Fuzzy recall

I don't remember the exact time I took this photo, but then this bloke couldn't remember when he had his tattoo of two dogs fighting up his arm done:


I love old blokes with forearm tatts.

Safe 'n' Sound

Mick and I went to Maitland - Rutherford, actually, the next town further west – to put his possessions in storage.
He's lived in a small one-bedroom apartment for about 30 years but seems to have acquired several lifetimes worth of mystery possessions.
He didn't label a single box.
He's also cavalier with securing his cargo; we were like Steptoe & Son meets The Beverly Hillbillies:


The trip up was notable for the strange, grey weather and the fact that, as far as I could tell, every driver behind us gave us at least a 20-metre berth, presuambly terrified that a random item of Mick's - a stack hat; a hacksaw - might free itself en route. I would have been.
Fortunately, I couldn't see much; what appeared from behind the tarpaulin - apart from being "closer than they appear" - were usually menacing:


Afetr a forced detour (turns out a truck struck a footbridge near Maitland) we arrived at Safe 'n' Sound, an immaculately bleak operation with a nice line in sexy bloke staff:


It took two sweaty hours, a brief downpour and 'strictly no smoking' but somehow we eventually crammed Mick's existence into the equivalent of a roomy walk-in wardrobe.

The home hunt begins.

Flynn, welcome home

Gardening on a budget

There’s a new ‘lifestyle’ show on channel 10, Guerilla Gardeners, that has the best of intentions but a horrible compulsion to scatter child-unfriendly furniture and terracotta gravel over unsuspecting and frankly inoffensive empty public space.
Occasionally though they hit the mark, as they have on South Dowling St, a thoroughfare to the city from the airport.
It comes across more like an artwork than a stunt – and it’s still there (not my photo):



Irritatingly they blanket this TV exercise with faux-subterfuge (bullshit brushes with the law and Mission Implausible soundtrack) and then bark about The Man lest anyone question their suburban artistic credentials. It’s dreadful and so very Aussie.
Gawd I hate that word.
Just quietly I blame Jamie Durie and his fucking water features for this outbreak of network-funded amateur gardeners.
Everything's a mini-theme park.

Maybe they should look at what someone has done with that steep, so often overlooked block of Burton Street - so close to working girl central - a very comfortable and quite chic little wipe-down courtesy lounge:

Quote of the week

"I stopped crying in the '80s."

Overheard at the Oxford Hotel.
Cue raucous laughter.

Smoking in Sydney

Behold, Midnight Shift's street-level smoking area:


Bleak is the word.

When you're in it, you either feel like you're waiting for your sentence to be delivered, or hoping for some peanuts to be thrown in your direction.
From the outside, well...

I do like the hazard/safety strips around the only escape route. Surely some evil queen chose those.

Gay PSA Horror

A friend ripped this from an unspecified men’s room a few weeks ago and I... well, frankly I shrieked a little.
What the fuck?


“WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO YOURSELF?
Your night out. Your new boyfriend. Your sixth drink. Your ex-boyfriend. Binge Drinking. It’s all about you.”

This would have to be the most confused and confusing gay public service announcement/warning/whatever to emerge in quite some time. Who are the people behind this? Where are they?
OK, so they used a beer label concept for their slogan – cute - but at first glance these models look like triplets having an argument over who buys the next drink.

Then it dawns on you – two of them are wearing the same outfit!!
Couple!
Brothers?
Creepy.

Still, the message is in there somewhere. Perhaps the queen on the left is saying “Don’t go there girlfriend” while his doppelganger/life-partner is thinking “I'm my boyfriend's alter ego and I tend to grope. I also protrude my tongue at inopportune intervals”, which just has to have caused a little frisson.
Meanwhile, the poor bloke in the middle is thinking, “Who the fuck are these deadshit queens in their ridiculous matching AFL paraphernalia??"

I honestly don't know who did this or what they were trying to do.
Needless to say, at least two posters were ripped down in disgust/bewilderment - and not by me.

Just another Wednesday night

That's Dallas Dellaforce, best drag queen (among several other accomplishments) in town.

