Congratulations, President Obama. (How cool is that?)
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
'The Nightmare Is Over'
Just got sent this from Blair, my ex in New York, taken out his apartment window:
Congratulations, President Obama. (How cool is that?)
Congratulations, President Obama. (How cool is that?)
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Going south
I’m heading to Canberra tomorrow morning – haven’t been there this year I don’t think. There’s not that much reason to, frankly, but I do feel a bit guilty that Mick spends all that time on a coach to Sydney every fortnight, cute backpackers or no.
Mick’s getting his flat ready to sell so I thought I might at least lift the odd box – nothing too heavy, of course – and provide the occasional piece of advice on paint finishes.
I will also dack him at any given occasion (he doesn’t wear underwear at home).
Anything to precipitate our move away, to be honest. I’ve had enough.
My rent’s just been jacked up by almost 20 per cent and I’m barely getting by as it is.
During an economic meltdown, no less!
Work has been improving at least – a few extra days covered next month’s rent – and I can confidently say I can ‘apple-shift-G’ with confidence.
There’s a lovely new bloke – British, forties, straight – who is struggling with the computer system like I was. I am actually now being asked questions! He’s also been kind enough to give me a lift home a couple of times – a limousine by comparison to public transport. It was the first opportunity we’d had to talk at length; the work atmosphere in general is occupied and/or headphoned, albeit punctuated by the occasional trill of queeny glee (that penetrates anything).
It was a pleasant change and we happily chatted about the day at work, the soulless, distinctly grim nature of the new apartment suburbs springing up in south Sydney that passed us on our way north, global financial debacles and our future dreams.
Then he asked me what else I did…
A Canberra motel.
Mick’s getting his flat ready to sell so I thought I might at least lift the odd box – nothing too heavy, of course – and provide the occasional piece of advice on paint finishes.
I will also dack him at any given occasion (he doesn’t wear underwear at home).
Anything to precipitate our move away, to be honest. I’ve had enough.
My rent’s just been jacked up by almost 20 per cent and I’m barely getting by as it is.
During an economic meltdown, no less!
Work has been improving at least – a few extra days covered next month’s rent – and I can confidently say I can ‘apple-shift-G’ with confidence.
There’s a lovely new bloke – British, forties, straight – who is struggling with the computer system like I was. I am actually now being asked questions! He’s also been kind enough to give me a lift home a couple of times – a limousine by comparison to public transport. It was the first opportunity we’d had to talk at length; the work atmosphere in general is occupied and/or headphoned, albeit punctuated by the occasional trill of queeny glee (that penetrates anything).
It was a pleasant change and we happily chatted about the day at work, the soulless, distinctly grim nature of the new apartment suburbs springing up in south Sydney that passed us on our way north, global financial debacles and our future dreams.
Then he asked me what else I did…
A Canberra motel.
Friday, October 17, 2008
Real Estate 101
Mick and I went to Maitland about a month ago so he could find a house to buy. We stayed at the Metropolitan Hotel, fab deco pub full of afternoon alcoholics; i.e. no drunken teenagers and few clues to our real relationship; this was eventually unravelled by a soon-to-be-cancer-widow who was blowing her hubbie's money on the pokies. She also took her wig off at one point to illisutrate her owb battles and point out that, whlie we're gay and perhaps inclined to trouble, we ain't seen nothing.
Anyway, our days were spent in Mick's car, having gathered the addresses for potential homes.
Some were dismissed purely on the terms of the feral neighbours we drove past or the general sense of ‘floodiness’.
Maitland’s a little floody.
Anyway, we found the perfect little three-bedroom cottage – circa 1870 –eat-in kitchen, toolshed, double garage, chook enclosure, too good to be true.
The ever-so-helpful souls at Tony Cant Real Estate are apparently still failing to tell people that the place is fairly riddled with white ants:
Lucky Mick didn't post that deposit check.
We’re still looking..
Anyway, our days were spent in Mick's car, having gathered the addresses for potential homes.
Some were dismissed purely on the terms of the feral neighbours we drove past or the general sense of ‘floodiness’.
Maitland’s a little floody.
Anyway, we found the perfect little three-bedroom cottage – circa 1870 –eat-in kitchen, toolshed, double garage, chook enclosure, too good to be true.
The ever-so-helpful souls at Tony Cant Real Estate are apparently still failing to tell people that the place is fairly riddled with white ants:
Lucky Mick didn't post that deposit check.
We’re still looking..
Well hello! #2
It was a very Oxford evening.
I hadn’t planned to stay, but various friends emerged and beers were bought and visits to the smoke-in wardrobe led to sundry introductions and inevitable peril.
I was happily chatting to Shane from Brisbane, whom I’d met an hour or so ago – he was a headhunter for mining companies or something – when a group of four elegantly barge into the space, one queen in particular catching my eye. He had an imperious air and a hairdo that was an unsettling – a possibly non-ironic– toned-down Flock of Seagulls tiered bowl-job. In his twenties, you know.
He turned out to be such a cunt I fully expected a Linda Blair’s face to appear on the back of his head every time he flicked his gaze away. He had two friends rapt in laughter and one aplogising to me on his behalf.
My last words to him were “see you soon” and I believe he said “can’t wait”. I caught a cab home.
Sorry I’ve ignored this blog by the way.
More to follow shortly.
I lost my camera - it's hampering.
Here’s an old shot of a bloke I haven’t seen in years who was always at the Oxford… no more.
I hadn’t planned to stay, but various friends emerged and beers were bought and visits to the smoke-in wardrobe led to sundry introductions and inevitable peril.
I was happily chatting to Shane from Brisbane, whom I’d met an hour or so ago – he was a headhunter for mining companies or something – when a group of four elegantly barge into the space, one queen in particular catching my eye. He had an imperious air and a hairdo that was an unsettling – a possibly non-ironic– toned-down Flock of Seagulls tiered bowl-job. In his twenties, you know.
He turned out to be such a cunt I fully expected a Linda Blair’s face to appear on the back of his head every time he flicked his gaze away. He had two friends rapt in laughter and one aplogising to me on his behalf.
My last words to him were “see you soon” and I believe he said “can’t wait”. I caught a cab home.
Sorry I’ve ignored this blog by the way.
More to follow shortly.
I lost my camera - it's hampering.
