put my jacket on to go, it was the only thing. Unfortunately, it was a fur-lined jacket. I could only stay for one drink before the perspiration was running down my forehead, at which point I had to take my leave.

I pulled out another T-shirt for this Friday. “Head, give generously” Ah, maybe not.

It did give me a laugh, the thought of turning up in it, though; the thought of cute Luke’s, cute face when he saw it. Slurp.

Wednesday, September 06, 2006

bulls eye rothko


We're all now in the grip of a Diana'esque out pouring of emotion over Steve, crocodile hunter, Irwin's untimely death. I don't really get it? It is very sad for his two toddler children and his wife, sure. It is really tragic for a boy and girl to miss out on a father who was a man, allegedly, so full of life and, allegedly, so full of passion and devoted to them, I don't disagree. Such a senseless loss. Awful, really, really awful... for his family, but not for the rest of us.

But the public are turning his zoo's front gate into a floral shrine, with bouquets and mementoes, of such grand proportions, it is beyond me. Is it the hero thing? Is it that we hold celebrity in such high esteem, because our lives are so ordinary? The fat loser kids, with their fat loser parents, who are inconsolable, crying like they have lost a parent or a child, saying that he has been in their lives for so long that they feel like they know him? I mean? What is that?


Is following his life the closest they will ever get to ever being successful? Did he give them something bigger than their forever ordinary, mundane, mediocre lives ever will? I ask you?

Mostly, I just found him irritating and embarrassing.

Tuesday, September 05, 2006

my glass

Half empty Half empty Half empty Half empty Half empty
Half empty Half empty Half empty Half empty Half empty
Half empty Half empty Half empty Half empty Half empty
Half empty Half empty Half empty Half empty Half empty
Half empty Half empty Half empty Half empty Half empty
Half empty Half empty Half empty Half empty Half empty
Half empty Half empty Half empty Half empty Half empty
Half empty Half empty Half empty Half empty Half empty
Half empty Half empty Half empty Half empty Half empty
Half empty Half empty Half empty Half empty Half empty
Half empty Half empty Half empty Half empty Half empty
Half empty Half empty Half empty Half empty Half empty
Half empty Half empty Half empty Half empty Half empty
Half empty Half empty Half empty Half empty Half empty
Half empty Half empty Half empty Half empty Half empty
Half empty Half empty Half empty Half empty Half full

Sunday, September 03, 2006

Just lately

I've been in a very funny mood lately, I just can't seem to find my happy groove. I just can't seem to get enthused about stuff. Manny has called a few times, I've blown him off. Bad choice of words. He's been calling me up beginning of the week to tell me he's been out all weekend with the beautiful Stuart to clubs just around the corner from my place. But I haven't seen him once. Good for you buddy.

Friends have left messages, come out, we want to see you. Come and play. Lets have fun. I haven't answered. My enthusiasm is rock bottom. Does that happen from giving up pot and tobacco? Can it lead to... no motivation?

I've just preferred to be on my own, deal with the boring bits on my own. Curl up on the couch and read. I'd recommend the book that I'm reading at the moment, Shadowboxing, author Tony Birch, set in Fitzroy, practically (literally) set in my street.

I'm the most together, the most laid back, member of my group of friends, so my friends tell me. It's funny, when you are considered the strong one, the person who people come to when they need someone, advice, they just don't seem to see it when you feel like you are... oh, I don't know.

I just don't seem to be able to see the point just lately? It feels like I've been there done that, with just about everything. Surely, I don't have to continue doing this, for the next however many years... for the rest of my life?

Where's the spark? Where's the wonder? Where's the excitement at the discovery of something new?
lottie's hat

One night stand

Cigarette ash
around the ashtray.
Burnt out brain cells,
a throbbing head,
crumpled sheets
and used condoms
lying in the wreckage
of another one night stand.


There was an old woman
in a grey torn dress
and worn high heels,
her best scarf with holes
and a face full of years,
a cigarette
between two yellow fingers
shuffling down the street,
in her mind still a debutante.
How cruel time is.


A boy lay cold
and dying on a road,
we all stepped over him
and looked at the sun
for deflection of our guilt.
One by one
we looked away
and walked away
and the boy died.
We went home
to our civilised lives
knowing there was nothing
we could have done

Let's get hitched, the old fashioned way

I really see gay marriage as pathetic, really, but don't tell anyone I said so.

I see it as such self loathing that we would all do anything to "normalise" ourselves and be accepted by mainstream society.

Like traditional marriage works so well? Like traditional marriage is such a success? Why do we want to emulate that? I just don't get it? You know straight people want us to get married so we can suffer the same way they do.

