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"The things you shouldn't do with children, was the name of the movie," said the drunk guy.
"What?" I said. Did he really just say what I think he said? I smiled. I thought it was funny; it would make a great art house title. Was it Freudian? I wondered.
"The ten things you should know about..." he slurred. "What did I say?" He was smiling, looking at me, with that bozz-eyed, boozy stare, like he was waiting for me to help him.
"The things you shouldn't do with children?" I asked.
"What, mate?" he said. The smile slid right off his face. His forehead furrowed.
I started to laugh, because I was sure that he thought that it was me who just said the thing about children.
He was looking quizzical. A bit surprised.
I decided that I should stop taking and just walk away.
"What?" he asked.
Joey Douglas was a man’s man. One of three children, catholic upbringing. Played footy at school. Attended university. Married in his early twenties. Three children of his own – the usual hopes and dreams for them. You know, whatever they wanted, as long as they were happy. He became a member of the school dad’s club. Cheated on his wife. Divorced. Work became his life. Played golf. Drank at the pub with his other divorced mates.
Joey’s wife Isabelle moved to Europe, after their marriage went south, after a job offer she couldn’t turn down, leaving Joey to raise his three teenage children on his own.
Whatever they wanted, as long as they were happy. The children’s mantra was tested early, when his son Gavin announced that he, in fact, like boys rather than girls. Both Gavin’s sisters supported him, apparently, they had known for some time. Gavin’s friendship with his mate, Ben from school, wasn’t everything he and Gavin purported it to be, so his two sisters took great delight in telling their father, once he knew his son's secret.
Joey couldn’t see it, Gavin had girlfriends in his teenage years, girl’s liked him. Gavin was a strapping, handsome lad, tough on the footy field, a boy any father would be proud of. He had lots of mates. Drank beer. He didn’t lisp or have a penchant for fluffy jumpers.
Then came the day that Gavin was bringing over the lad he had fallen for, as Gavin put it. Joey’s girls offered to be there to support their dad, if he needed it, but he said he could and should handle the situation on his own.
Joey’s mind raced; first of all with the picture of a handsome, accomplished, well spoken young man, Steven Grandcourt, whom he, was astounded, would be satisfied with as a husband – is that what you call them now a days? – for his son, Gavin. They seemed like a couple of mates. Boyfriends, Joey said to himself, as he watched the two of them together at the bar fixing a couple of beers.
After Gavin had introduced Steven to Joey, he announced that he planned to marry Steven, if it were at all possible.
Steven was a nice boy - firm handshake, spoke up for himself, could talk about sport, drank beer and acted like any other twenty year old lad.
But then came the further speculation would Gavin be satisfied with Steven, if Joey was taken with his choice of a lover. There was no knowing what would meet his boy’s taste, or touch his affections, in a long term sense. It might be something else, and thus the image of the perfect suitor gave way before a fluctuating combination of qualities that might be imagined to win Gavin’s heart.
What do boys see in other boys? Joey had no idea. He didn’t even like the way blokes smelt.
A quirky sense of humour.
An individual laugh.
The way he tilts his head when he looks at Gavin.
The way he walks?
The size of his… Joey shook his head. What did he know? It hadn't been all that long, in the greater scheme of things, that he'd known that his boy, in fact, liked men. He guessed he was still getting used to the idea, although he suspected, in all reality, that he had had long enough to get used to the situation.
In the difficulty of arriving at the particular conclusion, was this a life long meeting, like his daughter Claudia and her beau Jasper? Or was it something else? All the part time men in the life of his other daughter, Carla?
He guessed because Gavin had said that he was in love, it would necessarily signify that he was in love and that Joey would have to accept Steven, as permanent.
Joey was surprised at his own reaction to his son’s announcement, in as much, as he liked Steven and the two of them together seemed quite normal, almost instantly.
