Stupid People

One of the girls at work, who is eight months pregnant, and I have a great relationship, we joke and laugh. We have the same sense of humour, although, she didn't like me calling her fat when she was first noticeably pregnant.

Today, I asked her how the twins were?

What would you do if you were landed with twins, she asked?

I'd drown them in a bag, I replied. (with hand actions)

She laughed and wasn't offended, but one of the other women said to me later that someone could be offended by that remark.

People are pathetic, aren't they.

The Glass House

 I loved that show. Good bye and thanks for all the laughs. It was the best show on TV.

And thank you John Howard for doing to the Glass House what you are doing to the rest of the country.

Free speech is alive and well in this country? I don't think so.

The conservatives can't abide the criticism, they just can't take it.

And what a horrible little Mr Sheen is John Howard, interfering with Channel 2's programming for political purposes, he should be ashamed of himself, but of course he's not, he is too full of the conservative arrogance, where they think they can do whatever they like.

The Truly Awful Howard Govt

The vile Howard Government, who recently gave tax cuts to anyone earning 90K to 150K, while screwing the lowest paid workers, was exonerated by the Cole Commission, which was set up to exonerate the government ministers. Surprise, surprise.

The nuclear energy commission, which was set up to find in favour of nuclear power, found in favour of nuclear power. Again, surprise, surprise.

The nuclear power commission did not have any reference to investigate renewable energy sources. Wind and solar, which Australia has an abundance of, were completely ignored.

So, if you set up a commission to find in favour of existing fossil fuels - I will include uranium in fossil fuels - it is no surprise that it finds in favour of fossil fuels.

So which state in Australia is going to take the nuclear waste?

Who's worried about their grandchildren having to live with the continuing flow of nuclear waste?

Sun Behind the Roman Blinds

Random Sunday

Speaking of the election, congrats to Labor, but how cute is The Premier's son, Nick? Was he the one found dazed and confused and allegedly drug affected on the beach in Lorne, some time back during schoolies? He sounds like fun.
Let's get a photo of him in his underwear.

It's frightening that Family First polled so well in Victoria. I thought all the religious crack pots were in Queensland.
Jesus came to me in a dream. I was in bed, half asleep. He said it's all right, "they've" all got it wrong. Then he sucked my cock until I blew in his mouth.

The first devout Muslim playing for Essendon is damn cute. Can't wait to see him in his shorts.
KFC are going to prepare their meat according to Muslim specifications. Do we care? They can shove it up Allah's arse like a gerbil and swirl it around, for all I care.

The final of Idol is on tonight. It's a shame, as they chucked out Ricky, I'm not that interested in the final two. Good luck to both of them, I say. I hope they both win.

Locking human beings up in a display at the zoo is long over due.

The singing budgie is back. La Minogue is touring to sell out concerts. Come on boys, lets get behind a real singer, not a trumped up pop-tart who can barley warble a decent track.
But then again, I guess if that other one who has got so far on so little, Queen Madge, can do it, I guess Kyles can too.
Patti La Belle has released a gospel album in the states. Now there's a singer. Take note girls. Listen and weep.

How fat has Tom Cruise got? He must have taken up cheese cake to battle the depression of being dumped from his movie contract. We'll have to call him Tum-Tum Cruise, or Chin-Chin Cruise, from now on. He's a father? I thought he was famous for shooting blanks?
And continuing the theme of people who have made it big on very little talent, Tum-Tum, I salute you.
Kevin Federline says that his next cd will cater to women, as they are his primary audience. Do you think he'll use the same understanding of women, that he used to keep his wife happy, to make the record?

Isabella lands

Isabella was coming in for a business trip, for a week. She'd asked Gavin if she and he could meet, she missed him, she wanted to see her strapping son. Both of Gavin's sisters had been over to England to see their mum.

And if it was possible, with Steven too.

“I want to meet this boy I’ve heard so much about.”

Gavin was nervous, very nervous. He couldn't stand still. He'd asked Steven to wear a suit, which, of course, Steve had declined. "Relax babe, it's just coffee."

Isabella had a late change of schedule and arrived at Gavin's place at 8am.

Gavin stumbled to the door, just with a towel wrapped around him. "Who is it?"

"It's your mother, honey, open the door."

"Maarrrmmm," whined Gavin, like he did when he was five years old, "What time do you call this..."

"Sorry, but I had a last minute meeting change and this was the only time I could see you," said Isabella. "And I needed to see my snookums." Isabella pushed her face into the crook of Gavin's neck and kissed him as she hugged him.

She stepped back and smiled. "I've bought coffee, croissants and danishes," she said triumphantly.

"We're both in bed..."

"You've been working out," said Isabella. She pushed passed him.

Both boys jeans and jocks were strewn across the lounge room floor.

"So do I get to meet mr wonderful, then," said Isabella as she gazed on the discarded clothes.

"He's in bed."

"Well you get him up," said Isabella as she was about to head through the kitchen door. "Um... ah, just out of bed will do nicely." She laughed. "I'll make the tea." She disappeared into the next room.

Steve still looked sleepy as Gavin lead him by the hand into the kitchen. He had on a T-shirt and a pair of Gavin's old track pants. There were plates of food for everyone and pots of tea with cups and saucers and a silver tea strainer.

"Mum, this is Steven," said Gavin. "Steve, this is my mum."

"Well, aren't you a handsome boy," said Isabella. "My son obviously has an eye for the men."

"Very nice to meet you..." Steve hesitated. At that moment he realised Gavin had never mentioned what to call his mother. "Er, Mrs..."

"Oh nonsense!" Isabella exploded into laughter. "It's Isabella. Very nice to meet you Steven."

"It's nice to meet you, too," said Steve. His face broke into his handsome smile, as he held out his hand to shake.

"Oh, goodness me, come here." Isabella took Steve in her arms and hugged him tight. Steve's face looked taken aback looking at Gavin, over her shoulder.

"Mum, stop man-handling my boyfriend."

They broke apart.

"He's gorgeous," said Isabella.

"It's all right," said Steve.

"Can you blame me?" said Isabella. She turned her gaze to Steve. "You look after my beautiful son." She turned and pinched Gavin's cheek.

