Please click the 'Apply Now' button

”[A certain company] is seeking a talented Editor to take the reigns [sic] of two of its bimonthly magazines, Creative Knitting and Creative Cardmaking. Both magazines require a passionate and energetic editor who will lead the discussion and take them to new highs.”

This was, by far, the most realistic and appealing offer on the major job website today.
Seriously, I think I’m in with a chance.

I foolishly began making cards for my mother in my pre-teens and believe me – once you start, there’s no escape.
I am now the queen of heartfelt expressions on construction paper.
I have had to become increasingly inventive, if not elaborate, in my exertions to avoid actually having to spend any money on a present. It’s become a blessing in disguise, I suppose.
Believe me, a bit of imagination, a sharp blade and a tube of Uhu glue will outshine any David Jones gift pack.

Typo alert

After a furtive Google, I discovered that Klash007 is a female artist from Berlin determined “to liberate the conditioned mind”, who is also "feeding off hybridity, androgyny and self-expression".
I bet she’d love to express herself about this signage at the aptly named Blank Space gallery on Crown Street in Surry Hills.

Don't axe, don't tell

My mate Lance came over last night with a DVD. He’s an endless source of viewing amusement and he didn’t disappoint:


I’ve seen that still of Joan Crawford wielding an axe before but I’d never seen the movie it came from – Strait-Jacket (1964).
Joan is at her Joaniest throughout, thanks to a fantastic wig and Special Joan Lighting, which has a shaft of flattering light follow her everywhere she goes. Even better than the movie itself were the extras, including a behind-the-scenes documentary plus costume and lighting tests.

In the latter, Joan is magnificent. Not content with merely getting the lighting right, she emotes throughout the process, throwing face like only she could:


In fact, she acts her guts out through the whole affair. It wasn’t nearly as bad as I was expecting, although the beyond-fake decapitations are pretty hysterical.

Todd McKenney in G Overdose Shock!

"LOL...they spiked his drink AND left a vile in his pocket... imagine that! Poor baby."
This sums up the thoughts (if not spelling ability) of most of the commentors on the SameSame blog.
It's getting nasty.

For the uninitiated:
Todd was found unconscious in Rushcutters Bay Park on Friday afternoon with a vial of GHB in his pocket.
He was the star in The Boy From Oz in Australia before Hugh Jackman took the coveted Broadway spot.
He may never have recovered from this and, frankly, who'd blame him?

Searching for meaning

Had a lovely lunch with mum and dad yesterday at Rushcutters Bay Park.
It was a beautiful mild day by the harbour, surrounded by children playing, mothers chatting, dogs sniffing...

Then I had to use the toilet and came across this:


Is it a threat? A warning? A radical new AIDS Council initiative?
Perhaps the person was in the process of writing a damning screed on sexual deviance when someone walked in and ruined the moment?
We may never know, although it could very well be the same individual responsible for this equally inscrutable effort from a few years ago:

Men's (in)convenience

Of all the terms for a place in which to take a piss - lavatory, restroom, bathroom, facility - my favourite would have to be 'convenience'.

The men's convenience at Taylor Square (circa 1907) has been closed since I've been in the neighbourhood and it's the source of much speculation.
Will it become a fabulous new cosmopolitan cafe? Will it be connected to the Oxford Hotel via underground access? Will it languish, as it has for years, as an impromptu urinal/garbage bin for the disenfranchised?

It's housed a few temporary art exhibitions in the past and is recognised in a 'Statement of Significance' by the NSW Government Heritage Branch, but I fear it will remain as is for some time.

I have no idea who Creon is.

Fill this space

Inner-Sydney real estate is at a premium, which is why this huge hole in the ground fascinates me:


At the corner of Riley and Albion Streets in Surry Hills, it's been like this for years; continuous rain has turned it into a filthy swimming pool for the adventurous.
I presume it's being held aside for yet another stack of highly expensive squash courts masquerading as lifestyle investments, which will undoubtedly be sold with the lure of 'Manhattan-style views'.
Much like the promise that the windswept wasteland of William Street will become a 'Parisian boulevard', this remains dubious.

I particularly like the futile anger of the 'for all cop haters' grafitti - where hardly anyone can see it.

