Death, drag and double overhead camshafts.

Sorry for harping about that Toyota Avalon again but my eldest brother made a comment on it, specifically, that it is so ugly that he wouldn’t want to be seen dead in one. Quite. This made me recall my late grandfather who was a passionate Holden fan and wouldn’t wish to be seen dead in a Ford but, in fact, was. The particular example used as a hearse at his funeral was ancient. Indeed it may have been as old as my dear grandfather was when he passed and judging by its rough idle was about as efficient as…I don’t know…perhaps updating LJ via text message.Speaking of things dieing, this Toshiba ought to be picking up its Zimmer frame and getting over to the Hospice for Laptops before too long. But instead of being discarded as technological detritus it is likely to be given heavy use for a while yet if I keep working here in Adelaide. They’ve asked me to stay on here, at least until August. Apparently they are “pleased with the work I’ve been doing”. Work I’ve been doing? News to me. Oh, but no pressure to make a decision about staying. Project Manager points to tomorrow’s date on the calendar on the wall and says “decision day”.Sure. Right. No wuckin’ forries.But I do so miss being in Sydney. Every story I hear of the fun my friends are having back there taunts me. Even spaced_in’s account of last week’s drag show at Manning Bar. This reminded me of sitting at the very same venue with one of my engineering mates last year. While gulping a beer with enthusiasm only Homer Simpson could match he noticed a poster that advertised a drag show that was to be staged there later that evening and, in complete earnest, asked me what sort of cars they would have. Oh dear. Needless to say, when I explained that the show featured cocks in frocks, not DOHC’s, he expressed a wish not to stay around for the spectacle, as well as a degree of embarrassment. We left.

