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.

Je ne veux pas coucher avec toi ce soir

“The Twingo is still so cute I don’t know whether to drive it, root it or eat it.”Michael Stahl, in the latest edition of ‘Wheels’, on the Renault Twingo hatchback (pictured).Speaking of pictures, I’ve come to the conclusion that the quality of my writing is inversely proportional to the number of pictures I include. This being the case, I’d better not go jpeg mad like spaced_in with his enormous 1024x768 photos that make each page take several hours to download over a dial-up. (You know what they say about men with big photos!) The pics are usually very pretty though and while waiting you just go and do something else. The other night I read ‘War and Peace’ and still had time to go and put the garbage out before they all appeared.Happy Easter.

Mars Bar Chronicals - Chapter 2945

Firstly, here is the photo of a pair of bison that some fellow Bluetooth-enabled phone carrying person sent to me at the Ed on Friday night.Right-o then.But my weekend wasn’t dominated by bison-loving freaks. Really it wasn’t, because I went into the office on Saturday. This despite my refusal to be a pawn to the corporate world (which is my morally respectable sounding way of saying that I’m too lazy to work for more than the minimum required hours each week). But I qualify this by saying that it wasn’t really out of dedicated service to my employer. No, I just felt sorry for someone who has become a pawn to the corporate world and decided to help them get a project finished, mainly so they would have time on the weekend to partake in extravagant self-serving activities like eating and sleeping. Also, I have learnt to make my hours at work more tolerable by doing some legitimate delegation of tasks and also by contriving the possible sexual insinuations of the engineering terms I encounter during the day. Well you try saying ‘fluid injector’ without laughing. And ‘venturi nozzle’, well that could mean anything.My good deed done it was time for some hedonism at Mars. Armed with my phone’s camera attachment, I was able to capture some of the local wildlife. I will leave it to you to decide whether they, or the bison pictured above, are the more human-like.Here you see myself and DJ Beejay, the man responsible for the music. (NB ‘Responsible’ is probably not the best word to describe him, as he himself freely admits.) He looks a tad demented in this photo, which at least makes up for the horrendous one of me that he put in Blaze, Adelaide’s equivalent of the Sydney Star Observer. (If having my face in Blaze means I’m now part of gay Adelaide’s bourgeoisie then that’s cool but they could have at least Photoshopped it a bit. It’s really bad. Ugh.)Now we have Sweet Bar Staff Boy Shannon from my last post. (Not that silly song I wrote about Ronald’s wisdom teeth. The proper one. The one before that.) Here is Shannon while locked in the cloak room for six hours.He says this job is boring until people start checking in substantial portions of their clothing. Next is myself with the delightful Rochelle, of “How the fuck are you all?” fame.She is great and, unlike myself, always photographs well. Indeed, the radiance you can see here is indicative of her charisma generally, proving that all you really need in life are boys and poise. Later on, one of the other drag queens could have done with some of Rochelle’s charisma as she unwillingly had her vinyl-clad crotch vigorously rubbed by some nut whose apparent aim was to give the boy beneath the frock a hard-on. Oh, don’t be shocked: this is about the standard of normal Mars bar behaviour.I’ve included some photos of the dancefloor, mainly to reignite memories harboured by those of you who have been there. Cruel aren’t I?

Ode to Ronald's wisdom teeth

This is an ode to ron_ 's wisdom teeth, inspired by Chingy.
I don’t like the way they hurt me right thurr.
Make my gums sting; when I talk they make me slurr.
I don’t like the way they hurt me right thurr.
They come through, make me angry, I say ‘grr’.

Oil, sweat and tears

I borrowed “Holding the Man” from the library on the weekend. I am only half way through it but it has already had me in tears three times so I’m not actually sure if I would recommend it to anyone. A bit heart wrenching.Met Robbie at Mars on Saturday night and had an unusual time there in that I spent a total of only about ten minutes on the dance floor. A few of us sat out in the beer garden being witty instead. Fun. Then we drove over to a very straight club called Rise and contemplated entering but couldn’t be bothered lining up probably only to get beaten up in there anyway. So we chilled at sweet bar staff boy Shannon’s place instead and sat laughing at stuff like the fact that for the $4.50 it costs to buy a 500mL bottle of spring water at Mars you could buy a ten litre cask of the stuff from Coles. And that it cost eight dollars to get in even when the air conditioning doesn’t work. And the time Julian Clary was there and Beejay refused to play any trashy music in case we humble Adelaidians were looked down upon. It’s probably worth me mentioning that while people in Sydney talk about real estate at dinner parties and the like (“Oooh Gillian, do you think the market has leveled out yet?”), people in Adelaide talk about bottled water and air conditioning. True.I was planning to fix my car on the weekend as well. It sort of needed attention. This was the sight I was greeted with last Monday morning.Repairing it properly would have involved removing the old damaged oil sump and replacing it with a new one that I would hopefully get from some wrecking yard. I borrowed some car ramps from a colleague, got the fucker up onto them……took one look at the maze underneath and realised that getting the sump out would be harder than I thought……and decided it was most definitely a job for someone else. Will just try and seal it with silicon in the mean time. And hope for the best. And stay off dirt roads.With this job abandoned my weekend was freed up for other things like attacking the weeks worth of dirty dishes that had built up around my sink and threatened to take over my while unit, if not the whole suburb. I also made a trip to the snobbiest public pool in Australia, Burnside Swimming Centre. Sure it’s nice but what sort of public pool charges five dollars for entry? It’s like expecting people to fork out four dollars at a sausage sizzle – it was always a buck fifty in my day.I went looking at new laptops as well. I made sure no-one I knew saw me go into the Apple Centre at Norwood. When I enquired about this thing called Virtual PC, the application designed to emulate Windows and therefore run Windows-only programmes, the salesman told me just that and also that “Windows stays in a window, where it belongs”. I wonder how many times he had rehearsed that line. He seemed very proud of it. The highlight at work this week was when we got an invoice for zero dollars. You’d think it was the public service. Otherwise there has been little worthy of note. The number of large, never-ending, boring tasks for me to do has gone from two to four. Thankfully though there have been some lighter moments.Colleague One: “I think you left your coffee here.”Colleague Two: “Oh thanks, do you know where my three course lunch is as well?”Me: “Yeah, and my new Audi?”Amusingly, a few company branded corporate gifts have made their way into the office. I was given a screwdriver and stubby holder. Good-o. Michelle scored one of those backpacks with the padded slot for a laptop. Pity that massive Dell they’ve given her to use doesn’t fit. How that thing could be regarded as portable is beyond me. And the fan slows down when the hard drive runs – perhaps Dell’s power supply people should revise their basic circuit theory, paying particular attention to Thevenin’s equivalent circuit model. Fuck, did I just remember something from first year? Yeah that’d be two things in one day from first year actually - had to use FTP to upload those pictures and it’s been a while since I touched that. Must be time for bed.

Guess who's coming to Sydney!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I just dopily forgot to mention that I am coming back to Sydney for the ANZAC long weekend, having now booked a ticket, as well as some sort of hire car ("Corolla, or similar") for the four days. I hope I can find some willing individuals to participate in many hours of Sydney scene-queenery on Saturday the 24th of April - and would also appreciate somewhere to eventually crash on Sunday morning.Recent interchange with work colleague while I was booking flights through virginblue on the web:Colleague: What are you doing?Me: I'm booking a virgin over the internet for the 23rd and 27th of April.Colleague: You're what?Me: Yes, it's costing over $300 dollars, and that's just for the economy service.

Oils aint oils. Boys aint boys.

I went to get in my car on Monday morning to find it sitting in a pool of its own oil that it had pissed out overnight. Looking underneath, I found a very small and very neat slice through the sump (the bit at the bottom of the engine that holds the oil, usually) that was probably a result of Sunday’s gravel road escapade near the charming town of Hahndorf, which is located in the hills just outside of Adelaide. The massive rock I slammed the sump into on a camping trip last year didn’t cause a leak, but some nasty little South Australian shard has. Until this is fixed I will have to top up the oil every time I drive and put a plastic tray underneath it when I park. Makes a bit of a myth of the idea that a car provides convenient transport hey.So apart from causing what will probably turn out to be a couple of hundred dollars worth of damage to my Charade, what did I do on the weekend? On Friday night I met up with Daniel and his fabbo friend Nina at the Edinburgh Castle Hotel before we went to Mars for a bit. Beejay let me have a go at mixing some tracks together but I don’t think he will again because I’d had too much to drink and therefore fucked it up quite badly and everyone on the dancefloor stared at him/me. Dan stayed the night, dashed home in the morning and then reappeared at 10:30 bashing on the door, having climbed up to my 1st floor balcony, to wake me up to go for breakfast on Hutt Street as, some hours earlier, we had sleepily arranged to do. We went and saw ‘Camp’ on Saturday night as well, which was nice, and then had a late dinner at this little place off Rundle Street where people seemed to just walk in off the street and sit down as if it was their own living room.On Sunday, I did nothing really. This was good because on Saturday, in between meetings with my psuedo-boyfriend, I also helped my brother install the stainless steel frame for a pergola into the brickwork of his courtyard, so I kind of wanted a rest.My immediate reflections on the weekends events? Dan is, to quote Kim Day-Craig again, rather “unique”. Hammer-drilling into masonry is noisy and makes your arm sore. I need a four-wheel-drive. But things turned a little bizarre on Monday night. Dan messaged a request that I join himself and Nina at the Ed to watch ‘Queer as Folk’ and have a quiet drink. I took this up but went home soon after the conclusion of this Monday night televisual icon - with the excuse that I had to work in the morning and needed to go before my car emptied ALL of its remaining oil onto the road – and left them to continue.And continue they evidently did – for some time and with considerable enthusiasm. At nigh on 4am who rings from my doorstep but a very smashed Daniel. (He thankfully refrained from climbing up to my balcony on this occasion – I have no doubt he would have fallen and finished up lodged in the oleander tree.) After stumbling up the stairs he gets into my bed and proceeds to sprout a phenomenal backlog of manipulative emotional drivel of a caliber I never envisaged, attempts some hanky-panky and, noting my obvious lack of enthusiasm at this hour of the day/night, promptly re-dresses and moodily leaves. He appears to subscribe to Kim Day-Craig’s mantra of “yes I’m high maintenance, you have to be”, not a trait I have a lot of time for. Why can’t I just find someone sweet and funny and down to earth? When I do I will treat like gold. Damn it, I will through thick and thin stand by a friend or lover who is having a hard time emotionally (just as I have been supported when I needed it), but not for a one night stand who happens to hang around for a bit and sporadically lob-in at his own leisure. I haven’t properly spoken to him since but when I do I will tell him exactly what I have said in the previous sentence.

(Not very) entertaining quiz results.

Mmm. Not sure 'bout this one. AQUAYou enjoy life, humor, and being exuberant. Wherever you go you usually find yourself stealing the spotlight without even trying. You love to let go and have fun.Find out your color at Quiz Me!Did it again and got this. YELLOWYou are very perceptive and smart. You are clear and to the point and have a great sense of humor. You are always learning and searching for understanding.Find out your color at Quiz Me!Can you be both yellow and aqua - sort of turquoise-khaki coloured?

It's a littuw bit hot in here.

Not having made any attempt to crack into the Stonewall Bourgeoisie while in Sydney I have toyed with trying to attain for myself the equivalent tag here, while a sort of big fish in a small pond. However Mars Bourgeoisie are more difficult to identify than their Eastern states counterparts since they display a rather erratic set of behaviours which I would also not be able, or even want, to emulate. Basically I have met very few people on the scene down here who actually approach what you might call normality. Would fate just please introduce me to someone down to earth? Robbie is I guess – he has spent enough time in Sydney to have had any unbridled kookiness erased out of him. Should give him a call. He might even have some friends who have similar presence of mind. Incidentally, I was amused to note on Tuesday evening that one of the glassies from Mars works at my local Coles. Talk about moonlighting. My journal gets updated twice in three days this week because I am at work and not really feeling like doing anything productive. This is partly because I am recovering from getting sunburnt on the weekend (again) and because it’s hotter in the office than it is outside courtesy of an air conditioning unit that has leaked most of its refrigerant out, frozen itself, blocked its evaporator and now doesn’t blow any air, let alone cool air. There is a bloke named George in the utility room fixing it now but he doesn’t say much because he doesn’t want to get involved in the politics between us and our landlord. Love it. Gets better though. We now have approval from the head office to use company cash to buy ice creams for ourselves, if it’s over 25 degrees in here after 2pm, everyday until it’s fixed.The silent-end-of-word-L Adelaide accent continues to amaze. Down here if you have a headache you take a ‘Panadow’ (Panadol). If you like something you say it is ‘coow’ (cool). To do some shopping you might go to ‘Runduw Street Maw’ (Rundle Street Mall). Mice are ‘littuw’ (little). ‘Deww’ (Dell) is a popular brand of computer and you might ‘instaww’ (install) programs on it. ‘Wawws’ (walls) keep the wind out of your house. It’s very cute and even sounds slightly British although I’m not really exposed to it that much because most of the people I work with are from the Eastern states, drawn to Adelaide because there is actually a lot of work in engineering here. Unlike in Sydney the meaningless prefix ‘uber’ appears not to have infiltrated the local vernacular, which is good because it’s use in any context shits me to tears.

Dead wood, Nudity and Rochelle. Among other things.

