Friday, May 30, 2008
He's back!
Mick, my ex-ex-boyfriend, stayed at my place last night. Sharing a bed with him was by far the best thing to happen in what has frankly been a miserable couple of months.
We split under stupid circumstances. Both of us had suffered Shipwrecked, a truly loathsome event at Club Med on Lindeman Island, which was like being trapped in Arq for five days. Seriously, I barely slept and my health and mental state deteriorated as a result, although it has provided great fodder for a Stephen King-ian short story I’m toying with.
“Nightmare at 132bpm” is a chilling tale about a group of men who are ferried to an isolated and apparently idyllic location with the promise of tropical relaxation. Soon enough they realise they are mere guinea pigs in a fiendish experiment by a shadowy government organisation, which is exploring new methods of non-violent torture – namely wretched, incessant, deafening dance music.
That’s the basic idea, anyway.
Suffice it to say, I refuse to let the aftermath of this terrible mistake ruin my relationship with Mick. Praise the Lord, he agrees. He’s now talking about moving from Canberra to somewhere like Maitland or Stockton, near Newcastle.
I’m seriously thinking of going with him.
Gay Sydney is a fishbowl, without a filter. We were going to have a beer at the Oxford last night after dinner but the amplified nasal squawk of some drag queen had us turning around immediately. We headed to the Green Park instead – the gayest non-gay bar in town – and talked about life somewhere with a dog and a backyard. He wants to be able to fish for his dinner. That I could live without, but I can see the appeal.
In any case, something has to change. I’ve had this daydream before but it seems more real than ever. As long as we can be together I don’t care where we are.
We split under stupid circumstances. Both of us had suffered Shipwrecked, a truly loathsome event at Club Med on Lindeman Island, which was like being trapped in Arq for five days. Seriously, I barely slept and my health and mental state deteriorated as a result, although it has provided great fodder for a Stephen King-ian short story I’m toying with.
“Nightmare at 132bpm” is a chilling tale about a group of men who are ferried to an isolated and apparently idyllic location with the promise of tropical relaxation. Soon enough they realise they are mere guinea pigs in a fiendish experiment by a shadowy government organisation, which is exploring new methods of non-violent torture – namely wretched, incessant, deafening dance music.
That’s the basic idea, anyway.
Suffice it to say, I refuse to let the aftermath of this terrible mistake ruin my relationship with Mick. Praise the Lord, he agrees. He’s now talking about moving from Canberra to somewhere like Maitland or Stockton, near Newcastle.
I’m seriously thinking of going with him.
Gay Sydney is a fishbowl, without a filter. We were going to have a beer at the Oxford last night after dinner but the amplified nasal squawk of some drag queen had us turning around immediately. We headed to the Green Park instead – the gayest non-gay bar in town – and talked about life somewhere with a dog and a backyard. He wants to be able to fish for his dinner. That I could live without, but I can see the appeal.
In any case, something has to change. I’ve had this daydream before but it seems more real than ever. As long as we can be together I don’t care where we are.
Monday, May 26, 2008
Eurovision
From Popbitch:
* Russian diva Dima Bilan is raising eyebrows
with his hard partying. He's not to be,
ahem, sniffed at, as the current favourite.
And yes, he won, although I think the mini ice-rink he had in the semi-finals might have given him an unfair advantage:
* Russian diva Dima Bilan is raising eyebrows
with his hard partying. He's not to be,
ahem, sniffed at, as the current favourite.
And yes, he won, although I think the mini ice-rink he had in the semi-finals might have given him an unfair advantage:
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Got any ID?
My identity saga continues.
Having dutifully shaved off the ’mo, had my passort photo taken, had said photos signed by Jeffrey as a witness, I then discovered I needed “one official document that includes your photograph and signature”. In other words, a ‘Birth Card’. Sheesh.
I admit I’ve been slow getting my shit together – and reading forms thoroughly is definitely not my forté - but this identity-confirmation hoop-jumping is almost Pythonesque. Anyway, I made it down to the NSW Registry of Births, Deaths and Marriages with what identification I could scrounge in order to apply for this magical card, which I had never even heard of before.
I’d filled out the standard form but there were several more questions I had to answer through the presumably bullet-proof partition separating me and my registrar.
