Lois Steam

The Bend

2010-02-23T15:22:00.002+11:00

Well hello!
Back online for the first time in almost a year, coming to you from Horseshoe Bend. It's an old suburb of Maitland alongside the Hunter River and is dotted with 19th century houses and 'Flood Level 1955' signs placed on telegraph poles a good 12 feet above street level.
We're surrounded by animals - horses, owls and the most elaborately coloured crawly things I've ever seen.

Al this and more can be found on a new blog, coming shortly - horseshoebent.blogspot.com

Lois says goodnight.

Fuzzy recall

2009-03-06T04:41:00.003+11:00

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

2009-03-06T03:55:00.008+11:00

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

2009-02-27T04:13:00.002+11:00

Gardening on a budget

2009-02-27T02:29:00.007+11:00

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

2009-02-27T01:20:00.002+11:00

"I stopped crying in the '80s."

Overheard at the Oxford Hotel.
Cue raucous laughter.

Smoking in Sydney

2009-02-19T01:04:00.005+11:00

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

2009-02-19T00:37:00.005+11:00

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

2009-02-18T22:26:00.005+11:00

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

2009-02-18T15:32:00.002+11:00

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!

2009-02-16T21:09:00.007+11:00

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

2009-02-09T19:45:00.002+11:00

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!

2009-02-07T12:57:00.004+11:00

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

2009-02-07T02:56:00.007+11:00

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

2009-02-04T22:41:00.004+11:00

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

2009-02-04T22:26:00.002+11:00

Public art

2009-02-04T22:03:00.006+11:00

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

2009-01-31T11:44:00.002+11:00

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

2009-01-27T23:00:00.004+11:00

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

2009-01-27T21:28:00.002+11:00

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

2009-01-27T21:21:00.003+11:00

“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

2009-01-21T12:13:00.003+11:00

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

2009-01-20T21:24:00.002+11:00

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

2009-01-17T14:20:00.004+11:00

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

2009-01-17T14:18:00.001+11:00

Darley St, Darlinghurst:

Play Me, I'm Yours

2009-01-14T23:23:00.008+11:00

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

2009-01-11T13:08:00.006+11:00

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

2009-01-07T23:13:00.006+11:00

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!

2009-01-05T22:41:00.004+11:00

According to the 380 bus, they both love dick:

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

Poor Indy

2009-01-05T21:50:00.008+11:00

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:

Happy (belated and kind of spooky) New Year

2009-01-05T19:17:00.005+11:00

I am so out of blog-practice.
I meant to post this photo after I took it on New Year’s night. It really was a dramatic, foreboding sunset, a massive band of cloud, the crescent moon peeking through, all quite Hollywood sci-fi epic and a fitting way to end the shitstorm that was 2008.

Although for me it wasn't so much The Day the Earth Stood Still as The Day the Earth Shrugged and Grabbed Another Beer.

Wherever they lay their head...

2009-01-03T15:11:00.002+11:00

Forgot about this. Someone in my building had left a mattress out in the back lane to be picked up by the council.
It stayed there for a few days and I was glad to see one of the working girls put it to good use:

Where the manchester came from, I have no idea...

Departure delayed

2009-01-03T15:00:00.004+11:00

Almost two months have passed since I attended to this thing, which I could attribute to sheer laziness or the fact that very little of note has happened.
I also lost a camera, leaving me bereft of visual accompaniment to my random musings, and I had my internet cut off, which really didn’t help matters.

Anyway, life is much as I left it – punctuated by part-time work laying out pages and wondering when the hell Mick and I can move out of town.
We went to Maitland after Christmas in the hope of securing a rental, a kind of stop-gap until he finds a place to buy. The drive up was, you could say, adrenalising. As soon as we got out of Sydney, there was a severe thunderstorm warning on the radio and for the next two hours this was my view:

Terrifying, but we made it.

As for the home-hunt, it was singularly depressing. There were hardly any houses available and those on offer ranged from weatherboard meth-house (security mesh on every window and door) to a bungalow on the New England Highway ten minutes out of town (it was, however, tantalizingly close to KFC). We didn’t even bother looking inside any of them; a cursory external examination was enough to send us back to the pub/drawing board, where we decided we might have to reconsider our options.

I’m glad I haven’t given formal notice to either my work or landlord that I’ll be leaving at the end of January, as I so naively thought. Lord knows when it'll happen.