Flight DJ413 ADLSYD / Much Fun / Flight DJ406 SYDADL

Tuesday began with a hurried dash to get to the airport from Bruce and Paul’s Eastern Suburbs Gay Youth Hostel and ended here, typing this, fuelled by fleeting inspiration and half a can of flat Red Bull. The speed of air travel is often a curse to sentimentalists like myself who would prefer a less abrupt transition to the crisp chill of Adelaide’s early autumn after a whirlwind weekend in Sydney. And the real estate agent has chosen this highpoint of my emotional fragility to start leaving voicemails regarding possible renewal of my lease in three weeks. This in turn forces me to consider the rest of the year and what form of legitimised bludging I will use to fill it (work or uni) and where (Sydney or Adelaide), not that I can match pikaporn’s unrivalled domesticity (pictured) anywhere. I managed not to sleep in the same place more than once over the four nights I’ve had away from Adelaide. This did not result from uncontrolled sluttery but just an inordinate and slightly unexpected amount of hedonism and the generous hospitality of several individuals including too_excess, proprietor of Glebe Gay Youth Hostel.When I arrived at Sydney airport on Friday night the boys at the Europcar desk handed me the keys, not to small daggy car I had booked, but to a large daggy car – a Toyota Avalon – at no extra cost. How foolish of them. For four days I hammered it mightily, generally treating it as hire cars should be treated: with complete disdain for things such as high fuel consumption, and no mechanical sympathy whatsoever. The Avalon might suffer from an image problem, being targeted towards buyers in the ‘seventy to dead’ age group, but it proved to be blessed with substantial accelerative ability and an unbridled willingness to smoke its front tyres when given a decent prod of the right pedal. I have consequently left substantial quantities of rubber on various roads around Sydney and Newcastle, but mostly between Darlinghurst and Canturbury since pikaporn, spaced_in and jimpy just lately seem to have conveniently resided within a kilometer of each other in the Inner West. (pikaporn however has threatened on some occasions to leap out while the car is in motion which may be intertwined with the fact that being a passenger in a car I am driving is one of the few life experiences that has tempted his ever present linguistic eloquence to employ expletives.)My single fixed engagement for the weekend was accompanying David, Liam and my ‘first and last girl’ Katherine to the Radiohead concert on Saturday night for utterly chilling performances of ‘Paranoid Android’ and ‘Everything in its Right Place’ to name but two. We later headed to Stonewall to cavort with the adorable gay clique of Sydney Uni. I didn’t need to be reminded, but was, that this place successfully makes Adelaide’s Mars Bar look like a third world country. This made me both elated and bitter: Sydney queers are so fortunate (even if they argue that they aren’t). In line with tradition a visit to Olympic Yeeros followed. The important detail that various receptacles and items of food and drinks became projectiles has been well documented by both Nick and Harley. I had forgotten how much fun we have on clubbing and pizza jaunts especially since the extent of my effort is not much beyond the paltry contribution of some occasional ill-timed wit and an (often questionable) ability to provide co-clubbers with a lift home.Driving to Ronald’s after a dropping off Harley, James and Nick, I called David (which would have been traffic offence number 8324 for the weekend) to belatedly confirm my departure from Stonewall and learned that he had found company for the night. Exactly what David was doing in his co-conspirator’s bathroom when I rang remains a mystery but he assured me that everything was fine and that the individual concerned was sufficiently removed from our circle of friends by appropriate degrees of separation so as not to make the encounter too incestuous.I slept in on Sunday until 2pm since Ronald’s spare room provided much appreciated respite from the bright light outside. The sunglasses came on and I drove to Annandale to have lunch with a friend from engineering who I have for some time been hung up on. Of course my subtle efforts to out him were fruitless and served only to confirm that he is straight. To add to the insult he was looking frustratingly gorgeous in Sydney’s afternoon sun wearing a more-than-slightly-camp black singlet. I don’t think I have had a temporary crush of this magnitude since I met a boy (who shares my first name) at Campus Boys last year.I collected Garret and Nick from the Footbridge and we headed to James’s 21st before a dash to Gay Church and then to Newtown where I had dinner with my dear newsagency workmates Leanne and Maria to reacquaint myself with them and the general gossip. On the way I learnt that the identity of my December car sex cohort of one is now apparently well known among Sydney Uni Gay Clique so I was forced to, four months post-event, justify my choice of someone of such questionable repute by the reality that the Charade is not a very accommodative vehicle and he was of appropriately diminutive stature. The night continued at Stonewall and Olympic Yeeros in a blur of shirtlessness and greasy pizza (respectively). The Americans proved to be a delight. Mind, it was a given that I would get along well with too_excess - I trust the judgement of those who adopted him into the circle - but what a pleasure it was to find that Garret’s character is just as well formed as his jawline.Monday dissappeared in the flurry of a drive to Newcastle and back, interected by a lunch with relatives and a visit to Katherine and boy Tim’s place. On returning to Sydney I was warmly welcomed at Bruce and Paul’s with a much needed glass of wine and a rundown on the final ‘Queer as Folk’ from Chris of UNSW fame. Dropping the Avalon back at the airport on Tuesday morning signalled the sad finish of my weekend holiday and now, like the car parked safely in its alloted bay, these few days are tucked away as a memory of great times in Sydney, my home. I’ll be back soon.

Took the words right out of my mouth

The results are pretty pointless, but this tool is scarily geeky. If anyone deserved to be told that they had too much time on their hands... cosime's Word Usage 1. the (680) 26. by (68) 51. or (34) 76. having (25) 2. to (418) 27. from (67) 52. there (34) 77. street (25) 3. i (405) 28. had (58) 53. since (33) 78. has (25) 4. of (401) 29. about (57) 54. because (33) 79. it’s (24) 5. a (331) 30. which (55) 55. more (33) 80. we (24) 6. and (292) 31. just (52) 56. been (32) 81. these (24) 7. in (250) 32. some (52) 57. here (31) 82. mars (24) 8. my (185) 33. one (52) 58. work (31) 83. while (24) 9. that (181) 34. they (47) 59. all (31) 84. adelaide (23) 10. it (147) 35. if (45) 60. people (31) 85. sydney (23) 11. this (141) 36. he (44) 61. an (30) 86. she (23) 12. was (136) 37. time (43) 62. being (27) 87. can (22) 13. for (134) 38. so (43) 63. what (27) 88. any (22) 14. on (127) 39. up (42) 64. its (27) 89. before (22) 15. is (122) 40. last (40) 65. other (27) 90. gay (22) 16. with (115) 41. when (38) 66. only (27) 91. after (22) 17. at (115) 42. who (38) 67. now (27) 92. new (21) 18. have (109) 43. like (38) 68. even (27) 93. then (21) 19. as (106) 44. night (37) 69. also (27) 94. well (21) 20. not (80) 45. am (35) 70. will (26) 95. week (20) 21. you (79) 46. out (35) 71. actually (26) 96. do (20) 22. be (73) 47. would (34) 72. don’t (26) 97. down (20) 23. me (72) 48. his (34) 73. really (26) 98. something (20) 24. but (71) 49. were (34) 74. much (26) 99. most (20) 25. are (68) 50. than (34) 75. over (25) 100. home (19) Username: Word Count by Hutta.