Where was I born? North Sydney. Which street? Alfred Street. How old was my father when I was born? Umm, 32? Yeah, 32. What was my father’s occupation when I was born? Mmmm…
I was totally stumped and silently freaking out that this may well be my downfall. What if they refuse to give me a Birth Card because I don’t know what job dad had at the time? Does this somehow disqualify me from claiming my own identity? Or does it just make me look like a lousy son who doesn’t pay attention to his parents and therefore doesn’t really deserve to even have a so-called Birth Card?
I expressed my bewilderment that I had to answer all these questions and he looked at me with a weary “I know” look.
“It’s all because of 2001,” he said, motioning behind him with his thumb, as if the person responsible for this ludicrous bureaucracy was sitting there, mocking me.
Then I realised he meant 9/11. The World Trade Center!
Blame the terrorists!
I told him I didn’t know where my father was working at the exact moment I emerged from the womb and he noted that on his little form. In fact, there were a few ‘don’t know’s on the form by the time we were finished but this was apparently okay – I shelled out 60 bucks or so and he led me to the far window to have my photo taken.
This was the bit I was dreading, more than I usually dread having my photo taken. Not only was this photo going to be my Vital Proof of Identity for the next five years, I am currently sporting the world’s worst cold sore on my lower lip. It looks like I had a canape of cockroach and forgot to wipe my mouth.
Quietly mortified, I declined the offer to ‘smile if you like’ and waited for what seemed like hours for the goddamn camera to take the shot. It made a series of disconcerting whirring sounds, which I imagine had something to do with ‘biometric measuring’, the flash went off and I was shown the result.
“Is that OK?” I was asked.
“That’s as good as it’s going to get,” I replied, more depressed than ever.
The one bright moment of this little adventure was seeing the lovely Della Deluxe, local drag persona extraordinaire, at work behind the glass.
Sadly, she wasn’t wearing this:
Having dutifully shaved off the ’mo, had my passort photo taken, had said photos signed by Jeffrey as a witness, I then discovered I needed “one official document that includes your photograph and signature”. In other words, a ‘Birth Card’. Sheesh.
I admit I’ve been slow getting my shit together – and reading forms thoroughly is definitely not my forté - but this identity-confirmation hoop-jumping is almost Pythonesque. Anyway, I made it down to the NSW Registry of Births, Deaths and Marriages with what identification I could scrounge in order to apply for this magical card, which I had never even heard of before.
I’d filled out the standard form but there were several more questions I had to answer through the presumably bullet-proof partition separating me and my registrar.
Where was I born? North Sydney. Which street? Alfred Street. How old was my father when I was born? Umm, 32? Yeah, 32. What was my father’s occupation when I was born? Mmmm…
I was totally stumped and silently freaking out that this may well be my downfall. What if they refuse to give me a Birth Card because I don’t know what job dad had at the time? Does this somehow disqualify me from claiming my own identity? Or does it just make me look like a lousy son who doesn’t pay attention to his parents and therefore doesn’t really deserve to even have a so-called Birth Card?
I expressed my bewilderment that I had to answer all these questions and he looked at me with a weary “I know” look.
“It’s all because of 2001,” he said, motioning behind him with his thumb, as if the person responsible for this ludicrous bureaucracy was sitting there, mocking me.
Then I realised he meant 9/11. The World Trade Center!
Blame the terrorists!
I told him I didn’t know where my father was working at the exact moment I emerged from the womb and he noted that on his little form. In fact, there were a few ‘don’t know’s on the form by the time we were finished but this was apparently okay – I shelled out 60 bucks or so and he led me to the far window to have my photo taken.
This was the bit I was dreading, more than I usually dread having my photo taken. Not only was this photo going to be my Vital Proof of Identity for the next five years, I am currently sporting the world’s worst cold sore on my lower lip. It looks like I had a canape of cockroach and forgot to wipe my mouth.
Quietly mortified, I declined the offer to ‘smile if you like’ and waited for what seemed like hours for the goddamn camera to take the shot. It made a series of disconcerting whirring sounds, which I imagine had something to do with ‘biometric measuring’, the flash went off and I was shown the result.
“Is that OK?” I was asked.
“That’s as good as it’s going to get,” I replied, more depressed than ever.
The one bright moment of this little adventure was seeing the lovely Della Deluxe, local drag persona extraordinaire, at work behind the glass.
Sadly, she wasn’t wearing this:
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Two faces of Sydney
It’s almost winter but the weather is still amazing; the idea of sitting inside all day was too depressing to contemplate so I called up mum and dad and roped them into lunch.