Sydney flashback #4

'Free supper served at 4am.'
So civilised.

Again, this is from the Sydney Cruiser, circa 1980:


Fun fact! The Barrel Inn's address now houses the swank Italian restaurant Fratelli Paradiso.

Too personal?

The internet has made hooking up a lot easier, sure, but a Gaydar profile just doesn’t have the poignancy of a good old-fashioned personals ad.
While not as prevalent as they used to be, these matter-of-fact little cries for help still crop up in the back pages of the gay papers and always provide a chuckle, if not an insight into the mating rituals of the modern homosexual.

The personals ad can also function as a platform on which to build a social network:


Mr SSE hasn’t called for likeminded friends for a few years now, so I hope this means he’s happily wallowing in bodily fluids as I type.

I’ve noticed this particular format is popular among the 'curious' and those who harbour a transvestite fetish, although the ads below could very well be from the one person:




The most important thing to remember when placing a personals ad over the phone is to prepare your message, otherwise you could end up with something like this:


I hope she at least bought some Soothers.

Have we met before?

One of the few things from Geography class that stuck in my brain was the concept of market agglomeration, wherein likeminded businesses mass together.
An example of this can be found on the two blocks of Crown Street south of Oxford, where a number of shops selling pre-loved clothing (okay, ‘vintage’, whatever) line both sides of the street: C’s Flashback, Zoo and Grandma Takes a Trip among them.

Interestingly, smack-bang in the middle of all the plaid shirts and polyester is Headquarters, arguably Sydney’s sleaziest sex-on-premises venue.
Any suggestion that this makes it a purveyor of second-hand goods is totally unwarranted.

Untwink #6

The Transformer Ladder Man is a regular morning distraction.
During Mornings with Kerri-Anne he pops up every so often to spruik the versatile marvels of the Transformer Ladder. Intriguingly, he’s dressed in a skin-tight casual ensemble – bouncer daywear, if you will – with a dog tag hanging from a neckchain.

He’s a handyman with just a touch of the Sopranos and my, what a big ladder he has. I imagine housewives sitting at home, witnessing his sure hand with that almighty apparatus and visualising him reaching those difficult-to-access spots their husbands haven’t cared about in years.

He’s a far sight better than those shiny robo-hunks grinning as they bend back and forth on some home-gym fabtraption.

Today...

Today, being ANZAC Day, is awash with nostalgia and documentary footage and live feeds from dawn services. I feel strangely disconnected from it all.

Today is also my father's birthday. His 70th. You'd imagine we'd be planning a big get-together or at least a meal in a nice restaurant but no, he doesn't want to do anything. At all.
Fine by me - I haven't finished making his card yet.

Today also marks the end of Gay Bash, a two(?)-year-old party night that caused a bit of a ruckus with is ironic name.
Were they reclaiming the term and thus its power or were they merely encouraging those unable to grasp its humour?

Meh. My only brief experience with the Gay Bash crowd was upstairs at the Oxford on Mardi Gras night.
Squeezing through them to the smoking balcony I noticed lots of boys in skinny jeans with sticky hair and girlfriends wearing too much makeup.
All very 'non-scene'.

3pm weekdays on 7

Freelance work has its pros and cons. Sometimes things fall into both categories, namely daytime television.

I have to admit my TV is on pretty much all day, so I have become intimately acquainted with its highs (the occasional midday movie treat) and lows (that fallow period from 4pm).
It does sometimes cause confusion. Whenever the audience on Gladiators does that 3, 2, 1 countdown, it’s almost impossible for me not to yell out “Stop cooking!”
Thank you, Ready, Steady, Cook.

Today, though, heralds a great moment for the homebound – the return of The Golden Girls. Even better, they’re starting from the very beginning - the pilot episode that had Coco the gay chef, who never appeared again. That I find myself genuinely excited about this could be seen as a sign of desperation, but it hasn’t been on TV for ages so I see it as a reason to celebrate.
I think the last time I saw it was at the Midnight Shift many years ago when they used to screen it every week.
It never failed to draw a capacity crowd.

The trip to St Vinnies

Just returned from my monthly pilgrimage to St Vincent’s Hospital to pick up my medication.
Nevirapine, Tenofovir, Atazanavir and Ritonavir - mine for only $100!

