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.