Friday, March 28, 2014

I Cooked for Everyone

The guys came over, David, Anthony, Sebastian and Jane. Jane's a girl, of course, not James using his "girlie" name, or anything.

I made risotto and an orange cake. It's all apart of me being a good host. Originally, we were all going out for dinner, as you do. But then I "manned" up and offered to cook. Sam prepped the ingredients for the risotto. 

I can't do meat and veg, or things that all need to be cooked for different lengths of time but still, some how, mysteriously end up on the plate at the same time, hot, ready, that just spins my head. That's a secret that I've never been let in on. I'm more of a one dish kind of guy - risotto, lasagne, pasta, stir fry (although that is Sam's speciality) roasts, you know, that kind of thing.

Anthony arrived in the middle of the afternoon reeking of alcohol. I guessed he had fallen off the wagon. He said an auntie of his had died and it was that that made him reach for a drink. Stupidly, as we were buying the white wine for the risotto, I suggested we get a bottle of red to scoff while I was cooking. I know, stupid me, I just don't think sometimes. I guess I don't need to add that Anthony took to the idea with enthusiasm.

Anthony carried the wine home, letting me carry everything else with no offer of a hand. I could have asked, I know, but I didn't.

I was going to cook chicken and mushroom risotto until I remembered that David is allergic to mushrooms. This cooking thing is trickier than you think. I made chicken and asparagus risotto instead.

I had started with the orange cake first when David called to tell me he'd be half an hour late and to tell me that Sebastian was coming, who is gluten intolerant and not happy when we forget the fact.  Oh well, no cake for him. But, David said he had a packet of gluten free biscuits at home which he thought had one last vanilla biscuit in it. Laugh. You should have seen Sebastian's face when we presented it to him garnished with an orange segment. It's alright, Sebastian loves doing that sort of stuff to other people. He's not so good with it being done to him... though, usually. But he managed to smile... in the end.

It all turned out well. It seems that I can cook a meal for six. Yay me, who'd have thought. Anthony headed back to the super market and got more wine and got really smashed and had to sleep it off. But, other than that, and the gluten free issue, it all turned out really well.

Wednesday, March 26, 2014

I’m Trying To Be A Good Host

I pissed around all morning, reading the Lost Gay Melbourne page on Facebook. It was amazing how addictive it was, I couldn't look away. So many photos, so many faces. I wondered if I should post some old photos of my own, as I have consistently taken photos over the years. But, I didn't post any photos.

Jane has come to stay for the week, which is always nice. She is doing some study, finishing some of the subjects of her qualification in Kinesiology. She has taken a week off work to get back into it.

I made lasagne for dinner. It was always one of my favourite things to cook, not that I have made it lately. meat sauce. Cheese sauce, bang it in the oven. My mum taught me all the intricacies of sauces and cooking as a teenager 14 to 16 years of age. I loved to cook on the weekends with her. Then, I discovered the mind numbing reality of nightly meals when I moved out of home, which proved to be one of the great disappointments in life... and I stopped cooking. 

I am trying to be a good host, you know, give them clean sheets and cook for them too. I give them clean sheets, don't you worry about that, but I don't usually cook for my guests. And since I can cook, I decided that I should change my ways and rustle up some dinner. So, I made lasagne... toe dipped back in the cooking water. That's what people do, isn't it? Normal people? Sam wanted to know where the salad was. Oops, I could have done that.

There has always been a part of me that felt sad about aspiring to be "normal," but in this instance, I felt no shame. And as my old queen neighbour Gordon would say, the lasagne was a triumph. Ha ha, normal, I joke. I'll be wanting to get married next.

Tuesday, March 25, 2014

Climate Change Sceptic

Recently, I spent some time with my brother, which, I have to admit, I don't do very often. There is nothing wrong with my brother, although we probably couldn't be more different. He lives in Queensland with his wife and kids, which is the main reason I don't see him very often.

We don't really have a whole lot in common, he's more John Howard and I am more Julia Gillard, if you know what I mean? Still, he is fine and generally we get on okay.

We were driving home after being out, chatting away, when he told me he was a climate change sceptic. It is not often that I am lost for words, but on this occasion I was. He is a scientist or, at least, he studied science at university, not that he really works in that field now. He went on to give me his reasons for thinking the way he thinks and I remained stunned into silence.

"But surely, the huge amount of evidence from scientific research points towards man mad climate change as being real?" I said.

"No it doesn't," he replied. "The research is inconclusive. They haven't proved conclusively that anything man has done has caused climate change."

I suddenly felt like I was being driven home by Tony Abbott. I was quite amazed by him, and not in a good way.

He has a touch of the Tony Abbott's about him, actually. He's married with three daughters. There is no doubt in my mind that he votes Liberal.

He is very conservative in his thinking.

I have never specifically discussed me being gay with him. My mum told me once, though, that he said my sexuality was all in my head. Whatever that means? I responded to this, to my mum, by saying that all people's sexuality is "all in their heads."

I guess there is a reason why people live in Queensland.

Monday, March 24, 2014

No Sam, don't go

Sam is going overseas at easter on Malaysian Airlines flying through Kuala Lumpur. He booked it before... Do you think I am just a little concerned about this? I'd have to admit that I am. A-ha.

I even said to him that he should change airlines, but he told me not to be stupid. 

"Fly Qantas," I said.

"I already have a ticket... you are being ridiculous."

I guess I don't have to tell you that I am more than a bit interested in MH370. OMG! Could you imagine crashing into the sea? The wild, thrashing open ocean? It sends a shiver up my spine thinking about it.

Now, I am going to worry about him the whole time that he is away. I know it is stupid, but... it makes it hard when I read about the missing plane every day. How do I not think about it?

Sunday, March 23, 2014

Wolf of Wall Street

We went to see Wolf of Wall Street, Sam, David and I. It was great, really very funny. We laughed out loud. Leonardo Dicaprio is such a good actor. The rest of the cast was good too.

Supposedly a true story, the excess' of their world were truly mind boggling. It was like living every day at Mardi Gras.

The only fault I would mention, and maybe I am wrong, but the scene where they travel from Italy to Monaco where the boat is swamped by huge seas, in what would have to have been the Mediterranean, I doubt would occur. I don't think the Mediterranean is subject to weather like that. But, maybe I am wrong and maybe that is just artistic license?

Saturday, March 22, 2014


I don't generally watch Rules of Engagement, but occasionally I see it. I quite like watching it from time to time, as I have a bit of a thing for Oliver Hudson. Goldie's son, Kate's brother. He's very nice.

The gay perve in me admits that I'd like to see him in his undies. I admit it, I'd like to see that. I also admit to googling just that, not that it really got any results. What a very sexy man he is. Not necessarily sexy in the gay underwear model kind of way, although as I have just said, I'd like to see him give it a go, but sexy in the solid husband material type sexy way. He's got the cutest grin.

And I love the name Oliver too.

Sunday, March 09, 2014

How We Spent Our Long Weekend

I was awake early. I still had the headache from last night. I tossed and turned. I looked at my watch, it was 7am. Damn. Exhale. I got up.

I made coffee and cleaned up the kitchen. I had got the back door key and was just about to slide the key into the lock of the back door, when Sam came through the lounge door.