We ended up on Queen Street in Woollahra, which has lots of antique stores and other upscale outlets; the fact that our café was called Crème Anglaise says a lot.
It always provides a good spot to watch the wealthy in their natural habitat and wonder if all those silver-haired husbands get their wives to adjust their Ralph Lauren jumpers around their shoulders just-so before they leave the house.
After that, we decided a drive down to the harbour was in order and I’m glad we did – it’s too easy to forget how gorgeous this city is:
This was taken at Nielsen Park in Vaucluse. The harbour was teeming with yachts – it was slow, silent peak-hour and we guessed there was some sort of regatta underway.
Between the sails and the glittering water and the girl flying a kite and the boy fishing it struck me – once again – how amazing it is to have this so close to the city.
Now, of course, I’m back in HiDarl, where I’m more likely to find sights like this below my bathroom window, like I did two nights ago:
Not that it doesn’t have its own charm…
We ended up on Queen Street in Woollahra, which has lots of antique stores and other upscale outlets; the fact that our café was called Crème Anglaise says a lot.
It always provides a good spot to watch the wealthy in their natural habitat and wonder if all those silver-haired husbands get their wives to adjust their Ralph Lauren jumpers around their shoulders just-so before they leave the house.
After that, we decided a drive down to the harbour was in order and I’m glad we did – it’s too easy to forget how gorgeous this city is:
This was taken at Nielsen Park in Vaucluse. The harbour was teeming with yachts – it was slow, silent peak-hour and we guessed there was some sort of regatta underway.
Between the sails and the glittering water and the girl flying a kite and the boy fishing it struck me – once again – how amazing it is to have this so close to the city.
Now, of course, I’m back in HiDarl, where I’m more likely to find sights like this below my bathroom window, like I did two nights ago:
Not that it doesn’t have its own charm…
Art trek
Jeffrey and I embarked on a trip to Waterloo yesterday. It’s only a few kilometres south of where we live but is a bitch to get to by public transport so, armed with print-outs of connecting bus routes and a sense of adventure, we hopped on the 311 from Kings Cross, more than happy to be leaving the streetside ‘ya fahkin cahnt!’ drama behind us.
The reason for the jaunt was an exhibition by Ricky Swallow, an amazing sculptor who represented Australia in the Venice Biennale a few years ago. He creates incredibly detailed still lifes, or carves skulls wearing Adidas hoodies, out of wood – everything he does is beautiful and mind-boggingly work-intensive:
Disappointingly, there were only a few pieces on show among some watercolours, so we headed for Danks Street, which has become the focus of the much-vaunted gentrification of the suburb, still semi-industrial and pretty grim in parts.
Unfortunately, between my lack of knowledge of the area and the fact that Jeffrey has absolutely no sense of direction whatsoever, we walked and walked and walked… At one point we found ourselves in Zetland, surrounded by shiny new apartment developments and manicured parks. It’s still in its infancy as a residential neighbourhood and the streets were eerily devoid of people. It’s not unattractive but frankly kinda creepy. A little Truman Show for my liking.
Aware that we should have taken a left somewhere, we headed what we were pretty sure was north and ended up in the middle of a gigantic industrial loading bay, which was like being in a particularly desolate Jeffrey Smart painting:
Eventually, after trudging along what I would later discover was one big circle, we found Danks Street. It’s really just one small block with some cafes, fancy food outlets and homeware emporia, plus a group of art galleries in an old warehouse (not to mention more hand-holding gay couples than I've seen in quite some time).
It’s the perfect place to find, oh, say, a five-foot-tall bronze chimpanzee finger for your courtyard:
The artist is Lisa Roet. She specialises in chimps, apes and orangutans and these body-part bronzes are monumental.
Quite the conversation pieces.
The only other artist that really caught my eye was Will Coles, who has created, among other works, a larger-than-life green toy ANZAC soldier – wearing a tutu.
I took a photo, whereupon an immaculately groomed woman glided up to me and said, in that blood-chilling combination of perfect manners and headmistress authority, “You will delete that as soon as you leave, won’t you.”
She gave me the willies so you’ll just have to imagine it.
