Suburbia & pleasantness.

So I went on a ride tonight instead of during the sensible daylight hours. See, my day was filled with a few odd jobs and, erm, napping. And Faceless Corporation^TM wasn't in need of my valuable services so my night was free. Perfect. The new head- and tail-lights I got the other day paid for themselves twice over this evening. I was very nearly sideswiped by a B-Double. A B-FUCKING-DOUBLE! Ahem. And on a narrow back street, too. I would've shat myself if it wasn't for the massive saddle sore I was developing.

Near-death experiences aside, I think I'm beginning to warm to the local area where I live. I used to loathe this brand of medium-density suburbia. It all seems as if it's all been slapped together, not homes but places where people sleep in between days at work. I craved for something more urban - maybe it was the wannabe yuppy and/or boho in me. But riding through it tonight, and then chilling out at home with all the windows open and the TV, radio and stereo all silent, it all seems sort of pleasant. There are smells of someone's cooking on the breeze and there are sounds from someone else's TV somewhere. And the crickets, too.

I usually only get this warm and fuzzy feeling about my suburb whenever I come home in the wee hours from a night out. The N80 Night Ride bus drops me off outside the station and I stumble home, often drunkenly. I guess when you're drunk, you love everyone and everything, i.e. I luurrrvee yooou, et cetera. I think it's the street and house lights. They make everything seem soft and pretty, as opposed to the harsh light of day. Hmm, must get pictures...


So Simon's been telling me about this new bar guy at his work. A flamer, apparently, and he's been causing quite a stir at this particular bar down in the Shire. Of course, Simon's straight so my usual inquiry of "is he hot?" doesn't usually wash. Instead I have to rely on the question: "would I find him hot?". Only then will I get an answer. But it's essentially the same question, asking the same thing. Ah straight lads.

You know, not that looks are all that important to me. Or anything.


Listening to:
Title: Le Pastie de la Bourgeoisie
Artist: Belle & Sebastian
Album/station: Push Barman to Open Old Wounds (2005)
Length: 3.10

Another ghey movie.

So the other day I was browsing the gay et al section of HMV Pitt Street again, which is something I should probably stop doing for a couple of reasons. Firstly, HMV prices are ridiculous. Big deal, so you've got a dog listening to a fucking gramophone. Apparently that's a licence to anally butt rape poor consumers like me. It's just not cute anymore! Teach the old dog a new trick for fucks sake (although, I suppose I don't have to shop there, so it's my fault for my aching behind, really). But I digress. Secondly, we wouldn't want my DVD library (and well, my life) to become one-dimensional, would we?

Anyway, I purchased myself a copy of Eating Out. You know, because of hot Ryan Carnes, and the scene where you can see, for a split second, his doodle. My gawd, his character's name is Marc Everhard. Le eyeroll.

Yep, so Eating Out probably wasn't worth the dosh I spent on it. Buff straight guy gets dumped by skank, gay room mate gives him this brilliant idea to pretend to be gay. Buff straight guy 'eats out' with hot Ryan Carnes, whom gay room mate is apparently in love with, in order to have teh secks with the faghag. Hilarity ensues. And that's the plot. You do get to see a lot of Ryan Carnes' pecs and his six-pack though, and same again with the buff straight guy. MmMmm. But it felt like they crossed a soap with a sit-com, threw in a few fags and dragged it out for 90 minutes. That said though, I'd probably watch it again.


Listening to:
Title: Grace (Live, Palais Theatre, Melbourne Australia)
Artist: Jeff Buckley
Album/station: Mystery White Boy: Live '95-'96 (2000)
Length: 5.39

Summer Sundays.

Something I'm going to look forward to when I move out: waking up on late on a Sunday morning after a big night out, frying up a few burgers and some bacon, and maybe an egg, then slapping it all on a few slices of toast and eating it over the kitchen sink with a frosty glass of beer in hand. Well, I do that sort of thing now, but it'd be cool doing it in my own place. Le sigh.

Meanwhile, today I began cycling on a new, longer route. So after crossing the river on the old lattice girder railway bridge, I now continue on down through Rhodes, Concord West and around Bicentennial Park and back, before rejoining on the old route over the Ryde Bridge to Kissing Point and then back to Meadowbank Park. It's about twenty kilometres, just over double the old route and chock-full of hills, and it takes me just under one and a half hours to do.