Here’s an old shot of a bloke I haven’t seen in years who was always at the Oxford… no more.
Friday, August 8, 2008
How do you say bravo in Mandarin?
That was amazing. I bet stocks in drum kits will soar:
Then there was this (they did invent fireworks after all):
But this, I have to say, was unexpected. It was a gigantic version of those metal desk accessories onto which you'd press your face in order to make a shiny facsimile. Sensational, and apparently based on an ancient invention:
Also, this mind-boggling, seemingly holographic 'sheet':
And, like I mentioned before, their 'Nikki' - cute as two buttons, plus she got to fly as well!:
I was rivetted and thus didn't get my act together to get a shot of them all popping out of those undulating rectangles.
I totally thought it was some gigantic computerised mechanism.
Unbelievable.
The rest was fabulous, but that part astounded me.
I knew it was going to upstage everyone.
Then there was this (they did invent fireworks after all):
But this, I have to say, was unexpected. It was a gigantic version of those metal desk accessories onto which you'd press your face in order to make a shiny facsimile. Sensational, and apparently based on an ancient invention:
Also, this mind-boggling, seemingly holographic 'sheet':
And, like I mentioned before, their 'Nikki' - cute as two buttons, plus she got to fly as well!:
I was rivetted and thus didn't get my act together to get a shot of them all popping out of those undulating rectangles.
I totally thought it was some gigantic computerised mechanism.
Unbelievable.
The rest was fabulous, but that part astounded me.
I knew it was going to upstage everyone.
"Do you think she knows she's the Nikki Webster of Beijing?"
Female Channel 7 commentator.
Photos to come.
Mesmerising.
Photos to come.
Mesmerising.
On the hunt
I was reading Joe My God - awesome blog - and there's a raging forum over an article in Out magazine about Manhunt destroying the scene.
Sorry - gay culture.
I wrote the column below four years ago. It almost seems quaint (the number of men online in particular):
At 7.20 a.m. yesterday, 300 Sydney men were logged onto Gaydar. At 3.15 a.m. on April 1, there were 233. The most I’ve ever seen is almost 800 on a recent Friday night, which brings us to the question:
Is typing the new cruising?
I’ve had a Gaydar profile for a while now, which I access out of sheer boredom and voyeuristic urges. I scan the pages, checking ages first (oooh, 52!) and looking for little red dots. For the uninitiated, a red dot designates a racy photo, usually a disembodied penis, as opposed to a blue dot, which usually means someone smiling on a windswept beach. Very laxative commercial.
I don’t have a pic on my profile, which is considered poor form and does nothing for my strike rate. Still, I’m uncomfortable with the idea of friends and acquaintances – most of whom visit the site – perusing my peccadilloes and I do not, under any circumstances, want to know theirs. While I’m open-minded about most things, discovering your best mate is into extreme nipple play and Lycra is unsettling to say the least.
When I tire of seeing the same names (will 8inches4asians ever find true love?), I’ll venture outside, so to speak, and check the profiles from around the globe. This can be both depressing and heartening. Although it’s sad to imagine the solitary queen in Tadjikistan sitting in front of his computer, waiting for that elusive pop-up message, it’s good to know the language of audition and rejection is universal, even in the world’s trouble spots.
OK, so you’re a gay Afghani. Your options are limited, right? Nevertheless, you have your standards: “must be white skin not indian pls”. Because if you’re going to “suck and give buttom” the least they can do is conform to your racial profile.
Similarly, “TYPICAL TERRIFIED ZIMBABWEAN GUYS NEEDN’T BOTHER!” contacting the couple in Harare, and if you’re in the Maldives, I hope you’re into “hicking” and “rufting”. Oh, and “a Top would do nicely”, although given the number of apparently greedy bottoms in this world, good luck finding one, skinperv.
So where does this all end? Is there a tipping point at which every gay man with online access gets sucked into the system? Will the scene eventually be like The Matrix, only with less clothing and marginally better dialogue? And will I become addicted like so many others?
Rather not say.
Update: I just checked. 8inches4asians has either found his one and only or changed his handle.
Bizarre footnote: I typed 'manhunt' into Google image search and got a series of stills from some gory computer game.
Strangely, no dick pics:
Sorry - gay culture.
I wrote the column below four years ago. It almost seems quaint (the number of men online in particular):
At 7.20 a.m. yesterday, 300 Sydney men were logged onto Gaydar. At 3.15 a.m. on April 1, there were 233. The most I’ve ever seen is almost 800 on a recent Friday night, which brings us to the question:
Is typing the new cruising?
I’ve had a Gaydar profile for a while now, which I access out of sheer boredom and voyeuristic urges. I scan the pages, checking ages first (oooh, 52!) and looking for little red dots. For the uninitiated, a red dot designates a racy photo, usually a disembodied penis, as opposed to a blue dot, which usually means someone smiling on a windswept beach. Very laxative commercial.
I don’t have a pic on my profile, which is considered poor form and does nothing for my strike rate. Still, I’m uncomfortable with the idea of friends and acquaintances – most of whom visit the site – perusing my peccadilloes and I do not, under any circumstances, want to know theirs. While I’m open-minded about most things, discovering your best mate is into extreme nipple play and Lycra is unsettling to say the least.
When I tire of seeing the same names (will 8inches4asians ever find true love?), I’ll venture outside, so to speak, and check the profiles from around the globe. This can be both depressing and heartening. Although it’s sad to imagine the solitary queen in Tadjikistan sitting in front of his computer, waiting for that elusive pop-up message, it’s good to know the language of audition and rejection is universal, even in the world’s trouble spots.
OK, so you’re a gay Afghani. Your options are limited, right? Nevertheless, you have your standards: “must be white skin not indian pls”. Because if you’re going to “suck and give buttom” the least they can do is conform to your racial profile.
Similarly, “TYPICAL TERRIFIED ZIMBABWEAN GUYS NEEDN’T BOTHER!” contacting the couple in Harare, and if you’re in the Maldives, I hope you’re into “hicking” and “rufting”. Oh, and “a Top would do nicely”, although given the number of apparently greedy bottoms in this world, good luck finding one, skinperv.
So where does this all end? Is there a tipping point at which every gay man with online access gets sucked into the system? Will the scene eventually be like The Matrix, only with less clothing and marginally better dialogue? And will I become addicted like so many others?
Rather not say.