The reason for the jaunt was an exhibition by Ricky Swallow, an amazing sculptor who represented Australia in the Venice Biennale a few years ago. He creates incredibly detailed still lifes, or carves skulls wearing Adidas hoodies, out of wood – everything he does is beautiful and mind-boggingly work-intensive:
Disappointingly, there were only a few pieces on show among some watercolours, so we headed for Danks Street, which has become the focus of the much-vaunted gentrification of the suburb, still semi-industrial and pretty grim in parts.
Unfortunately, between my lack of knowledge of the area and the fact that Jeffrey has absolutely no sense of direction whatsoever, we walked and walked and walked… At one point we found ourselves in Zetland, surrounded by shiny new apartment developments and manicured parks. It’s still in its infancy as a residential neighbourhood and the streets were eerily devoid of people. It’s not unattractive but frankly kinda creepy. A little Truman Show for my liking.
Aware that we should have taken a left somewhere, we headed what we were pretty sure was north and ended up in the middle of a gigantic industrial loading bay, which was like being in a particularly desolate Jeffrey Smart painting:
Eventually, after trudging along what I would later discover was one big circle, we found Danks Street. It’s really just one small block with some cafes, fancy food outlets and homeware emporia, plus a group of art galleries in an old warehouse (not to mention more hand-holding gay couples than I've seen in quite some time).
It’s the perfect place to find, oh, say, a five-foot-tall bronze chimpanzee finger for your courtyard:
The artist is Lisa Roet. She specialises in chimps, apes and orangutans and these body-part bronzes are monumental.
Quite the conversation pieces.
The only other artist that really caught my eye was Will Coles, who has created, among other works, a larger-than-life green toy ANZAC soldier – wearing a tutu.
I took a photo, whereupon an immaculately groomed woman glided up to me and said, in that blood-chilling combination of perfect manners and headmistress authority, “You will delete that as soon as you leave, won’t you.”
She gave me the willies so you’ll just have to imagine it.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
The sunglass-tiara
Apropos of the previous post: just as the fez does nothing terms of flattery or sun-protection, the sunglass-tiara is mostly ceremonial these days, worn on (self-)important occasions:
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
The fez
Just returned from Jeffrey's where we watched Ugly Betty and Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade over pizza.
He has a projector, so every time I go there it's like being at the movies with the added benefit of being able to drink, smoke and pause when necessary.
I'd forgotten most of Last Crusade but what struck us both this time (apart from the fact that the beautiful blonde female lead, Alison Doody, totally would have become a star if she wasn't called Alison Doody) was the palette; all handsome greys and browns, with the notable exception of red either on Nazi regalia or the fezzes worn by the Turkish baddies. And then it struck me what a fabulous, ridiculous piece of headwear the fez is. Impractical but kinda pretty.
I also noticed the fezzes varied considerably in size and proportion (alas, tassle length was difficult to distinguish).
Don't get me wrong, I have an ex-boyfriend who is Turkish and I hold no ill will whatsover against Turkish people or fez-wearers in general, I just find it fascinating that a cherished item of national headwear with ancient roots and religious affiliations has been co-opted by images of ludicrous clandestine cabals and organ grinders' monkeys.
It's become a novelty hat:
This monkey looks like he's plotting revenge.
He has a projector, so every time I go there it's like being at the movies with the added benefit of being able to drink, smoke and pause when necessary.
I'd forgotten most of Last Crusade but what struck us both this time (apart from the fact that the beautiful blonde female lead, Alison Doody, totally would have become a star if she wasn't called Alison Doody) was the palette; all handsome greys and browns, with the notable exception of red either on Nazi regalia or the fezzes worn by the Turkish baddies. And then it struck me what a fabulous, ridiculous piece of headwear the fez is. Impractical but kinda pretty.
I also noticed the fezzes varied considerably in size and proportion (alas, tassle length was difficult to distinguish).
Don't get me wrong, I have an ex-boyfriend who is Turkish and I hold no ill will whatsover against Turkish people or fez-wearers in general, I just find it fascinating that a cherished item of national headwear with ancient roots and religious affiliations has been co-opted by images of ludicrous clandestine cabals and organ grinders' monkeys.
It's become a novelty hat:
This monkey looks like he's plotting revenge.
Monday, May 12, 2008
HiDarl debris
I've stumbled across sundry strange objects while walking in the neighbourhood and taken home a few.
This one on Forbes Street, however, stumped me:
It was intact so it can't have been hurled from a window, although is was missing a cord and a remote. Maybe someone had a dizzy spell before he reached the curb.
