Night In

I watched dvds in front of the open fire, with my sweet boyfriend. Nice, huh?

The Kings Speech. Some stupid si fi movie called Skyline, which made no sense whatsoever. And Eat Pray Love.

I cooked pasta. But, I didn't cook my signature dish, as Sam called my tomato, olive, chilli and tuna sauce, the other day, realising that he was saying it, at least in part, as a little sarcastically, that, maybe, that that was the only pasta sauce I knew.

This much. Fingers held up just millimetres apart.

So, I made tomato, basil and choritzo sausage. I think he was impressed.

Tony's Eyes Are Called His Best Feature by Some People, And What Scares People By Others

Friday Morning

My eyes cracked open and gazed at the clock next to my bedside table and the numbers said 9.24am and I was pleased. I thought about the world whirring away beyond my walls and wondered how it would view the people who, like me, still lay with their heads on the pillow, with one arm hanging down beside the mattress with their fingers strumming the carpet, absentmindedly.

Did I care? I mean, what else should any reasonable person be doing on a Friday morning?

Truthfully, I'd already been up at 7am to take a leak, the whole 9 to 5 brainwashing runs deep, bing awake, but somehow that morning-off-leak is made even more glorious by the fact that I can slip myself back between the sheets when I had shaken the last drips off.

It was cold and my feet were feeling the chill, winter is here for sure. That now seemed an age ago.

Radio National were talking about the value of work and how Australia used to be the land of the long weekend but in the last twenty years we have morphed into the land of the lost weekend with Australians now working longer hours and putting in more unpaid overtime than just about any other western country.

I adjusted my pillow and rolled over and snuggled down into the warmth.

Tick, tick, tick. I knew it was nearly time to get up, but who could blame me for wanting to luxuriate for just a little longer. Mean hearted politicians, I guess, whose re-election prospects somehow now hinged on getting even the sick off welfare to get the budget back into surplus. I thanked the universe I wasn't on welfare, I thanked it again that I could fund my own days off, in this increasingly mean and conservative society we now live in. Somehow, I don't believe our new-mean society could have sunk to those new depths. Personally, I choose to believe the politicians have read the polling wrong on that one.

However, the roller door man was coming between 10am and 11am, to view the carcass off my roller door and to somehow perform a modern day miracle by raising the dead once more. Jesus in a tray ute, no doubt. 

At 9.55am, I slid out of bed, pulled on my black hoodie and my black track pants and headed to the bathroom mirror where I heard an almost involuntary inhale of air as I viewed the apparition staring back and immediately wonder about the "matchy matchy" outfit, as they say, (maybe I have been watching too much Project Runway) that I was wearing. Maybe, I should think about my brown track pants with my new black top in future. Apparently, you shouldn't wear the same colour track pants and track top, you should break it up.

At exactly 10am, the roller door man called to say he was running late and that he’d be here sometime around midday. 

Was that okay?

Yes, of course.

Has anyone ever had a tradesman turn up on time?

I poured the coffee beans into the grinder and watched them disintegrate through the clear lid, as the motor whirred and the whole thing vibrated in my hands.

I poured the milk over my muesli and wondered if the roller door man would take one look at me and think, Now about that outfit?

Sam and I Played With a Cute Dog in the Street

Hello Handsome

I’d been contemplating BreadTop ever since I’d walked passed it this morning, regretting that I didn’t stop, cursing that there wasn’t a second shop on my way. The universe only knows how many 7/11’s there are.

I was reassuring myself that I’d done the right thing, as I’d eaten my muesli and drank my coffee and BreadTop is really only junk food, the equivalent of a McDonald's big breakfast, or stopping into the sweets shop and buying a bag of lollies.

I glanced sideways, you know, as you do, as I felt the presence of another human being next to me, to be met with a vision of masculine beauty.

I want to lick your lolly, is all I could think as the handsome boy in a suite stood next to me waiting to cross at the lights on William Street.

