Spring is arrives in Adelaide
Ahem - I’m still alive everyone…
Anyone?
cosime’s “not dead - he’s frozen”.*
Now that the first tantalising warm days of spring are shedding some sunlight onto the Adelaide Plain, I’m starting to thaw out and can now type again. (Some assistance in this endeavour was gained from a visit to the solarium - thanks for the tip spaced_in.)
And my sense of humour is slowly making a comeback. The other night, I was sure I saw Alexander Downer walk into the Hampshire during Tuesday Queer-e-oke. He turned out to be a female taxi driver, who just looked like the Federal Foreign Minister, but my mistake only made her entrance all the more amusing. This brief and apparently inconsequential moment of elation was a turning point: I knew my depressed period was ending. So I grinned and took another mouthful of house white.
Of course it would be my fortune to decide to live in Adelaide in 2004, when it experienced its wettest and dreariest August since…I don’t know…Moses delivered the Ten Commandments or something. New GP says I must have Seasonal Affective Disorder, or SAD. Call it what you will, being housebound and evasive of crowds of more than say two people, is not a pleasant way to spend most of winter. Nor is it a great way to meet people and be endearing. It reminded me of point twenty from Dos & Don'ts & More Don'ts for Gay Boy Refugees, which a couple of you posted a while ago:
”20. Make friends with at least one dyke, you silly faggot. When the shit goes down - for instance your mother dies - fags will drop you in an instant if you aren't fun. Dykes will come to your house with food.”
Sorry, I will stop being self pitying now.
On the domestic front, Robbie is no longer living in my spare bedroom and I have replaced him with someone who actually pays their rent. Emma even buys wine and plays the piano and sings, which are all definite plus points in my book.
Before Robbie’s un-lamentable departure, he hosted a mildly riotous party for his nineteenth birthday. I am told that I was at one point a participant in a (fully-clothed) orgy on my bed - an accusation that I strenuously deny. I also realised after the party (and the supposed orgy) that I had blown one of the tweeters in my speakers, but I deny responsibility there too - it was Britney’s fault. Interestingly, my neighbours have not yet complained about the volume at which I play dance music for hours on end on a daily basis, but that should not be imply any lack of effort on my part.
*Denis Leary wrote and performed the song ‘Asshole’ in 1993. It features the lyric
“John Wayne's not dead - he's frozen. And as soon as we find the cure for cancer we're gonna thaw out The Duke and he's gonna be pretty pissed off…”,
which I have unashamedly hi-jacked. Full lyrics are here.
_____________________________________________
What Shite Did I Write…
…during a week of
debauchery, swimming, and
being harrassed by a Jack
Russell puppy. (I should stress
that these are unrelated events.)
“Indeed, judging by the reactions of people I have related this event to, my own sense of dignity should have now gone completely out the window - just like the used franga did, and I think also both my legs at one stage.”
and
“Thursday was a much more wholesome day since Nickmac and I went to Bondi for a refreshing swim. This outing was interposed occasionally by a shirtless Nickmac (spaced_in) rediscovering his nipples whenever he brushed his arms near his chest, and each time briefly freaking out that he had cultivated two identical and symmetrically arranged pimples.”
and
“I found Ronald (ron_) at some stage who, living closer to town than me and recognizing my tiredness, was kind enough to offer me his spare bed in return for a lift home. This was most pleasing except for his new Jack Russell puppy and its wish sleep with me. I eventually relented and gave it some bed space only to have it promptly develop the hiccups and subsequently undergo a violent spasm every four seconds.”
View the full entry
Anyone?
cosime’s “not dead - he’s frozen”.*
Now that the first tantalising warm days of spring are shedding some sunlight onto the Adelaide Plain, I’m starting to thaw out and can now type again. (Some assistance in this endeavour was gained from a visit to the solarium - thanks for the tip spaced_in.)
And my sense of humour is slowly making a comeback. The other night, I was sure I saw Alexander Downer walk into the Hampshire during Tuesday Queer-e-oke. He turned out to be a female taxi driver, who just looked like the Federal Foreign Minister, but my mistake only made her entrance all the more amusing. This brief and apparently inconsequential moment of elation was a turning point: I knew my depressed period was ending. So I grinned and took another mouthful of house white.
Of course it would be my fortune to decide to live in Adelaide in 2004, when it experienced its wettest and dreariest August since…I don’t know…Moses delivered the Ten Commandments or something. New GP says I must have Seasonal Affective Disorder, or SAD. Call it what you will, being housebound and evasive of crowds of more than say two people, is not a pleasant way to spend most of winter. Nor is it a great way to meet people and be endearing. It reminded me of point twenty from Dos & Don'ts & More Don'ts for Gay Boy Refugees, which a couple of you posted a while ago:
”20. Make friends with at least one dyke, you silly faggot. When the shit goes down - for instance your mother dies - fags will drop you in an instant if you aren't fun. Dykes will come to your house with food.”
Sorry, I will stop being self pitying now.
On the domestic front, Robbie is no longer living in my spare bedroom and I have replaced him with someone who actually pays their rent. Emma even buys wine and plays the piano and sings, which are all definite plus points in my book.
Before Robbie’s un-lamentable departure, he hosted a mildly riotous party for his nineteenth birthday. I am told that I was at one point a participant in a (fully-clothed) orgy on my bed - an accusation that I strenuously deny. I also realised after the party (and the supposed orgy) that I had blown one of the tweeters in my speakers, but I deny responsibility there too - it was Britney’s fault. Interestingly, my neighbours have not yet complained about the volume at which I play dance music for hours on end on a daily basis, but that should not be imply any lack of effort on my part.
*Denis Leary wrote and performed the song ‘Asshole’ in 1993. It features the lyric
“John Wayne's not dead - he's frozen. And as soon as we find the cure for cancer we're gonna thaw out The Duke and he's gonna be pretty pissed off…”,
which I have unashamedly hi-jacked. Full lyrics are here.
_____________________________________________
What Shite Did I Write…
…during a week of
debauchery, swimming, and
being harrassed by a Jack
Russell puppy. (I should stress
that these are unrelated events.)
“Indeed, judging by the reactions of people I have related this event to, my own sense of dignity should have now gone completely out the window - just like the used franga did, and I think also both my legs at one stage.”
and
“Thursday was a much more wholesome day since Nickmac and I went to Bondi for a refreshing swim. This outing was interposed occasionally by a shirtless Nickmac (spaced_in) rediscovering his nipples whenever he brushed his arms near his chest, and each time briefly freaking out that he had cultivated two identical and symmetrically arranged pimples.”
and
“I found Ronald (ron_) at some stage who, living closer to town than me and recognizing my tiredness, was kind enough to offer me his spare bed in return for a lift home. This was most pleasing except for his new Jack Russell puppy and its wish sleep with me. I eventually relented and gave it some bed space only to have it promptly develop the hiccups and subsequently undergo a violent spasm every four seconds.”
View the full entry