Or perhaps it's just a bold artistic statement on how fucking dire TV was yesterday...
This one on Forbes Street, however, stumped me:
It was intact so it can't have been hurled from a window, although is was missing a cord and a remote. Maybe someone had a dizzy spell before he reached the curb.
Or perhaps it's just a bold artistic statement on how fucking dire TV was yesterday...
Friday, May 9, 2008
Almost speechless
This is on the cover of the Sydney Star Observer this week:
That's Maxi Shield and members of the Sydney Convicts rugby union team.
It bothers me in so many ways I'm struggling to describe it.
Although it does strike me as a cross between The Biggest Loser and the Make a Wish Foundation...
Having said that: go the Convicts!
That's Maxi Shield and members of the Sydney Convicts rugby union team.
It bothers me in so many ways I'm struggling to describe it.
Although it does strike me as a cross between The Biggest Loser and the Make a Wish Foundation...
Having said that: go the Convicts!
Graffiti research
I've had dreadful things written about me, but fortunately not on an illuminated billboard on Eddy Avenue opposite Central Station:
I Googled 'Faiva Saaga' and it turns out there was actually a Faiva Sa'aga who was a Samoan-American Reverend. He died a couple of years ago and was highly respected in his Californian community, according to the United Church News.
Hence, the graffiti is a bit disturbing.
That and the fact he called one of his sons Fiesta.
I Googled 'Faiva Saaga' and it turns out there was actually a Faiva Sa'aga who was a Samoan-American Reverend. He died a couple of years ago and was highly respected in his Californian community, according to the United Church News.
Hence, the graffiti is a bit disturbing.
That and the fact he called one of his sons Fiesta.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Another kind of K-hole
Jeffrey called me up this morning to invite me to lunch and a shopping expedition to Bondi Junction. Excitement all around.
Bondi Junction, you see, is frankly an eyesore but it has every level of retail satisfaction covered, with tat galore. Perfect if you’re not actually there to spend, but marvel at consumerism at its least alluring.
Although it’s been overshadowed by the mammoth Westfield Bondi Junction development (in which my mother has been known to lose mobile phone contact), I think the quintessential BJ experience is to be had at the Eastgate complex, which houses a Coles, a Lowes (the last word in blokewear) and, among many others, our destination – K-Mart.
Jeffrey, you see, needed to buy a certain kind of vacuum cleaner bag, available at only K-Mart. I suspect he’s also mourning the loss of the nearby Ikea store and felt the urge to wander semi-aimlessly along multiple aisles of impulse purchases, a pursuit I was more than happy to enable.
The problem with the BJ K-Mart is that it’s underground and involves descending a truly bleak, pram-friendly ramp of doom to a huge, ferociously lit pit of unnecessary but competitively priced household fixtures, appliances, accessories, 'enhancements', toys and – the highlight of any such trip – budget fashion.
To a not-entirely unpleasant ‘classic rock’ soundtrack (“Ooh, baby I love your way…”) we managed to stumble upon the vacuum district and I have to say I was a little shocked.
For one, they’re tiny, and most of them looked more like food processors or coffee machines. It made me feel strangely old (as opposed to guilty for the dust mounting in my apartment).
To compound this, we had an eerily nostalgic moment (having recovered from the foul smell of fertiliser in the plant nursery section) flicking through the Little Golden Books carousel. The Poky Little Puppy lives on.
I guess that’s something to smile about.
Of course, I had a severe bout of retail withdrawal having left without buying anything so I leapt upon the novelty vending machine directly outside the cashier’s counter.
I just knew $2 would buy me excitement, wonder and the knowledge that I’ve contributed to the destruction of the planet through the consumption of yet more pointless plastic:
It’s baffling at first, undeniably cute and disturbingly squishy; a kind of yo-yo meets paddle-ball/mindless-distraction device that invites delighted, spastic movement and has already provided… oh, seconds of play.
An afternoon well spent.
Bondi Junction, you see, is frankly an eyesore but it has every level of retail satisfaction covered, with tat galore. Perfect if you’re not actually there to spend, but marvel at consumerism at its least alluring.
Although it’s been overshadowed by the mammoth Westfield Bondi Junction development (in which my mother has been known to lose mobile phone contact), I think the quintessential BJ experience is to be had at the Eastgate complex, which houses a Coles, a Lowes (the last word in blokewear) and, among many others, our destination – K-Mart.
