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.

"Do you think she knows she's the Nikki Webster of Beijing?"

Female Channel 7 commentator.

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:

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:

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.