"Mum!"

She looked back at Steve. "Or you'll have me to answer to." She smiled. "Okay?"

"Mum?" said Gavin.

Steve looked quizzical, but held Isabella's gaze. "Okay."

She smiled as though she was impressed. "Now, sit down and eat. The croissants are ham, the danishes are cherry and the tea is hot. I've got an hour."

Maltese Go Boys

My mate, Josh and I joke about having our own gay squad, which we could send out to meet the face of discrimination any where we saw fit. You know, a bunch of boys, like backing singers, but blokey.

I call mine, the Maltese Go Boys (or the Rod Squad) - thick legs, beefy buts, hips that keep on giving and big, beefy genitals. Suck on a Maltese boy's foreskin today, it's savoury like his mamma's cooking.

Horny, exhibitionist, buff, western suburbs, wog boys, who wear Y-fronts and tracky daks, in which they precum constantly, who take out bigots and punish them sexually in secret locations. When I'm bored, I just get them together and watch them play with each other.

Of course, Josh's is full of wood cutters and Shepards, eastern block types... and friend's straight brothers, if the truth be known.

Home

We ate anti-pasta and bbq'd meat, we drank, well, everything, we danced, we laughed a lot.

I flirted with a gorgeous straight man, Nicholas' cousin, Craig. You can see that he and Nicholas share the same "handsome" gene. Craig was adorable (and hammered) and quite got off on me checking him out. I caught the adorable tell tale smile, several times. He'd taken ecstasy too. Straight boys at their most vulnerable. I find they love to be admired, if you're gentle with them. But don't think it's sexual, it's not. Just ego.

We ended up in the commission flats, at 4am, scoring green. I've never been in the commission flats before, they weren't nearly as scary as I imagined them to be, but then again, all of the natives were asleep - well, most of them were asleep, as we made our rowdy way to and fro, with me shushing the group, as I hate it when the tourists rant out the front of my place late. They really do have million dollar views, I thought, as I puffed on the bong looking out over the eastern suburbs on the eighteenth floor.

Now I'm home. And it was all just good, clean fun in the end.

Birthday

Okay, I'm smoking a bit, but I've quit the dope. I'm trying a new strategy - like any of them have worked, thus far. My heads becoming clearer, too many lost days, weekends, on the evil green. Although, the cigarettes are making me feel queasy, but I persist.

I'm off to Tim's birthday tonight, 3 e's and it should be a good night. I guess it will be the usual suspects.

Mark chastised me gently, asking me if I really thought it was a good idea going out for an all-nighter when I've been sick for the previous week. Well mum, you are probably right, but it's Tim's birthday and I have to go. He tut-tutted down the phone, at that response.

Mustn't forget to vote, Saturday. I don't want to be the, Sorry Bracksy, too drug fucked to vote, bloke. I'm going to vote Greens, no Labour with second preferences, blah, blah, blah.

Sparky

Sparky – I call him Sparky – was reading the newspaper at the corner of Brunswick and Gertrude Streets, as I was waiting for a tram this morning. Lean, strong, in shape, kind of studious looking, in a studly kind of fitness, running, exercising bloke, kind of way. Short wavy, dark hair, handsome, boyish face, nice eyes, nice mouth, gun metal grey pin-striped suit.

As it turned out we were sitting opposite each other in the tram, as he read the Financial Review.

Oh, I'm still feeling a little drained from my cold and I'm feeling a little lack lustre in the mornings. So, I sat and day dreamed... and gazed at Sparky, not really intentionally, he was just in my direct view.

Tight stomach, narrow waist and nice thighs; the pin-stripes sliding up his legs, over his thighs, all stripes, seemingly, meeting at a one point, where his shapely balls sat plumply on display. He was reading intently, not tuned into me at all. I wondered if the shape was all testicles, or if part of it was his cock nestle there. I tried to picture which way it lay, was it to the left, or to the right. (trying not to tilt my head with each thought) Was it lying upwards? Hmm, I thought. Just gazing at his crotch was captivating.

Then I realised he had finished what he was reading and was turning the pages. I glanced up, momentarily, to see a coy smile flash on his face, but then he kept on reading. I gazed back down. He kept reading and I wasn't aware of him looking at me again.

Slowly, his dressing to the left started to swell. What I thought was his left ball, slowly stretched across his crotch, until he was fully boned up. I reckon he had a foreskin, as the end of his hard shaft just seemed to fade away again, no big knob bulge.

I'm imagining it, I thought. And I would have believed it was all in my own stupid mind, except that when I first wondered which way his cock lay, he just had a round lump in the front of his pants, like two quarter oranges stuffed down there side by side. Now he had a definite bar laying out to the left. Thick.

He kept reading, seemingly unfazed. I gazed at his hard-on unfazed. He didn't acknowledge me or what I was looking at, for the rest of the trip, but his cock stayed hard.

When he got off at Queen Street, he flashed the most transient smile at me, as he adjusted himself and then he got off the tram without looking back.

David Hicks

It is time that David Hicks was returned to Australia, immediately. America has had long enough to do whatever it is they wanted to do with him; five years is long enough without charge. Or do we all agree that indefinite interment (of an Australian citizen by another country) without charge is fair?

Not to mention, that the charges are about as dodgy as our reasons for invading Iraq

It's time this Australian citizen was was requested home by his government.

To use those beloved words of the conservative politicians, it is unAustralian to hold a man without charge for five years... in any other circumstances.

The Howard government has a deplorable record of looking after Australian citizens OS. The Howard Government has deported citizens of this country, that's how much it cares about the people of Australia.

Hello Mr

Boy, it was hot! The weather, that is; thick and hot, like mid summer. Manny came over. He was hot, too. It was good to sweat. It was good to kiss him. It was good to slide my hands down his pants. I've got the usual beard burn across my bottom lip, one of the facts of doing it with a wog boy, thick beard. I often wonder if anyone notices the red mark along my bottom lip. I wonder? ...if they have any idea.