Jeffrey, you see, needed to buy a certain kind of vacuum cleaner bag, available at only K-Mart. I suspect he’s also mourning the loss of the nearby Ikea store and felt the urge to wander semi-aimlessly along multiple aisles of impulse purchases, a pursuit I was more than happy to enable.
The problem with the BJ K-Mart is that it’s underground and involves descending a truly bleak, pram-friendly ramp of doom to a huge, ferociously lit pit of unnecessary but competitively priced household fixtures, appliances, accessories, 'enhancements', toys and – the highlight of any such trip – budget fashion.
To a not-entirely unpleasant ‘classic rock’ soundtrack (“Ooh, baby I love your way…”) we managed to stumble upon the vacuum district and I have to say I was a little shocked.
For one, they’re tiny, and most of them looked more like food processors or coffee machines. It made me feel strangely old (as opposed to guilty for the dust mounting in my apartment).
To compound this, we had an eerily nostalgic moment (having recovered from the foul smell of fertiliser in the plant nursery section) flicking through the Little Golden Books carousel. The Poky Little Puppy lives on.
I guess that’s something to smile about.
Of course, I had a severe bout of retail withdrawal having left without buying anything so I leapt upon the novelty vending machine directly outside the cashier’s counter.
I just knew $2 would buy me excitement, wonder and the knowledge that I’ve contributed to the destruction of the planet through the consumption of yet more pointless plastic:
It’s baffling at first, undeniably cute and disturbingly squishy; a kind of yo-yo meets paddle-ball/mindless-distraction device that invites delighted, spastic movement and has already provided… oh, seconds of play.
An afternoon well spent.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Quote of the week
"The yo-yo came alive."
Dannii Minogue praising the skills of a yo-yo artiste on Australia's Got Talent.
Monday, May 5, 2008
Ready for my close-up - almost
My mate Richard Hughes did this portrait of me but I cannot, for the life of me, get it on my profile.
If anyone knows how to do this, please advise.
It's driving me up the wall.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Kings Cross Festival etc.
I spent the afternoon the with Jeffrey and Amy and Amy’s dog Zack. who proved to be by far the most intriguing member of our group; it’s amazing what a dog can lead to...
It was the Kings Cross Food and Wine Festival so wine vouchers were purchased (not by me), sundry local yet vaguely exotic delights were savoured and an endless number of hot dads and/or intriguing poofters were witnessed.
I saw one So You Think You Can Dance non-finalist swanning through proceedings in a pair of shiny silver high-tops, as if to prove that, even if he can’t dance, he can at least strut, but the most fascinating was a couple of silver-haired men in their fifties.
I saw two of them and thought, “What a handsome couple, god I’d love to be with someone for so long and nibble happily ever after on organic treats and gin martinis and live in a harbour-front apartment... "
Then I saw an equally handsome, grey third party who kissed them both and it threw me completely.
Are they are threesome? A thruple?
More importantly, should we kill the person who coined ‘thruple’?
In any case, it was nice to get out of the postcode.
The hot trans-seasonal look:
When the weather isn’t cold enough for that new coat but you just can’t wait to wear that new season purchase?
Just chuck on a scarf over a skimpy T-shirt.
Doesn’t look stupid at all. No, not at all.
It was the Kings Cross Food and Wine Festival so wine vouchers were purchased (not by me), sundry local yet vaguely exotic delights were savoured and an endless number of hot dads and/or intriguing poofters were witnessed.
I saw one So You Think You Can Dance non-finalist swanning through proceedings in a pair of shiny silver high-tops, as if to prove that, even if he can’t dance, he can at least strut, but the most fascinating was a couple of silver-haired men in their fifties.
I saw two of them and thought, “What a handsome couple, god I’d love to be with someone for so long and nibble happily ever after on organic treats and gin martinis and live in a harbour-front apartment... "
Then I saw an equally handsome, grey third party who kissed them both and it threw me completely.
Are they are threesome? A thruple?
More importantly, should we kill the person who coined ‘thruple’?
In any case, it was nice to get out of the postcode.
The hot trans-seasonal look:
When the weather isn’t cold enough for that new coat but you just can’t wait to wear that new season purchase?
Just chuck on a scarf over a skimpy T-shirt.
Doesn’t look stupid at all. No, not at all.
Saturday, May 3, 2008
'Style dilemma' dilemma
Oh Lord, I've received my first 'style dilemma' from work.