It’s amazing how clearing a bit of dead wood out of your life improves things. I took that bloody Kloss stereo and its boomy bass back to where I bought it and ordered a proper sound system. Did someone say retail therapy?Just to forewarn you, I am going to start on about the Mars Bar again since it’s about the only thing that is regularly of any significance in my life at the moment. Yes we have sunk to new depths I tell you.Every Friday and Saturday night at about 2am they put on a drag show and in line with drag show tradition it is repeated week after week. About half way through it a man dressed as a woman, who calls him/herself Rochelle, struts out and yells to the crowd “HOW THE FUCK ARE YOU ALL”. (It’s the same every week but it’s funny every time.) She bangs on for a bit about what events are coming up on the Adelaide scene (trust me, this is brief) and then gets anyone having a birthday or hens night or bat mitzvah up on stage and asks them to reveal their genitalia. And some people actually do. I was particularly impressed last Saturday because while I was in the DJ booth talking to Beejay the DJ/MC guy I noticed a scribbled note on the desk saying“21st birthday here tonight, name is Steve* - will strip”.which just proves how organized they are with all this. (*Names have been changed so as not to incriminate people who should know better. Actually - fuck it - they damn well deserve to be incriminated: his real name was Corey.) Incidentally you can check out Beejay’s site here. He puts photos up as well. He uses that as a threat to people. In fact I think he put one of me on there – no genitalia on show though, thankfully.Just before the ugly lights came on I saw Daniel (my near-fiancé from last week) and, out of concern for his welfare in regards to him walking through the parklands in the dark, I offered him a lift home. The offer was taken up and of course then we had to ‘go in and have coffee’ and it sure wasn’t Nescafe Blend 43 instant because I didn’t end up leaving his place till after 10 on Sunday night. Actually, I think I may have had more than one coffee while I was there, if you can read the subtext. And they were more like iced macchiatos than short blacks. Was this slothful iniquity? Yes. But was this fun? Yes. Am I unnerved at people who mention the L word a little too early on in the getting to know phase? Resoundingly, yes.

WTF?

Having realized in the last couple of days that the lead blanket of depression has recently been enveloping me again, I am now a bit disturbed that I didn’t notice my worsening mood until Thursday, by which time I was almost rendered incapable of functioning. But on a lighter note I am happy as Larry just now which is kind of weird since I am writing this on a Sunday morning – not a point in the week that I would normally feel at my best.Thanks to the initiative of a Sydney friend, Shaun, I yesterday met up with his ex-flatmate Robbie who has now returned to his hometown of Adelaide. This is unremarkable except that, through what was an utterly extraordinary coincidence, Robbie and I had unknowingly already sort of met, then spoken and rescued each other from a septuagenarian drag queen (true) at Mars only the night before. Actually, Robbie undeniably embodies much of the qualities of Adelaide gay boys in general by having a fun-loving and unpretentious attitude, that cute don’t-pronounce-the-L’s Adelaide accent, and cool hair.Last night he generously introduced me to another of Adelaide’s queer venues, the Queen’s Arms Hotel. Here they cover up the fact that the drag performers’ dance moves are out of synch with each other by only having one in the spotlight, and therefore visible, at a time. Clever. During the show, two ladies (real ones) helped themselves to the other chairs at our table. They proved friendly, with the somewhat larger of the two volunteering not only her phone number but also the information that she works at the Haigh’s Chocolate factory and that one of the perks is that employees are allowed to eat the chocolates. Robbie and I decided that perhaps she ought to lay off the chocolates a bit. I think that was when we left and, perhaps against our better judgment, headed to Mars.Unlike at Queen’s the Mars Bar performers’ mistakes are on show very clearly. Still, this is forgivable since they were last night performing for free in order to raise money for their 2005 Mardi Gras campaign. There’s nothing like starting early I guess. Bear in mind that the 2004 parade would have barely finished what I understand was a rather damp procession this year, the participants’ washed off make-up probably still smeared across Oxford Street. (The news about the wet weather in Sydney actually made it to Adelaide somehow and was confirmed via a 1 minute 57 second voicemail that Nickmac left for me this morning, about half of which was actually intelligible.)The Mars Bar is not only responsible for wasting a few hours of my life last night but probably also for taking a few years off it as well. After the third round of the resident DJ’s trademark Kylie megamix I decided it was time to cut my losses and leave. I was seen and hastily embraced by Daniel (from last week) at this point. I think he was about to propose to me when I told him I was going home before the ugly lights came on at five o’clock, the rather unsubtle incandescent signal that another of the Mars Bar’s four day weeks had come to an end. I have been there on other occasions for this most distressing occurrence and can say that I have never seen a faster mass exodus of people from a building since the power went off in Macquarie Shopping Centre last December and every wood duck in its concrete confines bolted manically for the nearest exit, thinking there had been a terrorist attack. Hilarious. On the domestic front I have accessorised my unit with a Tivoli Audio Kloss Model Two stereo. I am basically happy with it except that, being an audio product designed in a place with no sense for this and many other things for that matter (America), it has a nasty boom in the bass response between about 100 and 200 Hertz before losing the plot at lower frequencies. So it makes, say, Kamahl’s voice too thunderous but then doesn’t play any sound that’s deeper such as the bass lines on Kylie’s Body Language album that I foolishly bought last week. Nothing a subwoofer won’t cover up though and this boomy mid-bass does make the thing sound bigger than it is, at least if you listen to Kamahl, not Kylie. And it looks very cool, in a retro sort of way. I didn’t get the optional and very wheezy Kloss Model Sub and instead will find a better one, preferably one that actually works properly.For the moment, if I want to hear deep bass I’ll just have to go back to Mars. How tragic.

So do cats really taste like chicken? We'll never know.

Having finally had the chance to read some other peoples’ recent journal entries I find myself more than a tad envious of those of you in Sydney for Mardi Gras season. But in a pathetic attempt to divert my attention from the light reflecting off the sequins and hot pants in Sydney – which can actually be seen from here – I have taken to reading News Limited’s esteemed tabloid, the Adelaide Advertiser.As if to confirm Harley’s recent assertion that a trained monkey can get its face in The Daily Telegraph, I read in the Advertiser last week about Cisco the squirrel monkey having been stolen from Adelaide zoo. While the Advertiser admittedly does not match the lofty standards of journalism set by the Tele (I’m not joking, everything’s relative) this creature’s dominance of the news pages here indicates the high regard that the media really has for monkeys. Exactly how Cisco came to be named after a brand of Ethernet router I’m not sure. Someone suggested something about corporate sponsorship of zoo animals but I don’t want to believe it. Animals continued to be the Advertiser’s hot topic (hot as in 220 degrees, roast for an hour, garnish with coriander) in SA Law Society President David Howard’s column, which began: “Cats and dogs are likely to be off the menu in South Australian homes in future following the passage this week of the Summary Offences (Consumption of Dogs and Cats) Amendment Bill through the Lower House.”Damn, hey. But really that is a shit because later in the same edition are many tempting ads in the classifieds section, such as:“KITTEN 10 weeks female, loving immaculate tabby. $20.”I mean that must work out at less than $5 a kilo which is much cheaper than most of the meat at Coles. My brother was going to ring the seller and ask if that price was for fillets or ‘on the bone’ but we weren’t sure if that would be a bit insensitive.To other matters, I felt highly disorganised at work the other day because I forgot my Post-it notes. I half expected this event to make the front page. Really though, Adelaide is the first place I’ve encountered the situation of the free local paper being less trashy than the most popular daily paper, even if ‘The City Messenger’ does contain gem headlines such as “Nannies Looking After Each Other”. There is also a very helpful letter from F.N. Ebbeck of North Adelaide who gives the following advice:“The indication of 20km/h at the site of the speed humps is a courtesy advising motorists that there is a recommended speed to drive across the humps. Motorists can drive over the humps at 50km/h (the speed limit of the area) if they wish.”Don’t tempt me. What I am yet to find in either publication is a section like the Sydney Morning Herald’s ‘Column 8’ where I can send in some of my analogies. When the sales person at a hi-fi shop (where I was looking at stuff I can’t afford) was trying to explain why the light was dimming on an amplifier when the music was loud I suggested that it was like when you are in the shower enjoying an abundance of warm water and someone turns on another tap and you are left with a mere trickle. This was okay until I pictured said sales person in the shower - yuk.To bring the topic back to animals again I was today comparing the hard drive of my laptop to the backyard of a serial dog owner in that every mongrel of a programme I’ve had on here and later uninstalled has left its abode littered with turds.Speaking of nice images I’ve decided it’s about time I gave my journal pages a sort of ‘Queer Eye’ treatment – you know, some pictures, nice backgrounds and the odd throw rug. I hereby place my reliance on anyone reading this to put up harassing replies if I don’t deliver on this undertaking soon.I’m not sure if flattered is really the word but I was somehow touched that Harley has followed my lead in calling Stonewall ‘Our Second Home’. I remember speculating on my last night there, before coming to Adelaide, as to whether the place will have changed much by the time I get back. Jerry ventured that it would probably just go further downhill in trashiness but then wondered if that was actually conceivable. Here, the Mars Bar continues prove that there are clubs that are trashier than Stonewall. On Friday night I took my gayest shirt and $35 haircut along and met yet another gay boy called Daniel. This brings my ratio of ‘Guys Named Daniel I’ve Got With’ : ‘Total Number of Guys Got With’ to 2:13. Admittedly though, it wasn’t until some time after meeting him that I actually found out his name, as is the way with these things. Upon my departure he voiced his suspicion that perhaps he had led me on a bit. That point while on the Mars Bar’s teflon coated dance floor, when I couldn’t work out if his tongue was as far down my throat as his hand was down my pants, could probably constitute him leading me on. Yet I was somehow pleased that the leading on didn’t actually lead to anything - his display of characteristic Adelaidian forwardness was really on the outer envelope of normal behaviour, even taking the setting into account.