And this is David (I think... hope... shit...) formerly known as Faggot Rooster, who's about six and a half feet tall and used to sport dreadlocks:


They're new neighbours - flatmates, no less - and have made HiDarl a lot more interesting.

Misadventures in gay marketing

Mardi Gras Fair Day and Launch were held on Sunday. It was wet; I hadn’t planned to go.
Fortunately, a friend of a friend did attend, which is how I get to share this highly questionable addition to the already dodgy realm of gay marketing, the Gaydar Man Tags, which were handed out on the day:


“PLAY BUTCH, SLING ON YOUR TAGS, SHOW YOUR ALLEGIANCE, JOIN GAYDAR!”
Well how could you not?

Perplexingly, along with the tags, the pack includes what appear to be two tiny cock rings.
But no! According to the back of the packaging:
“IN YOUR PACK: Identification tag chain with two dog tags and silencers. slip ‘em over the edges to stop ‘em banging, while you’re getting banged.”

Hmmm….

There are so many things wrong with this I don’t where to begin. First I suppose is the exhortation to ‘play butch’, which really does kill the mood right up front. And the forced language irritates me no end (apparently the word “them” is a little femme).
But I think what really bothers me is that they designed this tinny, clichéd accessory - the gays love to play soldiers! - that is essentially a wearable advertisement; the only ‘identification’ you could possibly squeeze on there is your cock size. Or IQ.
And of course that’s the point:
It’s the first fashion accessory (since the hankie code) specifically designed to be fucked in.

At least with hankies you got a range of colours to choose from…

Typos Averted!

Okay, so last Wednesday I noticed a crane in the Square, systematically visiting each of those big banner poles:


It seems someone had realised, what with the official Mardi Gras Launch coming up on the weekend, banners with incorrect slogans lining our precious Golden Mile simply wouldn't do:


Cue Monday.
They're all back up, and I was happy to see they resorted to the time-honoured MG tradition of home-sewing. Rather than reproduce the offending banners at considerable cost, they just whipped out the Bernina and got stuck into it, meticulously inserting the missing "S" on every one:



Someone deserves a drink.

Typos United

Passing through the Square on the way home, I thought there was a massive promotion for the new Ministry of Sound compilation.
But no, just Mardi Gras time again:



Pity the official slogan is Nations United - plural.
As a mate pointed out, Nation United at least makes it sound like we should be friendly to people from Adelaide, a noble enough cause.

Also, note the absence of "gay & lesbian" from the banners.
I suppose that's what MG's new president means when he says the organisation is becoming "more inclusive".

Heatwave!

If you're unfortunate enough to be in Sydney's western suburbs, this weekend is going to be unbearable.

Mick and I got a headstart yesterday by heading to Bronte beach:


The water was beautiful; we stayed in a little rocky spot between the ocean pool and the Bogey Hole.
It was swarming with crabs:


Sadly this one didn't move, but I do like communing with nature every so often, even if it is dead.

Friday night

Taylor Square, midnightish.
The Irish girls are out in force, sans backpack:


Cute! Ok, a little slutty, but the square is another matter. Evidently superkeen to eradicate any untoward behaviour of any sort, it seemed the entire local squadron of available law enforcement was stationed in our beloved dead space:


Having taken that photo and rejoined Mick in the Courthouse pokie lounge, I thought perhaps I’d witnessed some sort of anomaly or had stumbled upon the tail-end of a drama I’d read about tomorrow.

But no, almost an hour later, there they were:


And we used to whinge about the lack of police presence…

Intrepid graffiti

The billboard on top of the building on Taylor Square formerly known as 191 is high – four storeys high, not counting the height of the signage itself.

Regardless, some brave, presumably methed-up moron(s) somehow managed to scramble up there with art supplies and a burning desire to spread the message of “unholy black metal’".

Twice:


I love the fact they were able to spell upside-down.
And that they chose a Special K advertisement.

Mo'ment

Public art

Taylor Square’s last makeover a few years back included the addition of several illuminated diorama pods scattered about the space, in which local artwork was to be displayed on a rotating basis.

All very well-intentioned, but the pods themselves are a bit disturbing, like giant alien worms poking their heads out through the paving. When they first appeared, I was taken aback by their appearance and highly dubious of their purpose, but they were at least clean and appeared to have an almost sedative effect:


Since then they’ve been broken, graffitied and generally disdained, although the current selection of archival Australian photography isn’t that bad.