For whatever marriage had been for himself, how could he desire it less for his son? He couldn't. Eventually, he suspected, he'd get used to saying Gavin and Steve rather than Gavin and Eve, for instance. It was just a matter of familiarity, nothing else.
Would he give his son away, if there was a ceremony? He suspected not, but how was he to know what was usual in such circumstances.
Two grooms? Would there be bridesmaids?
The difference his own misfortunes made was that he never dared to impart so much to Gavin on the desirableness of marriage, dreading an answer something like that of the future Mrs Douglas, when her deluded (3 times divorced) mother urged the acceptance of a suitor, said,
You will be happy, my dear.
Yes, Mum, like you.
He and Isabella turned out to be hopelessly mismatched, despite her mother’s blessing.
It was very different to what the mother had said towards the end of their marriage, when Isabella was considering staying with Joey for the children’s sake, despite Joey’s indiscretions.
Your womanhood will rot should you consider this, you silly billy.
Yep Ma, but it itches for him.
She left any way, when Gavin was relatively young. Joey had too many girlfriends behind Isabella's back. The fact that she left her son and daughters also, scandalised her reputation and bought certain kudos to Joey, kudos, deep down, that he knew he did not deserve. How would Gavin know how to behave with a betrothed?
In relation to the problematic Isabella, at least, Mr Grandcourt would measure up? Joey had never been a shining beacon of conjugal bliss for his son to observe. So would Gavin measure up?
In the end Joey decided, no matter what example he had set for his son with his wife Isabella, Gavin must desire Steven Grandcourt and Steven Grandcourt must desire Gavin. It was that simple and immutable. He could only bless them being together, the rest was up to them. And, despite the two, twenty two year olds, looking good, happy together and maybe in spite of the astronomer’s announcement, courtesy of Gavin’s two sisters, that Gavin and Steven were made for each other, it was, after all, still up to them.
Isabella laughed when Joey, finally, told her about their son’s desire for another boy, during one of her infrequent trips home.
“I thought such an upbringing of absent mother and rampant masculinity, from his father, was in danger of producing a son with the same foibles as the father,” said Isabella. “I never thought it would lead to my son choosing to take masculinity to his heart and his bed, in such a way.”
“Perhaps, he needed his mother, after all,” said Joey. “And not some corporate, high flying mentor.”
“Who would have thought that you would raise the perfect little poofter.”
“He wants to have a commitment ceremony,” said Joey. “And he wants you there.”
“Don’t make me laugh,” said Isabella.
“He’s serious.”
“Marriage?” said Isabella.
“Marriage,” said Joey.
"Did he learn nothing from his mother and father?"
"Apparently, not.”
"So this boy..."
"Steven."
"Where is he from? What are his prospects?" said Isabella. "Is that what I'm supposed to ask?"
“Did you ask the same question of Claudia and… um… Carla?”
“I believe, I did,” said Isabella.”
"He’s a lawyer, from a good family," said Joey. "He makes Gavin happy, you can see it, it is obvious to anyone who observes them..."
"I can't believe what I am hearing," said Isabella. “And a lawyer of all low-life professions.”
"If you spent more time in your son's life, you'd..."
"You'd understand what a charming faggot he has turned out to be."
"You would understand him better, Isabella," said Joey. "And maybe, just maybe, you'd be able to drop the 1970's bigotry that, quite frankly, doesn't suit you..."
"This is our son we are talking about..."
"Our son who you are supposed to love unconditionally."
Isabella opened and closed her mouth. She picked up her wine glass and took a large chug of the dark red fluid. "It's time, I guess," she said. "I just need some time to get used to the idea."
"You've got the rest of your life," said Joey. "To get used to the idea."
“Three son’s in law…”
“That is if Carla ever settles down.”
“Who’d have thought?”
“You always were a man’s woman,” said Joey. “I thought that would have suited you best.”
“When do I get to meet this young man?”
“As with everything in life, Isabella, that is up to you.”