I am tired, forgive me for the typos.

After handing over, in one go, what I would consider a frightful amount of money to someone from an agency with the word ‘Hooker’ in its name, I have now taken residence in my own small (rented) piece of Adelaide. It has lounges, a table and chairs, fridge, TV, microwave and two air conditioners, among other things. These items are scattered (literally, since the carpet cleaners have obviously been here recently) around its living room, kitchen, two bedrooms, laundry and bathroom. And these rooms still bear most of the charms of distinctive décor that leads me to place the unit’s heritage as being somewhere in the early sixties.This is all fine bar the fact that it does not come equipped with a bed. This has made me resort to a fold-out sofa bed which I have discovered features more waves than the Indian Ocean during a cyclone, along with a distinct dip in the middle. In fact when I first laid down on it I thought it was some sort of three-dimensional contour that charted my emotional state from the beginning to the end of last year. There’s as bit of a drop for when Uni started back; a few of lumps for when I went on holidays, turned 21 and met the boi (and a big stain showing when we… umm...you know); and this great fucking chasm for after we broke up…or maybe that’s for when I got my last exam results - not sure.Anyway I wish I’d had a more stable time last year because my mood changes are rather difficult to sleep on. That is why I am writing this at five in the morning on first night here (Friday February 20th), not having yet had any sleep. So this entry is brought to you, however indirectly, by my changing mental state in 2003. But then I guess there’s nothing so unusual about that: much of the inspiration for this entire journal could be linked somehow to events in ‘My 2003 – The Short Stories (Abridged)’.While my lumpy mood contour bed and SSRI-induced insomnia keep me awake (still) I might move the subject of this rich-text expression of my early morning thoughts on to Adelaide’s built environment. Renowned as the city of churches, the SA capital has had many of its places of worship converted to bars, clubs or function centers. (Fuckin’ seppo spell check, I guess its prefers ‘meter’, ‘color’ and ‘alooominum’ as well, yes? You know when I re-installed windows I vaguely remember selecting English (Australia) as my language and since we are impartial to phonetic spelling here in this small-but-largest-island-continent-on-earth-place-that-helps-out-in-wars I thought Word 2000 would behave but yet it just tows the USA (that’s ‘oooossa’) line so really Windows is maybe just one of Dubya’s minions. Wow! The metaphors are flowing thick and fast tonight aren’t they: beds are mood maps, operating systems are insidious political tools. If it weren’t for my convoluted sentences, inconsistent tense and excessive use of punctuation this might actually be something approaching good comic literature.)Now, where was I?Churches…right.I can’t help but wondering if some of the regular visitors to these places (before they were deconsecrated) are still turning up as if nothing has changed. They may notice that the proprietors aren’t playing those old hymns anymore, having traded them for something slightly more upbeat – like Bad Cabbage. Maybe they are appreciating the greater variety of beverages on offer – that church wine was always a bit sweet anyway. And hasn’t the Reverend got a new lease on life: not only does he spin wicked beats on the decks all night long but hasn’t he learnt to work the crowd like never before? And those altar boys have sure toned up – which is lucky since they are dancing shirtless on podiums. See you about. Maybe in a former church.

Arrival (pertaining to Adelaide, not Abba)

At the rather frank request of an anonymous commenter (see comment on previous post) I hereby “for Christ’s sake write something!!!” in my journal. In fact I did recoil with shame at myself, logging on to make this update, noticing that the date of my last post was nearly two weeks ago. I blame this state of affairs on the fact that, since arriving in Adelaide (yes, I made it) I’ve been too busy to connect my ailing laptop to the net from home and rather reluctant to open these pages at work where a Services Manager seems to have a penchant for frequently turning up at my desk to check that everything is okay in the new job. So it’s been a while since I’ve even had the chance to check on the always delightful volacious_gus diaries or the ever eloquent pickaporn page (and its sexy big brother, gayety.net) or any of you other kiddies’ fabbo journals. So what have I been doing? Well I burnt a few days and exactly 147.6 litres of unleaded driving the 1790 km from Newcastle to Adelaide (I have the logbook to prove it) via the scenic route – which turned out to be fairly unscenic. But I guess the fact that I do these trips without hating the experience (as most normal people do) speaks volumes about how much I enjoy driving. Like easing the Charade up to a (sort of) effortless 150 km/h on a late night run along the Sturt Highway into Mildura under the watchful glow of a full moon. During this I ponder the spinning crankshaft that’s less than half a metre in front of my feet and the fact that it’s rotating 5300 times every minute, with four pistons and sixteen valves throbbing up and down in time, and slamming enough power on to the road to cut my briskly advancing slipstream through the night air. At times like these I am in awe of Japanese industry and its ability to make characterless but highly efficient motor vehicles but also frustrated by its inability to make sufficiently bright headlights, especially as I peer through glass that’s plastered in the wafer thin remains of about eight billion insects.Thankfully these were the only living creatures I collided with on my journey since I had not the misfortune of crossing paths with either any hopping pouched marsupials or any stumbling pissed Mildurians. I believe my lack of encounters with the former can be credited to the small whistling bits of plastic I stuck on the front grill – apparently roos don’t like the sound and stay away. I believe my lack of encounters with the latter can be credited to pure luck since I don’t believe the inhabitants of this North Victorian town can detect sounds with a frequency in excess of 40000 Hertz, either before or after a dozen VBs down at ‘The Royal’.I arrived in Adelaide to find it much as I remember it: hot and flat but pleasingly endowed with a plethora of cafes, places to drink alcohol and gorgeous singlet wearing Italian boys. On Friday night I arrived at the Mars Bar to find it much as I remember it: seedy and unevenly lit but pleasingly endowed with a plethora of gorgeous singlet wearing eighteen year olds. Well, plethora is not really the word but we are working with a smaller population to draw fags from down here. The DJ was ecstatic when I told him that I remembered him from the last time I was there, which was nearly a year ago. This recognition occurred despite the fact that, in his words, he had “stacked on a lot of weight since then”. Well I wasn’t going to say anything but…This is one nice feature of Adelaidians though: they are generally not burdened with pretension and often prefer to be honest and just clear the air about things. Not that the air in the Mars Bar was clear – rather it was full of sugar smoke and illuminated by a glow of wavelength less than 400 nanometres. (That’s UV light. Thanks for asking.) Still I’d better get used to it. I’m meant to be here until May. Wish me luck.

