The Trifecta of Devilry

What's a boy to do on his day off, when he spends the morning dealing with insurance companies and banks and Lawyers.

It is like the trifecta of devilry.

I'm still trying to get an insurance payment for my front fence that was wiped out by Granny Clampett in her Silver Shopping Machine. I thought all you had to do was provide two quotes and the problem was dealt with... but no. The insurance company wants more detailed quotes. What do I know, I'm not a tradie. I just called these guys up and got quotes, they are independent and all I want is my property put back in the same condition before Miss Mistook the Accelerator for the Brake turned up. 

She said she was just looking for a car park. 

Yeah, well, good for you, honey.

I was talking to the lawyer about the insurance company. I was trying to find out what I have to legally provide to the insurance company. Apparently, that is a little vague.

The banking was for me. You know, it is all so much easier with the internet. But it kept failing with every turn I mad, every document I filled in, with every application I made, and it was really annoying. It took three phone calls to the banking institution in question to sort it out, and then I really sorted it out on my own. 

There are no known problems with Safari, said, Brad, the boy on the other end of the phone, who I am sure thought I was an idiot. 

However, eventually, once I switched browsers all of the problems went away.

Yay!

Whose the idiot now Brad?

So, what do you do on a Friday arvo, after that, stew up all the apples that are left in the fruit bowl, of course, before "The Bossy One," read Sam, makes us go grocer shopping to buy fresh on the weekend.

My mum used to stew apples and into hers she used to put cut up pieces of lemon, which used to drive my dad apoplectic. I can still hear him, 

"Why do you have to put this shit lemon in the apple when you stew it?" 

Ah, it makes me chuckle. I'm not at all sure if that is an appropriate response. Shrug. I guess, it is just remembering the two of them.  Chuckle. It is of a time, and of a place that now doesn't exist. Should that make me laugh? My dad was a funny guy, my mum was funny too, so why not?

Lives begin and lives end, and time marches forward relentlessly, you can be assure of that.

I'm listening to America's Ventura Highway. I love that beginning riff, it is the most gorgeous thing.
Then I listened to Angie Stone.
Then I listened to Joe Cocker.

This is the strangest photo I have taken lately, a huge elephant foot imprint size of jam on the carpark asphalt,  
shrug, no idea, it was the weirdest thing. Well, I'm guessing the population of the planet not doing any thing to fix climate change is weirder. I suppose the wealthy nations trying to reject the 50 million displaced people is also weirder. Half the planet starving and half the planet eating itself to death is pretty odd. The increasing inequity in the world is... balancing hands in the air. 

But it did remind me of...

He jumped from forty thousand feet without a parachute

He jumped from forty thousand feet without a parachute

He jumped from forty thousand feet without a parachute

And he ain’t gonna jump no more.

Glory glory what a hell of a way to die

Suspended by your braces when you don’t know how to fly

Glory glory what a hell of a way to die

And he ain’t gonna jump no more.

He landed on the runway like a splat of raspberry jam

He landed on the runway like a splat of raspberry jam

He landed on the runway like a splat of raspberry jam

And he ain’t gonna jump no more.

What a gorgeous morning. The sunrise was beautiful.

I walked into town in a soft, honey sun.

I caught a bombardier at the stop before the free zone. (I don’t know why I keep telling you that, somehow it must expunge my guilt) A rat-faced slapper, with a coffee in her hand, moved at a glacial pace, in front of me, (you know that thrills me when they do that) to the only vacant seat, all the other seats were taken. So, I took up my position just inside the rear section, ready to grab any seat that became available. Just inside, the next available seat is yours. But, none of the bitches got off at Spring Street. None of the bitches got off at 101. One cute boy, from right down the back, got up at Swanston Street. So, I sat right down the back, looking at Collins Street disappearing behind us, next to a boy with fat legs encroaching onto my seat. So, I pushed my thigh up against his. I just kept pushing up against him until I had enough room.

I wrote a poem. Sitting there on the tram.

With my back to the rest of the tram, I was not taking any notice of what was going on, I was gazing at the romantic image of Collins Street disappearing away from me, capturing my view. Pretty soon it was my stop. As I headed to the doors, there was a fat man and a fat woman in my way. They managed to move a millimetre to the left and right, as people only seem to be able to manage now a days, so I had to squeeze through, against his stomach, and her left muffin-top, I felt like pasta pushing through a pasta machine roller made out of blubber. Oooooooo! I shivered all over.

Boys On The Tram

It was a cold morning, the first morning that I thought I could feel the first tentacles of winter wrapping around us, well, reaching out and touching us.

I left before Sam, he is in a don't-give-a-shit phase, so he is just wandering into work whenever. Oh, that means closer to 9am than 8am, let’s not think the worst. It is not like it is midday.