Update: I just checked. 8inches4asians has either found his one and only or changed his handle.
Bizarre footnote: I typed 'manhunt' into Google image search and got a series of stills from some gory computer game.
Strangely, no dick pics:
The vicarious good life
My sister Justine arrived from London late last week with my two little nieces. I haven’t seen them yet (Luna Park beckons) but I caught up with Justine on Friday night – well, I tagged along with her regular catch-up with girlfriends, always a splashy affair. It’s basically the one night of the year I go to an expensive restaurant.
We went to Mad Cow at the Ivy, a ginormous complex of bars and restaurants in the city. Fab fit-out, but by far the best feature was the fact that it’s essentially Sydney’s biggest smoking lounge, designed as it is around a big courtyard, with this tree in the centre:
The bartender told us, “If you can see sky, you can smoke.” Finally!
It being a Friday night, the place was heaving; a well-dressed mosh pit. As the evening progressed I noticed an increase in stiletto-wobbles and dodgy man-dancing, the latter being forgiven for the fact that the music was pretty fucking great.
I suppose getting a straight guy to dance is a triumph in itself. It’s never less than amusing and occasionally hot, although far too many resort to that low-impact, malfunctioning-robot back-and-forth. I guess anything more flamboyant is frowned upon...
As for dinner, it was delicious and eye-crossingly expensive. My martini bill alone was shameful. But Justine, as always, insisted on paying. She’s a barrister; I guess she can afford it.
Put it this way, this was the tip:
We went to Mad Cow at the Ivy, a ginormous complex of bars and restaurants in the city. Fab fit-out, but by far the best feature was the fact that it’s essentially Sydney’s biggest smoking lounge, designed as it is around a big courtyard, with this tree in the centre:
The bartender told us, “If you can see sky, you can smoke.” Finally!
It being a Friday night, the place was heaving; a well-dressed mosh pit. As the evening progressed I noticed an increase in stiletto-wobbles and dodgy man-dancing, the latter being forgiven for the fact that the music was pretty fucking great.
I suppose getting a straight guy to dance is a triumph in itself. It’s never less than amusing and occasionally hot, although far too many resort to that low-impact, malfunctioning-robot back-and-forth. I guess anything more flamboyant is frowned upon...
As for dinner, it was delicious and eye-crossingly expensive. My martini bill alone was shameful. But Justine, as always, insisted on paying. She’s a barrister; I guess she can afford it.
Put it this way, this was the tip:
Absolutely knackered
This part-time work set-up is hard to get used to. The work itself is good, mind you, although working late in the week means I’m dealing with a publication has lots of advertising features on “non-invasive” but nonetheless gruesome-sounding procedures, all in the name of beauty and well-being.
It can’t be long before these pampering institutes are offering women brand new heads, available in an array of colours, shapes and facial expressions. Personalities sold separately.
My regular part-time job will be early in the week, so I’ll be working on other, more news-based titles. Until that starts in a in a week or so they’ve been giving me some gigs on a nice fat freelance rate. I can hardly complain.
Having said that, getting up at 6.30 in this weather is a bitch.
It can’t be long before these pampering institutes are offering women brand new heads, available in an array of colours, shapes and facial expressions. Personalities sold separately.
My regular part-time job will be early in the week, so I’ll be working on other, more news-based titles. Until that starts in a in a week or so they’ve been giving me some gigs on a nice fat freelance rate. I can hardly complain.
Having said that, getting up at 6.30 in this weather is a bitch.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Untwink #7
Channel Seven had the perfect midday movie yesterday – Todd Haynes’ Far From Heaven. Gorgeous melodrama. I really should have seen it on a big screen.
To me – Dennis Quaid as a hot closet case aside – the most magnetic thing in it was Raymond the gardner, played by Dennis Haysbert. Why she didn't just ditch everything and jump into his arms is, well.. that's melodrama.
Haysbert had his first role on Lou Grant! (see Untwink #1.) Then he was on Laverne and Shirley! The Incredible Hulk (as Guard!) The A-Team! Knots Landing! Magnum P.I.! Buck Rogers in the 25th Century!! A lot of other things no one's seen!!!
You might know him as the President of the United States on 24 or as Jonas on The Unit.
Any way you take it, he’s six feet, four-and-a-half inches (if IMDB is anything to go by) of spectacular. And that voice.
I particularly like his Dallas era:
To me – Dennis Quaid as a hot closet case aside – the most magnetic thing in it was Raymond the gardner, played by Dennis Haysbert. Why she didn't just ditch everything and jump into his arms is, well.. that's melodrama.
Haysbert had his first role on Lou Grant! (see Untwink #1.) Then he was on Laverne and Shirley! The Incredible Hulk (as Guard!) The A-Team! Knots Landing! Magnum P.I.! Buck Rogers in the 25th Century!! A lot of other things no one's seen!!!
You might know him as the President of the United States on 24 or as Jonas on The Unit.
Any way you take it, he’s six feet, four-and-a-half inches (if IMDB is anything to go by) of spectacular. And that voice.
I particularly like his Dallas era:
A T'Wanda too far...
Celebrities regularly get a grilling over their choice of name for their offspring. But an article in the Sydney Morning Herald leaves them for dead. And it’s from New Zealand.
Following are my favourite snippets from a piece on a court judgement denying a couple the right to subject their newborn daughter to lifetime of torment, if not alcoholism:
– Parents make fools of their children by giving them eccentric names, says a New Zealand judge.
– Judge Rob Murfitt of the Family Court launched the attack after finding a girl had been named Talula Does The Hula From Hawaii.
– Judge Murfitt, who made written findings on the issue public, cited other names such as Number 16 Bus Shelter, Violence and Benson and Hedges (twins).
– “The names Fish and Chips, Masport, and Mower, Yeah Detroit, Stallion, Twisty Poi, Keenan Got Lucy and Sex Fruit have not been registered,” Brian Clarke, Registrar General of Births, Deaths and Marriages, said in a statement.
I never really liked the name Brad (thanks to Rocky Horror I was repeatedly called Janet), but I do think I think Remorse has a nice manly ring to it…
Monday, July 21, 2008
A cock too far
Mick and Ray met each other for the first time on Saturday; turns out they both grew up in Punchbowl. (That always sounded so glamorous as a child, much like our Beverly Hills – then I went there.)
