I'm...Waiting For My Man!!!

Hey buddy, long time no word huh? I've been a little distracted by the ups and downs of life, partner. The usual trials and tribulations of a middle age, bald, mono-brow queer. I'm still unemployed, under published, desperate and dateless – some things never change, man. Speaking of which, I recently shut down my online profile after one too many run ins with local psychopaths – I bit the bullet and called it a day for Manhunt.

It all started going haywire when an Italian Stallion by the name of Dom took a shine to me. I have to admit I fancied the black and white S/M photo he posted but he looked dreadful in another shot wearing a white terry-towelling dressing gown with droopy, bloodshot eyes – a few too many martinis, I suspect. Anyway, Lars, we met at a pizza joint in Prahran where he sat at the wrong table and started chatting up some unassuming boy, reading over the menu. I was having a gold ol' laugh a few feet away while Dom was telling the boy what lovely eyes he had and the boy's girlfriend rocked up with a couple of beers. Needless to say, our Italian Stallion was a little flushed in the cheeks when he saw me and slinked over feeling mighty embarrassed. He stood at the bar, ordering a coke and I thought to myself, this guy's kinda hot from the chest up but pretty outta shape from the belly down – and not much style for a Mediterranean either. Perhaps he blamed me for making a fool of himself and that's why he took me for a spin to the wild wild west instead of the movies in Carlton, like he promised.

I couldn't believe my eyes, man. I was packing shit, speeding across The Westgate, leaving familiar territory behind, wondering what on Earth I was in for. Dom told me he was a speed freak who just loved a shot of crystal meth when he rolled outta bed, especially when he had Manhunt boys to seduce. He said it helped him make conversation, feel confident and stay horny for hours on end. Then he asked if I wanted to pump battery acid into my veins too and I confessed that I was once a speed freak until I succumbed to amphetamine psychosis and was never the same again.

Dom said he'd love to get clean too one day before asking if I wanted to shoot up again – five times more, in fact. He said he was about to pay his dealer a visit – a fifty year old stallion with a string of teen, speed addict lovers. Dom said there's no way he'd be able to refuse a hit, especially before a day at the cinema, God forbid. He reminded me of the wild, uninhibited sex we could have, stepping on that accelerator, pumping his throttle and doing burnouts outside Gloria Jeans. While it was tempting, I said there was no turning back for this speed queen and besides, there was no room for making out in Dom's car with all the fast food trash, coke cans and cigarette cartons strewn through his shag mobile. I had trouble finding somewhere to plant my ass in that mobile garbage tip without sitting on the gearstick, buddy!

The next thing, Dom slapped on a pair of seedy shades, slammed the door and left me twiddling my thumbs outside an unassuming house in Altona. After a long delay, I assumed he was discussing renovations with his drug baron. Just when I tried to make a run for it, he swaggered out, all google eyed, grinding his teeth, slamming his foot down and putting pedal to metal. This time, instead of heading for Carlton, Dom took me on a magical mystery tour of The Western Ring Road. We were burning rubber so hard, anyone might think it was a leg of the Grand Prix. He started blaring Britney Spears and chain smoking Winfield Blues, stuffing cigarette butts into an already over flowing ashtray, calling other drivers assholes and mother fuckers – what a charmer huh?

I was dumbfounded, scanning the barren landscape of electricity towers, factories and mobile phone contraptions thinking what a hideous town Melbourne is from this perspective. At the same time, strangely aroused with fear coursing through my blood, heating up my crotch, making my ass cheeks all sweaty. Dom grinned like a maniac and said, 'I'm not gonna shoot you – I just wanna kidnap you for awhile' before laughing like a demented clown. I giggled back while I was pissing my pants on the inside, watching signs for Ballarat and Geelong sail by, imagining myself being raped and dismembered on some lonely road and left for dead in the scrub.

I calmed down and played it cool – keeping in mind there were hundreds of cars on the highway and I could wave my arms like a lunatic and kick and scream if it got outta hand. I was just about to tell the mother fucker I got HIV/AIDS before he asked how I quit speed and how I've resisted ever since. I told him life wasn't worth living for a couple of years – lack of inspiration, numbness, anxiety, depression. Lack of social life, a dwindling circle of friends, suicidal tendencies, but hey – all's well that ends well, buddy. In fact, I probably wouldn't touch the shit no matter how many hours I could be the centre of the universe and dance on podiums at clubs, discover the meaning of life with a bar full of strangers or have mind blowing sex with all of them, to boot. Dom told me he never has sex without meth and he doesn't usually screw less than three boys at once. He's never sustained a friendship or held down a job without meth either.

I felt truly sorry for the guy, thinking back to those days. Nothing stirs you - movies bore you, the country side doesn't phase you, you can't be fucked eating out or eating anything for that matter. Nothing beats a shot of speed so why waste the dough? All of a sudden it felt like we had something for each other, man. It felt like the cosmos had brought us together and I started to get off on this date! Sure, there were moments I feared for my life, there were moments I wanted to grab hold of that steering wheel and plunge the car into a ditch and Britney Spears had nothing to do with it.

At some point during this cosmic adventure, Dom decided to take a detour back to the family home in Preston and let the dog out. At this point I felt like the universe was orchestrating the whole thing – I had no choice but to trust. So we pulled up in the drive and his ghastly sister rocked up and foiled the game, introducing herself, telling me all about the family. I'd never seen so many gold framed photos of aunts, uncles and cousins under a single roof. I was gobsmacked by the glossy marble tiles, water features and wrought iron security grills while the sister yapped on about Sicily. Dom was in the kitchen, sucking on a filthy bong and I heard the slurp and bubble as he burnt the weed and pulled the cone. Then he stepped out into the luxurious concrete courtyard and dished up slop to a lame, doe-eyed mut that looked like it should be exterminated.

The next thing, he slammed the front door in his sister's face and we jumped in the Corona and hot rodded it to Northlands for a screening of 'Slum Dog Millionaire.' The lights went up after the show and it looked like Dom was a little subdued; coming down perhaps? He drove me to the nearest train station, saying what a lovely time he had before screeching off into the sunset, never to be seen on Manhunt again.

So tell me, buddy – should I call this guy or what? I thought about it for a few seconds before I decided that I needed a guy with his head screwed on and Dom didn't quite cut it. Not that I've ever been averse to speed freaks, con men and sociopaths – just look at my track record. Any New Age guru would say that I attract these nutters because I don't feel worthy of anything else – but how do you break the spell, man? Rest assured, if I were to meet someone who adored and respected me, I wouldn't feel a shred of attraction, lust or desire in any way, shape or form. I'd surely think them to be naff, blind or out to fuck me over. It's a good thing I fly solo these days, huh?

After Dom, I had a date with 'Mook,' who appeared tall, dark, handsome and spiritually motivated on his profile, only to wind up short, tubby, stoned and ten years older than he suggested. I caught the train all the way to Fern Tree Gully, only to wind up being smothered by a white pussycat that shed its fur all over my Industrie hoodie, while Mister short and tubby smoked one joint after another, bemoaning his ex lover (who still resides in the house) and complaining about the never ending surgery on his butt. By the end of the day, I still couldn't figure what that was all about, man – maybe he was lacing my green tea with something else green, know what I'm saying?