You know what they say about the poofter basher, at school? He's the closet fag. There have been so many recorded cases of this that it is now an undeniable fact. What he really wants is for his victim to kiss him and love him, he just doesn't know how to ask.
I have personal experience of this. The most anti gay, poofter bashing boy, when I was at school, Nick, the big, tough Greek boy, I slept with when we were both in our twenties. He was passionate and keen and he had the most beautiful olive skin covering his beautiful body. He wasn't shy and certainly seemed to be over his old hangups, despite having a girlfriend at the time.
He said he put up the façade, at school, because he was so terrified of the other boys (and his father) finding out how he felt that it used to make him blind with rage.
As it clearly is with Fred Phelps of the Westboro Church. The man bangs on so much about sodomy that his heterosexual orientation has to be called into question.
My answer to Fred Phelps - right after my question of why do we even give these minority, hate filled, nut bags air space at all - mate, if you want to be sodomised so badly why don't you just go out and get your arse hole popped with a big cock and do the rest of us a huge favour.
Back to my question - Why do we give such hate groups, with only 70 followers, after all, any air time what so ever? We don't give it to antisemites. We don't give it to white supremacists. We don't give it to racists. Why give it to someone like like Fred Phelps and his freak show Christian homophobes?
Jeep Wranglers as far as the eye could see. Green and dark and brooding, lined up one by one, like a parking lot for war, or the cliched set of some awful Tom Hanks movie. I'm thinking there was netting and guns, I'm sure there were rooms and sales invoices.
The inventory list said mine was there, some where amongst the multitude. I hadn't seen it for several years, not since I sold it, to that cute Italian boy, Remy. Remy and I used to flirt on the occasions we met to discuss the car. The flirting stopped when he bought his mate, Chris.
OEL was the number plate, I ran around amongst the sleeping vehicles trying to find it. In and out of rooms, like a maze, all jam packed full of silent Jeeps, all the same. All green. Flipping covers and patches and tarps to view numbers plates that never were mine. Climbing over some to get to those at the back. Under and over, around and about, from room, to room; running boards and soft tops, some with bull bars, some not.
The light was yellow, constant sunset beyond where I could see.
Was there sirens? Were there search lights? Was I alone in my quest? There were shadows and camouflage and netting by the mile.
But OEL was not to be found.
Warren staggered, a little. His head swum in a sea of beer schooners and shots. He and Jimmy had been celebrating Jimmy's birthday, down the pub for the afternoon. They played pool until they were too drunk to hit the ball. Warren had been shouting Jimmy and a few others who they'd met while they were there. He suddenly felt overwhelmed by his handsome mate Jimmy.
"I want a bit of biff sniff," slurred Warren. He grabbed Jimmy around the shoulders and looked him in the eye. He could feel Jimmy's breath on his face.
"Biff what?" said Jimmy.
"A bit of biff sniff." Warren could feel Jimmy's breathing increasing. "You don't even know what it is and you're getting excited." Warren pulled Jimmy to him, until Jimmy's face was against his.
"I'm not getting excited," said Jimmy. His devilish grin giving him away. A big grin he couldn't loose, as Warren pulled his eyes up against his, until their noses touched. Warren licked Jimmy's face all the way around to the side of his head.
"I want to sniff your biff," said Warren, in a whisper, in Jimmy's ear.
Jimmy smiled broadly and shivered.
Warren slid his tongue into Jimmy's pink lobe. He held Jimmy's head with both his hands.
"Have you got a hard-on?"
Jimmy shivered again. Warren could feel Jimmy's body tremble against his. Jimmy laughed, although he tried not to, deep down in his throat.
"Are you excited?" whispered Warren, his voice deep and low.
Jimmy kissed Warren, nibbling at Warren's skin. He laughed, kind of softly, quietly.
"Have you got a hard on, yet?" whispered Warren, almost inaudibly. Drunkly.
Jimmy tried to wriggle out of Warren's grip, laughing, but Warren pushed him over and licked the back of his neck. Breathed in Jimmy's hair. Chewed Jimmy's hairline.