Pity some queens were compelled to add the evidence of their attendance at that heinous Malebox night at Stonewall:


Then again, as community art projects go, kinda sums it up.

Play Me, I'm Yours #3

Miraculously, the piano on Taylor Square is still functioning, in tune and only slightly marred by graffiti.

This chick was doing Elton John's 'Song for Guy'.
Lovely:

Pretty distractions

Sydney Lord Mayor Clover Moore just loves a good floral display.
She sprays baskets of flowers across Kings Cross and along Oxford St every now and then. Taylor Square gets a geometrical bedding every so often.

At the moment the William St overpass at the Cross, one of the city's bleaker intersections, is blooming*:



*Okay, that was last week; yesterday it looked less than vibrant but I figured it was best to keep up appearances and refrained from taking a photo.
The new locals have property values to consider.

Play Me, I'm Yours #2

Last Friday afternoon.
This kid had no idea what he was doing but his mother had to drag him away from it.
Very cute.

Untwink #8

“Slamming” Sam Kekovich is a former AFL player turned media personality. He’s a 58-year-old bulldozer currently best known for spruiking lamb in an aggressively deadpan fashion each Australia Day.

He’s fantastic. Once a year I get to fantasise about bumping into Sam – repeatedly as he hurls abuse at me – at a barbeque in some remote location. In between manly, erudite chats mind you.

Thanks to Sam, I was fully engorged with national pride over the Australia Day weekend, so much so I neglected to post.

Saturday we just sweltered but on Sunday Mick and I got the bus to Nielsen Park, where we found a spot on the sand, then went for a swim among the small children with violently coloured inflatable paraphernalia, fleshy couples, family groups and the occasional beefy Mediterranean dad.
It was overcast, but we lasted a couple of hours, long enough to blow $15 for average fish and chips and get a little sunburnt. Mission Vaucluse accomplished.

I didn’t take photos (that whole small children within camera range = pervert thing freaks me out – you should see the size of some of these dads [awesome, just quietly]).

Sparkly mustard

That’s how Karl Stefanovic, reporting for Channel 9, described the colour of Michelle Obama’s inauguration outfit, renewing my belief that he’s an idiot.
Lisa Wilkinson, bless her sensible heart, begged to differ, deeming it chartreuse.

Whatever, I just think she could have done without the necklace:


Having said that, yay!

Modern mystery

iPhoto just had a breakdown.

I downloaded 17 photos, exported a handful to my desktop, nothing unusual.
I then tried to look at an earlier shot. It froze, went blank, turned silver all over at one point (I admit to panicking at this point) and now 500-odd photos have disappeared. Completely.
As if I never took them.

Jeffrey – my hero– put the majority of my photo library on an external hard-drive last year but I really have to ask:

Where the fuck do they go?

Oxford a go-go

Last night was the launch of DBBC at the Oxford.

That stands for Daddies, Boys, Bears and Cubs. I know. I think they actually have 'z' at the end but I can't bring myself to type it.

Anyway, cringey name, good turn-out, with the unexpected bonus (and an Oxford first, I believe) of go-go boys who were - wait for it - actually very good:



It's a pity the last one turned out to be rather short once he got down from his podium, but it's a minor quibble.

Truth in signage

Darley St, Darlinghurst:

Play Me, I'm Yours

The Sydney Festival is one of those things that usually happen to other people.
On such occasions, I just nod politely as they rave on about some show or performance I either couldn't afford or be bothered about.

This year, I must admit I'm seriously pissed about not getting Grace Jones tickets. But at least, as meagre compensation, there's a piano right outside the Oxford...
For the Festival, British artist Luke Jerram has planted pianos around town - Play Me, I'm Yours – and the one on Taylor Square was a magnet for backpackers when I arrived:


There was no discernable playing, just novelty value. But then one man in a cropped muscle singlet, who'd been enjoying several beverages at the next table, decided to run out and have a go.
And quite a go it was:




Despite appearances, he clearly knew – and loved – what he was doing, and at this point I cursed the second-hand dance pap that was drowning out his efforts.
Kylie and Madonna. Again.
Have we gone nowhere?
In any case, the piano kept drawing different people for the next couple of hours. It was great to watch:




I just want someone to get stuck into Rhapsody In Blue early Sunday morning...

