Thursday, August 31, 2006


The smoking thing

Tom asked me if I wanted him to come over and cook me dinner tonight. I said no, I wanted to lie low and struggle - without other smokers around me - with my quitting smoking. This week it has been really hard, not sure why. I think the toxins are letting go on my lungs and they are starting to bubble to the surface.

Tom said he'd leave me alone.

I replied, Oh, ya know, it's not that I want to be left alone - just for a stunning piece of contradiction - it's just that I feel really awful. I feel like I am in a fog. I feel like there is a cloud over my eye sight. I feel like my nervous system is packing it in. I feel like I am getting the flu. I feel like I am immanently about to cough up some dead carcass. I feel like I could snap and kill the bitch at any moment. I feel like my fuse has been reduced to 2 millimetres, nay, 1 millimetre. I feel like screaming, crying, puking, running out into the traffic, all at the same time, while remaining steely calm like the best serial killer. I just don't feel like I am much fun, feel like being much fun, at the moment and I don't want to bore the pants off any body.

I'm just in a fog and focused on myself for a minute. If I just stay calm and concentrate, all of the above can't effect me, just like Batfink, my tattered wings are still made from steal.

This addiction withdrawal FUCKEN sucks. But I'm going to get through it, because otherwise I'm only going to have to go back to the beginning and start again.

... as Missy licks my foot, bless her.

Wednesday, August 30, 2006

American Dream

Stupid Americans,
think we want to lick their collective arse,
think, that en mass, we want to be them,
ache to be like them.
Dream the American dream,
whatever that is,
look at Katrina,
God blesses them all.
I don't think they understand
that collectively they are despised
for sucking the life out of other nations
for their own ends,
for creating the third world,
so they could come first.

Tuesday, August 29, 2006

Useful Italian Phrases [2]

“Don't follow me,” Adam said. He meant it to be funny, but it had come out wrong. You know... Don't. Stop. Don't stop. That kind of idea. Adam wasn’t sure if he’d understood.

The guy laughed, nervously, like he didn’t understand, didn't have a clue. “My name is Luca,” he said.

“I’m Adam.” He suddenly felt shy, because he’d given away a part of himself by telling Luca his name, he wasn’t sure.

“We should find a cafe,” Luca said looking around. “It is not very busy.”

“I shouldn’t?” said Adam.

Luca shrugged, waved his hands in the air and looked confused. “We could sit outside, at the table over at that cafĂ© and drink full view... of everyone. What harm could there be?”

Of course, Adam knew damn well what harm there could be, as Luca put it. Those beautiful green eyes just had to be addressed, watched out for, taken notice of.

The day that he’d had enough of Stephen, the day he’d decided to act and not continue to merely take Stephen’s meanness and lies, the day he’d pretty much – it may not happen over night, but it will happen – decided to leave Stephen, finally, here was a handsome stranger asking Adam to accompany him, even if it was only for coffee.

“We could get to know each other a little better?” said Luca. “No?”

Adam’s asked the universe, that morning, when he’d made up his mind about Stephen, to give him a sign and here it was, in all it’s obvious glory. It couldn’t be more clear and he didn’t have the faintest idea what to do.

“What do you say?” said Luca.

Adam’s sister, Jamie’s, last words to him, before she left Australia were, Forget Stephen and come to Italy with me and I’ll find you a charming Italian boy. Jamie had been gone a week, back to Italy to forget or replace, Pascal, who she’d just broken up with, Adam wasn’t sure. All Adam could think of was the fun the two of them had had learning phrases from Jamie’s Italian phrase book.

Where is the closest Catholic church? Point in any direction and say Pope? Jamie added that all Italian boys got religious stiffies inside cathedrals, in the motherland, so churches were a good hunting ground.
Please stop humping my leg – Italian boys being Italian boys, Adam and Jamie’s mother, Eve, had said that Jamie should memorise that one. God bless them, Eve had added quietly. Jamie added that had she used that particular phrase, she would never have discovered Pascal and hash in Naples, after which her eyes filled with tears and she didn’t want to play the phrase game any longer.

“I'll tell your mother if you don't stop it,” said Adam. It was the first thing that came to mind. He laughed nervously.

"My mama?" Luca said, with a curious smile.

“Oh!” Adam returned from his day-dream. He covered his mouth with his hand, as if to stop any thing else from slipping out. “I’m sorry. My sister... a phrase book.” Adam shrugged.

“What harm could coffee do, I ask you?” said Luca.

“What harm indeed,” said Adam. Stephen’s angry face, despite everything, came into his mind. He’d been angry, pissed off, hurt, cross, shitty, all of those things for such a long time and Adam really had no idea why.

Jamie said it was because he had some kind of secret that was eating at him.

"How far do you have to walk?" he said. "I have a car. I could take you, wherever...”

Adam shrugged. “No, I think coffee would be just...” He laughed, involuntarily. “Lovely. Why not.”

“Wonderful,” Luca said. He took Adam's hand, just naturally, as they crossed the street. Luca's hand felt warm, big, amazing, in Adam’s. He knew that this wasn’t a chance meeting. He knew, some how, that this was what he’d been waiting for. He couldn’t get the smile off his face. He couldn’t calm the butterflies in his stomach.

Monday, August 28, 2006

Useful Italian Phrases

Adam had to say something, he knew that. He'd have to step up and say his piece, not that he was good at such things, he knew that too. But, it was more about standing up for himself, speaking out, than any out come that may occur.

He stepped around the car that was parked across the footpath, a new Punto, he knew because he'd been looking at one himself. Bright orange wasn't exactly the colour he would have chosen. He liked the white, or the dark blue, at a pinch, simply because the other colours seemed to be garish, bright red, lime green and yellow, none of which he liked. Three wheels on the footpath and one hanging off, he knew that wasn't good for the suspension. His, mechanic, brother would have something to say about that, if he'd, when he'd, parked his car that way.

The car probably belonged to a girl, he thought, and then he beat himself up straight away for being sexist.

He just needed to walk. What was it that he wanted to say? How would he say it? He wasn't sure. Maybe he should just keep walking and the words would come to him.

He was aware that someone was following him. He'd followed him from the main Street. He'd made no apology for following him, didn't try to hide, didn't try to stop him from seeing him, with his long, dark hair and good looks; lime green track top, white t-shirt, jeans and converse runners. He just kind of sauntered after him, unhurried, not a care.

Adam rattled the pedestrian lights button vigorously. He stood next to Adam, with his hands slid deep into his pockets. Adam kept looking at him, Adam couldn't help himself. He smiled. He kept looking at Adam. Adam smiled. He had a beautiful smile.

"Have we met before?" he asked, with a thick Italian accent.

"I don't think so," said Adam. What a gorgeous accent, Adam thought.

"Do I know you from somewhere?"

"Not that I recall." I'd remember you, Adam thought.

"We seem to be going in the same direction," he said. He laughed. He had a kind laugh.

"Yes," said Adam, not really knowing what else to say. "I thought you were following me."

He laughed. "Do you have some where that you have to be?"

