Sunday, February 28, 2010

The good son

I spent most of y'day with my mum. I made her lunch and dinner, as I'm not sure how capable she is now.  I've kind of given into it - I'll have to spend half my life looking after her. It probably won't be for very long, not in the bigger scheme. I've just got to relax, not fight it, it's much easier. We went shopping. We laughed. We told each other stories all day, sitting at the kitchen table, all washed down with tea.
She asked me questions about her disease and I gave her answers. She told me not to be rediculous and that she would never forget me. That bought tears to my eyes. She didn't remember that we'd had this question and answer session before.
Then I headed to the country, smoked pot and Watched Sex in the City. And fell asleep on the couch.
I watched a Friends marathon until late.

I woke up after midday. Lovely.
The wind blows through the gum trees, the sun shines down. Free as a bird, that's how I feel up here.

Saturday, February 27, 2010

We were lucky we weren't stabbed

We went out for dinner, Sebastian, Shane, D, Liz and I. It was Sebastian's birthday. I was promised the best food in town and I think I got it. A chef friend of Sebastian’s, degustation was the menu. South Bank. We had wine with every course, we drank a shit load, everyone was maggoted by the, six hundred and fifty dollars later, end.
It was a trip crossing the Yarra pedestrian bridge at 3am in the morning, with three drunken queens, who insisted on walking arm in arm, even if Shane did get a hot Irish boy to say his name three times, in his sexy accent. The water sparkled under the lights a gentle wind blew up the river. The sky was black and shiny over head, dotted with stars.
The Flinders Street underpass was full of drunk straight boys pissing up against the yellow tiled walls. Of course, Shane and Sebastian propositioned every one of them. There were lots of out-of-it faces, people stepping over other people, struggling through. Dragging on joints with screwed up faces, eyes rolling, looking giddy, staggering, smiling.
Then we were on the corner of Elizabeth and Flinders, bright lights, cameras, action. Suddenly, out into the open with people and cars and noise and movement. Catch a taxi, walk? There were girls and boys everywhere with the drunk gay boys hitting on anyone who looked in their direction. I can't believe we made it out.

Friday, February 26, 2010

Beauty queen cites Bible for gay death

Another US beauty queen has caused controversy with an anti-gay rant — this time citing Bible passages that call for death to homosexuals.

Miss Beverly Hills said she would remain a virgin until marriage and shunned drugs despite partying with the likes of Paris Hilton. She then answered questions about same-sex marriage.

"In Leviticus it says, 'if man lies with mankind as he would lie with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination — they shall surely be put to death and their blood shall be upon them'," she was quoted as saying. "If God says that having sex with someone of the same gender is going to bring death upon you, that's a pretty stern warning … and he knows more than we do about life."

So, she's allowed to condone the death of gay men for being gay.
But, if I said that a vacuous beauty queen like this bitch deserved rape for prancing about in her underwear, I'd be considered a monster.

I've had a joint, can you tell? First one in two months, that's not bad huh? I'm impressed. Of course, there is the emotional come down later, but hey...

Thursday, February 25, 2010

Have I offended you?

S, my favourite employee at work, was discussing with me something I'd written on facebook.
"The stuff you write cracks me up," said S.
Of course, I kind of liked that.
S and I just had this shine for each other from the very first moment we met one another. She's cute and bubbly and funny and we just liked each other from the beginning.

Beck waded in and said to me that she was going to disconnect from my facebook page because she couldn't have other people reading what I write. She butted in to S and my conversation, saying it twice.

"Fine," I said. "I really don't care that much about it, whatever you like."
Be my friend, don't be my friend, I really don't take it that seriously. Whatever makes you happy.

And I really don't care, I find Facebook dull and boring and a complete disappointment. I think it's stupid and I only write stupid things on it. Aby and I communicate on it and we can get quite black in our humour. Ab's humour is as dark as mine.

The funny thing is that I only connected with Beck recently, kind of against my better judgement. But, she and I had talked about it quite a lot and it seemed silly after working together for nine years to be talking about it quite so much and not to hook up as friends.
However, apart from S, I wouldn't connect with anybody else from work, I was making an exception. As Shane told people at his work when they tried to connect with him on Facebook, my private life is my private life and I'd like to keep it that way.

Mostly, I find that alot of people have a lot of really boring things to say on Facebook. There's not enough space to elaborate, you can only write so much, which usually turns out to be the equivalent of shopping lists, or something equally as boring.

But then I thought about it. I never write on Beck's page, or normally anyone else's for that matter, I write on my own and people respond to it. So, only people I have made friends can read what I have written, there is no chance of Beck's family ever reading it. So, either she is being a complete techno moron, which I doubt but it's possible, or the other conclusion is that I have offended Beck herself. Which is odd because Beck isn't a prude, she has a good sense of humour, I would never have thought she would be offended by anything I say. She thinks alot like I do.

There are two other reasons, more esoteric - the one that rules the world so well now, it has been implemented by pollies and capitalism and it has hit like a virus and infected nearly all of us, fear. I do write "off coloured" things, it amuses me and certain friends who have black senses of humour encourage me and join in. Some people are fearful of "off coloured" things today.
The other is conservatism. We're all getting much more beige and old fashioned, more so than we used to be, we're nearly back to the 1950's on that one. So writing "nice" things, I suspect, is much more excepted, people are more comfortable with that.

I told Shane and he responded with, "You know, the level at which you are offended is way different to most people's, you know that."

I was going to go in and de-friend Beck tonight myself, I'd rather she wasn’t a friend if she thinks I’m offending her, or whoever it is she thinks is going to be offended. I didn’t really want her as a friend anyway, not particularly, I just thought it was the right thing to do. See where it gets you, doing the right thing.
Anyway, I’ve come up with something really offensive now, so let’s see what that does.

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

Tuesday, February 23, 2010

Jerry gets Mac

Jerry grabbed Mac around the back of the neck and pushed him with all his energy towards the ground. Jerry could feel his teeth grind together and his lips pout so hard they hurt. Mac resisted at first but then he began to shake, with the resistance he was putting up against Jerry's arm. Mac groaned, as Jerry groaned, with the strain until his legs gave way and he collapsed down onto his knees on the floor with a clunk. Jerry dug his fingers into the base of Mac's skull as he pulled him along the floor towards him. Mac's kneecaps clacked on the wooden floor, as he tried to walk on them, but Jerry pulled too hard and Mac kind of skipped and tripped as he was dragged along.
"You are disgusting," Jerry spat. He rubbed Mac's pointy nose along the crack in his arse. Mac grunted in revulsion up behind Jerry.
"Go on eat it you little Jesus misfit, you piece of filth, you know you want to."
Jerry slid Mac’s face up and down. Jerry stuck his arse out like he might if he was taking a shit in a field.

Jerry was bigger than Mac, more muscular and easily dominated him. When Mac’s chin was above the top of Jerry’s arse cheeks, Jerry forced Mac's face downwards again, like cheese on a grater. Jerry ground Mac’s pointy nose down. Mac’s beak hooked the elastic of Jerry’s briefs sliding them right off him, Jerry could feel Pinocchio’s point parting the dark sea just as Mosses had done.

Jerry pulled Mac’s face hard into his crack.
“Lick you little homophobic fuck! Taste it!”
Mac whimpered as his mouth fell open and his tongue protruded like a fat, pink slug.
“This is the last time you slag off gay men for being gay men,” whispered Jerry. “The last time you make others lives unhappy with your lies... when all the time you are...”
Mac grunted in the affirmative and pushed his engorged tongue as deep as he could into Jerry’s crack, as though he was feasting for the first time on forbidden fruit, which he was.
“Fucker!” moaned Jerry. “I knew you wanted to, you little bitch.”
Mac lapped in a frenzy like a starved cat at a saucer of milk.
Jerry ground Mac's face as if he was grinding it into the dirt. He moaned loudly as Mac did his work.
Mac licked; his mouth, his cheek, his chin wet with his own saliva.

Jerry turned suddenly and grabbed Mac by his armpits and lifted him up until they were face to face. They held each other’s gaze. They both scowled, breathing heavily. Still. Silent.
Mac smiled. “I love it when you talk dirty.”
Jerry tousled Mac's hair. “I want you to be a missionary. An Amish boy.”
Jerry’s mouth was suddenly on Mac’s, kissing him passionately.
“Dress me up as Poland and invade me,” said Mac, panting.
“Where’s your boy scout uniform? I wouldn’t look so good with a small black moustache.” Jerry ran his two fingers from the bottom of his nose to his lip.
“But the uniform would make me wet.”
“You’d give me your cookies.”
Mac grabbed the sides of Jerry's face with both his hands and kissed him long and slow.
“I want you to use me as your toilet,” Mac said, imitating a vampire.
“Suddenly you sound like Igor.”
Mac pulled his arm up so that his hand was under his armpit. He contorted his face and breathed heavily and noisily. “Master! Use me as your slave boy.”
Jerry pushed Mac up against the wall and explored the inside of his mouth with his tongue.
Jerry laughed as they pulled apart. “You taste like my arse,” he said in a Cockney accent.

Monday, February 22, 2010

The 11th Doctor

Did I tell you that Josh and I had a falling out?
Oh, he used my place as a drop in centre once too often, I called him on it, he didn't like it. Well, I think that's what happened? I'm not really sure now what, actually, happened. Something strange.
Now that I think about it, it was because I was dealing with David's crap all over the house and I just didn't want a house guest. Can't remember but, you know Josh, sometimes it just isn't about you.

Time passed. I went interstate for New Year. I didn't drop into see him which was on my way. I would have, I wanted to, but... I feared that he might have said that he didn't want me to, so I didn't.
There was silence.
So, I made a few moves to heal the rift, texts, email.
He said there wasn't a problem. But still silence.
The very nature of our comunications, friendship had changed. You didn't have to be fucken Eienstien.
Anyway, it seemed to me that he resisted my moves towards reconciliation, so I made no more attempts.
Fuck him, I thought. He had no real reason to be pissed off with me in the first place any way.

Time passed. We've been friends for years. Silence.
He, finally, text me yesterday - what 3 months later - saying he was in Melbourne and did I want to catch up for a drink, or dinner.
I text him back, Who is this? I couldn't help myself. It made me laugh.

Sebastian came over and cooked us a beef and pomegranate salad, it was fucking beautiful. Cheese, red wine, naturally. There are advantages, obviously, having a chef for a friend.

Josh got dinner too, a great way for me to bring him back into the bosom, and I didn't have to do a thing. Ha, ha. Oh yes, he text back and said I was far too clever for my own fucking good, and he made me invite him formally for dinner. So, I guess, we're friends again.