Anyway Lars, it was an hour by train so I made myself comfortable and while there was no chemistry to speak of, he did introduce me to the literature of Jean Genet which stirred my attention. Then we watched a hot queer classic with Brad Davis from Midnight Express, which stirred my loins even more. That show was so raunchy with horny sailors and hot sweaty steamboats, phallic symbolism and squalid sex scenes. Needless to say, Mook managed to sneak in beside me and the pussycat and slide his hand up my shirt so he could tug my chest hair and tweak my nipples. Why on Earth I let these dopey guys have their way with me, I'll never know. I put their needs ahead of mine, each and every time – I'm nothing but a play thing, Lars.
At least this guy brought me a greasy burger with the lot to appease my hunger before sending me on my way and at least he warned me not to look anyone in the eye if they stepped on at Boronia – fondly known as Bosnia by the locals, because it's full of vindictive teens on alcopops and acid!

Oh man, why do I get emails from guys who say they're into all things spiritual, yet they smoke like chimneys, lie through their teeth and try to get down my pants? Do you think I'm being hard on these creeps? Either way, I thought it wise to shut that profile down while I mulled it over and sought your advice. I don't wanna screw my way through cyberspace – I need something substantial, Lars. Do you think I'll ever find true love online? Do you think Mister Right's waiting for me?

I think I'm way over my head, man. This manhunt's got me tossing and turning at night, wondering where my next email's coming from, feeling completely shattered if my Inbox is empty. It's got me feeling flawed, unlovable, damaged, resentful – all kinds of demons I haven't confronted. Is it this painful for everyone? I imagine thousands of guys out there, cracking up at my profile, calling each other in hysterics, sharing the gory details, having fun at my expense. Help me out, man – I'm going round the bend!!

Bright Lights, Big City...

Whew, man! Thank Christ I got outta that smut ridden town in one piece. I tell you what, if I see anymore wankers with tacky messages to their loved ones tattooed on their arms and abdomens I'll hunt them down with a tayser gun and fry the damn thing off! There's so many silly tattoos in Sydney, I was cracking up in stitches all over the place, man. I just returned to humble ol' Melbourne three shades darker than before I left. It looks like I've been getting stuck into that 'Melanonin' drug – a new injectable substance that's sweeping the UK teen scene. No shit, I look like a leather man of the tanned variety, Lars.

That dirty old town must have some of the finest beaches in the world, my friend. Me and my online buddy drove from one harbour side port to the next, stripping down, splashing around, purving on Lebanese and Japanese bears – fighting our way through overgrown shrubs in search of cheap thrills, looking over the most incredible cliffs with pristine views of the Pacific Ocean. Meanwhile, unassuming tourists chugged by on ferries snapping photos of the landscape - getting more live porn than they bargained for through their super strength binoculars!

I love the liberation of letting it all hang out but I just don't go for that fast sex thing anymore, Lars. What's the point of making out in five minutes flat with some sweaty stranger behind a tree, trampling your way through all them twigs and branches, jabbing your arse and grazing your feet? I hit my head three times back there, man. I nearly had concussion by the end of the day – my judgment was far too impaired by the sun, the adrenalin and the scent of cheap suntan lotion to negotiate safe sex. I decided to concentrate on the delights of the ocean currents caressing my body and the warmth of the sun massaging my scalp. That was all the stimulation I needed, man.

Unfortunately my pal wasn't enamoured with my physique and decided to pursue his fantasies of making out with a Thai muscle Mary in the wilderness. My pal was a masculine yet gentle cub who looked great in a pair of yellow jockey shorts and preferred his fellas on the buff end of the scale. While we connected well mentally and will forge a friendship, I had to process his rejection each time we met, which left me feeling inadequate about my physique. It was a stark reminder of the power that body image wields over gay men in Sydney and the huge expectations they place on each other to be built like a brick shit house. Each and every profile seeks 'muscle boys' who look hot in speedos - whether the suitor is well built or not. The terrible feelings of inadequacy I had when I lived there came flooding back with a vengeance!

Is it any wonder I immersed myself in the drug scene where I could emulate the physique of heroin addicts in 'Trainspotting' and earn the respect of my peers? I left that town with an indented stomach, ribs hanging out of my abdomen and my pants falling around my knees, man. Now my metabolism is so wound up I can eat a super supreme pizza and it strips off in five seconds flat! I've developed an unusual eating disorder where I feel the need to eat meals big enough for three people and track down Burger King restaurants in between, to wolf down a Whopper with cheese in the hope of piling on a few kilos. I'll probably just wind up a scrawny dweeb with a pot belly, bad acne and heart disease!

Sydney was truly fabulous when I focussed on its external beauty and ignored it's dark cultural underbelly; its ambitious cravings, ruthless strivings, bitchy comparisons, venomous, back stabbing mind games etc etc. I hopped back on Manhunt and met up with a laid back English man with a fantastic butt pic! I was so excited – I wrote him every day and stared at his butt every night. He said he wanted to throw frisbee in Centennial Park but he was just another uptight Sydney queen; humourless, cold hearted and cynical with nothing but negative comments about everything from the gay scene to the immigration policy. I could barely get the sour bastard to raise a smile let alone take off his ray bands.

Then there was a black English flight attendant who I played text tag with for two weeks before we finally got together in my final days. There was definitely a meeting of minds, although the sexual chemistry was non existent. I just had to learn to appreciate black men for more than their sexual prowess. He actually expressed disdain for being inundated with messages from horny white boys wanting him to pound them in the back seat of their cars so I refrained from asking him how many inches he had tucked behind the zipper of his Levis! I'm sure we'll meet again for more esoteric discussions when he flies into Tullamarine on his domestic rounds with Virgin Airlines.

Of course, other things happened in Sydney while I wasn't cruising Manhunt. I did all the tourist things with my dear old mother who seems trapped in her life of inner city poverty with a Maori thug who just escaped a prison sentence for social security fraud. She refuses to let go of that relationship no matter how stifling it gets – guzzling stubbies of VB like it were bottles of baby's milk, sucking on cheap fags, coughing her guts up. We had a lovely time for the most part but there's only so much bitching you can do about family members you never see and rambling about the past like a broken record. Thankfully I was able to retreat to the upstairs bedroom where I was rudely disturbed by derelicts in the boarding house next door - shouting threats from one end of the hall to the other.

Yes, the Christmas spirit was alive and well in Surry Hills, my friend. There must've been four parties in the surroundings terraces that week with a Santa Claus effigy dangling over the rail of one place; strung up with a noose! I swear voices carry in that ghetto as if the whole street were living on the other side of a paper thin wall – you can hear every spit, cough, gag and chuckle with ear piercing clarity.

Still, I loved walking the streets of Sydney on those balmy nights, inhaling the aroma of Thai food, Indian spices, Turkish bread and coffee. Now and then I even had moments when I yearned to go back till I considered the reality of living in the western suburbs with its race riots, hoons, heroin and heatwaves. Sydney sure is a beautiful place if you can afford to live in the lap of luxury – otherwise you're stuck in a dustbowl watching the filthy rich on the harbour, living it up on telly, man. There's even a huge divide in the online community. Eastern suburbs queens won't email Western suburbs queens and Harbour queens won't email anyone at all!

How was your Christmas and New Year, buddy? I had a lovely day at my friend's apartment with views of the harbour in the inner west. I love spending Christmas day with any old family who'll take me in; preferably with harbour views, french champagne and garlic prawns. The weather was sultry, the BBQ was sizzling and we were all mopping up sweat with out hankies. We drank bottle after bottle of that European shit but I guess it was pissing out as fast as it was going down, man. Of course there was a fat, obnoxious yobbo who tried everyone's patience but he faded into an armchair after a few too many beers. The family carried on without him, playing a game of virtual reality golf while I read my new book about yoga and the seven chakras, trying to contain the trifle and champagne gurgling in my guts!

New Year's was a bit of a hoot. My girlfriend and I had intended to have dinner and a few quiet cocktails on Oxford Street but we stumbled into 'The Colombian' - the biggest drug den in Darlinghurst. It was just like the good old days for me, yet clean and sober. One minute we were having a few quiet rounds with unassuming patrons till eleven o'clock passed and one by one those unassuming patrons transformed into pill popping lunatics! Without warning, shy boys stood on their seats, grinding their teeth, swaying their heads and stamping their feet. European backpackers were salsa dancing and gyrating against poles and black men; anything they could rub their asses against, really. Dykes were sucking face, twinks were tongue pashing, fat chicks were getting down and dirty, almost busting out of tight mini dresses, massaging their tits and shaking their booty at the bouncers. I'd never seen a place transform so fast, buddy!

Funny thing was, my friend who's never touched a drug in her life thought the scene was completely innocent. She remarked how friendly everyone was, chinking our glasses and throwing their arms over our shoulders in displays of affection. She couldn't believe what free spirits they were, leaping on tables, dancing like there was no tomorrow. She almost missed the last bus, she was so determined to stay and soak up the festive atmosphere in that club.

Alas, that wasn't my last adventure to Oxford Street, buddy. On my last night, I returned with my friend, Nicole for queer karaoke. It was quickly obvious that most patrons were coming down from a weekend drug binge; a last hurrah before Eccie Tuesday kicked in. Nostalgic queens and aspiring drag queens sang up a storm; Robbie Williams, Cher and the Pussycat Dolls to name a few. Six vodkas later, chairs and tables were crashing, glasses were smashing and photos were being snapped left, right and centre. Nicole and I got lumbered with a 19 year old 'straight prat' from the other side of town who said he 'adored the gay community' and followed the karaoke circuit because he was an aspiring musician.

He was about to get a tattoo of a microphone with the cable wrapped around his forearm and he was waiting to belt out 'Satisfaction' by The Rolling Stones. He asked us to shout him beer and cigarettes because he was so nervous and pretty soon it turned into three or four. Then he had the gaul to say 'I would've been hot stuff – back in my prime' and that I looked 36! I should've kicked the sly prick in the balls but pretty soon he was at another table, drinking their beer and smoking their cigarettes.

At that point I was accosted by a rather intoxicated hunk, absolutely shit faced on cocaine and alcohol. Without a word of hello he said he was here to suck my dick and grabbed hold of my crotch. I said I'd consider his offer for a hit of cocaine to which he replied he only had enough to sprinkle some on his dick and fuck me in the ass. I told him to cut the shit and that he was in no shape to get it up, let alone satisfy my insatiable appetites. I told him Nicole and I were a straight couple and to piss off real quick and take a cold shower!

An old guy took his place - lamenting not coming out to his children, now in their twenties. They still didn't know their daddy was queer, shacked up in the burbs with a fella for five years. In the middle of his heartfelt story, a twink on crystal meth climbed onto a chair and gyrated his hips, shaking his scrawny ass in our face. His eyes rolled in the back of his head and he lapped the air with his tongue – cunnilingus style. That's when Nicole and I decided to make a run for it, man!

We stopped at 'Betty's Soup Kitchen,' renowned for its all you can eat, soup and salad buffet. I used to go there back in the day to buy drugs from lesbian punks who reserved a table downstairs every Friday evening and took orders from the hungry hordes of speed freaks, lined up in the dining room. The staff resemble the freaks in 'The Addams Family' – they're the creepiest bunch of guys you've ever seen, man. They raise their eyes and smirk like they've lured you into a satanic cult when you walk through the door. One grimace from that waiter sent a shiver down my spine.

The food was far from fresh, yet fairly nutritious for Oxford Street and when we were done I went downstairs to relieve myself. To my horror there was a dead rat in the piss trough, man! I couldn't believe my eyes; I zipped up fast, grabbed Nicole by the hand and raced across the street to 'The Colombian!' Dear God, that's where I spent my final hours on Oxford Street; backed into a corner with my guts twisting and my arm around Nicole while a butch blonde with shoulder pads ducked and weaved to high energy house like a boxer; daring us to get up and take her on. Trashy techno pumped through over sized speakers; I think I heard a sample of Guru Josh's 'Infinity' from 1990 and Bronski Beat's 'Smalltown Boy' from the eighties but most of it was mind numbing, jaw grinding bollocks.

So that's it, man. I woke up in the morning with the dry horrors, the sound of a girl gagging in the gutter and steam rising from the sizzling concrete. A garbage truck went up and down that street, crushing all the bottles of beer and champagne left over from New Year's Eve. I packed my bags, dragged my ass down the rickety stairs of that terrace house and said goodbye to Sydney for one more time. It certainly is a nice place to visit but I always come away thinking whew, man; Thank Christ I got outta that place with a few brain cells still in tact!

Happy New Year,

JJ X

Some Like It Hot...

Hey there readers!

It's great to have a space like this where we can let it all hang out, buddy. It's the only forum where I can express my true self without fear of judgment or condemnation because I know what open minded, unconditionally accepting folk you all are. The big news this week is that my chastity has been broken – no, demolished in one scandalous sojourn to the gay beach near Mornington Peninsula. I know it must be a shock to you all and I can hardly believe it myself but it was too wild to imagine! One minute I was rolling out my towel and slapping on sunscreen , the next thing I was being mauled by a Scorpio/Scorpio rising Macedonian stud in the sand dunes. The esky full of mangoes and melons was flying everywhere, the toasted sandwiches were squashed beneath our ass and the carrot cake was pounded into the dirt.

We rolled around under that beach umbrella like two giant sandcrabs with our arms and legs tangled together, like some weird sea creature washed upon the shore. The nudist colony could hardly believe their eyes – it was live pornography, man! It started with a bit of slip, slop, slap and ended in hardcore slap and tickle. We hauled ass into the surf to simmer down but the passion was relentless. We surfed each other like boogie boards and our mouths were glued together like suction caps. It was impossible to tear us apart, buddy. We were biting and scratching and splashing away in the surf – thank God no one got the wrong idea and thought we were struggling in some kind of rip! Then again, there were two naked blokes standing by in baseball caps, shaking their heads in disbelief. Some of these naturalists are clearly offended by frisky boys giving their recreational sport a bad reputation by turning the practice into a no holds barred sex romp! We pulled apart before the coast guard shouted at us through a loudspeaker and I swam into the depths like a mermaid who had lost his virginity all over again.

Why didn't you tell me what I was missing out on, buddy? We spent the afternoon strolling up and down the beach, hand in hand while men and women with sagging breasts and dimpled buttocks sprawled on the sand in the sweltering heat – with suntan lotion and beads of sweat rolling down their pudgy physiques. We watched the sky fade to pink and purple as the sun drifted beneath the horizon and tiny yachts sailed past with naked men drinking beer with their testicles dangling between their legs. Public nudity is so liberating, man – it might even try it at the local supermarket this evening!

Unfortunately Mr T is still not out to his parents so I was left at the ice cream parlour, flirting with an Italian Stallion while he sneaked home and stole the keys to the family holiday house. After we figured out how to break in and turn on the lights, we spent the night camped on the floor with the sound of the waves crashing in the distance. I woke up with severe gravel rash and carpet burns on my knees and I've spent the last week in hiding, licking my wounds. It certainly was a night to remember and it came as no surprise when I realised it was the full moon the day before and this guys was a double Scorpio sex fiend – I'm lucky I got away with a few grazes, man!

Can you believe I actually got laid a few days after I stopped at a new age store and a lady by the name of Carol nearly spat her coffee everywhere when I told her how long I'd been celibate? She sold me the biggest piece of Rose Quartz she could find and shoved her tantric sex business card in my hand – she even offered me a fantastic discount. She's gonna be so excited when I tell her the news. It's great to finally get some relief after all these years and to know that celibacy is not for me – public nudity and wild sex rocks, buddy. Maybe the tone of these blogs will start to shift now I've been satisfied or maybe it's the start of something truly perverse – you'll have to wait and see readers!

In the meantime, my affairs continue online with Mighty Mouse, Mattchewy and Slippery Fish. They all seem like lovely guys but who knows if we'll ever take the plunge and meet up. It's a strange phenomena, getting attached to strange men in cyberspace, not knowing if you have a genuine connection in reality. I love being witty, charming and articulate online because I know how awkward and tongue tied I am in reality – these boys think I'm so cool, calm and collected and that cracks me up, buddy. I don't know how I'll ever come clean. One boy I talk to now and then is only 21 and hails from a family of devout Christians and med students. He's a real sweet Chinese boy who looks great in his jocks but way too innocent for this old purve. He writes me every day without fail and I fear nothing will make him stop, man. He's got such little life experience – I don't even think he's been drunk. At the same time, he says he can empathise with my life experience because he watches Oprah and Doctor Phil and that's so sweet even though it's the funniest thing I ever heard.

To change the subject, I caught up with Ms Obedie and da Sunshine crew a few weeks ago for Ms Obedie's 33rd birthday bash. I stopped of at Williamstown Beach to check out the spunks in speedos that day before catching the train to the wild wild west. Some poor soul hurled themselves onto the tracks and that delayed my arrival somewhat. I spent half an hour staring at the stunning scenery of abbatoirs, factories and refineries before they hosed down the tracks and we chugged along to our destination. The party was a low key affair. I was expecting to hear AC/DC and Metallica blaring down the street and a guy with long hair and a packet of cigarettes stuffed up his sleeve at the door. Instead, I was greeted by our lovely girlfriend - next - door, Mel who pecked me on the cheek, smelling of lovely Impulse deodorant. From that point it was one vodka after another and the afternoon evaporated like my brain cells in the sultry Sunshine heat. I was spread eagle on a banana lounge somewhere in the veggie patch. Mel's sweet little puppy, Fergus was nipping our toes and slurping watermelon from our plates. The poor little thing was being suffocated beneath a giant bean bag and passed from one intoxicated guest to another like a newborn baby!

Ms Obedie topped up our shot glasses with peppermint liqueur and rolled around the grass sighing with relief after surviving another year as a wife, mother and career woman – I don't know how she does it, man. It must've been nine o'clock by the time we started our tribute to you and 80's electronica, buddy. There were tracks from The Human League, Yazoo, Kim Wilde and Scritti Politti as well as 'Obsession' - the saucy soundtrack from that awful movie with a teacher, a student, a penis and a motor bike? You were the toast of the evening, buddy. Last drinks were called in your honour and the rest of the night was a blur!!

Love to you all,
JJ
x

Lookin' For Love In All The Wrong Places...

Hey guys and girls! Good to be with you again. Spring is in full swing here in Melbourne, Australia so I bet you're freezing your ass off over there in the Northern hemisphere, buddy? Mind you, at this time of year it can be hard to tell what season it is at any moment of the day. It certainly keeps you on your toes, wouldn't you agree, Ms Obedie – then again, the sun's always shining in Sunshine, so they say. Did you know I went to a stand up comedy gig the other night and this woman said there's always a burnt out car in the parking lot of her local supermarket in Sunshine – the gang warfare is outta control...and she said, the only people who like it out there are pregnant women who sit on their porch with their feet up and a cigarette hanging out of their mouths! Surely it can't be all that bad?
My creative juices haven't been flowing since the BNews folded, my friends. I'm afraid that outstanding example of cutting edge journalism was taken over by The Sydney Star Observer and my RMIT placement came to an abrupt halt. There goes my dream of a fabulous career in queer tabloid journalism! Unfortunately the outfit has resurfaced as 'The Melbourne Star' with a crew of airheads producing smut up there on Oxford Street in Sydney, can you believe? There's no room for genuine talent so my position has been politely terminated.
The damn thing looks like a nasty piece of Sydney trash anyhow – the opening issue featured a buffed up life guard parading on the front cover with a hard on almost busting out of his speedos! The paper is generously sponsored by the halfwits at the AID$ industry and every page is splashed with twice as much sleaze and vacuous hyperbole than ever before. I wouldn't have anything to do with it if they paid me – that's what I said to the editor before I told him to shove his job where the sun don't shine before splashing him in the face with a bottle of San Pellegrino water and tearing out of that slick, pretentious office in Fitzroy (believe it or not, girlfriend!)
I got a reputation to uphold, man – I told him I was gonna be someone in this town and come back to haunt his sorry ass! Thank God for the financial crisis – our lovely prime minister has granted us struggling pensioners a $1400 cash bonus before Christmas to help stimulate the economy. I'm booking myself in for a tattoo, a colonoscopy and a week of sessions at the tanning salon, buddy.
I had my first beach day in six months last week and I can't tell you how good it felt to be back out there on The Esplanade with all them spunks in speedos pounding the pavement. I had a mighty fine time, getting tangled in seaweed, fighting my way through plastic wrappers, paddle pop sticks and beer cans – treading water, praying to God not to stand on a dirty syringe. Now and then a cute little poodle came down to greet me at the water's edge and took a piss as I watched in horror, spitting out a mouth of salty water.
Yuppie jack asses on jet skis sped past, almost knocking my head off while a pair of yobbos drank beer and tossed a ball to each other, directly in front of me, making it near impossible to dodge my way to shore. Meanwhile, I remembered that my medication causes extra fast sunburn in the middle of the day. I was getting redder each minute, trudging my way through the tits and ass of European back packers and the hulk – like Ukranian houswives, trying to find where I laid my towel. Just when I thought I had the perfect spot, a rowdy family set down with a grumbling old dad with a hairy back, a dopy mum with sagging breasts and a pack of screaming kids in tow – tearing about, kicking sand, terrorising sea gulls and destroying each other's sand castles. It's a crying shame the way those kids treat each other, buddy.
I finished up the day, flat on my back under an umbrella at the kiosk, as red as a lobster, slurping a lemonade icy pole, checking out the talent. It's my favourite past time, buddy. I've been pumping iron at the gym three days a week in preparation for the sun and the surf. I love it most of the time – letting off steam on that rowing machine, imagining I'm surging through the shimmering currents of the mighty Yarra while Ellen De Generes and Good Morning Australia compete for the attention of us patrons. There's variety shows, daytime soaps and current affairs flashing by on the monitors while middle age folk pant and pound their way on those treadmills – with huge patches of sweat soaking though their blouses and rolls of fat spilling over their track pants. The smell of a thousand deodorants clogs the atmosphere while I'm surging back and forward with the most polished, precise manouvres and the most rhythmic in breaths and out breaths. Whew – just do it, buddy!
I love it when some exotic stud with a pair of skimpy shorts, jumps on the treadmill in front of me and starts pounding that surface like an athlete on performance enhancing drugs. Having that in my face gets me rowing faster and faster till I almost keel over and work myself into a coronary. Of course, some conceited gym junkie always leaps onto the machine beside me and tries to set the pace – kinda like their having a drag race. The way some people get their kicks astounds me, buddy! A confrontation like that usually gets me pumped enough to start my workout with a vengeance. The music is usually Aussie suburban fare but these gym instructors aint cultural connoisseurs and they don't take requests – especially not from an upstart with a basic membership – they don't even tell me if I'm working the machines properly dammit! There's a window looking through to the swimming pool so I can workout while watching little old ladies do water aerobics while some airhead in lycra, wearing a headset and a mouthpiece does strange moves on the platform like she's playing charades or some shit. I'm hanging out for that instructor to pretend she's drowning one day and see if the old girls can copy that, man!
It's only been three months but I'm already noticing pleasing changes to my scrawny physique. I can actually see a curve where my ass is supposed to be – I think that rump steak is starting to give me a rump, man – I just hit 70 kilos the other day. I'm so hooked on meat, I crave the stuff. It's like a sexual awakening – when that greasy flame grilled burger gets shoved in front of me by the pimply waitress, my heart starts pounding, my teeth are bared like fangs. I feel like a tiger ready to pounce, man – it makes me feel so butch and tough and macho like I never thought possible being the limp wristed pansy I am.
Meanwhile, back at the gym I can't tell you how much I love being crammed in that weights room, pumping iron with all them blokes, grunting and sweating and catching their breath – it's like a simultaneous, multiple orgasm! Everyone is pissing out the beer and tobacco and amphetamines from the night before, the adrenalin's pumping, the muscles are bulging, the techno's blaring. Oh God - it's a man's world and only the toughest can hack the pace, man!
I thought I laid eyes on the man of my dreams the other day before his mobile phone ringer went off and it was the soundtrack from the VB beer commercial, can you believe? I almost fell for the ultimate Aussie yobbo, Lars. The locker room's always a hoot, trying to push your way through all those nude, damp, hairy bodies – trying not to make eye contact in case they think you're some kinda faggot on the prowl. It's an interesting sociological experience, man – the way my head races with all them thoughts of who's this or that, who's checking out who, am I the only fag, does anyone know, does anyone care? What would they do if I turned around and winked – 'nice butt cheeks, man. Can I have a squeeze?' Sometimes I feel like some kinda weird force is taking me over in those moments and I'm about to do something or say something that's totally inappropriate, just to see what happens. But usually I get the hell outta there, barging down Hoddle Street like some pumped up gladiator, going into battle.
Unfortunately my new body hasn't led to any great success online. I'm starting to wonder whether I should've signed up for this 'Manhunt' thing, buddy. I created the most genuine, unsleazy profile I could but I still get bombarded by the most sleazy vacuous creatures out there. It seems to me they account for ninety percent of the membership, so maybe that's the problem? Maybe they wanna corrupt me or offend me or maybe they're just deranged, man?
It's damn near impossible to get an intelligent conversation out of anyone, I tell you that. All they can manage is a grunt or a wink – an email scares their ass away. All they want is a location asap to get their rocks off or it's game over, pal. It's taken me awhile to get the drift that no one one wants to get to know anyone here – it's all a little old fashioned in the queer scene. Sometimes they stop messaging if you request a photo before you agree to divulge your address!
It's the same obstacle I've faced my whole life, buddy – the guys I like don't want me and the ones who chase me are seriously unhinged. Still, I enjoy the flirting and saying things I'd never have the guts to say in person, winking at guys I'd never have the guts to approach in a bar. My expectations are far greater than the outcome, that's all. The most poignant correspondence came from a stranger who called me 'The Gentle Soul.' He claimed to perceive my troubled history of anguish and depression. This prophet said I had much creativity to share with the world as a result of my suffering and to cherish this gift no matter what. He also said to abandon this 'prison of sex' and to stay true to myself – love was on the way. I was astounded to uncover his profile name – 'Melbourne Cocksucker' – 'a middle eastern guy from the western suburbs - up for hot sex, dirty fun and ass fucking action with no strings attached.' I was gobsmacked to find this prophet had the most depraved profile on Manhunt! I thanked him for his kind words of encouragement and carried on my search through the inmates of the prison of sex.
Maybe I'll never find intimacy this way either, man. Maybe I'm destined to a life of chastity and poverty – it seems like something always happens to thwart my success and my happiness! After the BNews setback, I seriously felt like the cosmos was against me, man. I've always been plagued by a dreadful fear that nothing will work out no matter how hard I try. Sometimes it really feels like things are gonna happen, only to be thwarted at the last moment when its the most devastating of all. In reality, I don't think anyone could be so jinxed but it's a belief I've always been haunted by, that I'm still trying to eradicate from my psyche.
All I can do is keep plugging away, sending work off here and there. I've been having dinner parties with friends and casting them into roles so I can hear my scripts read aloud and everyone can have a laugh. Last night we gathered twelve people around the dinner table and read 'Darling It Hurts' which was fantastic, man! We printed the play out on my friend's parents recycled paper – one side had my play on it and the other side had the prayers for a children's youth group from the local church! The play ends with a massive food fight at the table but we decided to resist in case his parents rocked up early.
There were a few cute boys there but two were headed for the UK and the other is leaving for Darwin in a few weeks. I did swap numbers with a devious looking Greek guy who played Larry, the alcoholic, cigar smoking, sexually perverted shrink – he was chillingly comfortable in that role actually. Right now I'm experiencing too many bizarre health complications to get down and dirty anyhow. I was astounded to see that I was discharging blood instead of semen two weeks ago! Can you imagine how horrified I was to look down in the middle of a jack off session to find blood all over my hands, man?
I thought I was going crazy so I hurried off to the doctor for an urgent consultation. He assured me it's something he sees regularly when enthusiastic patients are jerking off too hard or getting too rough in their love making sessions. I felt reassured ever since but I'm scarred for life, buddy. How on Earth can I make out with someone knowing what might happen? No one I confide in is familiar with this strange phenomena – I feel like a leper, man! I'm terrified what could happen next – should I go hell for leather until the waters run clear, so to speak? Maybe I need surgery? I started taking a prostate tonifier from the naturopath to hurry things along. This is not the kind of situation I want exposed, man. If word gets around on Manhunt, my chances of finding true love online are in serious jeopardy!
Stay tuned for my next adventure to Ms Obedie's birthday showdown in the wild wild west!
I hope to God she's not sitting on the porch with a beer in her hand and a cigarette in her mouth!!!

Love to you all.
JJ
X

Let's Get This Party Started...Usch Usch Usch!

How the hell are you, man? Where on Earth do I start. It's been way too long between blogs; what will our fans think huh? I bet they're out there staying tuned for another dose of smut and diatribe from Down Under...
Didn't you turn thirty last time I posted, buddy? I hope you survived that transition and I hope you're soldiering on towards the middle ages where the rest of us have come to lay our weary heads and shrieking bones. Perhaps you don't feel much different to the twenties huh? Perhaps you're just in denial that you're an old fart now like the rest of us!
Who the hell said you're an adult when you turn 18 anyhow; it doesn't happen till thirty if you ask me and even then, it's hard to embrace the concept some days. Especially when you rock up to a two year old's birthday party with a pair of hot pink bunny rabbit's ears with sequins and a matching hot pink feather boa! That's right, I dressed our dear friend, Mel up like a playboy floosy in front of her latest lover (oops – sorry girlfriend, I honestly had no idea) although she did look mighty fine shaking that tail feather to ABBA's greatest hits. Every time I turned my head she was rolling in the hay with her gigolo – they were guzzling red wine like there was no tomorrow and feeding each other raspberry friands – who wouldda thought it was a little girl's birthday huh?
Meanwhile, Maddy Max was dangling a paper mache pig in the air while sugar obsessed children were bashing the poor thing over the head with a stick. I think they call this ritual 'Bust the Pinata' in Mexico – if only it was cocaine and tequila that spilled outta that poor piggy's snout!
There was no shortage of sunshine, sugar, animal costumes and good cheer – there wasn't even a single mosquito biting my cheeks or a single fly buzzing in my ears. Thankfully, none of them kiddies fell down the cliff and tumbled into the mighty Yarra and none of the adults drank too much booze and started throttling each other like they did when I was two. I was near ready to explode after my second slice of quiche, my third sausage roll and my fourth muffin. I disappeared to the loo for a brief choking stint when a chicken bone became lodged in my throat. Never mind, I don't think anyone noticed – they were too busy smearing chocolate over their faces, slurping lollipops and spilling soft drink down the front of their t shirts.
Yes, it was another splendid shindig, slapped together by the mother of all mothers – Ms Obedie, otherwise knows as Maddy Magoo. She certainly has the goodies, that gal from the wild west. The Collingwood farm hasn't seen a celebration of those proportions since Greta the wild pig spilled out 14 piglets in the pen last month. Thank God they weren't there to witness those kids publicly mutilating their paper mache protege!
It was back to work at the farm a few days later for this little piggy – shovelling piles of compost mixed with chicken poop, tearing stinging nettles out of the veggie patch and feeding branches of eucalyptus leaves to doe eyed, floppy eared goats. How did us humans get so darn fussy about what we consume? Those animals just eat what's put in front of them. They don't play with their food or send it back either. Can you believe, one of those cheeky chooks sneaked up from nowhere and literally snatched a blueberry muffin outta my hand while I was chomping away, savouring the last mouthful!
I requested to go on gardening duty after that and now I'm being watched over by a crazy old bird with as much patience as a brat with attention deficit disorder. Don't get me wrong, I don't mind crawling on my hands and knees in the dirt for hours on end, getting stung by bees, swooped by magpies and stalked by tiger snakes but I didn't appreciate being hounded by a hysterical woman who has no idea how to explain a task coherently. Maybe I did destroy last season's root vegetable crop but how the hell was I to know – all my vegetables come pre packaged at the local supermarket! The fact is, she is no good at delegating tasks, explaining herself clearly or controlling her temper. Granted, she's a kooky old bird, as entertaining as all heck but I just think she smoked too many of the herbs in that garden before she took on this gig.
Meanwhile I'm running across town on Wednesdays and Thursdays to do one half of my RMIT placement at a drug users organisation. I'm writing a feature article about the international drug scene for the upcoming issue of 'Whack magazine.' It's a creative, punky little number produced by drug users to give them a voice and a means of creative expression. It's an okay gig, aside from the fact it's a stuffy little shoe box of an office and the heating is always on, even though Spring has well and truly sprung. Half the staff are clearly affected by opiates of some description, the printer's always breaking down and it's got seriously slow speed Internet . That place is so damn stuffy, I can hardly breathe or keep my eyes open. I'm literally nodding off at the computer and it looks like I'm coming to work stoned outta my mind. Believe me, the lack of ventilation is enough to knock out the most hyperactive amphetamine addict.
Meanwhile, I got the Rave Safe chick, 'Purple' in the cubicle next door, blaring duff music from her last dance party – my head is thumping, my teeth are grinding, my fingers are bashing the keyboard, my pupils are dilated and I'm totally tripping by knock off time, man. It's the closest thing to Rave I've had in a decade. After years of abstinence, I'm surrounded by chain smoking, pale skinned, sleep deprived twenty somethings and I look like a reformed geek, refusing to go for a ciggie break or a beer after work.
Back across town, there's dead silence from the editors at BNews After publishing seven of my stories in a matter of weeks, the work has come to a standstill and the future's uncertain, to say the least. All I've been told is that management are having a few issues and no more editions will be produced until it's resolved, the editor's taking it easy in Apollo Bay and I'm left high and dry – smack bang in the middle of my RMIT placement and a burgeoning career in queer tabloid journalism - sometimes I think I'm cursed, buddy!
I've been hitting the Sircuit on Smith Street to let off steam, but even there I get harassed by a grotesque Maori drag queen in a God awful wedding dress and a microphone – humping the legs of the patrons and stroking their chins with razor sharp nails. I saw an atrocious strip show with a muscle bound beefcake dressed as a police officer, gyrating with a baton between his steroid pumped thighs to Michael Jackson's 'Beat It.' That buffed up meat head had a g string riding up his butt crack which was particularly unflattering yet there were a stream of horny old guys begging to rub their face in his crotch...some queers make me sick!
A friend of mine just broke up with his tall, scrawny, obnoxious partner so I was showing him around. That place has gotta be the closest thing to the full on, no holds barred flesh fest I witnessed in the US. I took the poor bastard upstairs to the sex on premises venue where an intoxicated guy was on his hands and knees, getting butt fucked by a series of predatory punters. We were gobsmacked by the lewd spectacle of the scene – it was public humiliation at its most explicit. Sometimes I wonder what species we are, Lars – how far will some of these guys go for a fucking good time?
My friend is a few years younger so he dragged me to The Peel, against my better judgment.
I huddled in a corner most of the time, pushed and shoved by tripping teens and drunken sloths making their way to the bar or prancing across the dance floor, checking out the action. Now and then, a scrawny boy elbowed me and winked – some kinda come on, I think. My clothes were stinking of smoke, my pupils were dilating from the strobe lights, the music was making me cringe and it was all too much. I think a few beers and a good ol' fashioned striptease is all I can handle, buddy. Not long after that I staggered home before the sun came up, got online and whipped up an Internet profile like every other lame ass fucker in this town!

Stay Tuned, Buddy
Love to y'all,
JJ X

Grow Up, Man!

Congratulations for making it through another decade buddy. I wish I could be there to celebrate your big day but never mind; you know I'm there in spirit. I brought a cupcake home from the bakery and tonight I'm going to lick the icing sugar off real slow, light a candle and make a wish to see you before the next decade passes. I'm going to drink myself silly, request a song for you on the radio and tomorrow morning I'll hire a plane and ask the pilot to write your name across the sky; that's how much I love you, man! I hope to heck it's a clear day in Melbourne and I hope you can see that big ol' love heart from Deutschland, Lars.
You only turn thirty once, buddy, so make the most of it, you hear; there aint much worth celebrating after that; it's all downhill for boys like us, unless you've managed to avoid the wear and tear of amphetamines, STDs and sleep deprivation. Some people tell me I still look 28 which is a darn miracle considering the onslaught my vital organs have endured since I was converted to the queer lifestyle by a social worker on the Sydney to Broken Hill train. He introduced me to the joys of vodka and oral sex and the rest was history, man.
I aint no cross country stud these days. I'm too old for them shenanigans. Thank God for Oil of Ulan, buddy; there's miracle properties in that shit. Everything sags after thirty, unless you hit on a damn fine moisturiser. Boys like us fade into obscurity beneath heavy coats and scarves, We hang out at cafes with rainbow stickers on the door, sipping skinny lattes and wheat free muffins. We read our star signs in the queer press and sneer at passers by through dark glasses. After thirty, we find ourselves a comfy seat out the front of the most tasteless cafes in South Yarra. The waiters know our favourite table, what we like to order and how much froth we like on our coffee; they give us a dirty wink and bring us an overcooked, uninspired meal and an outrageous bill to boot, man.
We stride away with our nose out of joint, pushing past women with prams and old ladies with shopping carts, thinking they're the scourge of society. We yank our poodle through the gardens on a lead, working on our tan and walking off the calories at the same time. Now and then we share a fake smile with another queen before remarking how poorly dressed or out of shape they are. We prance back and forward with a curly wrist, staking out our prey, trying to make eye contact with potential mates who look like they earn over eighty grand a year. Pretty soon, it's getting chilly so we lower our standards and take what we can get. If we're lucky we might score a blow job from a council worker on lunch, a married guy with a lousy sex life or a teen runaway; trying to steal our wallet at the piss trough.
Thank God we're no longer one of those wayward teens being dragged home and plied with alcohol and manhandled like a pound of flesh from the butcher. No more do we have to squirm under coffee tables while intoxicated men growl into our armpits and breathe alcohol fumes down our neck. Do you remember running to and from the bathroom, puking your guts up in between cigarettes while some fat bastard snored like a walrus in his jockey shorts? Do you remember French kissing bleary eyed geriatrics in gloomy bars; the gravel rash, the sandpaper tongues, the beer yeast breath, the tobacco stained fingers? Thank God we're thirty, man; there are some things about my youth I'd rather forget!
Come to think of it, there was a guy on the Elizabeth Street tram today who reminded me of a previous fling. He climbed aboard looking rather bohemian with an Irish cap, a scar beneath his left eye, a duffel coat and two garbage bags. I thought he was a brilliant artist of some description till he fell on the floor at my feet and pulled a silver ashtray from his pocket. He emptied cigarette butts all over the floor and meticulously began scrubbing the grimy ashtray with a handkerchief till he could see his toothless reflection in the silver chrome. He crawled about on his hands and knees at my feet, playing with that ashtray like a beloved treasure. Perhaps he was just eccentric or a performance artist, perhaps he was about to offer me the chance of a life time but I couldn't bear the smell of those garbage bags so I leaped over his back and fled the scene.
Call me fussy but I'm glad my taste in men is somewhat more discerning these days. The twenties were full of bad choices, don't you think? We fried our brains and shared body fluids and woke up face down on tiled floors with our pants around our ankles. Geez, man, I remember hyperventilating on dance floors, snorting drugs in toilet cubicles and waking up in dreary suburban lounge rooms with seriously depressed men with tasteless CD collections. I remember sneaking out through back doors, trekking for miles in cold frosts, searching for a bus stop or a train station, trying to figure out where the hell I was. I got tired of the sexual health clinics, nervous blood tests and pep talks by the safe sex police. As if that did any good anyway.
At least we can stop worrying about turning thirty now we're finally here, man. Heck, most people don't believe I'm thirty so I'm still reliving my youth. You get away with so much bad behaviour before you reach that big Three Zero; no one lets you get away with shit after that, let me tell you. I sure don't feel like an adult, Lars; not in the usual sense of the word. I mean, I don't even have a job or a license or a credit card; I don't even have photo ID, man! What constitutes an adult anyway? I thought I'd understand the world when I turned thirty but I'm still gobsmacked. I still don't know the meaning of life or why we're doing this gig; maybe I'll never know. A whole lot seems clearer but there's still so many questions and it goes faster each day; it's hard to keep up, man!
I found out I had syphilis the year I turned thirty. I broke out in a hundred tiny red blotches and the doctor gave me 14 consecutive injections of penicillin in the butt; that was the closest thing to anal sex I ever had in Melbourne. You know what, buddy; I think I actually turned thirty the year you left town because I moved into that room on Smith Street and Ms Obedie stopped in for my sweet chili tofu with vegetables. I still remember her tight busty top with The Goodies printed on the front. She was some kind o' wild child back then huh? My kitchen was located inside a garage and the grease was so thick on that stove, it was as sturdy as rust. I can't recall my birthday particularly; I probably spent the night tossing and turning while those dumbass wogs played Cher and Bette Midler on a karaoke tape downstairs. The Club Grill was the foulest cafe on Smith Street, man. Not even the lunatics would eat there. Maybe that silly idiot next door with 'Criminal' tattooed on his forearm was blasting his Green Day record for the fifth time that day. I could o' detonated a bomb in that place, man; it'd still be infested with roaches.
Those were the days. You were a spring chicken with well pronounced cheek bones, olive skin and a washboard stomach, honey bun. Is everything still holding up on the other side of the world? Would I still recognise your sweet cheeks cycling down Gertrude Street; pushing up and down on those pedals? Do you still have a twinkle in your eye, a sharp tongue and a radical hair do, man? It's good to be with you, buddy. Can you imagine how old we'll be when we finally meet again; what'll we do for kicks, man?
There's no need to think that far ahead, surely. Turning thirty has taught me to live in the present, that's for sure. You never know what's around the corner; a deadly virus, a tsunami, a serial killer, an obsessive lover. It's ironic, don't you think; we were in such a hurry to grow up and lose our innocence and now we just want it to slow the fuck down. It's not that I seem a lot older, I guess; I just find myself doing older things, you know; like staying home on a Friday night and reading a book or watching a movie with long woolen socks on my feet, a blanket wrapped around my shoulders and a plate of raisin toast. Sometimes I nibble a block of chocolate or sip chai tea with honey. I make sure I have three well rounded meals each day and go to bed before midnight; I always wake up in my own apartment, that's for sure. Once upon a time, waking up in a strange place was a sign of a great night on the town!
I can't think of anything worse than greeting the day on a grotty mattress with some feral guy's feet in my face and an empty bottle of beer between my legs. Now I get up in the morning and go for a stroll in the park; I take time to feel the breeze on my skin and inhale the scent of flowers. I keep an eye out for wildlife and marvel at the granduer of the trees and the birds and the luscious green landscape. I stare at the reflections in the river and the shapes drifting through the sky like a senile old fool and I have to pinch myself now and then when a jogger passes; especially if it's a hot guy with bulging calf muscles!
I try to converse with people in shops and smile at strangers and be courteous when I climb on the bus. I don't make a spectacle of myself but I still wear knee high socks with skulls printed on them and check shorts with Badboy splashed across the backside; just because you're older, doesn't mean you have to fade into obscurity. Maybe it's easier to get away with being an eccentric nut when you're over thirty; before that, they pin you down to one of the subcultures who roam the city like spoiled brats with a chip on their shoulder.
Ah, that takes me back to the tumultuous twenties in Sydney, Lars. I returned from another sojourn to NSW just the other day. I kept my dear mother company while her boyfriend awaited a court hearing for social security fraud. We talked about what she'd do if he went to jail; she'd move to Melbourne and we'd grow old together, if we didn't kill each other first. She'd join a senior citizens club and we'd meet for coffee once a week in Fitzroy gardens; any more than that could cramp my style and be hazardous to my health.
The case was adjourned in the end, so we frolicked on the harbour, pretending to be members of the affluent set who can afford to spend their days sailing from beach to beach in a private yacht. We even took a 200 dollar fine dining cruise when mum's old age pension was approved by social security. We had our very own cabaret singer, sprawled on a piano with slender legs up to her ears, afro hair and a cocktail gown splashed with sequins. I felt like newlyweds on The Love Boat till I remembered I was with my mother and stopped playing with her foot under the table; the harbour lights were more dazzling than ever.
We caught a graffiti tagged train back to Surry Hills where dirty old men slept in their own piss outside greasy takeaways and hostile voices yelled abuse indiscriminately as we scurried through the vomit stained streets, back to mum's decrepit hovel; where the outside loo is smothered with mould and we squat on a toilet used by ten other strangers who stub cigarettes out on the floor and squash cockroaches into the ground with their bare feet; it's a world away from the Opera House, man!
My mother turned thirty a long time ago but she still shacks up with grunting gorillas and eats the cheapest processed food with no nutritional value. At least this guy's an improvement from the pig who raised us, I guess. While I was in Sydney, we celebrated the old goat's passing, in fact; he had a heart attack and fell off a stool in an Adelaide pub. He was buried at a pauper's funeral and no one was told till a month later. His untimely death made our night on the harbour even more poignant. Cheers, buddy!
Yes, thirty can often be a time of wiping the slate clean, so they say. It just gets too draining to hang onto grudges, man. Thank God you reach a point where you can forgive and forget. Maybe you can see where everyone is coming from and take responsibility for your own part as well; thirty brings a clearer perspective, I think. It's time to move on, they say; no one can live with all that bad blood, man. It depletes the immune system and makes your hair fall out; take it from me!
I tell you what, Sydney sure looks more appealing through undilated pupils, man. It saddens me to think what a narrow, convaluded existence I had. I was a jaded son of a bitch when I moved there and wiped myself out in the glory holes of Oxford Street; my ass was anybody's, man. I can't imagine making the same mistakes now. I treat myself better these days. I know I deserve better because Louise Hay told me so! I wouldn't go back to the twenties for anything, man; not that I remember half of it so it won't come back to haunt me, I guess.
I caught a chest cold from my mother before I left town; I was doing Eucalyptus inhalations for my breathing and Lavender inhalations to clear my head. I still couldn't sleep with a cocktail of valerian, chinese herbs and valium. Mum and her boyfriend snore louder than any walrus conceived on this planet, man. For awhile there, I felt just as out of it as I used to; wandering the alleys of Surry Hills, jumping at my own shadow and bumping into lamp posts. I left Sydney before I lost my mind all over again and caught a plane to the gay commune in North NSW where I shacked up with my pal, Spider Cutie and the other fairy folk; Chameleon, Sparkle, Tea Cosy and Sugar Plum.
I had a fantastic time, strolling through the rainforest on my own, peeling leeches off my neck and scrub ticks out of my ears. I saw echidnas and eagles and bandicoots; they ran away as fast as they could! We drank hot chocolate and gazed at miles of pristine sub tropical forest with mist rolling across the valleys and blazing sunsets splashed across the horizon. There were a million stars shimmering in the universe while I soaked in a tub on the Moon Meadow with a log fire crackling beneath my ass; the scent of almond oil and geranium rising up from the steaming water hugging my skin. I could've stayed in that bath forever, man!
Each night we had a communal dinner; falafel, tabouli, baked vegetables, tahini, brown rice, broccoli and cauliflower soup, chocolate pudding and red wine. We stared into smouldering fires and joined hands in heart circles, hugging for warmth and toasting marshmallows. We ate porridge and stewed fruit on the veranda each morning as wallabies hopped across the property and cranes swooped into the dam and drank from the water's edge. I sure appreciated everything more than I did in my twenties, man. Maybe you become more conscious or your perception clears and you see the magic in it all. I never take it for granted like I used to, that's for sure.
I can't say there was much beauty flying back over the suburbs of Melbourne; endless grids of square brick homes and clogged up roads, ramshackle factories and polluted waterways but the world aint perfect, I guess. It was a mighty shock rolling into Southern Cross station under solemn gray skies and drizzling rain. Everyone looked so cranky and frustrated, jostling for space on the escalators and barging their way onto trains; shrouded in trench coats and scarves, breathing fumes of mist.
It's just the way it is, I guess. The rainforest and the fairies are a galaxy away and I'm back at the computer trying to make sense of it all. Maybe it was just my imagination? All I've got to remind me is a pair of muddy sneakers and a photograph of three men in drag, sitting cross legged on a rug with a pot of tea and a plate of Iced Vo vos. Bon apetit, man...

Happy Birthday, Lars
Love and hugs,
JJ x

Berlin Kottbusser Damm

Well thank God for that, we’ve finally got babies, women and pictures on our blog! Hi there Obedie! I’m really glad you managed to take a few snapshots of Jim.

Jim, between you and me, you’ve really let yourself go. What were you wearing? You can’t wear spots with cold sores. It’s got to be either one or the other, HIV or no HIV. Otherwise you risk looking like a Seurat. Anyway thank God you two can’t take any pictures of me. I will be turning 30 this year and am starting to be aware of the downside of my marvellous cheekbones – they’re starting to fill up.

Mads, thanks for the tip of brushing up my boys don’t cry. I haven’t listened to it for years but haven’t completely turned my back on my goth past and am actually on a bit of a Siouxie trip at the moment. In fact Sebastian and I went to see Siouxie at the end of last year here in Berlin. She played in Huxley’s Neue Welt which is where Hitler and Goebbels also once ranted on stage in the thirties before being elected. On this occasion, Siouxie, who has herself shown she can look good in Swastikas before, came on stage wearing a bodice, which I thought was a bit too much. I felt like saying to her, love, there’s no need you know, it’s alright we like your music even without the bondage outfits. I mean she is 50.

And aprospos, women turning 50, yes, Madonna can be seen on a poster from our window, also wearing a bodice, sucking on a lolly and looking interchangeable with Paris Hilton. I didn’t want to admit this to you guys on the blog, but I actually saw Madonna this year, but chose not to write about it because I thought it would lower the tone. But then again, if we want to attract advertisers and generate advertising revenue on this page (ha!) then I suppose we’ve got to start name dropping sooner or later. Madonna was in Berlin presenting her new directorial debut (I didn’t see it, I just saw her) and I went along to see her getting flashed at by the press and her fans. We stood on the other side of the street and ended up jostling for space beside a group of Italian teenagers who were singing Like a Virgin in bad accents for an Italian camera crew. I have to admit I am fascinated by Madonna but I don’t think she’s any good and that’s what annoys me about her: that I’m still fascinated by her. Someone should just get it over with and give her a Grammy for having soft power. Have you guys seen her new video? I mean the only good thing about it was the black glacier – at last I can explain to people what being on ketamine is like. Except a bump of ketamine is a lot more fun and no bit less glamorous (except when you throw up your last gin and tonic on the cigarette machine).

Now Jim, that’s great about having your short plays put on. I love the idea of the timid Indian students being given the dirty lines to recite. I bet they loved every second of it. And by the way, I wasn’t telling you the whole truth about the way you look in the photo. Obedie and I skyped last week and we both said how healthy you look. I can’t believe how much weight you’ve put on, you haven’t looked that good for ages.

I have so much to tell you guys but I also have so much work (Jim dear, if my job were 9 to 5 then I wouldn’t be moaning, but sadly it’s more like 9 to 10.) I’m sorry this posting hasn’t been very personal but the media last night must have gone to my head.

I’ll have to pop outside for more coffee. In this neighbourhood if I go to the shop two doors down on the right from my front door, I don’t even need to get out of my jogging pants. But since they’ve finished the renovations on the miniature ‘casino’ on the ground floor in our building, they’ve blacked out the windows by covering them in reflective glass which means if I need to get anything from the shop on the left of our house, I need to put a shirt on or else I feel like a complete slob!

Until these windows went up it was a hoot walking to our front door, because even though they had scaffolding up inside, there was a small A4 sign on the Spielothek’s door saying that despite the renovations they were still open; and you’d see workmen in overalls with paint tins and electricians going about their business with the carpets ripped out and ladders everywhere, back to back with people trying to win the 50 euro jackpot on the flashing roulette wheel and smoking fags at the machines, oblivious to the spring. In fact now the renovations are drawing to a close, they've stopped drilling which means we won't be getting any more complimentary sweeties pushed through our letter box to compensate for all the noise. It's funny, but the chocolate the manageress used to slip us was actually really good. She also gave each resident a gamblers' survival pack of sugar sachets, glucose tablets and a packet of tissues. I'm going to have to pop down there one day and check it out. The women who work there are all dressed like Lufthansa stewardesses and all the men are Turks.

Alright you two, will be in touch again, just need to get through this week’s translations and then I’m going to take time off to reconsider writing again. Lot’s of love to you both, Lance.