"No," said Adam. "Just inside my head."

"Inside your head?" He looked confused.

"Oh." Adam laughed, what must he have thought? "I just need to work some things out..."

"Ah, time to think?" he said.

"Yes," said Adam. "Some time to think."

"Can I get a small coffee... er... with you?" he said. Why it would be a small coffee, Adam didn't know? Did he mean a small amount of time, as though that would help Adam make up his mind, favourably toward him? "Maybe, I could help." He hesitated. "I'm good with matters of the heart."

Adam smiled, he felt the grin spread across his face, almost involuntarily. His accent was so beautiful.

He seemed so charming.

"I won't follow you, any longer," he said. "If we have coffee... together"

They both laughed.

Sunday, August 27, 2006

Clueless and carless

Okay. Reality check. I actually have to go out and buy a car. Fuck me! As my mate Josh would say, no sweetie, you do it! You! You sweetie!

I have no car, now who'd have thought that was a possibility, oh, even a month ago? I have to go through the process... that damn process. Looking, looking... yes, it looks nice. Can I take it to a mechanic? No, I won't buy it without a mechanical check. Oh, what Mr Mechanic, it amounts to fraud?

Back to the beginning. Er! I'm bored already. (Check out his arse in those overalls, will ya.)

I rode my bike over to Lottie's yesterday, by the Yarra, it was picturesque. Blue sky. A cool breaze. A gorgeous sun. I haven't ridden for a couple of months and it nearly killed me, but that is another story.
Which leads me onto two things -

1 - I'm actually enjoying not having a car. It's really kind of cool to catch trams and trains and ox-carts to get to wherever I'm going. There is something primitive, certainly unhurried and relaxing about it; like growing your own vegetables, instead of going to the supermarket, making your own cakes instead of going to Mrs Cho's. I mean, there is less instant gratification, more of the slow food feel, as opposed to the fast food don't-even-touch-the-sides experience, only wanting more an hour later. It is some how more satisfying, relying on one's own means.

2 - I do, actually, still own a car, an A1 1967 BRG Mini Cooper S, but it's tucked away in storage. I guess I should just drive that. But he might get scratched! Pathetic, I know.

Traditionally, I'm a car nut. I know all there is to know about them. My first words on the back seat of Lottie's old Holden, all those years ago, were... Same model different colour, for the universes sake! So, why can I raise about as much interest in buying a car as swallowing gold fish alive? I don't get it.
I looked at a $30,000 Subaru WRX, black on black. Very cool. I looked at a $1000 classic turbo charged Saab, silver with burgundy leather interior. Nice style. I ran my fingers over a gorgeous, white Triumph TR7 sports car. 5 grand and it would have been mine - although, there is something to be said for not buying British cars from the 1970's, the height of their shitful quality control. I found exactly the car I was going to trade my (now burnt) Peugeot in on, a demo 206 GTI 180, also black. Lovely. 1000 k's on the clock. I even found a beautiful Rover P6B, just like the one I sold, not long before the Peugeot went poof!... to the beautiful... er... poof... Stuart.

I even entertained, for a milli second, one of those hybrid Toyota things - but I just don't care that much about the environment, to be truthful, to compromise my driving experience - even if I have chosen, for the past five years, to only take jobs which I could walk to, so I'm not contributing to the denigration of the planet.

Nothing! Not a sausage of interest. Bored already. Lets eat cake. Have Tom and Katie shown Suri to the world yet?

It's denial, I know.

I even had a dream where my best mate, Tom, just kept saying to everyone, Actually no, Christian never did buy another car.

Truthfully, I don't need a car - the fact that, up until recently, I owned four, none of which I drove on a regular basis, always seemed to tickle people - and as Jeff and Raymond suggested the other day, I could really join the Fitzroy car co-op, which was set-up for people just like me and I could drive one of those Smart cars when the driving need so arose.

I could I live without a car?

"We need a car," said Lottie yesterday, when were talking about petrol for the mower. "If you don't get one soon, I'll have to buy one myself."

And that, my friends, was the most sensible suggestion of the week.

But, you know, there are those times where a car is convenient. So, I've decided that, maybe, I'm going to look at Alfa Romeo GTV's. A V6 would be nice. The sound of a classic 20 year old Alfa spurting into life, is akin to the sound of a 20 year old Italian boy spurting into life; watch that gorgeous exhaust pipe waggle as the drops of fluid drip out the end. Now, with that thought in mind, maybe I could muster just a little interest.

Saturday, August 26, 2006

The census

Picture this, Sicily 1960... um... er... you know where I'd rather be... Fitzroy, 2006... last Tuesday. (Have you ever looked down a Sicilian boys pants? Evil laugh.) I'm lying on the couch, drifting off, maybe I can just see the first dim of the hard edge of the day, as twin Italian brothers come into my dreams.

The door bells rings. I shake my head. I go to the front door, at the last few feet I decide to tip-toe and peak through the eye-hole. You know, once you've committed to the big open, as your eyes come to focus on a Jehovah Witness, in a twin-set complete with idiot grin, or some over-enthusiastic university girl selling time share for all her 5 d's last term are worth, it's too late, no auto rewind at that stage, buddy. (sorry Earl) And bugger me, if it wasn't the census woman @ 16.30 in the afternoon @ 16.30 in Fitzroy, who the hell did she think she was going to find home? I ask you?

I decided not to open the door on principal. Get with the program! Are you collecting this wretched census for our own convenience or for ours, luv?

She sneakily left an envelope in which I am now supposed to post it.

It's not going to happen. I want a little specialised service for all of my most intimate details to be revealed.

No officer, I never saw anyone from the department again.

No. I was never left an envelope.

No, never!

I head back to the couch in search of Alex and Nick.

Well, she has just dropped by, giving it her last shot @ collecting it, so, of course, I handed it over.

"I just couldn't catch you at night to collect it," she said.

Funny about that, I thought. If you came @ some time after... er... um 16.30, you may have had more luck, I wanted to say, but, of course, I didn't. I just smiled sweetly, instead.

So there, I've done my bit. There you go Little Johnny! The evil Prime ministerial munchkin can do his worst with the stats, as I'm sure he will. It will be the basis for a whole new set of lies with which to keep power... no doubt.


Say what you like
the truth matters little
in the 21st Century
we're all going to hell anyway
religion will see to that.
Make hay while the sun shines
it's all that is left, we think,
at whoever's expense,
as long as it looks good,
who cares?
The deckchairs on the Titanic are sliding,
Nero is choking on the fumes.

Friday, August 25, 2006

What do you call this?

Manny came into work, to visit? To see me? To get tattslotto money. He's funny, he calls hours before he's going to arrive. He schedules me, that's what I call it. He laughs when I tell him, but he can't help it. I'm not sure if he gets it? I'm not sure if he realises what he does.

"We have to win soon," he says. "Then we can go on that cruise."

"Greek Islands," I say.

"No, I want to be on a boat, with the endless view of the ocean... and you." He smiles. I love the way his brown eyes sparkle when he looks at me.

"No Man, the beach at sunset on Mykonos, looking out over the Mediterranean. When everyone one else has headed home. I want to see your handsome face reflected in that light. It's just beautiful."

He pulls me back, as the lift doors open to reveal someone already inside. "Hang on a second." He smiles. I'm sure we all look awkward until the doors close again.

The next lift comes. He pushes me against the mirrored wall and we kiss as soon as the doors slide shut again. We are reflected to eternity in the mirrors, like we are kissing forever - a thousand Manny lips kiss a thousand Christian's. I always want to push the emergency stop button, at those moments, like they do in the movies.

"I miss you, you know," says Manny.

I know I should say that I miss him in return. But, the only time I get to see him, lately, is when he comes in to get the tattslotto money. He says we haven't had sex for a month? (My how time flies) He says he misses it, he says he misses me.

I can't decide what to do about the problem that is Manny? By any previous boyfriend standards, I wouldn't even call this a relationship. But then his handsome face smiles at me and his gorgeous eyes sparkle and that part of me, that special Manny part, melts... all over again.

Thursday, August 24, 2006


"Buy a Big Issue to help the homeless," he said.

He didn't look homeless, I thought. Good looking, nicely dressed, well spoken.

Like the homeless couldn't be good looking, nicely dressed or well spoken.

He could have been me, easily, without my luck... I guess. He even looked a bit like me.

"Get your Big Issue here."

It made me think. Me, without the good fortune of having been born into a good family, with means and connections. I wondered if I had ever done anything to deserve it? To deserve my lot? To deserve my good fortune, which, of course, I take for granted.

I'm guessing he wouldn't take it for granted?

He'd be better off growing dope and flogging it, I thought.

Big Issue, I said silently to myself. Get your Big Issue here.

Wednesday, August 23, 2006

Still cold

My farts smell like spoilt milk, I'm sure that can't be good. One wafted out from under the doona, this morning and damn well woke me up. I'm off to work despite it; blocked nose, runny throat, dry cough nearly impossible to clear.
See how late I make it to today?
Wish me luck.

I've bought new vitamin C, though, the kind you swallow and don't chew, as I don't want to end up toothless once the snott has dried up. I popped 5000 milograms, this morning, as the nice chemist lady said I should. I wanted to ask her if she was the one with the degree, or just the shop assistant, but I assumed the later as she wasn't the one wearing the high-collared white number. I wanted to ask her if she, actually, knew what she was talking about when it came to vitamins, but, of course, I didn't. She spoke so authoritatively.

I just wish the whole body tingle/hum thing would stop now, it's disconcerting. It's just a cold, after all.

Everyone at work has it, well, nearly everyone.
Gorgeous Luke came in and asked if I was feeling better. I breathed all over him with my reply and he jumped backwards and I laughed.

"I could give it to you," I said jokingly. I assumed that he assumed that I meant the cold, which I didn't... of course. (He's the cutest Eddie Munster in town)

"No thanks," he said, as he recoiled, smiling. "I've only just got over the last one." I assumed he meant boyfriend, which, of course, he didn't. Oh well.

"We'd have to exchange bodily fluids," I said. "For you to be in any real danger."

He tilted his head sideways and looked perplexed - you just gotta love straight boys.

"You catch it through saliva," I said, pointing to my mouth.

Tuesday, August 22, 2006

Drinkin’ again.
Thinking of when you loved me.
Having a few.
Wishing that you were here.

Making the rounds.
Buying a round for total strangers.
Just being a fool,
’cause I keep hoping, hoping, hoping you’ll appear.

Sure I can borrow a smoke.
I can sit here all night and tell these jokers some jokes,
But who wants to laugh, who’s gonna laugh
At a broken heart?
Oh, my heart is aching, I swear it’s breaking.

And I’m drinking again.
Thinking of when you loved me.
And I’m tryin’ to get home
With nothing, nothing but a memory.

Yes, I’m dying to get home,
Dying to get home.
And I got nothin’ but a bottle of beer,
And just my memory.

Tired and emotional

Fuck me! I'm turning into a lush.

I worked till 1pm and then came home, claiming illness. I just knew I would. I slept on the couch until 7pm; it was sunny when I pulled the blanket over me, sooo relaxed, so gorgeous, you can't buy that feeling, drifting off with every cell in my body going, yes, yes, yes, ahhhhhhh. It was dark when the ringing phone woke me. My beautiful Mark called to see how I was. My soulmate forever.

My mate Jill called not long after and we went to The Union for dinner, where we polished of a bottle of red. The bar chick was noticeably annoyed when we changed our minds from glasses of red to a bottle, after she had poured them. What happened to the customer always being right?

We polished off two bottles as we bitched about work. Fucken law firms! Fucken advertising agencies!

Now I'm sloshed and banging into walls. No, literally. I just went to the toilet and I walked into the wall. LOL.

I'm going to bed. Hick! I should just take up smoking again, before I have an alcohol problem. Hick!

A pill problem would be preferred though, much more glamorous, don't you think? Oh, I long for no conscience and a drug problem - although, I'm certainly not one for that toothless smile, sunken eyes or idiot grin - not a fucking care, it does seem enticing!

Monday, August 21, 2006


I came home sick and NO it had nothing to do with the drugs I did on Friday night. I'm getting a bloody cold! Who can I blame?

Hot, cold, fucken hot and fucken cold. Then I got the shakes and then I started to sweat and then I came home. Blocked nose, blow, blow, blow. Nothing! Can't breathe. Sore throat. Bugger, bugger, bugger!

It's all because I stopped taking my vitamin C. I've only been able to get the chewable kind - oh yes, I put in an exhaustive search - and my mouth specialist said that the chewable kind were the best way to destroy your teeth. Ascorbic acid and sugar. Bingo! Tooth rot! Blackmores doesn't let you in on that little fact, huh? Lovely! So I stopped taking them.

Oh yes, and some bitch sneezed all over me in the lift, last Friday, or was it Thursday? Whichever? I wanted to punch her (not really) right after she appologised and wiped her snot gizz off my sleeve.


Now I'm drinking merlot instead of taking marijuana. I'm sure that's not quite a 12 stepper, now is it? A slippery slope, I hear you say. Well, maybe.

I'm gonna lie on the couch and watch teev.


I'm good at being sick, can you tell?

Late stroll home

I look at your face, your eyes, your smile, your mouth and wonder if you could be the one.

In the street, as we pass by, as you stand back and smile, for me to go first, strangers never to really meet

You smile. I smile. I see your eyes sparkle. Interest.

Didn’t I have one, just like you, who used to stand about there, who called me sweet heart?

Thanks, I say.

You smile again.

I nod.

You nod.

What happened to that person, I think. Where did that person go?

Manny called and asked me if I was upset with him, as I hadn’t called him. Didn’t I get his message?
He told me how he’d been hanging out with Stuart, at Club 80, playing pool, again. But last night he had an anxiety attack, flipped out, or something and walked all the way home. He should have come to my place, but he didn’t think of me. Didn't think of me, despite being just around the corner. Must have thought I’d be at Bolago, not sure why.