Everyone is amazed about David. Shane and I just shrug, mumble something about messy cunt and say no more.
(We have a house rule, no bitching about housemates to the outside world, secret blog withstanding, you understand)

Sunday, February 21, 2010

I have to admit, if I was honest, I sat in front of my computer and looked at porn for 50% of the day. Shameful, I know. Well, not shameful in a moralistic kind of way, shameful in a waste of time kind of way. The productive things I could have been doing?
I spent the other 50% writing, but that hardly seems to make up for it. I could study for a degree in the time I waste on the net.

Saturday, February 20, 2010

I've drunk nearly two litres of orange juice - freshly squeezed, pulp included - to drown my tonguing for a little red vino. I’ve been a bit salivatory for it all day, since I saw tonight’s bottles on the bench this morning. Who’d have fucken thought? Me, the last of the non-drinkers.
The orange juice seems to have worked though.
I’m going to have to steer clear of it next week, have a break. Me and Shane are still getting through a bottle a night. Sometimes more. So easy. Any wonder my bike riding isn’t having any effect on my belt buckle.

I’m getting back into Doctor Who. I was obsessed as a kid, but I haven’t watched any of the new series'. I went and bought the first series and I’m taking Shane there with me. Red wine, Doctor Who, does it get better?
The first doctor of the new series, Christopher Eccleston, is kind of hot. There is something cheekily sexy about him. Great smile.
David Tennant is okay too, in the you-like-your-brother kind of way.

Friday, February 19, 2010

Thursday, February 18, 2010

First morning to myself

Oh my Gard! (said in an annoying American accent) my first morning since David has moved out. It is so nice to have the house to myself. Morning solitude, it's bliss. Shane's at work. Peace and quiet.
No David demanding my attention. Look at me, look at me, look at me. No David telling me what he's doing. This fabulous thing and that fabulous thing. No David wanting to chat. What are you doing? Am I anoying you? No David telling me his life story first up. Now back to me, back to me. No David putting the TV on to eat his breakfast, and then leaving it blaring when he goes back to his room. No David crashing about. No David talking on his phone. No David putting Tibetan fucking monk chants on loud, crashing symbols, chanting, going OM, lighting incense to appease the gods, spirits, spooks, the eternal, higher power, universal life force.
I'm the only one who is going to be home during the day. Yay! I'm not going to live with a non-nine to fiver again, I want it to myself. Not that I am looking for anyone to move in. David worked nights and weekends, so he was always home during the day.
Everything just feels so different. How do I explain it? Peace and quiet and I know it's all mine, all day - of course, I have to go see my mum - to enjoy. The world seems like mine, which it's not going to be interupted any time soon.

I told Beck and Mark that it still felt like a failure, of sorts. You know, David and I have known each other for a long time... They both told me that I was soft...  almost with exactly the same tone, roll of the eyes and tut of the tongue.

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

I did go to church. The roof did cave in. The priest got such a shock he pulled his finger right out of the choir boy's arse. It made a plop sound.

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

Free as the Wind

Duty stops you from doing what you like. Duty kills the free spirit

Monday, February 15, 2010

Oh Paris – I know, I wouldn't normally be swayed by this, but the trashiness was just way too much to resist

You been wondering what's happened to Paris Hilton now her 15 minutes is up? Well, she's been promoting a beer brand in Brazil. And she got right into the spirit of things so it would seem.
In town for a pre-Carnivale party, Paris sampled a large portion of the product, Devassa beer, herself. Accordingly, she decided to take her spokeswoman role to the limit, by dancing wildly onstage, throwing her head around and baring her g-string to the world through her very short, tight, see-through dress.


Oh, I don't know? I seem to be having trouble writing at the moment, so maybe a little trashy pop culture could do as a filler.

My writing mojo seems to have left me, so maybe I might just do other things for a while. Pictures, music, crap, anything.

Maybe nothing.

We'll see.

To tell you the truth, I've been struggling since I gave up pot. That's the truth. Seems it was my muse, it allowed me to be creative, relax and just write. Now my writing inspiration is like a puckered arse. You'd think after six months I'd be... problem was, is, I hit it hard over New Year.  Now I seem to be back to square one.
Maybe, it's time to go visit the doc for those happy pills he tried to give me last year when I first stopped and felt the blues? He said go on them for a short time and it would help even it all out, smooth it all over, heal it all.

I'll see.

Been hitting the red wine hard too... trouble is, it doesn't make me creative, it just makes me pissed. Bigger problem is that, where I never really liked alcohol much, I seem to be liking it more and more. I'm getting the taste for it...
Speaking of which...
... have a geeze at Paris above, that's me most nights around midnight. Big smile! Ha, ha. If only for a few lazy hundred million, I too could fall down in style.

By the way, what's happened to the spell checker on this new version of editor? I thought I'd find it by now, but it remains a fucken mystery?

Sunday, February 14, 2010

Mind Games

Some times when I get up in the middle of the night and I slip quietly into the bathroom half asleep and I sit down on the toilet, I sound like a girl pissing there in the dark.

It sends a shiver up a boy's spine.

Saturday, February 13, 2010

Openly Gay

You know, I so object to the term "openly gay." It's like there is a qualification still needed, like there is an alternative reality. I mean, we know there is an alternative reality, but it is a reality upheald by the people who use the term "openly gay."
It implies that there is something daring about being out and proud. How dare he? If you like, the very use of this term puts gay people back in their box, don't get above yourself, as we know most "of your kind" aren't open about your perversion. At the extreme case, it stops people from being openly gay as it implies there is a more normal state of being for gay people.
It is objectionable.

Let's face it, the only thing that is "openly gay" is your arse when you are on your knees taking a cock up it.

