I Love You Long Time

Christopher smiled when he thought about Titania. I love you long time, he thought. He promptly beat himself up for being so racist? Sexist? He wasn't sure.

He poured milk into his coffee.

Was this Anna playing a joke?

She could pay for accommodation, but not with money. She liked to be very accommodating. He laughed to himself. It had to be Anna, playing out some fantasy, using him as a part of some elaborate story she was using to create some short of art. Maybe? He wasn't sure about that. But it had to be her.

The newspaper was on the doorstep covered in plastic.

He didn't answer, of course. He wasn't going to be sucked in, quite so fast. He'd thought of a couple of replies. He was a swim suit model and he'd be in Queensland for some time on a photo shoot. He was a racing car driver and would be spending the next few months in Monaco. He was going to jail for drug trafficking. He'd met a rich older woman who was taking him to the Bahamas for a summer of sex and one hundred dollar bills.

He sat at the breakfast table with his coffee and his newspaper and stared out at the sunny day.

Christopher had an older woman when he was eighteen, much to his mother and father's disgust.

"That woman's just using you for sex," his mother would say venomously.

"Just as I'm using her," Christopher would reply, not entirely truthfully.

Chelsea was fifty two and gorgeous and she did take Christopher to the Bahamas. She liked Christopher in his swim suit.

"I like to show you off," said Chelsea. She stared down lecherously at how well his speedos fitted him across the front.

Christopher glanced up at his wall of photos of friends and wondered why he didn't ever have a photo of Chelsea amongst them?

It made Christopher's mother sad, he and Chelsea, she couldn't let it go. People are weird when it comes to sex, especially mothers and fathers when it concerns their children, Christopher soon learned. Illogically so. His parents turned into monsters, threatened Armageddon. Told Christopher he'd be psychologically, and quite possibly physically, scarred for the rest of his life. Told him he'd die early because of "HER," as his mother put it.

Chelsea was a gorgeous and vibrant woman whose husband had died a year earlier, unexpectedly, in tragic circumstances... and Christopher was eighteen, after all. A man, by all accounts, able to make his own decisions.

Christopher thought of Chelsea and shook his head. She taught him to be a man. She taught him to stand up for himself. She taught him to laugh and not to take life so seriously, as it could all end tomorrow. She taught him how good sex could really be.

Christopher sipped his coffee and wondered where Chelsea was now?

Christopher's parents took some thing that was innocent and good and turned it into poison. He was never able to fully forgive them.

Ultimately, he let Chelsea down, when he chose his mother and father over her. But he was young. Chelsea fell in love with him. 52, 18. She never asked him to be exclusive, just to be with her when he was with her. In the end, she understood and simply kissed him on the forehead and said good bye and then turned around, like the classy lady she always was and walked away without turning back.

Christopher decided not to use the older woman story with Anna... Titania

He glanced over at the emails on his lap-top in the corner of the room and wondered what he might say in return?

It was directly after Chelsea, when Christopher was feeling particularly battered and bruised from the assault by his parents against her, that he fell into Robert's arms. Chelsea had been the first person Christopher had told that he suspected he could be attracted to boys too. Chelsea encouraged him to embrace it and not to be freaked out by it, as Christopher always had been. Christopher shook as he told her. So when Robert hugged him in his arms, to comfort him over the break up with Chelsea, Christopher just let Robert kiss him. It just kind of happened, one minute they were mates comforting each other, the next minute, without words or discussion, they were lovers. Just like that.

Christopher orchestrated for his mother to walk in on him and Robert, not so long after that. It was an act of revenge for Chelsea. Robert was mortified. Christopher moved out of home not long after that. Robert departed also, for some young girl named Kylie, who he married and whose life he wrecked when he left her pregnant for his tennis coach, Matthew.

Christopher wondered what had happened to Robert? Some Rainbow Lorikeets called out in the the back yard before they flew away.

But Titania/Anna, he'd have to think of an appropriate response. Maybe he should fess up about Ethan and that night at his place? That would shock Anna. He thought better of that. Maybe, he'd just invite Titania to come and stay and then simply wait for her response.

Glove Love

Aeroplane

I was over at Gabriel's Subtext and he was writing about children on an aeroplane, which reminded me of a short story I wrote a few years ago. So, here it is, my answer to annoying children on aeroplanes.

I am on an aeroplane returning to Australia from San Francisco, the city with the bay that is always cold, where the mist rolls down from the hills in the afternoon like a big fluffy white doona shaken out to air. We are into that long boring period, about the three-quarter mark. All the tricks the airline has devised to make the time pass quicker have been trotted out, bad food and bad movies and everyone, including the staff, have settled down to see the flight out.