Haven’t got the heart to tell him I don’t want a dumb boyfriend. I’ve already dumped him, I guess I should tell him.

I meant it when I said I wasn’t upset, but I don’t think Manny is built for such nuance. I wondered how long it will take him to realise that I have stopped ringing?

I walk home from Tim & Nicholas’s alone, half stoned, after it had got dark, late, like all the other people going home alone, after dark, in Gertrude Street.

After you, you say.

Thank you, I say.

I step around the tables and chairs, on the footpath and think how sad it is that the person who thought the most about me today, was someone I didn’t even know.

We both look back.

I smile. You smile. Nervous.

We walk away.

Sunday, August 20, 2006

Connecting the dots, is that what dots do?

One dot, two dot, red dot, blue dot.

Round dots - well, what other shape would dots be? Square dots are like Christians in button up cardigans?

Yellow dots, like a sunrise on a beautiful day. Opaque dots, like a rainy afternoon. Inside out dots, like the people asking for money on the streets. Mother of Pearl dots, like grandma's old compact. Happy dots, with smiles, they are well known.

The cold dot I called Pluto.

The hot dot I called Mars.

Twister is for funny dots.

Hazel and Dorothy are old dots.

Apple and Suri are young dots.

Traffic lights are for antagonistic dots.

Hairy dots are for arseholes, we love every one.

Black is for a sad dot, or a dead one, or a stylish dot; who'd have thought death and style were so closely linked?

Blurred is the fast dot, or is that the one that drains your bank account and steals your car on the way out?

Whirling is the dervish dot.

Burberry is the obvious dot.

Angry dots don't get joined at all, nobody likes them.

Only clever dots ever really get the connection.
You know what I like most about living on my own, I can shit with the toilet door wide open. It doesn't feel like I am locked away, with a dirty secret, hiding. I can sit there with the sun on my toes and my undies around my ankles gazing off into the distance... for as long as I like.

The post-drug diarrhoea has started. Gotta hate that! Pllllpppp! Oh. Pllllpppp! Ah! Pllllpppp!

Vince Jones sings, Funny how time slips away... and it slips away.


It was a funny old day. I had a hair appointment at 10am and I made it by 2.20pm. It was that kind of day.

Beautiful Steve was there, getting his hair straightened. Those eyes! Those amazing eyes! The most beautiful eyes I've ever seen on a man. Piercing. Blue - Italian boys with blue eyes, yum! Dark circles around the edge of the iris, paler blue within those rings. Just beautiful. Bedroom eyes.

I bought five T-shirts impulsively, on the way back. I didn't even check if they were all made from natural fibres, before I bought them. I still haven't. Throw caution to the wind, Christian!

I hired six videos and watched four and some how the day progressed from dusk to now. Funny about that.

I ate dolmades and two pork rolls. I drank pineapple juice and agrum and percolated coffee, which was bitter sweet.

Nobody called. Nobody cared. I wrapped myself in my orange blanket. The open fire burned steadily.
Actually, Mark called this morning. I don't think he picked how out of it I was.

Manny called too, some time in the night. He said it was 9.15 and I should be home. Why wasn't I home? He wanted me to go over, if I had a car, he was horny.

If I had a car? Has he not been listening?

I ate Rocky Road ice cream and dozed through three out of the four movies. My film tastes were heavy, (Lie with me, Denial, and some other American art house that escapes me now) so I was glad that I got a Jennifer Aniston, Shirley McLean movie to lighten the mood. Crap American romantic comedies do have their place - when you are too drug fucked to understand the subtext.

"I've been asked to discourage people from smoking."

"Screw you!"


Now I don't know if it is night or day, although the dark framed by the window some what gives it away. If only I could focus.

I haven't cried yet, I guess that is to come. (Or is that really only with LSD?)

Repeat after me children, Drugs are good.

I sure wish I had some pot. I'm amazed that I haven't wanted a cigarette. How many weeks is it? Four or five? How many cigarettes have I not had? 840 or 1050, depending on how many weeks I'm going with. It's pretty good no matter which number of weeks.

Missy lies on my foot and goes to sleep and all is right with the world.

John's in love with Joan
Joan's in love with Jim
Jim's in love with someone
Who's not in love with him
What was meant to be, must be
C'est la vie, c'est la vie

Life's a funny thing
When it comes to love
You don't always conquer
The one you're dreaming of
As they say in old Paree
C'est la vie, c'est la vie
Those who fall in love agree
It's the unsolved mystery
If your big romance cannot be
You'll find someone new, cherie
There goes happy Joe
What a lucky guy
He just found a sweetheart
But no one's gonna cry
Tho' he stole her love from me
C'est la vie, c'est la vie

Saturday, August 19, 2006

Make love not war

We took drugs, e's, me, Tim, Nicholas, Rachel, Sophie, Anna and Nicholas' mum Judi. Nicholas' cousin, Tina, was there, just over from Tassie... and the trailer park. She's planning to have two more children on the baby bonus, to make a grand total of six, by the time she is twenty five.

Even Nicholas admits that the gene pool gets very shallow in the Tasmanian towns his relatives are from. (Queue Beverly Hillbillies music)

Tina's hand was shaking, noticeably, she said she'd had a stroke earlier in the day, as she chugged on her cigarette.

"I just have to be careful of me blood pressure," said Tina.

What I thought? Stroke? What the hell is she talking about. I dunno, I never returned to that conversation. Dumb as well as fat, was my final summation.

Tim told Tina that he and Nicholas were gay, she had no idea. She ended up crying in the kitchen, like it was a bad thing. There was a lot of work put in with Tina for the rest of the night, trying to help her come to terms with cousin Nicholas' poofter ways. It kind of took the edge off the night.

Judi and I packed each other bongs, all the time Judi looking over at Nicholas and Tina in powwow saying, "Who gives a fuck who he sticks his cock too, what does it fucken matter." She took the bong out of my hand.

"Suck Judi, suck," I'd say, as my eyes crossed, as I tried to focus.

"They'll all know about 'im now in Tassie, I guess, said Judi."

Judi is some piece of work. A drunken old slapper, some might say. A drunken old whore, others might say. Four kids to four fathers... not that there is anything wrong with that. The permanent damage from the alcohol is evident.

"It's the only thing I'm not supposed to touch," she said, as she sucked down her UDL.

"Write me story, Christian. Write me story."

Who'd have thought we'd lay cuddled on the couch together, not long after. The power of the e.

"If you weren't gay..." she slurred.

"Hush." Or too young, I thought.

I went out dancing, afterwards. The night was bright, the streets fast. The mood slick. The dance floor was dark, the boys cruisy. We communed with the maker, the eternal spirit of the dance. My eyes spun on the lights, my head spun on the hour. Time and space merged and I spun out on a distant galaxy, boom, chicka, boom, chicka, boom.

I say make love not war. It only takes one person a split second to change your life irrevocably, forever. That is the power of love. I can fly to the moon with you by my side.