Friday, February 12, 2010

Oh my god, everyone is spoon fed now a days. The do-gooders are winning, taking control of the nut house, with these kinds of politically correct messages at the end of every suicide story. Poor old Australia, we’re being weighed down by the rules.

"Readers seeking support and information about suicide prevention can contact Lifeline on 13 11 14 or SANE Helpline on 1800 18 SANE (7263) or visit"

Why are we so frightened of suicide? Isn't the ultimate act of taking control of your life.

The truth is that maybe we should all suicide at a certain age? You know, when the vitality goes, the life wanes and the fun stops. I guess, that intellectually, could be different ages for different people.

But, what on earth possess us to want to be half-crippled eighty year olds? I don’t know.
"Not dead yet!" we say as we hobble to the corner. Can't see, can't hear, can't remember, but still fucken alive.

Thursday, February 11, 2010


The last time I cried... was when somebody told me the truth.

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

Why Is It So Humid So Early In The Day?

It was too hot to walk today. Sticky, wet. I'm so sick of feeling that feeling as I walk off up Gertrude Street; sweat glistening across my chest, I can feel it shine. I can feel it drip.

So I caught the tram. Oh the tram boys, how I've missed you so. Suits. Crisp white shirts. Ties.

Brushed hair. Smiles. White teeth. Freshly showered, you can almost smell the talc. Pants that are tight on the thigh and which fit across their sexy arses. Mm, mm!

Sitting down opposite, the hot wogboy in a pinstripes. The lines on his trousers converged right on his plump nuts. I could barely stop myself from looking.

The cute Aussie standing next to me seated, blue pants tight across his bulge. I would have only have to have moved my head centimetres. Slurp.

The gorgeous Asian boy with the sexy arse. I'd tongue that until he moaned, no need to be asked twice. He caught me looking. He tried not to smile, but he did. Which made me smile, even when I tried not to.

Bye Bye, it's Been Rich and Real

The heat makes me cranky, I know, I feel it, somebody stop me.

David's gearing up to move out. I can't wait for him to go, to tell you the truth. One week.
I'm so over him, the me, me, me. There is so little natural generosity, from being a spoilt child. I'm really not sure how that really works as a teacher? It is the glory bestowed upon him by his students.
You know, the quirks that you found charming at the beginning of a relationship (living together for 3 years, which is the relationship I am talking about, as we've know each other for many more years than that) are usually the ones that shit you the most at the end. It's true. The slow burn, continual, incessant focus on himself. It eventually wears you down.

The humidity makes me cranky, I know. I gnash my teeth in the heat, I can't help it.

Cup runneth over

Are you only wealthy if you feel wealthy?

Tuesday, February 09, 2010

Makes me nervous

Nerves make me sweat, down my neck, down my face, across my chest, across my back. I can’t help it, I sweat. Drip, drip. I’d make a lousy drug mule out of Bali, I’d get stopped no doubt. Locked away, Bali 9. That body bandage would slip right off. The condom would probably shoot right out of my arse, into the customs Lesbos lap. The world should legalise drugs, just to take away the doubt. I’d make a lousy con artist, even kids would pick me out. The pen would slide around in my hand, as I signed the dodgy contract, as my arms pits started to gush. More is the pity. If ever I’m heading into a meeting that I feel nervous about, I can feel the back of my shirt stick to my back. Grrr! It’s why I’m not good at lying, especially on a hot day. I’d fib and the next minute I’d glisten, easy to pick out. I’d lie and my undies would vacuum seal up my crack. I’d bend the truth and even my feet would sweat, if I had no socks on I’d be hardly able walk. Squelch, squelch.
I can’t imagine how I’d go with an axe, chop, chop, chop... when he was done, he gave his mother forty one! The axe would probably slip out of my hand, if the anger went off the boil.
“They’d” take one look at me and “they’d” know.
“Guilty! Guilty! Guilty! Guilty! Guilty!”
I guess it’s a good reason why most of the time I’m accused of being too honest, too blunt, too forthright. It’s just fucken fear.

Monday, February 08, 2010

Jerry Bravo

Red, red wine
Go to my head
Make me forget that I
Still need her so

Red, red wine
It's up to you
All I can do, I've done
But mem'ries won't go
No, mem'ries won't go

I'd have thought
That with time
Thoughts of her
Would leave my head
I was wrong
And I find
Just one thing makes me forget

Red, red wine
Stay close to me
Don't let me be alone
It's tearin' apart
My blue, blue heart

Red red wine you make me feel so fine
You keep me rocking all of the time

Red red wine you make me feel so grand
I feel a million dollars when your just in my hand

Red red wine you make me feel so sad
Any time I see you go it makes me feel bad

Red red wine you make me feel so fine
Monkey pack him rizla pon the sweet dep line

Red red wine you give me whole heap of zing
Whole heap of zing mek me do me own thing

Redred wine you really know how fi love
Your kind of loving like a blessing from above

Red red wine I love you right from the start
Right from the start with all of my heart

Red red wine in a 80's style
Red red wine in a modern beat style, yeah


Give me little time, help me clear up me mind
Give me little time, help me clear up me mind

Give me red wine because it make me feel fine
Mek me feel fine all of the time

Red red wine you make me feel so fine
Monkey pack him rizla on the sweet dep line

The line broke, the monkey get choke
Burn bad rizla pon him little rowing boat

Red red wine I'm gonna hold to you
Hold on to you cause I know you love true

Red red wine I'm gonna love you till I die
Love you till I die and that's no lie

Red red wine can't get you out my mind
Where ever you maybe I'll surely find
I'll surely find make no fuss jus' stick with us.


Red red wine you really know how fi love
Your kind of loving like a blessing from above

Red red wine I love you right from the start
Right from the start with all of my heart

Red red wine you really know how fi love
Your kind of loving like a blessing from above

Red red wine you give me whole heap of zing
Whole heap of zing mek me do me own thing

Red red wine in a 80's style

Red red wine in a modern beat style, yeah.

Sunday, February 07, 2010

Lemon & Lime

Hey Ab

I saw Aby yesterday, it was good to see her, it's been... um... too long. Her friend Kel was there too. Kel's great. And I got to see Ruby for the first time. She's nearly one, next month. She has huge brown eyes and she looks at you intently, like she's really sizing you up, getting your measure. (I guess she gets that from her mother) She's not a crawler, apparently, but she sits with a very straight back surveying everyone in the room, closely. She seems like such a happy child.
Ab’s down from Sydney for a few weeks, she’s having trouble with Ruby’s father and is avoiding him for a bit. He never lived up to his promises about Ruby. Ab gave him free reign to be in Ruby's life as much as he wanted or as little as he wanted. She asked for no money from him. Well, he never turned up when he said he would. He missed times and missed weekends to be with Ruby. He never did any of the things he said he would, until Ab told him he was crap and that she wasn't so interested in continue making room for him. Once Ab withdrew visiting rights, rights he never honoured once, he started to fight her for custody rights. You know, just because he thinks he has a right to the baby.
It’s funny how men think they have as many rights as the mother does, when it’s the mother who does all the work.
Anyway, it was good to see Aby, good to hear her no nonsense views on life. I've missed her.
Why do we all have to work in soul destroying jobs if we don't want to? Why do we have to all be the same? Why can't we pursue our passions?
It’s the myth to happiness, said Kel. Industry fodder it's all "they" want us to be.
Ab understood when I said I was giving my mother the next few years, where once she was all for me quitting work and writing and not trading my soul. She shrugged. You’ll have the rest of your life, once your mum's dead.
We talked about Alzheimers and the need for really good euthanasia laws. We laughed that we should be the ones to chose, if "they" needed a panel of experts. None of us could really believe that assisted suicide is still illegal.
If you are chronically ill and want to end it, why shouldn't you have the people who love you there with you, I said. Who cares if they pass the green drink, or the pill bottle?
Even if you're not chronically ill, said Ab, even if you're just tired, why not? It's your life.
Beats a hoze and an exhaust pipe when nobody is looking.
We all laughed.
I think Ab’s mellowed with the kid, as she said she was doing the same with Ruby, giving her the next few years.
I’m giving it a go for the next five years, living on a single mother’s pension, said Ab. We should all live on pensions to pursue our creative endeavours.
The trouble is that pensions don’t pay enough.
You know what I mean, we should all work less and follow our passions more. We all get locked into working and mortgages and wanting more, until suddenly it is thirty years later and our lives have slipped away.
We’re all presented with a beige, one size fits all, future, we all accept beige, we all turn beige, I said. School, uni, work, kids, death for everybody. You pay for it all, no free rides, kept in debt, kept fearful by the politicians and the media, so you don’t have the time, or the will, to think outside the middle class paradigm. And you better be goddam happy with your lot too, cause drugs and booze are definietly not allowed.
Kel says she can’t discuss these ideas with her old friends, as they are all lawyers and investment bankers working for the “cause”, working for their first triple heart bypass. She laughed. She said they are all now beginning to look old. They’ve already had their life bypass. They now look blankly at her when she talks about being an artist. She laughed again. You can see it in their faces, You’re not ticking any boxes here for us Kel.
We ate Middle Eastern food and drank wine. The later Star Wars movies played on the teev, which we all agreed were crap. Ab said Avatar was really good and recommended we go see it.
The three of us said how none of us watch the television news any longer, we’d come to that decision independently of each other.
It’s just the world psycho drama exaggerated to the max, I said.
Nothing but reality TV for me now a days. And of course kids shows.
Why let misery into your life, said Kel. Seven days a week.
Kel, who lives just near me, and I told Ab how the tourists have now ruined Fitzroy. That Gertrude Street was now full of idiots desperately looking for the latest thing and a good time, suddenly it's not cool any more, the G.P. have seen to that. I told her how I was now just beginning to think about moving to Brunswick. It wont happen this year, and probably not next year, but I'm begining to look.
We talked about how the world was now 90% tossers, that people are becoming more annoying not less. Consumerism and fear, is de rigueur de jour. We wondered if it was us, maybe we're just getting older and grumpy? We hoped that wasn't the case.
We laughed at being some of the few perfect people left in the world. We drank more wine and plotted the father of the child's death. Through meditation and karma and calls to the universe and dance, you understand, not through any violent means. Pins, felt dolls and feathers, over a flame, at a pinch

Saturday, February 06, 2010

Life's a circus, old chum

It's funny how the fat chick hangs out with the post operative transsexual at work. It's a freak show most days – grossly fat, criminally ugly. It's like being back at school where the rejects, the misfits, the ugly and the lame just seemed to gravitate together - when we all hoped like hell that we wouldn't be one of them. Fat and skinny. If Laurel and Hardy were ever to do drag, I know what they'd look like.
The fat chick usually dresses in miniskirts and platform shoes which she teeters about on. She's a weird shape and her dress style does her no favours, giving her the appearance of being wider than she is tall. I don't know what she must see when she looks in the mirror in the morning. There's some sort of body dysphoria going on there. Has to be. Nobody dresses in the clothes of a 50 kilo seventeen year old when they are a 100 kilo forty year old unless there is a serious disconnect happening.
The tranny dresses like a high class hooker most of the time, I'm sure there would be woman envious of her wardrobe. She looks so different to how she looked as a man with her collagen lips and her fake boobs. Something else has happened to her face, though, I'm not sure what. There is some other difference, which is not altogether normal. I swear, if she catches me off guard, says hello out of the blue, I'm pretty certain I know how Doctor Frankenstein felt when I look around.
Don’t get me wrong, I like them both, they are both nice girls. It’s just a kind of weird throw back to being picked last for team sports, or something. They would have been the ones who nobody wanted.
Ah, they make quite a pair, clinging together. Often literally, arm in arm.

I'm thankful that my deviation is something quite ordinary now, well, in the world I inhabit, anyway. I guess the hanged boys in Iran wouldn't agree, as the guys from fifty years ago wouldn't agree either. I'm glad mine isn't obvious and that I can wear it well.
What must it like to be normal? Who knows? Are any of us? Do I even want to be? What did Bette Midler say about fried eggs? Some people carry them on the inside, some people carry them on the outside.
Do I wonder how the straight, hetro male lives his life, like the persecuted gays wonder how I live mine?

Friday, February 05, 2010

Misty morning

It was glorious walking to work this morning in the rain with my umbrella, where the last few mornings I was dripping with sweat from the heat by the time I got to my office.
The city looked incredible from my 32nd story window, it seemed like I was above the clouds looking down on them filling the gaps between the buildings below me.

It's rainy grey. The low slung clouds, the mist, float through the city buildings like smoke from a far off fire. Drifting. And it is a fire, the fires of the earth, heat meeting cold, high meeting low, the scorched earth of the last few days being doused and wet, steaming in response, with today’s rain. It's like dragons are hiding down every gutter, exhaling furiously. Brown and grey is their breath in the horizontal sheets of morning sun; smoke stacks amongst the skyscrapers, hidden in every shadow, around every corner. Clouds of puff sitting suspended in mid air, breaking into fingers, feeling their way around the mortar, and strands, hanging from every gargoyle and bauble. Labyrinths of metal and glass standing like sentries side by side, steaming.
The morning clouds drifted out from the buildings to the bay, suddenly, seemingly in wafts, where they dissapeared. Blown away by the cool of the sea? Nothing to impede their going, nothing to stop the gusts behind them, sending them back upwards to where they belong. Up, up to meet the blue once again.

Last vice standing

Cheap red wine, we're drinking cheap red wine. All other vices have been purged, discontinued, vanquished, until what we are left with is cheap red wine. I seem to be able to drink half a bottle and not feel pissed. I'm not sure if that is a good thing or a bad thing. Shane and I seem to have a couple of bottles on the go. Sometimes we drink it out of pots, sometimes we drink it out of tumblers. Never wine glasses of the stem variety, too easy to break. (thank you Gabriel)

Thursday, February 04, 2010

Other guys from my past I haven't thought of in ages - Craig Dempsey

Saturday night clubbing, just going out to dance and then there he was across the dance floor.
Do you wear your emotions like your clothes? – they fit you well. I’d like to touch your emotions and know you, like I’d like to feel how your jeans do up just so, and know them too. You look fine in your shirtless presence and your dance is sexy, as is your smile. Black jeans, is there a sexier look on a boy? Is there much space between them and you, as you smile at me and I can do nothing but smile back.
We’ve gazed often at each other, your mouth breaks into a grin, in a crooked kind of way; nicely crooked, your lips should always be that way. Your face is strong in delight, perceived or not. I like to see you smile, so I can too. I feel I know you when you smile, or would like to, or will. There is innocence in your eyes, framed behind glasses and I steal a look at you, as you seem to steal a look at me.
I spy you as you dance with a friend. He kisses you, nonchalantly, as friends do and his hand gently rubs down your neck. Your eyes are passive as you are kissed and you look serene as lips meet your lips, like you should be kissed, kissed often. All your life is in your mouth for as long as the kiss lasts; life and you are for kissing. I wonder if your brain sparks, or trembles; you look so composed, as red flesh lingers on red flesh, shiny, shiny. I wonder what sort of kiss makes you tremble, makes you tingle, makes the elastic of your underwear tighter?; unnoticed under black denim that fits you well. I wonder what your saliva tastes like? If your tongue is always moist, always red? Fat. Warm. Big. Do your teeth feel like marble, like porcelain, like lacquer, like tombstones? Are they flat and smooth and thick across the biting surface, or uneven and ridged, if there are lots of them even, double as I venture to the back of your mouth with my tongue.
How do you breathe as you’re being kissed, in strong, slow breaths, stronger as you exhale? If I could make your breathing change, what would make it short and sharp, where would I have to touch you?
Your eyes open, as the kiss is extinguished, slowly and you smile, as you catch me looking, your sexy smile is once more. You dance on amongst the bodies on the dance floor under the flashing lights.
Your eyes find me, look away. Find me, look away.
Your shoulders are thick and curvy, they bump out in the right places. Who has sucked on your nipples, who has bitten them, as lovers bite? Does having your nipples chewed, does having the skin on your chest sucked, make you breath differently? Longer on the inhale, shorter as the breath comes out? Does saliva, some other man’s saliva, glisten on your skin, on your lips, on your chin, do you wear it well? I can see you with pink, chewed circles around your nipples, glistening, telling the story of another man’s spit, from being sucked slowly, intently, luxuriously.
There you are dancing with your eyes closed and your nipples wet and red.
If I sucked your nipples and cupped the front of your black jeans could you dance in that sexy way that you do, for me? Would the hair on the back of your neck bristle with excitement, as my hand slides across it? Would your hips continue to groove in that languid way?
I think you’d be sexiest if you kept your brain half way to somewhere else; that your body could enjoy such sensations without your mind having to have control, as minds do. Sensations to be enjoyed but not thought about; let the sense of touch reign supreme, uninhibited by a minds keen interpretation.
If you continue to groove, eyes closed, half hard, it would be the sexiest dance of all.
A thickness about your legs and a dreamy expression.
You’re next to me. I’m touching you as you dance. My finger tips brushing your skin. Caress your bellybutton, as you groove to a distant beat. Caress the skin from there, radiating in circles to the top of your jeans, to your side, to your arm pit, you casually lift you arm. My flat hand holding your chest; rubbing slowly, holding one warm breast and then the other. Holding the skin on your neck between my teeth; your chest, the back of your neck between my teeth, your hair in my nostrils; the smell of you as you dance; your back against my chest and your arse against my jeans; we move silently in rhythm. I feel your form and dance with it caressing my senses. I have you there, your size, your heart, your smell, to dance together to wherever that may lead us.
I kissed you goodbye, our lips lingered together and I tasted you, you were sweet and moist. Your lips felt shiny and wet with life and I closed my eyes and existed only on your lips at that moment. So perfect. I thought of it as a prelude to more, to existing with you gently with ourselves and our skin and the fragrance of each other. How I’d gently like to wrap up with you in a quiet moment with warm, gentle sun on our skin, feeling every touch of our flesh together, in a long moment of softness and languor; feeling the hair on our legs together, our nipples touching, our tongues exploring and out strong arms around each other. Our lips moving in rhythm together, exploring, not a care.
I turned to leave, you took my hand, you didn’t let go.

