So You Think You Can Dance

We went out to Rod Laver Arena, to see, So you think you can dance, stage performance. David organised it. I told you he was addicted; addicted to the show like a teenager. It was once crystal meth, his addiction of choice. But, now it's spirituality, yoga, and his original love, dance. It's spirituality cards and dance programs and everything to do with So you think you can dance. So we all tagged along.

Not that we hadn't watched the show. We all have.

David and the guy he has been, seems to be sneaking in quietly, seeing, Charlie. Me and Mark. Shane and Matt. All us boys went. Mark and I, Shane and Matt walked. David met us there with Charlie. We left half an hour to walk it, which got us to our seats just as the show was starting. Literally. (I like to catch aeroplanes the same way, just for the record) David looked over at us, just as the lights were going down and smiled broadly and clapped his hands.

The show was good, all our favourite performances were recreated. Mark cried at his favourites, I think David did, too.

I want to lick Henry, marry Jack and slide a well lubed finger up Graham's arse.

The place was full of girls, lots of girls. Gaggles of girls. All hair product and make up. Lots of peroxide. Then there were girls and their boyfriends, in the next most popular demographic. Some cute boy friends too. They looked like they were enjoying it too; Y gen.

I forget what looks a group of gay boys get in a, predominantly, straight audience. Warm smiles, really. And laughs, apparently, when Shane said, "Well, it was all worth just to have seen Henry's arse." You know, just like you do, as you are heading out.

Big arena. Lofty ceiling. Bright lights. We all herded squinty-eyed out into the night.

“Let’s go home for joints,” I told David. “I broke down and bought some pot.”

David grabbed me by the shoulder, concerned. “But that’s the beginning of the end,” he said. "We all know that, if you are giving up work."

David and Charlie drove - there's no secret to why those two are the fattest. We walked home in the shiny black night. The MCG was lit up like a space ship, rising up over the elms. The shadows broke across the footpath through the gardens, soft under the moon's white light.

The morning. Oh, my aching head. Whose idea was the pot? Idiot.

There is a bird sitting on top of my bedroom roof that is repeating the same call over and over and OMG! over again. I was just fantasising about how it would be if I was a rock star.

"Sweetie, sweetie. There is a bird on my bedroom roof. Annoying!" I would whisper into my mobile phone to my PA. from under my doona. "Far too out of it this end to do anything about it. Can you take care of it? Please?"

The thing is driving me nuts! It's like hooty-Owl. Seriously, about now, I'd like a Blackhawk Helicopter to descend and take it out with a machine gun. Remind me to kick Missy when I see her fat arse skulking around the kitchen next.