Welcome to the Revolution

We're eating Krispy Kreme donuts, to celebrate the fabulous win by Labour, @ our breakfast of champions.

Labelle sing - The Revolution Will Not Be Televised.

All Over Now...

I voted. It was a glorious day. You can feel the migration of people in Fitzroy on polling day, all walking in the same direction.

There was a hot wog boy, electoral official inside St Mark's Church Hall. Grey t-shirt, black, faded jeans. What did he have down those pants? I could see his shaft pointing down, slightly curved, dressed to the right. I, of course, had partaken of a little voting day herb, so I couldn't help but look. It moved around as he took steps. Big. Gorgeous. Banana. Some how, waiting in line didn't seem quite so hard, after that.

I hope his name is Nick.

Now I'm off to Tim and Nicholas' for Tim's birthday.

many hours later...

I got shit-faced on vodka & Agrum and pot. Trish was mixing, she and I, drinks, all afternoon. Eventually, she admitted that she'd been mixing the drinks with a 50/50 ratio (in tall glasses) and that she and I had polished off the whole bottle of vodka.

It was glorious sitting in Tim and Nicholas' palm filled court yard chatting, but eventually, I started to get itchy to know what had happened in the election, not to mention my advanced state of inebriation. None of them cared, (about the election and not me being drunk) two of them voted Liberal, for fucks sake! (The only people I know, a part from my mother, who voted Liberal) They know not what they do, I comforted myself. Glorious democracy, I thought, with a shudder.

I had to stagger home late in the afternoon, with a platter of food that Tim gave me. "Don't ditch that on the way," were Tim's last words, which kept ringing in my ears, as my arms got tired and I really wanted to ditch it, but I didn't, dutifully. I don't think it would have occurred to me to ditch a plate of food in the street, if Tim hadn't mentioned it, so it was just cruel.

It's a long walk up George Street when you are staggering.

I made it to Howard's defeat speech, before I had to drag my sorry arse off to bed, to rest my aching head. Alcohol is bad!

Yay, for Australia, I thought, as I stumbled off up stairs. Finally seen fit to throw that racist, elitist poison, that was the Howard Government, out of office. My head pounded, I just couldn't get too excited, I was having trouble walking. I did my happy dance on the inside.

Today's the Day

So today is the day that Howard loses the election and his seat. I can hardly wait. Keep your fingers crossed!

An oldy but a goldie
Howard didn't care what it cost the tax payer for him to live @ Kirribilli
How much of a spineless mediocrity has Peter Costello proved himself to be? Howard knifed him better than any other person, or group, but Pete has stuck by the little worms side steadfastly.
I think Mal might be poised to take over the whole Liberal box and dice.
Has there ever been a dumber, fatter, more revolting Queensland Senator? I know, a big call.

Oh! No!

I broke three finger nails, today. Three? Unheard of!

One of them, I was in a meeting and I could feel it was split. So, I slid my hand out of sight and ripped it off. Unfortunately, it ripped down too low and hurt like hell and I had to just keep a calm face and continue listening pretending nothing had happened, when I really wanted to cry out in pain.

Morning Fun

I love it when the lift doors close on people. I love it more so that they didn't get in and hold everyone up, rather than any damage they may sustain. Of course, if they are stupid enough to get hurt by a lift door, well, then, boo hoo!

I was @ the back of the lift and quietly cursing the plebeians, in front of me, for not hitting the door closed button. It can seem like an age until those doors finally slide shut, when nobody is hitting the close button.

Come on, come on, lets go, I nervously said to myself. Before they all pile in like Lemmings, holding us up. (There are 6 lifts, there is always another lift)

Then they started to slide, just as a woman with folders in her arms appeared, trying to barge through with her shoulder. Now, if you are going to try to catch a lift @ the last minute, you need a body part that protrudes out, an arm or a leg, something that can slide right in there perpendicularly to the doors. A shoulder is a rather blunt object. You are going to have to tackle the lift like a Rugby player, if you are going to pull it up with a shoulder. So, the lift doors slammed shut in her face, as she recoiled @ the very last minute, like a girl, folders threatening to topple, startled look on her face. I stifled a laugh and did my little, inner happy dance and we were off.

It always brightens up my morning, a near lift miss.

Ben's Stash Tin

Never mind. Forget it.

"Hey," said Rob, as he entered the kitchen bleary-eyed. He rubbed his face and scratched his arse, through the back of his Y-fronts.

"Hey," said Andre, drinking coffee. There was the smell of coffee in the air.

Rob breathed the aroma in. "Did you sleep well?"

"Um? Er? I guess, I did. You?" said Andre, hesitantly.

"Sure," said Rob. "Like the dead."

"That's great, just great," said Andre, staring into his coffee cup, which he held under his chin.

"You okay?" asked Rob. "Is something wrong?" He touched Andre on the shoulder, reassuringly. Andre pulled away.

"Okay?" said Andre. "Me? Something wrong?"

"You just seem a bit stressed," said Rob. He flicked on the kettle and reached out for the cupboard for a cup.

"About last night?" said Andre, more as a question than a statement, his voice raising in pitch.

Rob turned around. "Something happened last night?"

"Don’t you remember?"

"I’m a bit hazy, really," said Rob. He grimaced. "I remember everything until we left the restaurant." He smiled broadly. Cheekily. "I must have had a shit load to drink. How many shots did we have? "

"I don’t know what we did last night… " Andre was shaking his head.

"Ah, fuck, we didn't get caught doing something… "

"No," said Andre. "Not caught… "

Rob shrugged his shoulders and held his hands out in front of him, as if as a question mark. He grimaced and shook his head, questioningly.

"You don’t remember anything?" said Andre.

"Why? Rob scratched his head. He suddenly itched down the back of his neck.

"You and me."

"What?"

Andre stopped talking. He looked at Rob quizzically. A smile peeled across his lips. "We had a shit load to drink, mate." He punch Rob on the arm. "Just checking to see if you remembered any more than me."

The kettle boiled. "I just want coffee," said Rob.

I Need to Get Some Loving

There was a Lebanese boy on the tram this morning in skin tight work trousers that just fitted him like skin. He had a green and white checked shirt open to his cleavage. Hairy chest. Stubble. Buzz cut. Sunglasses.

The chunky arse on him had to be seen to be appreciated. Two melons slashed down the middle, quivering to get out.

There is something so hot about tight clothes on a toned body. It has energy even standing still; every curve in the right place, vibrating in harmony.

I think I'm turning into a perve.

I need to get out for some loving.

Global Warming, No Shit!

Hot! Fuck me! What month is it? No global warming? I'd like to see that. I wanted to put my arm over my face, as soon as I left the house, shielding my eyes from the burning morning sun, until I got under the verandas of Gertrude Street.

I always was a little precious with the heat. I mean, I'm fine if I'm in a singlet and shorts and have a beach in front of me. No problem, it can be as hot as it likes.

I caught a tram, I'm not walking in that heat.

There was a mighty fine stock broker jogging to work this morning, in short black running shorts. Great legs. He hardly broke a sweat.

A stocky Jewish Lawyer, with a black skull cap, hair-pinned into place, from one of the law firms below us, got in the lift and said, "Ah, I see you are very wise and have dressed appropriately for this kind of day."

I wasn't quite sure what he meant, as I was dressed in the same way I dressed every day.

He must have read my reaction across my face.

"It is too hot for a tie on a day like this."

But I never wear a tie to work. It's medieval. The company has got me shackled without, actually, putting a noose around my neck. It's always been my attitude to office wear. Suit, crisp shirt, good shoes. But nothing around my neck to prove it.

I don't know how they do it on a thirty eight degree day?

Bolago

Stinky Old City

As I was leaving the country, on dusk, I felt cold and put a shirt on over the singlet I had been wearing all day. It was glorious up there; sunny all day, hot actually, cooling just as it blushed into dusk. Lovely. Always cool enough at night to sleep under the doona.

I had the air conditioning going all the way home, as Chaka Khan entertained me with her new cd, Funk This. I pulled into my car space, at the rear of the house and swung the door open to be met by a close, sweaty, sticky, hot old city. I wondered why I even come back.

The shirt, I had put on before I left, stuck to my skin.

We've got it all wrong in the city - all that concrete that takes forever to cool down. The country is always glorious at night, no matter how hot it has been during the day.

By the way, whose giving up their air conditioner because of global warming?

 

The New Guy

There is a cute, new, guy at work, Charlie, who I reckon is gay. He's an analyst in our department. He has a pert little arse that looks like a gay arse. It's been a while since I've, um, heard a bottom boy really enjoying it. Too much information? I love that look in a boy's eyes when he really wants it.

Neither, Manny or I were naturally inclined and we used to jostled for position; even if Manny used to offer up his Greek arse, once in a while, after being wrestled to the mat. That was hot. Sometimes he does, sometimes.

Do two tops ever really make a good couple? I say they do. Shane says it is a waste of a good top. He says a good one is hard enough to find (excuse the pun) @ the best of times, without them paring up.

I'm guessing he is gay. It is nice to have another gay guy in the office. 

Stupid World

You know, I used to think that political correctness was a good idea. If people couldn't work out on their own (read, too stupid) that they shouldn't call a black guy a dirty nigger, or a gay guy a filthy faggot, or a woman a 2nd class bitch, then there was a set of rules for the idiots to go by. A lowest common denominator benchmark, if you like.

But what it has done in reality, is stop people talking their mind in case they might offend someone. The prudes can use it to stop anything that is not to their taste.

On Letterman the other night, they had a dog who barked when his owner stuck his middle finger up in the air at him. But you know what they did? They pixelated out the "bird," as the dog barked. Have we really got to that level? Have the, ever more present, conservative forces really taken us back that far? People are stupid.

Here Are Some Great Ways of Dealing with the Burdens of Life

* Nobody cares if you can't dance well, just get up and dance

* Since it's the early worm that gets eaten by the bird, sleep late.

* The second mouse gets the cheese.

* When everything's coming your way, you're in the wrong lane.

* Birthdays are good for you - the more you have, the longer you live.

* You may be only one person in the world, but you may also be the world to one person.

* Some mistakes are too much fun to only make once.

I Couldn't Have Imagined How Bad

My house mate, David, came home with a record shop bag in his hand, saying, "Look what I've bought."

"What?" I asked suspiciously. David has the second worst taste in music of all my housemates. Only Tim's taste in music is worse. Bubblegum pop. Spare us! David is not far behind.

"The new Celine Dion cd."

I reeled in horror. "You know you can't play it." I had only informed David last night that Celine Dion is the only banned artist in the house.

"I can play it in my car," said David. "And look what I bought you?"

"What?" I asked in fear.

"Can you guess?"

"No."

"Guess!"

"Oh, Kelly Clarkson?" Going on David's usual taste.

"No. Open it."

I pulled the paper bag apart and was stunned. "The Spice Girls Greatest hits?" I said incredulously.

He didn't know what party the Prime Minister belonged to. Or, which party was, at present, running the country. But I guess I'm just being a bitch, now. Or am I jealous? Sounds like bliss, now I come to think of it.

His two, very left leaning, house mates have instructed him how to vote in the next election, don't you worry about that. Not that it really matters in Fitzroy, lets be real.

Mr Sheen has to Go

I can't talk about the election. I don't want to have to go and live in New Zealand, if that revolting little man gets back in, as I said I would.

Not only do I want Howard to lose the election, it would be poetic justice if he lost his seat too.

But, I'm not saying a word, I'm too nervous.

But remember, not only did Howard give big business the power to cut to lowest paid workers pay, at the same time he gave the bosses, who would be razoring the lowest paid workers hourly rate, a tax break, by moving the top most tax threshold from ninety thousand to one hundred and fifty thousand.

I always thought that one of the main functions of government was to promote the narrowing of the wealth gap, not to actively encourage it. Even if you are one of the highest paid workers, you must be able to see that what has happened is inequitable and will lead to disharmony in the population. On that fact alone, and there are many more to draw a kick-John-Howard-out-of-office sentiment, I say kick the fifties throw back out on his fat little arse.