Ray is 70, Mick is 57: Cue much discussion of premises long gone and still hanging in there, the notorious pub with regular brawls and conversation about other stuff from which I drifted off.
It was a great night, dominated as it was by genuinely fascinating tidbits about past neighbourhood life, shady and otherwise.
For one, back then they were all driving pissed home to the suburbs from the city... sounds terrifying the way Mick cheerfully recounts it.
They were also both thrilled to escape it.
After dinner at the Judgement Bar, Raymond, exhausted pilgrim that he was, went straight back to his room at the Royal Sovereign that I’d booked. Mick and I made a pilgrimage to the Oxford and stayed a while… and crashed some time later.
I bid Ray farewell this morning.
I’ve known him for 16 years and he’s a blast:
He started as a window-dresser then went into TV and advertising,
He has a voice for radio – never used, much to my consternation.
He let me stay at his place for two months, years ago.
He rides a motorbike.
He has several piercings that are NSFW.
He’s a great photographer.
He just polished my parquetry!
Now that’s a good pilgrim.
Although I do worry about him turning my apartment into the House of Cock:
Ray is 70, Mick is 57: Cue much discussion of premises long gone and still hanging in there, the notorious pub with regular brawls and conversation about other stuff from which I drifted off.
It was a great night, dominated as it was by genuinely fascinating tidbits about past neighbourhood life, shady and otherwise.
For one, back then they were all driving pissed home to the suburbs from the city... sounds terrifying the way Mick cheerfully recounts it.
They were also both thrilled to escape it.
After dinner at the Judgement Bar, Raymond, exhausted pilgrim that he was, went straight back to his room at the Royal Sovereign that I’d booked. Mick and I made a pilgrimage to the Oxford and stayed a while… and crashed some time later.
I bid Ray farewell this morning.
I’ve known him for 16 years and he’s a blast:
He started as a window-dresser then went into TV and advertising,
He has a voice for radio – never used, much to my consternation.
He let me stay at his place for two months, years ago.
He rides a motorbike.
He has several piercings that are NSFW.
He’s a great photographer.
He just polished my parquetry!
Now that’s a good pilgrim.
Although I do worry about him turning my apartment into the House of Cock:
Friday, July 18, 2008
Yum Cha, Dark Knight
Jeffrey picked me up in a cab to head to Chinatown early this afternoon.
I’ve never has such a quick ride through the city; all the threats against pilgrim-threatening motor travel have been most successful.
We had yum cha at the Golden Something in the mammoth Market City complex and then sat down for The Dark Knight. We were a little early, so we sat in an empty theatre for twenty minutes listening to electro music that elicited 5am memories both of us wished we hadn’t had. All it needed was a tweaking queen asking for a ‘spare ciggie’.
The movie itself was great, totally belying its running length and Heath Ledger is fantastic. He absolutely owns every scene he’s in.
A movie star.
Seriously, from his first appearance, where you get that shock of recognition, he tics and snarls and I then forgot he was dead until his final scene, and then it became unnervingly sad.
Still, highly recommended.
I wish I had points system…
I’ve never has such a quick ride through the city; all the threats against pilgrim-threatening motor travel have been most successful.
We had yum cha at the Golden Something in the mammoth Market City complex and then sat down for The Dark Knight. We were a little early, so we sat in an empty theatre for twenty minutes listening to electro music that elicited 5am memories both of us wished we hadn’t had. All it needed was a tweaking queen asking for a ‘spare ciggie’.
The movie itself was great, totally belying its running length and Heath Ledger is fantastic. He absolutely owns every scene he’s in.
A movie star.
Seriously, from his first appearance, where you get that shock of recognition, he tics and snarls and I then forgot he was dead until his final scene, and then it became unnervingly sad.
Still, highly recommended.
I wish I had points system…
HiDarl canoodle
I do love the word 'canoodle', particularly as it seems to be the exclusive domain of celebrities.
No one ever refers to having had a really good canoodle last night, yet magazines are constantly referring to this titillating activity.
Well!
I witnessed a bona fide canoodle on my way up Liverpool Street this afternoon. On my way home after lunch, I noticed a pretty, skinny chick in skintight pants and one of those superfluous loopy scarves. And big sunglasses. She looked vaguely familiar.
Then I noticed she was with a vaguely girly guy in equally tight jeans - Omigod, it's Daniel Johns from Silverchair.
I've seen Daniel Johns up close (at Club Kooky, once, briefly) and the man is fucking gorgeous. Seriously pretty.
Anyway, I clicked and was momentarily thrown - the two of them together seemed definitely aware of their impact, which was fairly fabulous. They stopped outside the Darlo Bar and had a flagrant moment of young love (not quite a pash, more a kiss-and-giggle-I-wuv-you-too moment) but then I realised I was staring - at a rock star and his hot new model girlfriend who's totally made him forget all about Natalie!! - so I crossed the street, happy but perplexed.
Men like Daniel Johns totally jam my gaydar.
No one ever refers to having had a really good canoodle last night, yet magazines are constantly referring to this titillating activity.
Well!
I witnessed a bona fide canoodle on my way up Liverpool Street this afternoon. On my way home after lunch, I noticed a pretty, skinny chick in skintight pants and one of those superfluous loopy scarves. And big sunglasses. She looked vaguely familiar.
Then I noticed she was with a vaguely girly guy in equally tight jeans - Omigod, it's Daniel Johns from Silverchair.
I've seen Daniel Johns up close (at Club Kooky, once, briefly) and the man is fucking gorgeous. Seriously pretty.
Anyway, I clicked and was momentarily thrown - the two of them together seemed definitely aware of their impact, which was fairly fabulous. They stopped outside the Darlo Bar and had a flagrant moment of young love (not quite a pash, more a kiss-and-giggle-I-wuv-you-too moment) but then I realised I was staring - at a rock star and his hot new model girlfriend who's totally made him forget all about Natalie!! - so I crossed the street, happy but perplexed.
Men like Daniel Johns totally jam my gaydar.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
WALL-E now, please
WALL-E is by far the most exciting movie prospect since at least two Pixar movies ago.
It looks sensational.
The fact that Ella Fitzgerald's "At Last" is used to introduce the Eve robot is enough:
I'm beyond describing my geek overload.
I just want a job with those people.
I mean - look at him:
Rapturous reviews aside, I honestly think these days Pixar movies are the only ones to genuinely excuse a sickie and/or 'doctor's appointment', etc.