Sunshiny Day

Yep, home again today. I was going, promise and I was feeling fine until I had a coughing fit in the kitchen, as the coffee perked and the air smelled sweet, everything just seemed to let go and I was swimming in mucous. For a second there, I though I was going to drown. Then I just felt nauseous and dizzy. I reached straight for the phone. Fuck me! What a woos! Once I get a taste for the day off, though, there is no stopping me. What do I care, I'm a senior member of staff who hardly ever takes sickies. That's what they say to me, anyway, but i reckon I give them a nudge. We're all wound too tight to think of wagging a day, generally. Now I'm up to three.

But it is just glorious standing in the kitchen, bathed in morning light, with nothing to do for the day, it's addictive. Woo-hoo! It seems like a wrench just thinking about going in tomorrow.

I feel okay now, though. Big smile. Ears still blocked, but. Still coughing up the dead.

Danger, Danger Will Robinson!

Lottie made one of her infrequent flying visits. I thought of it Sunday, when she said she was heading into the city, yesterday morning, to have her hair cut. She even suggested that she might.

The trouble was that after a few numbers, I'd forgotten all about it. When I heard the ding dong and the you-who, I was mid toke, chat lines, cock ring, track suit with no underwear. Actually, it wasn't that bad, but I'm sure the house smelt like a Bedouin brothel, all that was missing was a hooker.

Then I heard the second voice... but of course. Lottie collects people wherever she goes. She will always have found a guide, if ever she has to break out into unknown - some what unfamiliar - lands. Of course, her champion was always my father.

I had to bide for time. No need to panic, she had someone to play with for a good five, ten minutes at a stretch.

I always find that in those moments, it's better to go back to scratch. So I turned off the computer, hid the mull paraphernalia, in my grandfather's desk, what's more, flung the windows open, took my only give away sign, my hot cup of tea and got into bed. I lay getting my, somewhat, smokey breath, as I listened to Lottie give gardening tips down stairs, below in my front garden.

Count back wards from one hundred.

Breath one, two, three, four.

Saunter over, open the balcony doors and sound as just-woken-up as I could possibly muster. My stagger and near tumble over the balcony, seen by nobody but myself, did nothing for my confidence.

Hello, I said shakily.

They both looked up and I was met with such gratitude, from a rather nice looking, secretary or government worker, I'd guess at.

I opened the door, some minutes later, I was in no hurry. I emptied the ash trays.

Hello. You're home, beamed Lottie. This is (I forget her name now) I met her on the tram.

How nice, I said calmly.

I just showed her down Gertrude Street, beamed now nameless. But, I've got to go. Get back to work. Goodbye Lottie, nice to meet you.

You had better come in for a cup of tea.

I questioned Lottie about the house for sale in my street and how she could move there and not be so lonely, but by that time she looked very comfortable and small, holding an over-sized coffee cup didn't help, nestled safely in my big couch.

She kept getting the number of the tram mixed up... well, she was leaving on a different tram to which she arrived on. We sat and chatted for an hour. I tried to keep my eyes from crossing. I like my mum. The afternoon sun shone through the windows.

She smelt nothing. She was hopeless with that when I was a kid. She never smelt the smoke on her sixteen year old's breath. In fact, had she been better at it, I may not have smoked in my adult life. Ha, ha!

We drank tea, I walked her to the tram stop.

Do you know where you are? I asked her in Victoria Parade.

Of course I do, she said. Then she plotted the entire local grid impeccably, out to me allowed, as a wind blew down Victoria Parade, as we waited for a new tram. Not dead yet, she said.

I can see the old lady in her now, though, it's no longer glimpses, just around the edges, she's morphing. Even if it's only the momentary lapse just now.

There was a gay boy, in his thirties, looking out of the tram window at us, as it pulled up. I kissed Lottie and then she had to find the door, too much glass. She smiled, as if to say silly me, when she found the door. The gay guy smiled, as if at some fond memory. Lottie stood just in front of him and waved. I waved her good bye and as the tram slid along, as my eyes did, I waved the gay boy good bye too. He smiled in return.

Nana # 2

Nana with a penchant for brandy. Her husband, my grandfather, died young and she remained heart broken for the rest of her life. She ended her days penniless with her two sons supporting her, where, once, she was promised this dazzling life, the wife of an international engineer. Any wonder she drank. Quite a lush, if my mother's words, dragged out of her by me, are to be believed. Lottie was quite uncomfortable telling me, like she was betraying an elder, or something. She wouldn't say the words, there were a lot of you know and if you understand my meaning, head nods and looks...

And offers of cups of tea, Lottie's standard distraction technique.

Some say that my non-drinking uncle is a non-drinker as a direct effect of his mother's... as Lottie would do, hand to the mouth, rock the hand backwards and forwards. Knowing look.

Apparently, my old nan favoured my father outrageously, often only able to stagger through the door at night with cream cakes particularly for his dinner, spending most days at the pub while her boys worked. In her defence, both her boys were in their twenties by this stage. It was an eye-opener for Lottie, however, who'd fallen for my father by this stage. What a lonely life Nana must have had in her later years.

Somebody Stop Me

Four joints and I'm still tonguing for more.

My name is Christian Fletcher and I'm a drug addict.

Ha, ha, ho, ho.

My grandma – the one with a penchant for brandy and not the one with a penchant for having another man's photo on her bedside table for her whole marriage – had a brandy every day for her entire life and nobody called her an alcoholic. Well? Not to her face. Certainly, nobody outside the family.

Once I get a taste for the "sickie" there's no stopping me. Lets just say that today is a mental health day to recover from all the dope I smoked over the weekend to ease the pain of my cold.

The light was kind of misty, this morning, no threat of the promised thirty something degrees, so I just rolled over and went back to sleep, after I'd made the call. The outside world looked kind of smudgy, like an impressionist view of itself. I nestled back down amongst the pastel colours and drift back to nod, not a single shred of guilt, to be detected.

I so wanted to get Manny over here, out of his pants and between me and the sheets, just to look down and kiss him in that light, but with his phobias, I knew as soon as I said the "C" word, I wouldn't see him for dust. And as I was sounding like Bette Davis - that would be from Whatever Happened to Baby Jane and not All About Eve {occasionally, I just have to be gayer than Xmax, it's in my genes} - I could see no way of hiding it.