But what do I care, I bought new porn.

I Wanted to a) Marry him b) Lick him

8.30am. 86 tram. I buy a ticket and sit straight down. I'm puffed because I had to run to get on. I looked diagonally down the middle of the car. Dark, curly hair, still wet from the shower. 5 o'clock shadow @ 9am, dark against his olive skin. Big dark sunglasses hiding his eyes. White shirt checked with fine black lines. Brown tie, Windsor knot, not quite pushed to his whiskery throat. Brown waist coat, three buttons. V shaped shoulders, strong chest, chunky arms. Solid, strong, gazing down reading a novel. Gorgeous.

He looks up, in my direction, probably @ me gazing @ him. Nice square jaw.

I look away, gaze out the window.

Beautiful Day

It is a beautiful day, in the country, just gorgeous. It’s a day to be out in the garden. The yellow irises have formed a yellow raft right next to the lake. The blue pacific and some bright mauve bush next to it, reflect as a ball of colour on the other side.

Mark is out in the veggie patch, his white t-shirt splattered with mud. Sebastian is weeding, shirtless in a big straw hat. Luke is in the kitchen cooking.

I sit on the front steps and smoke a cigarette. Yes, yes, I don't want to talk about it.

Sebastian is wearing long shorts which have slid down his hips to such an extent I can see the tops of his pubes and, practically, down the crack in his arse.

I decide that I want to head home do washing and smoke pot. Some days Bolago just seems too idyllic and I get restless. Everybody floating about doing their jobs, sometimes makes me feel like I don’t have a job up there and I’m just biding my time.

So, I headed down the Caulder around 1pm, under the clear blue sky and the bright sun, which washes the country side into a strong sense of security. You know, beauty for as far as the eye can see, bathed in gold.

Bolago

Saturday Night Out in the Country

Got to mums about 3pm to have a cup of tea with her, on my way to Bolago, after spending the morning, well, in bed smoking pot, watching porn and masturbating.

I got to Bolago around 6pm, to see Sebastian. He’s still adorable. We went out for dinner. We sat outside in the main street of Woodend, as the sun faded and set. There really is such a gentle ambiance in a country town on a warm summer night that you just don't get in the city any more. I guess it's reminiscent of long evenings as a kid. We were graced with the presence of the beautiful John, one of our waiters, who is handsome, with dark curly hair and dimples and cheeky and so clued up for a nineteen year old. He came out for cigarettes, he was eating inside.

The still very beautiful Sebastian is funny. He said he is most upset that none of us find him sexually attractive any more. "Nah," we all said at once. We explained to him that we think of him as a friend - we've known him for five years now - and we don't usually fancy our friends, gay or straight. He said he was disappointed, in his thick Italian accent, as he looked dejected into his pie. He made us laugh.

Sebastian has to be back in Italy in five years time. Plenty of time to find an Australian wife, he says.

I felt a bit spaced because of all the dope I’d smoked. I don’t know if I’m changing but the effect of the dope is different. It makes me a bit dizzy, I guess is the best way to describe it. I wonder if it has anything to do with abstaining for weeks and then hitting it as hard again?

We smoked pot and watched Weeds on DVD. I fell asleep and ended up sleeping in my clothes, as I couldn't be woken. But I sleep in the bed in front of the open fire, so it made no difference.

Plan A

The sun is shinning, the sky is blue. Go get your bike, pump up the tyres, ride over to your mums. Go to Bolago. See Sebastian.

Don't smoke any more dope. Don't watch any more porn.

Buy coffee beans.

Do not buy Italian donuts.

70's porn

I tried watching some old porn, recently. I kind of liked the idea of all those guys bare backing with impunity. Like it was a right. A political statement - we practice sodomy and we're proud of it. They suck each other off to songs by the Stones.

Now, a part from the poor quality of old videos - quite frankly, who'd be bothered just on that level - I can't get used to all the hair the blokes had back then. And I like hairy boys; stomach, chest, arse, give it to me baby! But these guys seem to have it in plague proportions. Just every where and long. Masses of it. Yuk! I had to stop watching.

Whinge Whinge

I've got to get to being good. Get my act together; quit smoking, quit dope, quit cakes @ lunch time, do more exercise, get writing, maintain my friendships more actively. Why is it that other people achieve so much and I seem to consistently achieve so little?

(I do work full time. I do help run a retreat on the weekends. I am spending more time looking after my mother, since my father died. I do do those things)

Speaking of writing, how long ago did I finish my writing degree? 2004. (Oh yes, I did do a degree at night, up until recently) Not that that is a benchmark, but it is a guide to how many years it's been since I've produced a finished piece. (I've got many things 1/2 done)

I danced with my shirt off at Woof Club, and while there was every size and shape there, I'm not used to seeing myself, in the mirror, with a flabby stomach. And yet, I had another slice of Rocky Road with my coffee at lunch again today.

I do walk a kilometre, or so, to and back from work every day. Who am I kidding, I rarely make the walk into work, now a days. I do always walk home, though. But, clearly, it is not enough. I wish I could get inspired to go back to the gym?

I want to be a non-smoking, fit, writer. I wonder how I go about that? I'm hopeless.

I decided that, during my exercise non-decision, I could go walking. It's a no brainer. Easy to do. Don't have to think about it. I went and bought a new pair of runners to inspire me. An hour a night, three times a week. How hard can it be? Do you think I've been. About 3 times. Hopeless!

How do I get inspired to do more exercise? 

Tramspotting

What do you think of a handsome boy in a brown suit reading printed material on the tram? He had rich, chestnut hair and small, oval shaped glasses (funny, Tom always used to say that boys don't passes @ boys in glasses) a round, handsome face and an earnest expression. He was sitting sideways, with his legs open, with the printed material resting on one, firm thigh.

He kept glancing over at me.

I kept glancing at his lollies, resting against his leg - round and lumpy.

He seemed to be looking at me whenever I looked up at him. He had that curious expression on his face, as if to be accepting his inspection. This won't hurt and it will be over before you know it. You know, like when the pedigree dogs get their completeness checked out by the judges @ Crufts.