We both stepped out onto the back veranda and bent down to peer into Buddy’s kennel. He’d built his mattress wall, it must have been cold last night. He came straight out of his house, of course he did, Sam was there.

“Oh Favourite, good morning.”

Sam made the music choices very difficult, as he was determined for us to listen to some streamed music. A good song, followed by four that become incrementally more annoying with each one.

We sat at our twin laptops, with a bulldog lying in between.

The morning was cold and full of shadows. It was cold, it was wintery cold rather than summery cold. I know summer just ended and that Autumn has just started, but it, actually, felt like it. Funny, huh? The shadows seemed to close in around us, the SS Bliss.

Are we just a couple of boring sods? Or are we contented? It is sometimes hard to tell the two apart.

Sam slept a lot, intermittently waking up to say we must do something. I’d reply to him, I am ready to do anything, honey. I’d roll a joint as we are pondering the problem, we’d smoke it. Then we both fall asleep again.

We lazed around, unashamedly, the whole hot, afternoon. It is something very nice about double brick houses, you can laze about in them when it is hot, they stay cool. We wanted to go outside and exercise, but it is in the thirties, and too hot to sweat. We talked about it. There was a lot of talking about it.

We ate bananas.

We lazed around some more. I slept on the floor, with the big, black cushion. Sam joined me. Buddy tried to join us but he didn’t quite seem to get it. He sat on the cushion, he would have sat on our heads, if we let him. Still, it made us laugh.

We ate left over rice noodles.

Tina Arena sang. Wasn’t it good.

Sam slept more. On the couch. Zzzzzz. Funny, I have only just noticed, he always said he felt nothing, that it was wasted on him, and here I was knocking him out. He isn’t sitting looking at me bored anymore, he lies his head down and sleeps.

It was a very relaxed evening in front of the TV. In our pod. We remain in our pod. The three of us.

We took Buddy for a walk, late, when it was dark, when the air temperature had turned from day to night. The cool kiss of the evening. It was too hot before that, it was a hot day. We met a man who owned a French Bulldog who said that Buddy was beautiful.

Eight feet padded along the footpath.

Saturday, March 08, 2014

A Couple Of Joosies In A Futura

I woke to Sam lying next to me, with the TV off. 4am. The room was dark, silent, spookily still. Were my ears ringing? Was that noise in my head?

“You fell asleep.” Sam almost sounded disappointed. It was quiet.

The last thing I remember was that we had fired up again, but, apparently, I fell asleep. Out to it. Sometimes I just pass out.

Lying on the bed, my head on the pillow, I opened my eyes and looked at the ceiling. Silence. I turned my head to see Sam lying next to me. Asleep. It was still dark. The room looked like a bomb had gone off.

“I think you passed out.”

That is all I remember.

I opened my eyes again, seemingly just a moment later. I looked over at the clock, it said 10.30am. "You awake," said Sam. He was standing at the end of the bed. Buddy jumped up onto the bed and came over and licked my face. I could only get one eye open. Sam had come up to the room and was cleaning up a bit. He thought it was time for me to be get up.

"I was wondering when you were going to wake up."

All I felt was some kind of exhaustion. Out of it. Numbness. Not a hell of a lot. Buggered.

Oh why oh why didn’t I just buy the 2 points like Sam told me to? Why did I waste the money? I could have had three bags of pot.

"Are you hungry?"

"I don't know, but I guess I should eat."

Sam headed downstairs. I dragged myself to the edge of the bed and pulled on track pants and a t-shirt. I wondered if I'd feel too hot dressed in too much more.

We ate noodles. They were a little claggy, but then they were reheated noodles. They felt kind of slippery and they seemingly required a lot of chewing. So maybe, not all was lost. All was lost, and this hint of something else was just annoying.

I felt a little fucked up, for a bit. It was the balance thing. Reality wasn’t quite moving as fast as the movement of my head and eyes. I’m sure some people would call it motion sickness, good thing I have never suffered from it. Maybe those six months where I learned what amount of pot was good for me, those first months when I first smoked it. That involved a lot of motion sickness, and toilet hugging.

We lay on the couches, Sam with his herb gel eye patch on. We fell asleep. Buddy lay under the coffee table out of the way, as if he knew we couldn’t be trusted not to step on him. He lay in the super dog position. We slept for much of the day, most of the afternoon. We woke much later. Buddy was asleep next to me, on his back with his paws in the air. Sam was no where to be seen.

I headed outside to have a smoke, there was a wobble, I felt a wobble. I decided that if I was going to smoke cigarettes I could just as easily be smoking pot. We should have just got stoned for the weekend, we would have saved hundreds of dollars.

That’s it, I am done with crystal.

I text Guido. You will have to come to Thomastown, or wherever it was, he was at his farm, to get it.

I went to see where Sam was. I could hear him in the bathroom pissing in the toilet, so I waited at the bottom of the stairs for him. You know, romantic.

“My darling, there you are, why were you gone from me for so long?”

He seemed please with me waiting at the bottom of the stairs. He smiled over the bannister. Needless to say, Sam wasn’t so pleased about the pot trip. “I have to go to Thommy, wanna come?” He still agreed to accompany me, after he had stopped slapping me, telling me he didn’t want a pot-head boyfriend.

I looked at him quizzically?

There was heavy traffic on Sydney Road. Actually, there was heavy traffic practically the whole way there. We seemed to be swimming in a sea of cars. They were good. Their dogs were cute.

For the driver’s amongst you, this was sixteen hours later. It did cross my mind as we drove up Sydney Road, especially when there was an inexplicable traffic jam around the old jail. But I felt nothing, I never felt anything. I felt as sober as a judge.

“No officer, I haven’t taken anything.” Today.

The sun shone gold in the late afternoon sky.

“Mate, you can try whatever you want, we all have. But you always come back to her. She’s reliable. The old whore is a cert,” said Guido. He looked down at the zip lock bag in his hand, as we rested our elbows on the railing of his deck and looked out across the brown paddocks. He coughed a mucus cough. He spat something green out of his mouth over the deck rail.

We followed an immaculate early 60s bright red, 2 door Futura, with two “Joosies” sitting in the front seat on the way back. Litres of hair gel, huge sunglasses and sequinned leather jackets, chewing gum, music blaring, base thumping, heads nodding. They continued straight ahead on Bell Street when we turned right into Nicholson Street.

We stopped and bought baked potatoes in Brunswick Street. I parked illegally as Sam ran in.

The bright red, 2 door Futura came burbling up Brunswick Street, 5 minutes after we’d parked at the spud shop. Boom, boom, boom! The joosies heads were still rocking, a cloud of smoke was escaping from the open windows.

I like my potatoes made with all the fresh coleslaw and fresh veggies. It is like a big Hawaiian salad, complete with pineapple. Sam got Bolognese.

We watched Happy Feet Two. Then some incomprehensible Stephen Hawkins documentary. I think I was pretty tired by then and I had trouble following it. “Yup. Yup. Yup.”

I wanted to go to bed first, in a surprising twist of our bedtime etiquette. I was exhausted. It was Sam who was saying, “Wait.” That has never happened before.

Usually, it is. “Come to bed.”

“Oh… um… err…”

“Come to bed.”