Oxford Street's decay and 1970's revival

Here continues my shortened paraphrase of ‘Street Scene - A History of Oxford Street’ by Clive Faro, an insight into the tumultuous story of Sydney’s gay Mecca. Enjoy. Allen Taylor, Mayor of Sydney at the beginning of last century was namesake of Taylor Square, so decreed in 1908 by the Sydney Council. Taylor was instrumental in campaigning for the widening of the street from 60 to 100 feet across, recognising the significance of the street as a thoroughfare to the eastern suburbs. This trend, known as Boulevarding, was common practice in the ‘High Streets’ of major cities across the world. In the case of Oxford Street, many buildings on the Northern (as in Olympic Yiros) side were knocked down to allow for the new Boulevard.The area flourished in the period immediately after the completion of the street-widening, however the First World War and, in the late 1920’s the depression, impacted adversely on Oxford Street’s prosperity. Also, the appeal of the inner city was waning as many wealthier citizens chose to relocate to burgeoning new suburbs, which were seen as more sanitary in the wake of decades spent living overcrowded terrace houses.Residential and retail space close the city was very affordable by the time many European migrants arrived in the 1950’s, who quickly established themselves in Paddington and Darlinghurst. This brought about a spate of gentrification whereby older properties were restored, which in turn saw the queer community - and others seeking a cosmopolitan lifestyle – move back into the city and follow suit. By the sixties openly gay couples were not an uncommon sight in ‘Paddinghurst’. Also at this time, and despite renewed popularity, there was a brief threat posed by plans to have the traditional streets and buildings replaced by a swathe of freeway, as was the fad in that era. In response to this change in the make up of Oxford Street, a number of new venues opened. Cappricio’s opened in 1969, rebirthing 1891 Riley Bros general store building just down the hill from Taylor square at number 163. It hosted elaborate drag shows that remained popular right through the 70’s. Patch’s, the popular disco venue and precursor to DCM, opened at number 33 in 1976. In 1980, ‘nightclub 85’ opened and quickly became regarded as the most glamorous club on lower Oxford Street. It catered for clones – the men who tight singlets, tight jeans and handlebar moustaches in a trend borrowed from America which ran contrary to effeminacy of stereotypical gays. 85 had been the Tropicana in the early seventies is now the Midnight Shift. Many traditional Oxford Street pubs also switched focus to cater for the new clientele. The first was the Unicorn Hotel in 1978, then the Albury (1980) and the Oxford (1982). The disused Kinsalis funeral parlour at Taylor Square was converted to social venue and eatery in the 80’s.There remained a strong gay presence in Kings Cross in 70s and Darlinghurst Road was a popular route for walking between the two gay strongholds. Many made use of the route itself as a beat and later the sandstone walls of the goal became a centre for prostitution. In the mid to late 80s “a new chill wind was starting to blow through the street”, as AIDS knocked down many of the same people who brought about the renaissance of a forgotten tract of the city. However, the responsive way in which many in the gay community came to the assistance of individuals hit by HIV and AIDS proved wrong any suggestion that the Oxford street scene was devoid of compassion. This is the story of a street whose character was most accurately noted by John Fowler in 1995, as printed in ‘The Australian’:“There used to be two hardware stores, now there are two Toolsheds”.