The last post (from Sydney)

I am making this post for no reason other than that it will be my last one made from Sydney (for a while). I look forward to catching up on everyones' journals when I get to Adelaide, hopefully by Friday, but I don't know if they have electricity down there so...

Moving to Mars...well, Adelaide, and the Mars Bar

Well, am I about to experience an upheaval or what? (No I don’t mean the vomiting kind, although…)I have just accepted a job in Adelaide. This will be for about three months. Before you question my sanity bear in mind that this will be a career furthering experience, they are paying me some hourly rate that is probably higher than I deserve, and I get to spend time with my super little seventeen-month-old nephew. I have to be there to start by Monday the 9th of February which seems rather soon given that in the mean time I have to get all of my shit (that I’m not taking with me) out of my room here and up to Mum’s place, change my address with eight billion different organizations, speak to people at uni to sort out deferring (which will no doubt take days), and kiss farewell (temporarily) to one or two (!) people here. I have already told a few about my impending departure. Nickmac was upset but then very excited for me because I will be able to go to Adelaide’s Mars Bar. “You’ll be fresh meat”, he said.This does put on hold my plans to move in to the city here for a while but then at least when I do I might be able to afford a bond, which is something I don’t have even a remote chance of doing at the moment.Getting back to the Mars Bar thing I am wonder if, like usual status of the Commonwealth Bank ATM in Sydney University’s Wentworth building, I will have to become ‘Temporarily Unavailable’…for three months. Adelaide is a small place and one could probably do the rounds of the Mars Bar in the space of a few hours if so inclined. I just hope I don’t bump into the 24yo and his 42yo boyfriend I met there last time. They asked me to come home with them and it was supposed to be, as the elder one said, an offer I couldn’t refuse. I refused.

Bluetooth, red hair, roadkill

Having recently gone for a new hue, I am amazed at how changing the colour of your hair affects day-to-day life. Mind you, when I went through my blonde phase I don’t think anyone really thought it was very ‘me’ – I am not blonde by nature, thankfully. The point is that my dabbling with red streaks has had a variety of reactions from people. M y grandmother disapproved, as she is prone to do. In fact every time I change my hair she says, “Well Simon, I think I liked it better how it was before”. She has maintained this habit for as long as I can remember. Nowadays her eyesight is not too good but she was nonetheless adamant that it looked better in its previous incarnation. Apparently her macular degeneration is bad enough that she can’t read the crosswords in the local paper, but it’s not so severe as to prevent her from noticing my highlights (which apparently did not conform to her taste – something she has been developing for the last ninety and a half years).My work friends were impressed with the new shade but decided it was actually pink and for a short time were calling me ‘Pinky’. Thankfully they grew tired of this habit within a matter of hours. (“Yes if you just take it to the counter Pinky will check the price for you”. The novelty is short lived, trust me.)For fucks sake, it’s not pink. IT’S RED!!!!While on the topic of work I should mention that I had a customer complain about me last week. At my polite request to take her items to the counter to pay for them it became rather apparent that she wanted to purchase an argument as well as some crossword books. My tried and true method for dealing with these people is to make a quick and mildly offensive comment, which they will not have the wit to respond to, so that they just leave. In this instance my comment was, “My boss didn’t just spend 200 grand doing up the shop for us to not use the new counter”. This had the desired effect, at least until she came back and spoke to the said boss about that poorly trained ginger-haired smart-arse at the front counter. He told her to take her business elsewhere. Really, I have no problem with being called a smart arse – quite the opposite in fact. But my hair is not ginger.IT’S RED!!!!To less trifling matters, I ran over a possum on Beecroft Road last night. I don’t as a rule like possums. Neither does my uncle who I live with. Much of his waking hours seem to be spent sweeping possum shit off the front verandah as part of his endless quest to maintain The Immaculate Home. I thought of my uncle as I drove over this intrepid little furry bastard. I don’t believe it faired too well through the experience, judging by the crunch, and the fact that it was moving when I saw it through the windscreen but not when I looked in the rear vision mirror. I didn’t actually aim for it, but then I didn’t try to avoid it either – the RTA Road Users Handbook says not to swerve for animals. A friend of mine, also technically minded, had a problem with possums in his garage roof. Noticing that they were all walking along one particular beam, he set up a pair of metal plates and connected them to the active and neutral on his mains power. He used a ten amp fuse in the circuit but it never blew because the possums’ legs could only handle about eight amps before they were detached from the animal and blasted across the room. What this method lacks in terms of subtlety it more than makes up for in effectiveness. I should suggest it to my uncle.Coincidently, I was relating this strategy to Bruce at Stonewall on Friday night (because it’s such a good place to have a conversation) and during the same discussion came up with the idea of a Bluetooth vibrator. The concept is that you can control your vibrator from a hand-held Bluetooth remote control. Very discreet and thus perfect for use in lectures or the workplace. I am sure this idea is viable since the makers of these things seem very keen to differentiate their products, judging by the variety of shapes and sizes in which they are already available. Of course, there would have to be security measures built in, since the proliferation of Bluetooth enabled mobile phones means that you might have Mary from the next desk setting you to Megagasm mode every time she goes to send a text message. But all this does not solve the problem of the possum bits that are sprayed up the side of my car. They have gone kind of gummy and from my vast experience of running over wildlife I can report that this stuff causes rust in minutes. Maybe its better to hit the brakes just before hitting an animal so that the wheels lock and it just gets smeared across the road. (Unless of course you have anti-lock brakes, in which case you would get a sort of rippled effect.) The guts could at least match the paint colour so as not to stand out so much. This would be good because my car is not painted anything like the brown/green/burgundy/mauve specks currently bonded to the door.IT’S RED!!!!

My 2004

Not being one who normally believes in such things I’m surprised to find myself thinking of making some resolutions for 2004. This is mainly because I think I’ve been a bit aimless and disorganized so far this year. In fact it could easily be argued that I’ve been disorganized for a number of years, or even since my birth (which, I am told, was four days late). I write this now at 4:20 in the morning having just arrived home from (yet another) Saturday night at überhotelstonewall. This is not a time when one is up to thinking about life decisions (or thinking at all for that matter) but I can’t sleep so…Nickmac and I were just talking on the way home about our experiences on the scene and how, much like Simon Crean’s performance as Opposition Leader, they are not meeting expectations – however low these expectations may be. As recently as maybe a month ago I would go out and spend fifty bucks on drinks in a night, enjoy it, go home and look forward to doing it again. However I am finding it an increasingly dissatisfying occupation. Not just in the sense of not getting value for money (which is probably the case) but in a less tangible way like wasting time, wasting energy and usually wasting The Day After. (As I guess is the case for most people, my Days After could be used to define the term ‘write-off’, even more so than the decrepit Holden Kingswood being employed as a de facto atrium in my neighbour’s yard.)That said, tonight was far from being a complete loss. I ran into Luke, who I last saw some months ago nearly drowning in shirtless bears at the Shift. Daniel from the Central Coast was about, as gorgeous and amiable as ever. And Grant came up with a nice line about the irony of the Top Three of Stonewall all being bottoms. (Of which specific Three he speaks I’m not sure but they are undoubtedly among the group of cute boys who are allowed to jump the entry queue and are members of what I call the Stonewall Bourgeoisie.)The salient point remains though that it is about time I started doing less of this sort of stuff and started getting other aspects of my life in order. Specifically, making some decisions about work and uni for this year. I can’t keep deferring making the decision as to whether or not I will be deferring uni. Probably I can also start to cut down my hours at my present workplace now since this will mean I have less money and thus won’t go out as much – and I am just getting sick of the place and don’t really wish to make a career out of it. The people I work with have noticed this, one of them commenting that I have become even more bitter and cynical lately. Thanks. (Amusing turns of events still occur there though. Last Saturday I accompanied one of my workmates on a meandering fifteen minute walk around North Ryde while he had his weekly bout of epilepsy. Also, a customer recently told me how she had to get home quickly because she had just remembered that she was carrying half a pound of marijuana in her handbag.) I should also take more time to do other non-alcohol-related things like going to the gym, which something I haven’t done in months. Maybe I will also have a chance to pay my bills on time (or at all) and tidy my room regularly (or at all) and clean my car more than once a year (or ever). After all, isn’t cleanliness as good as godliness or something? Incidentally David, who doesn’t believe in God, I know for a fact would still agree with the intent (if not the wording) of this notion even though he managed to get himself decidedly unclean tonight as a result of some equally unclean act.On this note, I am lately finding myself being told, in detail, the sexual exploits of a proliferation of individuals (mostly Stonewall Proletariat like myself). Trust me people, my medication-suppressed libido is not remotely interested in the manner in which you choose to express your sexual vitality (or bodily fluids for that matter).

2003 and its end

I choose now to, perhaps belatedly on this first day of 2004, take a look at the past year. This sort of thing is often done in the form of a list of bests (and worsts), so here goes.Best new food tried: BocconciniBest drive: Berowra to Gosford on the Old Pacific Highway, at night, in winter, in someone elses car. Magic.My best one-liner: At uni, when unable to see Newtown’s King Street café strip because of the colleges in the way: “No I can’t see it. There are too many college boys and I can’t see past their upturned collars.”My worst one liner: Also:“No I can’t see it. There are too many college boys and I can’t see past their upturned collars.”But this is closely tied with my explanation to a customer at work about the ‘Shout’ brand phonecard used to call overseas:“Apparently it gets you a really bad connection and so for the person in Germany to hear you, you’ll need to shout down the phone.” (This was greated with a surly Germanic grunt, which sounded remarkably like the word ‘sheisskopf’.)And also a late entry (from last night) when Jerry told me that the Goldfish I bought him as a housewarming present had suicided by jumping from its bowl into a casserole dish. He wanted to know if I would mourn with him:“Mourn? More like mornay.”Best subject studied: Industrial Ergonomics. In one tutorial we got to measure each others standing height, seated height and shoulder width. This involved unusual intimacy between us, however my request to measure my male classmate’s inner leg was greeted with alarm.Worst subject studied: Product Life Cycle Design. Anything taught (!) by a lecturer who begins his oratories with “If I could just begin by saying…ahem…umm…let me start again” is probably not going to be life-changing. That said, I’m told that third year Materials has some defining moments including,“Wood, otherwise known as timber…”.Worst subject enrolled in but not really studied: Electronic Devices and Circuits. Enough said. I note now that most of these events come from the latter part of the year. This is not unusual for these lists since the memory of the people who compile them rarely extends to more than a few months past. This is particularly true because the lists are compiled in December, when most people are at some sort of drinking function every night and therefore have trouble even recalling the last few hours. Indeed, we were only discussing at work recently how we don’t expect a lot of sense from people at this stage of the year. I don’t really expect much sense from people past the time when the Christmas decorations go up in Grace Bros, which is around July. But really the first half of 2003 was for me sadly dogged by depression (clinically diagnosed and all) apart from the whole coming out bit, my 21st, some nice times with my then boyfriend and other scattered glances at happiness. The last six months have been generally better mainly because of some consolidated friendships and the making of new ones. One of these newies is with the delightful Vivien. The doll even gave me some Oroton boxer shorts as a Christmas present. I attempted to return the kindness by taking her to dinner. My gift to her, unlike hers to me, did not pertain to genitailia at all but the sauce on my lamb cutlet, however tasty, resembled a giant skid mark. In some post-Christmas pre-NY banter my family were asking me about adopting children. Since this proposition is even more long term than me ever graduating from uni it is not something about which I’ve given a lot of thought. Despite this, the general subject did arise whilst dining with Vivien, on my turd-laced lamb, with her making known that I should let her know if I ever needed her womb. She said I could send over “some of my sperms”. I believe I can now confidently challenge people to show me a truer sign of friendship!And to New Years Eve. It would have to be an improvement on NYE 2002 which I spent in Adelaide however it would be hard to match NYE 2001 at the Mercury Hotel in Newcastle which featured a Harley Davidson doing a burnout on the dance floor at midnight. This was just as spectacular as it was irrelevant, if only because it was really quite dangerous. But of course, for the final night of 2003 I went to our second home, The Club I Don’t Need to Name. A bonus was the pre-midnight arrival of Emily - my workmate, unofficially adopted sister and fellow lunatic. The third level offered a reasonable vantage point for the fireworks but midnight passed with little fanfare up there since the club operators know that most of us are too interested in ourselves to be concerned with such trifling events. And who needs to see the pyrotechnics on the Harbour Bridge when there are enough fireworks going off in everyone’s jeans anyway?

Christmas etc

A run down on this week (TW), compared with last (LW):Incidences of car sex TW: 0, LW: 1 Weddings attended in which the best man thanks the bride’s ‘Maternal Father’ TW: 1, LW: 0Number of times I am thus suitably mystified by my friend’s family tree TW: can’t count that high, LW: 0 Christmas days TW: 1, LW: 0Apparent length of Christmas day in Millennia: TW: about 12.5, LW: n/a Consequently, number of full meals consumed TW: 32 million, LW: 1Number of times I am confronted at work bybush lawyers who tell me the floor is slippery and I will get sued TW: 32 million (successively), LW: 4Number of times the aforementioned are considerate enough to stop winging to me and actually warn other people of danger TW: -47, LW: 0Yes, that’s what I believe is called Christmas spirit - and it is apparently something that is never more prevalent than in retail situations, especially large shopping centres. (As an aside, I have noticed recently that these places have earned the generic term ‘Westfields’, kind of like vacuum cleaners are called ‘Hoovers’. Actually, there are a couple of other similarities between Westfields and Hoovers: both are large, ugly, noisy and full of stuff you don’t want in your house.)Despite the abundance (!) of food, Christmas Day 2003 was something of a success for Cosime in that nothing actually went wrong. This compares well with previous years. Here are some selected highlights:2002: I was in Adelaide. Enough said.1996: My Mum ran over a lizard on the way to my cousins’ place. The Charade made a sort of thump as we went over it, and the parts of the said animal that didn’t get sprayed up the left side doors were stamped down the road in intervals unnervingly similar to the circumference of a Bridgestone tyre.1995: I stepped on a bee. I spent the rest of the day on anti-histamines and thus on another planet. (I guess that’s not all that bad really. Note for next year.)1987: At age five, confronted with a new pet dachshund, I had the wisdom to name it ‘Tiz’, of all things. The dog lived for over fifteen years, having been neither run over by my mum or suiciding in shame over its name. She was put down last March and now resides under a Camellia in Mum’s yard. The plant seems to be doing well of late - I’m told that plants with a taproot undergo something of a spurt a few months after being planted above a deceased canine. Tiz lives on.My favourite gift for this year was not an animal of any sort though. It was something given to me by my auntie who only recently found out about my boy-loving tendencies: a pair of blue bath towels. Very clever. Two matching pairs of slippers next Christmas probably. (My Catholic family seems to find my faggotness a novelty you see. I guess its better than being chucked out of home or stoned to death like the Catholics used to do.)To my small readership I send much love and best wishes for the New Year.

An update

After the last entry and its 800 words it has been some time before I was able to face the update page again however Some Recent Events have prompted me to return.The week following the Red Party was spent mostly at a rented holiday house in a beachside town. Before thinking that this seems rather a wholesome occupation it is worth noting that ludicrous amounts of beer were consumed over these few days. I had recently been avoiding beer in order to try and look classy by drinking white wine instead but I found I was not able to combat the overriding problem that I have with beer: I LIKE IT.When I returned to Sydney and Stonewall the following weekend my beer drinking habit had hungover, so to speak, and I think some people were harbouring thoughts that I was straight. Before this began to evolve into a vicious rumour I quickly ordered myself a glass of the house white. This substance, not being of great quality as far as I (!) can tell, would probably earn the label ‘Shite White’ from my older brother. (He is much wiser than I am - and I don’t mean just in respect to wine.) Despite this, Stonewall white is usually fairly drinkable because they have it chilled so cold that the flavour is not really noticeable. (My rudimentary knowledge of thermodynamics leads me to think this practice is somewhat of a false economy: the amount of power needed to run the fridges to almost freezing as opposed to four or five degrees above would cost them so much extra that it would be cheaper to just serve a decent wine at the normal temperature.)The above rates as mere trivia when placed alongside Wednesday night’s events however. An evening which begins at home with a civilized dinner with auntie and uncle and ends in the same place, albeit some hours later and accompanied by the rising sun, with a bowl of Just Right may seem a bit on the nondescript side. Nondescript, but that it was intersected by a trip to Malebox and a minor indiscretion on the back seat of my car. Yes, and it was all fogged up windows just like Jack and Rose in Titanic - except for the whole heterosexuality thing. I now fear that, having partaken in such activities, it will take rather more than just a few glasses of cheap Riesling to rebuild any semblance of class I may have earned previously to this point in time. Indeed, judging by the reactions of people I have related this event to, my own sense of dignity should have now gone completely out the window - just like the used franga did, and I think also both my legs at one stage. Leaving my suburban abode that evening, after enjoying my aunt’s lamb stir-fry, I didn’t feel I would need to be prepared for such eventualities. I have been since told by friend David, who was lucky enough to have non-car sex on the same night, that Elizabeth Taylor Hand Cream is most effective. A jar of that would no doubt fit nicely in the glovebox. Note to self.For anyone still reading, I can vouch that Thursday was a much more wholesome day since Nickmac and I went to Bondi for a refreshing swim. This outing was interposed occasionally by a shirtless Nickmac rediscovering his nipples whenever he brushed his arms near his chest, and each time briefly freaking out that he had cultivated two identical and symmetrically arranged pimples. Such was the hilarity of this excursion, combined with the amount of time spent being baked in the car while stuck in Sydney’s perpetual traffic jam, I ended up running half an hour late for work that afternoon. If I learnt only one thing over the previous twelve hours, it is that I need a new car - one with air conditioning, a bigger engine and a bigger back seat.That night I managed to read the front page article of the current Sydney Star Observer, concerning a gay Bangladeshi couple who will have their application for protection visas reheard after the High Court overturned a refusal on the part of the Australian Refugee Review Tribunal. I am pleased about this and the volumes that it speaks regarding the attitude that Australia’s highest court has for gay people. However I am still alarmed and ashamed that this country will only consider protecting refugees who are fleeing from conditions so extreme in their home country that to stay there would be place themselves at risk to such things as being stoned to death. While I will join in the gay community’s happiness at this ‘landmark ruling’, I doubt that the hungry, beaten and suicidal desperates under ACM’s dysfunctional form of care in Port Hedland are quite so jubilant. Friday night brought with it the free booze and merriment of my work Christmas party. During this I was astounded at my boss’s occasional inability to detect humour. This inability extends to the point that when I enquired, over my fifth glass of free moselle, about salary packaging of private health insurance and fuel cards for myself and colleagues he said he would take it up with the ‘association’ - what ever that is. Bear in mind we are all on casual wages and work an average three days a week in this rather lowly retail job. Mmmm. Actually, I do enjoy this annual event since the remainder of the people I work with do have a sense of humour.Saturday night’s obligatory Stonewall visit was longer than intended and rather devoid of noteworthy events. In all honesty the most significant point of the evening was when I returned to the car and found that it had come to the attention of a parking inspector. Sixty-eight dollars worth of attention actually. The offence is described in the carbon-copy duplicate of a hasty scrawl as “Disobey No Parking Sign”. The term ‘disobey’ seems rather like something your year three teacher would say and not at all befitting this context. What ever happened to good old authoritative sounding words like ‘breach’ and ‘contravene’? And to the officer with a signature I can just make out to be ‘NS’, I am sure you were just doing your job but that doesn’t mean I don’t think you’re a total fuckwit. And get some handwriting lessons. At Harley’s invitation I went along to Gay Church and the ensuing youth group dinner on Sunday night. Well, I thought I could be mild mannered when I wanted. These delightful young’uns carry with them all the offence of a wet lettuce leaf. It wasn’t until after the service when they started talking about sex positions, and confirmed that they were in fact human and not saints after all, that I stopped feeling guilty for impinging upon them. The service itself was quite tasteful, giving the impression that they had been through the rigour of postmodernism and emerged without the painful drear of trad church bells and smells. At the same time there was plenty of homage paid to the community it serves but it thankfully stopped short of being Mardi Gras On Pews. Unfortunately though, the extent of the philosophical questions that the evening raised for me were 1. What is it with queers and banana bread?2. Why are gay organ players always so cute?On a final note I would like to comment on my continued but gradual campaign to out myself at my workplace. This has hit something of a wall recently since the only two people I’ve told have since left. I don’t know if the incidents are in any way connected, but one of these people even went overseas. Fuck, if you didn’t like it you could have just said so. But seriously, they were both cool with it, as I imagine most of my other friends who I have so far kept in the dark will be when the time comes. My efforts so far have really only been to console my female colleagues when they are having boy troubles with statements like “yes boyfriends really are hard work aren’t they” but they seem to have been too caught up in their own emotions to draw any conclusions about me. That, and a jokingly made comment about having to sell myself at The Wall to pay off my credit card. Maybe I have to be a bit more subtle, like eating banana bread on my lunch break or something.This Wednesday just past was concluded by yet another Malebox visit. It was not particularly noteworthy except that David picked up. I found Ronald at some stage who, living closer to town than me and recognizing my tiredness, was kind enough to offer me his spare bed in return for a lift home. This was most pleasing except for his new Jack Russell puppy and its wish sleep with me. I eventually relented and gave it some bed space only to have it promptly develop the hiccups and subsequently undergo a violent spasm every four seconds. Still, I have since learned from David that his sleeping partner for the evening was hardly any more palatable than mine. I guess I shouldn’t feel so hard done by then, especially since the Jack Russell didn’t ask for my number in the morning - although I suspect it would have if it were capable. Anyway, best be off: I have to go and dig out my old organ playing notes…