The passengers are looking tired, or bored, resigned, or just miserable. A comfortable position is near on impossible to maintain and the best drug combination is tricky. Irregular mounds stretch out in front of me in rows, some blanketed some not, in the sunset lighting now in place. The quiet hum of the aircraft, seemingly all around me, is as constant as a heart beat, like a meditative “OM,” somewhere in my subconscious.

I am post Valium. I did sleep a little despite my fear of dying, er flying. I have read some magazines and eaten twice. Out of the corner of my eye, I see people pass by on their way to wherever – the choices are limited.

My travelling companion, Mark, has three seats next to me – the aeroplane is not even half full – and he has just reclined, waiting for sleep to take him. The hostess, with far too much make up and a permanent grin, tells me that this flight is the longest single flight anywhere and with head winds they have to carry less passengers to conserve fuel.

“There isn't much fuel to spare by the time we get to Australia, perhaps forty-five minutes, tops.”

I’m not so sure I wanted to know that small fact.

I sit here lit up by my brighter than bright reading lamp pondering what would make the time pass the quickest. I try to read.

It’s quiet now, except for two toddlers running around the aircraft, an irritating three-year-old and his slightly older, curly blond-haired sister. I have just returned from the galley with my second cup of coffee. Caffeine is a poor substitute for nicotine. I did bring some nicotine patches with me, but I’m avoiding using them. I want a cigarette with smoke and ash and the full draw back experience.

“Ahhh! Oooo! Squeal! Squeal!”

Fucking children I say to Mark, but he is nearly asleep. What’s the mother doing, I think. “What is this, a flying creche, or an adventure play ground thirty thousand feet up?” They scamper past, too short to be seen because of the high backed seats, until they are upon me. And then gone again, just as quick.

I involuntarily reach for a cigarette.

This smoking thing, as pathetic as it may sound, is really a bit much. It is one thing to choose to sit in non-smoking to avoid the putrid smoking section, but there is a big difference between sneaking to the smoking section for the odd ciggy and prohibition. One could get very edgy if one allowed oneself to.

I open my book and wriggle into the most comfortable position possible.

Suddenly there is a slap to the seat in front of me and a whack to my fold down table. “Ahhhhh,” and then the tap, tap, tap of little feet running away behind me. I catch my coffee but drop my book.

“Children running around the cabin, there should be a law against it,” I turn and grumble to Mark. His response is a warbling in-take of air through his nose, like a growling dog, followed by a large exhale.

Perhaps, I’m nicotine deprived? I’d thought of tripping the youngest one, as he passed by on one of his previous laps, but it was a spontaneous reaction and my foot simply hit the underneath of the seat in front. I gritted my teeth.

Surely someone will complain.

I want to verbally abuse them, but they don’t stop long enough by my armrest for me to swing my mouth into action.

The space waitress comes into view, strolling by with that look left, look right, look left, thing they do.

“Excuse me?”

“Yes,” purrs the over made up Miss Plastic.

“Can you shut these children up and stop them from running up and down?”

“They are children.” Her smile disappears and is replaced by a look of contempt. “What do you expect me to do?” Weak flash of a smile. Raised eyebrows.

What do I expect you to do? She looked really tired and some what annoyed by my request. “Never mind,” I say. “Kids will be kids... I guess.”

Repeated flash of the plastic smile and off she walks.

I see, I thought.

The little brat’s modus operandi is to run up one aisle and down the other, crossing over through the toilets and galley section, squealing and bouncing soft toy Kangaroos off each armrest, as they pass by. Whack, “Ahhh,” giggle, giggle. Whack, “Ahhh,” giggle, giggle. Their little blue eyes maniacal, their laugh possessed. Lisa Simpson, “I am the Lizard Queen.”

A shiver runs up my spine.

They look very pleased with their game. After about an hour, I want to take them by the throat and choke them until they are dead. Them, as blue faced corpses, amuses me for a millisecond.

Perhaps, the lack of nicotine has made me unusually crabby. I don’t mind children generally, but definitely only one at a time and probably only those known to me. I smile at the thought of my nieces tugging at my arms and calling me uncle.

They round the corner and are heading back down the aisle, in my direction. I've had it. Something has to be done.

I have to think quickly, what plan of action will be the most effective? When I say effective, this is a revenge mission, so “effective” roughly translates into causing harm, hitting out, getting the little bastards, bothering them as much as they are bothering me, for what now seems like hours.

I stand up. I feel big and suddenly they look very small.

