Random Conspiracy Theory

Thought that floated into my head this morning:

What if AIDS really did kill the creative, humanist impulse of the western world?

I don't know about you, but i could really go for a splash of that Mr Martini...

Hmmm.. these ARE potentially the gayest christmas-themed present ever. (Well, that or those photos of Tom Cruise.)

Remind me how mermen and mermaids fit into the story of Christmas? Is it that Christian obsession about fish?

My personal favourite? 'Cosmo'. Nothing says Christmas to me like a leather merman, cocktail in hand.

In any case,I love that Americans still don't know who Robbie Williams is.

Best. Salon Movie Scene. Ever. (*Sniff*)

Dear Jennifer Coolidge,

You know I love your work.

There's just something adorable about your turn as the gloriously gold-digging Anna Nicole-Smith-esque Sherri Ann Ward Cabot in Best in Show. Then there's your oh-so-hilarious turn as Stifler's mum in the American Pie movies. And I still bemoan the fact your Paulette Bonafonté (aka. the adorable hairdresser-cum-best fried of Elle Woods) was never put to full potential in Legally Blonde 2: Red, White and Blonde, even with the whole styling-the-senators schtick...

But you know, I think the film-viewing public absolutely MUST be made aware of your most spectacular stylist role - one that has, much to my shame, only come to my attention recently (aka. in the last two days whilst stuck in bed with the flu and hence catching up on trashy DVDs). This is your AMAZING turn as Betty, the gay boys' therapist/hairdresser, in The Broken Hearts Club.

You know, I have avoided this film for years, thinking it was one of those absolute gobshite gay films where everything's too pat and sweet etc. And it is. Even if the boys in it are rather pretty to look at, especially the guy who Brenda dumps for Nate in Six Feet Under (incidentally, did you know he played the spunky black cowboy dude with the stutter that Janeane Garofalo's character picks up in Romy & Michele's High School Reunion? I completely forgot, but there it is, right on his official website).

I digress. It is crap, except for this one scene where 'gay men's therapy' is elaborated. There you are, your hair askance, your dowdy olive cardigan-ish cardigan-wrap thing tied around your chocolate dress, just bouncing through this one scene where you cut everyone's hair while these boys crap on about their meaningless lives (hell, I know I do it with my beloved Adam - and he's a friend!) and you only deliver three lines. It's all so beautifully executed - especially your final gem:

'It's a gift.'

It's just so wonderfully delivered. I can't help but love it!

That's all.

Kisses,

Bads33d.

PS. You know, QueerPenguin (supposedly) loves your work so much he wants to
inflict Ben Affleck on you... (Maybe it's the diet screwing with his head and) I know he has the more widely read blog, but I could never be so cruel. Pick me as your favourite! Pretty please?

PPS. Please don't misconstrue my last postscript - I love QueerPenguin very much as a dear friend. I just don't understand how he can be so cruel to you. I mean, quite obviously Jennifer Beals would have been a better choice for Bennifer 3. She could flashdance him into submission and then leave him for a stone butch local at some poker tournament. Or - even better - for Jennifer Garner (after a particularly grilling session at the local dance studio). Wait, does that make me sound straight?

PPPS. Would you ever consider having a faux-hairdresser-off with Leisha Hailey?

Who would have thought...

You Are Most Like Samantha!

For you, dating is the ultimate sport You're into guys with power, looks, or a lot of money. You rather have a great two weeks than a great forever. But even you fall victim to love from time to time. :-)

Which Sex and the City Vixen Are You?

if daisy duke lived in the ghetto and was male, he'd be wearing...

a sleeveless yellow hoodie, short! (almost hotpant short) denim shorts and green footy socks that had sagged over his/her sandy hiking boots.


Well, that's what I wore to sleaze. thanks to J, especially, for the costume idea. anyways, some responses on seeing the costume:

Co-worker IM Convo
> omg
lol
it was my outfit for sleaze ball
> Have you ever heard of Daisey Dukes?
> cute
> lol
> you couldn't find shorter shorts?


The McNinja response:

> Love it! You look terribly ghetto fabulous darling!
> Hee hee.

S1:

> Promise me you'll NEVER dress up for me! I love you, you know that but
> I'm seriously creeped out right now.

S2:

> Your hot. I love it!!!

Hmmm... When added with the comments about my legs (people kept grabbing my arse, i had drag queens openly wishing they had them, one guy couldn't stop talking to my crotch...) resounding success, I think.

Something for Lady M

So, last year, Lady M got a bunch of requests from people wondering what I would like for my birthday. Usually, I prefer to let people work out what I like, but apparently my tastes are so eclectic or something and it's hard to do it.

So I've made it easier for everyone and include a link to my Amazon wishlist.

they smoke differently done down there, don't they?

I did my half-yearly visit to melburnia this weekend. Some random thoughts:

Melbourne Taxi Drivers are rude

..and not in the good way. I had one driver pull up in front of me after i hailed him, and then proceed to tell me he was on another job. One night I walked for twenty minutes and was POINTEDLY ignored by at least ten drivers before one deigned to stop for me. there was the one on the drive home late saturday night who insisted on telling me i needed to be religious, then the one who pretended i didn't exist the whole way to the airport and farted and gossiped in egyptian on his mobile the whole way there. (honestly - at least use a handsfree kit!)