Stonewall, The Red Party, Gay Church

While not heralding any new wave in clubbing trends, Saturday night’s Red Party at Stonewall proved to be something of an unexpected ripper from my point of view. The five-dollar cover charge no doubt raised decent wads of cash for the very worthy ACON (AIDS Council of NSW) and had the side benefit of deterring a few dodgy punters from the perpetually crowded venue. A handful were still present however and I sadly happen to know some of them. Incidentally, Stonewall represents a strange set of contradictions. It appeals mainly to a younger crowd who, let’s face it, are not overly concerned with purporting any hint of class beyond air-kissing each other on arrival. It is (ordinarily) free to get in. The ground floor often feels so full of sexual charge and smuttiness (of which, I admit to occasionally being a component of) I fear of it turning into one big sprog pond, with foamy waves cascading out into Oxford Street and engulfing the discarded kebabs, the discarded shags, the deros and that ever present hip-hop busker. Yet despite these symptoms of trashiness, the place features some of the hallmarks of A Pretentious Club. Touches of stainless steel and glass hint at stylish modernity while almost blending seamlessly (or is it good lighting) with old-world original timber balustrades and ornate cornices suggestive of its nineteenth century heritage. (The ornate cornices sadly do not feature on the level where the ceiling recently had to be replaced – apparently the old one fell down onto the glitter laced revelers one night…imagine the squeals.) It is nestled among Darlinghurst’s Golden/Pink Mile of snobby clubs and clothing shops, some of which have names indicating that the proprietor has adopted the currently very trendy habit of prefixing words with ‘über’. A more obvious statement is that one receives one’s change from the bar staff on a saucer. Elegant, even if a pathetic invitation for a tip. I am just waiting for the name to be changed from ‘The Stonewall Hotel’ to ‘Hotel Stonewall’ in a classy French-esque noun-adjective vein. Or maybe all lower case - ‘hotel stonewall’. Better still what about ‘überhotel stonewall’? But for all this I love it and will probably continue to do so for some time.Anyway, back to Saturday night. There was actually a shaky start to the evening with Nick F's expression of dishevelment firstly at Vivien’s and my arrival being two hours subsequent to his and secondly that someone had, in our absence, given him shit about his dancing. The circumstances improved quickly however. Much our time was spent draped in the five metres of red tinsel I had purchased from a nearby newsagent, and dancing with people, some of whom I actually know. Indeed, of those I know I proudly count most as friends. At one stage I got teary and thought I must have been overcome with emotion at the gravity of the situation and the profoundness of The Sugarbabes's lyrics but soon realized I just had some tinsel in my eye. Further elation came with Jerry giving me the news that the goldfish I gave to him and Roy as a present at their housewarming/birthday party on the previous night had survived the last 24 hours and now had a name (Liza Minnelli), a bowl, and food. This survival occurred despite it being contained in a plastic bag and then a Brita water filter for much of the intervening period. The fish had already proven itself somewhat resilient that night while still under my care by first withstanding my driving during a cross-Sydney trip - in the boot - and later with me scooping it and some cloudy (but filtered, I assure you) water from its abode with a plastic cup, in order to participate in the evenings toasts.I also found the Red Party revelry favourable since I had to tolerate neither of the irksome events that featured in my previous two visits to Stonewall. On Wednesday night I endured part of a conversation between a pair of ex-lovers (you know who you are) discussing their issues with each others ‘techniques’. Friday night was marred by the drunken stage dancing/groping of some mangy haired guy who I suggested might be better put to use if he were turned upside down and used as a mop to curtail the runoff from the drinks he was constantly spilling. I also had to leave early on Friday night due to work commitments in the morning, in turn courtesy of the disturbing and insatiable appetite that residents of North Ryde have for lotto tickets and the Weekend Sydney Morning Herald at eight on a Saturday morning. Conspicuous in their absence from the Red Party were the two aforementioned ex-lovers, and Harley. The latter of these I have not seen (or should that be, ‘scene’) for weeks and I fear may be either passed out somewhere (again) or heavily involved in a new found institution, specifically, some sort of gay church. I am deeply concerned for his welfare since I cannot decide which of these scenarios is the more horrific. More likely however is that Harley is just in a sort of Nick F induced anti-scene hibernation. The thought of this just makes me feel über-sympathetic.

more journal

In keeping with my effort to make this a bit more reflective and in-depth rather than having a "Today I Went Shopping, It Was Fun" journal, I have not added an entry for nearly a week. This is because in the last week I have not had many opportunities to be either reflective or in-depth. Continued battles with the multitude of viruses that appear to have taken hold of my laptop have also been a bit of a drag too. I tell you if I had as many worms as this Toshiba I'd be in serious trouble. I often marvel at the efficiency of this Japanese technology, both for its processing power and the number of other computers it must be having sex with in order to become so debilitatingly riddled with TCP/IP bourne ailments.One recent experience perhaps worthy of a little cogitation (or not) was seeing the appalling 'Life as a House'. Returning the tape to Blockbuster, I was overcome with confusion as to exactly what sort of journey Sam (Hayden Christensen) took during this plot (that was, at once, contrived yet derivative) but obviously I was not nearly as baffled as whoever wrote the fucking thing. I have not in my time encountered any seventeen year old who is paid for sex with middle-aged men found by their classmate pimp (who fucks his female best friend's mother), has forty-eight piercings and blue hair who then takes a shower (literally) and appears immediately sans-piercings and claiming to be straight all along...but then I must have had a sheltered upbringing. Oh, and he helps his dad build a house as well. Fabbo.

My first entry...

Greetings. It is with what I would regard as a certain (high) degree of self-indulgence that I begin this on-line journal. I guess mindlessly expressing my thoughts is not really my thing. Still, as Oscar Wilde said,“Try anything once except incest and folk dancing”.And just about everyone else under thirty seems to have one of these things so why shouldn’t I. So for the benefit of the many people who will read this - yes, all two of you (me and that cute guy on platform 19 at Central who I divulged all of my contact details to – oh, hang on, I just dreamed that up) – I begin.