I dreamt that I sucked off a Muslim boy, and aboriginal boy, Asian boy, Irish with red hair and freckles. He had a very nice penis with a very nice foreskin. It was thick and taste dank, for the first two or three licks. Slippery. Hot. Slick and smooth. I could hear how appreciative he was in his breathing. His legs shook and his moan crescendo'd as he blew. He came in big, white gobs of spoof, which lay contrasted on his leg against his dark skin.

He thanked me politely and said he so needed that, as he buttoned up his jeans.

His girlfriend wouldn't put his todger in her mouth, she says it is dirty. A sin?

Nothing matters, really, as it will always hurt in the end, no matter what.

Fly me to the moon
Let me sing among those stars
Let me see what spring is like
On Jupiter and Mars

In other words, hold my hand
In other words, baby kiss me

Fill my heart with song
Let me sing for ever more
You are all I long for
All I worship and adore

In other words, please be true
In other words, I love you

Friday, August 18, 2006

New clothes

I bought new black work pants and two new white shirts, last night - replacing the staples first. I've got good style, I have an eye for colour. I used to be one of the most stylishly dressed guys in the office. I was once. I seem to have stopped caring lately, not sure why. Decided it was pointless? My work clothes are all now tatty and crap.

I decided to smarten up my act. Every thing must be replaced. I found a really cool copper coloured, herringbone shirt, but it needed cufflinks. Stupid things. Too trissy for me.

I tried to buy a new suit tonight, but no good sales assistant would come near me in Myers... so I left with nothing. Ah well. I was willing to spend five or six hundred dollars? Do shop assistants still get commissions? I guess not.

Blue. Wool. That's what I had in mind. I've got so much black.

I only ever wear black. It's such a Melbourne thing. Melbourne is such a black city.

My day

I saw the mental woman who hangs out on Gertrude Street, up a lane way on her knees with her arse in the air, pissing in the gutter. There was a stream of urine shooting in a straight line straight out the back of her, in a kind of arc down to the bitumen behind her. Her face passive, expressionless, staring straight a head, I guess, until the job was done.

A cat dozed on the lawn in the sun, with a paw over its face.

Granddad played bacci with his mates, in the grounds of the commission flats. Clack went the balls. Clack, clack.

A bird flew into a window with a worm in it’s beak, thump and then fell down dead.

A hairy, Lebanese boy stopped, panting, at the lights, dressed only in jogging shorts. He adjusted his considerable bulge, as he waited for the lights to change, as I watched him.

A dog chased a car, I haven't seen that in ages.

A girl rode passed on her bike, in Victoria Parade, crying. I wondered how she had come to that?

A young boy yelled, excitedly, at his grandmother, holding a balloon, as they crossed the park.

A boy with his eye taped shut with white gauze tape, gazed at me in Spring Street. He startled me for a minute, he looked weird.

Thursday, August 17, 2006


The truth is, my cat using my foot as her pillow, as I type on my computer.
I can feel her purring through my sock, through my skin.
I love the way her eyes close so peacefully
and how her mouth almost forms into a grin.

Wednesday, August 16, 2006

Nothing matters

Does anything really matter?
It is all just a construct, to make the time pass?
To make us feel like we matter, just a bit?

Tuesday, August 15, 2006


What is the day?
How does the sun shine?
Do any of us really get a say?

Monday, August 14, 2006

My new car... maybe? No matches, please.

The Census

The nice census lady has been by twice, this last week, to pick up my form. Apparently, she is coming again today... tonight, I guess. I wondered if she was come during the day, or, you know, at 5.30, 6pm, 7pm? Does she think I'm just waiting here for her to turn up?

I filled out my mum's census so neatly that my mum's census guy said it was one of the neatest he'd seen, thus far. (I put "no religion" for her too, despite her bleats about being Anglican) I filled out mine after a couple of reds, or a couple of j's and my anger with this govt bubbled to the for and I used great, big, angry lines - none of this in the box stuff, like I did with my mum's. Do you think there is something a little Freudian about all of that?

If my, nice, census lady comments on my mishandling of the document, I'm just going to say deal with it. I answered all the questions.

Does the govt really believe that any of us give a fuck?

I don't care if mine is never picked up, I'm not going to stress even for a minute, if it's not.

Go screw yourself John Howard!

In fact, we should all see how many census forms we still have in our hot little hands, after 28th August.

Sunday, August 13, 2006

Hello new week

I think, maybe, the car catching alight and burning, right in front of my eyes, was more traumatic than I was giving it credit for. It was like a dream, it was surreal, it was like something that happens to someone else.

I just had to lie low, for a bit, you know, think about stuff - life and what I'm doing, those kinds of things. Get perspective. My nerves were jagged and I crawled under my blue blanket.

I went to the doctor, on Thursday, to get the blood test results for my infected tongue. The tests that would confirm whether, or not, I had some kind of dietary deficiency that caused the crack in my tongue.

All of your tests came back normal for dietary causes, said my doctor. But, your blood sugars are abnormally high, they are right at the very top of normal, which could, but probably doesn't, indicate diabetes.

I'm sure my eyes widened in disbelief.

Before you become alarmed, he continued. You need to have more tests, which will probably show that you don't, in fact, have diabetes. It could just be what you ate, before you went for the test that morning.

I have to have a starvation test, first thing in the morning, one day next week... to see if my pancreas has decided to go awol.

I had said, literally, five minutes before the car went up in flames, How could my week get any worse?

I joked to myself, as I crossed the road to the medical clinic, How could my week get any worse? I'm going to stop saying such things.

Mark and Luke arrived Friday night with the lap-top, that I have been talking about buying for the last couple of months, to cheer me up. How nice is that?

So I've been at Bolago, writing all weekend. I decided that I needed to do some real writing. I love blogging and all, but it is all consuming, it takes up so much time, to the detriment of what I should be doing. You know, getting one of my novels, or one of my many screen plays, finished.

The weather was so beautiful in the country, amongst the gum trees, under the eucalyptus-oil infused, brilliantly blue sky. It was really cool to be able to get up and wander around and not be rooted to the spot like I am with a PC.

Wednesday, August 09, 2006

How could it be any worse?

I'd had a shitty day. I'm so over work. I hate going in there. I don't know if I need a new job or a holiday? (or a cigarette?)

I was driving over to my mum's thinking that I hate my life, I hate the world. You know, having a good old whinge to myself. I had just said to myself, how could it be any worse? You know, you shouldn't test the universe.

I turned into the driveway opposite my mum's, as I looked over my shoulder to back out, I could smell something burning. I drove forward and parked and then I saw smoke pouring out from underneath my bonnet. I thought the burning was something in the air, I didn't think for a minute that it was me.

I tried to get the hose from my mum's garden, but it snapped off at the tap. Mum called the firebrigade and when she returned, I asked her to get me a bucket. She got me an ice cream container, she said it was the only bucket she could find.

So I was reduced to throwing thimble fulls of water at the car, as smoke billowed into the air.