I have to time it properly to ensure a clean get away. I need to be as close to the galley as possible, to ensure escape. I step in to the aisle and walk toward them. They are about to meet the unstoppable force. My eyes squint, my mouth curls into a nasty grin. They are side by side as the gap closes. Perfect, lost in their own, annoying, little world. They are looking up at each passenger, as they thump the armrest of each chair, laughing. It is the usual act. I simply walk right through them, no warning, nothing to indicate that I have even seen them. They ricochet off my thighs. I hear thuds and tearful outbursts, but within seconds I am around the corner and out of sight.

The boy is sitting on his mother’s lap, his face smeared with tears, as I return from my sojourn in the toilet. His curly hair almost seems finer and his face, some how, more angelic than I remember. The brat daughter is in her seat reading, as mother is comforting the boy child. They are laughing, a little, between each other, poking, prodding, although they are finally confined to their seats, by their mother. The boy child gives me a withering look as I walk by, or am I just imagining it?

When I get back to my seat Mark asks me if I am pleased with myself, as he woke to see the whole thing unfold.

The girl fared better being spun sideways into a gap between two rows of seats. Her squealing, brat brother did not fare so well. He connected with an armrest, heavily, with his head and as the ensuing, hysterical wail indicated, some pain was inflicted.

I am, indeed, pleased.

Feeling Like Crap

I'm not feeling well; pain in the chest - or is that from the push ups, Monday? - upset stomach, feel like I've got an ulcer, getting by on Milanta. I don't know if it is a virus, as Shane says it is, says he had it last week, same pains in the chest, then Matt had it. Or is it the humidity, or because it is day 3 of quitting smoking? (oh hell, it always seems to be day 3, will I ever pull this off?) Or is it because it is the end of the year and the madness of Xmas has fallen upon us? Whichever, I'm hiding in my room with my lap-top and copies of Far from Heaven and Dream Girls, pretty gay, huh? But, some how I've got stuck on schmaltzy American, Men in Trees.

Far from Heaven is incredibly beautiful, even if the story lines are not - I tried so hard to make it go away. I thought I could do it for you and the kids.

I've never seen Dream Girls - And I am telling you...

... all I need is for Nick to turn up to watch them with me.

Lick the sweat off my chest.

Kiss me between mouthfuls of popcorn.

The Navy Ambush

Viagra for Men

Even if you have no erection problems, Viagra will help you to make better sex more often, bringing unimaginable pleasure to that special him. Just dissolve half a pill under your tongue and get ready for action in 30 minutes. Want to impress the boy you've just met? Get a double pack. Tests show that the majority of men, after taking the little blue pill, are able to maintain perfect erections for 24 hours!

Don't miss an opportunity with Package, Quantity and Price to suit every chance you get.

Learn More

10 tabs, 30 tabs, 60 tabs, 90 tabs 180 tabs... share with your friends... play boy's games together. Even your straight mates will be impressively hard (post six pack) out with the boys. (slip it in their drinks)

When you are young and stressed up…

When you are aged and never give up…

(When you want to sell it to keep a roof over your head)

Viagra gives you confidence in any chance you get, every time you want to.

Monday Sickie

Ah, Monday morning. The rush, the crush, the blush of the working week starting all over again. Busy, busy, busy, must fly.

But wait, I have to go to the tooth doctor, at 12.15. Who in their right minds organises a dental appointment smack, bang in the middle of the day? I guess it was me.

The city by 9am, the beach suburbs by 12.15. It just seemed like too much rushing around to get to work and then get to St Kilda, so I took a sickie.

The usual amount of guilt washed over me, as I slipped back into bed, you understand. But not too much.

The sun shone gloriously as I drove down Punt Road, with time to spare. My gums are much better, the dentist, Martin, is so pleased. As I am.

"You've been smoking, though," said lovely Martin, a little on the accusatory side.

"Yes, a little, but I've stopped now," I said.

Nothing like a little creative reality visualisation.

There were plenty of buff boys in shorts and singlets to keep me amused, in the sun in the beach side suburb. I bought a falafel, afterwards, and enjoyed the moment, perving on them as they walked by.

I've had a mid afternoon nap, my balcony doors open, a gentle breeze stroking my skin.

Now I'm going for a massage - I think I'm getting a sore back from sitting at my computer for too long.

Midnight Show

We ate at Chocolate Buddha and then ate ice cream and window shopped at Southbank, until Sebastian looked too bored to be ignored any longer. So we took him to the observation deck at Eureka Tower.

Then it was on to the Spiegletent to see La Clique, midnight show. Me, Mark, Luke, Sebastian, LouLou, Mark's sister Alex.