Gay de facto relations have the same rights as straight defacto relations, so what is the big deal? Other, than non-imaginative queers wanting to do what their mamma and pappa went and done. You may kiss the bride. Chicken or fish?

I can't help but see it as a little sad. We'll do anything, accept anything, forget who we are, just to fit in. Does every queer dream of being a bride dressed in white? Whose tradition is that?

Next thing you know, we'll be toning down the Mardi Gras parade because it wont be doing any fags marriage aspirations any good.

Marriage goes hand in hand with "straight acting", which, of course, is the twenty first century ideal for gay men.

Of course, that's just the way it makes me feel, like emulating some flawed institution is some how going to garner respect. You guys feel what you like.

Have gay divorces started yet?

Everybody is the same, nobody is different. No one is threatened. I call it Shopping Centre Syndrome - The Tie Rack and The Sunglasses Hut are always the second and third shops on the left, everybody knows the layout, nobody has to think.

There is never any danger of anyone ever getting it wrong, never any danger of anyone ever looking like a fool. All homogenised and pasteurised into the same product; people doing the same thing, no one is the odd man out. Everything is the same. Harmony.

Take the queer out of gay and the world is a better place.

Saturday, September 02, 2006

It nearly killed me

Okay, I've been for an hours bike ride around the Yarra. I'm back in training for daylight savings, can't be an inactive tosser for the rest of my life. I have to take these few extra pesky kilos by the, um, er, love handles and delete them. I'd go swimming after work, but no car. So, I'm building up to my nightly hours ride after work once daylight savings starts.

It nearly killed me today, but I'm taking that as a good sign, it means I worked hard.

I rode over to Lottie's last Saturday, first ride for... ooo... however long and then again tomorrow.

I want a new boyfriend, and I want to go hunting for him over summer, so we can cuddle up together and get fat, next winter.

They were all out today, walking, jogging, riding and I've got one thing to say, wog boys in jogging shorts. Fuck me! There were a couple of them, I just went woof, with shorts and hairy legs and I just wanted to slide my hand up there and grabbed their... feel all that... you know the rest. I miss that, when I think about it. I miss having my hand down Manny's pants, as I kiss him. It's weird, you know, this is the longest I've been out of a relationship, and even then I've had Manny. I've been in a relationship all of my life. I guess it's what you know, hey.

I'm off to see a play with Lottie at 4pm, Melbourne Theatre Company, Festen*. I'll walk across to St Kilda Road. It will be gorgeous in the late afternoon.

Tomorrow, I'm having lunch with Lottie, my sister and brother, my brother in-law and my two gorgeous nieces. Yes, the little bitches. In Malvern. It was to be the Windsor, which would have suited me, but no. Malvern, it is.

* The play was full-on. Funny and sad. It was about families and sexual molestation.
It was about death and surviving. It was about the games families play. Half way through, I realised it had Jason Donovan in it. He was good. The play was good.

End of the week, Friday night

I went and bought Bob Dylan's Modern Times. I read a review that declared it an instant classic. I used to listen to Bob Dylan, as a kid.

I used to listen to Pink Floyd, David Bowie, Deep Purple... Bette Midler – well, the gay gene had to surface some where along the line.

I've always had a retro heart; old is good, I guess I'll come to believe that more and more as the years pass. Any wonder I love old cars and old houses. Hell, Mark was eleven, is eleven, years older than me. He used to call me his Nicholas Nickleby.

I bought Neil Young's Harvest, another childhood memory.
I bought Sam Cooke,
Michael Jackson's Live in Budapest,
Angie Stone's Live in Vancouver,
All cheap... gotta love JB Hi-Fi.

Cute Neil, behind the counter, with the sandy hair and the blokey voice, enthused about Sam Cooke, "What a great singer, mate." Then he recommended a Marvin Gaye cd they had on special, but JB's was 1000 degrees and I'd already had a headache for most of the day.

I was heading to the video shop to get TransAmerican, ah well, maybe next Friday.

The head ache started from my state of starvation for my diabetes test, this morning. It took two hours. A blood test, followed by a diabetic test - just to be sure (look I made it thus far, mate, no matter what you might be thinking now) - follow it with a drink of sugary muck – without having a diabetic turn - wait 1 hour, another blood test, wait another hour, another blood test.

My doc threw in a cholesterol and prostate cancer blood test, while we were at it. Can’t waste that state of starvation. So, I guess the worst case scenario is that I’ll turn out to be a diabetic, cancer patient who is in immanent danger of having a heart attack.