Maitland is still top of the list as far as destinations go. We even stumbled what appeared to be a gay enclave – the pokie lounge of the Belmore Hotel. About half a dozen or so younger queens were there half-heartedly divesting themselves of money while chatting away. Come to think of it, it’s a little depressing to think that’s all they have but I guess you work with what you’ve got.
Besides, Bogan Bingo sounds pretty funny:

Taxpayer money at work

2009-01-03T14:57:00.001+11:00

This was taken at about 8.30pm on New Year’s Eve, a Sydney City Council streetsweeper on Oxford Street clearing the way for revellers to litter and vomit to their hearts’ content.

'The Nightmare Is Over'

2008-11-05T17:33:00.003+11:00

Just got sent this from Blair, my ex in New York, taken out his apartment window:

Congratulations, President Obama. (How cool is that?)

Going south

2008-10-28T23:56:00.004+11:00

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.

Real Estate 101

2008-10-17T02:49:00.010+11:00

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..

Well hello! #2

2008-10-17T01:30:00.004+11:00

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.

How do you say bravo in Mandarin?

2008-08-08T23:37:00.008+10:00

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?"

2008-08-08T22:48:00.001+10:00

Female Channel 7 commentator.

Photos to come.
Mesmerising.

On the hunt

2008-08-08T20:52:00.004+10:00

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

2008-08-08T19:06:00.006+10:00

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

2008-08-08T18:51:00.000+10:00

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.

Untwink #7

2008-07-26T01:32:00.006+10:00

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:

A T'Wanda too far...

2008-07-26T00:54:00.003+10:00

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…

A cock too far

2008-07-21T23:42:00.004+10:00

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:

Yum Cha, Dark Knight

2008-07-18T23:44:00.005+10:00

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…

HiDarl canoodle

2008-07-18T02:32:00.004+10:00

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.

WALL-E now, please

2008-07-17T01:48:00.005+10:00

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.

Go fish

2008-07-17T00:23:00.001+10:00

Ray took this among his sundry pilgrim shots.
It's my favourite.

Pope-washing

2008-07-16T23:53:00.004+10:00

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...

Voice of the 'community'

2008-07-16T23:02:00.007+10:00

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...

Took long enough

2008-07-16T22:50:00.002+10:00

I finally got broadband today.

I know.

The Holy Grail

2008-07-16T22:42:00.004+10:00

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:

Lest ye be judged

2008-07-16T21:53:00.005+10:00

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.

Howdy pilgrim

2008-07-14T15:12:00.004+10:00

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...

Can everyone please log off?

2008-07-02T12:25:00.003+10:00

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...

Across the universe

2008-06-27T12:57:00.015+10:00

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.

Gay ad horror #3

2008-06-27T12:36:00.001+10:00

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.

A bridge too far

2008-06-24T17:51:00.003+10:00

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.

It's cold outside

2008-06-16T10:58:00.002+10:00

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…

I'm seeing things

2008-06-14T14:46:00.004+10:00

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.

'Headey herey'

2008-06-14T12:17:00.000+10:00

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.

Mission semi-accomplished

2008-06-12T20:49:00.000+10:00

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.

8 to 6

2008-06-11T22:44:00.003+10:00

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...

Signs of the times

2008-06-10T10:12:00.004+10:00

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')

Troll zen

2008-06-10T10:08:00.002+10:00

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?

Pleasant surprise

2008-06-06T11:30:00.004+10:00

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.

The end was nigh

2008-06-06T11:01:00.005+10:00

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.

Random cool dude

2008-06-04T01:12:00.003+10:00

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:

I am not 'an unpleasant woman'

2008-06-04T00:50:00.002+10:00

Ignorance is bliss; rejection is sweet

2008-06-03T23:48:00.005+10:00

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.

Tony and Crissy were lovers

2008-06-03T16:57:00.012+10:00

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:

Lois lane

2008-06-02T02:15:00.002+10:00

Believe me, there are plenty more, but this is is the most recent. I also give him points for taking off his pants:

Hughes, Richard Hughes

2008-06-02T01:25:00.007+10:00

Last night I met up with Richard at the Oxford and I'm frustrated that this blogspot template I've chosen seems determined to deny me the ability to put up the portrait of me that he created, so I thought I should randomly pop up his artwork again.
We worked together on so many great things that appeared in the Sydney Star Observer, plus he did all those Sleaze posters among sundry other Big Gay Things that people forget about - that cute little ACON icon protecting his crotch that you might have pissed on is his, by the way.
The total absence of illustration or cartooning - his or any others - in the gay papers these days is a disappointment, to say the least. A glossy disembodied torso that is the basis of almost every ad for a gay event seems to sum up a market starved of ideas.
Just saying...