Amazing. They were all amazing. Incredible athletes and consummate performers. The English strong men, what bodies, not a gram of fat in their Union Jack jocks. The ribbon girl, bald and amazing, hanging upside down in mid air. The Norwegian rubber man, Captain Froddo, double jointed sliding his body through two tennis rackets. The French man, queen of the tent, singing queen songs, telling stories of sleeping with two patrons a night, riding his unicycle fast around the tent. The beautiful girl with the hoops, she could spin them in opposite directions on her body, at the same time; the hoops just seemed to slide up her body from the floor. The naked Australian girl with one hundred sets of pearls around he neck and the huge song, throwing herself about. The (famous) handsome boy in the bath, what a hunk. The diva puppets, how cool were they?

Friday Afternoon

Pissed. No, really pissed. It's hot, very hot. Work Xmas party. I ate prawn cocktails and eye fillet, rare. We were @ Young & Jackson's. It was a boozy affair. I drank James Boags. I sat opposite Charlie, we smiled coyly at each other. We, actually, walked down together, oblivious to our co-workers coming up behind. We chatted and laughed. He's really nice.

They all went onto the River Bar, afterwards. I, wisely, staggered away. Charlie had gone home too. Last year I got home @ 3am, after ending up at some nightclub dancing, off my cha chas. (Or was that the year before? Can't remember.)

"You're a good dancer," they said.

"It's all a part of the poofter gene," I said. "You trade catching and throwing for an ability to dance."

I don't remember the walk home.

I've been lying on the couch with my arm across my forehead, since I got here. Bang, bang. Oooo! Alcohol is not my drug of choice.

Lovely Sebastian is here. He is laughing at me and my decrepitude. He is staying for a couple of days. He's getting his CV together, so he can apply for a job, possibly be sponsored for residency. He has tourism and social work degrees and speaks five languages.

Did I mention that it is hot? I took migraine tablets. Oh my head!

Buggered

I came home and lay on my bed and fell straight off to sleep. I was buggered... not even Friday, I thought. Nobody was home. I could do as I pleased. (Not that I couldn't usually do as I please, to be true) Oh, it was glorious, so nice, nothing to worry about, think about, clear my mind. Drift away on the sweet feeling of nothing matters, right there for that second, everything can wait; glorious oblivion, sinking into my bed sheets.

Bring!

What? Was that the door bell? Oh? Wasn't Sebastian coming to stay? No, I didn't hear anything. No. It was my imagination.

Bring!

I guess not, I thought, as I was drawn back from the deep tunnel of slumber, unwillingly. Ah, back into the present. Oh, back to reality. Back from my dream of the Milanese soccer team filing into my bedroom, dressed only in small, white shorts.

I struggled to my feet. Bugger! I'll never be able to return to them. Angelo, Carlos, Nickos, Dino...

I opened the door to Sebastian’s smiling face.

Hey Chris? said Sebastian. Did you remember I was coming?

Sure. Sure I did. I thought my face was going to crack with the smile it was attempting to produce.

Madeline

Jack checked his watch and wondered why Gerry had not phoned in, as he hadn’t arrived for work that morning. It was unlike Gerry. Jack decided not to worry about it, whatever the reason he was sure Gerry would explain in due course.

Later in the morning, with a mounting problem with the computer network, Jack dialled Gerry's home phone number and was greeted with a child's whisper. “Hello?”

“Is your daddy home?” Jack asked.

“Yes,” whispered the small voice.

“May I talk with him?'

The child whispered, “No.”

Surprised and wanting to talk with an adult, Jack asked, “Is your Mummy there?'

“Yes”

“May I talk with her?”

Again the small voice whispered, “No.”

Hoping there was somebody with whom he could leave a message, Jack asked, “Is anybody else there?”

“Yes,” whispered the child. “A policeman.”

Wondering what a cop would be doing at Gerry's home, Jack asked, "May I speak with the policeman?"

“No, he's busy,” whispered the child.

“Busy doing what?”

“Talking to Daddy and Mummy and the Fireman,” she whispered.

Suddenly, there was the sound of a loud engine in the background, Jack asked, a little startled, “What is that noise?”

“A helicopter,” answered the whispering voice.

“What is going on there?” demanded Jack, now truly concerned.

Again, whispering, the child answered, “The search team just landed a helicopter.”

Alarmed and a little frustrated Jack asked, “What are they searching for?”

Still whispering, the young voice replied, with a muffled giggle, “Me.”

 

From Russia With Love

Hello. My name is Titania.

