In today's Daily Telegraph:
Friday, April 18, 2008
A huge fan of gays
The term 'gays' is bad enough, but when emerging from the mouth of Tori Spelling it makes me cringe just that little bit more.
In today's Daily Telegraph:
In today's Daily Telegraph:
Shifting sands
The Midnight Shift has announced it's no longer opening on Saturday nights upstairs.
Jesus.
As a few people have commented, they should seriously reconsider their staff-hiring policy. They might be pretty, but they seem to care fuck-all for the community.
Chatter amongst themselves, sure. Smirking asides about certain patrons? You bet!
The Shift deserves better.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
The nohawk
Increasingly popular in gay Sydney at the moment is the nohawk, a wan, mutant mohawk that doesn't quite achieve the edgy menace it's striving for; it's less Mad Max warrior, more double lobotomy patient.
I don't get it.
I don't get it.
Spitting image
Now that my brain is back in full-blown fashion mode (a seldom-discussed chronic manageable illness), I feel compelled to complain about the difficulty in finding a decent, plain T-shirt.
Everywhere you go, every T-shirt has, for the want of a better word, shit all over it.
Logos, doodles, would-be-profound slogans or, my pet hate, what looks like the ejaculate of some bored and overpaid graphic designer.
Cannily, someone’s cut to the chase, so to speak.
Lo, the EVB Cum Shot T-shirt from eastvillageboys.com:
Everywhere you go, every T-shirt has, for the want of a better word, shit all over it.
Logos, doodles, would-be-profound slogans or, my pet hate, what looks like the ejaculate of some bored and overpaid graphic designer.
Cannily, someone’s cut to the chase, so to speak.
Lo, the EVB Cum Shot T-shirt from eastvillageboys.com:
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Battle of the rent-a-poofs
Channel Nine’s Today show and Channel Seven’s Sunrise have been engaged in a vicious battle for the breakfast TV audience for a few years now, with Sunrise ahead by a good margin.
I cannot bear to watch Sunrise. After a few minutes, Melissa Doyle’s inane, grinning bobble-head and David Koch’s laboured controversial asides have me scrambling for the remote. That the latter is always referred to as ‘Kochie’ and their studio is dubbed ‘Brekky Central’ just makes me want to regurgitate my Weet Bix.
An interesting facet of the two programs’ duel to the death is their matching Hollywood gossip reporters. Sunrise has Nelson Aspen, Today has Richard Reid. Both are American. Both are suspiciously tanned. Both have the ‘Hollywood’ sign projected behind them. And both are unquestionably homosexual.
I’m not entirely sure who came first (I think it might have been Nelson), but neither ever seem to have any new gossip at all – I strongly suspect they just go to Perez Hilton’s site and jot down a few notes.
It’s the three-minute gay minstrel show – with a sprinkle of celebrity glitter – that seems to be the sole purpose, an inoffensive diversion with a hint of morning-friendly nudge-nudge, etc. Richard Reid is often making references to “West Hollywood laneways” and the like, which draws a bemused laugh out of the hosts, but it never goes any further than that.
As for Nelson, I couldn’t really say. I only see him by accident on occasion while channel surfing during ad breaks, but I’m pretty sure he winks his way through his segment, so to speak.
It does make me wonder what would happen if these two bumped into each other at a bar or a B-grade celebrity function.
I can picture them slowly approaching each other, curling a lip and then unleashing a big fake smile, baring their enormous, blinding white teeth until one of them backed down or developed lockjaw.
It would make quite the documentary footage.
Here’s Richard, with Nelson below (no screen shot – like I said, I just can’t sit through it).
I cannot bear to watch Sunrise. After a few minutes, Melissa Doyle’s inane, grinning bobble-head and David Koch’s laboured controversial asides have me scrambling for the remote. That the latter is always referred to as ‘Kochie’ and their studio is dubbed ‘Brekky Central’ just makes me want to regurgitate my Weet Bix.
An interesting facet of the two programs’ duel to the death is their matching Hollywood gossip reporters. Sunrise has Nelson Aspen, Today has Richard Reid. Both are American. Both are suspiciously tanned. Both have the ‘Hollywood’ sign projected behind them. And both are unquestionably homosexual.
I’m not entirely sure who came first (I think it might have been Nelson), but neither ever seem to have any new gossip at all – I strongly suspect they just go to Perez Hilton’s site and jot down a few notes.
It’s the three-minute gay minstrel show – with a sprinkle of celebrity glitter – that seems to be the sole purpose, an inoffensive diversion with a hint of morning-friendly nudge-nudge, etc. Richard Reid is often making references to “West Hollywood laneways” and the like, which draws a bemused laugh out of the hosts, but it never goes any further than that.
As for Nelson, I couldn’t really say. I only see him by accident on occasion while channel surfing during ad breaks, but I’m pretty sure he winks his way through his segment, so to speak.
It does make me wonder what would happen if these two bumped into each other at a bar or a B-grade celebrity function.
I can picture them slowly approaching each other, curling a lip and then unleashing a big fake smile, baring their enormous, blinding white teeth until one of them backed down or developed lockjaw.
It would make quite the documentary footage.
Here’s Richard, with Nelson below (no screen shot – like I said, I just can’t sit through it).
The other half
I live just around the corner from Darley Street, which has some of the most glamorous piles in Darlinghurst. It’s only two short blocks and doesn’t really strike a single dodgy architectural note, but of course some are more striking than others.
I think Stoneleigh is my favourite:
For one, it’s massive. It also has the tallest, neatest hedge I’ve ever seen (their topiary bill must be daunting). It looks like the headquarters of some elite, hush-hush organisation involving elaborate handshakes and funny hats but is apparently just a family home.
It’s also two doors away from Iona, the abode (more of an estate, really) of director Baz Luhrmann and family. I was going to take a photo of it but when they moved in they put up a huge brush fence to thwart gawkers.
I was also worried about being pounced upon by a well-choreographed troupe of bouncers who might have confiscated my camera. You’ll just have to picture it.
I think Stoneleigh is my favourite:
For one, it’s massive. It also has the tallest, neatest hedge I’ve ever seen (their topiary bill must be daunting). It looks like the headquarters of some elite, hush-hush organisation involving elaborate handshakes and funny hats but is apparently just a family home.
It’s also two doors away from Iona, the abode (more of an estate, really) of director Baz Luhrmann and family. I was going to take a photo of it but when they moved in they put up a huge brush fence to thwart gawkers.
I was also worried about being pounced upon by a well-choreographed troupe of bouncers who might have confiscated my camera. You’ll just have to picture it.
Sydney flashback #2
Picture it: Sydney, 1980. You're sitting at home alone, feeling a little frisky. In fact, you fancy a good wrestle with a strapping young lad.
Luckily for you, Belvoir Boys is here to help:
Luckily for you, Belvoir Boys is here to help:
One step forward...
I’ve finally made my first foray into the dreaded exercise of freelance cold-calling – or, in this case, cold-emailing. It’s not far removed from sitting on the footpath with a sign reading: “Can use a semi-colon, will interview new cast member of Home and Away if necessary.”