Ukrainians are generally still conservative

It was a very Ukrainian Melbourne trip for me. Hilariously, this meant I got to see the best and worst of Ukrainian-Australian culture at play. It included the usual gossip circling around the usual group of suspects (anyone who didn't fit in - which basically means everyone else but those at the table), and the daft avoidance of anything vaguely interesting. Then there were the cool moments - having cocktails at 4am in the morning while talking about shit, swapping ipods with H to discuss our fave music of the mo. then there was the strange tale of R. (i'll get to that one in a minute).

i may be a klutz, but i'm stylish in the way i do it.

so, the reason i went down south was for my friends L and D's engagement party on saturday night. I got there, wearing a very stylish, albeit tweedy, outfit. My fave sandy/camel leather pointy Milus (still don't know what that style is called), some thick grey pants (it is melbourne, people - even on a 'warm' night in spring you need 'em), gorgeous white marcs shirt and warm cream ben sherman jumper. so what do i drink? that's right, children: red wine.

so what's the thing i do at midnight that would befit such behaviour? yes, i slipped. on the stairs to be precise. ten seconds after i realised carrying a glass of red whilst holding my heavy black jacket in the other hand may not be the right idea. anyways, long story: wine goes all over the cream newly-carpeted staircase below me and not a drop of red on my clothing. now, that's talent.

The strange tale of R

i actually arrived on the friday night. got picked up by one of my fabulous hosts (hi D!) and we headed back to his place, the one he shares with his equally fabulous other half. We spent the first hour and a half gossiping before the constant text messages and phone calls got in the way. so i headed out and caught up with my cousins before meeting up with my dear dear friend E at Bar Open.

E was there with her cousin to watch N's band. N is someone I grew up with, but never really got to know. I always thought she was a stuck up bitch - turns out I may have been projecting. Just a little bit.

Anyway, she has a fabulous set of lungs and the set (what one song i heard of it) is really cool. go on - check out their website.

So N and I have this 10 minute catch up, gossiping about crap and then she turns to me and asks if i know R. Sure, I say, he's my second cousin, haven't seen him in years. Well, he's one of my best friends, she says. What's he up to, i ask. Runs his own restaurant. Mental note to self: ask mum and grandma about him when we ladies who lunch the next day.

Ladies who luncheon turns into a ukrainian feast the next day: overboiled vegetable, overoiled salads and soggy cabbage rolls. I eat as much as my stomach can take, but the two breakfasts I just had are fighting me. Anyway, I ask about R - ma tells me he has a cafe-restaurant in Ascot Vale, supposed to be nice, she hasn't been there but my bro and sis have. Grandma pipes up - she's been there (R's her great-nephew, grandson of her older bro). She went there with her sister - the boy done recognised her and everything. Walked up to them as they were walking past and told them they looked familiar - how does he know them? They had coffee there, he's a nice boy but pity about his parents etc etc. Typical ukrainian grandmother gossip.

---

A moment's pause here. When I walk in to lunch, grandma tells me off for being so wasted away. I point out I've put on five kilos since she last saw me. When grandma describes R, she describes him as nice and thin - he used to be chubby. Apparently, he's thinner than me, but I'm the wan one. Bless ukrainian grandmothers.

---

Bro and sis walk in. Say they met him, too. He walked up to sis and asked her how she knew him. Takes a few minutes to establish the connection - only when he mentions his sister that she clicks (the two sisters used to hang out all the time). It's at this point I realise I need to visit the cafe.

Half an hour later, I'm catching up with H. We decide to check out the boy - she's been there, reckons she's met one of the owners. Quite young, sweet; he's even visited her bank once or twice back in the day when she was rocking the teller desk.

We walk in and he walks up to both of us. I recognise him immediately - that photographic memory comes in handy - and he's cuter than I remember. He asks us how he knows us both. (I wonder if you can pick up his schtick). H explains how they met.

'And you? How do I know you?'

'I'm your cousin.'

Works a treat. 'Oh, Bads33d! I thought you lived in Sydney.'

Anyway, long story short: after about half an hour of H and I catching up (as we do), he sits down with us and gossips. My first impression - friend of d'orothea - only solidifies as the convo continues. At some point, I stop the flow of conversation: cigarette time.

I've already established he's a fan of architecture during the conversation. This is the third restaurant he's set up, etc etc. Over a couple of cigarettes, we gossip. He's perennially single, been doing the same thing for years and bored with it, wants to do something creative and expressive. Sound familiar? Wait, it gets funnier - he goes after the same types of boys as me and wants to move to Spain in the future.

Meanwhile, poor H is on the phone with two of my cousins. 'Oh cool, another spunky gay ukrainian. Wonder if he's my cousin, too?' (Thank fuck she loves her birthday present, honestly).

So after all this time, I found my gay twin. And he's related to me. And, of course, the coffee was well free. This could be the beginning of a beautiful relationship.

Squee.

Oh, I'll take your tagging challenge, all right

For the first time in forever, it's a quiet day at work. (Public holiday in the US - which means the rest of the week is bound to be a nightmare). So I'm using the time productively - reading other people's blogs, including QP. Noticing he's taken up Richard Watts' tagging challenge, I figured I'd try it out:

1. Grab the nearest book.

2. Open the book to page 123.

3. Find the fifth sentence.

4. Post the text of the next 4 sentences along with these instructions.

5. Don’t you dare dig for that “cool” or “intellectual” book in your closet! I know you were thinking about it! Just pick up whatever is closest.

The fun thing is that for once my cool, intellectual book is actually the nearest book (it's even closer than the partner agreement folder, which is a) the only book on my work desk and b) would require me to find the 123rd partner agreement... anyway too much effort). So without further ado, from Félix Guattari's Chaosophy:

The whole system of projections derives from machines, and not the reverse. Should the desiring-machine be defined then by by a kind of introjection, by a a certain perverse use of the machine? Let us take the example of the telephone exchange: by dialing an unassigned number, connected to an automatic answering device ("the number you dialed is not in service...") one can hear the overlay of an ensemble of teeming voices, calling and answering each other, criss-crossing, fading out, passing over and under each other, criss-crossing, fading out, passing over and under each other, inside the automatic voice, very short messages, utterances obeying rapid and monotonous codes. There is the Tiger; it is rumored there is even an Oedipus in the network; boys calling girls, boys calling boys.

(OK, so I'm not technically sure whether I quoted four or five sentences, but whatever). I'm just glad I was at my work machine and not the home one - would probably be quoting DNA magazine or something...

i just wanna fuckin dance

I once read somewhere that a hermit who was watching his hourglass without praying, heard noises that split his eardrums. He suddenly heard the catastrophe of time, in the hour-glass. The tick tock of our watches is so mechanically jerky that we no longer have ears subtle enough to hear the passage of time.

Bachelard, The Poetics of Space (p167)

Anyway...I'm trashed. Or trashy. Or something like that.

I'm overrun with time this afternoon, partly because I can't focus on anything long enough to get my shit together. So I've decided to intersperse what is a particularly boring story with random commentary just to give you an idea just how scatty my brain is today.

---

Whatever happened to getting my shit together?

---

I stupidly started seeing this guy a few weeks ago.

The fam were visiting, which meant a simultaneously boring and emotionally stunted dinner which - due to the present company of my catholic priest godfather, who decided that after 40 years of living in this country that he can't (and won't) speak english - included such scintillating topics as the priestly ethics course that the Ukrainian Catholic Bishop of Oceania has put into place and that my godfather is now running with a catholic priest from Adelaide.

Hindsight being that lovely kick up the arse that it is, no, I didn't make the obvious joke about altar boys and Father Paddy's (in this case, Father Dimitri's) hair parting actions. (That's what us devout atheists call Taking It for Jesus).

So, of course, when we left the restaurant at 10.00 that night (no pre-dinner cocktails and ONE bottle of red and ONE bottle of white between four adults, AND I was the only person who actually ate all three courses...must have been Lent or something. aren't Catholics supposed to be alcoholic what with all the children and the guilt and everythign?), I was desperate for some human interaction that didn't involve my mother and I pretending to listen to each other's inane chatter.

A few phone calls later, I headed over to J's place in Chippo, only to end up coming back to Oxford St 15 minutes later. Typical.

After two minutes at the Burderking, we grabbed the boys and headed over to Palms.

---

See! isn't that funny? I just merged the Burdekin and the Burger King into one word, even though they're diagonally across the road from each other. Whaddaya mean, you don't get it? Oh, it's not that funny, is it? Well, I'll just HAVE to continue this story then, won't I?!

---

J and I seem to spend too much time at Las Palmas. For those who have not had the pleasure, Palms is what you would get if you interbred an RSL, a gay club and a greek tavern then dumped it into a basement space and added (for good measure) a DJ who doesn't mix the music so much as wait for the track to finish before putting the next one on. So of course, it's all handbaggy and trashy. Just the place to go to every once in a while after a house party or something.

Just not every weekend.

Hmm... I've managed to avoid its insidious charms this weekend. Probably a good move.

---

So, when we arrive, there's this cute guy who bounces up to our friend J2. I accidentally tripped J2 up at some point in the evening when my legs and arms went out to catch him, except my arms didn't move. Must have been the alcohol and residual anger towards my father and godfather. Anyway, bygones.

The cute friend was giving me the eye. You know, the gay version, not the evil one. Except he was there with some guy. Then he started chatting me up and dumped the guy (in front of me, no less) to spend the night with me. I remember being bemused about it at the time, but should have known better than to go home with him. But I did - what goes on at Palms stays at Palms.

Except for that time I slept with that guy that went to school with J, and it turns out he works in the same building as me. Reason #128,954,759 to leave my job, anyone?

---

Wake up in the morning with a head like ‘what ya done?’
This used to be the life but I don’t need another one.
Good luck cuttin’ nothin’, carrying on, you wear them gowns.
So how come I feel so lonely when you’re up getting down?

So I play along when I hear that favourite song
I’m gonna be the one who gets it right.
You better know when you’re swingin’ round the room
Look’s like magic’s solely yours tonight

---

Anyway, so we slept together. BIG surprise there.

And I stupidly went out with him again. And slept with him again.

Then I left it at that. I wasn't particularly interested, and he seemed a little, well, flighty.

Funny that.

---

Oh, I forgot to mention that I went to this Madonna thing at Slide at some point in during this whole shemozzle, where they were supposed to play 48 Madoona songs in a row, but ended up playing three at a time, then three other songs, then three more madoona songs all night long.

I bumped into the spunky Croatian doc from a while back. He ended up walking part of the way home with my housemate and myself.

Hmm.. he's still cute and friendly. I think I could really do with a serve of McDreamy.

---

Anyway, we did end up on a second date, where we ended up at the Colombian with W, a few PR PR people and a sleazy journo who ended up pashing one of the PR PR girls in a really ugly way.

(Can you tell I'm preparing myself for my future career in PR?)

The strange thing was that it turned out he did have a brain, and a creative one at that. Either that, or he was very good at very elaborate lies, because by the end of the night he had charmed me. Then, when we woke up the next morning and he said he wanted to spend more time with me (and not just see me once a fortnight), I was genuinely happy. That was last weekend.

Busy crazy week meant that I didn't speak to him again til Wednesday, when he rang up and invited me to a party on Friday with him. He didn't have the details, but he would call me on Friday morning with them.

---

I love Fridays. There's something about leaving the office at 7pm and knowing that I have two days to myself that I really really love.

Yes, I did mean 7pm, people. I know I work stupid hours.

---

But I don’t feel like dancin’
When the old Joanna plays
My heart could take a chance
But my two feet can’t find a way
You think that I could muster up a little soft, shoop devil sway
But I don’t feel like dancin’
No sir, no dancin’ today.

---

So Friday came round, and I texted him at 9am, when I remembered I had no idea what was going on. I was run off my feet with the fifteen or so things that are happening around the traps so I wasn't exactly checking my mobile waiting for him to ring. Still, no phone call.

At 6.30 I left a message on his phone as I was walking home to let D1 drop off our new (well, not so new, but still) big screen TV. By 7.30, no phone call - the dirty bastard.

So I called W, and went and joined him at the Opera Bar for a friend's birthday drinks, followed by drinks at the Colombian with J and J2 and some random complicated love triangled people (too confusing a situation to understand, just don't ask), and then Kooky.