I write to you a woman from Russia. I am 26 years old! The same age as you, Christopher.

I want to find the man for serious relation in your country, while I visit and site see.

I am athletic and blond. I cannot find the man in Russia for myself because it very difficultly in Russia. It is a lot of men in Russia who drink alcohol and touch each other and I'm not like it.

I want to create a home and to live in your country because the government care about people. I want to live and be sure in the future.

In Russia it is not possible to live easy. I want to tell about myself a little.

I live in city Cerenkov. It's 1000 km from capital of Russia Moscow. My city small and very beautiful. I work as the seller in shop home appliances. I learn English at night school.

I'm a cheerful girl who likes to go for sports and do all what like are usual peoples.

My history: I'm with my girlfriend were going to go in your country as tourists for search of men for serious relations. But my girlfriend could not go with me. She had problems with her family, who want her to marry and settle down, here in Russia.

But very soon, I will receive visa and I don't want to lose a chance to arrive in your country. I will receive visa in 7 days for your country.

Now, I'm in Moscow also and waiting for reception of my visa. It will be great if you can meet me and we can to have relations with you. I'm understand that it very good, but probably it's destiny for you and me. I understand that you will ask me "Where did you get my e-mail?"

I'm right???

Okay, I got your e-mail through a girl I met in my city. Her name was Anna. I gave her my letter and she told me that she will send my letter to you. And I will be very happy if YOU will answer me.

Anna showed me some photos, you are very handsome. I would very much like to accommodate you, judging from your photo.

I will be very happy you will write me and we will have our meeting very soon. And it is possible we a meeting in 7 days because I can arrive to you. I can pay for accommodation, but not with money. We come to some arrangement, I'm sure you understand. I'm very open minded. I like to please.

Please tell to me about yourself a little!

I send to you my photo with hope that you will like it and answer to me back. I will wait your answer so much. I would like to stay with you for a few months.

Write to me on e-mail : Titania_busty@hot4ru. Your new friend.

 

Monday, Monday

Wake @ 7am, play on blogger till 7.45 then decided to watch porn, you know the drill. Roll over, the sun is shining.

Shane's up early and showered and ready before I am, which is unheard of, but I still leave the house first. He doesn't usually get to work till 10am.

Monday morning, a bit wobbly. The sky is blue. Pay all telecommunications bills, home, mobile. I change direction, having left the post office first towards Brunswick street, so as not to walk passed the asbestos house. I'm sure it has been detoxed, when it was wrapped in plastic and yellow tape, but there it sits, no windows open to the breeze.

Walk to Spring Street, catch a tram. Machine out of order, love that. Cute boy sitting opposite me, with head phones, a handsome face, square-jawed and long shiny hair, twentyish, with a nice big bulge. You know those boys who have crotches like the Olgas. He had headphones on. He jiggled his foot constantly. He pulled the bright gold ring on and off his left hand, as he gazed blankly out the window.

I smoked a fag outside work, watching the world go by. I'm timing my entry into the building against the pedestrian traffic from King Street traffic lights. Then I get less annoying twats, first thing in the morning, at the lift, hopefully. I've realised, just lately, that I don't really talk until about 9.30, once the second coffee kicks in. Dumb cunts in elevators are too much first thing in the morning, you know until morning tea. Seriously.

The last wave of King Street pedestrian crossing losers clear, I stand on my cigarette butt and head into the building. 

Easy day.

I'm still smoking.

Shane's in Sydney.

David is having his back covered in a tattoo.

Xmas Party

Friday night was the company Xmas party, in the C.B.D. on the Yarra. I sat next to the C.E.O. She looked gorgeous. I walked in with her, arriving at the same time, by chance. We talked about travel and Bolago and our parents.

The grads did their annual review. All singing, all dancing, all a whizz with a video camera.

I, fortuitously, had to go to the toilet, just before they went on, to be greeted by near naked, buff young men getting changed in the toilets. Two of the most handsome ones just in their jocks. Nice lunches, boys. Nice hairy chest. Nice muscles. They all smiled, they were pumped.

There was a band, we danced, it was a drunken affair.

I'm sure hot Steve, the analyst, left with one of the most gorgeous girls in our office. He's married, with a new daughter and lives in Beaumauris, she's single, beautiful and lives at South Bank. They left around 22.30 and he was seeing her home. You do the logistics.

Lucky bitch.

I spent a lot of the night with Charie, the new gay boy in the office. He tried to sit with me, at the beginning, but I didn't see him until me and Campbell, one of the oafs in the office, took our seats and it was as if the music stopped in musical chairs and Charlie was without a seat. Drat! I thought. I looked to the other side and thought, I couldn't exactly ask the C.E.O. to move, hey? Not that I wanted to.