“Oh… um…”

He’d be gone.

Friday, March 07, 2014

A Crying Child Rattling On The Gates Of The Closed Circus

I was awake at 7am. I struggled with sleep for a short while after that but, as usual, I couldn’t go back to nod. I’m beginning to like it now, early and fresh. Occasionally, I glimpse the sunrise, I love the really early light. The amniotic fluidity of the day.

I left Sam sleeping and headed downstairs. He is usually silent in the mornings, the snoring has stopped.

I opened the back door and Buddy came straight inside. He didn’t look at me, as if to say, Oh really that time already, I just need a few more hours, like he often does. I sat in the dark with Buddy, just by the light of the laptop screen.

I brewed coffee.

Sam came downstairs, asking for his coffee, which I had prepared and which was sitting right next to me.

“Here you are honey, I made it just for you.”

He headed upstairs to shower, he doesn’t eat breakfast so regularly. He’ll eat breakfast with me, but I hadn’t got to the point yet.

Buddy and I waved Sam good bye from the front gate.

I cleaned the kitchen, first up. All done. All clean, by 9am. My world is sparkling, that is out of the way. At least my life was clean, if nothing else. I needed cigarettes. I started heading to the milk bar, but I stopped myself and thought of my mum. Funny the things you think.

“Why wouldn’t you go to the cheaper shop?” I could hear my mother’s voice. “So it is a little bit further, then you’d get your exercise done at the same time.”

Dad thought I was lazy.

I went inside and changed into jeans and hid my laptop, the supermarket needed a proper outfit, where the milk bar could be done in socks and sandals. I headed in the opposite direction towards Woollies. I have no income. This time it is different, I don’t currently have any income? No rent, like in the old days. It is just Sam and I. A longer walk would allow me to ponder this question? Do I bite the bullet and rent out my two spare bedrooms and resign myself to living on a drastically reduced, but regular income? And I could do as I pleased. It is an attractive idea. We’d have to live with people, though? One thing for sure though, I have to learn not to throw money away.

I did the washing.

Sam messaged to ask if I had called South Yarra.

I called South Yarra. No go. Still waiting on someone or other. He couldn’t guarantee anything today.

I didn’t really care, much. Or, at least, I didn’t feel anything. There you go, I gave it a shot, but I couldn’t get it. It has been ruined, I know that, they have played around with the ingredients, as David told me, and now they put GHB, or something, in it. The upshot is that it doesn’t do what it used to do, the dirty, pervy, sexy, filthy mind thing is gone. I feel like it is a waste of time now a days. Gone is the filthy thought process, which is what I loved about it so much. I could think of anything and anyone and I’d have a filthy, Technicolor fantasy. I loved it. Nobody was off limits. No scenario was too taboo. Just delicious, unadulterated filth.

There was a flurry of messages backwards and forwards between Sam and I. What could we do? Who else could we call? Is there any way? My boyfriend is cute.

So, I text Dante. Who do you contact when all else falls through – when you don’t really care, but your boyfriend does – the bitch with the habit. I’ve heard all the rumours about everyone who are so concerned about him, so Dante it was. The rest, pretty much, have grown up and given recreational drugs away, for the most part. You know, just Easter and Xmas now. Rumour is that Dante has got a meth habit a mile wide, so chances were that he’d be getting something for the long weekend. It is not rocket science.

Was I wrong to facilitate his habit?

Yes, he could organise it, tonight. (Sam will still only do it on Friday night of a long weekend. Saturday is too late for him. He has to go to work) Dante called a bit later and said he’d be over at 4.15pm.

There was a flurry of commands from Sam after that for me to get everything organised.

I was slow getting my shit together, as though I was worn out by the high tension negotiating that had been going on. I did tattslotto, got money, bought the usual supplies. The compulsory Up & Go the meal substitute drink on which I had been know to live for how many days? No matter if it is the last thing I want, at meal time we’d always down a big glass, no matter what the visuals were doing, or how lost in the space time continuum we, actually, were. I got schnitzels and salad for the preceding meal.

Dante arrived at 4.15 sharp, actually, earlier. He looked quite thin, with brushed back, cap-like hair and large sunglasses that he didn’t take off.

I wanted three points, which was one point over what Sam had instructed me to get. It was a long weekend and two points seemed pretty miserable, I guess I was being hopeful that it would be good… and there’d be a night’s worth left over for me at Easter when Sam headed home to visit his family. Dante said, “If you give me four hundred, you’ll get five points.”


He’d be back in half an hour with the goods. Then the phone call came, as Dante is want to do when collecting drugs, they weren’t answering their phone, he was going home to chill, then he’d try again.

Sam got home and there were no supplies, bitch!

“Call him. Call him,” Sam repeated. “You can call him now,” Sam would say not long after his previous reminder. He kept bringing the conversation back to call Dante.

Dante called at 8pm to say he was still having no luck. “Do you want me to keep trying, or bring the money back?”

“Keep trying.”

Dante called at 9pm to say the eagle had landed. He arrived not long after. The sunglasses were gone, it was evening. He had that toughened, tight expression, of a regular drug user, like his body fat was at zero and he was dehydrated.

He sat in the lounge room and packed his pipe as soon as he could, he said he’d been hanging out for it all day. A cloud of smoke rose above him.

Sam and I look at each other.

Dante made himself comfortable at one end of the coffee table, seemingly looking at his phone most of the time. He puffed away, one, two, three, more times on his pipe.

The conversation died out, so our focus was drawn to Fifty Minutes to Disaster. (It seemed ominous) Dante seemed to be in another world. I wasn’t sure if he was texting on his phone, or pretending to.

It is not unprecedented with Dante, there was the peeling of the skin from his forehead incident, after which he had to wear bandanas for months. And the first boy friend and all that black leather strapping that lead to his HIV sero conversion years after everyone else had perfected not getting infected.

Then he said he had to go. He said getting up was difficult for him now, he appeared to struggle getting to his feet. He did though.

He had left by 9.25pm.

We were upstairs by 9.30pm.

I never felt anything from the crystal. It is official, “they” have ruined crystal meth, boo hoo. I knew they had. It happened about a year and half ago. Damn them! The dirty mind, it has gone. It was the only reason I enjoyed it, other than that, nothing much. Sam and I used to lock each other away and watch porn for days without a second thought. We’d disappear from this world to the next, we’d slide from fantasy to fantasy as if no time had passed, as if we’d slipped through the back of the wardrobe. We’d connect to each other making up one long dirty narrative, for twenty four hours and we’d telepathically share the same filthy dream for hours and hours. It lingered, it lasted, it kept playing in our subconscious until we’d head back to it for another twenty four hours, easily.

I loved the ache when we stopped. Walking around the house, as if wounded. Grunt. Shuffle. Grunt. Shuffle. “What?”

“What did you say?”

I loved the hyper elevated eyesight in between, where every detail in a room was seemingly picked out on it’s individual line-string dimension. The world practically became an architectural drawing.

I loved the dark, light, dark, light and possibly dark again, on a good long weekend.

Today, I felt nothing. Well, I did, of course, but not the WHOOSH! not the KERZAM! Not the FFFFFFFFF!