I walked to the stop before the free zone, when a Bombardier came down MacArthur Street, and I legged it to the stop to catch it. I knew I wouldn't make it, but I was being positive and I ran anyway. I’m sure there is a small part of me that thinks any exercise, no matter how small, is good. I got to the door as it closed, I could have slipped half of my body through I was that close, but I didn't, and of course, the doors closed and the tram left. So, I hot footed it off down MacArthur Street to the Spring Street stop, as the tram was practically empty and it would prove to be an easy ride into the city. I flew across the Spring Street intersection like a free spirited jay walker. Wind beneath my wings and all that. So, I caught the tram at the first stop inside the free zone, I was standing on the stop puffing before it even got there. I had my choice of a few seats.

A stocky wog boy came and leant against one of the many yellow posts in the tram just in front of me. It was very hard not to notice the big bulge in his trousers, as he had on those soft kind of clingy pants and they kind of grabbed him, so I noticed. He was staring at his phone anyway, smiling away at whoever, or whatever had his attention, so I was free to gaze at his prominent knob. Nice it was too. Then he went and sat on a seat somewhere behind me.

I was hot and sweaty from all that running, so I pulled my mis-delivered American postcard of Barack and Michelle from the back pocket of my satchel and fanned myself. Many years ago, it had been sent to 3 different numbers in my street, so I never sent it on, to who? Shrug. And how it got into the back pocket of my satchel, I do not know. But, I have discovered, on these more muggy than they ever used to be, global warming effected days, it comes in handy. I didn't care what I looked like, nobody gives a shit in the mornings, not really, and my small fan delivered just enough of a breeze to my neck to cool me down and to stop me feel like I was going to over-heat at any minute. Or something like that. It was cool, anything else I did care.


Then I noticed a 70's porn star in aviators and a leather bomber jacket staring at me. You know the type, who wears gold chains and has a hairy chest and wears bikini briefs with a big bush. I could almost read his thoughts,

"Look at that filthy faggot fanning himself, do you believe it."

His face was fixed in my direction, no expression, just a hint of a scowl. He looked like Burt Reynolds, or James Garner, or Lee Majors. His sunglasses obscured face which just stared blankly at me. Unrelenting, not even looking away self-consciously. Just fixed and staring.

Okay, I thought. You want to stare at me. I licked my lips, you know, kind of seductively. Slow. Sensuously. I let my eyes slide up and down his body.

He didn't move, not a wit. So, I looked him up and down again, leather jacket, Levis, Cuban heal boots, I kid you not. He was like some old Hollywood cliché. Still nothing. He was like one of those buskers in the mall who specialise in stillness. I looked away. I looked back. Still. Nothing. Just that fixed stare. I could have found it unnerving, but instead I took it as a challenge. I slid my eyes down his body again. He was completely frozen, he did not move a hair, not a millimetre, not even, seemingly, to breath. Except… for his hand in his jeans pocket, his fingers started moving, I gazed at his crotch, his fingers mover again, like a giant spider was moving in his pocket.

There you go, I thought.

I looked away, gazing out the window. I looked back, he was the perfect frozen moment, except for his ipsy wipsy fingers.

My stop came pretty soon after that. He moved to get off at my stop, as I stood to make my exit. He looked away as I looked at him. I slid my Barak and Michelle Obama postcard back into the back pocket of my satchel. I got off the tram and walked away without looking back. It is a powerful act, walking away without looking back.

Paid Parental Leave and Childcare System

Why don't those people who have children and who want paid parental leave and paid childcare pay extra tax to pay for it? A system like HECS for education could be set up for those people who have children, so they could pay extra tax over a period of time to pay for the costs of their own children. Why can't that be done?

Primarily, I was thinking about the problem of childcare, which seems to be a problem for which nobody has a solution. 60 minutes had a piece on it this week. People also seem to be concerned about parental leave and it not being enough for families to raise children. So, why don't we adopt a user pays system, like education and HECS, or even tolls on new road developments, families could have as much parental leave and child care as they choose, or want, and then with an increase in their tax, like HECs, they could pay for the amount used over a period of time until the debt had been paid off, just like HECS and then their tax could be lowered back to normal again.

Wouldn't that solve the current problems?

Looking out the window at work

A house in the suburbs

Terrorist Attacks

We continue to call these criminals terrorists and their acts terrorist attacks, because the general community with accept such labels, and not blame the politicians, rather they are more likely to praise the politician’s for trying to protect us, but really, aren’t these perpetrators the “them” fighting back against the “us” in the increasingly unjust and inequitable world our politics is creating.

It is our politics that is causing terrorism, not extremism. Extremism is the result, not the cause.

I Got To Feel His Arse, So It Wasn’t All Bad

Yesterday, morning my alarm went off at 6am. I didn't get to sleep until after midnight. I wondered if I was going to be tired today?

I woke up to rain. Wet and cold. It was grey outside, as I stood at my balcony doors and peered out, a door in each hand, open to the day.

The only question on my lips was, long-sleeved shirt, or short-sleeved shirt? How humid was it? I slid a bare arm out into the day, but I couldn't tell. I'd prefer to be cold than hot, but there were limits to how cold I wanted to feel.

I wore my blue and white striped long-sleeved shirt, the first long-sleeved shirt I have worn in weeks, the only long-sleeved shirt I have worn in weeks, and only the third long-sleeved shirt I have worn to work since I began in December.

Mikki Howard sang the songs of Billie Holiday, that was the music that got me off and walking, this morning in the rain.

The rain fell in a fine mist, it never let up. And by the time I got to Albert Street, I was sick of it sprinkling in my eyes and covering my shirt and making it damp. A B-Class was the first tram to appear around the corner, followed by another old B-Class. A chock a block full B-Class. Oh? Damn! Risking a fine and all, as we were three stops from the free zone. Still, less likely to get caught in a tram stuffed full of people than an empty one, it was just logical, I hoped.

I was going to sweat in that old tram being so full of people, I knew that. As we all know, I have a low threshold to heat and sweating. I needed to stand by the door, which I did, just inside the front door, so that way, at least I got the fresh air when the doors opened at each stop.

The fat Asian girl – am I allowed to say that? I’m allowed to think it, surely? Is that fat shaming by thought? You know, because I am writing my thoughts down? I don’t know. She was fat – with headphones stood next to me, with her Kindle and her kind face.

She gave me a look, when I waved her back into the tram first, after we'd both got out at the next stop to let other passengers off. I think we both had the same idea, fresh air by the door. She smiled as she turned and got back on. She didn't seem to mind.

A bit later, when a woman insisted on squeezing into the tram in the middle doors and they wouldn't close and the tram wouldn't go and we all got held up while we waited for her to sort her shit, I said, "Get off you idiot," accidently, out loud, by mistake, oops, the fat Asian girl smiled again. (Gotta be careful with headphones in)

I stood to the side and let people through, but I was staying by the door, the tram was a sauna. People are weird, they look at you as if you are the lowest of the low for not moving out of their way to give them room, to allow them in, even if they don’t really know where they are going. No, you just won't fit, the tram is full, I thought. Still they push in.

A beautiful girl, with long blond hair, got on with a coffee when she really wouldn't fit. But she was determined. She would have been the Home Coming Queen. She would have swallowed the Prom King’s cum in the carpark in the front seat of his Commodore at the year 12 formal, for sure. She’d have tried to hide the stains on her cashmere cardigan from her mother by having it dry-cleaned. The fat Asian girl and I looked at one another. After blondie had squeezed in, and the fat Asian girl had to give some room, Blondie gave a coy look around to see what the looks on our faces were. Were we scowling at her? She smiled sweetly at me, in the crush. She got her place in the tram, the beautiful girl always got her place.

And then another girl, with red hair and exposed cleavage, pushed her way in, like her tits into that bra that was two sizes too small, there really wasn’t any room. She would have fucked the lead singer and the drummer of the band high on E in share houses in Brunswick. She had to do a run up and down the stairs to allow the door to close and open again.

And then at the next stop, Nazeem Hussain got in, not that blondie, or Red, or I, for that matter, gave any room. The fat Asian girl had shuffled further inside by this stage, her battle for the door was lost. Well, he looked like Nazeem Hussain. He was as cute as Nazeem Hussain. Crisp white shirt, high collar, red patterned tie, tight fitting blue suit. He kind of clung to the wall like Spider Man, or a gecko, there was so little room for him.

Still I got to feel his arse, so it wasn’t all bad.

He could only balance on one foot, half up the front wall. And by this stage I was pushed right up against the front wall, my hands down by my sides holding the hand rail. I literally had a size nine and a half shoe length from the front wall in which to balance. If I’d lost my balance and fallen forward, I would have gone face first into Red’s tits, so I hung onto the hand rail at each side, level with my hips. Nazeem had to push in backwards to avoid the door as it closed, he and Red kind of shared the front step of that old tram. And whether he knew it, or not, his arse was exactly the same level as my right hand, which he pushed up against. I could feel the peachy curve of his cheeks, the tight woollen material following the contour of his curvy behind slide along my fingers. Nice and tight and firm it felt too. My fingers slid into his indentation, up his crack, if you like, like the fine curve of a porcelain bowl, quite easily. He was curvaceous and warm. He felt like he did squats, he was hard to the touch.

I did nothing, I swear. I didn't move a muscle, not a whit. Trams just get crowded in the mornings, and sometimes you can't help these things, I swear. Okay, I didn't move my hand, you may have me there, but where was I moving it to, I ask you? We were packed in like sardines. It is simply the cost of free travel in the CBD in the mornings. We were jam packed in, it was really hard to move, and sometimes you can get your arse felt up.