When the fire brigade got there, they couldn't get the bonnet open, so they smashed out the head lights and the grill to get the hoses in. Then they got a big jaws type contraption and broke all the front of the car to get the bonnet open, finally.

My beautiful Peugeot.

They said it was probably an electrical fault - isn't that what the firebrigade always says of every fire?

The cars wrecked. And I just sold my other car, a few weeks ago.

Tuesday, August 08, 2006

11.11 Tuesday night, so what else is new?

You know, I can live with Manny's decision, not to put any of his body parts in my mouth until the fungal thingy on my tongue has healed completely. I know he's... um... sensitive when it comes to health issues. I'm fine with it. I respect his decision.

But he has to STOP fucken calling me up and telling me how horny he is. I'm not going to be fine with THAT for seven fucken weeks, I can tell ya.

I shouldn't have told him. As soon as I said it and his eyes widenend in that familiar, mild panic, I thought IDIOT!

Renee Geyer sings, Really, really, love you.

Freaked out

Manny was totally freaked out about my fungal tongue infection. That is why I haven't seen him. I should have known. I should of guessed.

He got even more nervous and even started to stutter when I told him I'd had it for a few years. It had been a crack, it developed into a hole, recently, most likely from the tongue scraper, I used a week, or so, ago. But, I have had it for most of the time I have had Manny, if you'll excuse the expression.

But not as bad as it is now, hey?

No Man, not as bad as it is now.

That seemed to pacify his demons some what.

He called to ask me about the census. I told him we should have been in the same house and then we could have had our relationship acknowledge... like I really care. But, just because I don't give a stuff about gay marriage, I see no reason why those who want to go down that path, shouldn't be allowed to.

I'd do it for the brother's and sisters, if they thought it would make a difference.

I guess I must care some what, otherwise I wouldn't have thought of it.

How long before your mouth is better? asked Manny.

It's practically better now.

How long is the treatment that your doctor gave you? he persisted

Eight weeks.

Okay, Chris, I want to make a date with you for eight weeks time.

You can't be serious?

Manny laughed his nervous laugh.

Only seven now, I said.

Even better, he said.

Love for Sale

Love for sale.
Appetizing, young love for sale.
Love that's fresh and still unspoiled. Love that's only slightly soiled.
Love for sale.

Who will buy?
Who will like to sample my supply?
Who's prepared to pay the price for a trip to paradise?
Love for sale.

Let the poets pipe of love in their childish way.
I know every type of love better far than they.
If you want the thrill of love, I've been through the mill of love.
Old love. New love. Every love, but true love.

Love for sale.
Appetising young love for sale.
If you want to buy my wares, follow me and climb the stairs.
Love for sale.

Monday, August 07, 2006

Petrol, mortgages, bananas.

I haven't talked politics for a while...

So the theory on that 50's throw back John Howard (hence forth he shall be referred to as Mr Sheen) is that the working class, traditional voters of the left, are voting for him, as he represents the life style that they aspire to and voting for him is as close as most of them will ever get. So they are actually voting for someone who will work against them.

Stem-cell research has made a break through where heart arteries maybe able to repair themselves, therefore revolutionising the treatment of coronary heart disease.

Who do you think is campaigning the hardest against stem-cell research? The religious right or the pharmaceutical companies?

Do you think that any of the wars being fought are being fought for humanitarian reasons? (Did you know that Lindon Johnston was part owner of the Bell helicopter company, the main helicopter used in the Vietnam war?... maybe one of the reasons why the US stuck at it for so long.)

Does anyone actually think that Australia followed America into war in Iraq for humanitarian reasons and not for the free trade deal that we got?

Keep us scared, protect us from the bad guys, all good short term political strategies.

Mr Sheen (that's dufus Howard for the slow ones) couldn't even be trusted to tell the truth to his own colleagues, the leadership issue is one of the most despicable betrayals of modern political history, what hope have the rest of us got?

There is so much talk about how terrorists are going to cause our distruction, it sells newspapers and TV, when the truth is, most of us are far more likely to die of fat-clogged arteries.

The most lucrative global businesses today are military weaponry, pharmaceutical drugs, tobacco, alcohol and food.

The only industry that is regulated in Australia is the tobacco industry.

Not so long ago, maybe last year, I was out at a dinner party and I excused myself to go outside to have a cigarette, when this fat chick, next to me, asked if I knew how bad smoking was for me. She had been prickly with me all night, needling me, goading me, to the point where I had almost asked her earlier what her problem was. I couldn't help myself, I asked her if she knew how bad over-eating was for her. She stopped after that.

Why is that idiot Howard actively working to create rich and poor in Australia, can anybody answer me that?

We are fast becoming a nation of fat, lazy, wheezing boozers who rely on prescription drugs and medical technology to prolong our unhealthy lifestyles.

The truth is that keeping us fat, drunk, legally doped, sick and at war is highly profitable.

We pay lip-service to a healthy life style, in pretty much the same way we pay lip-service to a healthy environment.


Of course, I'm still not using my new Cannon Powershot digital, I'm still using my Minolta SLR.
I'm an idiot, I know.

But it's not my fault... naturally. (you were expecting me to say something else?) It's definitely Mark's fault. Ex-boyfriends, they have to be blamed.

Oh, when I first got it, Mark arrived - he has a sixth sense for such things, I tell you (*) - the day, nay, the hour I bought it home and he wanted to take it for a test run. I wasn't going to use it for that first weekend, can't remember why now. A funeral? An intervention - like I give enough of a shit to do that.

A smoking circle of death - ah the good old days, it does take me back. Trip to the moon, who can remember those details.

So, of course, Mark being Mark, he had it for a week, or so, and managed to lose the instruction manual. And this camera is a piece of work. Everything function uses symbols and pictures. Fucken hieroglyphics!

Okay, I admit it, I've been slack. I put the bloody thing on my self waiting for Mark to arrive with the instruction book, I've got a good memory, I probably only need to look at it once... and he never did, of course, and the camera has never been used again.

(*) new clothes, new cars, new boyfriends, you can set your watch by Mark arriving at the critical moment and trying to make off with the merchandise.

There are a couple of my friends who wont forgive Mark for the Carl incident. I only mention this as a point of interest, I, personally, have forgiven him ages ago.

Well, that seems easy (nervous smile)

I'm surprised how easy it has been this time to give up smoking. Now, I don't want to mozz myself and I know it will be a life time battle, I could just as easily fall off the wagon tomorrow and drive cars fast and launch into diatribes about Jews, I know that.

Hello, my name is Fletcher. Christian Fletcher and I'm a nicotine addict.

But so far, so good.

I reckon that Zyban is good stuff. It hasn't taken the withdrawal body horrors away completely, but it has reduced them to a manageable level. I've even had a few tobacco joints and have thus far managed to contain it to just those joints.

Although, I must stop doing that, as I am continually going back into the first week of withdrawal and not progressing to the more comfortable 2nd week of quitting. It's playing with fire, pretty much. I know that too.

Sunday, August 06, 2006

( * ) Although, it is nice to have a good cry about lost love.