So, I lay in bed, this morning and just pretended he was there... if you understand my meaning?

I wasn't going to smoke pot, today, but when I started to smoke cigarettes instead, as I wrote this morning, I decided that my strategies clearly weren't working. Both had failed.

Oh! Oh! Oh! I had given up, back not so long ago, altogether. Bugger! Bugger! Bugger! How did I slip back? So, which is worse, cigarettes or pot? I reckon cigarettes, as I can smoke them any where, once I really get going on them.

So, I've just been over to Guido's. He was watching Project Runway with his latest, young, root, Max, on his new fuck-off plasma TV. Drug dealer's certainly have all the latest gadgets and gizmo's. Guido and Max took some thing, or other, and watched the entire series of Project Runway on DVD, last night.

Max said something about Project Runway and smiled wildly, while his jaw shivered at me. I have no idea what he said.

Guido promised to burn me a copy.

Okay, cool, I thought. I've never watched the show, but... chee thanks.

Guido is such a skank. Something was said about the male models, Guido ran his hand down Max's bare chest and into his track pants, saying, "You've seen nothing, babe." Guido smiled lecherously. "Take a look at this." As his hand rolled over exposing Max's semi-inflated, lube-encrusted, cock.

Max tried to stop him, in vain.

"Don't, you've got nothing to be embarrassed about."

Max just kind of looked cross-eyed at me, after that, kind of embarrassed, as his jaw vibrated some more, as his hardening cock lay exposed. Nice it was too, thick all the way along from the tip to the base. Uncut. Tanned skin, nice abs, that v cutting through his lower abdomen and a bush of black pubic hair surrounding his, nearly purple, genitals.

It was kind of like a frozen moment. The three of us still in time, looking at Max's impressive manhood, like an Aubergine Salad, without speaking. The wet spoof in the foreskin was a particularly nice touch.

"Hey, you know, if you are going to burn me a copy of this," I said. "I should get going and watch it later, from the beginning."

"True," said Guido, pulling his hand out of Max's pants. "You don't want to spoil it, ay?"

"No," I said.

homeless

Whoosh, Sound!

Melbourne rocked by protesters over night. I think it's good, somebody has to do it. Some body has to let those fat pig friend's of John Howard know that they aren't just being allowed to go along the path of snouts in troughs completely unchecked. And I know I don't want to be out on the streets, at night, hurling stubbies at the fat cats. Good for you guys. Freedom of speech, we're not a dictatorship just yet, despite little Johnnies best/worst inclinations.

My left ear just unblocked. Yah! That may not sound so much to you, but let me tell you, the world was just let in, in all it's whirring and buzzing, glory and I'm no longer sealed in my own little cocoon. Now for the right one.

Gertrude Street is bristling with street people at 8am, Sunday morning. What is it, all those drugs won't let them have regular sleep patterns? Or are they the usual homeless who haven't melted into the back ground because all the home-equipped people are still asleep?

One of them said, nursing his long neck on the steps of the A.N.Z. bank at 9am, as I left Safeway. "Wow, you've bought enough food there for a whole week!"

Um... yes... precisely, I thought. But it will have to stretch to two, I know that, I'm a lazy bastard where shopping is concerned...

... initially, I thought he was being sarcastic, a comment on my lax shopping management skills... I laughed at myself without turning back.

Random morning

I want Hamish & Andy to secretly be lovers. They are healthy, strapping boys. I'd like to watch the two of them in a heated snog. I admit to a slight crush on Hamish, for some reason. And Andy isn't bad either - although, those ears? Batchelor of the year, but.

Matthew Lloyd is looking pretty buffed.

That inept bag of wind Kim Beasley can't even get Rove's name right, at, arguably, the most significant moment in Rove's life.

Here's one to have a laugh over. Naomi Campbell is still denying that she has ever assaulted anybody?

Apparently, God has answered Michael Jackson's prayers. You'd be changing churches, now wouldn't you?

I've been watching under water footage - pun intended - of water polo. It's pretty hot stuff. I've got one question to ask, Straight boys?

Manny and I had phone sex again last night. We're a couple of lazy bastards.

I have to dye my hair and now I've had a couple of joints. The last time I did that I managed to get it all up the bathroom wall.

Panorama of Melbourne

Morning Glory

The day faded away into the pain that was my temples. I woke up on the couch at 4am. Tight sinus', a nose that won't stop dripping and a cough that is dry and rough and just won't crack.

Now I just wish my nose would stop. My temples are tight, my sinus' are humming, my head is thick, my ears blocked.

The sun is shining, the sky is blue.

I cried reading about Belinda Emmett's funeral - feeling unwell always makes me a bit teary. I guess it's not the destination that is important, but the way the journey is lived in getting there, that is. But to watch the love of your life slip away, poor Rove.

So what if I feel lousy with a cold... it's a beautiful morning, after all.

My feet are cold.

View

The view from my office window, as I sit at home with a cold.

Got the bloody cold

I'm home with a cold. I'm not happy. My chest hurts from the never ending coughing through the night. I'm exhausted.

My nose, my throat, my chest.

Boo fucken hoo!

Oh the coughing! Oh my chest! Oh my throat! Oh my blocked ears! Oh my head!

I feel like a train wreck.

Cold

I've been out to dinner with my writing buddy Kym. Got to luv daylight savings, as we were home early. Not that I didn't want to hang with Kym, but I've got a fucking cold! Do you believe it? I feel like shit! Tired. Is this what's left over from the week of misbehaving over Melbourne Cup, no doubt. You always pay for your fun.

I need Daniel Craig to come and rub my back.

Suddenly, it is cold. Got to hate hydronic, slab heating when it suddenly turns nasty. If the heating hasn't been on for a week, it takes a while for the concrete to heat up. I'm freezing!

My nose is blocked and I've got a dry cough that just won't crack. Grr!

I'm going to bed.

James Bond

I was reading a jurno saying that she had changed her about the new, blond Bond when she saw Daniel Craig at the beach in those blue trunks. Whose mind wasn't changed?

and on the beach

Way Cool

Linda sang beautifully. Vicka was incredible; what a voice. Renee was Renee, kind of doing an characterisation of herself, now a days, but she was still great. She said she took up cigarettes to lose weight, I reckon I could hear it in her voice. And they had a seventeen year old, Ella Thompson, open for them. Amazing.