He's gorgeous, handsome. We danced together, we gave each other looks. Smiled a lot, well lubricated on beer. He wanted me to go to the after party, but I had to be at Bolago on Saturday. So I wandered off at 1am saying I had things to do the next day.

I reckon I'm going to get into his pants, though. You can sense those things.

I turned into Flinders Street thinking it was, in fact, a long way to walk drunk, as I staggered a bit. I turned around and a taxi was driving by, so I stuck my hand up and he stopped. Just like that. As we drove through the city, people on every corner wanted a taxi, or wanted to get in. Nothing to see here, I intimated, as we swished through the night, thinking how I had just fluked it big time to get a taxi, like I did. (I heard later that people were waiting on average an hour to get a taxi)

One hammered, gorgeous straight guy indicated he'd let me suck his cock for a ride, but the lights turned green and we were gone, before I even had time to realise what it was that he meant.

 

War

What is the difference between war and peace, the sign said, held by the old woman.

I don 't know, answered the sign of the twenty something man standing next to her. I've only ever known war.

Sad, hey.

Jodie Foster

Jodie Foster won an award and in her acceptance speech she thanked her long term partner Cydney. 

And all these people have commented. 

“What’s the fuss about? I don't give a squat. Who cares? Another story about a famous lesbian. Ho hum. The interesting bit would be? Just be thankful it is not you or your children. Boring. There are more important issues. Homosexuals are sick.”

It's shocking that people treat gays any differently, 

Go girls you are normal people, don't forget, why should it matter?

It's kind of like even the ones who are for us are kind of clueless about it.

Good on you Jodie for being brave. Bravery is always impressive.

You know, good on her for coming out. It's still about raising the profile. It's all about marketing, getting the gay brand out there. Truth over comes ignorance. Contact makes us normal. We always were normal, but the red necks, bigots, homophobes and god bothers, etc, have to find that out for themselves. So, in that sense, good on her.

After all, it was the worst kept secret.

But why would she want to, for want of a better expression, come out? Remember, she's had stalkers and crazies after her. Some guy shot the president under some delusion about her. Why would she want to make her private life fodder for every fruit cake in the world?

All she did was to thank her partner, in an acceptance speech, for all of her support and its news all around the world.

One day, sometime in the future, maybe it won’t matter. Personally, I kind of like being in the periphery, in not being the "norm." But for the beige, cardy wearing, twin set, aching for the marriage ceremony and the house and the dogs in the suburbs, kind of gay, its important. Normal.

In forty years of gay rights/lives/openness, we haven't won “them” all over yet, so I don't think we'll be melting into the furniture in any of our life times, not completely. It will still matter for a long time yet.

We're still getting execute for our sins in some countries. We're still demonised by the Catholic church - while we suck off their priests. We're still accused of being a vocal minority group seeking special rights, if we ask for equality. 

I bet the majority of non-gays still think that we all wish we were straight, which is a subconscious way of categorising us as second class citizens. It's still viewed as somewhat of a handicap, a bit like diabetes. Today's teenager's slang for lame, or second rate, is gay.

Good for you, Jodie.

Hot Thursday

Water. Litres of it. Aloe Vera juice. Just for the taste. (I'm sure it must be good for me. I should check if it has sugar?)

I had chicken parma for lunch, at 4.30. I took my mum to the doctor, at 2pm. The brain doctor, she's losing her memory. My beautiful, intelligent mother. She now has to have a M.R.I. It was bloody hot, far too hot to be taking people to medical appointments. It'll probably be 25 tomorrow. Hope so.

We ate out in a restaurant. "Oh, yes, lets?" said mum. She had veal. I had chicken. We talked about xmas day. It's at my sister's house. She lives in the country, close to Bolago, fifteen minutes by car. We went to Safeway and did mum's weekly shop. We drank tea and ate chocolate biscuits, when we got back to her place. "Before you go," she said. "I'll put the kettle on."

"Okay."

I'm stuffed! 

Kriss Kringle

I saw the cutest pair of Donald Duck underpants. They were bright yellow, with red elastic and red piping around the legs. They had a red, white and blue Donald Duck transfer on the front. I wanted a boy friend to buy them for, I thought, as I fingered the fabric. (Despite always preferring the men in my life in black trunks, preferably)

Janette, the bosses P.A. came around today with the dreaded Kriss Kringle hat of names - it was actually a plastic bag, but doesn't hat sound nicer - and made me choose. There was seemingly no choice this year, just, "Here, pick."