Fortunately it seemed to work, although it was my background in fashion that was the clincher. As well as spending three years as a chiffon technician in New York, I worked for seven years with a prominent label in Sydney and still follow the collections online. So, I bluffed my way through a chat about my favourite men’s magazines (GQ? Arena Homme Plus? Details?) and now have to come up with 15 or so story ideas by the end of the week.
The downside? I had to fork out $40 on ‘current issue!’ air-freight magazines to find out what’s new and exciting in the heady realm of menswear.
Are skinny ties out? Is the boot-cut pant really making a comeback? Do loafers belong on anyone other than over-tanned Italian magnates? Such are the burning issues I have to contend with.
The problem of working inside the fashion industry is that it tends to make one a tad cynical about it all. It’s been years since I seriously questioned the wisdom of a shawl collar (they’re back, in case you were wondering). But I have an opportunity to work for a decent word-rate, so I must ditch the snark (damn) and delve back into a world in which topics such as ‘French cuffs: affectation or sophistication?’ are debated without irony.
I’m kind of excited I have to admit. Pity I won’t see any money for months.
Fortunately it seemed to work, although it was my background in fashion that was the clincher. As well as spending three years as a chiffon technician in New York, I worked for seven years with a prominent label in Sydney and still follow the collections online. So, I bluffed my way through a chat about my favourite men’s magazines (GQ? Arena Homme Plus? Details?) and now have to come up with 15 or so story ideas by the end of the week.
The downside? I had to fork out $40 on ‘current issue!’ air-freight magazines to find out what’s new and exciting in the heady realm of menswear.
Are skinny ties out? Is the boot-cut pant really making a comeback? Do loafers belong on anyone other than over-tanned Italian magnates? Such are the burning issues I have to contend with.
The problem of working inside the fashion industry is that it tends to make one a tad cynical about it all. It’s been years since I seriously questioned the wisdom of a shawl collar (they’re back, in case you were wondering). But I have an opportunity to work for a decent word-rate, so I must ditch the snark (damn) and delve back into a world in which topics such as ‘French cuffs: affectation or sophistication?’ are debated without irony.
I’m kind of excited I have to admit. Pity I won’t see any money for months.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Where thou, art?
When it comes to stencil graffiti or street art, Melbourne is considered to be far ahead of Sydney in terms of acceptance and sophistication.
Admittedly, in my immediate neighbourhood there isn't a huge number of clever contributions but on occasion you stumble across something that stops you in your tracks.
At first I thought this skunk was washing off the 'tag' above, but then I realised he was plastering his own work on the wall.
Whatever. Cute.
Pennys Lane, Kings Cross
Admittedly, in my immediate neighbourhood there isn't a huge number of clever contributions but on occasion you stumble across something that stops you in your tracks.
At first I thought this skunk was washing off the 'tag' above, but then I realised he was plastering his own work on the wall.
Whatever. Cute.
Pennys Lane, Kings Cross
Monday, April 14, 2008
Sydney flashback #1
The Sydney Cruiser was a small gay fortnightly magazine, which lasted (I think) for only a year or so from 1980. It contained scene pics, fiction, nightlife listings, personals and some (now) rather funny advertising.
It also provided a comprehensive list of beats. I might or might not have those scanned at a later date.
I should add that my copy was given to me by a mate, Tony. I hope he has some more to share.
Anyway, here’s the first in a series of excerpts.
Look at the intensity in those eyes, the boldness of that stance, the persuasiveness of that bulge.
Saddletramp’s address is now simply known as the Exchange Hotel, which houses Phoenix downstairs on weekends, a very popular and very sweaty dirty poofter stomp.
Untwink #5
The rugby league season is well underway, which means the newspaper sports pages are once more full of photos like this:
The homoeroticism of league has never been fully explored by Australian sports writers and certainly not by its official TV commentators. Nearly all of them former players, they constantly refer to other players as ‘big units’ and ‘hard men’, marvelling at the size of their arms and thighs while seemingly oblivious to any sexual connotations.
This becomes glaringly apparent on The Sunday Roast, Channel Nine’s midday hour-long round-up of the footy week and that day’s games.
It’s meant to be the jokey counterpart to the more serious Sunday Footy Show and is, even by league standards, pretty lowbrow. It also invariably provides a great perve at least once a week. Yesterday, it was the four (relatively old) panellists discussing the rampant tattooing going on among footy ranks. To illustrate this bewildering – to them – trend, they provided locker room footage. We love locker room footage:
Apart from this sort of titillation, The Sunday Roast also has Mark Geyer, a.k.a. ‘MG’. MG was, in his heyday, a ‘hard man’ known for his intimidating demeanour and love of biff. He got suspended a lot.
These days, the 6’5” MG appears on the Roast – often as a source of amusement to his fellow panelists due to his propensity to say stupid and/or inappropriate things – as well as the sports news pages. His Hardman column on the ninemsn website is, in his own words, a celebration of the “brute with a profound presence on the footy field”.
My favourite incarnation of MG, though, was as the spokesbloke for Advanced Hair Studio. The company has employed several balding sports identities to flog their ‘strand-by-strand’ technology with the beautifully simple slogan, “Advanced Hair – yeah yeah”.
But only MG made it sound like a come-on.
If you look closely, you can see a tiny shiny spot on his head; evidently he’s still getting work done:
The homoeroticism of league has never been fully explored by Australian sports writers and certainly not by its official TV commentators. Nearly all of them former players, they constantly refer to other players as ‘big units’ and ‘hard men’, marvelling at the size of their arms and thighs while seemingly oblivious to any sexual connotations.
This becomes glaringly apparent on The Sunday Roast, Channel Nine’s midday hour-long round-up of the footy week and that day’s games.
It’s meant to be the jokey counterpart to the more serious Sunday Footy Show and is, even by league standards, pretty lowbrow. It also invariably provides a great perve at least once a week. Yesterday, it was the four (relatively old) panellists discussing the rampant tattooing going on among footy ranks. To illustrate this bewildering – to them – trend, they provided locker room footage. We love locker room footage:
Apart from this sort of titillation, The Sunday Roast also has Mark Geyer, a.k.a. ‘MG’. MG was, in his heyday, a ‘hard man’ known for his intimidating demeanour and love of biff. He got suspended a lot.
These days, the 6’5” MG appears on the Roast – often as a source of amusement to his fellow panelists due to his propensity to say stupid and/or inappropriate things – as well as the sports news pages. His Hardman column on the ninemsn website is, in his own words, a celebration of the “brute with a profound presence on the footy field”.
My favourite incarnation of MG, though, was as the spokesbloke for Advanced Hair Studio. The company has employed several balding sports identities to flog their ‘strand-by-strand’ technology with the beautifully simple slogan, “Advanced Hair – yeah yeah”.
But only MG made it sound like a come-on.
If you look closely, you can see a tiny shiny spot on his head; evidently he’s still getting work done:
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Think of the children
As a former chiffon technician (okay, I worked for a designer of scarves and other wildly overpriced accessories for a few years), I still follow the fashion world.
The biggest story of the week has revolved around the model Monika Jagaciak, otherwise known as ‘Jac’. She’s beautiful. The camera loves her. She’s a Next Big Thing.
