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…