I got up early and was going to head outside with my camera... but there was no sun. None. Cloudy and overcast. Dull and washed out. Bugger!

I finished, The five people you meet in heaven. It made me cry. Not that I'm adverse to crying, but I was wondering why I was quite so emotional. Then I remembered the drugs from Friday night. They always make me emotional.

Stupid drugs!

Stupid emotions! (*)

I got restless and head out with my camera the minute even a speck of sun shone through the clouds. They'll be crap. Shafts of sun light on walls and all that. The things ya do, huh?

I think I was a bit house-bound, so just as the sun was dipping, I went out for a walk. I love the day just as the light begins to break. I love the fractured feeling of dusk.

There were lovers every where, hand in hand. Smiling. Walking. Making suggestions for the night.

Shopping bags. Trolleys. Dogs. The lot.

Smith Street was busy, alright.

There was this really creepy guy with a beard and hooded parker, talking to himself, outside Go Lo.

You know, as we're all trained to be scared of now, terrorist looking. He followed me up a side street, back to Gore.

Young single white male's body found in a dumpster. One ear bitten off and a both his testicles torn out and shoved into the sockets where his eyes used to be. A thorny rose stem protruding from his arse.

Surrounded by a sea of rose petals, smeared into the concrete, one by one. Blood, bone fragments and a geriatric Minolta camera, completing the scene.

He was coming up behind me, gaining ground, mumbling into his beard, with threats of retribution, I'm sure. Armageddon is such an ugly word.

I sprinted around to Condell Street. You can't catch me! You can't catch me, I wailed, (not unlike Sally Field) as my feet didn't touch the ground again until I was back around on Smith. My legs were like steel springs...

As I said, I think I was just a little house-bound and just needed to run.

I bought a roast chicken and three roast potatoes and window shopped until it was too dark to see.

ColorQuiz.comfletcherbeaver took the free personality test!
"Wants to make a favorable impression and be regard..."

Click here to read the rest of the results.

Saturday, August 05, 2006

And here I am

I went and lay down. I think I slept. Not sure. I still had the lube smeared on my hand, when I woke up. Poor effort. I must have drifted straight off to sleep. I rubbed my face, as soon as my eyes cracked open and slimed myself, right across my right cheek.

Er! What the?

I came downstairs and put the TV on and vegged. A blanket wrapped around me snug. I've slept for hours, on the couch, it's practically midnight. Funniest Home Videos, is all I remember. I hate that show.

If I'd had more e's, I'd have gone out tonight, right about now, actually. To pull a root... boy in the grey t-shirt. (I taught the Americans on Mykonos what root meant, they had no idea. Hey mate, do you wana root, they'd say with a drawl, all over the island. ) It's been a while, with someone other than Manny.

One thing American boys are really good at, I've mostly found. Energetic and hung for it. Italians and Americans, they've got the biggest dicks. They have! (said with a Crescendoing whine)
I think I'm okay, no damage done. Nothing permanent - you know, waking up after a drug night and looking in the mirror to see you have a bad case of Bell's Palsy. It's a life long fear. I'm a bit groggy (granny dear) and have a nice case of tinnitus, just gently, way back there some where. More high-pitched than a hum. Ringing, I'd almost call it ringing. But everything else is good. I'm drinking vodka and tonic.

I smoked all the pot, that Tom left me, early (mixed with tobacco, sure) but I haven't had one cigarette, which must count for something. I guess that's why I feel so healthy, not smoked out. The fires of hell aren't seeping up my throat and out my mouth, every time I talk - faint wafts of smoke as I dot my t's.
The TV's on music videos... the safest way to endure Saturday night teev.

Missy is stomping around her food bowl, ever time I go into the kitchen. It's chicken wings tonight, Missy's got the pussy shits on, she wont even look at me. And this would be? She glared at me, just before her ears went flat on her head.

But Missy, you've got to clean those teeth.

She'll sneak back later, when I'm not looking, to have a munch.

I just kicked her in the dark, as I went to get my coffee off the stove. She's not happy about that, either.

Proof of life is on. Russell Crowe and Meg Ryan are two boring as bat shit actors.

One minute to tomorrow. I should go lay down.

Manny did call. We talked dirty with each other, in the afternoon. I'm such an idiot! I should have realised. (the sad truth is that I didn't notice) I know what a paranoid hypochondriac Manny is when it comes to his health. The fungal infection on my tongue, it would have, apparently did, send him into a spin. It's why I haven't seen him.

Three coffees and it's time for bed. It's the wrong side of midnight.
(strangely, I feel like McDonald's, which I never, hardly ever, eat, 'cause I don't like it much. But my diets been pretty much in the toilet this last few weeks, so I'm not surprised, really)

Bowie sings, Major Tom

The baby's cradle

Nurofen, anyone? My hands are sticky. I still have the blue stamp on my wrist.

The sweetness of my muesli is good, tingles my taste buds, gives me fuel, or at least, makes me believe it does.

Not sure if the joint was a good idea?

3 e's and I danced all night, at the Peel. I had a good time. I could have stayed passed 4am, if Tom hadn't started to fade. Damn his cancer! He'd projectile vomited, I don't think he felt the freshest, after that.

The boy in the grey t-shirt, I'd have stayed for him.

I so need to get out more. They are just there for the taking. Smiling and packing.

The Lebanese security guard had a bulge... this big. Hot as!

I'm very compliant on drugs, Tom asks about leaving and I'm suddenly in the leaving zone, thinking about nothing else.

I could have stayed later.

Ah well.

I had no intension of going out, but... Tom called, just as I got home, saying he was feeling restless and bored... and that he had twenty pills in his stash.

My head is thick, my jaw is aching, my neck is stiff. My eyes are half closed, I can feel them.

Tom is asleep.

I should be too. Don't you hate it when the morning comes and you are feeling so relaxed, in the babies cradle comfortable... you never want to move again, except for your bladder that just wont stop thrumming.

I was hungry too, kind of odd.

I think I'm hanging for it. I need a hug. I need way more than a hug. Not so many years ago, before Manny, I guess, the boy in the grey t-shirt would have been in my bed this morning - hug his naked body to mine, as the sun comes up. Sitting on me, kissing. Our hard cocks caress.

I should call Manny. But I can feel us drifting apart, which is a good thing. I always call him, in moments like these, wanting his arse, and it's all back on again.

Manny is off with Glen, I can feel it. His pattern of contact has changed. It's probably best, Glen can buy him things, things he'll never have otherwise.

It's only Saturday. Gotta love going out on a Friday night to get trashed.

Back to bed for a pull.

These amphetamines wont stop, it's great.

Friday, August 04, 2006

On my team

You know, years ago, when I first started work, after school... no, I think it was when I first went to uni, I worked with a guy who was a temp staff replacement manager. When he used to call up other companies, he'd so often say,
Just put me through to someone intelligent, will you, that's all I ask.

I was so shocked in my naive, know nothing, private school educated way.

If the person didn't prove to be intelligent, he'd chastise them and ask,
Now, I asked you at the beginning of this call for someone intelligent and you stepped up quite falsely.