It looks sensational.
The fact that Ella Fitzgerald's "At Last" is used to introduce the Eve robot is enough:
I'm beyond describing my geek overload.
I just want a job with those people.
I mean - look at him:
Rapturous reviews aside, I honestly think these days Pixar movies are the only ones to genuinely excuse a sickie and/or 'doctor's appointment', etc.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Pope-washing
For the past several months - and for periods over years now - Oxford Street has been ablaze with empowering rainbow banners like these:
Now they're gone, thanks to the Pope. But when you think of it, any sort of cultural event takes precedence over this arguably tenuous symbol of community.
Besides, they're a kind of ugly slap in the face when you see the reality on street level...
Now they're gone, thanks to the Pope. But when you think of it, any sort of cultural event takes precedence over this arguably tenuous symbol of community.
Besides, they're a kind of ugly slap in the face when you see the reality on street level...
Voice of the 'community'
A selection of unposted missives from the creme de la creme of the Sydney gay community to yours truly over the past few weeks:
*Sweet cheeks? Don't you mean cracked, dry, flaky cheeks in need of about 1kg of concealer?
*I see your blog is dead and hasnt been updated for ages. Didn't last long did it?
*Why do poncey queens always love trashy camp things like shitty pop 'music' and Eurovision?
*So, have you gone yet? Didn't think so. You'll never leave the ghetto...
*If Lois hates drag queens so much, why does he post a drawing of himself as a drag queen wearing a wig and lipstick? You're really fucked-up, Lois!
*Maybe not but you are an unpleasant bitch as all of Gay Sydney knows!
*anyone who's ever met you would disagree. You're an unpleasant bitch good and proper!
*What a drama queen! How many time have you done this now?????
*Sick bitch, getting your kicks spying on people having sex and taking pics of them. Yuck. I bet you wank with your free hand too. Closest to sex you'd get I reckon...
I fully expect the many pathetic time-wealthy trolls empowered by the anonymity of the internet whose heartfelt messages I've failed to pass on will be in contact shortly.
This could be an ongoing exercise.
Stay tuned...
The Holy Grail
The Holy Grail of the capable but lazy is the permanent part-time job.
I think I've got it.
I'm just waiting to hear the two days I can get.
I'm angling for Thursday/Friday... fingers crossed.
This will be my ever-so-brief ciggie break view should this come to pass:
I think I've got it.
I'm just waiting to hear the two days I can get.
I'm angling for Thursday/Friday... fingers crossed.
This will be my ever-so-brief ciggie break view should this come to pass:
Lest ye be judged
It’s day five of Ray’s pilgrimage and all’s well.
After my night in the bathtub he expressed his mortification and graciously resolved to camp out in my bathroom with the rubber mat and sleeping bag he’d brought with him. Momentary guilt was swiftly overrun by relief and we haven’t had a bad night’s sleep since.
I haven’t seen much of him during the day – he headed to the big mass (sans Pope) yesterday and came home absolutely knackered, although he was pleased he’d taken his step ladder to taker better photos (and infuriate the pilgrims unfortunate enough to be standing behind him).
Anyway, Cheap Gay Beer night at the Oxford this evening had its queens on the smoking deck making fun of the amassed groups of visitors outside – notably the assumption of their repressed sexual urges and their tendency to dress alike – and the irony did not escape me as I surveyed the crossed legs and coordinating cotton casuals around me…
Having taken Ray to the gayest non-gay pub in town, the Green Park, on Sunday, and witnessed its layers of surveillance and whispered asides, I do question our own (self-)judgment.
After my night in the bathtub he expressed his mortification and graciously resolved to camp out in my bathroom with the rubber mat and sleeping bag he’d brought with him. Momentary guilt was swiftly overrun by relief and we haven’t had a bad night’s sleep since.
I haven’t seen much of him during the day – he headed to the big mass (sans Pope) yesterday and came home absolutely knackered, although he was pleased he’d taken his step ladder to taker better photos (and infuriate the pilgrims unfortunate enough to be standing behind him).
Anyway, Cheap Gay Beer night at the Oxford this evening had its queens on the smoking deck making fun of the amassed groups of visitors outside – notably the assumption of their repressed sexual urges and their tendency to dress alike – and the irony did not escape me as I surveyed the crossed legs and coordinating cotton casuals around me…
Having taken Ray to the gayest non-gay pub in town, the Green Park, on Sunday, and witnessed its layers of surveillance and whispered asides, I do question our own (self-)judgment.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Howdy pilgrim
An old mate Ray arrived from the Gold Coast on Sunday. He's staying with me for a week and plans to attend a number of papal shenanigans as part of World Youth Day. A former journo, he'll be taking photos for a religious paper, sleeping overnight at Randwick Racecourse and generally wandering about town in his Official Pilgrim T-shirt and Passport.
I think he's insane myself, but hey.
I went with him to the uniform and accreditation centre off Broadway while he picked up his $300 backpack full of tat and was amazed by the number of nuns and priests in casual wear (read: full habit and Reeboks). Everyone seems genuinely excited and I'm finding it difficult to muster my usual level of sarcasm. Ray himself doesn't take it all too seriously and I'm happy to be swept up in the moment.
It's only another week after all.
Problem is, Ray snores like one of those car alarms that has half a dozen different tones. Last night it was relentless and deafening, to the point where I ended up sleeping in the bathtub.
I shit you not. I think I'll load up on beer and Valium tonight.
Honestly, the things I do for the Catholic Church...
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Can everyone please log off?
For two days running I've been unable to get on the internet - not even a fucking dial tone.
On the occasion I do get a dial tone, it's interrupted by an infuriatingly polite female voice telling me traffic in my area is 'congested'.
The urge to stick my head out the window and scream 'Get off Gaydar for Christ's sake!' has never been stronger.
I'm typing this in the fluorescent hell that is the internet cafe of Buddys Convenience Store on Oxford Street. Lack of apostrophe duly noted.
It's empty, quietish but, yes, really really bright.
Actually, ditch the 'quiet' - someone outside is yelling at someone to 'fuck off' repeatedly.
I really have to get broadband. I just have to wait for that first paycheck to arrive...
On the occasion I do get a dial tone, it's interrupted by an infuriatingly polite female voice telling me traffic in my area is 'congested'.