Jimmy groaned. "Stop it," he said unconvincingly.
"I want your biff sniff."
Warren's voice vibrated on Jimmy's neck. It tickled Jimmy, made his skin sensitive. He pushed against Warren, rubbing his skin against Warren's mouth. Shivering. His face flushed red.
Warren pushed Jimmy face down on the couch, with his right hand on the back of Jimmy's head, pushed his face into the soft cushions. His left hand pulled Jimmy's shorts down over his round cheeks. Warren pushed his nose deep into Jimmy's crack and inhaled deeply. The bristles of hair swept Warren's nose. He pushed himself up over Jimmy's back to his ear.
"Your biff sniffs very nice, young Jimmy."
Jimmy grunted and tried to wriggle around, but Warren had his head in both his hands once again, as he slipped his tongue back into Jimmy's ear, licking it inside.
Jimmy groaned, deep, long, satisfying, as he pushed back against Warren.
I was at some sort or pumping station, which at varying times may have been a logging station, on a river, beside a forest, in a valley. The air was eucalyptus scented, I was rugged up in an overcoat and a scarf. The air was crisp, cold, my breath fogged out as I exhaled. I was discussing, with my mother, the sale of a house to a friend of hers – Pam, who died last year – whose relative was standing near by, listening. Maybe we were standing beside a pile of cut down trees, it seemed to be early morning. Kookaburra's flew passed and landed on the eves of the building. We were discussing the process of house settlement and the adjustment for rates, oblivious to the friend's relative being present.
Then I was stepping over a fast running river, from a lime green mossy bank to the mossy bank on the other side. The river was too wide, in most places, so I had to be careful where I crossed, so as not to fall into the water. Then there was a large group of people around me also wanting to cross, all jockeying for position, after I had crossed. Then I was looking back instructing my mother, who was standing up on the, now up high, other side of the river, how to cross safely.
I had a dream, that's how long it has taken the effects of the pot to wear off. I love it. I love being able to remember my dreams, once again.
Last night, I dreamt about grasshoppers and dope and a large Great Dane, bigger than me. I was trying to get all three home, along a very stylish avenue, where the tips of the trees met in the middle over the road. The dog's name was Scooby and he was six feet tall. The grasshoppers kept trying to escape not matter how I held my hands. They kept jumping out between my thumbs and I had to keep catching them, chasing them. I lost the dope along the way, flung every where, like confetti, as I went for the insects. I had to let the Great Dane go, so I could keep hold of the grasshoppers, the pot was already hopeless. I had to get the grasshoppers home and under jars. The Great Dane followed me any way, licking the back of my neck, all the way.
I was standing at the lights this morning, at the corner of Gertrude and Brunswick Streets waiting for a tram. It was a beautiful morning, quite busy, there were people crossing at the lights and there was a line of cars, down Gertrude, waiting to turn into Brunswick.
Suddenly, a silver Falcon ute, about five cars down Gertrude Street, started to blow its horn and I could see the fat guy, squeezed into the cabin, remonstrating and yelling, as he continued to toot. The little crossing man, at the lights, had turned red and pedestrians were continuing to cross on the red man.
Goodness me, fat boy, I thought. You'll have a stroke in a minute.
He looked laughable on a gentle, sunny morning. There wasn't even a great line of traffic in which he was having to wait.
Fancy being that pent up angry? How many ticking anger bombs are there in cars, just like him, waiting to explode at the slightest provocation? I felt sorry for him - this is just negotiating the traffic lights, how did he cope with really difficult things in his life?
The saddest aspect to his outburst was that he doesn't even know his road laws. Cars must give way to pedestrians. The little red man is there for the pedestrians information. It is not there for the drivers to be able to tell when they can run pedestrians down with impunity.
I felt sorry for him, as he thrashed his car up to the lights and flung it around the corner still gnashing his teeth, spitting and seething. You could almost see the cab of the ute swollen out with rage, like in a Disney cartoon.