Can I speak to someone else... with a brain, this time.

I couldn't believe this man. He was an eye opener to me. He'd chuckle away afterwards, as I stood dumbfounded.

Mark my words, he'd say. Just ask for someone inteligent, there are precious few of them, you can't go wrong.

He was smart, he was cutting, he was funny, come to think of it, he was probably gay.

Now, some fifteen, or so years later, I think I'd employ Graham as my P.A. if he was still available.

The end is nigh - 8 hours at the salt mines

I've been reading about people losing their jobs because of what they have written about their company on their blog. I don't get it? All names were changed or were not used. How does the company find out about it?

Is it because they access their blogs at work?

If they do, what do they expect? Do some work!

It's all to do with everyone doing their bit, everyone putting in their best effort.

Why do people think that they can indulge their private matters at work?

I'm assuming that the people concerned didn't access their blog just once and get the boot because of that. I'm assuming there must have been an issue of ongoing usage here?

Thursday, August 03, 2006

Nearly over

I'm going to buy fish and chips and light the open fire and read, The Five People you meet in Heaven. I thought it was going to be twee, but I'm liking it.

I shouldn't have had those joints on the weekend, as I'm really feeling it today. Furious! I've been furious at the small things that have gone wrong... and at the people who have given me reason.

The day didn't get off to a good start, two air-head Sydney girls, who said I was rude and uncooperative, just because I wasn't giving them the answers they wanted to hear. It's that strange phenomenon that is happening now - if you disagree with someone you are accused of being rude, or worse still, disrespectful.

These two bimbos hadn't done one thing they were supposed to do and then they labelled me difficult when I told them they had to do A, B & C themselves. I wasn't having any of their,
No, no, no, you do it darling. You do it.

Do it yourself, you slappers! Uppity HR girls - trumped up Eastern Suburbs girls with Arts degrees and not a single clue, drowning in the stench of their own estrogen as they all fall into cycle sync. The thing they put their best work into, or most effort, is whining about whether they are called advisors or managers.

Sarah, with a soft 'a' and lots of breath.

Lazy cunts! I'm sick to death of lazy cunts. If everyone just did their bit, we'd all be so much further ahead.

It's weird, in Sydney they are famous for eating their young and somehow I get labelled hard to get along with. Go figure!

Apparently, I'm blunt. Too direct. And too honest. Apparently. (Too honest is a strange concept, don't you think?)

Good thing I'm indispensable. No, apparently I am.

I've got to stop eating peanut butter off a spoon and go get something healthy, like fish & chips.

I knew I shouldn't have bought it, but Lottie told me it was good for me. Perhaps, just not off a spoon, hey?

Stoke the fire. Where's my book? Time to think about nice things.

The stupid people

I was cutting through the service station tonight, on my way home. It was dark, the lights were bright. There was a girl sitting in her car, over at the side. She had her window down. She was fat, hairy - lots of hair - with a moustache and big, white teeth.

While she wasn't pulled up at the bowser, fair enough, she was still in the part where some one might park, if they were ducking in for newspapers or milk, or the like.

She was chugging away on a cigarette. When she was finished, she looked over at me, passing by, and flicked the, still lit, butt through the car window, towards the pumps.

I wasn't sure if I should run or duck. I just glared at her and shook my head from side to side. She gave me a sideways glance, I could see the whites of her eyes - would I see the flames reflected in them - before she went on chatting to her friend.

Wednesday, August 02, 2006

Here's to taking the environment seriously

I go out to my letter box, I remove the advertising material and I put it straight into the recycled bin. The perfect 21st Century product.

I guess the marketers are working on ways to get us to pay for them?

Tuesday, August 01, 2006

All clear

Tom was still here this morning. At least Matt left, from what I can gather, for a few hours. Tom went out to a mates place and took speed and e's, in between the morning and the evening. He tried it on with me, to let Matt come over so he and Matt could continue in the same vein (no pun intended) spending the twilight hours doing more of the same.

Matt can visit, Tom, but I don't want you using the place as your skank-o-rama crash pad.

I thought I was being bloody generous, because I was a bit put out, initially. But then I thought about the two of them living with their parents and thought I could be a little giving.

No, no, I won't impose, said Tom. No, no, I'll respect your boundaries. No, no, I wont treat the place as a crash pad. I'll tell Matt no.

He can come and stay, you know, if it's a normal visit.

Some time later the door bell rang. Tom came to my study door like an excitable teenager, I wonder who that could be?

He's like a fucking teenager, push, push, push, so he can do just what he wants. Still so self-focused, I see Tom. I guess that's what comes from being so sick and living on a pension for so long, it all just comes to you. But when does being sick stop being a reason and start becoming an excuse?

I'm just glad I didn't have to lose five years of my life to cancer treatment.

Speaking of which...

I had my tongue biopsied. I've had a crack in my tongue for a few years. My doctor said not to worry about it, as it caused me no pain, or had any impact. Recently, it kind of opened up into a hole and my doctor kind of looked concerned and asked if it had ever had a biopsy.

No, I said.

I think we should, was his, um, serious answer.

I just decided to go with it, without asking one hundred questions.
Well, anyway, it's not cancer of the tongue, oh no, no, no, it's a fungal infection. My specialist asked,

Have you, by any chance, been using one of those tongue cleaner toothbrushes?

Yes, I said. I started just recently.

Our eyes met. We both knew the answer.

I thought so, said the specialist. Stop using it, that's what's aggravating your tongue now.

I have an eight week treatment plan with lozengers, which taste like chalk and mouth wash, which I
start next week, so I haven't tried it. I'd like cherry, thanks.

It was my first time seeing this guy, so I had to fill out one of those "new patient" forms, on which was the question, Are you considered to be, or are you, in a high risk group for HIV?

I didn't know how to answer this question. My immediate thought was, Isn't everybody now in a high risk group? Am I in a high risk group because I'm gay? Am I in a high risk group because Manny is positive? But, Manny is, practically, nearly, the only guy I've slept with in four years and I have to practice safe sex with him, I have no choice, so would that put me in a low risk group?

I didn't know what the answer was, so I left it blank.

The specialist said the reasons for such fungal infections could be dietary, so he did a blood test. They can be oral hygiene? Or could, indeed, be the result of an impaired immune system.

Nicely bought in, I thought.

Was there any reason for me to believe my immune system could be impaired?

Oh yes, very nicely done, I thought. Ten points to you, my man.

So I explained my difficulty with the question earlier.

He asked if Manny had any oral hygiene problems, due to his impaired immune system, that he could be passing on to me... without losing a beat.

Well, I hadn't thought about that one. But no, I don't think that he has. He's obsessive about such things, usually.

He was pleased I'd stopped smoking. Well, what else is a mouth specialist going to say? Although, it's early days yet, he said, if it's only been a week.

I didn't tell him about the joints, Monday, Sunday and Saturday nights, thank you Nicholas, thank you Luke, thank you Tom. He, he, he. I didn't think it was really necessary.

But, the way he looked at me, when he said early days, it was as if he already knew.