I wondered what Dante was taking? How much? It’s pointless. To keep taking that, must be like a crying child rattling on the gates of the closed circus, desperate, but never getting in.

Thursday, March 06, 2014

We’re Napping Between 3 and 6

I was awake and standing at the end of the bed at 7.15am. There was no sign of baboom di boom, di di boom, di di boom, the electronic alarm clock.

“Sam, don’t you have to get up?”

Grumble groan. Grumble, groan.

“Shouldn’t the alarm clock have gone off by now?” The bedside clock was reading 7.16 and even with its possible 10 minute fast setting, it was still passed 7am and it should have rung by now.

It is interesting how 7am for a non-worker is an entirely different proposition to 7am on a work day.

I headed downstairs, it is dark.

I smoked a joint as Sam ate breakfast, it didn’t go unnoticed. “Really? Just in front of me now. You are so proud of yourself.”

I check with him again, a moment later, call it stoners regret, that he wasn’t cross and that I wasn’t mistaken on my feeling about the situation.

“Could we not simply share coffee?”

“You only sit for a minute, then you are off upstairs,” I protested. “We barely share anything?”

“I certainly share all that smoke you are exhaling.

Buddy and I waved Sam good bye from the front gate.

I searched for a certain document that I was looking for to continue with my romance novel. It was another piece I had saved somewhere with a minor detail recorded, a detail I had to have now, of course. I get on with the search, determined to write and not to waste the time. I get distracted, of course, and I start to rename files stored in my 2013 and 2012 folders.

David calls, he has clearly been thinking about yesterday’s phone call. He wants to do Pho for dinner at 7.45pm. He excitedly asked me about the drug deal. “Have you done it yet?” he suddenly whispers.

“Done what?”

“You know what you done.”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Oh! When then,” David explodes. “When will you know, darling?”



“I don’t know.”

“Why wont you tell me?”

“There is nothing to tell.”

“Then we must have dinner tonight, when you can tell all.”

There’s always a correct time for any music artist. I think Dionne Warwick is good for around 9.30am.

I love those mornings around 8.15… the day stretches out in front of me, infinite possibilities are possible.

I took Buddy to the park around 10.50. I started getting ready at 10.43, so I must have left around that time.

Sam left a message at the same time. 10.50am. Have you feed little pumpkin? Sam

12:04 pm. I’m hungry, what’s for lunch? Christian

Omg! how stoned are you? Fried rice, said Sam.

Oh, yum yum, said Christian.

What happen to dog park? Sam.

The dog park was great, Pixie was there. Buddy ran around the perimeter and then he said hello to all the dogs.

Except some accident happened right by my car and when I looked up it was surrounded by policemen and police cars. I wanted to leave, but I was a bit stone di do doned. (oh, one joint? You drive after one glass of wine?) So I had to wait a while just to suss out the situation

My lane was pretty clear, it had happened on the other side of the road. What happened, I’m not sure. From a distance it looked like an Outback, but up closer I think it was a Dodge Nitro. Being American, it probably caught alight and gassed its owner.

There seemed to be only one car, which didn’t seem to be damaged. It hadn’t seemed to hit anything. Everybody was around it, looking inside of it. All the doors were open. There was an ambulance, in which someone was being taken away, I think. Two fire engines, one stayed, the other left. I couldn’t work it out. Maybe it was a pedestrian?

There were strapping cops, in those sexy strap up protective wear kind of design. The cop closest to me was all muscles and arse, the straps were flattering. There were blue and red lights flashing. They were all concentrating on the job at hand, the mystifying, for want of a better expression, wreck. I found my sunglasses in my glovebox and slid them onto my face. All the safety equipment you need is sunglasses. I backed my car out with confidence and drove off.

It was a beautiful day, lovely and sunny and blue skies. Maybe not so much, for the Outback/Nitro driver, I guess though. There were road works all the way home.

Jill called. She had done a lot on her house, plastering walls, changing d├ęcor, finding a builder for the two new bathrooms and the new kitchen and the walk in dressing room. She asked how mum was? She talked slow, like she does sometimes when she is tired on the phone late at night.

She was clearly having a bored moment, it seems to be the only time I hear from her. No doubt she is manically renovating the arse off that house.

She asked me if I am going up there at Easter.

“Sam is visiting his family,” I said. “And I don’t have anyone to look after Buddy.”

She didn’t sound really convinced. She may have felt a little disappointed.

She had eaten a creamy drink and eaten chocolate biscuits, she told me. That always makes her sleepy. She was sleepy, or in the midst of a diabetic turn, it was so hard to say which.

She kind of faded away. I wondered if I should be concerned about her?

I got bored with writing, although I had written quite a bit. I had been working on my current novel. Good boy. It is a romance. I keep writing and writing until I am mentally exhausted.

I curl into a ball on the couch. As with Anthony, I think 3pm is always a very civilised time to have a nap.

The hum of sleep had reached all the way to my ears.

But, as I lay on the couch listening to the music, I remembered I hadn’t paid mum’s nursing home bill and it was 6th of the month. It was only 6 days late. It is amazing that I joked with Roz when mum had her last turn, that she had 7 days left that was paid up and now it is 6 days passed that.

What would they do? Kick her out? I couldn’t see that happening. I guess they would sue me for the money? Of course, they would.

I wrote out the cheque and walked to the corner post box to post it. It is a lovely afternoon and I tell myself I should come outside more often to enjoy it. What was it Doctor Johnny said, that I was low in vitamin D.

I bought a cream bun on the way back as a reward. By God, I didn’t walk any further that 100 metres.

I listened to Renee Geyer sing live at The Basement. You can put on any Renee Geyer album from any decade and it will still sound as new and fresh and undated.

I wonder about life. What does it mean? What do all of the events leading up to this point have in common? What is the common factor? Working my way up to having a good job only to lose it because of a bully at work. Working temp. After 3 years of it, I get a job that is beyond my experience, but which I could have done easily with a bit of effort. Oh, I hate that word. Just when I was stressing about the job, my mum takes a turn and gives me the perfect excuse to get out. I take it. Here I am back unemployed sitting at my computer doing what I love, but still not believing that I can do it.

I am scared of success. I sabotage, rather than just getting on with it so therefore, I guess, I never failed.

Sam said to me, “You can self publish now a days. You can get work onto Kindle libraries and the like. Publishing has never been easier. You just have to write it.”

I roll another joint. I am shit faced. It’s 3.30pm.

The bulldog snores loudly in the corner.

The music played. I laid my head back against the cushion on the couch and drifted off, better late than never.

Sam was most displeased that I have finished all the pot when he’d got home and that I hadn’t left any for him. That was a surprise. I thought he’d just be pleased that it was finished. I wondered if I should take this as a bad sign, that my corruption had proceeded further than I had anticipated. My pure baby grumbling about the lack of gunger for him, no that wasn’t supposed to happen.

We walked to Victoria Street and ate Pho with David. Sam grumbled about westerners being so boring in their food choices. “When did we last have Pho?”

“Last Saturday night with David.”

“That is Pho twice in less than a week,” Sam said. “Wouldn’t you like to have Thai, or any one of the many food cuisines that are available to us?”