It looked like our boy kept his lollies in a big bag. I wanted to play with the wrapper.

Don't You Just Love a Man in His Underpants?

Sebastian Returns

The beautiful Sebastian, one of the two Italian Sebastians, is back tomorrow. He just wants to come and live in Australia, up at Bolago. The quintessential good looking Italian boy and such a nice guy. Funny. Gorgeous. Cheeky. Naughty.

When I asked him what he's been doing in Ireland. "Drinking and fucking." He laughed. "Fucking and drinking." He laughed again.

He's staying indefinitely. The only thing he has to do is take over his Father's restaurant in Positano, when his father retires, which isn't immanent. Hard life, huh?

He lands tomorrow. Mark and Luke are picking him up. It'll be good to see him.

Spiegeltent

We went to the Spiegeltent, to see the Wah Wah Sisters. They were great. They said they were an acroband, a band that does acrobatics. They sang, swore and drank through the 80's, 90's, present day. They did this whole drunken, good time girl banter. They were good, funny.

They did some amazing acrobatics together.

I went with Mark and Luke, Adam and Raymond.

It realy is a beautiful tent, from another time, quite another world, once you are inside. It's all stained glass windows and polished wood work.

Mark was pulled up on stage when he was the only person in the place to put his hand up for having had a threesome. A little too keen was our Mark. He said after it never ocurred to him he would be the only one. He was called up to help with one routine, which involved one sister sitting on the shoulders of the other sister, as they both played their guitars. Then Mark was asked if there was any one he'd like to call up on stage with him. Luke turned to me and said, "Oh no," as Mark called his name.

They were dressed up in pink, frilly panties, full red skirt, blond wigs and cowboy hats. My guys.

The Next Day

I smoked so much dope that, some time after it got dark, and I'd done the universe-only-knows-what all day, I got the munchies really bad. Suddenly, I was really hungry. I was in the kitchen in no time, my bare feet appreciating the heated floor, at the same time knowing that if the floor was noticeably hot, the heating had been on for days.

I ate fish fingers, drenched in lemon. I just tipped what was left in the box onto the tray. I didn't count them, couldn't count them. There was lots of yellow and silver. Then I had two yogurts. Followed by four slices of toast and jam.

I lay on my bed and felt like I wanted to be sick, a short time later, some what surprised at my behaviour - not so much at being hungry, as I hadn't eaten for twenty four hours, but my complete and gluttonous surrender to it.

I should do some thing today. Get out of the house. Breath in some fresh air. Step back into life.

I'm a bit dazed. I'll thank me tomorrow. Big smile.

Feel the Wind

Mark called and said come to Bolago. "Why aren't you here?" I couldn't drive. Shouldn't drive. I wish I was Samantha Stevens. Wiggle my nose.

My balcony doors are open, fresh wind gusts in, it feels good. The light is brittle. Nobody is home. The party is over. The house is silent, just the noises of the day. Gusts of leaves, the sounds of the wind. A car door. A bird cheeps. A tram slides along the tracks.

 

What Day Is It?

Oh my head. Danced at Woofa Club until... um, er... the end. It should have been 6am, but these day parties, topsee-turvee, don't know where you are going to come out. When Mark, Luke and I wandered off to get the car, (bright red traffic lights. bright blue neon lights) it was all go, people every where, in the middle of the city, 10pm. No sun just coming up and the sounds of the silent morning, ready to be slipped into and gotten away in, unscathed. I'm glad Luke could drive, don't know how he did it.

We got there late, which was interesting because with no cigarette smoke the place just reeked of BO. Unbelievably so. I wondered if I was going to cope with it? It was good to see the sea of disarray, sober at the beginning, how out of it did everyone look? Slobbering and sweating. Lying about, red faces, teeth chattering, holding on to each other. But, I did acid & e, at the door and soon forgot about all of that, once I'd melted to the groove of the beat. The boys danced energetically around me. A sea of dark bodies, grinding to the night. Sexy chests coming to the light. A smile. A nod. A coy look, caught perving. Spin and gone. We danced for hours, Mark, Luke and me. The visuals were great; hot and wet. We throbbed as one, slippery to the beat. Lazers pieced everyone; the dark of the night; as dark as our souls.

Windy, Wet Morning

Or we could lay on our respective couches and watch the box set of Heroes, as Matt is busy all around us. He is in and out all day, as the afternoon slips away.

Mark calls to see if I'm going up to Bolago.

Matt brings us dinner, in between clients and DJ'ing.

The rain falls, mother nature is hysterical. The trees flap around like sticks the lightening lights up the night. The large drops of rain fall heavily on the roof.

I don't know how many episodes of Heros we watch? Shane picks up Matt between disk 5 & 6.

I woke up on the couch at 3 am, with some Christian dim whit banging on about alcohol and what the bible says about temperance. I particularly enjoy the whistle and the clunk the TV makes as it switches off via remote control. It's like the ultimate stun gun, Take this evil from my screen!

Today, it's Adam's birthday in St Kilda. My head is thick, I'll need a few coffees before I'm thinking straight. How much pot did Shane and I smoke? Fuck me, I'm going to be great at this birthday.

"Yeah, yeah, good." Eyes like slits. "No, I've not been up to much." Cough. Cough. "You know, the same old same old." Who is this, I think? "Good to see you, though."

May be a nice long shower?

What time is it?

Maybe some sugar?

I ate donughts for breakfast, yesterday. Do you think I'm taking this lose 5 kilos seriously? I never eat donuts for breakfast, only when I know I'm not supposed to.

Black coffee. Museli. Get with the program!

 

MG V8

Friday Night Down

Oh my head! Friday night drinks. Er!

Of course, I came home and smoked pot with Shane and Matt. I stumbled off to bed before midnight, bumping into walls. So much for The Laird and a few quiet drinks to end the week. I was just plastered, in the end.

And now I have four days off. Yipee! I should go out and dance. Tonight, I guess? Get maggotted and groove until the day break hours. Float home on a wave of tired muscles.