Wednesday, February 03, 2010

Chop Sticks In My Hands

I'm eating sushi again. Wow, how many years is that? A few... since I overdosed on it. "Sushi overload, going down!" Up to here. I slash at my throat with a flat hand. It just seemed like the perfect meal, but then I ate it every night for how long? How many nights? When I get a taste for something... Oh, doesn't bare thinking about. Don't go back there.

And then blam! No more! I couldn't even stand the sight of it. Hands up, face turned sideways, grimace. But, here I am, back on the sushi horse once again, climbing the sushi mountain. I'm sure it's all a part of my get fit strategy. I haven't ridden my bike or run for the last few days, it's just been too hot.

I got the sushi with seaweed salad, which I love. Adore. Oh, obviously, otherwise I wouldn't have got it.

Raised eyebrows.

Hmm? Maybe, I don't have so much to say.

It's hard to type with chopsticks in your hand, anyway.

Put the salmon over my eyes and lean back and chant OM. Snort the wasabi. Big eyes! Roll the ginger into cylinders and slide them into my ears like ear plugs. Poke out my tongue. Pout my fish lips and pat down my scales. Floss with the seaweed salad - that reminds me of one of my favourite Sex in the City episodes, where Miranda gets her braces and goes out on a date where she gets something green, maybe spinach, stuck in her teeth. I remember I cacked myself, it was the funniest thing.

I don't think it was seaweed salad, but.

Miranda is my Sex and the City character, who's yours?

Tuesday, February 02, 2010

There's one in every crowd

Cute, huh? What a cute face. This so made me laugh, just the ridiculousness of it, I suppose. Ha, ha, aaah... it still makes me laugh.

That mouth, those eyes, that head, he kind of reminded me of someone? Then it dawned on me, and I guess this will sound kind of strange, but it's Con Zukas, my Greek buddy.

I guess that is weird? No, it is weird. Yes, it is. It's funny the things you see in completely non related objects/things/cartoonesque seals, even.
I haven't thought about him in a while. I wish I had a picture so, at least, half of you didn't think I was bonkers!

Blond, blondish, smiley Greek boy. Always happy. Always had something to say. He was always the athletic one... built like a whippet, as they say. He was a runner, a natural sports star. Fast, he was every where, he was always on the go. He had the best lower abdomen for jocks and soccer shorts, yes, I looked in the change rooms. Nobody looked as hot in his underwear as Con Zukas. He just had that turned up little arse and that bulge and those hips that bought it altogether like... like... oh, um... grin... self conscious laugh...
Of course, this is a seal, and, I guess, I should be slapped.
Funny the things you think, huh?
But, it's Con all right, unmistakable. It's the same cheeky grin.
He headed to Europe to play professional football.
He used to precum in buckets... like cobweb strands heavy with morning dew.
His mother knew he was a poofter. His dad threatened to kill him, if he found out that Con was a fag and I don't think he was kidding.
"My son can't be a degenerate pervert, I'd see him dead first."
See him dead first? Death was preferable? Where does that even come from? Your son is better off dead, actually dead, than in love with another man.
So, kind of understandably, Con decided the best thing for him to do was get the hell out of Australia.
He was one of the nicest people, that Con boy. I was sweet on him. He was sweet on me.
He had Tin Tin hair and a good heart, he had beautiful eyes and a wonderful grin. He had a way of tilting his head and puffing his cheeks out and smiling so sweetly when he looked at me that was so endearing.
I wonder if he married a girl to please his father?
I wonder if he ruined her life, if he did?
I wonder if he ruined his?