It was cold, sure and maybe I looked as though I could do with some warming up. You know, a warm drink, possibly.

I must have been staring, as he looked sideways at me with his beautiful big eyes, as he adjusted his ear phones in each of his ears, smiling at me, his forehead creasing in the most adorable way. He looked just as I had the lolly thought, which is what made me smile, as I wondered if he could read minds and if he had heard what I'd just thought. Maybe he was from the planet Giibour and he was doing field work.

The corners of his mouth curled up in a smile of greeting. Beautiful, really beautiful, he was. Square jaw, dark wavey hair, blue eyes, he kind of glowed with vitality in the morning light.

The corners of my mouth curled up too, because I was staring him in the eye and I was still thinking about his lolly.

We both just looked, momentarily and I wondered if there was any truth in the idea that eye contact with a stranger in the street was finishing off unfinished business from a previous lifetime.

The small red man turned to green and he kind of nodded and stepped forward. I held up my hand, my fingers split in the middle forming into two groups of two.

The Corporate Mantra – There Is Always Someone Else To Blame

Beck, my old manager, her new manager goes off and screams and yells and swears and generally blows her top, at the slightest provocation, for no apparent reason, alarmingly, to the point where Beck doesn't think she'll be able to put up with it for much longer.

Ah, the corporate world.

Beck left the "black" law firm so burnt out by the executive staff that she no longer wanted any position of authority, so she has been doing the equivalent of what I do. I never wanted her job, as I used to do the managers/exec job before I worked for Beck and I never wanted to deal with the humourless work-is-my-life manager bags of self-focused corporate wind, again. I was quite happy to work under Beck while she dealt with the executive wannabies/try hards/nut jobs. I found the extra pay just wasn't worth it.

Beck now agrees with me, executive positions come with thankless executive hours and incompetent superiors all desperately paddling up the corporate management line for their bonus', blaming whoever comes within arms' length with their mistakes.

The corporate mantra - there is always someone else to blame.

She told her new boss to give her all the work and she'd happily do it, just to leave her alone and let her get on with it. But no, her boss has to be a psycho cunt. So many psycho cunts, so few coronary occlusions, plummeting lifts and corporate terrorists.

Beck and I have been having commiserative lunches.

You see back at the "black" law firm I have witnessed a couple of startling developments. There have been two occasions where I have been pulled into Big Renee's office where my skills and abilities have been questioned. Big Renee and Little Renee presented their evidence of my ineptitude together, none of which  actually made sense to me. Here is where the startling part comes in, upon further investigation, back in my office, the work I have been criticised over is not my work at all. Now, I'm not sure how, but either Little Renee has re-done parts of my work, for whatever reason I am unsure, and she has got it all wrong and then attempted to shift the blame onto me, or she is deliberately setting me up. And her re-doing and replacing my work with incorrect work does not make any sense.

Therefore, I am left to ponder what it all means?

So both Beck and I will both immanently be looking for new jobs.

Why so many psycho cunts? Beck asked me. The short answer is, I don't know. Surely, it is much easier to work in a cooperative collective to achieve acceptable outcomes for the good of the company.

Ba, ba! Wrong!

The long complex answer is, so many people work for so many reasons. Power. Prestige. God complex. Self focus. Inferiority complexes. Bitterness. Therapy for childhood trauma/abuse. Mental disease. To gain meaning in their otherwise empty and unhappy lives... the list goes on.

Sadly, the well adjusted amongst us, e.g. Beck and I, have to endure all forms of psychosis just to earn a buck. It's a fact of life.

Frankie Smokes Bongs As Soon As He Wakes Up Most Days

Bin Laden

It's a sad day when we celebrate the death of another human being, no matter what kind of terrible things that human being has done. The only way to heal is to forgive and move on. Maybe there should be a quiet dignified end to an awful situation. Maybe? Silence and contemplation. But it doesn't call for celebration, it doesn't call for partying, it doesn't call for joy on the streets.