“Oh.” I thought about it for a minute. David would need to be redirected. He’d have one hundred questions. Where is it? What is the name of the street? What is that closest to? Where can I park? Yabber yabber yabber. Intense questions, as David always takes his own wellbeing very seriously. “No. Stop complaining.”

David turned up all dressed up. He had come from the gym and he had his casual clothes on, as opposed to his yogi get up.

Two mixed beef. One mixed chicken and beef. All Medium.

“So, how’s it going?”

“Oh good, lazy day…”

“No, you know what I mean?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Oh the waiting in interminable.”

Walking home seemed like we had to walk many kilometres into the distance into the setting sun. It seemed like we had to walk passed the horizon. David offered us a lift.

Sam looked at me. “I know, I turned him down.” Talk about the hills getting longer and steeper. “We have to move to somewhere flat, we can’t be expected to climb mountains simply to get dinner.”

Sam told me to stop complaining.

“Only my ears are bleeding,” he said.

I was in full whinge-mode, mid whine, when we climb the precipice of Smith Street.

“Civilisation ahoy.”

Sam looked at me. The intersection was filled with golden light.

"I think I am very funny."

"I know you do."

Wednesday, March 05, 2014

I Thought We’d Decided Not To Do That Any More

We were woken to the rubbish truck dropping the bottles into the crusher. Then Sam was reminding me that I hadn’t put the bins out. We seemed to be woken again to what we thought was the recycling rubbish being collected. It was very early for either rubbish collection, let alone both. Then I was woken by Buddy hopping up onto the bed and making himself comfortable in the pillows. Sniff. Sneeze. Sniff. Sneeze.

Sam got dressed. I pat the bulldog.

Sam called in sick. “Cough, cough. Sorry I’m not well.” I think it is the second sick day he has taken in four years.

I made coffee.

Sam put the recycling rubbish out, it hadn’t come, as yet. Usually, I do it, it is one of the chores that I get because of the premium chore of cooking Sam does. He always grumbles on the one, of second day he might have to it in twelve months.

Sam had the doors and windows open in the lounge room, as he likes to do. Cool air was seeping in. There was no breeze to blow it in. The cold air just enveloped you.

Sam was playing Pharrell Williams. He was listening to the previews of his album. Sam decided against it.


Winter is here. What happened to the weather? Summer has been turned off. Although, I quite like it, don’t get me wrong.

Nobody comments. All the dross they talk and all the dross they respond to, and I didn’t get one comment.

The cold wind is picking up.

I put Bad Company on, but it really is a bad choice for the morning. I persist with it, I want to hear it.

Sam says, “What is this shit music?”

Sam looks at the bulldog adds online. I suggest to him that he messages Jason and asking him if he has any Buddy puppy photos.

Sam texts Jason to see if he has any baby photos of Buddy. It’s a long shot, but plans change, people don’t do the things they say they were going to do. He could still have the same phone and have photos on it and just send them.

He texted back quite quickly with a photo, Buddy doesn’t look that much different.

“Is the dog okay?”

He’s great, really great.

We sent Jason a recent photo of Buddy.

“Lol top dog wish I still had him thankx for lookin after him looks well.”

I asked Sam why he thought Jason started his message with lol.

Sam didn’t know either.

It was cold, but Sam still has the doors and windows open. I’m freezing.

We ate left over Indonesian Chicken and rice for lunch.

I continued to roll joints.

We saw that Gordon’s second house was sold. I took a photo. Well, houses are held for a long time in Fitzroy, they may not come up for sale again. SOLD. It is one for the archives.

It was a slow morning on our laptops.

I hope I am not boring for Sam, boring stoned. I ask him, he says no. I ask him what he wants to do, I’m up for anything he wants. He doesn’t come up with anything.

He keeps giving me dirty looks, which I think are just adorable.

He acts as though he is being strangled every time I head to the mull bowl. He lies on the couch with his tongue out as I roll it. I think it is funny, I hope he is being funny.

Later, he tells me I am boring, but he still doesn’t say what he wants to do.

He slept a lot, come to think of it. Bad Christian!

Sam wanted to know if I wanted to do crystal this long weekend. Suddenly, out of the blue. Me at my laptop, he sleeping on the couch behind, poked in the back. “Ay…”

I thought we’d agreed that we weren’t doing it any more. I thought we decided that it was now pointless the quality was so low?

“Do you want to do crystal this long weekend?”

“I see,” I say. “Really?” I thought we’d decided not to do that any more?

“It is a long weekend.”

I’m piss weak, we know that.

“This is you suggesting it.”

“Ah ha.

He kept reminding me, when I didn’t do anything. He kept telling me, when I still hadn’t done anything. He wanted me to order from the South Yarra Connection. His reliable guys hadn’t returned calls. I see. The process is already rolling.

He wanted to do it because we’re not having much sex. That’s why it is important. I know that, it is not meant to sound dramatic.

I was wavering.

The trouble was that I was a bit too stoned, shit faced to perform the task. I had to make myself, summand my energies, pull the rabbit from the hat. I have to do this. It is now up to me.

Finally, I psyched myself up to call, I picked up my phone and a call from David lights up on my screen. I kid you not. The ex-tina whore herself, reaching for me, as I reach out to evil.

David was hysterical about the symbolism, “and you continue to tell me you don’t believe.” I tell him it is just a coincidence, “you ring me everyday.”

"I am your conscious."

“Of course you are.”

“Walk toward the light, Carol Anne.”

"It is a coincidence."

“Is it darling? So many coincidences?” said haughtily by one of the “spiritual” who has an unshakeable belief in his crossing over to the light.

We laughed.

He wanted to talk endlessly about what we are doing, because he has only been allowed to experience it vicariously since 2004. Filthy ex drug whore.

I have to hang up on him to get rid of him.

I return to the task at hand. Breath. Breath. Breath. I search my contacts, I don’t even have South Yarra’s number in my phone.

I give it to Sam, he dials it and hands it back to me. “It’s ringing.”

“It’s ringing?

“It’s ringing.”

I do okay, surprisingly well all things considered.

“Call again Friday.”

Later, I asked Sam about the mystery of the phone number, when I check to see what it looks like on my screen, so I wouldn’t miss it again, and I still don’t have his number.

“Where’s the number? It’s not in my phone?”

“You can’t have it,” said Sam. “It is too dangerous for you to have it, you will be naughty. No, you can’t be trusted with it. I will keep it for safe keeping.

He was thinking about Easter, when he is home with his family and I will be in Melbourne on my own.

Morning Light

Tuesday, March 04, 2014

Get Out And Get Some Vitamin D

I had an intense moment of clarity, I did some writing, but it was done, I was literally right up to date. Motor down. Sam suddenly got back on to my wavelength some time around 11am, actually, I can look, it is all done by messages. My whole life is done via messages. It’s hand because it is recorded.

“Give me an update?”

“My blog was up to date.”

“Lovely. Get going and take the dog to the dog park.”

Well, yes, I could do that. I looked up and took in an eyeful of the day. Yes. I could do that.

So, first thing to do is roll another joint.

I put all the dishes in the dishwasher as I smoked the joint.

It was about hallway through the shower that I suddenly got the feeling of, Oh too much. I was half way through soaping up, I think it was when I plunged down to soap my feet. I stood up again, too quickly. Oh hello! Stand still. Its okay, I just have to stand under the water. Hold on to something.

It is almost impossible to stand under water stoned in the shower and have a piss. It takes a lot of effort. And then when you finally pull the stopper and start a stream, you never can really feel where it is coming from, the calamity of the too much pot state, your body is numb, it could be coming out your ear, for all you knew. All you know is it is coming out.

I had to shave. I still had to shave. I didn’t shave yesterday, so it had to be today, it would be too much for Sam and he would guess the reason in minutes.

I’d gotten to the stage where I was having trouble standing up. I just wanted to lay down. I mean, it wasn’t critical, it was just how I felt. I was suddenly very tired, as they say, and it was comfort I was wanting. Somewhere to sit, perhaps. Why aren’t showers built with seats?

So, I sat on the shower floor and scraped at my face with my razor, very slowly.

I dried myself and got into my towelling dressing gown, every thing is right with the world when you are wrapped in your towelling dressing gown.

I lay on the bed.

I got up ten minutes later. I took off the dressing gown and put on jocks and got back into bed under the doona. Too soon. It was comfortable and soft and safe. I lushed out.

I stood up ten minutes later, shields at 90%, I could push on. I pulled on a t-shirt and jeans.

I lay back down again briefly, after pulling both my socks on. I just kind of laid back and before I knew it I was comfortable again. Ah. Lying out on your bed when you know you shouldn’t be only makes the bed seem infinitely more comfortable. I stared at the ceiling and wondered if I should paint my house all the one colour, as Gordon did for his auction. I could go cream right through. All of my rooms are picked out in a multitude of Edwardian colours, although it hasn’t been freshened up in many years now. It is like an old evening gown, it was lovely when it was done, but it is many years since it was new.

Then I felt charged and got up again. Phone, wallet, keys and went down stairs. Grab the lead, out the door.

I had a what-the-hell-am-I-doing-with-my-life moment on the stairs coming down. As per usual, I have no idea what I am doing.

I thought of David and I called Jack and asked him for time off. He said take as much time as you need. Mother’s and death, boys never want to have long conversations about that, Jack was no different.

I even did it stoned. Oh, just do it now, it is a necessary evil of a phone call, I thought as I walked passed the phone. I thought of David, Think it, do it. Glass half full! Come on! I text David and told him .

I’ll call Jack in a couple of days and move the training I have organised to the earlier session, which I couldn’t because of my last assignment. That’ll get another phone call in to gauge how I am tracking in the popularity stakes for assignments.

We went to the dog park. A boy and his dog in the sun. The son was shining down just fine. I love watching him run and run, as he does first whenever he gets to the park.

We were having a lovely time. There was a French Pointer, a Maltese, some Basset Hounds, I haven’t seen Basset Hounds in ages, not since… friends of my family always had Bassets. There were Cocker spaniels. Two Weimaraners. A Boarder Collie chasing a stick.

Buddy pretended to chase the stick, for a minute, like the big dogs, like he always does. “Hey throw it to me, throw it to me, throw it to me.” All the athletic dogs jump into the air. “Okay, that’s enough, I’ll leave it to you boys. Pant, pant, pant.”

Then one of those Staffordshire/pitbull/cross maybe, the ones with those eyes, you know the ones, who tried to bite Buddy twice turned up. Bulldogs aren’t aggressive, but they don’t have boundaries either, some breeds of dogs don’t like that. And when threatened a Bulldog will never back down, they are truly fearless dogs. They don’t have an aggressive bone in their bodies, Bulldogs love everyone, sometimes with too much intensity, but they can spring to attention to defend themselves, don’t be mistaken. They look like lazy couch potatoes, but you’d be surprised how far they can spring into the air, when they want. They are all muscle.

It’s just about always one of these Stafford bull terrier/Pitbulls that bite, they are the most likely to turn into wolves.

I am sorry Staffordshire Bull Terrier/Pitbull Terrier owners, but if your dogs are aggressive then you are clearly not socialising them properly. It is not the dog’s fault, it is not the breed’s fault, it is the owner’s fault. Pick up your game.

The Staffy was fine.

We came home. It was hot and I was over it before I got home.

I put Nina Simone on.

It is a perfect summer’s day in Melbourne today. Yes, I do realise it is autumn.

I’m lighting my fags off the kitchen cook top, I feel like I am back at uni.

Monday, March 03, 2014

Here I am, here again. Monday morning

It is a dim morning, the sun is hardly breaking the clouds. The sky is grey.

Tina Turner sings, Let’s stay together.

I sip my coffee.

Buddy is lying next to me. His paws are pressed against my leg.

I program in What’s Love Got to do with it and Private dancer as the next songs. I think to myself that I must get more Tina Turner. I don’t have her singing Help.

Truthfully I’m lazy and not on a Tina kick. It is just where my itunes has opened for the last couple of days.

Buddy snores next to me.

Addicted to love plays. Live. Thank you Tina. The crowd goes wild having witnessed legend.

Randy Crawford is up next with her blues band. Everyday I have the blues.

Buddy’s snoring doesn’t miss a beat. Clearly, bulldog’s don’t snore to the beat of the music.

He’s a smart dog, though. He just seems to know stuff. He picks stuff up. If he hears the “lead” draw open he is next to you bouncing in moments. None of the other draws in that sideboard, only the one particular draw we keep the lead in.

If he hears the lead draw open for a second time in the day, he will always head to his kennel. Ah, if it is all the same with you, my walking’s done for the day.

He twigs the moment he feels the energy change in the room. He knows exactly what getting ready to leave the house vibe feels. He is on it in minutes, watching us. I see, putting on shoes. Oh, him too. The smile on his face kind of broadens.

He instinctively seems to know when he isn’t coming and he’ll take himself off to his kennel as if to say, well fuck you then, this feels like I am not coming. Boo Hoo.

If we get the car keys, but no lead draw, he knows pretty quickly it isn’t going to be a car ride for him and he heads to his kennel again, and doesn’t normally make a reappearance. You don’t see him again before you leave. He sits right at the back of his kennel so you can't even accidentally see him.

He always knows when his dinner is being prepared. Occasionally, if we are in the kitchen preparing his food and we get to chatting and get distracted, he kind of growl barks from the doorway as if to say, Today Ladies!

Sunday, March 02, 2014

A Great Big World

I was awake at 7am. The light was brittle, golden and new. It was, actually, before 7am, and the day was milky in its amniotic veil, about to break and glow.

The bulldog slept chin buried in his pillows. The cartoons drawn of them are so apt. They are funny even when they sleep.

Anthony is coming for afternoon tea. I decided I should bake a cake. I have been so dense on such things for all of my life. That’s what “normal” people do, they give biscuits or cake if you come for afternoon tea.

I decided I should make a cake.

I had to go to the supermarket. The sun shone, the birds sing. Sam said take the “green” bags. I hate carrying the green bags. They are so uncool.

“Shopping bags for mum,” I said. “I’m not taking them.”

“Take them.”

“It is so much cooler just to waft in empty hands and then just glide out when it is all done, smoky grey bags in hand.”

“I don’t believe you.”


“Get lunch…”

“What?” I looked at the clock.

“Brunch then, I haven’t eaten.”

“What’ll I get.”

“Think of something.”

“Can’t think…”

“Sausages and hash browns. No, mushrooms. Sausages, mushrooms and baby spinach. Get a big bag of baby spinach.”

“Sausages aren’t so slimming…”

“Get the good ones then and don’t be such a tight arse."

And just to make the whole trip as ugly as it could possible be, he gave me a dog-dick red environmental shopping bag and a pale blue environmental shopping bag.

Good sausages? There is such a thing? Aren't all sausages fried death in pigs bladder? Really? The good ones? My mother always said being a tight arse was a good thing. I think I muttered all the way down the street.

A big bag of baby spinach? What makes it a big bag, I wondered? I fill it a quarter and wonder if that is enough? I pile in another quarter of a bag. It looks like a lot to me. Later, apparently not. You'd think a big bag of baby spinach would be easy to gauge. Apparently not.

The gourmet sausages were a little light on the light side on the shelf. The wagu sausages were all "with something." Herb and red wine. Garlic and rosemary. Honey and mustard. And that sort of thing. All the rest seemed to be just your standard issue sausage. You know, like a bunch of white boys at a glory hole. What to get?

We ate Wagu sausages, with herb and red wine, and baby spinach and mushrooms for brunch.

I rolled a joint I can’t deny it. Essentially, I am on holidays. Sam said very little when I suggested it. Always my green light to continue. Always my gauge. Sam hardly even made a comment in response.

Happy, Pharrell Williams plays. He is sooo cool. The coolest man on the planet, right about now.

The sun shines.

I made a carrot cake. It’s in the oven. Anthony is coming over for tea. That is if he's not too pissed, that is always the unknown. So I thought I’d better bake. I’m starting with the classics. We’ve just done banana cakes and now we’re doing carrot cakes. I guess the next one really aught to be chocolate.

I use an American recipe. It takes twice as long to cook. American recipes are never that great.

Oh, it's a relief not to have to go to work on Monday. I really do like weeks off between assignments just to recharge. That last assignment was too soon. I was exhausted. Let's see if I can pull it off. I had dinner with David last night, pho, and he said I should grovel to my boss immediately. 9am Monday morning, he reckons. He's says I have just damaged my professional career. He was even more alarmed when I said that I didn't care.

A Great Big World comes on.

Buddy is giving it his wonder-dog-pose, paws stretched out in front, legs stretched out the back, as he sleeps across the doorway. Head in the sun shining in through the north facing window. Bulldogs are sunlovers, but they can’t tolerate hot weather.

Tina Turner sings Addicted to Love. Listen to a diva sing against a saxophone and win. One of the greatest vocalist of all time, though.

The cake is finally cooked. It takes twice as long to cook as the recipe says. It stays wet in the middle right to the end. It has a strange kind of anaemic look to it, as though something isn’t quite right in its DNA. It hasn’t, quite, raised evenly all the way around. It doesn’t look like a happy cake. It looks more like something you’d have remove when it changed colour.

I sat it on the bench like we were waiting for it to learn to speak before we could judge how “special” it was. It looked like the kind of cake that would give trouble when it was turned out. I tried to ignore sitting there when I went back to my computer.

Then it was time to take it out of the pan. I ran the roundest butter knife around the inside of the tine. Then I popped the spring. The base of the pan and the baking paper just peeled right off with no drama at all.

Tina continues to sing all afternoon. Nobody sings like Tina. I heard her once say that she thought her voice was raspy kind of unpleasant. My mate David the yogi learn Buddhism from Tina Turner. They were friends in another lifetime, he never mentions it though. The most electrifying performer I have ever seen, Tina Turner. David Bowie was the next most electric. Randy Crawford would have to be the next. People from who electricity emanates.

I guess David is another. Many people seek David out because of the light that emanates from him, it is true. It is what he does, although I would never tell him this, he spreads his light and, apparently, people flock. Some people have a certain energy, that's as far as our spiritual discussions end, he and I. The Atheist up against 21st century spiritual believer, our discussions can become intense.

I can't see it, he and I are just ex-scared pups together, coming out, right through to washed up party boys, become professionals, growth and constant change, that's our history too. You know, old friends, through all of the evolutionary processes of friends who have been in each other's lives for some time.

Anthony arrived right on 2pm.

The cake was the weirdest thing I have ever eaten. You know this cake sob story has two giant flaws in it as big as your nose. It was an American recipe, American food is never good. It was called the moistest carrot cake ever, it should have rung alarm bells. And it used oil instead of butter, always very fast food. 

We ate it hot, to start with. Always a mistake, unless it is a cake that should be eaten hot, like one of those runny chocolate creations, you should always let the dam thing cool. Hot, it tasted like sweet, fruity pudding. Cold it taste like a fruity carrot brownie. It was just a little too much of the uncooked cake batter stage and not quite enough of the turned the corner to cooked cake stage.

It was the weirdest cake I have ever eaten, but then it is American and I am sure their taste buds are different to ours.

It never really got passed the gooey fruit pudding stage, so much so Anthony suggested we needed cream for it.

We ate the whole thing, it was oddly Moorish. It was like the evil desert, the touched by Satan sweet, like a car wreck you couldn’t turn away from it.

Saturday, March 01, 2014

David Was Alarmed

I was up at 8am. Awake. Couldn’t sleep. Saturday, for the universe sake. Actually, I don’t care. I am resigned to getting up early now and, in fact, I quite like it.

It was a lovely day in Melbourne town. A nice day for an Auction.

We ate breakfast. We hustled out the door to Gordon’s auction. The Crew were waiting outside, Gordon’s crew. There are certain things one’s Crew turns up for. Certain preordained occurrences, funerals, 40ths, the sale of a members long owned house, they are known intuitively when you are truly a member of the crew.

Michael Swift was out the front standing with his hand over his eyes, looking every bit Aunt Michaela. “We’re here, what is there to see.” On one of my most recent skypes to Mark, he said everyone was worried about Michael, that maybe there was something wrong with him, the implication was, after years of drinking. Michael looks a bit older, but then don’t we all. He had is usual, infectious sense of place about him. Oh isn’t this fun. He doesn't look like he is dying of liver cancer to me, or anything else. Queens are bitches. His skin is a bit worby, but then his skin has always been a bit worby. Well, no, his skin didn’t always look worby. It does now. He seems fine.

Michael and (boyfriend) Duncan and Ava (Gordon’s wife. Ha ha, he’d hate me saying that) and some other girl who used to live in the small house, I assume, before Michael, I think her name was Robyn. I have never met her before. She seemed nice enough. Obese and wanting to appear cool. Apparently, she has smart children.

The crowd gathered for the auction.

I ask them all how much Gordon paid for his new house, but they all said they hadn’t asked. “I wouldn’t ask that,” said Eve.

Then there was some cute man standing in front of me, handsome, tanned, conveying some message to Eve, from Gordon.

“Who’s he?” I asked Ava.

“Oh, um that’s our someone or other…” Then she spoke about people I didn’t know. I assumed the cute guy was Gordon’s nieces boyfriend. “We’ve all been very happy with the influence cutey pants has had on nieceypie…”

Lovely, I thought. Will she ever stop talking? I just nodded and smiled.