She’s 14 years old.
This last detail has sent anyone who gives a shit into a tizzy (really not that difficult). It’s also made me ponder the perils of child exploitation, which has become a global spectator sport, whether we like it or not.
No one ever thinks of the Olsen twins in this context – they were forced to play the same detestably adorable child on that wretched sitcom for years. Imagine what that did to their heads. Or Michael Jackson, a prodigious talent turned, well… you’ve seen it. Or “the fat kid from Hey Dad”. He’s quite possibly rocking back and forth in a darkened corner of an otherwise empty room as I type.
Of all the precious tots, though, I can’t help but think of Romanian gymnast Nadia Comaneci. I can only vaguely recall the 1976 Olympics, but I do remember the cries of ‘10! 10! 10!’ when she won a perfect score for her uneven bar routine. I might even have done that little hands-up ‘ta dah!’ pose they all do at the end. In any case, Nadia, who became an international darling, was 14 at the time.
Did anyone make a fuss? Nup.
So back to Jac. She’s Polish. She was probably really, really looking forward to attending Fashion Week in Sydney. But she’s 14, she’s being exploited and she looks, you know, kind of sexually attractive. That makes people feel very, very uncomfortable.
So she’s been dropped.
All she has to do is stand still in front of a photographer and stroll up and down a raised platform a few times.
No one is demanding that she spends hours every day practicing torturous physical feats. She doesn’t have to backflips on a balance beam. She hasn't, as far as I know, been squeezed into an unflattering leotard.
What’s the problem?
The biggest story of the week has revolved around the model Monika Jagaciak, otherwise known as ‘Jac’. She’s beautiful. The camera loves her. She’s a Next Big Thing.
She’s 14 years old.
This last detail has sent anyone who gives a shit into a tizzy (really not that difficult). It’s also made me ponder the perils of child exploitation, which has become a global spectator sport, whether we like it or not.
No one ever thinks of the Olsen twins in this context – they were forced to play the same detestably adorable child on that wretched sitcom for years. Imagine what that did to their heads. Or Michael Jackson, a prodigious talent turned, well… you’ve seen it. Or “the fat kid from Hey Dad”. He’s quite possibly rocking back and forth in a darkened corner of an otherwise empty room as I type.
Of all the precious tots, though, I can’t help but think of Romanian gymnast Nadia Comaneci. I can only vaguely recall the 1976 Olympics, but I do remember the cries of ‘10! 10! 10!’ when she won a perfect score for her uneven bar routine. I might even have done that little hands-up ‘ta dah!’ pose they all do at the end. In any case, Nadia, who became an international darling, was 14 at the time.
Did anyone make a fuss? Nup.
So back to Jac. She’s Polish. She was probably really, really looking forward to attending Fashion Week in Sydney. But she’s 14, she’s being exploited and she looks, you know, kind of sexually attractive. That makes people feel very, very uncomfortable.
So she’s been dropped.
All she has to do is stand still in front of a photographer and stroll up and down a raised platform a few times.
No one is demanding that she spends hours every day practicing torturous physical feats. She doesn’t have to backflips on a balance beam. She hasn't, as far as I know, been squeezed into an unflattering leotard.
What’s the problem?
Friday, April 11, 2008
Step away from the spraycan
A group of people (or a very industrious individual) is engaging in a unique - as far as I'm aware - form of street-art using plastic cups:
I first spotted this last year in Arnold Place, just behind Oxford Street. Every now and then someone goes to the effort of taking bits of it down but it's always restored before too long.
I just noticed a new one on Flinders Street, Surry Hills the other day:
I don't know who's responsible, but I do like.
I first spotted this last year in Arnold Place, just behind Oxford Street. Every now and then someone goes to the effort of taking bits of it down but it's always restored before too long.
I just noticed a new one on Flinders Street, Surry Hills the other day:
I don't know who's responsible, but I do like.
Anon and on...
Due to an unsightly rash of vile anonymous posting I've decided to eliminate that option.
Jeez, I love our 'community'. Quick, someone get a drag queen to fill that awkward void...
Happy thoughts
During times of, you know, financial dismay, emotional disarray or dealing with deadshits, I turn to the one thing I know that can smooth over any crumpled personal documents, so to speak.
Two words: Doris Day.
(Specifically, 'If I Give My Heart To You' and its awesome bum-bum-bum-bum-bum male harmony back-up vocals. Beautiful. It's on YouTube somewhere.)
Two words: Doris Day.
(Specifically, 'If I Give My Heart To You' and its awesome bum-bum-bum-bum-bum male harmony back-up vocals. Beautiful. It's on YouTube somewhere.)
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Please don't read this...
… if you’re unwilling to accept that a good proportion of the gay men you encounter are HIV-positive. They just don’t toss the subject around.
Perhaps to my detriment, I’ve been doing that in print for more than a decade now.
I’m approaching 18 years with this fucking virus, not to mention the ignorant nastiness of gay men to this day; any valid arguments I might have are now reduced to ‘bitterness’, any anger is attributed to drug abuse. Apart from my delusion that the Marlboro Man will whisk me away one day on his big horse, I'm afraid that's simply untrue.
Personally, I reckon (my) life is too short to waste on idiots and mediocrity. So sue me. I’ll probably be dead before it goes to court, right?
To the detractors, I give you my biggest smile:
Perhaps to my detriment, I’ve been doing that in print for more than a decade now.
I’m approaching 18 years with this fucking virus, not to mention the ignorant nastiness of gay men to this day; any valid arguments I might have are now reduced to ‘bitterness’, any anger is attributed to drug abuse. Apart from my delusion that the Marlboro Man will whisk me away one day on his big horse, I'm afraid that's simply untrue.
Personally, I reckon (my) life is too short to waste on idiots and mediocrity. So sue me. I’ll probably be dead before it goes to court, right?
To the detractors, I give you my biggest smile:
Overkill, seriously
Earlier this year, Nathan Hudson (pictured centre), the lead singer of Faker, came out. Good for him.
Their latest single, 'This Heart Attack', took a while to grow on me, but thanks to Channel Ten it has been permanently etched into by brain.
It is used incessantly - on promos for various shows, on So You Think You Can Dance...
I can't get the bloody thing out of my head and frankly the song is ruined for me - when I hear it all I can see is Natalie Bassingthwaite and her never-ending series of hairdon'ts.
I was discussing this last night with a mate who couldn't agree more - and he's slept with Nathan.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Untwink #4
Some Like It Hot is a classic movie, one of my favourites. I hardly need to go on about it, apart from adding that, along with Marilyn Monroe, Tony Curtis and Jack Lemmon, it also features Mike Mazurki, my favourite Hollywood henchman.
At 6’5”, he towered over his boss Spats Colombo and, for me, proceedings in general.
Having spent a good five decades playing goons (ooh) and thugs (aah), the former wrestler Mazurki essentially made a profession out of menace.
That he also received a Bachelor of Arts degree is either awesome or a little deflating, depending on your point of view.
Mike Mazurki (1909-1990)
At 6’5”, he towered over his boss Spats Colombo and, for me, proceedings in general.
Having spent a good five decades playing goons (ooh) and thugs (aah), the former wrestler Mazurki essentially made a profession out of menace.
That he also received a Bachelor of Arts degree is either awesome or a little deflating, depending on your point of view.
Mike Mazurki (1909-1990)
Rules of disengagement
I just got a surprise visit from my ex. It was the first time we’d seen each other since we split so it was a little awkward and sad at first. He offered to shout me lunch and suggested the Courthouse Hotel on Taylor Square. Decent, cheap pub food (bangers and mash, etc.), which was fine by me. But once again my smoking habit led us to an outdoor table, within arm’s reach of the endless parade of people asking for ‘spare’ cigarettes and/or money.
I’m beginning to think perhaps I should quit.
We were having a good time chatting and checking out the various mobile wrecks that stumble around, barking random nasal remarks at high volume to each other. Then a young man approached us and smiled broadly. He wasn’t shabbily dressed, although he had a very strange plastered-down fringe, as though he’d starred in his high-school production of Julius Caesar and was growing it out.
Anyway, he told us we looked like two lovely people having a very nice lunch and babbled on. And this is where I made the fatal error:
I responded to him with a ‘thank you’ and a nod.
I can’t help myself and I should know better. Every time I do this – hand out a ciggie, engage in anything resembling conversation – I often find myself trapped in a drunken, rambling monologue (not that uncommon inside the pub, come to think of it) or besieged by a suddenly pink-faced lunatic threatening to glass me with my own beer.
Which is what young Julius did.
I’m not sure he was drunk or under the influence of anything. I think the mental health system in this city has a lot to answer for.
FOOTNOTE:
On the bright side, Taylor Square itself looks like it’s actually been cleaned recently. And the ‘fountain’ was finally doing more than this:
I’m beginning to think perhaps I should quit.
We were having a good time chatting and checking out the various mobile wrecks that stumble around, barking random nasal remarks at high volume to each other. Then a young man approached us and smiled broadly. He wasn’t shabbily dressed, although he had a very strange plastered-down fringe, as though he’d starred in his high-school production of Julius Caesar and was growing it out.
Anyway, he told us we looked like two lovely people having a very nice lunch and babbled on. And this is where I made the fatal error:
I responded to him with a ‘thank you’ and a nod.
I can’t help myself and I should know better. Every time I do this – hand out a ciggie, engage in anything resembling conversation – I often find myself trapped in a drunken, rambling monologue (not that uncommon inside the pub, come to think of it) or besieged by a suddenly pink-faced lunatic threatening to glass me with my own beer.
Which is what young Julius did.
I’m not sure he was drunk or under the influence of anything. I think the mental health system in this city has a lot to answer for.
FOOTNOTE:
On the bright side, Taylor Square itself looks like it’s actually been cleaned recently. And the ‘fountain’ was finally doing more than this:
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
What's with the helicopters?
For the past couple of days there have been helicopters (or perhaps just one hyperactive one) buzzing around quite low over the city.
Are they preparing for the Pope's visit? Are they equipped with some sort of anti-anti-Pope weapon?
Anyway, it reminded me of a truly fab/awful YouTube clip a friend showed me the other week. It's a series of outtakes from the 1996 movie Skyscraper starring Anna Nicole Smith. Tagline: 'Eighty-Six Floors Of Action-Packed Terror!'
Of all things, she plays a helicopter pilot, and the poor thing is dressed in a very unflattering pilot's uniform much of the time (her tits look like they're around her waist).
In these justifiably deleted scenes, Anna Nicole is - there's no other way to put it - completely out of it. The word 'airspace' proves extremely difficult to pronounce, although quite frankly I prefer her version: 'hairspace'.
http://youtube.com/watch?v=z4l-1JFW59A
Are they preparing for the Pope's visit? Are they equipped with some sort of anti-anti-Pope weapon?
Anyway, it reminded me of a truly fab/awful YouTube clip a friend showed me the other week. It's a series of outtakes from the 1996 movie Skyscraper starring Anna Nicole Smith. Tagline: 'Eighty-Six Floors Of Action-Packed Terror!'
Of all things, she plays a helicopter pilot, and the poor thing is dressed in a very unflattering pilot's uniform much of the time (her tits look like they're around her waist).
In these justifiably deleted scenes, Anna Nicole is - there's no other way to put it - completely out of it. The word 'airspace' proves extremely difficult to pronounce, although quite frankly I prefer her version: 'hairspace'.
http://youtube.com/watch?v=z4l-1JFW59A
Never push the tip
Firehorse over at homohomosapien and friends here at blogspot (I really have learn how to do links on this thing) have a weekly photo challenge going on. It's about conversation pieces, so I thought I should contribute:
I got my Jeff Stryker doll from Jeff himself. Seriously. I was working for Blue magazine (RIP) and we had planned on doing a photo shoot with him but he backed out (I suspect he flicked through a few issues, saw the formidable physique competition and thought better of it).
Anyway, he just happened to be releasing his Jeff Stryker Action Figure at the same time as our feature so he sent it as a proxy. We even discussed express delivery details over the phone! I was disappointed that he didn't say "You like that, dontcha boy" in a deep growl at least once, but he was otherwise friendly enough.
The action figure starred in an eight-page feature that my good mate Jeffrey Ho, who was Blue's art director, shot around the Opera House and Botanic Gardens. I was the shoot's 'stylist' (I ended up losing his little leather vest) and it was probably the most ridiculous and enjoyable day's work I've ever had.
Below is Jeff in action and the all-important instructions. Remember, never push the tip!
I got my Jeff Stryker doll from Jeff himself. Seriously. I was working for Blue magazine (RIP) and we had planned on doing a photo shoot with him but he backed out (I suspect he flicked through a few issues, saw the formidable physique competition and thought better of it).
Anyway, he just happened to be releasing his Jeff Stryker Action Figure at the same time as our feature so he sent it as a proxy. We even discussed express delivery details over the phone! I was disappointed that he didn't say "You like that, dontcha boy" in a deep growl at least once, but he was otherwise friendly enough.
The action figure starred in an eight-page feature that my good mate Jeffrey Ho, who was Blue's art director, shot around the Opera House and Botanic Gardens. I was the shoot's 'stylist' (I ended up losing his little leather vest) and it was probably the most ridiculous and enjoyable day's work I've ever had.
Below is Jeff in action and the all-important instructions. Remember, never push the tip!
I still haven't been to 'me'
Having been unceremoniously ejected from my former place of employment, I have had to deal with the frustrating and depressing mire of forms that is Centrelink. Originally I was applying for sickness allowances, although now I see I’ve missed the crucial 14-day period for that, so back to square one. I can apply for the dole, but that means queuing up for yet another form to fill out, laying bare my inadequacies for all the world (well, a few Centrelink staff) to see. Then there’s the small matter of proving my identity.
In order to receive Centrelink benefits I need 100 ‘points’ of personal identification. This sounds easy, you say? Not if you don’t drive (a driver’s licence is 40 points) or have a valid passport (that’s 70). I had my parents fish out my birth certificate (70) so I’m getting there, but I have to say this is wearing me down.
Dad got me a passport renewal form, itself an oddly confronting document. Once again, I have to jump through hoops (an activity I have never particularly enjoyed) to prove unequivocally that I am, indeed, me. The aforementioned absence of a driver’s licence complicates matters (I’ve never before regretted not learning how to drive) but it’s the photo that’s worrying me.
You see, I recently grew a moustache, my very first. Yes, it was a shock to me, too. I didn’t shave for a couple of weeks and realised my upper lip was capable of producing something that actually resembled a real moustache, a pretty good one, so I thought, what the hell. I still get the occasional jolt of surprise when I see myself reflected in a shop window but it’s keeping me amused during this difficult form-filling period.
It does pose a tough question though: for my new passport photo, do I shave off my moustache or leave it on? I’ve never had one before and might very well find it ridiculous in a few weeks, so is it wise to have my newfound facial hair immortalised on my Very Important Identity Proving Document? Does it make me look a little shady, like someone who might take a small container of dangerous liquids onto an international flight? Is it a little, you know, bloody stupid-looking?
And before you ask, I am not posting a pic of my mo’.
Sunday, April 6, 2008
Adventures in branding
The southern side of Oxford Street and its immediate vicinity are full of places in which to have sex or purchase merchandise to facilitate said activity. Off the top of my head I can think of nine (11 if you cross the street).
I call the area Bigbox: Band of Instant Gratification Below Oxford Street.
A relative newcomer is Kaos, purveyors of ‘adult koncepts’.
Krazy spelling aside, their corporate identity bothers me. Given the context, am I the only one who thinks that ‘O’ looks like a bloody sphincter?
I call the area Bigbox: Band of Instant Gratification Below Oxford Street.
A relative newcomer is Kaos, purveyors of ‘adult koncepts’.
Krazy spelling aside, their corporate identity bothers me. Given the context, am I the only one who thinks that ‘O’ looks like a bloody sphincter?
Gay ad horror #1
One of the most frustrating things about my former job was seeing, week after week, ugly, crass and/or downright insulting advertising in the gay press and not being able to write anything about it. Well, things have changed and now I present the first entry in a series of woefully misguided marketing efforts.
I can’t stand GayMatchMaker.com.au. This Gaydar-wannabe site has relied on cringe-worthy representations of the gay community since its inception. Its late-night TV ads, presenting a pathetic array of (poorly executed) cartoon scene stereotypes, are loathsome. Then you have their recent print ad, a detail of which I’ve snapped here:
The male model is your stock-standard plastic affair. I have grown (almost) immune to this. But look at the tatt on his shoulder (gay men love tattoos!):
It’s a drag queen verging on a nervous breakdown. Not only is she wiping a tear from her eye, she’s had to pour herself a calming cup of tea. And here’s the clincher – she’s so distraught she hasn’t shaved her legs for at least a week by the looks of things.
I’m struggling to fathom the thinking process behind this and I have a few questions.
Are they suggesting that, unless you immediately sign up to GayMatchMaker – on which you will undoubtedly find that Perfect Match Who Looks Just Like The Model Pictured – you’ll end up a joke of a downtrodden mess?
Why does the drag queen have more body hair than the model?
Why hasn’t the site fired (or deported) their marketing people?
We may never know.
I can’t stand GayMatchMaker.com.au. This Gaydar-wannabe site has relied on cringe-worthy representations of the gay community since its inception. Its late-night TV ads, presenting a pathetic array of (poorly executed) cartoon scene stereotypes, are loathsome. Then you have their recent print ad, a detail of which I’ve snapped here:
The male model is your stock-standard plastic affair. I have grown (almost) immune to this. But look at the tatt on his shoulder (gay men love tattoos!):
It’s a drag queen verging on a nervous breakdown. Not only is she wiping a tear from her eye, she’s had to pour herself a calming cup of tea. And here’s the clincher – she’s so distraught she hasn’t shaved her legs for at least a week by the looks of things.
I’m struggling to fathom the thinking process behind this and I have a few questions.
Are they suggesting that, unless you immediately sign up to GayMatchMaker – on which you will undoubtedly find that Perfect Match Who Looks Just Like The Model Pictured – you’ll end up a joke of a downtrodden mess?
Why does the drag queen have more body hair than the model?
Why hasn’t the site fired (or deported) their marketing people?
We may never know.
Saturday, April 5, 2008
Pokie in the eye
Confession: I have been known to slip a $10 note into a poker machine on the odd (bored) occasion. I used to be faithful to Queen of the Nile, but then Five Dragons actually paid out one evening so I switched. In any case, my current parlous financial situation means I don’t go anywhere near them.
Unfortunately, this has become virtually impossible in Sydney pubs – they’re everywhere. Combine this with the smoking ban and the fact that pokie players are often also nicotine addicts and you have the emergence of tiny outdoor areas catering to these poor outcasts.
The saddest of all has to be the Stonewall Hotel’s new pokie lounge – the Golden Mile Lounge (oh, please) – and its smoking area right on Oxford Street:
Only four people are allowed to use it at any one time. I imagine sitting here, one would feel like an exhibit at a future gay expo titled ‘Where It All Went Horribly Wrong’.
Unfortunately, this has become virtually impossible in Sydney pubs – they’re everywhere. Combine this with the smoking ban and the fact that pokie players are often also nicotine addicts and you have the emergence of tiny outdoor areas catering to these poor outcasts.
The saddest of all has to be the Stonewall Hotel’s new pokie lounge – the Golden Mile Lounge (oh, please) – and its smoking area right on Oxford Street:
Only four people are allowed to use it at any one time. I imagine sitting here, one would feel like an exhibit at a future gay expo titled ‘Where It All Went Horribly Wrong’.
Lot 1259: Yellow cock
Dad took me to an auction yesterday. We’d been to a viewing the previous day – ostensibly looking for a couch – when I spotted a small lamp in the shape of a rooster that took my fancy. As it would.
Its official listing in the catalogue: ‘Yellow cock’.
I’d never been to an auction before but, as an avid Bargain Hunt fan, I had a general idea of what to expect. This particular auction was in a warehouse full of everything from antique cabinets to boxes of old Mad magazines and the gathered crowd was just as disparate: slovenly old men, middle-aged queens, mothers cradling small children.
Our auctioneer, looking a little harried (perhaps due to his early-onset male-pattern baldness), moved very quickly through proceedings - I got the distinct feeling he had somewhere better to be – so it was only a wait of an hour or so before my lot, 1259, came up.
I admit I was tense, a matter made worse when I saw a well-dressed woman of a certain age with that silvery-blonde hair you only see in affluent suburbs eyeing my cock. Oh no you don’t, I thought, that’s my cock, darling, my now-precious cock, which I couldn’t possibly live without, which I’d already mentally arranged in my bachelor pad. She didn't even need to be here, she should be fondling scarves in Hermes.
Keep your well-manicured paws off my cock, bitch!
The big moment came. “Lot 1259. A yellow… um.”
The auctioneer’s assistant came to the rescue: “Rooster, sir!”
As it turned out, just one other man showed any interest and I could hardly call it a bidding frenzy; it was over in about 30 seconds.
Thirty bucks. Not bad.
Its official listing in the catalogue: ‘Yellow cock’.
I’d never been to an auction before but, as an avid Bargain Hunt fan, I had a general idea of what to expect. This particular auction was in a warehouse full of everything from antique cabinets to boxes of old Mad magazines and the gathered crowd was just as disparate: slovenly old men, middle-aged queens, mothers cradling small children.
Our auctioneer, looking a little harried (perhaps due to his early-onset male-pattern baldness), moved very quickly through proceedings - I got the distinct feeling he had somewhere better to be – so it was only a wait of an hour or so before my lot, 1259, came up.
I admit I was tense, a matter made worse when I saw a well-dressed woman of a certain age with that silvery-blonde hair you only see in affluent suburbs eyeing my cock. Oh no you don’t, I thought, that’s my cock, darling, my now-precious cock, which I couldn’t possibly live without, which I’d already mentally arranged in my bachelor pad. She didn't even need to be here, she should be fondling scarves in Hermes.
Keep your well-manicured paws off my cock, bitch!
The big moment came. “Lot 1259. A yellow… um.”
The auctioneer’s assistant came to the rescue: “Rooster, sir!”
As it turned out, just one other man showed any interest and I could hardly call it a bidding frenzy; it was over in about 30 seconds.
Thirty bucks. Not bad.
Friday, April 4, 2008
The Beef District
East Sydney is down the hill from HiDarl. Due to said hill, which you will eventually have to walk back up at some point, I rarely go there. I’m not partial to unnecessary exertion.
Anyway, I was there today and I’d forgotten just how many bodybuilders there are down there. City Gym on Crown Street is pretty serious; some guys are ridiculously huge (and curiously partial to cropped, boatneck T-shirts).
I guess the air of testosterone is pretty sexy, but sadly you also get a strong whiff of dickhead.
Rosella Lane, East Sydney
Anyway, I was there today and I’d forgotten just how many bodybuilders there are down there. City Gym on Crown Street is pretty serious; some guys are ridiculously huge (and curiously partial to cropped, boatneck T-shirts).
I guess the air of testosterone is pretty sexy, but sadly you also get a strong whiff of dickhead.
Rosella Lane, East Sydney
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Untwink #3
During ciggie breaks at a former, former job, I’d see this bloke almost every day sitting, smoking and waiting outside a kind of activity centre/craft workshop catering to the elderly, presumably for his wife. I developed a slightly disconcerting obsession with him.
I eventually got the courage to ask him if I could take his photo.
He gave me that perfect, almost imperceptible Aussie nod and said, ‘No worries.’
I love fading tattoos on a hard-faced bloke.
Red carpet moment
There’s nothing worse than walking past a perfect photo opportunity without a camera. But then there’s nothing better than having a friend whio can lend you his relatively ancient (only three megapixels!) offcast for a hit-and-run.
Picture it: It’s around 6pm and I’m walking towards Kings Cross along Darlinghurst Road, not a particularly salubrious stretch, when I notice a swatch of red carpet on the footpath enclosed by two small lengths of velvet rope; a kind of micro-pre-Oscars set-up, or the entry to really, really small VIP room.
Then I remembered: it’s the Real Gay Cowboy/Olivia Newtown-John Great Wall of China Walk for Cancer/HIV Fundraising Dinner!
Shit, no camera; this forlorn scene (pre-party, empty) was perfect.
In any case, I took this on my way home at about 9.15. I took another of the inside, but what with the two large bouncers out front, the apparently sparse crowd and the unmistakable drag-queen-has-control-of-the-microphone ambience, I didn’t linger to capture the full experience.
I reckon this sums it up pretty well.
All about her
The two gay papers came out today. How’s this for an opening paragraph:
“So I have climbed the Harbour Bridge, I’ve been on Jet boats around the harbour, I’ve posed naked for all and sundry to see, but my latest adventure seemed to scare the pants off me more than any of those did.”
Gawd, I’m sick of Maxi Shield. A local drag queen and columnist for the Sydney Star Observer, she has, in the past couple of years, deployed her relentless self-promotional skills, Eve Harrington-worthy determination and supernatural knack for photo opportunities to position herself as the Saviour of Oxford Street.
But now, I fear, she’s out of control.
I think it’s her latest ‘nude look’ that’s made me crack. It just creeps me out (and Dallas Della Force did it first and far better). Or maybe it’s her constant references to herself as an ‘old girl’. Or the fact she named herself after a female sanitary product.
By all accounts, she a lovely person. Still…
CSI: Paddington
I just had lunch with mum and dad. As usual, we ended up in hysterics. Allow me to share their story. But first, a little background:
My parents are in their late sixties and live in a lovely little terrace house in Paddington, about five minutes’ drive from my place. The neighbourhood is leafy and quiet, apart from the various pubs dotted around the area, one of which is directly across the road.
Anyway, two weeks ago, four armed, masked bandits (love that term) held up a pub in nearby Bondi Junction, stole a car and carried on with sundry nefarious activities. The following day, mum saw a strange black object lying on the ground next to the house. Intrigued, she picked it up and realised it was a ski mask. Not making the armed-robbery connection, she said to my father, “Why would anyone wear a ski mask in this weather?”
Instead of leaving it on the ground or taking it inside to throw in the garbage, like most people would, she placed it on a branch of the nearest tree. You know, just in case its former owner was feeling a bit chilly or had a sentimental attachment to it. With my mother, you never know, but she’s always thoughtful.
Well, the robbery connection finally clicked and mum spent a couple of hours worrying about what to do. She eventually buckled (having asked dad to retrieve the mask, which was still in the tree) and called the police.
An hour or so later, two dour officers arrived, at which point dad proudly held up the ski mask with both hands inside it, like an auctioneer, clearly not concerned about any possible DNA contamination. One officer put on rubber gloves and presented a plastic bag, into which dad placed the mask. Questions were asked, including the exact location of where mum first spotted the now crucial piece of evidence (she left out the leaving-it-in-the-tree bit) and many notes were taken. My parents, of course, found this all very amusing; the officers didn’t.
When all the procedural matters were finalised, one officer looked solemnly at dad and said, “You know, there’s no reward for this.”
Dad’s response: “A bit extra on the pension would be fine.”
I don’t see my parents often enough.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Grief encounter
Another beautifully blue day, some Lois primping (only just discovered how to let anyone leave a comment; please do!), all good.
I met up with a longtime mate/collaborator for the first time in about a month at our local. Great chat, many laughs, ideas pouring out...
Unfortunately - and this is my fault - we were in the smoke-in wardobe that is the Oxford's designated self-immolators' area. There's no escape. On unofficial Cheap Gay Beer night on Wednesday, it tends to get ugly.
I had a very unpleasant encounter with an elaborately inebriated queen who flailed in with his older, better-dressed, blithely enabling companion. They introduced themselves; he refused to, or simply couldn't, release his pasty deathgrip from my hand.
It descended to the point where he yelled, 'You're not even good-looking!'
Twice.
Despite his unprovoked insults, volume and obvious shitfacedness (say that out loud like 'ruggedness', much better), he was simply told to sit down and relax while I was threatened with ejection for referring to him, maybe overly harshly, as a female body part. (Such a good word, so percussive; it works at both low and high volume!)
Meanwhile, we blame the death of the Golden Mile on weekend suburbanites in cars with spoilers...
Clover strikes again
Just opened my mail. One electricity bill, an offer of a free pizza from Domino’s and three personal letters from Clover Moore MP, Lord Mayor of Sydney.
Clover’s a bit of a gay icon here (there’s a slightly faux Mrs Madrigal vibe to me) and she does know how to send out a good pamphlet, the latest touting a proposal to establish the Bourke Street Bicycle Route. It runs north-south right through the middle of Gayland – Taylor Square, in fact – a daunting fact that is strangely absent from all the reassuring statements and illustrations.
How on earth cyclists and heaving traffic will cope with that is a bit boggling. Then there’s the fact that a fairly wide section Bourke Street is actually Oxford Street’s (very busy) footpath and part of Taylor Square itself (right past the Oxford Hotel).
It’s the latest in a wad of grand civic visions Clover has been throwing around like $100 notes from the top of Town Hall. I love the idea of more bikes and parks and urban harmony but the fact that she’s up for re-election in September keeps slapping me back to reality.
Fun with acronyms!
We used to just call it the ‘gay press’.
Then it was ‘gay & lesbian’, then ‘gay, lesbian & bisexual’, then ‘gay, lesbian, bisexual & transgender’.
Then ‘queer’ demanded entry, not quite sure why, and eventually ‘intersex’ decided to pop its head in every so often.
As a former editor, this development was frankly a pain in the arse.
The upside of this acronymous age is the wealth of amusement to be had with various associations:
GLARP – Gay & Lesbian Association of Retiring Persons
Awkward. Either sounds like the comic-relief alien on an ailing sitcom or that noise you make when you gulp too much beer too quickly.
LLEGO – Latino/a Lesbiana & Gay Organisation
I loved Lego as a kid. I like this one.
GALAH – Gay and Lesbian Atheists and Humanists
As a North American organisation, they can be forgiven for not knowing that a galah is a native Australian bird, a pretty one at that:
But, in certain circles, it's also slang for idiot.
GLAAD – Gay & Lesbian Alliance Against Defamation
A worthy cause, but if I read a ‘GLAAD not glad’ headline or intro one more time...
GLAD – Gay and Lesbian Advocates and Defenders
Again, a worthy cause, who must be really pissed off with the above group. GLAD has been around for 30 years (GLAAD is a relatively dewy 23) and this upstart comes along and confuses everyone who has ever been discriminated against and/or requires legal advice. I mean, really.
GLAIL – Gay and Lesbians Against Immoral Lifestyles
It looks like a typo and sounds like someone who is being home-schooled, but it’s the full name that irks me. The main contact point – a post office box in Colorado – doesn’t exactly fill me with join-up-iness either.
IGLOO – International Gay & Lesbian Outdoors Organisation
Okay, clever, but I reckon, at some point in the organisation-naming meeting, someone heard that and said ‘Cool!’, at which point some laughed, some rolled their eyes and at least one person pictured their business card and cringed a little.
ILGA – International Lesbian and Gay Organisation
With 600 member organisations, ILGA is 30 years old. Still, when I hear the name Ilga, I can’t help picture an ageing, granite-faced maid-with-a-secret who does a lot of resentful plate-clearing and glaring from the staircase at the gorgeous but fragile new mistress of a large crumbling house.
NAGVA - North American Gay Volleyball Association
Nagva was spotted nursing a hangover with a restorative bowl of shkembe chorba (tripe soup) in her family-run restaurant in a small Bulgarian village at the age of twelve by an intrepid talent scout at YNot Model Management.
Or so the story goes.
Tragically, her meteoric rise in the modelling world ended during a photo shoot at Mount Rushmore for Blup magazine. She plunged to her death after losing her grip on Thoedore Roosevelt’s glasses.
Charges of physical endangerment in the name of edginess against photographer against Terry Richardson were later dismissed. Pity.
NAMBLA– North American Man/Boy Love Association
Nagva’s creepy uncle.
PFLAG – Parents, Families & Friends of Lesbians and Gays
A great organisation, but I’ve always thought the name looked like a sneeze. I suspect this is why they didn’t choose the actual acronym, PFFLAG.
There have to be more of these. Anyone?
Then it was ‘gay & lesbian’, then ‘gay, lesbian & bisexual’, then ‘gay, lesbian, bisexual & transgender’.
Then ‘queer’ demanded entry, not quite sure why, and eventually ‘intersex’ decided to pop its head in every so often.
As a former editor, this development was frankly a pain in the arse.
The upside of this acronymous age is the wealth of amusement to be had with various associations:
GLARP – Gay & Lesbian Association of Retiring Persons
Awkward. Either sounds like the comic-relief alien on an ailing sitcom or that noise you make when you gulp too much beer too quickly.
LLEGO – Latino/a Lesbiana & Gay Organisation
I loved Lego as a kid. I like this one.
GALAH – Gay and Lesbian Atheists and Humanists
As a North American organisation, they can be forgiven for not knowing that a galah is a native Australian bird, a pretty one at that:
But, in certain circles, it's also slang for idiot.
GLAAD – Gay & Lesbian Alliance Against Defamation
A worthy cause, but if I read a ‘GLAAD not glad’ headline or intro one more time...
GLAD – Gay and Lesbian Advocates and Defenders
Again, a worthy cause, who must be really pissed off with the above group. GLAD has been around for 30 years (GLAAD is a relatively dewy 23) and this upstart comes along and confuses everyone who has ever been discriminated against and/or requires legal advice. I mean, really.
GLAIL – Gay and Lesbians Against Immoral Lifestyles
It looks like a typo and sounds like someone who is being home-schooled, but it’s the full name that irks me. The main contact point – a post office box in Colorado – doesn’t exactly fill me with join-up-iness either.
IGLOO – International Gay & Lesbian Outdoors Organisation
Okay, clever, but I reckon, at some point in the organisation-naming meeting, someone heard that and said ‘Cool!’, at which point some laughed, some rolled their eyes and at least one person pictured their business card and cringed a little.
ILGA – International Lesbian and Gay Organisation
With 600 member organisations, ILGA is 30 years old. Still, when I hear the name Ilga, I can’t help picture an ageing, granite-faced maid-with-a-secret who does a lot of resentful plate-clearing and glaring from the staircase at the gorgeous but fragile new mistress of a large crumbling house.
NAGVA - North American Gay Volleyball Association
Nagva was spotted nursing a hangover with a restorative bowl of shkembe chorba (tripe soup) in her family-run restaurant in a small Bulgarian village at the age of twelve by an intrepid talent scout at YNot Model Management.
Or so the story goes.
Tragically, her meteoric rise in the modelling world ended during a photo shoot at Mount Rushmore for Blup magazine. She plunged to her death after losing her grip on Thoedore Roosevelt’s glasses.
Charges of physical endangerment in the name of edginess against photographer against Terry Richardson were later dismissed. Pity.
NAMBLA– North American Man/Boy Love Association
Nagva’s creepy uncle.
PFLAG – Parents, Families & Friends of Lesbians and Gays
A great organisation, but I’ve always thought the name looked like a sneeze. I suspect this is why they didn’t choose the actual acronym, PFFLAG.
There have to be more of these. Anyone?
Untwink #2
I think it’s safe to say that The Mary Tyler Moore Show holds a dear place in the hearts of many gay men of a certain age (or with access to re-runs), and not just for the hat-tossing credit sequence.
Ditto the spin-off series Rhoda (not to mention Phyliss).
There’s also the fabulous Betty White, who played the slutty Sue Ann Nivens, host of The Happy Homemaker Show. That she later played the sweet Rose Nylund from St Olaf in The Golden Girls has given her a kind of rosy gay legend aura, which she thoroughly deserves.
Having said all that, I was always transfixed by Ed Asner’s forearms.
He played Mary’s boss, Lou Grant, typically gruff but fair, and every time he rolled up his shirtsleeves I became a little distracted. He got his own eponymous spin-off drama, which I don’t remember very well, but it won 13 Emmy Awards and a Peabody Award, which I gather is very prestigious but just makes me think of that talking beagle on Rocky and Bullwinkle.
Anyway, Ed is 78 years old now. Here he is back then.
Ditto the spin-off series Rhoda (not to mention Phyliss).
There’s also the fabulous Betty White, who played the slutty Sue Ann Nivens, host of The Happy Homemaker Show. That she later played the sweet Rose Nylund from St Olaf in The Golden Girls has given her a kind of rosy gay legend aura, which she thoroughly deserves.
Having said all that, I was always transfixed by Ed Asner’s forearms.
He played Mary’s boss, Lou Grant, typically gruff but fair, and every time he rolled up his shirtsleeves I became a little distracted. He got his own eponymous spin-off drama, which I don’t remember very well, but it won 13 Emmy Awards and a Peabody Award, which I gather is very prestigious but just makes me think of that talking beagle on Rocky and Bullwinkle.
Anyway, Ed is 78 years old now. Here he is back then.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Shrug Tuesday
I just finished a very sedate, solo pub crawl along Oxford Street, my first real venture out since my health-induced hermitage a few weeks ago.
I deliberately picked an early Tuesday night – always quiet – to ensure a jostle-free experience. Still, I didn’t expect to walk into my local, the Oxford Hotel (normally full of facial hair and functioning alcoholics), to find a woman clearly in her encore years belting out ‘Where the Boys Are’. (I later discover she is Sylvana. Your guess is as good as mine.)
Disconcerting but a nice change of pace.
A mother-and-son couple sat down at the table next to me on the deck and I overheard her say, with surprised delight, ‘It’s so different, I thought it was a leather bar!’ I mentally tried to jot down more of their happy chat but then a many-times-removed ‘friend’ sat down and promptly tried to nick my beer.
I let him have it (literally) and headed on.
The Stonewall Hotel across the road looked even more unappetising than usual and by the time I got to the Colombian Hotel several doors down I really needed to take a piss.
I haven’t been in there in ages – hasn’t changed but still holds up – and noticed a high proportion of very (too?) good-looking queens in just-so T-shirts. Lots of surveillance.
Visited the bathroom – good to see they haven’t painted over the patron graffiti – saw a sideways baseball cap I couldn’t tell was ironic or not and went further down the street to the Midnight Shift, which is like the mothership of Sydney gay bars, having been there so long.
Like everywhere, it was a glass-half-empty affair. Actually, more a glass-I’m-leaving-almost-empty-so-you’ll-buy-me-another affair.
In any case, I love the Shift because it attracts older blokes and all-sorts, including Pepper Stevens, who needs her own post (later). Not to mention Asian pool sharks; one walked in with his own cue, which I think is the height of some form of cool at least. I overheard another, when some guy tried to chat him up by saying he must practise a lot, reply deadpan: ‘You don’t need to practise here.’
SIDENOTES:
During that early awkward period when you’re sitting on your own in a (just quietly) bleak gay bar, you need reading material. It doesn’t help that all on offer is LOTL (Lesbians on the Loose).
When you furnish a bar with a long stretch of cushioned seating, maybe you should place your video screens somewhere other than directly above the heads of the patrons sitting there.
It's a good thing to get rid of a see-through, Romeo+Juliet-style fishtank in the men's bathroom.
The Midnight Shift should hold a seminar (perhaps a Powerpoint presentation) for the Oxford Hotel on how to synchronise sound and visuals on those omnipresent TV screens. Surely this can’t be that hard.
I saw two groups of Japanese tourists being herded into mini-buses directly outside the Shift - after they'd been given adequate opportunity to gawk, giggle, point, desperately finish their ciggie then chuck it onto the street - before being whisked away.
The new gay Sydney tour?
Blue skies
The weather has been amazing this week. Sydney's beautiful like this - not too hot, bright blue skies.
And Bose ads. I took this a few years ago.
It happened again the other day as a good mate of mine and I were enjoying lunch outside.
I find this practice irritating, although I do remember enjoying watching 'marry me shereen' slowly dissolve over La Perouse a while back.
And Bose ads. I took this a few years ago.
It happened again the other day as a good mate of mine and I were enjoying lunch outside.
I find this practice irritating, although I do remember enjoying watching 'marry me shereen' slowly dissolve over La Perouse a while back.
Locals
Presenting the first instalment of an irregular series of neighbourhood moments.
Right now I’m getting money together for a new camera so you’ll have to forgive the vaguely nostalgic dates for a brief while.
This is artist/performer/defier of description, Yorgos Zafiriou. For years he’s amused himself by completely freaking me out (i.e. making me lose half my beer) with his creations. He’s fond of the sudden leap out of nowhere, the sinister growl over the shoulder, or the unexpected squirt of water from his ‘vagina’. This was his plastic surgery disaster look. He'd just worn it to some opening at the Museum of Contemporary Art at Circular Quay.
Stonewall Hotel, 2004
Right now I’m getting money together for a new camera so you’ll have to forgive the vaguely nostalgic dates for a brief while.
This is artist/performer/defier of description, Yorgos Zafiriou. For years he’s amused himself by completely freaking me out (i.e. making me lose half my beer) with his creations. He’s fond of the sudden leap out of nowhere, the sinister growl over the shoulder, or the unexpected squirt of water from his ‘vagina’. This was his plastic surgery disaster look. He'd just worn it to some opening at the Museum of Contemporary Art at Circular Quay.
Stonewall Hotel, 2004
Untwink #1
On my many gay blog strolls I’ve noticed quite a few of them are randomly sprinkled with shirtless or naked, hairless young men, usually sprawled on a beach or contorted on a rock, like ads for a product I personally don’t want to buy. I don’t even want a free sample.
So, in order to redress this issue I will be posting the sort of blokes I'd actually want to root.
This may disturb some of you.
To start gently, a classic: Burt Reynolds’ 1972 Cosmopolitan spread.
So, in order to redress this issue I will be posting the sort of blokes I'd actually want to root.
This may disturb some of you.
To start gently, a classic: Burt Reynolds’ 1972 Cosmopolitan spread.
So much help needed
This was taken a while back in Paddington, HiDarl's older, more glamorous neighbour (the poofs transformed it decades ago). I'm resisting the urge to google if anyone has chosen this as their human dependant's name.
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