6am. Smith Street, Sunday morning, is always very cool, chilled and laid back. Bodies drifting to and fro. Feet like polystyrene, not a care.

8 Good Looking Aussie Men

Josh Lawson - cute and blonde

Ben Cousins - he'd be fun to party with

Ryan Shelton - Sunday in bed

Hamish Blake - I met him once, with Buddy, he was tall and athletic

Shane Crawford - In those shorts

Daniel McPherson - that dazzling smile

Jess Spencer - serious good looks

James Mathison - oh, he seems like fun

8 Things You Didn't Know About Me

I have a scar on my foot.

I was a Cathedral choir boy.

I played the viola and many years after I left the choir, I play a Beethoven quarter in the cathedral.

I grew up with a tennis court in the back yard.

My dad was a Mason.

I don't care how many abortions there are each year in Australia.

I can be passive aggressive, it is my worst character trait.

I'm not ashamed of any thing I've done.

Aloe Vera

I think I'm addicted to Aloe Vera juice. I don't know if it is any good for me, but I like it. I don't know if I'll develop green skin, grow gills, or gain a V on my forehead. If in fact the juice was even green. Just the bottle's green, in a trick of modern marketing, to give the perception that the juice is green. Whichever, I have developed quite a taste for it.

I love all the little boy's foreskins floating around in it, just waiting to be chewed. Now I know what happens to all the little snippings once the bandages have been wrapped around their tiny little pee-wee knobs.

But I think, it is the name that makes me laugh the most. Can't you see it, Shirley is in the bingo hall setting up for the big match, starting in five minutes. She has always played with her life long school friend, who is notoriously late. Shirley checks her watch, adjusts her head scarf and fiddles with her pearl earrings. It's about to start, when she hears the familiar clip clop of her friends high heals. She adjusts her scarf and looks around and smiles when she sees her friend approach.

'ello Vera, she says warmly.

Pains and Pseudo Doctors

I've had pains in my throat and up my Oesophagus for the past few weeks, actually since I've been quitting smoking. It has only started since I have tried to quit. Except for those rare days when I had smoked far too much. Same feeling, nearly, almost.

Now I have quit every thing it seems to be worse, painful. More so when I think about it. Fine in the morning, after I've rested, getting progressively worse during the day. I turned down Shane's pot Sunday night. And last night. I just figure I have to, let my body finally repair.

So I went to the chemist - the same chemist who said I should get some antibiotics when my elbow was infected, who I didn't listen to, when I ended up in hospital - rather than just assuming I knew that it was the withdrawal/repair thing and short of going to all the effort of going to the doctor, the chemist is in my building. I said I wanted some ant acid and she agreed that it is probably "the repair" starting to kick in.

"If it lasts too long, you will need to go to your doctor."

Oh, there you go again, making predictions. I wish you wouldn't, I thought. I was happy with every thing you had said up until this point.

She smiled the smile of a killer - someone who is steadfast in their ideas and knowledge, who enjoys an expert position over others. "Is there anything else I can help you with?"

"Um, no thanks."

"Okay then." She stood and held her gaze on me.

She's kind of pretty, I thought. In a big, buxom, blokey sort of way. Bright eyes, dark curly hair, nice skin, tall, solid. You'd have made a good bloke, I thought. You'd be missing a dick, I assumed.

"So, nothing else I can do for you?"

Show me your dick, I thought, stifling a laugh. I looked at her, her expression having become fixed, almost strained. Smile of a killer. Time to go Christian. Move I told myself.

"Um, er, no. No thanks," I said.

I picked up my nasal spray (the same one that has rotted my gums, well, no, not really, from all reports that was probably the smoking too) and my Savacol mouth wash (helping to prevent my gums from rotting any further) and my box of double strength Mylanta, rubbed my chest, took one last look at bifo the chemist - still smiling, praying for me to leave, I could see it in the beads of sweat on her face - turned and left.

 

Bloke on Bloke

blokes look at blokes

sped up, slowed down, spaced out on grog.

a smile of interest

is all these show ponies need.

Do you think I'm handsome?

Do you think I'm big?

Do you think I'm fine?

Do you want to spend some time

with an interesting mind?

Do you want to play

with what I've got in my pants?

Lets dance?

 

Saturday Night Out @ The Pub

I came down from Bolago early. The sun was shining warmly across the blemish free day - blue sky, a gentle breeze, Renee Geyer singing. Gorgeous.

I was taking my mum shopping. Oh yes, I'm a good son, as they say. The fact that, for some inexplicable reason, she nearly drove me mad, with her incessant talking, until I wanted to strangle her, I shan't mentioned. Don't know why, maybe my biorhythms were low?

By mid afternoon, I was a little tired and I went for a siesta. Gorgeous, I recommend it to any one, every one. Breath out and let every thing flow, as my body melts down into the sheets and a warm, fuzziness envelops me. Breath in, breath out.

I went to the Laird with Adam and Raymond. They've just settled back in Melbourne, from Brisbane and are presently looking for a new house. They say that the prices are now ridiculous in Melbourne and they are being forced to look in the million $ plus price range just to get a decent house in the inner suburbs. I think they are looking in St Kilda.

"How's Manny?" Adam asked.

I saw the new guy from work, Charlie, at the Laird. I felt like I was getting looks and smiles from him, in the last few weeks, but decided that my imagination was being far too over active and that maybe I need a root, or some love, or a new interest and that all the new guys at work can't be gay, much less interested in me. I may now have to reconsider such thoughts. I think I may up the ante with him on Monday. The office affair may be back on the cards. Oh, listen to me being so full of myself. Jasus Chris! But Charlie is cute and now that I know he is gay, he may well have been batting his eye lids @ me over the proceeding few weeks. He would make a good specimen for the inaugural office liaison... we'll see.

I found myself @ 80, sometime around midnight. I was out to meet someone new, go boyfriend hunting, or some such thing, but instead I hooked up with an old fuk bud, Simon, who walked up to me and said, "I haven't seen you around here for a while."

"No, Simon." I laughed. "I think it has been four years."

He laughed. "Time flies, huh?" he replied. "I've missed you."

"Good pick up line," I said. "Does it work?"

He smiled his cheeky smile. "Do you want to escort me to a cubicle?" he asked.

It was getting late and I didn't want to be there still at day break, or some such nonsense and Simon is a passionate, cute, cuddle-sized bottom, with a hot arse and pretty much what I had in mind, even if I didn't have him in mind, when I entered the hallowed halls. "Sure, why not," I said.

"So I guess the answer is yes, then."

"That the pick up line works?"

"A-ha," said Simon.

I love watching the way bottom boy's eyes glaze over as you slide your finger up their arse.

He gave me his phone number and email address, as we parted company, saying do with it what you will.

I tossed it in the bin on my way along Smith Street, as I walked home.

Jogging boy/walking boy

I saw my next husband, jogging through the Carlton Gardens. He was jogging, I was walking. I decided that since all other forms of exercise seem to have deserted me at the moment, I'm getting back to basics and going for an hours walk at night - 3 times a week, minimum. Easy. I don't have to think. I don't have to get any thing together or get to the gym. Don't have to worry about flat tyres, goggles, where I left my speedos, or my playing partner. Just put the shoes on and get out the door. It's working a treat, so far.

My next husband was tall, dark and handsome and was wearing a pair of those black jogging tights, which fitted him like a glove. He had a fist down the front of them that rolled from side to side, with every step he took, under the flat, black material that stretched tightly from hip bone to hip bone. The stretchy material clung to his muscles; his tight calves, his taught thighs, the legs of a thoroughbred; the curve of his solid, round arse cheeks, chewed in the middle by his deep, arse crack. He had a blue singlet on the top, which clung to his shoulders and his back and around his broad shoulders. The singlet fell from the curve of his chest down the flatness of his stomach to the elastic of his black tights, which seemed only just able to hold him tight and snug down there. I stood and watched him run, marvelling at the fluidity of motion, marvelling at the beauty of him. Long sigh.

Who You See @ a Funeral

At the wake after the funeral, Julien turned to me and asked, "Have you had sex with any one here? Other than your two boyfriends?"

I laughed and was a bit taken aback. It was not the sort of question I expected to be asked in a house in Carrum.

"No, why?" I asked. "Have you?"

"Yes," replied Julien. "Can you pick which one?"

"You're kidding?"

"No."

I surveyed the room - actually, back yard - there were Simon's brothers, all straight. A splattering of gay boys, friends and ex-boyfriends of Simon's, none of whom, I assumed, Julien had had sex with. All the associated woman, none of who would be included. The crippled grandfather. The one-eyed aunt. The obese cousins. The gaggle of gorgeous nieces and nephews. A few babies. And a group of guys over the other side, all dressed in black suits. There was one with beautiful blue eyes and a soft expression, with an Eddie Munster hair line.

"The guy with the widow's peak," I asked Julien. "Over the other side."

"Bingo," he said. "A long time ago, in the Fitzroy Gardens."

"Are you going to go and say hello to him?"

"No," said Julien.

"Not even for old times sake."

"Um, no."

Mark makes me laugh. Remember, he lives in paradise. On the way home from the funeral, it had got to 4pm by the time we were heading back down the freeway from the outer suburbs to the city. By that time, the other side of the freeway, heading out of the city, was bumper to bumper, all the way from Dandenong back to Hawthorn, practically the entire length of the freeway.

"It is no surprise to me why people are so pissed off now a days," I said. "If they have to sit in that every day."

"It would be the perfect place for a length-of-hose road-side stall," replied Mark.

"What?" I said.

"Well, they could just stop by the edge of the road, attach the hose to the exhaust pipe and end it all," said Mark. "I know I'd want to if I had to put up with that every day."

I laughed. "The world would be better off with less population," I said.

"Maybe, Simon had the right idea."

Such is Life

I went for a walk after the funeral, today. A procession of people stood up and told how much they all adored Simon. How cheeky he was. How funny he was. How much they loved him. His life was so full. It was a life that any one would have wanted. As Mark said directly after the service, It didn't seem like a life somebody would want to walk away from. He played and work in the sport he loved. He had a boyfriend who adored him and who he adored. He had many friends who loved him dearly.

Julien, who came straight down from Darwin and I cried and consoled each other, as neither of us had seen much of Simon this year. "If I'd know," I said.

"Indeed," said Julien through his tears. "If I'd know."

The sky was grey and the clouds were weeping gently for Simon, as I headed up Johnston Street. The day seemed grey and seemed to hang heavy in the air. There was a chill in the breeze, as if to say the heat had gone out of life, just a bit, just for a time, in memory. Good bye my friend.

 

 

Fucken Taxi Drivers

Fucking, bastard taxi drivers. Incompetent bunch of pricks the lot of them.

Last night, I was following your typical dickhead taxi driver over to my mums. He was doing 40 kph in the middle of the road, taking up both lanes, and I was getting impatient with him, to be sure. When we came up to the Kew tram terminus, where there was a tram, on the other side of the road, about to turn into the tram station, what does this be-turbaned fuckhead do? Of course, he stops, suddenly and without warning and I hit the back of him. My ABS kind of skidded on the tram tracks.

He gets out and eyes me suspiciously, as he looks at the back of his car.

"There is no damage to your car," I say.

He looks at the back of his car, looks at me, as if he is about to say something, then he gets back in his car and drives off.

Nothing else was said.

Yes, okay. It was my fault because I went into the back of him. And yes, I was close to him, arguably too close, as I was sick of his snail pace and I was trying to push him along. But to stop when the road, heading east, is clear in front of you, just because a tram which was heading south may pull into the terminus. Fuckwit! Taxi drivers must be the worst drivers on the road.

My Peugeot now has a busted nose, it's kind of pushed in around the Peugeot badge. Not that anyone will notice, except for me. It's only very minor, but still annoying. I know I'm going to see it whenever I look at the car, though, reminding me that I'm an idiot for being sucked into and being affected by someone else's bad driving.

Hump Day

Cool. Fresh. The air on my face. Morning in my street, overcast, grey. The bins scattered, the rubbish men aren't careful with them - strewn across the footpath, some over turned. I head down the street towards where I put them out and despite the scattering of everyone else's bins, mine seem to be, relatively, in the same place that I left them. Between my house and the next, as the apartments up the lane always put their bins in front of my gate.

SB1 and SB2 were heading towards me, in summer shorts and blazers. Fancy, I thought. Fancy that it would be warm enough for shorts, not that they looked fancy; even if they were quite baggy shorts, seemingly, with swathes of pale grey cotton, flapping around their bare legs. SB1, naturally, looked mighty fine in his.

Only the rubbish bin was empty, as the recycle men don't come until late in the morning. Slackers! I took the rubbish bin into my yard, get it off the street, before the before mentioned apartment people from up the lane take my bin as theirs, despite all bins being numbered clearly.

I stepped back onto the footpath, as SB1 and SB2 were level with my gate. SB1 and I caught each other's gaze; blue, interested, beautiful, clear - all in my head? I followed the two of them to Gertrude Street.

Wir, wir, wir, wir, metal on metal, the sound of a tram coming around the corner from Smith into Gertrude. SB1 and his brother took off in hope of catching the tram. Like a gazelle, he ran. Big steps, like the wind.

I watched them go, until they disappeared behind the tram.

Gertrude Street was busy. My old uni lecturer was having coffee in Arcadia, as he often is, in the mornings; sitting in the window, looking out blankly, never a look of recognition. There was a brand new, olive coloured 207 outside Arcadia on the street, I wondered if I could live with an olive coloured car. I concluded that I could, as I cruised on by.

I decided not to catch a tram, as I've gained a few kilos over winter. I've stopped muffins, at morning tea and crap food for lunch and dinner and I've made sure I walk to and from work every day. I have to counteract stopping the ciggies, also. I have to get fit. I have to get trim.

I have to go out and find myself a new bloke... no more Manny.

It's funny, when I say to the girls at work, or the girls in the cafe where I eat my lunch, that I'm getting fat, they all laugh and either say,

We wish we had the weight problem you have.

or... Oh please, you are so slim.

 

Day 2

After I had railed against the Evangelical Christians going to parliament house, saying that Christianity will be listed a a mental disease in fifty years.

And complained how young mums with kids make me sick... all they seem to think is required is, "I'm a mum with kids," and every body just steps aside and lets them do whatever they (fucken) want.

"Is this day 2 of quitting smoking?" asked David.

"Yes," I said.

David laughed. "I would never have guessed."

I took myself off to bed a short time later.

Cool new Peugeot

206, 207, 306?

The (cute) mechanic, at City Peugeot, said that the 207 GT was the equivalent of the 206 GTI and the 207 GTI was the equivalent of my 306 GTI.

"It's as good as your car," he said, pointing to the red 207 GTI.

It looks like I have my new car picked out... not that it is going to happen this year, or next year.

(above is a 308 coupe)

Back to Day 1

 What a beautiful day. I took my car to the dealer mechanics, City Peugeot. I had to go, as there is a recall issue with the petrol filler/tube to the tank on all 306's. It was recalled in May, this is the first opportunity I've had, I swear. (and if you believe that, I have some nice beach side property in Central Australia you may be interested in) My friends have been laughing, since my last car went up in flames, they've been wondering why I haven't taken it in sooner for the recall. They think I'm tempting fate. But, isn't that lightening striking in the same place twice? While, I would never say that it won't happen again and I don't know the stats on car fires or lightening strikes, I'm assuming that I have had my share of burning cars and it is unlikely to happen to me, again. (touch some wood. spit on someone beautiful. feel up a dwarf) Anyway, it is now in being fixed so... neryah!

It's criminal that as soon as I think about calling Guido, or at least, Guido's service, now that he is o/s in parts unknown with what's his name, the urges start again.

Long Afternoon

Got up at 7am. Early. Wide awake. Must stop using the brain mystifier during the day, first thing in the morning, at all, as then the days would be more present and alive, even if it is just perception. Maybe, I'd feel like I was doing some thing, contributing, living. Must stop hiding away on the weekends, shutting out the world. I had the second case of hiccups in as many days. Just as I took my first drag, just as my first sip of brewed coffee was lining up with my mouth. Annoying? Oh, yes, indeedie. Bloody hell! Just tiring.

Just as I got comfortable, Sunday arvo, in bed in front of ABC Sunday Arts show, I decided that I couldn't just sleep my weekends away. (guilt is a terrible thing) So I got up and did stuff. Achieve. Do. Produce. Later, I opened one of Andrew's happy books at the page which said Recharge - rest, be still, indulge yourself, think of yourself, spend the day in bed.

Bugger! Even the ooky-spooky books are telling me to be slothful. Why fight it, I thought. At least now I could feel justified in my inactivity, I guessed. I had a nana nap in the afternoon, on the couch.

I watched Idol with David. My favourite, Ben, is out, makes it hard to be enthusiastic.

Went to bed early. Smoked the last of the pot. Giving up tomorrow.

Recycling Shouldn't Cost More

I finally had my personalised number plates put on my car. I got the mechanic to do it while the car was in being serviced, as each existing plate were attached to the car with a pop-rivet in each corner and I don't have a drill to drill them out. I'm not that gay, I could have changed them myself, if I'd had a drill, no problem.

I'm good with all of that stuff, from having a father who could do any thing, from lecture a group of uni students, to changing a washer, to fixing a car. I learned by watching him and now can do lots of handy things your standard issue, urban gay boy, generally, can't do. Of course that is a stereotype, but I'm sure you get my point. I can fix things, I don't always need to call a tradie in to do the job.

If I keep the original plates and put them back on the car when I sell it, it will cost me a $100 transfer fee. But, if I have a new set issued, at that time, using up more of the worlds resources, it will cost me $28 for the plates. I think Vic Roads need to get with these modern, recycling times. Surely, it is just a number that has to be allocated to a car by the stroke of the computer keyboard? Why the $72 difference?

My Dead Friends

You know, after Tom died, I thought who will be next? I concluded that nobody would be next. I didn't expect any of my friends to die immanently. So, Simon hey? That was a quick next.