The urge to stick my head out the window and scream 'Get off Gaydar for Christ's sake!' has never been stronger.
I'm typing this in the fluorescent hell that is the internet cafe of Buddys Convenience Store on Oxford Street. Lack of apostrophe duly noted.
It's empty, quietish but, yes, really really bright.
Actually, ditch the 'quiet' - someone outside is yelling at someone to 'fuck off' repeatedly.
I really have to get broadband. I just have to wait for that first paycheck to arrive...
Friday, June 27, 2008
Across the universe
The Miss Universe is a not-even-remotely guilty pleasure, especially when it comes to the national costume. Every year, Australians who care about such things wring their hands in fear that we’ll be embarrassed by another shrimp-wielding Crocodile Dundette or overly made-up lifesaver.
Jayson Brunsdon did ours this year and I like it. It’s meant to represent the sand, ocean, outback blah blah, but above all it’s pretty:
There are some pretty spectacular efforts elsewhere. I noted a certain superhero tone to some of the European entries (Miss Czech Republic's just begging for disaster in that cape):
While others opted for a more approachable, ‘I’ll be your entertainment for the evening’ vibe:
Many of the smaller nations clearly had global warming on their mind, with dresses that suggested they were already at least half-submerged:
For some bizarre reason, Miss Dominican Republic is dressed like a baseball player:
And as for for Miss Malaysia, I have no idea why she's wearing a shawl (is she worried about getting cold?) but I do like the fact she's carrying a deadly weapon:
Bound to come in handy at some point.
Jayson Brunsdon did ours this year and I like it. It’s meant to represent the sand, ocean, outback blah blah, but above all it’s pretty:
There are some pretty spectacular efforts elsewhere. I noted a certain superhero tone to some of the European entries (Miss Czech Republic's just begging for disaster in that cape):
While others opted for a more approachable, ‘I’ll be your entertainment for the evening’ vibe:
Many of the smaller nations clearly had global warming on their mind, with dresses that suggested they were already at least half-submerged:
For some bizarre reason, Miss Dominican Republic is dressed like a baseball player:
And as for for Miss Malaysia, I have no idea why she's wearing a shawl (is she worried about getting cold?) but I do like the fact she's carrying a deadly weapon:
Bound to come in handy at some point.
Gay ad horror #3
This is the latest house ad for the Sydney Star Observer. I’m baffled:
While I do concur that yes, it is irritating when one has run out of toilet paper, is it really wise to draw comparisons to one’s publication?
Are they reminding those particularly forgetful readers that it will indeed be back out on the streets next Thursday – like it is every other bloody week?
Or are they advertising a re-design, suggesting the old one looks like shit?
We may never know.
While I do concur that yes, it is irritating when one has run out of toilet paper, is it really wise to draw comparisons to one’s publication?
Are they reminding those particularly forgetful readers that it will indeed be back out on the streets next Thursday – like it is every other bloody week?
Or are they advertising a re-design, suggesting the old one looks like shit?
We may never know.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
A bridge too far
I admit it. I am not cut out for the world of women's magazines.
I just finished the second day of what was to be a three-week stint at a high-selling women's magazine. After the first hour I knew I was doomed. The people were perfectly pleasant and I was capable of doing the work, but the thought of spending all that time subbing drivel about mums and kiddies and recipes and weight-loss tips, not to mention the travails of Nicole and Keith/Katie and Tom/Princess Mary and her post-baby body was too much to bear.
I get the feeling I gave off a bit of a 'kill me now' vibe – I believe I used the term "I'm not really engaging with the product" – because a mutual decision was made that maybe, just maybe, I wasn't suited to the position.
Cue me doing a happy dance in my living room.
The other downside to the job was that the office is in McMahons Point, across the harbour. Now I love crossing the bridge as much as anyone, but preferably not in a train carriage crammed with grim-faced commuters. It certainly wasn't like this:
That shot is part of a great Harold Cazneaux exhibition on at the Art Gallery of NSW at the moment, which I saw with Mick on the weekend. We wandered around the gallery and saw some other cool stuff, although at some of the contemporary works I could only stand and think, "Well, it is... big, isn't it."
My art-appreciation span seems to have shrunk over the years...
In any case, I have other work lined up and it doesn't involve an Irwin or a Hewitt. I am truly grateful for small mercies.
I just finished the second day of what was to be a three-week stint at a high-selling women's magazine. After the first hour I knew I was doomed. The people were perfectly pleasant and I was capable of doing the work, but the thought of spending all that time subbing drivel about mums and kiddies and recipes and weight-loss tips, not to mention the travails of Nicole and Keith/Katie and Tom/Princess Mary and her post-baby body was too much to bear.
I get the feeling I gave off a bit of a 'kill me now' vibe – I believe I used the term "I'm not really engaging with the product" – because a mutual decision was made that maybe, just maybe, I wasn't suited to the position.
Cue me doing a happy dance in my living room.
The other downside to the job was that the office is in McMahons Point, across the harbour. Now I love crossing the bridge as much as anyone, but preferably not in a train carriage crammed with grim-faced commuters. It certainly wasn't like this:
That shot is part of a great Harold Cazneaux exhibition on at the Art Gallery of NSW at the moment, which I saw with Mick on the weekend. We wandered around the gallery and saw some other cool stuff, although at some of the contemporary works I could only stand and think, "Well, it is... big, isn't it."
My art-appreciation span seems to have shrunk over the years...
In any case, I have other work lined up and it doesn't involve an Irwin or a Hewitt. I am truly grateful for small mercies.
Monday, June 16, 2008
It's cold outside
It finally feels like winter.
Yesterday was miserable, in the best sense of the word. Cold, windy, wet.
It kept the Oxford’s deck empty:
I don’t get it; this is perfect socialising weather.
I guess everyone was on Manhunt or some other audition/rejection tool…
Yesterday was miserable, in the best sense of the word. Cold, windy, wet.
It kept the Oxford’s deck empty:
I don’t get it; this is perfect socialising weather.
I guess everyone was on Manhunt or some other audition/rejection tool…
Saturday, June 14, 2008
I'm seeing things
Stumbled on a fantastic website today. Mighty Optical illusions - moillusions.com
It's devoted entirely to optical illusions and related geekery.