The rain came down. Gorgeous.

I've swapped to Beta blogging, I thought I had better do it eventually. So far, a part from some slight set-out differences, everything else seems much the same. Except for the annoying view window function.

Wet & Cold & Music

Wasn't it cold? Wasn't it wet? I'm off to see Renee Geyer & Vicka and Linda Bull at The Prince of Wales, so what do I care.

I can get myself to St Kilda when there is great soul music on offer, but not for the Melbourne bloggers meet. Oh well, I'm not sure that I fit into that scene, really. Ridiculous, I know. A bunch of gay boys sitting around getting to know each other... it sounds like my home territory.

So why wouldn't I go? Hmmm? I'll have to think a little more about it, I guess.

I've got to stop being that person who naturally says no to things. I'm not sure when I became that person. You only live once, hey?

That Greek Boy

Manny has been calling and making all sorts of promises - hard cock, got needs, can't sleep - but has failed to materialise, thus far. It's really annoying, if he's not going to come over, don't call me up and remind me of what I'm missing out on. If I don't hear his voice, I don't think of him... {grimace} um... pretty true. But the minute I hear his husky voice...

I guess it's my karma.

He's like having a really sexy, naive, little brother.

Big smile.

Sorry gran... but lets face it, you had to get married, after all. (Lottie will kill me!) And the family rumour is... um... {trying hard not to revert to a twelve year old boy} ...abortions? (The one thing I asked you to never write about, says Lottie) So, big smile, I don't think you are in any lesser company here.

Gran's blue eyes sparkled whenever I was around. She was happy with the centre of attention. She loved to gossip to me about every member of the family, as we snuggled into bed together. (single beds next to each other)

She didn't mind a fuss... in a elegant, English kind of way.

 

Good Advice

As my old granny used to say - that's the one with a penchant for property investment and not the one with a penchant for brandy - no matter what you do, no matter what job you aspire to, stand up, hold your back straight and your head high and look the world right in the eye.

That's the granny who was famous (in the family) for building three houses during the Great Depression and who died leaving a huge estate, without, seemingly, ever having worked a day in her life. That's not entirely true, she did own her own millinery business, in Glenhuntly Road, way back when. When we were cleaning out her wardrobe, we realised that she didn't have a dress made after the fifties, most probably, although it was hard to tell, once they were lying there lifeless without her to fill them out. She saved every penny.

Of course, the devil (lawyers) swindled the money away before it ever got to me. I'd so love to name the law firm! My drunkard uncle, husband of my mother's dead, younger sister, made a pact with the devil to get what he now calls his own. For it all to come out even in the end, when he meets his end, I should inherit. Who knows how? Dare I say miracle. All I've got left is karma. There's sharks every where else. I've learned, it's only your direct, immediate family who give you an island from all of that.

Gran died twenty years ago, this year. It's one of the draw backs of having children late in life, as my mother and my grandmother did, as my brother did, the grandchildren only get the grand parents for a relatively short time. Their tribe diminishes early. I loved her. Adored her. Her blue eyes would sparkle whenever she was being naughty. We were partners in crime, so often.

She told me about geography (her favourite subject) and the world (her favourite places there in).

Hint # 54

 Try masturbating with the inside of a mango skin?

Bolago

In The Country

Up the country, I stumbled into a friend's - who has been helpful to us with the business - gay son's twenty first birthday party, we put on for him.

They were a great bunch of kids.

Young (university educated, certainly) straight boys are so sweet. They seem so not hung up on sexuality. Cute straight boy, we shall call him, J'O was getting on famously with cute gay boy, we shall call him, J'K. Apparently - I found out later that J'K has a thing for J'O, and J'O has a girlfriend - J'K crawled into bed with J'O late. And everyone (seemed) cool with each other in the morning.

When we were watching Idol - I so miss Ricky - it was said that J'O's girlfriend wants to screw Idol Dean. J'O laughed and said, Yeah, she has the hots for him... maybe, I've got the hots for him too. He laughed his gorgeous, disarming laugh.

He smiled when he caught me checking out his bulge - we were both in arm chairs that kind of faced each other. I couldn't help but see the bulge in his pants, as he reclined back watching TV, it was worth looking at. But, it was just an absentminded, cursory, with no intent, kind of glance. The kind you do, before you even know you have done it. But, I could sense him looking over at me to see if I was checking him out some more. I resisted for a while, but the minute I looked over, he was looking. I could sense him squirming, as I looked back at the TV. He sure liked the attention, because when I finally looked back, he was hard, as he glanced from the TV to me, to the TV to me, to the TV, quickly at his cock, to me to the TV.

His face blushed red, as he was bathed by the light of the TV, with a boner in his pants. His legs spread, shielded from the gaze of everybody else, who were intently watching Idol, anyway, by the arms of the chairs. A couple of times he dared adjust it, he stared at me expressionless, as he squinted his eyes.

It's sexy and sweet. I've known a number of straight boys who have had sex with men, especially on drugs. I used to have sex with my straight and sexy Maltese friend, Carl. He was always surprised when gay boys hit on him. We had a beautiful and tender relationship.

Once we all stopped watching TV, J'O stopped. Although, the two times I held his gaze, deliberately, he couldn't help but smile and blush in a sexy kind of way. It's the eyes that give them away, though. So mostly he avoided my gaze... until my train departed a short time later.

I tell you what, I can smoke pot for days, weeks, I can snort lines and I can swallow pills with the gayest of abandon that befits them, but I still don't know how people drink solidly for 12 hours, sleep some and then start drinking again.

It would either put me to sleep or make me sick.

There were many messages on my answering machine from Manny, when i got home, apologising for Friday night and wanting to know where I was.

Good for him, I thought. 

Adieu

I'm off to the country for what's left of the weekend. My mate Julien is down from the top end. He came down for Jesse's funeral and that was the only time any of us saw him. He is in the Northern Territory working with indigenous Australians, of which he is one himself. We're best friends, we've lived together off and on. It'll be good to see him.

Mark picked me up from the station, as we drove home he said,
Wasn't it sad about Belinda?
Do I know a Belinda, I thought. Belinda who? I said.
Belinda Emmett died this morning.
Oh. I felt genuinely sad.
To have found the love of your life and then to lose her, my heart goes out to Rove.

The next day

 ... he didn't show, of course.

What Do I Care?

I'm on a promise from my hot, Greek boyfriend. Ha, ha. We'll see. He's not that great at turning up when he is supposed to. He gets endlessly distracted.

Staying at home, in the hope that my man is going to turn up, I can almost feel the mediocrity washing over me.

Feathers

There were feathers right through my house, when I got home. My study seems to have been the main killing ground, but they trial through my atrium and trail off into the lounge room.

I haven't found the carcass, as yet. Oo! I'm wondering where that joy is to be located.

Missy just sort of shrugged, as if to say she'd had a busy day, when I questioned her, just before she scampered off to her food bowl with a feed me meow.

Grrr!

Mark W

Gossip

Tom and I decided that since Shane has taken up with Mat, supposedly in a three way relationship with Mark W. , Mark W. has looked hurt and seemed pissed off, most of the time. He seems to be doing his own thing a lot.

Tom and I think, it looks like Shane wants to split up with Mark W., but, for whatever reason, isn't going through with it.

Shane and Mark have been happily married for a number of years. They own property together.

Shane confirmed, I think on Friday night, that he was, in fact, modeling his new relationship on mine from a few years ago, just as Perry told me, a few weeks ago. Should I be flattered?

"Well Shane, what can I say?" I couldn't help but smile at him. "That relationship broke up."

Many days and many nights later, as we downed vodka and tonics, last call at the continuation of the wake, after consuming what would be a small pharmacy, collectively, Shane & I got to reminiscing. Shane and I shared a house for a number of years, on the most resent occasion that we have lived together, but we've lived together off and on since we all hit the bars, clubs and brothels, together, as pups. We're good mates. Good friends.

We lay back in the bean bags, in the lounge watching Mark W. and Tom in the kitchen, as Matt played with the music until it was the purest Motown.

"Our years together were pretty special to me," slurred Shane.

"Yeah, me too," I said.

Mark W. and Tom were scheming in the kitchen. I could see it on their faces.

"No, they really were, some of the best times," said Shane.

And they were. I smiled at all the memories. I wondered where I was going wrong now. I'm not sure that living on my own is what it's cracked up to be.

"You never know," said Shane. He smiled nervously. "I may be back there again, if I lose another husband."

Mark W. laughed loudly, his handsome face looked gleeful. (he, of course, couldn't hear us) Tom had his evil face on.

Shane has had and lost three husbands since I've known him. So have I, come to think of it.

Wow, I thought. Tom and I are witches. (Missy came meowing, rubbing at my leg, just as I wrote that last sentence, I kid you not) What comes from knowing significant people in your life, I guess. It's true, we picked it in months.

But do you want to know the shitful thing I did? I was so busy basking in my own brilliance that I never once said to Shane, Are you okay? Do you want to talk about it?

Nah, far too clever for that sort of carry on.

Love & lust... And Smoking Pot, For Sure

Love will bring about the world's continuation, lust will bring about it's demise.

Good and evil.
Black and white.

It's funny, about all the people who are concerned about the world's immanent decline. Why? As a race, we haven't been that successful. A third of us are starving, while the rest watch, the remaining two thirds despise one another. (I think that is too many thirds) We've crapped so badly in our own nest that there is a growing number of scientific minds who say we have now passed the point of no return.

What is there to save?

Is it a kid thing? A better place for all of our kids? Is it because I don't have children that I'll never understand the fear? So how many of the parent's of the world have, oh, lets just take one, given up driving their cars for their kids future? Oh, what's that, hardly any of them?

But what is the fear of the world ending? Is it that everyone thinks it's going to hurt? You know, like the population collectively is going to stub its toe... break its leg? Or is it just general, non-specific fear, because we are all now taught to be so fearful?

Love doesn't really work, though, now does it? I guess, it works on an individual basis, for two or a family size - but lets not delve too far into the love shared between family members, hey? Love doesn't work on a national or international scale though, now does it? What's one of the best things that humans are good at? Hate and war? I mean, hate is now a political strategy. John Howard - "there is a bunch of Muslims who are resisting becoming Australia, who are resisting Australian values."

Only Muslims?

Nobody yet has given me a definitive list of what these Australian values are?
Howard is quibbling about the language we all speak? Is that because they don't speak his language of hate and won't fall for his rhetoric?

Family values? Our values, as opposed to "their" values?

Can someone explain to me how the war in Iraq works, where the Christian country of America and the other's, in the coalition of the willing, 2nd commandment is, Thou shall not kill? There are no qualifications to that commandment in the bible, like unless you are up against filthy Arabs, or dirty Muslims? Thous shalt not kill, means no killing. How does a Christian country like America get around that one? Let alone, thou shall not kill in a war when the reasons for us being in it were all decidedly dodgy. (that's the nicest I can put it) I believe the point that our boy Jesus was really hot on was, turn the other cheek? Not eye for an eye.

I guess what I'm saying is that right up until now, lust seemed to be winning out over love. But them old Yankees just seemed to go and dog gone it, finally, good for them.

There, take that, Bush!

Nerya nya nya nya nya!

Queue the cheerleaders.

Funeral for a Friend

Jesse's funeral, today. I just decided to go, this morning. Not think about it. Just be a part. People get what they get from funerals, a last chance to tell their part of the story, a chance to say good bye, a chance to have that person "big" in the conversation, maybe, probably, for the last time. An ending.

It doesn't matter that funerals don't mean any thing to me, that's not the point. It's just a gathering. I was networking my friends, I've spent far too long pushing them all away, it was time just to be a part.

It wasn't a religious funeral, people just spoke of their time with Jesse.

But, Jesse's deeply religious parents - who were quite anti gay because god told them to be - were quite touched by the level of friendship and love shown to Jesse by his gay friend's that they were moved, dare I say in their point of view. Maybe. It was a win for us, anyway, whichever way you look at it. A bridge was built. Acceptance, by just being ourselves.