This is what the new psycho patriotism leads to.

What exactly is it that America is celebrating? It can only be revenge. It can only be an eye for an eye. It can only be a celebration of blood and death and killing. That's what the world's most civilised society has come to. As the death of Bin Laden won't, actually, change any thing. It won't stop terrorism. It won't change fanaticism. It won't change most of the worlds negative feelings towards America. It won't change the fact that America meddled in the affairs of the middle east for its own gain. It wont change the deceit and dirty tricks that America has been involved in. It wont change anything.

It won't expunge the blood from Americas hands.

Lovely Lisa & Karl

Karl's Wife's Arse

I thought it was kind of nice that Karl Stefanovic thanked his wife and said she had the sexiest arse around.

How can it be "icky" as the more puritanical amongst us have said, to say that you think your wife of sixteen years is still sexy.

It's naughty, it's sexy, it's a positive nod for the more liberal thinking amongst us and takes us away from the wowser, anti sex christian types, who no longer call themselves christian types - have you noticed that? Woman's forum, Family Association, Collective Cuddle, whatever - who seem to be gaining traction in the thinking of the more and more conservative general public.

"Oh think about the children," they say, as code for "believe in the values that we believe in."

The word "arse" probably does the children good, not harm, if it has any effect at all. It's a great word, true, honest, real. If anything "arse" is funny. Bums are funny.

Of course, this all leads on to Karl's arse, he put it out there and now we have licence to think about his arse. So Karl, show us your arse... we want to see your arse.

The Burqa

The burqa, surely is a part of women's rights? Why shouldn't they be allowed to wear them? Whatever the reason they want to is a whole other story.

Isn't it just racism - you know, not white and christian - that is behind the push to ban them?

Isn't everybody else free to wear what they want to wear?

Ah, Up at 9.30, Breakfast and the World News

Ah, up at 9.30, breakfast and the world news until I had to head off to the doctor by midday to get a few new scripts. Then a mosey around the book shop on my way home, to see if they have the book I read about in the doctor's waiting room, The secret history of queer Melbourne, they didn't. Then catching up with a friend for a quick lunch, the friend is fitting in in between appointments and then home by 2pm to call the roller door man to fix my roller door, something I have been putting off for some time.

The joys of working 3 days per week.

One of my old colleagues tells me that a company that we both used to do consulting work for is desperate for staff... apparently, there is a skills shortage, or some such thing. Who'd have thought? Coincidentally, I've been thinking that while working 3 days per week is lovely, just gorgeous, I'm not, actually, doing the writing that I was meant to be doing. You know, take 2 days off per week and write that great novel. Yes, well, nice in theory, but not a lot is happening in practise. So, I had just been thinking that I should increase my work hours, when my ex-colleague told me about the before mentioned company.

What do they call that? No, I'm sure it's not kizmit.

It's all very nice having four days off and working three, but am I wasting my time pissing it all away?

And, of course, Sam, being the strict work ethic type that he is, thinks it's a grand idea that I go back to full time work. He just looks at me when I say I like my three day weeks, as though I am speaking some sort of alien tongue. Most of my excuses affect him like water on a ducks back and he crosses his arms and purses his mouth, the way he does and he calls me lazy Christian.

Apparently, I could have a new car and I could fix all the things that need fixing around the house and I could have a mountain of "new stuff" if I went back to five days.

"Good plan," he says. "Make it happen."

So, as well as calling the roller door man - my roller door no longer, actually, does what you would call work, so I can put that off no longer - I'm supposed to be calling my old company and teeing up a contract or a million.

You see, I do not like my current company enough to go back full time with them. I was going to suggest it to them last new year, but then I had all that trouble with the anorexic bitch boss and I decided it was a bad idea. This way, I can go and work for my old company Monday and Friday and most likely that would morph into more work than that with them and then I can leave my current company.

"It's a good plan," says Sam. "Call them."

But, you see, if I do that I will, actually, have to work five days again and... and... and, I like doing lunch and I like going to the doctor (when it suits me and not squeezed in after work) and I like looking around book shops.

The Royal Wedding

Wills and Kate taking beige to new heights. I'm with David Letterman... I'm not sure if I don't care, or I could care less about these people.

I think the royal family had their turn with glamorous princess', Diana and Margaret, to name two. Now there's a couple of chicks who could enter a room.

But Kate... (shaking head, she's probably a fucking virgin) oh, I'm bored already. And Wills (he probably is too), you know he used to be handsome.

They are a shining example of the homogenised, pre-packaged, nice, never say anything inappropriate (I always see that word being uttered by rat-faced receptionists with voices that could etch glass), never be disrespectful (ditto about this word), always be safe and beige, world.

Give me Harry, at least he's interesting. At least he can be counted on to smoke a joint, get drunk and thank God, do something inappropriate... in this every more bland and safe world.

Ah Harry - I'd like to slap on a swash sticker and goose step him into the bedroom.

2023 - Wow! It is amazing how 12 years can, actually, change my mind completely.

Harry turned into a complete dick and Wills and Kate seem pretty cool.

Cute, Isn't He

Smokes, likes to party, likes to get naked. He sounds like our kinda boy.

Anzac Day

The celebration of the world's stupidity.

I don't get it.

The horror of war... now a major date on the social calendar.

Sebastian Said We Should Be Selling Chocolate Nails

Sebastian said we should be selling chocolate nails, as our part towards the international chocolate festival, we'd make a fortune. He bought pot over Thursday night.

And something for Shane I suspect, as he's been doing meth since Friday, and trawling the net for boys, big time, locked in his room for days at a time. He's desperate to replace Leon. He's got ten days off work, it could be a train wreck.

Sam and I have been cooking and shopping for food and bike riding. Lovely. The weather has been grand. Shane cooks for me during the working week, while I hate with a passion coming home and cooking after work. So, when I get an opportunity when I am home with no real plans, I like to make it up to him. So, I wanted to cook the classics, risotto, pumpkin soup, spaghetti carbonara, big breakfasts and brownies. So, that's what Sam and I did for three days. We watched movies in between.

I'm sorry it coincided with your meth weekend, babe. That's just how it goes some times. I even headed to town and bought new saucepans.

I went and gave my mother an easter egg and took her on a picnic, today, to make up some of the guilt for not having seen her for the last two weeks, not to mention not seeing her till the Monday of the Easter break. My sister picked me up.

Sam headed home.

As I was leaving today, standing out on the street with Sam, I couldn't remember if I had put the fire grate in front of the fire - I had a fire last night, Shane was up all night, I couldn't bare to see it go out over breakfast - and I walked back inside, when I couldn't keep control over my OCD, to greet Shane coming downstairs with who he said was to be a hot wog boy coming at 1am, to be my old fuck buddy, Benjamin.

"Hi Benjamin."

"Oh hi Christian." Big smile.

"You two know each other?" said Shane.

"Although it's Nick now isn't it?"

"No, back to Ben."

"How do you two know each other?"

"I've got to go," I said as I headed back out to Sam. "Nice to see you."

"Yeah, you too, Christian."

"You two know each other?"

Shane said later that the cute wog boy made it to 4 am, that's when he went back on line to find a replacement, and Ben turned up.."

"Benjamin... Ben. The last time I saw him was when David introduced me to him at a film festival but he introduced him as Nick - Ben had changed his name, unbeknownst to me, and while I thought he looked like Benjamin, as I knew him, but I must have been mistaken as David said he was Nick. That was last year.

As we walked home after the film, I said Nick sure looked like my old bud Benjamin, at which David squealed and said Nick was Ben. How do you know that filthy boy? And he called him and said how funny...

The rest is history.

Nick was the filthy fister David has been talking about, but I didn't realise who he was talking about. So, he'd learnt a few new tricks since I knew him.

I got home from visiting my mother by 2pm. We had a picnic in a park with rolls and a thermos. The sun shone, it was beautiful day.

Shane was wided-eyes and eating noodles when I got home. He said he hadn't eaten since Thursday and that he crawled around to a local cafe in his sunglasses and begged for a take away, when the shakes were getting too bad.

Then Ben arrived for round two and the two of them disappeared upstairs never to be seen again.

David rang later to say he was coming over. He lives vicariously through Shane's meth habit, as David himself doesn't touch the stuff, well, not any more. He can always be counted on to turn up if he sniffs a drug story. When I told him about Ben, David said he knew and that Shane put a cock lock on him so he had to come back to have it removed. David's high from a successful retreat in Broome. He was going out to get his cock sucked before he came over. He'd tell me all then.

How he knew, I wasn't sure.

Mark and Luke dropped around and ordered home delivery pizza, and we smoked pot and Watched Wallace and Grommet.

David arrived on the high of life, breathing in my face as I opened the door, saying what does that smell like.  He rattled on about his coming trip over seas, before asking if Ben was still up stairs with Shane.

"Yes."

"I so hope he brings Benny down to the lounge."

"Why?"

"I so want to say to him when he walks into this room, SO, how does it feel to walk into a room of men, when you have slept with everyone of them?

He slept with Mark and I when we were together, quite a few times, he was a regular. He'd slept with Mark and Luke more recently, at a Mardi Gras off their faces. He went out with David. Now Shane, it was true. 

Woman Savagely Raped in Brisbane

"Woman savagely raped in Brisbane", read the headline.

It made me stop and think. Huh? What the? Is there a way where a rape isn't savage?

Is that when you sneak up behind them and yell, "Surprise!" (Oh sorry, I don't know what came over me) Feminists and humourless god botherers hate that joke. And I guess I can see why, as it is not a joke.

It is some gay boy's fantasy, and some girl's fantasy too, apparently, as long as it never happens, for real, of course, as long as it stays a fantasy.

So it is back to the original question, can you have a rape that isn't savage? And brutal? And degrading?

Savagely raped. What is not savagely raped? It is the media milking it for all it is worth? But really, do you even need to do that, do you, if it is a rape? Click bait, is that what they call it? I guess the media can't help itself.


Me either, so it would seem.

8pm

It's 8 o'clock and I'm hungry.

Wow! It's 8 o'clock no wonder I'm hungry.

It's 8 o'clock and I'm hungry.

8 o'clock.

What have I been doing up until 8 o'clock?

8 o'clock.

8pm.

8 @ night.

And the world's alright.

Now I just have to get myself a bite.

And then say good night.

Driving home from the mechanic in peak hour traffic last night this great cloud drifted into sight just to brighten up our moment to give us something to look at other than the sea of red tail lights up a head

What Can I Say, We've Been In A Pot Phase?

What can I say, we've been in a pot phase? Every night after diner. And while that usually inspires me to write, not so much, this time around it's been the complete opposite. Nothing.

Oh, I don't know why, we can't wait for the end of the year, um... er... that's why we're getting stoned. Cigarettes and all, weak as piss. It's been a long year, thus far.

It's winter? Open fires, lots of mindless faces staring at the teev.

And just in case the pot failed to achieve, it was followed up with mugs of red wine. It's the only way Shane knows how to pour them.

We've been cooking. I've been cooking. I'm contemplating locking myself and Sam away at home for Easter and just cooking. Cooking the basics, spaghetti carbonara, risotto, lasagne, pumpkin soup, chocolate cake, lemon slice. 

Easter eggs and bike rides, that's how I see Easter. Walking, talking, taking photos, doing iPads, eating. 

Has anyone eaten one of those creme eggs? The ones they advertise by splattering them against the camera lens? They just never give in, they are tough.

I've got to iron a shirt and go to bed. Repeat. Life's mindless. Bring on the holidays, two more sleeps.