It usually takes about 15 minutes or so to fill the prescription, so I sat in the garden outside the main building and defied the ‘no smoking’ signs while watching the passing parade of people in varying states of incapacity.
It’s a pretty little landscaped space dotted with benches and statuary, such as this figure of Saint Joseph:


It also often has solitary men like this one looking pensive and sad; I always imagine their wives being treated inside for some ailment.
It can be quite depressing if you let your imagination run away from you.

On the upside, I noticed today that it also provides plenty of comfortable spots to have a good lie down:

Encounter with nature

My mate Jeffrey and I did a circuitous lap today of the surrounding neighbourhood and came across a surprise discovery.
Mushrooms are something I usually see - and generally ignore - in a supermarket.
I do not expect them to be cropping up in large formations in a park in Elizabeth Bay.

Beare Park, to be exact, right across from where I used to live:

Gay ad horror #2

Now, I know from experience that the creation of so-called 'in-house' ads - i.e. selling the publication itself or its sundry affiliates - is fraught with commercial concerns. That is to say, the sales department handle it - you never know what you're going to get.
This one, however, brings it to a new level:


The Sydney Star Observer is almost 30 years old. It's the most common source for the mainstream press whenever something miraculously both homosexual and newsworthy occurs and they need a quote. It means something.

This makes it look like a regional monthly without the resources to hire someone who knows 'thursdays' does not require nor does it want an apostrophe.
The drag queen I'll leave alone, but the new SSO masthead...

I just want to know where on earth they found that BMX font.

Sydney flashback #3

The art deco Albury Hotel on Oxford Street, Paddington, lasted two decades as a gay venue from 1980 and was, if this advert is any indication, a bastion of butch in its early days. By the time I got there in the late ’80s, however, it was a drag mecca.
It also had the muscliest muscle Mary bartenders in town, several of whom appeared in ‘adult’ films, courtesy of a visit to town by director Kristen Bjorn (see Sailor in Sydney and Manly Beach).

I had many great nights at the Albury. The Kylie Show was amazing for the massive crowds it pulled; dozens of screaming queens spilling out onto the footpath was always a sight.
I’ll also never forget Bernina Bod performing ‘Climb Every Moutain’ – in a wheelchair.

In 2000, the owners sold the venue. It’s now a Puma store.

A huge fan of gays

The term 'gays' is bad enough, but when emerging from the mouth of Tori Spelling it makes me cringe just that little bit more.

In today's Daily Telegraph:

Shifting sands

The Midnight Shift has announced it's no longer opening on Saturday nights upstairs.
Jesus.
As a few people have commented, they should seriously reconsider their staff-hiring policy. They might be pretty, but they seem to care fuck-all for the community.
Chatter amongst themselves, sure. Smirking asides about certain patrons? You bet!

The Shift deserves better.

The nohawk

Increasingly popular in gay Sydney at the moment is the nohawk, a wan, mutant mohawk that doesn't quite achieve the edgy menace it's striving for; it's less Mad Max warrior, more double lobotomy patient.

I don't get it.

Spitting image

Now that my brain is back in full-blown fashion mode (a seldom-discussed chronic manageable illness), I feel compelled to complain about the difficulty in finding a decent, plain T-shirt.

Everywhere you go, every T-shirt has, for the want of a better word, shit all over it.
Logos, doodles, would-be-profound slogans or, my pet hate, what looks like the ejaculate of some bored and overpaid graphic designer.

Cannily, someone’s cut to the chase, so to speak.

Lo, the EVB Cum Shot T-shirt from eastvillageboys.com:

Battle of the rent-a-poofs

Channel Nine’s Today show and Channel Seven’s Sunrise have been engaged in a vicious battle for the breakfast TV audience for a few years now, with Sunrise ahead by a good margin.

I cannot bear to watch Sunrise. After a few minutes, Melissa Doyle’s inane, grinning bobble-head and David Koch’s laboured controversial asides have me scrambling for the remote. That the latter is always referred to as ‘Kochie’ and their studio is dubbed ‘Brekky Central’ just makes me want to regurgitate my Weet Bix.