Larger size? Satellite image from Google Maps.
It's all a part of the Buff-By-Birthday Scheme, something I resolved to do at the beginning of the year, probably in some kind of drunken stupor but nonetheless it's probably worth my while. I'm hoping to turn my skinny bag of bones into something more, umm, desirable before I turn twenty in July. Come semester break, if all goes well, youse might be seeing me shaking my arse feathers topless at Arq or something.


Listening to:
Title: 60 Miles An Hour
Artist: New Order
Album/station: International (2002)
Length: 4.35

The last bastion of the scoundrel.

Australia Day this year left me feeling, well, a little empty. It's the flags. After last December's unrest, the sight of the thing anywhere but at the top of a pole leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

Amongst other things observed yesterday were the juvenile bogans, swaggering around with that yobbo attitude and wearing the flag like capes on their backs with the fly-edge dragging over the ground. And then there were the girls with flags wrapped around their torsos in some kind of improvised halter top. Actual flags mind you, not apparel with representations of the flag on them.

Is this blind, lazy nationalism meant to make up for their other shortcomings as responsible citizens? You don't contribute to society by flag waving - or wearing, as the case may be. It's bad enough that they're expressing their love for their country through mere symbols rather than through constructive involvement in society, it's worse still that they're using the aforementioned national symbol in such poor taste.


Listening to:
Title: Scared Cow
Artist: Crowded House
Album/station: Afterglow (1999)
Length: 3.37

On Young and Bent.

Corner of Young and Bent Streets, Sydney.

Listening to:
Title: Blonde On Blonde
Artist: Nada Surf
Album/station: Let Go (2002)
Length: 4.58

Summerstorm, continued.

So Summerstorm has screened a couple of times over the last few days here at the Mikeyville Twin. I just love it. I think it calls for an unauthorised screen cap.

The scene: the wharf by the lake, late afternoon. Leo (Marlon Kittel) utters the sweetest line in the film: "Why don't you stay?" It's not the words so much. It's the half-cocked smile. And the eyes. Sexy, but not sultry. And well, sweet.

And then it leads to all this. Nothing but the sound of the water lapping at the shore.

Listening to:
Title: Shadowland
Artist: Youth Group
Album/station: Skeleton Jar (2005)
Length: 3.37

iPoor.

So I succumbed and bought an iPod. Yep, a black 2GB Nano. And it's been nothing to me but grief for the last day or two. El gringo lappytop just won't acknowledge that it exists. Stick the white cord into lappy's USB port and he'll just ignore it. I've done everything the iPod support website suggests, but nothing. Oh well. At least it works with Mum's computer.

This whole episode's got me thinking of finally retiring this old boy and sending him to the big laptop bag in the sky. He's given a few good years of service and he should go out with dignity-- Ohmigod, what am I saying, it's a fucking computer.

I'm not sure if anyone else goes through this sort of thing or if it's only me, but I suffer from obsolescence anxiety. It really bothers me that you can buy something with money that you've bled, sweated and cried for, and in a matter of weeks or months, some faceless corporation releases something that renders what you've purchased worthless. And then when it busts, you can't get it mended because it isn't supported anymore so you have to buy a new-fangled one and the cycle starts again. Oh dear, such a bourgeois affliction...

Meanwhile, I'm ditching the white earphones and instead going with my chunky silver headphones. I'm just replacing one affectation with another one really, but it could just as easily be about intra-iPodosphere snobbery. Yep Adsy, you're right: gosh, I'm a wanker.


Listening to:
Title: The View
Artist: Modest Mouse
Album/station: Good News for People Who Love Bad News (2004)
Length: 4.13

Summerstorm.

Behold! Summerstorm! Here I was, waiting impatiently for the DVD to be released on Monday when I hear that JB Hi-Fi in the City has put it on its shelves a little prematurely. Props to Harley for the heads-up!

Le sigh. It's better than I remember it was. Gosh, it's been around six months since it screened on SBS. Aaages ago. Six months of waiting. And I have an aversion to waiting.

And if that isn't enough, Summerstorm is screening at the Newtown Dendy next Wednesday. Woo!

And oh dear, I'm in love with Leo (Marlon Kittel), the guy from the queer Berlin rowing team who shows closeted Bavarian rower Tobi the, erm, joys of boy sex. Making love on the wharf by the lake. Kissing tenderly on a bunk bed in the middle of the storm. Dreamy. Oh Leo. Besides being a nice piece of Deutsche crumpet, he's everything I want in a boy. He's sweet, thoughtful, tender, even when the other guy is being a total cockscrape. And quite often, I am a total cockscrape. See, we'd be perfect.

Leo (left) and Tobi (right). Mmm Leo.