Yet Another Another Another Gay Nick

The Commonwealth Bank have a frustrating penchant for sending letters to remind me how much I owe on my credit card - as if I actually wanted to know how much I owe on my credit card. It would seem that this is the only activity which they carry out with any recognisable degree of efficiency.Speaking of (insert witty segue here) I went on a nice drive in the country with my Dad, my eldest brother and my nephew Wil on the weekend. Somewhere along the undulating Onkaparinga Scenic Drive Wil proved himself susceptible to motion sickness by chucking up half his body weight. Despite this effort I don’t believe he is a match for my formidable childhood carsickness record, which would be unparalleled except for my middle brother’s unique ability to thoroughly purge himself of previous meals within seconds of leaving the driveway.Wil, sans-spew. If only I were even half this inexorably cute.To other notable family events, last week Dad and I ventured to a local pub to find it somewhat geared towards patrons with an inclination to place a bet on something…anything. Every spare piece of wall had a screen mounted on it, allowing punters to view Keno results, horse racing, dog racing and probably even the egg-and-spoon race at the local primary school if you were around on the right day. This prompted Dad to relate to me some of the intricacies (perils) of horse riding. Apparently, when riding a horse one only has between about 60% control and none whatsoever (which reminds me of driving a Datsun 120Y) and when you ride in a group with several horses they often try to assert themselves over one-another and display aggression (which reminds me of office politics or perhaps even a QuAC meeting). My old 120Y, before its wrecking yard disposal. It is seen here in one of the rare moments that I had full control over it, if only because it was completely stationary at the time. Even though I have even less influence over my fate at the venue than I used to possess over the vehicle pictured above, last Friday was one of my better Mars nights. Perhaps because I left earlier than usual, avoiding the post-3am deterioration. Perhaps because I had an inordinate amount to drink since I wasn’t driving home. Perhaps because the reason I didn’t have to drive home was the result of me being offered the bed of someone who lived nearby. In case you thought the proliferation of gay Nick’s had abated, rest assured that this hospitable boy was so named. Since he is not one of the gay Nicks of journaldom, is not Yet Another Gay Nick (YAGN) of the Sydney crowd, is not the Mars barboy gay Nick (YAGN2) from last weekend, this latest installment will be called YAGN3. It’s always best to establish these protocols early on don’t you think? Mind you, this assumes he will be a feature of sufficient longevity to justify it – a point that is up for debate at the moment. I will likely pursue the cause though since YAGN3 is of agreeable character, which is something of a revelation given my previous Mars-based encounters. A guy from the office at which I write this is being transferred elsewhere soon. This is a shame because I had adopted him as one of my role models, as I tend to do. I usually have a group of individuals from whom I pick and choose particular traits which I might aspire to. Lincoln is, both by his own admission and by reputation a ‘flippant but capable’ engineer. Technically adept, he was also the architect of the DIY possum zapping arrangement I’ve mentioned previously. Just brilliant. So from now on if I want entertainment while at work I’ll just resort to buying icecreams from the shop downstairs. Last week I tried a Magnum Chocolate Addiction, which proved to be a lump of frozen cocoa. Yet I would still recommend it.Part Two of my Oxford Street history spiel is coming soon. I might even treat you to some more photos of Mars too.

'The Scene' in Sydney - The Early Years

I’ve lately been intrigued by the history of Sydney’s Oxford Street and wondered, to be honest, how the fuck it morphed into what we see in 2004. I borrowed from the library ‘Street Scene - A History of Oxford Street’ by Clive Faro, a text that I found to be haphazardly organised, but fascinating nonetheless. I relate to you here its more significant divulgences. In the early 1800’s what was called The South Head Road weaved from the South-East corner of Hyde Park firstly up what was known as Woolloomooloo Hill (now the gentle uphill stroll from the park to Taylor Square), continued East and skirted around a beach called ‘Boondi’ by the local Aborigines and then up to the South Head. From the late 1830’s to the late 1880’s sections of it developed into a bustling high street, from its origins as a semi-rural byway. The name change of South Head Road, at the Hyde Park end, to Oxford Street, occurred in 1875, taking a cue from the major shopping precinct in London. Gradually the new name permeated eastward until 1932 when the last sections were renamed, bringing Oxford Street to its present day end at Bondi Junction.Interestingly, men known as “sodomites and poofs” had established themselves in the vicinity even at this relatively early stage of Sydney’s development. A late nineteenth century newssheet ‘The Scorpion’ describes “the Oscar Wildes of Sydney” as having “an effeminate style of speech and the adoption of the names of celebrated actresses”. It further asserted that a “haunt is said to exist in Bourke-street, Surry Hills, and that part of College-street from Boomerang-street to Park-street”, early evidence of what we call a beat. (In the ensuing years this seems to have spread further afield, to various parts of Sydney University and, if jimpy’s recent post is to be believed, Town Hall train station.) Many of these men were believed to have been employed in Oxford Street’s many stores, work which was considered unmanly in the context of the nineteenth century labour market. It was said to have required superior service skills described by one historian as being characterised by “exaggerated obsequiousness”. So, not much has changed then. Consider how many 21st century gay men are attracted to retail work and how their affability makes them suited to it.There were other arenas in which men would indulge in each other’s company. The Turkish baths such as those established in 1870 at number 143 Oxford Street were a means not only for those without private facilities to bathe but also provided opportunities for homoerotic contact, occurrences of which have been documented. Just think ‘Bodyline’ but older (the building, not the men).To be continued.

An Easter with no chocolate (but far too much beer)

A couple of individuals at work wonder why I regularly have my hair changed to a funny colour and arrive late to work every day only to sit at my desk and eat constantly. I explain that these habits are justified respectively by the fact that I am a gay insomniac with a fast metabolism. One also questioned the sense in me having my nipple pierced (as do I, constantly) but then after experiencing some considerable change of heart she offered to do the other one for me with the secretary’s holepunch. But we have a nice sort of understanding – the expression of surprise this morning when I turned up before ten o’clock counts for a lot in my books. How I ever got to 8am maths lectures in first year is beyond me. My reasons for studying a course that includes maths also elude me, as does much of what was taught. But I digress, and that was probably all of scant interest to anyone with a life.I wondered last Friday why it was a particularly Good one while Robbie and I searched high and low for somewhere to buy a drink, only to find all prospective venues firmly boarded shut. Made up for it on Saturday though. We were solidly blotto at the Hampshire by five in the afternoon before I realized I’d have to hang for a bit and sober up to drive home, where I slept for a few hours, only to get back on the piss again at Mars later on. The recently re-opened Hampshire is quite a swish looker though, as was David the barman who, with an obviously ironic comment about the tables out the back being “a decoration, just like the rosette soaps in the bathroom”, informed us that they served meals as well. My enquiry as to whether he was on the menu was thankfully halted before reaching my lips by what was left of my inhibitions, which by this stage had been severely depleted by some Semillon which proved almost as irresistible as the person pouring it. I was almost my sober self by the time I got to Mars (to be handed a free condom at the door and told “here, you’ll need this”) so I remembered to ask Beejay about a famed drag queen called Queen Bee. Coincidently, he had only recently swapped web links with her . Beejay said he would put a link to my journal on his site too. Mind you, he offered to do this before he had actually seen it. Got me wondering if there are six degrees of separation on the internet, so you can get from any site to any other site by following no more than six links, should you actually want to. Another friendly DJ, Roger, claimed to have seen my Gaydar profile. Well I guess that makes one of us. To be honest, I have to believe Roger on this one. I set up a profile to dip a toe into the online scene in Adelaide but have not checked it for weeks and, having tried it, now hold Gaydar in about the same regard as unwanted body hair. No, I’ll just continue with my unassertive ‘wait until the right one comes along and offers, preferably by written invitation’ approach to finding a boyfriend. Gaydar seems to have been made overly complex to use by the inclusion of unnecessary gimmicks. Reminds me of a Fischer-Price kids’ toy, except that it’s aimed at and used by people aged from 18 to (alarmingly) 93.We hung around the beer garden quite a bit that night and chatted to the sometime staff-member and fulltime gayboy named Nick - yes they’re spreading. He has a boyfriend but apparently cares less for him than I do for Gaydar. Most headed inside for the show and, in a noteworthy divergence from routine, the intermission this week featured no nudity. I think Rochelle learnt a lesson from last week’s episode during which the Mars bar virgin who she asked to reveal himself was rather too enthusiastic. The third showing of his member was the final one, possibly because of one heckler’s interjection of “do you have a name for your little friend?”.Dad and Verity arrived at my place on Sunday night, after undertaking the short drive over from Perth. We spent Monday afternoon at the Belgian Beer Cafe where I sat teetering on the edge of feeling okay to drive, knowing that later I would somehow have to pilot Dad’s Pajero to the airport in time for Verity’s flight back to WA. My father was in no state to operate a motor vehicle, having found well-poured Stella Artois even more alluring than I did. Driving duties behind me, Dad and I sat at home, drank Coopers and chatted with my neighbour. She said she had been to the Coorong Peninsula (two hours drive South) for the weekend. I replied that we had been to Rundle Street (two minutes drive North). Beat that! Later on we watched Queer as Folk so I have now watched QAF with my Mum, my Dad, my sister-in-law, my nappy-clad nephew and a room full of hairstylists (don’t ask). Dad’s only comments were rhetorical questions, specifically “it’s quite graphic isn’t it?” and “is there really this much drug use in the gay community?”. Yes to both.