I haven't been to Kooky for almost five years. It really sucked on Friday, though. I left after the band finished. (The band sucked bad eggs).

---

I'm breakin' it down
I'm not the same
I know you're feelin' me 'cuz you like it like this

---

So now, all I want to do is get out and dance. I can't be fucked being pissed off with him, I can't be bothered beating myself up over the fact that blind freddy could see that conclusion coming from outer space, I don't care to slap him across the face next time I see him (as much as he TOTALLY deserves it). I just want to enjoy myself, really.

So I'm just gonna go to the Kylie thing at Slide tonight with some friends and enjoy myself. Even though I enjoyed myself last night a bit too much, what with the vino and the pot and the half-tab (and a fucking strong one at that) of ecstasy at my neighbour's house-cooling/birthday party last night. But that's another story.

Ok, rant over.

Light Bushels...

My company has a companywide del.icio.us feed which occasionally brings up a gem. Like this one from the 'Star Trek Inspirational Poster' website:

umm...

If your pants are on fire, does that make you a firecrotch?

Babies look right into the eyes of people they don't know and cry or laugh, but now you just try and look into people's eyes, you'll go nuts before you know it. Just try it, try looking right ito people's eyes, you'll start feeling funny pretty soon...you shouldn't look at things like a baby.

Ryu Murakami, Almost Transparent Blue

---

When did taking the piss out of redheads become so de rigeur?

---

Last weekend, I went up to the Blue Mountains with some friends for a Christmas in July do. It was really fun, and exactly what I needed in terms of escaping the city. All except for a series of incidents involving a couple of people - in terms of my involvement, however, it all came down to the girl.

Now, don't get me wrong, I adore the girl. (Here it comes...)

But it always feels like she's wearing some kind of mask. Perhaps it's because I've played that role for much of my life, but I can pick someone acting the victim from a mile away. When
she talks about any guy she's been recently seeing, he's slighted her somehow. I can't help feeling, however, that she's had some part in the relationship breakdown - and that she's not the helpless little chaste girl she would like to portray.

---

I've lost my redhead ways! Yes, after four months of living with the tangerine nightmare that was my head post-American Crew model for their catwalk show before Easter, I'm now a glorious brunette once more! Yay!

Meanwhile, Lady M has adopted a suspicious patch of carrot on the fringe of her new 'do. Who's the fanta pants now, I ask?

---

Once in a while, it surprises me how adept I've become at reading people. I'm not saying I necessarily act on it (as much as I should), nor that I will always consciously think about it, but that I pick up on all sorts of tells. It makes me wonder whether I could be a good poker player, if I cared enough about playing the game.

I recently bumped into the ex of one of my BFFs. We went out for a drink and were chatting away pleasantly, but the whole time I wasn't sure what she was telling me was true and what was false. You know how most people will embellish a little when explaining something about their lives to present themselves a little more favourably? Well, this felt more complicated than that, more like she was trying to create a whole new persona not just for presenting to the outside world but also to herself.

I wonder how many times I've done that to myself, whether I'll do it again at some point in the future.

---

I guess that thought was running through my mind last Saturday night. Our Gracious Hostess and I were discussing our friend, the Little Girl Lost, and her latest predicament - one of the boys at the Do in the Blue, who had just stormed off in the middle of the Christmas Dinner we were at. According to cher hostess, LGL has a reputation for meeting guys, going out with them a few times then realising she's not interested and then just blowing them off. Which would be OK-ish, if it wasn't that the guys tend to be friends (or friends of friends) and work colleagues. (I might add at this point that LGL's story about the sulking gent was that he had not returned her calls after their last date).

After I admitted I'd suspected that the real story was something along those lines, our conversation ended up turning into a discussion about the way I present myself. As such conversations tend to go, I offered an insight that I would not normally face up to:

I dumb things down because it's easier to do so than blast people away with my observations.

Sure it makes me look a little guileless, but that comes in handy once in a while. Like when I blasted the outgoing enfant terrible of the Bloomfield Massive with an unashamedly honest appraisal of her behaviour.

Still, there are lies you tell for the sake of someone's feelings, and the ones which hurt you. I could offer advice to these two friends, but I don't think they would help until they change the way they look at the world.

---

P.S. Speaking of liars and firecrotch-related matters, I managed to see the video clip for Paris Hilton's first single, Stars are Blind. Despite the fact the song is quite catchy (probably because Paris' voice has been 'produced' so well), the video is quite funny. A few thoughts for you, Ms Hilton:

1. Don't try to act sexy. That guy's less wooden than you. Hell, the palm trees in the background are less wooden than you.
2. Don't dance, especially with said palm tree.
3. That white, flowy, satin smocky thing? I bet the girls at Go Fug Yourself would have a LOT to say about it.
4. Vaguely unrelated thought: has anyone read the article on Nicole Ritchie in last month's Vanity Faire? She totally denies ever having seen One Night in Paris, let alone hosted a screening. Also? She'll probably make a much better singer and dancer - hell, Lionel adopted Nicole when he and his (now ex-)wife saw her dancing at a Prince concert at the age of three.

UPDATE: It seems Ms Hilton has had some work done on the video clip - check out the version she released as part of the her new YouTube 'channel':

If I were on South Park, I'd look like this...

Courtesy South Park Studio

Insight: a typical badsd33d work day

Meetings, emails, etc. and then...

The Big Gay Bank Customer

Observe how we at (unnamed software customer) consider this customer (with one of the other poofs in the office):

bads33d 12:50:16
omg, our latest customer? big gay tax haven, methinks:
http://www.credicoop.com.ar
it's all very pride down south...

Coworker 12:51:03
lol

bads33d 12:51:34
i wonder if it's run by a mysterious man who walks with a cane that has a knife hidden inside

Coworker 12:51:53
hahahha

bads33d 12:51:59
and his wife is a famous cabaret singer who strangely marries his right hand man when he disappears, presumed dead

Coworker 12:52:12
lol

bads33d 12:52:40
i wonder if they have an esoteric bartender who plays guitar with her late at night?!?
12:53:36 i always wanted one of those...