View from a bar

2008-06-01T21:35:00.006+10:00

Saturday night started at the Courthouse Hotel; Mick wanted to watch the rugby union match between the Waratahs and the Crusaders. While it resembles rugby league in many ways, union has a really stupid point system – three points for a field goal? – so it kind of irritates me. As always, though, the real entertainment was outside on Taylor Square.

One bloke in particular had me riveted. Gaunt, in his mid-forties I suppose, he was, as they say, “on the nod” – completely smacked out but nonetheless standing. He’d bend over, sway a little, stumble to the side then regain his bearings, eyes closed as he made his way towards the traffic. While the people at the table next to me were pissing themselves laughing at him – “He’s totally noddin’ off!” – I was petrified that he was about to stumble in front of a passing bus. But this is the amazing thing – they never go down. I don’t know how they do it.

When the game was over we headed across the street to the Oxford, where we set up camp in the smoke-in wardrobe in front of the open window: prime people-watching position. And straight away, there was another bloke doing his little ‘on the nod’ shuffle:

He snapped out of it briefly when someone asked if he was okay, then promptly went back into that weird, hunched-over stance, like he was praying or literally shitting himself.
Still, somehow, he didn’t fall over. If he had a home to go to, I don’t know how he got there.

As the evening progressed, we watched another bloke repeatedly pass us, clutching a takeaway coffee and muttering to himself as he paced back and forth, looking angrier each time:

We lost count of his appearances after a couple of hours, but then the traffic, vehicular and human, became more fascinating. Upstaging all the shiny, two-bit cars with their ridiculously oversized spoilers was this anomaly:

But Saturday night on Oxford Street is mostly about suburban chicks these days and they didn’t disappoint.
Actually, now that I think of it, they did – none of them got run down while cackling and clacking across six lanes of traffic in heels they could barely stand in. Seriously, it was an inappropriate footwear festival and I have a feeling there was a Chicago-themed party going on somewhere because there were a lot of teeny sequinned outfits going on:

As for the Oxford Hotel itself, it was pretty quiet. I reckon all the negative “Oxford Street is dead – and dangerous!” publicity has scared off a lot of queens, which is a pity. Lord knows there was enough of a police presence. They were in paddywagons, on foot patrol, on horseback and in some sort of van I haven’t seen before, grilling some poor man about a minor infringement of public decency:

Then again, it might just be the god-awful remix of ‘Careless Whisper’ that emptied the place.

Modern romance

2008-05-30T13:27:00.001+10:00

He's back!

2008-05-30T13:04:00.003+10:00

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.

Eurovision

2008-05-26T14:03:00.002+10:00

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:

Got any ID?

2008-05-20T13:32:00.003+10:00

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:

Two faces of Sydney

2008-05-18T16:29:00.005+10:00

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…

Art trek

2008-05-18T15:58:00.007+10:00

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 sunglass-tiara

2008-05-15T00:06:00.003+10:00

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:

The fez

2008-05-14T22:47:00.008+10:00

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.

HiDarl debris

2008-05-12T21:24:00.004+10:00

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...

Almost speechless

2008-05-09T23:18:00.006+10:00

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!

Graffiti research

2008-05-09T22:42:00.004+10:00

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.

Sydney flashback #6

2008-05-09T01:16:00.003+10:00

One small step:

Another kind of K-hole

2008-05-08T23:35:00.005+10:00

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.

Quote of the week

2008-05-06T20:47:00.004+10:00

"The yo-yo came alive."

Dannii Minogue praising the skills of a yo-yo artiste on Australia's Got Talent.

Ready for my close-up - almost

2008-05-05T11:58:00.003+10:00

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.

Kings Cross Festival etc.

2008-05-04T22:14:00.010+10:00

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.

'Style dilemma' dilemma

2008-05-03T11:19:00.003+10:00

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.

To do list

2008-05-02T21:56:00.003+10:00

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...

For the birds

2008-05-02T21:39:00.003+10:00

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.

Sydney flashback #5

2008-05-02T11:39:00.001+10:00

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.

Please click the 'Apply Now' button

2008-04-30T23:39:00.001+10:00

”[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

2008-04-30T23:06:00.005+10:00

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

2008-04-30T14:37:00.007+10:00

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!

2008-04-28T22:35:00.000+10:00

"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?