Gorgeous Simon. Outrageous Simon. Hysterically funny Simon. Was there any one ever funnier than Simon when he was firing? (Gretchen the German milk frau, playing How to Host a Murder, comes to mind) Generous Simon. Sad Simon.

Fergus died of AIDS, tragically young. And here's another one who I had, sadly, forgotten about, Tom Waters. He leapt off a building, early one Sunday morning, tweaked off his face after Sleaze, after an argument with his boyfriend, Phillip. Anthony went mad. Tom de Brant died of cancer. And now Simon Mansfield, dead before forty.

My dead friends. They were all friends. I can still see them all together, laughing, loving. All dead.

I wonder what your life time friend allocation is? I seem to be racing through mine.

You know. Really, it is very inconsiderate, them dying. I'd made this great bunch of friends. They carried my history and stories of me of when I was coming out and finding my feet. They were the people who know me.

Do you mean I have to do it all over again? Or at least, continue to make friends. I thought there would come a time when I could coast. Friends? Check. Taken care of.

Lottie says after each person's death. "Oh Christian, it's a good thing you have so many friends."

I've got friends from school, primarily straight boys. Of course, there's another one, Alex, he's dead too. I have friends from my teenage years, as a teenager in a Christian youth group. Funnily enough, we were primarily straight couples who were very sexually active. I've had two girlfriends, we were very young. And I have gay friends, who changed my life and complimented my inner most feelings so completely.

And I'm the world's most unreliable friend. "Christian never rings, but that's just Christian," they all say. "We all know that."

I don't know how I get away with it.

So, it's tier 1 friends, who are taking the hits, at the moment. My gay friends. Tier 2 and tier 3 are all doing okay. No casualties to report. Except Alex, of course. And I read in the Old Grammarian news letter that another of my peers had died, Lewis Horizon, although, I haven't seen him since school. Tragically young, it said. 

Another, So Soon.

My mate Simon's boyfriend Bernt, called me on Monday to say that Simon had been missing since Saturday night. Simon had flipped out. Did I know he did that?

Yes, Bernt. He hasn't done it for a long time?

No, he hasn't. If he contacts you will you give me a call?

Yeah, sure.

Simon, in many ways, has lived an extraordinary life. Great tragedy, with his parents dying in a car accident, when he was eighteen, with three younger brothers, just when he was about to compete in the Olympics. But, Simon turned it into selfless personal triumph, by giving up his life and single-handedly raising his brothers, for ten years, playing both mother and father, paying the mortgage, all the bills. Everything.

Everybody who met Simon loved him.

Then it all turned ugly again when his brothers, as adults, took every thing. The parents will, after all, gave equal share to all the boys. Somehow they got everything because Simon took his in cash and spent it on his brothers... something like that. We were all gobsmacked, at the time.

After that, Simon didn't know what to do and he dissolved into fierce pot smoking for a number of years. He eventually fell into depression.

Somewhere in the middle of all that, a pissed Simon fell from his bike hitting his head on the road.

Then he met Bernt and like Cinderella, everything turned to gold again. Everybody felt that Bernt was the prince who Simon so much deserved.

But the depression returned. The head knock had left it's damage on Simon. He was one of those people who developed mental health issues from his knock to his head. He was so good and so happy and normal for 99 per cent of the time. He was watched when he wasn't, but they were few and far between, for so many years now.

Unfortunately, on Saturday night he got away. And in one of those rare, unbalanced moments of his, he killed himself. Such a gorgeous man. Much adored.

 

We've Become a Mean Bunch

Why do people say "Good, he got what he deserves," when talking about Ben Cousin’s woes.

Why are people so pleased with him being sacked from The Westcoast Eagles?

I think it is because it makes every thing right in those detractors’ worlds – and since we're basically a lazy lot – without them having to do any thing at all, pretty much. It means they can make sense of their own decisions. It means that anyone who dares to live out side everyone else's mind-numbingly boring decisions & lives is struck down for daring to be different, as should be the case, hey? It means the Lemmings, who make up the majority of the world's population, can go on jumping off the cliff, because any source of rebellion has been quashed.

Dare to be different? Dare to have just a little fun? Not on this increasingly conservative right wing Australian society's watch. No siree Bob!

Nicholas' Blue Jocks

I'm wearing Nicholas' jocks, today. Nice, stretched pouch @ the front, doesn't half give me a thrill when I put them on, thinking that I am where the beautiful Nicholas once was. Rubbing where he rubbed. Sweating where he sweated. Scratch my arse and my finger goes up Nicholas' bum. I'd better be careful otherwise I'll be heading out the door with a boner.

Is that sick?

 

 

Boy Friend Come Home

Shane said, tonight, that he should be packing to go to a Perth conference, as he puffed on a joint. He leaves Thursday morning.

"Oh, I've had such a busy two days and I just can't be bothered."

"You've got one more night," I said. "So no need to panic."

"Except, Matt comes home tomorrow tonight and I'll be somewhat, um, distracted."

"Oh, it's going to be a long night then, buddy."

"It's going to be a very long night!" Shane smiled. "I can't wait to see him."

"Is that 3 weeks?"

"He's not going to know what hit him," said Shane, laughing.

 

Still Smoking

My non-smoking malfunction is continuing. I just don't seem able, at present, to get my head into non-smoking mode, again. It's such a filthy habit. I can smell it on everything about me, now that I've spend most of the year not smoking. Clothes, sheets, bedroom. Pooh! Yuk! It's foul!

Fat cat

Fat Cat

Do you think if cat's had thumbs they'd rule the world?

Of course, if my cat had thumbs, she'd be so fat she wouldn't be able to move. She's be a fat chick in tracky pants, for sure. She is getting bigger and bigger. My friends now say scoldingly, Oh Christian that cat is getting enormous.

But she is on a strict diet, I whimper in her defence.

She's getting fed by someone, some where. I've contemplated stopping feeding her altogether, but some how that doesn't seem right. She's my cat, after all.

She struggles through her cat door, which makes me laugh, now a days. It shouldn't, but it does.