An interesting facet of the two programs’ duel to the death is their matching Hollywood gossip reporters. Sunrise has Nelson Aspen, Today has Richard Reid. Both are American. Both are suspiciously tanned. Both have the ‘Hollywood’ sign projected behind them. And both are unquestionably homosexual.

I’m not entirely sure who came first (I think it might have been Nelson), but neither ever seem to have any new gossip at all – I strongly suspect they just go to Perez Hilton’s site and jot down a few notes.

It’s the three-minute gay minstrel show – with a sprinkle of celebrity glitter – that seems to be the sole purpose, an inoffensive diversion with a hint of morning-friendly nudge-nudge, etc. Richard Reid is often making references to “West Hollywood laneways” and the like, which draws a bemused laugh out of the hosts, but it never goes any further than that.
As for Nelson, I couldn’t really say. I only see him by accident on occasion while channel surfing during ad breaks, but I’m pretty sure he winks his way through his segment, so to speak.

It does make me wonder what would happen if these two bumped into each other at a bar or a B-grade celebrity function.
I can picture them slowly approaching each other, curling a lip and then unleashing a big fake smile, baring their enormous, blinding white teeth until one of them backed down or developed lockjaw.

It would make quite the documentary footage.

Here’s Richard, with Nelson below (no screen shot – like I said, I just can’t sit through it).

The other half

I live just around the corner from Darley Street, which has some of the most glamorous piles in Darlinghurst. It’s only two short blocks and doesn’t really strike a single dodgy architectural note, but of course some are more striking than others.

I think Stoneleigh is my favourite:


For one, it’s massive. It also has the tallest, neatest hedge I’ve ever seen (their topiary bill must be daunting). It looks like the headquarters of some elite, hush-hush organisation involving elaborate handshakes and funny hats but is apparently just a family home.
It’s also two doors away from Iona, the abode (more of an estate, really) of director Baz Luhrmann and family. I was going to take a photo of it but when they moved in they put up a huge brush fence to thwart gawkers.

I was also worried about being pounced upon by a well-choreographed troupe of bouncers who might have confiscated my camera. You’ll just have to picture it.

Sydney flashback #2

Picture it: Sydney, 1980. You're sitting at home alone, feeling a little frisky. In fact, you fancy a good wrestle with a strapping young lad.

Luckily for you, Belvoir Boys is here to help:

One step forward...

I’ve finally made my first foray into the dreaded exercise of freelance cold-calling – or, in this case, cold-emailing. It’s not far removed from sitting on the footpath with a sign reading: “Can use a semi-colon, will interview new cast member of Home and Away if necessary.”

Fortunately it seemed to work, although it was my background in fashion that was the clincher. As well as spending three years as a chiffon technician in New York, I worked for seven years with a prominent label in Sydney and still follow the collections online. So, I bluffed my way through a chat about my favourite men’s magazines (GQ? Arena Homme Plus? Details?) and now have to come up with 15 or so story ideas by the end of the week.

The downside? I had to fork out $40 on ‘current issue!’ air-freight magazines to find out what’s new and exciting in the heady realm of menswear.
Are skinny ties out? Is the boot-cut pant really making a comeback? Do loafers belong on anyone other than over-tanned Italian magnates? Such are the burning issues I have to contend with.

The problem of working inside the fashion industry is that it tends to make one a tad cynical about it all. It’s been years since I seriously questioned the wisdom of a shawl collar (they’re back, in case you were wondering). But I have an opportunity to work for a decent word-rate, so I must ditch the snark (damn) and delve back into a world in which topics such as ‘French cuffs: affectation or sophistication?’ are debated without irony.

I’m kind of excited I have to admit. Pity I won’t see any money for months.

Where thou, art?

When it comes to stencil graffiti or street art, Melbourne is considered to be far ahead of Sydney in terms of acceptance and sophistication.
Admittedly, in my immediate neighbourhood there isn't a huge number of clever contributions but on occasion you stumble across something that stops you in your tracks.

At first I thought this skunk was washing off the 'tag' above, but then I realised he was plastering his own work on the wall.

Whatever. Cute.

Pennys Lane, Kings Cross

Sydney flashback #1

The Sydney Cruiser was a small gay fortnightly magazine, which lasted (I think) for only a year or so from 1980. It contained scene pics, fiction, nightlife listings, personals and some (now) rather funny advertising.
It also provided a comprehensive list of beats. I might or might not have those scanned at a later date.
I should add that my copy was given to me by a mate, Tony. I hope he has some more to share.

Anyway, here’s the first in a series of excerpts.
Look at the intensity in those eyes, the boldness of that stance, the persuasiveness of that bulge.
Saddletramp’s address is now simply known as the Exchange Hotel, which houses Phoenix downstairs on weekends, a very popular and very sweaty dirty poofter stomp.

Untwink #5

The rugby league season is well underway, which means the newspaper sports pages are once more full of photos like this:


The homoeroticism of league has never been fully explored by Australian sports writers and certainly not by its official TV commentators. Nearly all of them former players, they constantly refer to other players as ‘big units’ and ‘hard men’, marvelling at the size of their arms and thighs while seemingly oblivious to any sexual connotations.

This becomes glaringly apparent on The Sunday Roast, Channel Nine’s midday hour-long round-up of the footy week and that day’s games.
It’s meant to be the jokey counterpart to the more serious Sunday Footy Show and is, even by league standards, pretty lowbrow. It also invariably provides a great perve at least once a week. Yesterday, it was the four (relatively old) panellists discussing the rampant tattooing going on among footy ranks. To illustrate this bewildering – to them – trend, they provided locker room footage. We love locker room footage:


Apart from this sort of titillation, The Sunday Roast also has Mark Geyer, a.k.a. ‘MG’. MG was, in his heyday, a ‘hard man’ known for his intimidating demeanour and love of biff. He got suspended a lot.
These days, the 6’5” MG appears on the Roast – often as a source of amusement to his fellow panelists due to his propensity to say stupid and/or inappropriate things – as well as the sports news pages. His Hardman column on the ninemsn website is, in his own words, a celebration of the “brute with a profound presence on the footy field”.

My favourite incarnation of MG, though, was as the spokesbloke for Advanced Hair Studio. The company has employed several balding sports identities to flog their ‘strand-by-strand’ technology with the beautifully simple slogan, “Advanced Hair – yeah yeah”.
But only MG made it sound like a come-on.
If you look closely, you can see a tiny shiny spot on his head; evidently he’s still getting work done:

Four minutes and counting...

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Think of the children

As a former chiffon technician (okay, I worked for a designer of scarves and other wildly overpriced accessories for a few years), I still follow the fashion world.
The biggest story of the week has revolved around the model Monika Jagaciak, otherwise known as ‘Jac’. She’s beautiful. The camera loves her. She’s a Next Big Thing.
She’s 14 years old.

This last detail has sent anyone who gives a shit into a tizzy (really not that difficult). It’s also made me ponder the perils of child exploitation, which has become a global spectator sport, whether we like it or not.
No one ever thinks of the Olsen twins in this context – they were forced to play the same detestably adorable child on that wretched sitcom for years. Imagine what that did to their heads. Or Michael Jackson, a prodigious talent turned, well… you’ve seen it. Or “the fat kid from Hey Dad”. He’s quite possibly rocking back and forth in a darkened corner of an otherwise empty room as I type.

Of all the precious tots, though, I can’t help but think of Romanian gymnast Nadia Comaneci. I can only vaguely recall the 1976 Olympics, but I do remember the cries of ‘10! 10! 10!’ when she won a perfect score for her uneven bar routine. I might even have done that little hands-up ‘ta dah!’ pose they all do at the end. In any case, Nadia, who became an international darling, was 14 at the time.
Did anyone make a fuss? Nup.

So back to Jac. She’s Polish. She was probably really, really looking forward to attending Fashion Week in Sydney. But she’s 14, she’s being exploited and she looks, you know, kind of sexually attractive. That makes people feel very, very uncomfortable.
So she’s been dropped.

All she has to do is stand still in front of a photographer and stroll up and down a raised platform a few times.
No one is demanding that she spends hours every day practicing torturous physical feats. She doesn’t have to backflips on a balance beam. She hasn't, as far as I know, been squeezed into an unflattering leotard.
What’s the problem?

Step away from the spraycan

A group of people (or a very industrious individual) is engaging in a unique - as far as I'm aware - form of street-art using plastic cups:


I first spotted this last year in Arnold Place, just behind Oxford Street. Every now and then someone goes to the effort of taking bits of it down but it's always restored before too long.
I just noticed a new one on Flinders Street, Surry Hills the other day:



I don't know who's responsible, but I do like.

Anon and on...

Due to an unsightly rash of vile anonymous posting I've decided to eliminate that option.

Jeez, I love our 'community'. Quick, someone get a drag queen to fill that awkward void...

Happy thoughts

During times of, you know, financial dismay, emotional disarray or dealing with deadshits, I turn to the one thing I know that can smooth over any crumpled personal documents, so to speak.

Two words: Doris Day.
(Specifically, 'If I Give My Heart To You' and its awesome bum-bum-bum-bum-bum male harmony back-up vocals. Beautiful. It's on YouTube somewhere.)

Please don't read this...

… if you’re unwilling to accept that a good proportion of the gay men you encounter are HIV-positive. They just don’t toss the subject around.
Perhaps to my detriment, I’ve been doing that in print for more than a decade now.

I’m approaching 18 years with this fucking virus, not to mention the ignorant nastiness of gay men to this day; any valid arguments I might have are now reduced to ‘bitterness’, any anger is attributed to drug abuse. Apart from my delusion that the Marlboro Man will whisk me away one day on his big horse, I'm afraid that's simply untrue.

Personally, I reckon (my) life is too short to waste on idiots and mediocrity. So sue me. I’ll probably be dead before it goes to court, right?

To the detractors, I give you my biggest smile:

Overkill, seriously

Earlier this year, Nathan Hudson (pictured centre), the lead singer of Faker, came out. Good for him.
Their latest single, 'This Heart Attack', took a while to grow on me, but thanks to Channel Ten it has been permanently etched into by brain.

It is used incessantly - on promos for various shows, on So You Think You Can Dance...
I can't get the bloody thing out of my head and frankly the song is ruined for me - when I hear it all I can see is Natalie Bassingthwaite and her never-ending series of hairdon'ts.

I was discussing this last night with a mate who couldn't agree more - and he's slept with Nathan.

Untwink #4

Some Like It Hot is a classic movie, one of my favourites. I hardly need to go on about it, apart from adding that, along with Marilyn Monroe, Tony Curtis and Jack Lemmon, it also features Mike Mazurki, my favourite Hollywood henchman.
At 6’5”, he towered over his boss Spats Colombo and, for me, proceedings in general.

Having spent a good five decades playing goons (ooh) and thugs (aah), the former wrestler Mazurki essentially made a profession out of menace.
That he also received a Bachelor of Arts degree is either awesome or a little deflating, depending on your point of view.

Mike Mazurki (1909-1990)

Rules of disengagement

I just got a surprise visit from my ex. It was the first time we’d seen each other since we split so it was a little awkward and sad at first. He offered to shout me lunch and suggested the Courthouse Hotel on Taylor Square. Decent, cheap pub food (bangers and mash, etc.), which was fine by me. But once again my smoking habit led us to an outdoor table, within arm’s reach of the endless parade of people asking for ‘spare’ cigarettes and/or money.

I’m beginning to think perhaps I should quit.

We were having a good time chatting and checking out the various mobile wrecks that stumble around, barking random nasal remarks at high volume to each other. Then a young man approached us and smiled broadly. He wasn’t shabbily dressed, although he had a very strange plastered-down fringe, as though he’d starred in his high-school production of Julius Caesar and was growing it out.

Anyway, he told us we looked like two lovely people having a very nice lunch and babbled on. And this is where I made the fatal error:

I responded to him with a ‘thank you’ and a nod.

I can’t help myself and I should know better. Every time I do this – hand out a ciggie, engage in anything resembling conversation – I often find myself trapped in a drunken, rambling monologue (not that uncommon inside the pub, come to think of it) or besieged by a suddenly pink-faced lunatic threatening to glass me with my own beer.

Which is what young Julius did.

I’m not sure he was drunk or under the influence of anything. I think the mental health system in this city has a lot to answer for.

FOOTNOTE:

On the bright side, Taylor Square itself looks like it’s actually been cleaned recently. And the ‘fountain’ was finally doing more than this: