Revelations and infatuations.

Revelations. So last night, my Dad let me in on something he's never told me before. See, back in the late eighties and early nineties, he worked at a restaurant in Darlinghurst, which I already knew. What I didn't know was that in the basement of the aforementioned restaurant was a nightclub. And after being employed at this restaurant for quite some time, the owners of the place had promoted him to manage the nightclub beneath every few nights. He even told me about how he had to go around the corner to Kings Cross to recruit Islander bouncers. But the impression I got was that it wasn't a permanent full-time thing; it was just a contingency measure to cover duty managers who couldn't front up to work for one reason or another. But still, my dad, the homophobic Catholic womaniser, managing a club on Oxford Street. Like, ohmigod.

I don't quite know what to feel about my Dad sometimes. Generally, I don't like him all that much; he's hard to get along with, and he likes to antagonise people. That, and his parenting always seemed to me to be a little inconsistent in most ways, and consistently disappointing on numerous others. But sometimes when he isn't being a complete wankstain, when he comes up with these little anecdotes, then he's okay.

Infatuations. I went to a mate's twenty-first, which happened to be in a house next door to where The Whitlams' song No Aphrodisiac was penned. I rocked up a little late though, because Faceless Corporation's Call Centre of Hell^TM wouldn't release me from its evil clutches. So by the time I did turn up, there was so much to catch up on. Of course, lessons learnt from that sociology report I did on youth drinking last year went out the window. Empty stomach; absinthe shots; JD and Colas.

And pretty boys. There were pretty boys. Plenty. But there was one in particular: a hot lad from Melbourne. Blonde scruffy hair, adorable dimpled smile, hot bod. Lick. Shotted the absinthe with him, and I briefly crashed with him on the sofa bed. At some point I may have accidently brushed my hand past his doodle area and, umm, it felt kind of hard. Well, if it were indeed his doodle. Alas, there was rejection; straight boy, after all. Me: a self-made arse. And in addition to that, due to my inability to control the volume of my voice in conversation when intoxicated, I may have also inadvertently announced my wee-morning-hour craving for dick to a larger audience than planned. Bah!

I went kebabbing with Hot Melbourne Boy and a few other folks this morning, and then he had to return to his fair city. Le sigh.


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