I like Ava. I always have. I like her no nonsense. I don’t mind her bossiness, I’ve always had bossy people in my life. She’s friendly and she’s open. She has no airs.

Then, of course, we had to take a photo for the yearly calendar. Goodness me, we nearly forgot. Ava had forgotten her camera. Disaster! Sam came to the rescue with to use his iPhone. “Come on, a group of friends, the group of friends. Quick!” Ava organised us all into a group. We all stood in front of the Auction sign. Sam took the photo, so Ava was in it.

The photo of me was amazingly bad. I was horrified.

The auctioneer had a long preamble about everyone being sure about which house everyone was bidding on, because once before when he had the same sales situation, when they got to signing on the house, that purchaser thought he’d just bought the other house they had for sale that day.

The auctioneer had a very wide mouth, as though he was part Staffy. He smiled a lot, lucky for him it came across as sincere. He had very long feet, high lighted by the long, pointy, steel toe capped, western crocodile skin shoes. He had a drop earing in one ear.

Sam bid on 780K and 820K, when the interest seemed light on for the small house and it looked like the house could have, possibly been sold at a bargain price. The thing was, we only have 800K guaranteed for an investment property house loan. Sam was already at 820K when I noticed. “What are you doing,” I whispered. It wasn’t perhaps the most supportive reaction. The others were surprised, we hadn’t really discussed it with any of them. The bidding got going once we were out.

A guy, who looked to me like a property developer to me – I have no evidence for this claim – and a couple of, what looked like, thirty something year old gay boys, who looked like a couple, bid it out and the gay boys were successful in the end.

The poofs got the small house for just over 900K.

Nobody bid on the big house. The Crew reported that would most likely be negotiated at a later date. It was felt about the big house that it was a lot of money, 1.5 million, for a house in which you would have to do major bathroom renovations straight away and essentially it would only be a two bedroom house, when you took the bathroom upstairs.

Gordon was inside for an inordinate amount of time as we waited in the ever increasing heat of the sun. We were all fanning ourselves and beginning to complain.

Finally, Gordon appeared and he warmly embraced everyone who were there as if they were long lost friends, or members of the inner sanctum of the friendship circle.

He totally ignored Sam and I, which I took as a message not to go in and have drinks in the house afterwards. Michael and Duncan had waited long enough by then, they were hungry and wanted breakfast, so when they made their discreet exit, we did too. Gordon suggested Michael and Duncan stay for a drink, but he didn’t suggest it as Sam and I left.

I just felt like pot, afterwards, I’m not sure why? I felt a bit defeated. The smallness of the world because of inhospitality, on a micro level and on a greater level. I’ve lived next to Gordon for 25 years. I should have been good at the job I just had, but I found it intimidating and crumbled. I think I must have been under stress, mother in a coma expected to die. Inhospitality abounds. The world feels smaller for it. Maybe I want to feel numb.

Ironically, I don’t even really like feeling of being stoned any more. It is that love hate thing, numbed is both good and bad. Like antibiotics, the pot kills all feelings. It was fine when I was younger, I hadn’t been ground down so much by life at that stage. Not that I did it as a teenager, apparently kids that is bad, I was in my twenties before I smoked my first. Now, to tell you the truth, it is just a dreary habit. Still, nobody ever said habits had to be good. It still makes me focus to write, it shuts all distractions out, I know that much still. That’s what I want it for. The creativity just flows on weed.

Sam, Buddy and I walked to the bank in Smith Street, in the sunshine. I had to get money. I bought apple cider vinegar and cigarettes and fruit juice and bread and milk. All of life’s small necessities. It was nice, the day sparkled, the sky was bright blue. Buddy marched ahead as if he was singing the bulldog song. Tum di dum tum di dah! Tum di dum tum di dah! Bulldog coming through. We floated. I floated. It seemed like an awful lot of walking, an awful lot of feet dragging on the way back, but we did it.

I got pot delivered. Very civilised. Come on Australia, let’s do what New Zealand has done, parts of America, Uruguay, for goodness sake and parts of Europe. Stop being such a pussy-arsed conservative country and just get on with it. Admit that prohibition is a failure. I wonder if the price would go up, it hasn’t gone up in twenty years. Of course, with Mr Misogynist Church on Sundays in charge, I guess it is unlikely.

The sun shone down.

Matt dropped in. He is good. It is the first time I have seen him since his heart attack. At forty, I am sure that is not so good. He told us all about his juice diet. Lots of vegetables.

Nobody could really tell me why he’d had a heart attack, so I asked. He said he was going without sleep, eating all the wrong foods, drinking no water, doing no exercise, smoking. Then he kind of slipped in that his cholesterol was crazy high, with no good cholesterol. When I asked him how high was his cholesterol, he avoided answering that question. He said, unlike most men, he recognised the symptoms and called an ambulance.

David has been texting insults all day. He followed up all the texts with a long and rambling call where he talked and talked, he was in the car, I am sure. It is how he passes his time when he is driving. He’s lucky he is smart, because if he was the air-head that he makes out to be, he’d have crashed that car by now. What am I saying, I tell him all the time not to drive and use his phone.

The sun is shining through the back doors.

Buddy is snoring.

Sam is asleep with a slipped kindle by his side.

INX plays. Baby don’t cry.

We left to eat Pho with David. I’d rolled a j for the occasion. We walked to Victoria Street.

David insisted that I call (my boss) Jack first thing Monday morning, straighten it all out. “Tell him about you mum. Ask for time off.”

“I don’t want to.”

“What do you mean you don’t want to,” replied David. His eyes widened, he looked alarmed. “That’s what you do. Save your job first. Then think about your future later.”

“I just don’t want to think about it.”

“You may not want to, my sweet, but you have to. Do that and then you don’t have to think about it. But at least do that.”

“I don’t care.”

He looked even more alarmed.

We walked back. It was dusk by the time we were walking up the Langridge Street hill, at the dusk of our stoned-arsed-selves, dragging our feet to the front door.

We seemed to be waiting on the couch with filler shows all the evening, until Ru Paul’s Drag race final came on. I wanted Raven to win, despite her having never been my favourite in the previous season she was in. I’m glad Chanel didn’t win as she is too Las Vegas Show Girl. Having said that, in a strange kind of way, for keep something alive in a pure way, makes her an eminent winner of hall of fame, in a sense. She’s too uptight, though. Chad Michaels won. I couldn’t see it. Yeah, sure there is a great transformation, but there’s not much after that.

I think we went to bed at 11.11 to watch City Hall, in Bed. Al Pacino.


You do realise that Anthony turned 50 on Friday. Anthony.

Well, yes I guess. None of us are getting any younger luv, despite your constant denials. Happy birthday lovely Robert Gamble. Christian.

05/03/2014, Robert Gamble, Thanks beautiful Chriso! xx

You need to go to uni to get one of these, boys and girls. Of course, that isn't strictly true, but true enough.

Look out for that guy, he wants your cookie

Tony Abbott, Charlene and an Asylum Seeker walk into a bar.

On the table are a dozen cookies.

Tony eats 11 of the cookies, then gestures at the Asylum Seeker as he says to Charlene,  "look out for that guy, he wants your cookie, they think stealing is okay where they come from."

Then Tony asked Charlene to make him a coffee.