Oh, I see, I thought. I tried quickly to build a plausible, justifiable case for not choosing, but soon decided it was just easier to spend the fifteen dollars. I don't even like buying presents for my own family, although I do. They've all received chocolates for every birthday and Xmas for as long as I can remember.

Beck got the new Indian accounts clerk, who speaks little and keeps to herself.

Steve, the hot analysts got the C.E.O. David, the obese analyst, made a quick and clever suggestion for a present for the C.E.O. Fortnum and Mason Jam. "You know, those 3 packs?" The C.E.O. is a rather stylist woman.

And I got Steve. Black hair, olive skin, athletic body. And I thought of those Donald Duck underpants. Steve would look adorable in them; hairy, tanned legs against red pipping. Dark pubes comming out of Donald's head.

I told Beck I was going to buy him the underpants. She just looked at me and said nothing, in that frozen moment of a way she has of saying a lot when actually saying nothing. I thought it was a good idea - turned me on for a second.

But now I've thought about it, Steve, in spite of his good looks and athletic body, is a complete sugar junky, extraordinaire, so I think I'll get him fifteen dollars of mixed lollies, instead.

No Scratching

No sounds of scratching in the ceiling, while we're not getting too excited, it's a good sign.

I've got bruises up the inside of my right arm, from all this messing around with getting rid of our unwanted possum.

I Win, You Fucker!

Dusk fell and I could see what they meant by midnight blue, as the sky changed colour. I sat on the edge of the coffee table and watched through the window and waited for the possum to come out. I could hear it moving about in the roof, so, I assumed, it was getting active. I knelt on the floor and watched it actually come out of the suspect hole, for the first time; the first proof that it was entering the house in the place I had narrowed it down to. (with a little help from the possum man who turned and ran) It pushed it's nose up into the air, just like Babe the pig.

Shane and Matt had just left for the underwear party and David and his friend, Tom, had headed out for dinner intending to join up with Shane and Matt.

I watched the possum walk along the top of the fence and thought, This would be the time to act.This would be the time to put the eradication plan into action. I should do it now. I could do it now. No, I could, really, do it now. I could do it!

So, I got my shoes and headed out into the back yard to select the appropriate wire, feeling energised by making a decision. The possum was still on the fence and as I stood just a few feet away from it, as we eye-balled each other, I said, "Hasta la vista baby!

So, I got up on the fence, as the light turned to dark and rolled the chicken wire into rolls and proceeded to feed them into the missing course of brick work - again, bloody tradesmen not completing their work properly - inside the gutter. I got the first roll fed into the cavity, no problem; kind of had to bend it around a ninety degree bend to get it into position. But the second roll proved to be more problematic and no matter how hard I shoved and shoved it just wouldn't feed freely in like the first roll did.

I kept looking around so the possum couldn't sneak up the fence at me and attack. Are possums aggressive like that? I don't think so. They bite if cornered, viciously, don't be mistaken, but I don't think they come in the attack variety? But I couldn't help but check from time to time.

I pushed, I shoved. I even had my neighbour, Beck, come out to ask me what I was doing. I was also just a wee bit stoned. And, by this stage, I couldn't see, too dark.

I was exhausted. I was cut on my arms. I was feeling decidedly wobbly after trying for fifteen minutes to feed that second, damn, tube of wire through, so I reluctantly stopped, hoping that I had pushed in enough wire to stop the varmint.

My arms and legs were shaking, as I climbed down from the roof.

Tom

It's been three months, yesterday, since Tom died. While I don’t ache for his loss, like I thought I would, I think of him often, every day, every few days.

Mostly, I feel numb when I think of him, like I have no information on how to feel when your best friend dies.

Life goes on, I guess, there is no stopping for anyone.

 

Bolago

First Day of Summer

First day of summer. Yay! (global warming withstanding) I'm off to Bolago. I wonder how hot this summer will prove to be, as I flick on the aircon and close the sun roof in the car? I laugh to myself when I think that if the summers are going to get hotter and hotter, I'm going to go live in the country. Who'd have thought, that global warming would drive this city boy to live a rural lifestyle - not this year, obviously, or probably next year, but I can see it happening.

It's always cool in the country at night, the earth sucks the heat away, no matter how hot it has been during the day.

Too Rich?

The electrician turned up and even he was supposed to be here on Tuesday.

So that's the heating man hasn't come after two calls. The plumber promised, admittedly the agreement was no hurry, but he's never been seen again. The possum man came and said get some one else. The mechanic said he'd send a quote for car repairs and two weeks later it still hasn't turned up. And I've called him three times thus far.

I find it hard enough to organise these things and tee up times in the first place. But then, when they don't come? Grrrr!

What do you have to do to get a tradesman?

I Love This Picture, It Makes Me Laugh

Modern Day Politics

We've got the Labour party moving further to the right, with Kevin Rudd and we have the Liberal party saying, Oops, we went too far right, let’s crank it back a touch.

And we end up with Laberal.

And why are they all Christians? Surely, being a Christian isn't good marketing, with what religion is doing to the world? So why? Shouldn't that exclude them automatically. Isn't it a conflict of interests when members of the lobby groups gain company positions?

I love this too

My Motto for the 21st Century

Just care less.

Otherwise, before you know it, what with the world media and all, you are sucked into the world's psycho drama, where, not unlike a casino, it is all geared for you to spend to cheer yourself up.

Get involved in your local community, if you need to position yourself on the planet.

Howard, The Arrogant Twat

The Ego Has Left The Building

You know, it was just fucking Howard. Ego gone mad. His own particular brand of personal mania, spread thickly over all of Australia.

Nelson and Turnbull are both left Liberals, or what they call small L Liberal. So even the Liberals are saying, Too far right.

Perhaps, we should call Howard Margaret from now on. Margaret Howard, it has a certain ring to it.

An Exhibition?

Christopher saw Anna, in Gertrude Street. The sun was shining. The sky was blue. Bikes flashed by. People drank coffee and beer, in seats under the trees. She's back from Europe, apparently? He knew that she was going. It seemed to have gone really fast.

"I've been travelling and painting. Drawing. Looking for good light and experimenting with photography." She looked hot. Wild hair. Mini skirt. "What have you been doing?"

"You know, the usual."

"No, I don't, actually." Anna laughed, like chiming bells. He'd never seen her so relaxed. "What is the usual? I don't know."

"You look great." She did.

"Thanks." she said.

"How's Ethan?"

"He's good, on a very short leash, at the moment." She laughed, as if recalling some distant memory. "He's been busking with his sax. You know how he looks?"

Indeed, Christopher did.

"They love him. The girls, go nuts for him." Anna laughed. "I got him to wear less and his takings went up." She looked away. "I mean, I was just amazed I got him working. But then I discovered so was something else... um, working." She looked away. She looked back.

What could Christopher say? He raised his eye brows, instead.

"I found him in a jacuzzi with a cocktail waitress. He freaked out when I got my camera out and started taking photos." She laughed. "They were great shots." She laughed again. "The cocktail waitress went spare.

Suitably horrified look on his face. "Is he with you?" Trying not to laugh, but then laughing anyway.

"No, fuck him." She looked away. "I left him in Europe." She looked back, her eyes flashed. "That wasn't to say I wasn't cross." She grabbed Christopher by the shirt front and whispered, broken hearted. She pulled away. "So, Sorry!" Big eyes, shallow breaths. "Would be a good word to describe Ethan's current state of health." She fanned her face with her fingers

"You all right?"

"Yeah." She smiled. "I'm fine, really."

"That's good to hear," Christopher said.

"You promised to marry me, if he ever dumped me?"

"Sure," said Christopher, more quickly than he cared to, really. She did still remember it was a joke?

"You and me?" She stopped fanning. "Don't make me laugh."

He'd never seen her look more beautiful.

"So, what have you been doing?"

She's been doing a series of paintings called, Bob's Your Uncle.

"I saw him, Uncle Bob, at my grandma's funeral. He looked nervous when he saw me." She smiled. "That's what prompted me to exorcise my Bob demons through paint. Oils. Thick. Just like him." She laughed nervously. "So I did. I've got an exhibition in Berlin. It's rabid revenge. All dark and full of murder. Lot's of blood and figures with big hands." She laughed. "There's a drowning."

Apparently, that's what he used to do, take her out into really deep water where she'd have to cling onto him. Her mother would be waving from the beach, marveling at how good her unmarried brother was with her little girl.

Anna took a cigarette out of her bag and lit it, blowing smoke luxuriously into the air.

"And as far as Mr Ethan is concerned, we left it that if he met up with me in Berlin, then fine, but it is by my rules." She held his gaze and kind of clicked her jaw and blew a smoke ring. "If he doesn't show, I'll understand why." She looked away.

Silence.

Then she smiled and did that little head wiggle that always meant every thing will work out fine. "So, I'll catch up with him there," said Anna. "I'm heading back via Russia."

A Visual Representation of John Howard’s Political Career Right About Now

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?