Listening to:
Title: Go West
Artist: Nova International
Album/station: Summerstorm [Film] (2004)
Length: -.--

Cinderfella.

I knew Summerstorm wouldn't be out (pardon the pun) until next Monday. But I had to browse the foreign/gay and lesbian film section of HMV in Pitt Street anyway. And of course, while window shopping, I didn't mind the ghastly prices that His Master's Voice puts on their goods.

But then I found this: Prom Queen. It's based on a true story apparently, about a Canadian lad at a Catholic school who wants to take his boyfriend to his prom. And like lot of gay-themed 'coming of age' flicks, it's a sort of hybrid between B-grade teen drama and daytime soap. So much cheese that even those who aren't lactose intolerant will have the squirts. But then there are nice cuddly parts. Is it possible to be both bad and good at the same time? Bah! And may I never utter the words 'coming of age' ever again.

Thank fuck for the Canadians. Less uptight than their southern bretheren. And with cuter accents too.

Listening to:
Title: Bouncing Off The Ceiling (Upside Down)
Artist: A*Teens
Album/station: Teen Spirit (2001)
Length: 3.14

Motor.

So I'm on the hunt for a set of wheels. Is it really ghey that I'd rather have one of these instead of a car?

Honda Today 50. Yep, I want mine in yellow.

Honda Scoopy.

So yes, they're slow, don't carry much and well, they're death on wheels (I'm sure you could do a lot of damage at, erm, 30km/h). But they're cheap and do up to seventy kilometres on a litre of petrol. And they're pretty cute, too.

Getting a licence for one is a bit of a bitch though.


Listening to:
Title: The New Pollution
Artist: Beck
Album/station: Odelay (1999)
Length: 3.39

At the Con.

So today I went down to the Conservatorium of Music again and paid a visit to the library. Ahh, I love it. Imagine this: shelves stacked with CDs, paid for by the taxpayer, plus a uni student with a laptop. Join the dots, people. But of course, it's all for academically-related purposes. Erm, yeah. You know, for something to dance naked to while procrastinating listen to while studying. Yeah. See, I told you it was all academically related.

And I think I became a little gayer today. I happened upon a Judy Garland CD and I listened to it in its entirety. And well, I-- erm-- kinda like it. A lot. Deary me. I'm not sure what the new paradigm is with regards to Judy Garland, though. Does the contemporary fag have at least one Judy CD in his collection anymore? Nonetheless, I can see it now: just before my next exam, instead of burying my head in books I'll be in my underwear, bopping around to the strains of The Trolley Song. Ding-ding-ding, indeed.

Aside from some bad Motown albums that I ripped, I also fed my morbid fascination with Requiem masses (the only orchestral music I'll really ever listen to) with Mozart's Requiem in D Minor. It's not as pretty as Fauré's though.

Listening to:
Title: The Trolley Song
Artist: Judy Garland
Album/station: On Radio 1936-1944, Vol. 1: All the Things You Are (1993)
Length: 3.21

Cheddar.

When I'm inebriated, I become reflective. But only when I'm proper-drunk, not wired-drunk - I'm never making that mistake again. I space out after a couple of drinks and sort of drift in and out. I'm a quiet drunk, generally. It probably comes off as being a little rude, but oh well.

So after some unadulterated alcohol (i.e. untouched by evil Red Bull) last night and current period of sobering up, it occurs to me that I really do attach sentiments to all and sundry. And it's ridiculous. I mean, it'll only be a matter of time before I have to leave this city for all the primarily boy-related memories I attach to every single aspect of it. You know the kind of thing: romantic/sappy moments, hot and sexy ones, or even the gut-wrenching ones where I suffered tremendous heartbreak. Le sigh. And the really crappy thing is that sometimes the sentiments alone overwhelm me.

Like when my Dad unknowingly started wearing the same cologne that Chris did. And that really creeped me out. I mean, smell is very emotive. It's like Pavlov's dog, except instead of food and bells you've got boys and smells (Oh and that rhymes too. Hah!). I even contemplated stealing the bottle, just so I could daydream about Chris on my own terms. Oh, and to combat the wrongness of my Dad reminding me of the then boyfriend, too. That's a whole world of eww.

Then there was the time with Flyboy at the drive-in movies, in his car, during a thunderstorm. See now when I think of Sydney thunderstorms (I reckon our storms have a unique ambience), I think of backseat sex to the soundtrack of a bad Colin Farrel movie.

And then there are those kissy-kissy moments (cue montage). Like that one summer night, kissing Dazzles whilst wrapped in each other's arms, astride a nineteenth-century cannon at the old Dawes Point Battery. Or that time kissing Tony at a humid Tropfest 2004 just as it started to rain. Or kissing Laddy in a darkened Domain, while horribly late for a meeting with some friends. Or curled up in front of the TV, kissing N!xau and watching Yes, Prime Minister episodes on DVD. Or kissing Douglas at the Observatory Hill bandstand one Saturday morning, when we were interrupted by a bride and groom wanting to snap a few wedding photos. And I remember that new husband saying to us, "romantic spot, don't you reckon boys?". Sigh.

Yeah, it's all pretty cheesy. I know that. But I'm a sucker for cheese... hmm, bad choice of words, but you know what I mean. Also, evidently I carry way too much emotional baggage. Dr Phil?


Listening to:
Title: I Want You Back (Z-Trip Remix)
Artist: Jackson 5
Album/station: Motown Remixed (2005)
Length: 4.35

Fucked up.

I've been a bad Mikey. I haven’t had any sleep since I woke up yesterday morning, and there’s no sign of a restful slumber anywhere on the horizon. My throat hurts a little too and at the moment, I feel like blowing chunks. Oh yeah, and my head feels like a giant fuck-off bus has hit it. Like one of those Routemaster double-decker things.

See, last night, I managed to blow half of last week's pay on alcohol in the first episode of shameful binge drinking for the new year (the other half I spent on underwear – don't ask). Actually, I'm glad I held out this long, for all of eleven days. But with Dad overseas and Mum over at her house, I had Dad's place all to myself. And lately, with the parents around post-mugging, it's been hard to just up and decide to get plastered on the golden mile/kilometre/fraction thereof. So I upped and decided to get plastered.

There was beer and spirits but of course my drink of choice is the Vodka and Red Bull, which is a really silly drink when you think about it. I spent most of the night and the wee hours of the morning both drunk and wired at the same time. The feeling starts to grate after a while and gosh, how I regretted consuming them all. I had quite a few of them which is a little disconcerting, seeing as people have died from drinking large amounts of the stuff. And you know, I think I'm still a little wired now. And my pulse is racing.

Mind you, this all happened at the Wall of Stone, where Tuesday is karaoke night. I'm not game enough to put my dignity on the line, even with a few drinks in me but I did, in my drunken stupor, promise people that I'd get up next week and sing something tragic. Stupid Dan. And stupid blond boy who looks like a younger, more musical version of the ex-boyfriend N!xau.

So anyway, I got home in the wee hours, head buzzing and fingers smelling like cigarettes. Instead of sleeping I watched early morning free-to-air TV and worried about if I was going to die of a Red Bull overdose while feeling hangover symptoms slowly creep upon me. I didn't think that was possible. Meh.

At the moment though, I'm at the Access Centre at Fisher, killing time until work tonight. Normally I'd be sleeping in until some godforsaken hour of the afternoon and waking up in time for work. Not today of course. With all my items of entertainment still sitting in my room at Mum's place, including el gringo lappytop, and friends all being productively utilised at their places of employment, there was no other place to go than the library and her air-conditioned interior. How nerdy. I was originally going to go up to the Con Library, but there are greenie protests up that part of the City, and well, lack of laptop to rip music with. And I need to build up my tosser cred and read up on some classic literature that everyone else besides me has read.

Listening to:
Title: If You Find Yourself Caught in Love
Artist: Belle & Sebastian
Album/station: Dear Catastrophe Waitress (2003)
Length: 4.15

Nirvana.

At Faceless Corporation^TM's call centre, there's a woman who goes by the name of Nirvana. I'm guessing that she was a hippie back in the day. Whenever she answers a call, she says, "Hi, this is Nirvana--". And I can't help but laugh everytime.


Listening to:
Title: Ocean Breathes Salty
Artist: Modest Mouse
Album/station: Good News For People Who Like Bad News (2004)
Length: 3.49

Saggy pants.

William Sutcliffe of the Guardian (via the Sydney Morning Herald) claims that young straight lads are reclaiming the arse and wearing their pants low - like really low. You know those kind of boys: the skaters lads with the baggy pants showing lots of underwear above their belt line.

As much as I'm pained to admit it, I'm one of those lads who wears his pants low. Except for the skater part (I'm only a wannabe). I'm reclaiming the arse for fags! I'd like to claim some skaters too, but it's proving to be a little difficult.


Listening to:
Title: Andy You're A Star
Artist: The Killers
Album/station: Hot Fuss (2004)
Length: 3.14

Collected musings.


I went to the high street for lunch the other day and I saw the cutest thing. A pair of identical twins: one was in hot surfy garb - you know, boardies, slimfit tee, a pair of thongs and scruffy dirty-blonde hair. And the other was was dolled up in some emo gear, complete with emo hair, Chuck-Taylors and black and white stripy socks. Both über hot too. Mmm.


SBS TV screened the final part of The Corporation the other night. The Corporation also went to air on SBS for a couple of Wednesday nights last January. I remember spending every Wednesday night it was on TV at the then boyfriends place, and we watched it together. Le sigh. I attach memories and meaning to feckin' everything.


When the blood bank says male-to-male sex, do they mean all manner of man-to-man sexual contact? Or just anal-penetrative sex? If they only mean the latter, then well, I've done my twelve months of absention and I'm due to give blood. Finally. Don't know whether that's something to be proud of or not.


Hot Nickelodeon boy Drake Bell (hotter than Jesse McCartney as far as barely legal totty goes, I reckon) has survived a car crash somewhere in LA. You know, not that I pay attention to celebrity news or anything.


Young Labor wants to bring back national service - but national service not necessarily being military service, that is. It's an interesting thought, and I agree with the general idea. Y'know, turning us young'uns into more productive units of society instead of the self-obsessed, increasingly conservative and apathetic bunch that a large swathe of Gen Y seems to be morphing into. But being compulsory might not be such a good idea. Maybe instead if it were voluntary and strongly encouraged. With incentives. Maybe.


And lastly, fan-fucking-tastic: debate and dissent has been outlawed in this country. I would be looking forward to the next election, but I get the feeling that the mindless body politic will probably re-elect these aspiring dictatorial fiends.


Listening to:
Title: Novocaine Rhapsody
Artist: Dean Gray: Green Day vs. Queen
Album/station: American Edit (2005)
Length: 4.18

The manner of my employment.

Alright. So I've been a little coy about it all. You know, my involvment with the Occult. OoOoh. Quelle horror!

Erm, well no, it's not that interesting, really. But it is more evil; it's a power to be feared more than Satan himself. The entity of which I speak is (insert crash of thunder here)... Faceless Corporation^TM. Dun-dunnnn. Le gasp! Oooh, did your eyes just dart around the room too? Mine did.

Yes, I'll admit my somewhat shameful day job: I'm a call centre minion. But we're the good kind of call centre (if such a thing exists) - we take incoming calls so, you know, I won't be interrupting your dinner/TV viewing/wild sex of an evening. Of course, as an anti-doocing measure, I can't disclose which multinational for whom I'm doing the devil's bidding.

I don't mind the job all that much. The people are nice and the pay is-- erm-- peanuts. But you know, pay peanuts and you get monkeys, and, well, I'm a monkey. And gosh the customers are shit. Paraphrasing a few words of wisdom from Keisha of Bromwell High: they're shitter than shit; they're so shit that they make me want to plug my ears with shit, and eat some shit, and then do a shit. Ah, I heart gratuitous swearing. But it's all good; the hot lads in the employ of Faceless Corporation^TM more than make up for the bum customers.

And speaking of bum customers, as of yesterday all the Victorian calls are now being sent up to the Faceless Corporation^TM's Brisbane call centre (who pretty much now take calls from every other state) instead of us, so now I only have to deal with New South Welshmen, women and children who've taken it upon themselves to be shit. Apparently the Victorians are ruder and well, more shit. Or so I've been told. Not a sentiment I share, of course. Erm, yeah.


Listening to:
Title: Mr Brightside (Jacques Lu Cont's Thin White Duke Mix)
Artist: The Killers
Album/station: Ministry of Sound: Sessions Two (2005) Disc 2
Length: 5.14

Anno Domini MMVI.

January first means that it's circa twenty-four days until Sommersturm is released on DVD in Australia. Bugger Brokeback Mountain. I've been waiting so long for this - ever since it screened on SBS TV on a July Monday night last year! Besides casting hot lads, the plot is pretty alright and it gets warm and fuzzy in parts, hot and heavy in others. It's a somewhat innocent teen flick for gayboys, really. I mean, there's angst! And brooding! Boys kissing boys! And blah blah something about challenging the heteronormative bias of teen/young adult media!

Meanwhile, working the night of New Year's Day sucks. For some reason, more people called up to complain about Faceless Corporation^TM's Patented Product^TM than usual.


Listening to:
Title: Shoplifters Of The World Unite
Artist: The Smiths
Album/station: The Very Best of the Smiths (2001)
Length: 2.58