Wish me luck.

So I didn’t eat until midday and I’d had the head ache ever since and, however long it would take in the heat of JB to find, another CD that I didn’t really need was just too much to think about.

I needed Mersyndol (one of my favourite drugs) not Marvin Gaye.

Did I ever tell you about the obese chick Josie, who had boils hidden in the rolls of fat under her arms, with who I used to work years ago.

"I don't know why, it's not my diet," Josie would say, as she devoured a jam donut, with one inhale. She and I used to pop Mersyndol and some other pain killer, the name of which I can't remember now, which was her favourite, whenever we were having a stressful day. I used to take her antidepressants, too. "It just helps me be strong enough to take them, if you take them too," Josie would say. "You know, I don't feel like I'm so much on my own." They were little blue pills, I never felt any effect.

I bought red wine and passed out on the couch watching Angie Stone. Mark rang in that time to see how I was. All I really need now is to slot a current boyfriend into that picture and all would be well with the world. Curled on the couch together, on an end of the week Friday.

Friday, September 01, 2006

Laugh and the world laughs

I was keeping an eye on my boss, as I had to get some payments to clients authorised. He was talking to someone. I looked away momentarily and he was gone.

I came out and said to the girls, who sit outside his office, He was there a minute ago? I looked incredulous.

Clare replied, Just like a 3 year old... near water, she laughed.

If only, I replied.

They howled me down, saying I was awful.

I wanted to tell them about the hyper-active three year old who lived under me, when I lived in that small, sea-side village, in Italy. (His parents were cousins, which was no great surprise to me) I used to call him hell-child; it used to spit, scream and bite. He was some Tasmania Devil piece of work. One of my duties, in exchange for my board, was to take him for an afternoon walk. I used to walk him down to the sea-shore, where the crystal blue Mediterranean water lapped at the sand and leave him there.

The little bastard used to always follow me home.

My better judgment told me the girls from work weren't ready for that story.

The Nuffy on the tram

The no 86 tram; it's the tourists and the passes-through who give the 86 a bad name. Yeah? There's nothing quite like it for, shall we say, a cross section? Shall we say a multitude? Shall we say flotsam and jetsam. The 86 tram is the reason why I walk, most mornings. You never know who you are going to meet and I don't mean that in a god way... er, good way. I don't like people that much, to want to be amongst them no matter what, so I walk, as I explained to a rather, incredulous, girl at work. She said, you're kidding, aren't you? I'm not sure if she believed me when I said I wasn't. He, he, he.

The nuffies on the tram, you gotta love them, gotta write about them, I couldn't make characters up like them. This mornings choice pick - she had eyes like a snake's, although sunken, because of her high cheek bones. She had a desperate need to connect.

"Hon, hon," she said pointing to the vacant seat next to her, with everyone woman who got on, (A demented lesbian? Aren't they all) who stood. All the "nice" girls declined.

"I'm getting off at the next stop," said the nice lady in the Chanel power suit. (Which I noted, was more like 6 stops later)

"Hon, hon," she said again, when the stylish lady lawyer, with short, cropped black as coal, hair came into her orbit.

"No, I'm fine, thanks." Wide eyes, look of disbelief, horror even. The lady lawyer clung to the pole by the door, as though she may be made to do something against her will, at any minute.

Nuffy Girl looked like one of those stereotypical alien beings; big eyes, small mouth - because she had no teeth - triangular face, with skin pulled so tightly across her it that her skin looked shiny and unnatural. She looked like she had been the victim of a scurrilous plastic surgeon. She had a large skin disfigurement running up the side of her neck, across the bottom of her chin. An over-sized beanie, which made her pixie features look even more pixieish, completed the picture.

It's funny, and I mean that in the ironic sense, that she was full of contentment, she only wanted the best for people, in her vicinity and all of the "normal" people visibly recoiled.

Her spindly fingers wrapped around her over-sized coffee cup like tentacles, when her concern was not taken with someone else's wellbeing, as she sipped contentedly, nodding her head, as if she was listening to some imaginary music. There was nothing in those eyes. She seemed to be smiling, she looked happy, but there was no connection to anything to make it so.
Insanity, sitting two seats away from me.

"It's rain'n." She gazed mindlessly out of the tram window again. She patted the vacant seat next to her, as another gal worked on by. She was failure contained; systemic failure, just looking. I wondered how many people in her life had failed her. I suspected I knew.

"It's really raining," she said, as her gaze returned to her seating companions.

They all looked else where, suddenly fascinated with some minute detail of the day, in the opposite direction.

I looked out the window at the clear, blue sky.