It has a lot of Escher stuff, which is beautifully unnerving:
Plus it has even more mindfucking, supposedly real equivalents:
The comments forum alone is worth the visit.
It's devoted entirely to optical illusions and related geekery.
It has a lot of Escher stuff, which is beautifully unnerving:
Plus it has even more mindfucking, supposedly real equivalents:
The comments forum alone is worth the visit.
'Headey herey'
I’ve noticed ‘Headey herey’ in repeated form is the peculiar but regular and quite effective way that magazine designers/art people alert their fellow sub-editors that they must come up with a headline to encapsulate the spirit of the article in question. Or just type in something that fits.
I witnessed a truly unpleasant – and wildly unrelated – version of this phrase at 6.30 yesterday morning.
Almost immediately after my wake-up call, I heard a muffled but urgent conversation in Lois Lane – another one. Working-girl sex, I figured. But no…
They were in their early twenties, both male. I witnessed them preparing some sort of drug (I didn’t hover, that bit’s always prolonged and tedious) but when I checked again to see if they were still there as I was ready to head to work a half an hour later, they were both clearly wired, irretrievably flaccid and furiously, pointlessly trying to get off. Lots of head-bobbing and frantic limp dick-tugging; a tragic puppet show.
It was far too depressing to photograph.
I witnessed a truly unpleasant – and wildly unrelated – version of this phrase at 6.30 yesterday morning.
Almost immediately after my wake-up call, I heard a muffled but urgent conversation in Lois Lane – another one. Working-girl sex, I figured. But no…
They were in their early twenties, both male. I witnessed them preparing some sort of drug (I didn’t hover, that bit’s always prolonged and tedious) but when I checked again to see if they were still there as I was ready to head to work a half an hour later, they were both clearly wired, irretrievably flaccid and furiously, pointlessly trying to get off. Lots of head-bobbing and frantic limp dick-tugging; a tragic puppet show.
It was far too depressing to photograph.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Mission semi-accomplished
Well my first shift is over and I’m absolutely knackered.
It started with the chief sub-editor giving me a tour of the program I’d be using along with InDesign, the name of which now eludes me (Sacko? Sago?). He seemed genuinely enthused by its powers, but they frankly scared the shit out of me and I started to glaze over in a kind of involuntary defense response.
I’ve always preferred flight to fight.
Fortunately, I had Eliza sitting next to me, who lived up to her lovely reputation and proved to be unfailingly helpful and polite as I hammered her with inane questions and feeble pleas for help when the computer refused to do what I wanted. When I quietly freaked out as an entire paragraph suddenly and mysteriously disappeared, she calmly came to my desk and, with a few swift keystrokes, conjured up the wayward text.
She was even unflappable when, as I was sub-editing an article on Sydney’s best day spas, I asked her, “It says ‘dessert lime facials’. Do you think that should be ‘desert lime facials’?”
Well, you never know.
It seems I wasn’t completely incompetent because I’m heading there again tomorrow, starting at 8am. It took almost an hour to get there so I’ll use my trusty wake-up call service once more.
I’ll also get a double-strength coffee at Bar Coluzzi beforehand – Alexandria’s semi-industrial wasteland is a confronting sight first thing in the morning.
It started with the chief sub-editor giving me a tour of the program I’d be using along with InDesign, the name of which now eludes me (Sacko? Sago?). He seemed genuinely enthused by its powers, but they frankly scared the shit out of me and I started to glaze over in a kind of involuntary defense response.
I’ve always preferred flight to fight.
Fortunately, I had Eliza sitting next to me, who lived up to her lovely reputation and proved to be unfailingly helpful and polite as I hammered her with inane questions and feeble pleas for help when the computer refused to do what I wanted. When I quietly freaked out as an entire paragraph suddenly and mysteriously disappeared, she calmly came to my desk and, with a few swift keystrokes, conjured up the wayward text.
She was even unflappable when, as I was sub-editing an article on Sydney’s best day spas, I asked her, “It says ‘dessert lime facials’. Do you think that should be ‘desert lime facials’?”
Well, you never know.
It seems I wasn’t completely incompetent because I’m heading there again tomorrow, starting at 8am. It took almost an hour to get there so I’ll use my trusty wake-up call service once more.
I’ll also get a double-strength coffee at Bar Coluzzi beforehand – Alexandria’s semi-industrial wasteland is a confronting sight first thing in the morning.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
8 to 6
I head to work tomorrow. A 'casual sub' once more. Tentative 'yay'.
I like this sort of gig; I get to fix the poor writing of others, come up with the occasional glib headline and pic cap (that's industry lingo) and generally switch into auto-pilot.
For a more-than-decent pay, no less.
I owe this to John Burfitt, a fellow journo who I incidentally passed last week as I was walking home along Bourke Street. He asked what I'd been up to; I basically told him 'fuck all'. He made a couple of suggestions and now I have a couple of jobs.
God bless the gay girlfriend network! (This is not to suggest that John is girly in any form, mind you, although the other job, which starts in a couple of weeks, is about as camp as you can get outside the gay press.)
My one concern is that I have to contend with the InDesign program, wherein you sub-edit on screen. I last dealt with this three years ago at the Sydney Morning Herald, so I fully expect to feel like Jane Fonda duelling with the Xerox machine in 9 to 5, minus the curly wig and spectacles:
To make matters worse, the hours are 8 to 6.
Potentially amusing, probably mortifying. I hope I sleep well tonight...
I like this sort of gig; I get to fix the poor writing of others, come up with the occasional glib headline and pic cap (that's industry lingo) and generally switch into auto-pilot.
For a more-than-decent pay, no less.
I owe this to John Burfitt, a fellow journo who I incidentally passed last week as I was walking home along Bourke Street. He asked what I'd been up to; I basically told him 'fuck all'. He made a couple of suggestions and now I have a couple of jobs.
God bless the gay girlfriend network! (This is not to suggest that John is girly in any form, mind you, although the other job, which starts in a couple of weeks, is about as camp as you can get outside the gay press.)
My one concern is that I have to contend with the InDesign program, wherein you sub-edit on screen. I last dealt with this three years ago at the Sydney Morning Herald, so I fully expect to feel like Jane Fonda duelling with the Xerox machine in 9 to 5, minus the curly wig and spectacles:
To make matters worse, the hours are 8 to 6.
Potentially amusing, probably mortifying. I hope I sleep well tonight...
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Signs of the times
Taylor Square is currently sponsored by iPod - three huge billboards:
I was gazing at this one on Saturday night when I overheard a bizarre exchange at the Courthouse Hotel. Never let it be said it doesn't provide cultural diversity.
As one bloke handed a photo to another, he said, "Have a Captain Cook, here's me tin lids."
Who knew Cockney rhyming slang was alive and well?
(Translation: Captain Cook = 'look'; tin lids = 'kids')
I was gazing at this one on Saturday night when I overheard a bizarre exchange at the Courthouse Hotel. Never let it be said it doesn't provide cultural diversity.
As one bloke handed a photo to another, he said, "Have a Captain Cook, here's me tin lids."
Who knew Cockney rhyming slang was alive and well?
(Translation: Captain Cook = 'look'; tin lids = 'kids')
Troll zen
Had a blissfully computer-free, albeit rainy, long weekend with Mick.
This morning I received my emails and found a bunch of anonymous comments, which prompted me to ponder that zen riddle of the 21st century:
If a troll makes a nasty comment and it doesn't get posted, does it make a sound?
This morning I received my emails and found a bunch of anonymous comments, which prompted me to ponder that zen riddle of the 21st century:
If a troll makes a nasty comment and it doesn't get posted, does it make a sound?
Friday, June 6, 2008
Pleasant surprise
Popped into the Oxford on Tuesday night for a quick beer and discovered it was live performance night.
Fortunately, it didn't involve discount sequins, tired showtunes or the deathless claim, "The more you drink the better we look!":
That's David Andrew and Arrnott Olssen. They both had amazing voices and performed a string of great songs. They'll be there again next week. Well worth checking out.
Fortunately, it didn't involve discount sequins, tired showtunes or the deathless claim, "The more you drink the better we look!":
That's David Andrew and Arrnott Olssen. They both had amazing voices and performed a string of great songs. They'll be there again next week. Well worth checking out.
The end was nigh
The miserable wet weather produced the most fantastic anti-sunset last night - a dramatic pink fog:
It was like the end of the world and looked far prettier than I expected.
It was like the end of the world and looked far prettier than I expected.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Random cool dude
Okay, it's late. I'm putting off going to bed, going through old photos, and I came across this.
New York, 2000.
He didn't say a word - he just gestured for a cigarette as I walked past.
I gave him one then asked if I could take his photograph.
He nodded almost imperceptibly:
New York, 2000.
He didn't say a word - he just gestured for a cigarette as I walked past.
I gave him one then asked if I could take his photograph.
He nodded almost imperceptibly:
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Ignorance is bliss; rejection is sweet
I thought I should keep the comments on this blog open, basically because I figured that's what one did on this sort of thing - open forum, you know.
Then the nasty personal comments started, which is fine if they have a whiff of intelligence.
But no, they were about my HIV and imaginary lesions and such - hideous ignorance that would never see the light of day in reality - so I had qualms, you might say.
Someone who calls himself RW stood out as a particularly toxic queen (tough competition) and someone else suggested he was an ex-boyfriend of mine who shares those initials.
I disregarded this, then 'RW' wrote:
"I'm sorry I've been nasty to you. I won't post here anymore. I've been having lots of trouble with substance abuse and when I'm out if it have said terrible things. Please forgive me - I won't post on here again. I've been thinking about you a lot lately and remembering the times we had. If you want, get in touch"
But - goodness me - the 'real' RW now tells me:
"*I* am RW and my name is not Russell. Stop impersonating me dickhead!"
I suppose I should use this opportunity to tell those fucking useless, dickless queens that I am moderating comments from now on. Anyone can comment, but you no longer have a say unless you actually have something to say.
It will still be as tedious for me, but not for others.
I presume most of the cunts belong to the idiot army of B-grade drag queen supporters. We may never know. Feel sorry for them.
Anyway, we can all move on now. That would be a big 'yay' for all concerned.
Then the nasty personal comments started, which is fine if they have a whiff of intelligence.
But no, they were about my HIV and imaginary lesions and such - hideous ignorance that would never see the light of day in reality - so I had qualms, you might say.
Someone who calls himself RW stood out as a particularly toxic queen (tough competition) and someone else suggested he was an ex-boyfriend of mine who shares those initials.
I disregarded this, then 'RW' wrote:
"I'm sorry I've been nasty to you. I won't post here anymore. I've been having lots of trouble with substance abuse and when I'm out if it have said terrible things. Please forgive me - I won't post on here again. I've been thinking about you a lot lately and remembering the times we had. If you want, get in touch"
But - goodness me - the 'real' RW now tells me:
"*I* am RW and my name is not Russell. Stop impersonating me dickhead!"
I suppose I should use this opportunity to tell those fucking useless, dickless queens that I am moderating comments from now on. Anyone can comment, but you no longer have a say unless you actually have something to say.
It will still be as tedious for me, but not for others.
I presume most of the cunts belong to the idiot army of B-grade drag queen supporters. We may never know. Feel sorry for them.
Anyway, we can all move on now. That would be a big 'yay' for all concerned.
Tony and Crissy were lovers
The working girls in my neighbourhood, in lieu of mobile phones, use chalk on the sidewalk to leave messages to one another. Sometimes, it’s a pimp, or what I imagine is one.
The two major practitioners of this were Tony and Crissy. For a good two years I’d come across messages, which started off in a romantic tone (note the more formal Carissa in the first one):
Gradually, though, these missives became decidedly less loving, then downright nasty. Clearly, theirs was a tempestuous relationship:
Crissy, though, had her defenders:
But then Tony would lose it and lash out with a totally incongruous insult:
This is just a sampling of their very public relationship and sadly there haven’t been any messages from either Tony or Crissy in over a year now.
I often wonder what became of them, although maybe this was the final plaintive cry:
The two major practitioners of this were Tony and Crissy. For a good two years I’d come across messages, which started off in a romantic tone (note the more formal Carissa in the first one):
Gradually, though, these missives became decidedly less loving, then downright nasty. Clearly, theirs was a tempestuous relationship:
Crissy, though, had her defenders:
But then Tony would lose it and lash out with a totally incongruous insult:
This is just a sampling of their very public relationship and sadly there haven’t been any messages from either Tony or Crissy in over a year now.
I often wonder what became of them, although maybe this was the final plaintive cry:
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)