Monday, February 01, 2010

Michael Bublé smokes a joint or two and then gets the munchies. Shock! Horror!

OMG! This is soooooo funny. This is the worst dirt an ex can come up with? OMG! Michael Buble you scoundrel!
I want to marry him, you know, if the perfect penis turns out to be true. And even if it doesn't,  you know, he sounds like fun.

Cutie-pants singer Michael Bublé received a beating in the UK media today from his former girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend turned hairpiece maker (Fletch's note - does that not say it all?) Tiffany Bromley told the News of the World newspaper that the "clean cut" singer regularly smoked marijuana, swore and stuffed himself with biscuits and cakes when he got the "munchies" on pot. (Fletch's note - sounds like most of my friends)

She said, "Michael smoked up to three joints a day (Fletch's note - OMG! Three! How rock and roll!) when I was with him. He always had a couple in his wash bag ready to go. He claimed it was his way of winding down at the end of a day. (Fletch's note - and it is) But sometimes he started the day with one." (Fletch's note - sometimes? LOL! Like what, once a month? Once a year?)

She said that the singer defended his marijuana use by claiming it enhanced his creativity. (Fletch's note - and it does)

But she said the drugs had the potential to damage his singing: (Fletch's note - I don't think so) "He had a regular cough, and that's not good for a singer." (Fletch's note - if that were really true, most of the pop/rock singers would be voiceless)

In addition to the cough, the marijuana gave Bublé, 34, an appetite for huge quantities of food.

"It was part of Michael's day to smoke late at night. Then he always got hungry. He'd raid the hotel mini-bar and eat three or four Snickers bars in one go (Fletch's note - 3 or 4 snickers bars in one go... he's breaking all seven of the seven deadly sins, I see) — plus pistachios, peanuts, liquorice and sweets. (Fletch's note - 2 out of the four are, actually, good for him. Arguably, 3 are.) He had an enormous appetite."

"When I flew to see him in Los Angeles he made a point of making me bring a box of Canadian chocolate cream May West cakes for the band. (Fletch's note - generous too.) But after a smoke he munched his way through most of them like someone who hadn't eaten for months." (Probably with the rest of the band)

His embittered ex-girlfriend also spilt the beans on her love life with Bublé, including his claims to have the 'perfect penis'. (Fletch's note - So, does he have the perfect penis? We all want to know)

The Canadian singer is a favourite to win the Brit award for best International Male Solo Artist next month and is now engaged to Argentine soap star Luisana Loreley Lopilato de la Torre. (Fletch's note - oh, I see, engaged to another woman)

He and Bromley dated on and off for a decade. Bromley is also the chick who Michael Buble cheated with on his girlfriend Emily Blunt. Tiffany took photos of Michael naked in her bed which she posted on the net.

And yet, Michael seems to have been honest about all of his ex's claims, 3 years earlier

And yet, here's a 2007 interview where Michael is pretty honest about all of the things the ex claims in 2010. I think he beat you to the punch my luv.

Why have you drawn yourself as a superhero?
I’ve always wanted to be one. I had Spider-Man posters on my wall when I was young. I still have them. In the past two days I’ve watched 12 episodes of Heroes. It’s great.

What superpower would you want most?
To see through women’s clothing.

Like your mom’s?
That’s really sick; but with great power comes great responsibility.

What did you do last night?
I watched the Vancouver Canucks play in the first game of the playoffs against the Anaheim Ducks. This is really not interesting, is it?

Not really. How about this: It’s a typical Friday at 11 p.m. What are you doing?
I am on the couch falling asleep, because, well, I can’t tell you why, because it’s illegal.

How illegal?
Illegal enough. I’m burned out, usually. I’m not going to tell you more than that. By 11 o’clock, I’m pooped from what I’ve been doing all day. It makes a lot of things — like eating, sex and TV — more fun.

When was the first time you got drunk?
I was 11, on a fishing boat with my family, eating crabs. I asked my parents if I could have a rum and Coke and they said, “Well, why don’t you have as many as you’d like with us?” I puked all night.

If we drug-tested you, what would we find?
You know the answer. It would make up 50 percent of my molecules. You could probably just burn me right now and inhale, and we’d be hungry and everything would be better.

Would there be any legal drugs?
I’m on Nexium for heartburn; I use an inhaler for my asthma; and I get cold sores, so I use Denavir. I’m also wearing orthotics in my shoes right now. Seriously. I broke my ankle playing hockey. I’m like a 31-year-old man in an 80-year-old man’s body.

If you have asthma, why do you smoke?
Nobody likes a quitter.

What’s the worst mistake you ever made?
One time I was singing at a club, and these guys kept booing me, and at the end of the night I asked them to step outside. But they weren’t yelling “Boo! Boo!” — they were yelling “Lou! Lou!” because my drummer, Lou Huger, was a buddy of theirs. I felt like a jackass.

Tell us a trade secret.
Be nice to everyone. You never know if the intern will be the next president of your record company.

“Stairway to Heaven” or “Freebird”?
“Stairway to Heaven,” without a doubt. What other song do you get 12 minutes to make out with a girl on the dance floor?

Would you ever get plastic surgery?
Maybe a penis reduction.

Do you do your own laundry?
Of course. I don’t want people to see my laundry.

Are you a genius?
I’m more like an idiot savant. Like, “Wow, he can count those cards,” but totally retarded in other ways. Like Rain Man.

What happens after you die?
I hope I go to heaven in a little rowboat.

What’s your tombstone going to say?
Fuck, I told you I was ill.