So I decided to help with the show of strength.

Jason turns thirty

When Jason was younger, when he first came out onto the gay scene - my how time flies - he used to get any guy he wanted. It wasn't really something he thought about at the time. It was the product of good genes, bright eyes and clear skin, he'd always had them. He always knew that that was probably more of a comment on what sluts men really were, than him, in particular. Yeah, he looked alright, handsome is what he was always told, mostly. So he had the sex life of a handsome young man. It was true. It had been fun. He partook enthusiastically.

There were thirty candles on the cake in front of him, Scott had insisted. The waiter smiled at Jason, as he set the cake down in front of him, kind of flirty.

Jason still had bright eyes and good teeth. He could probably still get most guys he set his mind on, but the problem was that he no longer wanted to. Oh, it wasn't that he had to pick up every guy that he met, back then, it was just that they were plentiful and he never thought not to. It wasn't like it was a quest, or anything, but there was always a cute man standing there saying how about it. It's like, where he had to fuck every one of them, once, for about 50% of them, now, flirting was enough. He thought that was good, grown up. Lets face it, 50% of them were dud roots anyway, it was less time consuming. He could get so one tracked about it, where he spent all of his spare time sniffing it out. He wanted to think about other things now, well, for the most part, anyway. What was it they always said about quality?

He laughed. All the faces surrounding him were chanting, blow, blow, blow.

christian

Random Tuesday

My ex-boyfriend told me that I look like Christian Bale... we were kind of venturing into flirting for the first time since we split up.
Really, I thought? I've never seen a Christian Bale movie - although I vaguely know what he looks like - best I get myself to the video shop and get one.
Aby says I look like Andrew MaCarthy.
Mark says that if I put on round glasses, I look like John Lennon.

I never use my lap-top, it sits patiently by the side of my bed for the few occasions that I write late at night. I always use my PC. Not sure why, I guess it's habit, I guess it must be the fact that I like writing in familiar surroundings.

Stella McCartney's response to hearing Heather Mills had dragged Linda into the bitter divorce mud.
"I'll kill her," she screamed. They're feisty, them artistic types.

Do you think that ultimately the world just wants to watch David and Victoria Beckham fuck? I mean, after he gives up soccer, neither of them are talented at anything else.

Saddam Hussein is to hang. In this day and age, surely there are better ways to execute people - if you must execute them.

Stem cell technology is a very serious thing. We are, after all giving the power of life and death to human beings to control and they haven't proved too reliable in the past when they've had ultimate power. So we have to rely on our experts to decide if we can master the technology and be trusted with the responsibility. People of science and not deluded charlatans of myths and superstition. People who know what they are talking about.
But if you want my opinion. I think an embryo - at the lump of snot stage - is far less a part of a miracle, than the ability to give back the power of movement too a quadriplegic is. Even if that was the only thing the technology was good for. But, it can do the same for a multitude of injuries and diseases.

I have to admit to a bit of a crush on Adam Hills.

When I was off my chops, I got on gaydar and propositioned the world. I have no memory of any of it. I was hallucinating, off in my own head, as my hands worked in another world... apparently. I thought I was talking to Tom, when I came too in front of my computer.
One of them was Tim's hot ex-boyfriend Tony, the only person I am banned by name from hitting on. Oh the pain. I'll have to stay off gaydar for a month. I'll have to have the charm-o-metre on full blast when I see Tim again. Oh, Tony wouldn't tell him. Would he? Ex-boyfriends? I have the truth on my side. I have no memeory of ever messaging him and if I was in my right mind, I'd never message him. (who wants that trouble, be realistic?) It was a terrible mistake, I'm sorry.
Do you think that will cut it?
It's all I've got.

The Australian Government spends twice as much money on advertising itself as it spends on climate change.
Australia has the dubious honour of being the greatest per capita producer of greenhouse gases in the world.

He, He, He

Whoosh! You gotta luv long weekends.

I went out dancing at the Peel, with Tom.

I got to snog a cute guy named Harley, on the dance floor, as we danced together during the night. I could have bought him home, he had big, warm hands and red, soft lips and he was panting to be taken home.

My T-shirt was wet through, as we stood in Peel Street, at 6am, in the cold, morning air, shivering, suspecting that I could vomit at any moment. The drugs - snort, swallow and inhale - were making feel nauseous, not horny, which wasn't a good premise for hot sex. I can't multi-task at all when I'm off my head, I can even multi-task in thought, I am, absolutely, only a one-thought-at-a-time wonder, when I'm out of it.

I had to go home, I felt like shit, I had to take my wet clothes off, I had to sit down, that's all I could hang onto. My hand slipped out of Harley's, as soon as Tom said he'd give me a lift home. I headed for Tom's car on autopilot, without looking back.

When I got home, I had to lay down for an hour, quietly on the couch listening to Aretha Franklin, before that just-about-to-vomit metallic taste in my mouth would go and the sea-sickness spins would stop. I may have drifted off, nothing is very clear to me now.

I think I've been up for an hour. I'm just dazed, with a sore throat. I smoked like a bitch, all night.

I'm trying to force muesli down, you know, so at least I eat something. It tastes like shit. It's hard work. I can't do it. It's like eating sand.

Now, I want Harley! It has taken two hours for my mind to come back to him. Bugger!

Cropped dark hair. Beautiful eyes. Big lips. Olive skin. Blue singlet. Hot. If any one knows him, Melbourne area, I think, send him right over, I so want to slide my hands down his pants, finally.

Josh and Aby

I've just been chatting to Josh, in Berlin and to Aby, who is staying with Josh.

The phone rang at 3am. Initially, I thought I was dreaming it. The house had been quiet for so long. It was like a jangling interruption. I think I jumped.

It's good to hear Josh's voice on the other end. Some people find Josh really full on and hard to deal with. He's certainly his own person, he flies on his own trajectory, that's for sure. He's loud. He's a monster person. (But then, so are most of the people in my life, when I look at it) Nobody makes me laugh more.

Josh has been dumped recently and is in the process of leaving Berlin after five years, so he's got the hates on for the place and is irritable and grumpy. Aby said quietly down the phone to me, when Josh was out of ear shot, that he'd been quite a brat. Now nobody does brat quite as well as Josh when he is in a bratty mood. Ab and I laughed about it - the look, the steam out the ears, patience at zero, the sigh, the stomping... and the endless talk. Josh never does anything quietly, brattiness especially.

However, Aby found a nice, strapping German boy, named Dominic, so she's not complaining about anything too much. Quite happy and contented, is Ab.

They both asked if Manny was still around and they both seemed genuinely please when I said he was. Oh yes, they all love Manny, the boy just naturally charms every one. Without trying, it's just him.

Josh tells me he'll be home on December 12th. Bloody hell that's hardly even four weeks away. My how time has flown in my time on my own. BLOODY HELL! I like it on my own. Kind of. Okay, not really. There I've said it. But am I ready for Josh? You know, he's probably exactly what I need about now.

I should have let the beautiful Stuart move in, as he did what every beautiful boy does after he has split up, he met another boy, we'll call him the beautiful Paul. Consequently, Stuart has, essentially, moved into Paul's in Prahran, so much so that he is now going to gym with Manny over that side. Yes, yes, ever decreasing circles. Anyway, he's still paying rent on his flat in Collingwood... not that I want to make easy money out of someone who is, essentially, my friend... oh what the hell, I find easy money as appealing as every other human being on the planet, lets face it. It's just that a part time housemate would probably suit me.

Anyway, my major point is that I only have the house left to myself for a relatively short time, now. Best I swing from the chandelier with leather strapping tied around my nuts, while I can.

Early Sunday

Oh my aching head! Whoosh! Bang! Crash!

I went out with Mark, Luke and Tom, dancing... Friday night, firstly at the Glass House and then the Peel, for Throb. I remember Mark & Luke saying they were going back to the Glass House. I remember Tom saying he was going to the sauna. But that's about it. Apparently, I found out later, going back to the Glass house was 3am, going to the sauna was 6am. Just a daze now.

I think I went to bed at... um... er... in the, um... er, it's not very clear now. Morning. Mark & Luke came back, eventually. It must have been the morning. Mark and Luke left at 9am. (Saturday)
Now, it's 2am, (Sunday) I'm eating re-heated pizza, as a ACDC special bangs out on the TV, you know, just to settle the nerves. I haven't eaten since Friday lunch time, I just forgot, which is unusual for me.

I wonder how much weight I've lost. I could loose 5 kilos. My new diet strategy is lots of drugs and lots of dancing. Well, it works for everyone in Hollywood.

What day is it?

Good Bye My Friend

My mate Jesse died this morning at 2.15am. It just seems so weird reading back over that last sentence. Jesse is dead. I will never, ever see him again. It's a funny old thing death, it's like tipping over into a void... nothing! That's it, you can hold your breath until you are blue in the face and nothing will ever change.

It only seems like yesterday that he and I were dancing at the Peel K'd off our brains.

Jesse didn't die peacefully, he never gave into it, he never got tired and had that calm before the end, he fought it, screaming in pain, all the way. It was pretty awful for all concerned, from all accounts.

I probably haven't really mentioned this on here, as I haven't seen much of Jesse this year, but I have two friends with cancer, Tom, in his thirties and Jesse in his twenties. We used to call it cancer corner whenever Jesse and Tom got together.

Beautiful Jesse - I guess his physical attractiveness counts for little now, as beauty and ugly rot at the same pace in the dirt - so young, so lovely.

It's a bloody great shame, as Jesse was one of the good ones.

And yes, my friend, you really were the world's greatest dancer.

Tom turned on me like a banshee, calling me a cunt for not caring, for not giving him my time, for being a bad friend... I think a cancer death, in the family, so to speak, was too close to home for Tom.

Coupling

"Let's go dancing," said Gavin. "Take our shirts off and sweat all over each other."

"We'd have to go to a gay bar for that," said Steve.

"You say it like you don't want..."

"I'm not sure what I think about the gay scene..."

"What do you think of the gay scene?" asked Gavin.

"Too many freaks, not enough sideshows," replied Steve.

"So many guys, so little..."

"Don't finish that," said Steve. "You know it makes me insecure..."

"Insecure?" asked Gavin.

"You should only have eyes for me," said Steve. "Thoughts about me."

Gavin hugged Steve and kissed him on the side of the head. "I only have thoughts about you babe," said Gavin. "But a boys allowed to look, isn't he?"

"Just look?"

"Of course."

For My Next Holiday

For my next holiday, I'm going to the catchment areas, because it never rains there.

Money for the Poor

Manny was coming over for a snog. But then he called me and asked me to bail him out of another debt. After bailing him out of so many debts, the last time I decided that I wasn't going to do it again.

So, I said no.

I would guess now that he isn't coming over? 

Lover

The night is drawn out

for the duration

it is dark and cold.

I lie and stare

at the ceiling

without you to hold.

I think of you

on the dark side of the moon

is it crimson or gold,

or is it cheese,

with holes

like we’ve been told?

I look upon the dark side

of the night and shiver

without you to hold.

The days seem long

and empty

the nights long and cold.

I look in the mirror,

I shiver at me reflection,

I feel old.

I wonder what you are doing,

I feel lonely

without you to hold.

The Cosmic Muffin

All hail to the Cosmic Muffin! The great giver of life. The creator of the world. He made man in his own image - no wonder there is so much obesity. Muffin-tops are the chosen few. He gave his only mini-muffin to save man from his sins; born on a virgin muffin tray, never been used before. Something sweet sent down to absolve us of all our sins. A sugary treat in which we all part take.

Ixnay, on the hell and damnation, ay.

Go For It, Puff

Beazley could get that worm Howard on environmental issues. Howard's fifties view of the picket fence doesn't include global warming, because there was none in the fifties. It's Beazley's one clear shot, let's see if the big bag of wind has the ticker for it.

Use Howard's own tactics of fear and promise the electorate the world. How hard can it be?

Beazley is just a mini Howard, or should I say a jumbo Howard. Why isn't Beazley in the Liberal party?