Coworker 12:53:59


bads33d 12:54:03
can you imagine? you walk in, and they're playing 'put the blame on mame' on the speakers...

Bads33dinho

My Brazilname (the name you would have if you played for the Brazilian soccer team) is "Bincha".


http://www.minimalsworld.net/BrazilName/brazilian.shtml

I guess it's better than "Cardildo" (one of the girls in the office got that one.) Maybe.

Sketch

Walking home from work, I saw this amazing sight.

This young girl was standing outside of Wynyard station smoking.

She was about 5'10, with long black hair tied back in a ponytail with a red matte ribbon. She wore a tight pink shirt, and this floating, pleated blue dress. Her dark skin seemed to just exaggerate the whole 50s look.

The girl stood legs and back straight, leaning forward by bending at the waist. Her hand was curved round to the side; if she had been standing straight, she could almost be about to execute a pirhouette.

Every time she would go to puff, she would lean in to her unmoving arm. She'd inhale, and then lean further to exhale, her face staring upright into the straight, emotionless. She'd then lean back up slightly, to about 15 degrees below standing straight.

She just kept repeating this motion.

I couldn't work out whether she was a performance artist, a highly mannered smoker or a wanker.

UPDATE: I am officially an arsehole wanker. It turns out the girl is mentally disabled. I, on the other hand, feel really evil.

Better Dead than in Bed (with another soldier)

Nice to know the armed forces are still as homophobic as ever.


http://www.smh.com.au/news/national/gay-song-joke-link-to-kovco-death/2006/06/20/1150701524936.html

I could write a whole piece on this, but that's kinda QP's domain. Sides, it's kinda comforting to know that you can always rely on conservative groups and individuals to blame horrific events on minority groups:

"The song we were singing was in a female, homosexual way.

"(It was) almost to say this is so gay I would rather be dead.

Who's willing to bet that Soldier 17 wasn't getting any in the squadron showers?

Learning from La Lohan

Reading the PEN15 Club's blog about Lindsay Lohan's luck with her new film a while ago made me wonder what it is that has made it such a loss.

Not having seen the film (nor really caring what it's like), I can't help but wonder whether there's some truly banal reason for its lack of success. My bet: it's to do with her reputation. Sure it's obvious, and definitely plays into a LOT of stereotypes, especially about women having to look all sugar and spice etc, but the truth of the matter is, she hasn't been doing herself many favours. Until now.

Apparently, the other day La Lohan and that-hideous-bitch-whose-name-kinda-rhymes-with-lard-assand-is-anything-but had a lovely stoush at Butter, which I presume is some sort of nightclub. Or a place where the favoured form of dispute resolution is the one-liner. Quoting Socialite Life quoting Page Six:

Witnesses report Hilton went up to Lohan and shouted, "I can't believe you and Stavros! You are ridiculous!" After taking more insults and curses, Lohan said, "That's how you say hello? I don't need to respond to you." Lohan promptly left. A rep for Lohan said, "Correct. Paris tried to pick a fight with her and started screaming at her, but Lindsay took the high road."

Yes, I believe dating a "friend's" ex is typically taking the high road.

(side note: this does beg the question of why both girls have dated Brandon Firecrotch).

Anyway, full dibs to Lindsay. If only we could all take the high road and snort, vomit and overdye our way to poise and elegance. We all should be so lucky.

(Side note #2: When is kylie going to announce the Australian Showgirl tour dates? QP and I need to start preparing our We-love-Lulus)

When I grow up I want to be a... wuzzle?

Which Forgotten 80s Cartoon Character Are You?

You are Butterbear from the Wuzzles! No one really knows what to make of you. In fact, your mixed-up personality (and appearance) freaks some people out. That's probably why you weren't on the air for very long. You're not for everyone, but your true friends love your uniqueness.
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Love for sale

Skimming through the local gay rags the other day, noticed this:

Would you like a side of Obvious with that?

We moved office while I was away sick. Coming in today, I found a sticker on my chair I'd not noticed before, with the following gem of advice:

"CARE SHOULD BE EXERCISED NEAR OPEN FLAME OR WITH BURNING CIGARETTES"

Ummm...

sheep

I was going to write about my cringe-inducing dream last night, where I ended up at some stupid new-age retreat rolling down hills or something, and then in the final session got so bored I(half-mockingly,half in the manner of a calm counsellor-cum-Marg-Downey-in-Kath-and-Kim) told this absolutely boring twit - after he admitted that the marriage was not going so well because he had "homosexual tendencies" - that he should either a) go screw a boy or b) join up to a married gay guys' counselling group with the missus. But that would be indicative of the crap writing that proliferates on this website, right?

So, instead of boring all with my tale, I'm following the whole trend of looking at which celebrities I most resemble according to myHeritage. Admittedly, I visited this site first about three months ago, but didn't like the results I got from the only half-decent (ok, completely shite) photograph I had of myself on my work computer. From other people's posts on their blogs, the idea seems to be to allow celebrities of both genders, and see who matches you closely. This time, with a decent (somewhat realistic) pic, I get the following ones:

at 70%

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Jonathan Rhys Meyers. Yum - I've adored him since Velvet Goldmine.

at 68%

---

Admittedly, this is quite an old photo of Hugh Grant. Still, Ew.

Tarkan, some Turkish popstar. As usual, I've chosen a better pic than the one myHeritage gives me (for one thing, there's no gel or fugly goatee involved in this one...*shudder*). On the upside, a quick Google reveals him to be a flaming homo who is most famous for his single Şımarık (Holly Valance did it as Kiss Kiss). Big surprise there.

Now, that's more like it. Wolvericious. (Yes, 'tis Hugh Jackman)

64%

---

Admittedly, I loved Anne Hathaway in bareback mounting - just for that scene where she's on the phone with Ennis. Not enough to want to look like her, though.