I am, you see, a kind of style agony aunt. Stop laughing. I've already written up a few mock Q&As but now I have a genuine question from a real human being in desperate need of sartorial assistance:
"I always find it particularly hard to find a dress/corporate work shoe that wears well on the sole. I am a new car salesperson for Honda and in turn I spend a lot of time outside on bitumen talking to customer and it just seems to chew through whatever pair of shoes I am wearing at the time. It seems that there is no happy medium between a shoe that looks good and a shoe that wears well, it is either one or the other. Would you have any suggestions to a shoe that would suit my needs?"
Faaark. What do I say? Tell him to get a new job?
I am officially trembling with fraudulence.
Update: while searching for a random image to run with this post I typed in 'hideous outfit' on Google and came across this:
That's the nelliest superhero get-up I've ever seen. A corset with opera gloves.
His name is Cosmic Boy (real name Rokk Krin). He's from the planet Braal.
And despite the outfit, he was romantically linked with Night Girl.
Thank you, Wikipedia.
I am, you see, a kind of style agony aunt. Stop laughing. I've already written up a few mock Q&As but now I have a genuine question from a real human being in desperate need of sartorial assistance:
"I always find it particularly hard to find a dress/corporate work shoe that wears well on the sole. I am a new car salesperson for Honda and in turn I spend a lot of time outside on bitumen talking to customer and it just seems to chew through whatever pair of shoes I am wearing at the time. It seems that there is no happy medium between a shoe that looks good and a shoe that wears well, it is either one or the other. Would you have any suggestions to a shoe that would suit my needs?"
Faaark. What do I say? Tell him to get a new job?
I am officially trembling with fraudulence.
Update: while searching for a random image to run with this post I typed in 'hideous outfit' on Google and came across this:
That's the nelliest superhero get-up I've ever seen. A corset with opera gloves.
His name is Cosmic Boy (real name Rokk Krin). He's from the planet Braal.
And despite the outfit, he was romantically linked with Night Girl.
Thank you, Wikipedia.
Friday, May 2, 2008
To do list
A main feature of the recent Kings Cross clean-up was the injection of history via bronze footpath inlays replete with text from notable residents and/or commentators.
This one is from Ruth Bee, a genuine eccentric who denounced religion and lived on the street despite an inheritance.
She listed several of my favourite things.
Caddery I've yet to master...
This one is from Ruth Bee, a genuine eccentric who denounced religion and lived on the street despite an inheritance.
She listed several of my favourite things.
Caddery I've yet to master...
For the birds
Someone who lives on Victoria Street, Darlinghurst, knows how to accommodate the sulphur-crested cockatoo locals, perhaps with some organic treat.
I’ve witnessed this before but never with a camera.
It’s a beautiful sight.
I’ve witnessed this before but never with a camera.
It’s a beautiful sight.
Sydney flashback #5
I went to Newtown last week but didn’t write about it because I was a little ashamed to admit I left Angels in America during the intermission.
My defence: I saw the original Broadway production and knew I had another hour and a half of serious dramatic sex-death-religion-AIDS headfuck to go – not to mention a cab ride home I couldn’t afford – so I bailed.
I was also so hungry I’d already sucked my way through a whole pack of Butter Menthols.
Anyway, I rarely head to Newtown because it’s a pain in the arse to get to from HiDarl, due to the lack of a direct public transport link. By private hoverjet, say, or insane cab driver, the journey would take all of 10 minutes.
It took me an hour and a half to get home by train then bus.
With the Newtown Hotel closed there’s not much incentive for me to head there in any case. Here’s how it was advertised back in 1983.
Somehow I doubt the Tom of Finland Foundation received any payment.
My defence: I saw the original Broadway production and knew I had another hour and a half of serious dramatic sex-death-religion-AIDS headfuck to go – not to mention a cab ride home I couldn’t afford – so I bailed.
I was also so hungry I’d already sucked my way through a whole pack of Butter Menthols.
Anyway, I rarely head to Newtown because it’s a pain in the arse to get to from HiDarl, due to the lack of a direct public transport link. By private hoverjet, say, or insane cab driver, the journey would take all of 10 minutes.
It took me an hour and a half to get home by train then bus.
With the Newtown Hotel closed there’s not much incentive for me to head there in any case. Here’s how it was advertised back in 1983.
Somehow I doubt the Tom of Finland Foundation received any payment.
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