I felt even more sorry for the next person hyper-tension boy meets on the road, who he takes that anger out on; anger that has been caused by his own ignorance, dare I say, his own stupidity.
I don't know what is going on with my stomach? The pain went away for twenty four hours with the first pills I took. Then it came back, but it was different. My stomach felt tight, solid, kind of weird. A wandering pain. So, I came home yesterday and went to bed. Today, I don't know how it feels, kind of like a memory of the pain that was there. Maybe, I'm just being impatient and when the doc said take the pills for two weeks, he meant it will take two weeks. Maybe, I want instant gratification and it's just not going to work that way.
May be I do have an ulcer?
May be I don't.
All I know is that I'm sick of it.
I just know that I have to live a healthy life from now on. Now I've given up smoking, I have to join the gym, exercise, eat right and only drink mountain spring water and eat vegetables still with the dirt on them. That is because I am the worst patient, I am really bad at being sick. If I was sick for any extended length of time, I just know I'd take the pill or drink the drink and end it without resistance.
I'm going to call up my old mate Jill and head out for lunch. Friends you have known since you were sixteen are always good to unload on over Sunday lunch, otherwise I'm just as likely to stay home and contemplate suicide, as a means of a cure.
Does anyone else see it as amazing, beyond belief, really, that medical science is on the brink of finding cures to Alzheimer's and Parkinson's disease, to name but two, and those of us in the community who believe in the completely unsubstantiated, two thousand year old myth and superstitions of Christianity would attempt to stand in their way at every chance they get.
It's beyond belief that the Christians would want for people who suffer from terrible diseases and afflictions to stay existing in their current pain and anguish simply because the cures don't fit with their chosen Christian beliefs.
It seems to me that the Christians think that if they state that it is an ethical mind field often enough they'll get the wider community to believe that it is an ethical mine field.
For my money, the few cells that make up the embryos in a petrie dishes that are used for this research are expendable. I'm more than happy for scientists to adapt the, so called, miracle of birth to make the spare parts that will one day cure my Alzheimer's disease, my cancer, my paraplegia. Please doctor, you make use of those embryos to find the cures that will benefit all of us. And, quite frankly, if the Christians don't like it, they don't need to access any of the benefits of that research.
I can guarantee you that the staunchest Christian opponent will be fronting up to the medical clinic in the future when they are diagnosed with early on set dementia. It is this point that I actually find the most appalling. The stanchest, loudest, most out spoken Christian critic will 100% for sure, absolutely no doubt about it, want the benefits of the research when it is they who are diagnosed with Parkinson's disease, or have been crippled in an accident. That is the part of this whole debate that I find the most infuriating.
Christians, in the end, always turn out to be the world's worst hypocrites. Very few of the 21st century Christians have the ability to turn the other cheek, as their boy Jesus instructed them too, but they all have the two faces of hypocrisy swinging into action when it suits them the most.
I was depressed last night so I called Lifeline.
I got a call centre in Pakistan.
I told them I was suicidal.
They got all excited and asked me if I could drive a truck.
Well, apparently I'm not going to die. I don't have stomach cancer, or any such nasty thing. I won't have to have chemotherapy. I won't have an extended hospital stay. There is no palliative care in my foreseeable future. So, isn't that good.
The doctor was very blase. My hypochondria was playing up a treat!
Apparently, it's just a touch of gastritis. One pill a day for two weeks and it should be gone. If not, I will have to go back and be tested for an ulcer. But, I should notice a big improvement within 24 hours, if it is gastritis. And guess what, two pills and twenty four hours later, it's nearly gone. Goodness. Don't you love modern medicine. Don't you love it even more when you stop panicking and actually go to the doctor and allow modern medicine to do it's job. Life's good. I feel so much better. Yeah!
Marvellous!
Life's good. The sun is shining, the sky is blue.
I can stop thinking about my immanent demise and start thinking about other things.