I couldn't stop laughing when this one came up - as if I look anything like Andie Macdowell. You may as well have given me Malcolm.

63%

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mmmm, Ian Somerhalder. I knew there was a reason I should start watching Lost. (Obviously, it's not going to be Charlie from Party of Five.)

Ok, I could stop there, but the next one is just too funny.

62%

---

Pene, you used to be so cute. Then you dated that closet-case couch jumper. What happened to the decent Cruz?
Incidentally, I wonder what QueerPenguin makes of this one?

This last one was too good to pass up. I wonder if I could pull off a drag version of Holly Hunter in Broadcast News?

PS. Apologies to the random websites I have ripped off for these pics - I admit full responsibility for my appalling lack of netiquette. Still, it's not like more than five people will read this.

Vale June Pointer

She ain't so excited no more. *Sniff*


http://www.blogger.com/img/gl.link.gifThe Queerty version of events

Now who's Lady M going to run around the house dancing to before we hit another party?

More importantly, the Pointer Sisters were originally a country act?!?

Reasons I will never purchase anything from Retravision or Homezone Digital

I'm sure we've all read bitchy rants like this before, so if you're not interested in hearing this one, skip this post and jump to my Catherine Keener lovefest.

I know I usually don't post stuff about work on here, but this is just a warning for anyone considering purchasing or renting whitegoods through Retravision or its appliances/whitegoods arm, HomeZone Digital. You know, that or all five members of my collective audience.

Well, and the fact I'm so pissed off about this whole situation.

Our work microwave started playing up a few weeks ago, and the boss asked me to purchase a new one. The best available one I could find within the specs was from HomeZone Digital, so I ordered it online.
A few days later, I received a phone call from the head of HomeZone's online ordering department, a friendly sounding guy whom I shall call Jonti (because that is his real name). He requested credit card details for payment, and assured me we would be receiving the invoice in the mail and the microwave would be delivered over the next few days. So far, so good.
Two days later, Jonti emails me. Apparently the model we had ordered is no longer produced - he suggests one or two other models that they're willing to deliver instead. I go with one of them, and assume that's that.
A whole week passes. No microwave - we do receive the invoice, though. I try calling Jonti on the direct number listed on the email signature after emailing him a few times - goes straight through to voicemail every time. No response from Jonti after a few of these messages, so I call him on the mobile. He assures me he will call me back in 10 minutes when I speak to him. Funnily enough, he never calls.
A week and a half passes - admittedly, because I'm busy doing the work I'm supposed to be doing when I'm not chasing dodgy suppliers. Finally, I get back to chasing Jonti.

After several phone calls and emails with no response, I try calling the store listed on the invoice (Bondi Junction). There, I get to speak to not one, but two sales assistants who tell me that Jonti actually doesn't report to anyone bar head office, as he's a department all on his own. After listening to this crap one more time (having left a voicemail message in Jonti's inbox where I threatened to start a formal complaint through Consumer Affairs), I convince the assistant to contact head office for me (they won't give me the number). I take a deep breath, and wait exactly one day.

When I haven't heard from her in that time, I call the Bondi Junction store. The phone is answered by some random guy who puts me on hold for ten minutes before hanging up on me. I call again, and he answers once more. I let fly at him - I point out how rude it is to hang up on someone, and not even be courteous enough to let them know the person they're trying to contact is busy. He puts me through to the assistant, who lets me know Head Office still haven't got back to her before putting me through to the Store Manager.

I explain my case, the Store Manager agrees that the whole situation is screwed (it's now three weeks since I paid for the microwave and we haven't seen it or even heard when it will be delivered.) He arranges for it to be delivered the next Monday (that would be today).

And the fun does not stop there. In the last fifteen minutes, I've received two phone calls from the delivery guy trying to weasel out of delivering the bloody thing today - saying it might be easier if he delivers tomorrow or next week or something. I politely told him it will be here by 6.30 or else.

Now, if only I could find the number for head office... And Consumer Affairs.

UPDATE: The delivery guy actually did his job! He turned up after all his pissing and moaning with the microwave only 30 mins after the last phone call. Meanwhile, I decided to screw this shit - I can't be bothered having anything more to do with Retravision and a formal complaint would only waste more of my precious time.

I heart Catherine Keener

I'm not much of a morning person. Even less so a morning television person. Ever since Steve Liebman left Today, I just don't bother. And it's not like he was that fantastic either, just likeable.

I could happily shoot his replacement, that annoying toothy guy with no personality whose name escapes me. But I reserve special vile for the hosts of Sunrise. I mean, Kochie was not particularly interesting to start off with, but to team him up with the insipid Melissa Doyle is like a double hit of poison.

Which is possibly why I have been hanging out for Catherine Keener to get on one of these shows and shoot Mel and Kochie down a la her performance on the American Today show the other day.

I finally saw Capote with a friend the other day, and I have to say, she's my fave female actor of the moment. Her presence as Harper Lee is just so amazing I can't help but gush when talking about her. And to hear about her reprising in real life something we've seen her do previously on screen (and so well - think John Malkovich), makes me - along with the fabulous Rob at PEN15 (who is now officially my new blogger crush) - want to see the video clip of the incident so much.

Not that I particularly care much about 'box of hair' Aniston that much - s - it's just great to have a public figure defending the otherwise useless from insipid morons.

I wonder, who wants to start a 'Catherine Keener for Class President' fanclub with me?

Poor Schapelle...

If you ever need proof just how much of a joke Schapelle Corby is in Indonesian circles:

http://www.schapellecorbytours.com/

Yes! You too can meet Schapelle, offer her food, and - for a nominal fee - sit in the cell with her, wake her in the morning or even feed her!

Just be aware: "Although it is almost certain that you will see Schapelle on the tour, sightings cannot be guaranteed – if Schapelle is sick, she may not be on display."

big fish, little fish

i'm sick at the moment. second time in 8 weeks. my doctor tells me it's due to stress.

debating whether to bother going to the mardi gras party this weekend.

wondering how much more bs i can put up with in my job before i involuntarily blurt out i'm quitting.

of course, the incessant house arrest i've put myself in to recover has ended with cabin fever - which inevitably leads to me analysing my life at the moment. typically, i'm not happy.

---

W thinks i should just take a deep breath, pack up all my emotions into a little box and then continue getting by until i've managed to get hold of a new job, but i just want out as soon as possible.

Ksquared think i should just appreciate the german boi (going on 5 weeks now), but i just want to see him more often than once a week.

Most of all, I want to clear any residual BS and get going on the next stage of my life. Why is that so difficult for me?

BYO life

Buggered if I understand this.

Where Macramé is not a dirty word...

Heh.

What will those darn kids think of next?

This from popbitch this week (I know, cheating):

>> Parlez-vous Popbitch <<
Get ready to be Seagulled

Happy Slapping is so 2005. To be too cool for school these days you have to do the Seagull.

In schools all over London, apparently, break-times are seeing boys running into the bogs to masturbate furiously, collect their jizz in the palms of their hands, then go out and find a younger kid.... then slap them in the face while shouting "SEAGULL!"

Try it in the office when you're bored.

??Whatever happened to the Scotch Finger biscuit? (Or is that reference a little too Melburnian?)

Familiar Plots

We got a family plot. And like it or not, he's going in there.

Without ruining the storyline completely for those who haven't seen it, that's kinda the seminal line for Brokeback Mountain. Walking around Oxfordia on Thursday night after watching it, I had a string of convos about how this film is affecting individual gaybois and dykes. One thing came up more than anything.

It's not quite what I expected - and the fact I was responding the same way was equally surprising.

I expected a little bit of a cliched response, to be frank. Something like 'Oh wow, that film was so important, and uplifting. It's so good to see ourselves represented like it is.' You know, cos so many of us are ranch hands who discover our sexuality while herding sheep. This of course would include gushing about Heath Ledger and Jake Gyllenhaal (and outright lusting after the two). Although let's be honest, boys: there aren't many of us who wouldn't lust after either (or both). The usual gushing would last about two days and then some new film would come along with equally cute leading men.

That was not quite what I saw. Sure, we all want to have Jake &/or Heath's babies (I'd be happy with both), but every conversation showed more of an introspective queer audience. The movie seems to have opened something up in us, maybe forced us to confront issues we'd much rather ignore. About the attitudes of people we care about but who will never accept us, or the issues in our lives we have had to just get by with rather than overcome, or something deepseated that we have not been able to face. Everyone I've spoken to has come back with a slightly haunted look in their face. There's something truly haunting about Brokeback - it's sure got into us good.

Official Movie Site

Word of the Day

In an attempt to improve my vocabulary, I am instituting an occasional word of the day. Today's word is:

Fucktard. n. [concat. retard AND fuckwit.]
cf. George W Bush, Jr

Unfortunately, neither the Oxford, Mirriam-Webster nor Dictionary.com seem to have a definition for this word. The rest of us will continue to use it to refer to various people in our lives, and those of our loved ones.

Or Britney Spears' husband.

How do you say? Inevitable?

It had to happen.

Whatever happened to Brangelina?

Cast your mind back around 8 years ago:

No, not Wacko Jacko's wedding.

Can you remember when Brad left Gwyn for Rachel Jennifer? (Remember her? She of the mid-nineties hair?)

Walking down Martin Place this morning, I came across this image:

Now, as far as I remember, didn't the cum rags have a ball for months afterwards telling everyone who bothered to listen how devastated Gwyneth was after they broke up? Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't she up the duff the second time, to the highly annoying and yet somewhat talented Chris Martin at the same time that the tabloids take us through the whole Jennifer Aniston post-Brad breakup saga?

Sides, isn't Jen supposed to be in love with Brad's bff? And why does every woman who dates Brad have to go through some heart-wrenching saga every time he breaks up with her? XXX-Brad-XXX triangles are so passe, especially when they don't involve me. I mean, it's not like he looks like this any more:

If you're wondering why I am even bothering writing about this, blame his Queer Penguinness. He started it.

What kind of Scientologist are you?

Nothing like a breakfast meeting to bring out the religionloving side of me...

What is this Rio that you speak of?

Brazil is off the map, which is not a bad thing. Nothing like a couple of pithy cliches to make you truly happy you're not seeing anyone any longer. Not that I was really seeing anyone so much as doing that whole initial tango...

On the up side, I got to live out one of my secret dreams, and pilot a yacht around Sydney Harbour yesterday. Well, two, to be honest (on a totally 'unrelated' note, I recommend having sex on a yacht in the middle of the harbour to anyone, provided they don't get seasick).

Wolves in Shells Rough Draft

This is a rough draft, and incomplete at that. Comments required - I will eventually reedit this as I go along. Call it an exercise in interactive editing/writing.

Ask anyone that's me me for five minutes, and they'll tell you I'm ruthless. Seductive, flirtatious, sensual, driven; these are all words that apply to me.

It's only my closest friends that know it's a mask.

When I'm in anyone else's company, I am the ultimate Lothario. A handsome Casanova, making women melt even as I seduce their men. Spend ten seconds in my line of sight, and try not to lust after me. I guess that's why I was so blown away by JL - he saw right through me straight away.

He was everything I'm not: genuine, assured, together. It helped he was also tortuously beautiful. There was definitely something about that shock of shiny black hair, those caramel eyes, that ivory skin with just the right amount of stubble. Those plump, pink lips that begged to have a cock wrapped around them.

xXx

I was on a date. Some random blond twink actor's agent showing off his latest acquisition: an equally bland B-list actor who was starring in his first film after escaping his soap-opera 'career.' We were at the post-wrap party, listening to some dreary director blather about how this was his pet project, and how it was great to have it finally happening five years after he first came up with it. Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit, blah, blah, blah. I excused myself in order to 'freshen up,' the twink slipping me the goods as I slipped away.

Typically, it turned out to be more sugar than cocaine; more than enough to fill Elvis on one of his deep-fried peanut butter days. It took the whole bag to get a mild buzz. That's when I decided to leave the party. I couldn't be fucked saying goodbye to anyone.

That's also how I ended up in bed with JL. Okay, not bed so much as some sweaty half-lit cubicle at a sauna.

After I got him off, he started laughing. Big hearty, laughs with a touch of venom for extra spite.

"What?"

He turned towards me, still laughing, and told me I was pathetic.

I've heard this bullshit before from different queens. They tease you to get you heated, it usually ends up with a great repeat performance. I took up the challenge.

Except he kept laughing the whole time we fucked, tears streaming down his face. He just kept guffawing, even when I managed to rip something inside him with one hard thrust. I stopped after that, bored of the game.

Still laughing, he looked me in the eye.

"You have no passion. " And after a moment, "No - that's not true. You have - how you say, 'misguided passsion'? What do you know about sex? Love?"

I stared him down.

"Who the fuck are you?"

"The lover you are not. The lover you'll never be."

I tried, but failed, to keep my voice level.

"What the fuck do you know about me?"

He shrugged, then leant down to the floor. He rummaged around his towel area, found a packet of cigarettes and pulled two out.

"You," he said, lighting both cigarettes and passing me one. He inhaled. "You are a hollow shell. You know nothing about anything, not even yourself."

I slapped him. Hard.

"Get fucked."

I stormed out of the room, noticing him wipe blood off his cheek. He was laughing. "I thought I just did."

I only realised I'd left my towel in the room when I got to the end of the dark hallway.

xXx

Three weeks later, I went to a party with friends - some Victorian terrace in the ghetto.

The host had bought some artwork the other week, and wanted to show off. We went to his
study for a 'private viewing.'

Of course, within thirty seconds, he was sucking me dry. Tongue playing with the base of my cockhead, throat expertly devouring my hard shaft, fingers deftly massaging my balls. What can I say? The boy knew how to look after his guests.

Just as I blew, someone started clapping from a dark corner.

JL stepped forward, smiling broadly.

"Bravo, Marco! One of your best performances yet!"

I stood there, wondering how he knew my name. I was sure I hadn't given it at the sauna. The host, by now completely red-faced, stammered some excuse. He couldn't get out the room quick enough.

The sound of the door slamming brought me back. I bowed, grinning venously.

"I do my best."

JL walked up to me, and zipped my pants.

"I've seen better."

He leaned forward, pushing a large wooden desk against my back. "You know, an old woman once told me when I want to seduce someone, I should pretend my equipment was damaged at war. That way, you could get to know the person well, maybe even fall in love with them, before you even get near the good stuff."

I sighed. Practically exhaled ennui. "Yes, I've read Armistead Maupin too."

"So why don't you try it? In fact I dare you."

"Sure - but I can headfuck with the best of them."

"I dare you. You can start with me."

"Fine," I retorted. Childishly.

It lasted all of ten seconds. We broke the desk fucking.

xXx

Of course, that was the start of it.

Over the next few weeks, every time I would head out, it was as if I had a "Leper" tattoo
on my forehead. I'd hit on some guy, who would promptly leave with some ultratoned prick.
Every night, I would end up in JL's bed, enduring the taunts at the end of every session.

At some point, I gave up. I'd go straight to his apartment after whatever function or dinner I had to attend, sometimes waiting for hours on the front stoop for him to arrive. The taunting
stopped, too, replaced by the sneer he reserved for me on arrival. "Oh, you've come again."

Gradually, he began to delay the sex. Whereas before we'd go straight to the bedroom, he would insist that he had some TV show to watch, or needed a cup of tea or a joint or a line. Or something.

Friends didn't see me for weeks. I started leaving work half an hour early, just so I could get to his place before he would.

xXx

One night, he didn't arrive.

I ended up sleeping in my car, uncomfortably curled under the wheel. Bucket seats are not good for sleep, no matter how high quality the leather.

xXx

I woke up at seven to the sound of the passenger door opening.

JL got in, sighed, and told me he loved me.

I slapped him. "Get out."

Seeing red the whole time, I drove home and took the day off. I ended up stumbling around the house all day, naked and delirious.

It was dark when I woke, a line of drool caressing the fabric on the couch. I poured myself a glass of red and stared at the blank TV screen.

Wonton Slut

Everything about a creature that comes out of a shell is dialectical. And since it does not come out entirely, the part that comes out contradicts the part that remains inside. The creature's rear parts remain imprisoned in the solid geometrical forms. But life is in such haste when it comes out that it does not always take on a designated form, such as that of a young hare or a camel. Certain engravings show strangely mixed creatures, as in the case of the snail shown in the work by Baltrusaitis, "with a bearded human head and hare's ears, wearing a bishop's mitre, and with four animal feet." The shell is a witch's cauldron in which bestiality is brewing... unbridled, bestial daydream produces a diagram for a shortened version of animal evolution. In other words, in order to achieve grotesqueness, it suffices to abridge an evolution.

Bachelard, The Poetics of Space

One of my favourite silver rings to wear out has Common Whore lovingly inscribed on it. Enough said.

Is there life on Veronica Mars?

Doubt it.

Saw my first episode last night, something about a missing neighbour. By "saw", I mean "watched about 20 minutes before losing all interest and wishing I had a half-decent book in front of me to read." And that was after the second "Oh look, it's the dumb girl from Mean Girls", and the third "It's Elliott from Just Shoot Me!"

Cleaned my room instead.

Prodigality

I'm back.

And a little more positive than usual. I think.

Anyway, this is just a general callout to see who's around, who's up for trouble, and who can help me in my quest to build the ultimate career, household and love life.

We have the technology. Now who can show me how to harness it, I wonder?