Glowsticks at St Mary's

The Sydney Festival kicked off last night.
I hadn’t planned on checking it out, but the thought of another night at home (sitting through a vegetable battle on Iron Chef) sent me to College St where Santogold was scheduled to perform at 9pm.

I hit Hyde Park first, where some vaguely familiar woman was on stage in the kiddie-friendly section:


I was really looking for a food and/or drink stall but there were none to be found, so I followed the sound of thumping dance music to St Mary’s Cathedral:


Dance party promoters Fuzzy were on; some DJ in a hipster trilby had the glowsticks going wild. These were apparently official Sydney Festival glowsticks – blue and flashing – and as night descended people started hurling them into the air with complete disregard to safety and the fact that they’d forked out money they were now literally throwing away.

What Cardinal Pell would have made of this scene I’d love to know.

After a brief and pitiful attempt to teach everyone a dance called The Sydney (a series of moves far too complicated for the predominantly rhythm-challenged crowd), Santogold appeared in what looked like a tricked-up BridgeClimb boilersuit with two fierce back-up dancers. She sounded good and I stayed for ‘L.E.S. Artistes’ but my view was limited and I was surrounded by peaking teenagers so, rather than continue down to the Domain to see Grace Jones, I left for the Oxford.

The Oxford on a Saturday night is not recommended, although I did bump into some friends.
I also now know whom to call if I have plumbing difficulties.
This, for some reason, is above the urinal:

Cheap (hot) gay beer

It was Cheap Gay Beer night at the Oxford.
That’s an unofficial title. I believe Happy Hour is the preferred term (which, funnily enough, didn’t apply last Wednesday for Happy New Year, but anyway).

The weather was truly hot and foul tonight; people were sweating for no good reason, myself included - profusely. Still, it was good to see the venue busy with both new and familiar faces, some more animated/aggressive/amnesiac than others. Quite a few people have yet to go back to work but they didn’t seem any more relaxed than those who’d already woken up at some ungodly hour this morning.
Everyone has the same complaints.


Speaking of which, if you ever suffered on Taylor Square, desperate to take a piss but nervous about those poofter bars and unwilling to go the easy route (Foley St), the council has provided an exciting new toilet:


It’s the lightbox/advertising space on the left. The crane in front was used to help remove the big illuminated metal Christmas tree that lifted our spirits in such a fittingly hollow way for the past month (by day it looked tawdry, but by night it went off!).

I’ve yet to use this new hygienic facility (I did notice amid the signage the universal symbol for ‘nappy changing area’, which unsettled me) but anyone who has seen or used one of those time-sensitive glamourised Portaloos knows what I'm talking about.
A far cry from the old Gents’, needless to say.

Still, for all this questionable 'development', (Elizabeth) Taylor Square has looked far worse.
Remember the obstacle course?


Weather update! The cool change has hit, the tree outside my window is going batshit. All's, if not well, then at leat less clammy.

Meet Locky and Barko!

According to the 380 bus, they both love dick:




I think Locky could afford to put on a few pounds...

Poor Indy

I just watched the South Park Indiana Jones episode.
How the fuck do they get away with that?

I'd seen some of it online and I didn't know it was the one being shown tonight (I was semi-glued to the hitmen on Gangland Graveyards - I miss The Sopranos). As always, I made a scramble for the camera to take a still or two. As usual, the first shot wasn't quite focused, but I think it has an abstract innocence that only highlights the horror to come. It almost looks like a playful animated wildlife documentary.
It also serves as a gentle entree if you're unacquainted with the significance of duelling banjos:


The second shot gives you an idea of the scenario, which is still pleasingly pastoral and fairly ambiguous.
Perhaps it's hot and they've just dropped something?


But then this left nothing to the imagination:


I dropped the camera and just watched in admiration of their balls at that point.
It was the best episode I've seen since Cartman's hand was possessed by Jennifer Lopez.

Taco taco: