An Easter with no chocolate (but far too much beer)
A couple of individuals at work wonder why I regularly have my hair changed to a funny colour and arrive late to work every day only to sit at my desk and eat constantly. I explain that these habits are justified respectively by the fact that I am a gay insomniac with a fast metabolism. One also questioned the sense in me having my nipple pierced (as do I, constantly) but then after experiencing some considerable change of heart she offered to do the other one for me with the secretary’s holepunch. But we have a nice sort of understanding - the expression of surprise this morning when I turned up before ten o’clock counts for a lot in my books. How I ever got to 8am maths lectures in first year is beyond me. My reasons for studying a course that includes maths also elude me, as does much of what was taught. But I digress, and that was probably all of scant interest to anyone with a life.
I wondered last Friday why it was a particularly Good one while Robbie and I searched high and low for somewhere to buy a drink, only to find all prospective venues firmly boarded shut. Made up for it on Saturday though. We were solidly blotto at the Hampshire by five in the afternoon before I realized I’d have to hang for a bit and sober up to drive home, where I slept for a few hours, only to get back on the piss again at Mars later on. The recently re-opened Hampshire is quite a swish looker though, as was David the barman who, with an obviously ironic comment about the tables out the back being “a decoration, just like the rosette soaps in the bathroom”, informed us that they served meals as well. My enquiry as to whether he was on the menu was thankfully halted before reaching my lips by what was left of my inhibitions, which by this stage had been severely depleted by some Semillon which proved almost as irresistible as the person pouring it.
I was almost my sober self by the time I got to Mars (to be handed a free condom at the door and told “here, you’ll need this”) so I remembered to ask Beejay about a famed drag queen called Queen Bee. Coincidently, he had only recently swapped web links with her . Beejay said he would put a link to my journal on his site too. Mind you, he offered to do this before he had actually seen it. Got me wondering if there are six degrees of separation on the internet, so you can get from any site to any other site by following no more than six links, should you actually want to. Another friendly DJ, Roger, claimed to have seen my Gaydar profile. Well I guess that makes one of us.
To be honest, I have to believe Roger on this one. I set up a profile to dip a toe into the online scene in Adelaide but have not checked it for weeks and, having tried it, now hold Gaydar in about the same regard as unwanted body hair. No, I’ll just continue with my unassertive ‘wait until the right one comes along and offers, preferably by written invitation’ approach to finding a boyfriend. Gaydar seems to have been made overly complex to use by the inclusion of unnecessary gimmicks. Reminds me of a Fischer-Price kids’ toy, except that it’s aimed at and used by people aged from 18 to (alarmingly) 93.
We hung around the beer garden quite a bit that night and chatted to the sometime staff-member and fulltime gayboy named Nick - yes they’re spreading. He has a boyfriend but apparently cares less for him than I do for Gaydar. Most headed inside for the show and, in a noteworthy divergence from routine, the intermission this week featured no nudity. I think Rochelle learnt a lesson from last week’s episode during which the Mars bar virgin who she asked to reveal himself was rather too enthusiastic. The third showing of his member was the final one, possibly because of one heckler’s interjection of “do you have a name for your little friend?”.
Dad and Verity arrived at my place on Sunday night, after undertaking the short drive over from Perth. We spent Monday afternoon at the Belgian Beer Cafe where I sat teetering on the edge of feeling okay to drive, knowing that later I would somehow have to pilot Dad’s Pajero to the airport in time for Verity’s flight back to WA. My father was in no state to operate a motor vehicle, having found well-poured Stella Artois even more alluring than I did.
Driving duties behind me, Dad and I sat at home, drank Coopers and chatted with my neighbour. She said she had been to the Coorong Peninsula (two hours drive South) for the weekend. I replied that we had been to Rundle Street (two minutes drive North). Beat that! Later on we watched Queer as Folk so I have now watched QAF with my Mum, my Dad, my sister-in-law, my nappy-clad nephew and a room full of hairstylists (don’t ask). Dad’s only comments were rhetorical questions, specifically “it’s quite graphic isn’t it?” and “is there really this much drug use in the gay community?”. Yes to both.
I wondered last Friday why it was a particularly Good one while Robbie and I searched high and low for somewhere to buy a drink, only to find all prospective venues firmly boarded shut. Made up for it on Saturday though. We were solidly blotto at the Hampshire by five in the afternoon before I realized I’d have to hang for a bit and sober up to drive home, where I slept for a few hours, only to get back on the piss again at Mars later on. The recently re-opened Hampshire is quite a swish looker though, as was David the barman who, with an obviously ironic comment about the tables out the back being “a decoration, just like the rosette soaps in the bathroom”, informed us that they served meals as well. My enquiry as to whether he was on the menu was thankfully halted before reaching my lips by what was left of my inhibitions, which by this stage had been severely depleted by some Semillon which proved almost as irresistible as the person pouring it.
I was almost my sober self by the time I got to Mars (to be handed a free condom at the door and told “here, you’ll need this”) so I remembered to ask Beejay about a famed drag queen called Queen Bee. Coincidently, he had only recently swapped web links with her . Beejay said he would put a link to my journal on his site too. Mind you, he offered to do this before he had actually seen it. Got me wondering if there are six degrees of separation on the internet, so you can get from any site to any other site by following no more than six links, should you actually want to. Another friendly DJ, Roger, claimed to have seen my Gaydar profile. Well I guess that makes one of us.
To be honest, I have to believe Roger on this one. I set up a profile to dip a toe into the online scene in Adelaide but have not checked it for weeks and, having tried it, now hold Gaydar in about the same regard as unwanted body hair. No, I’ll just continue with my unassertive ‘wait until the right one comes along and offers, preferably by written invitation’ approach to finding a boyfriend. Gaydar seems to have been made overly complex to use by the inclusion of unnecessary gimmicks. Reminds me of a Fischer-Price kids’ toy, except that it’s aimed at and used by people aged from 18 to (alarmingly) 93.
We hung around the beer garden quite a bit that night and chatted to the sometime staff-member and fulltime gayboy named Nick - yes they’re spreading. He has a boyfriend but apparently cares less for him than I do for Gaydar. Most headed inside for the show and, in a noteworthy divergence from routine, the intermission this week featured no nudity. I think Rochelle learnt a lesson from last week’s episode during which the Mars bar virgin who she asked to reveal himself was rather too enthusiastic. The third showing of his member was the final one, possibly because of one heckler’s interjection of “do you have a name for your little friend?”.
Dad and Verity arrived at my place on Sunday night, after undertaking the short drive over from Perth. We spent Monday afternoon at the Belgian Beer Cafe where I sat teetering on the edge of feeling okay to drive, knowing that later I would somehow have to pilot Dad’s Pajero to the airport in time for Verity’s flight back to WA. My father was in no state to operate a motor vehicle, having found well-poured Stella Artois even more alluring than I did.
Driving duties behind me, Dad and I sat at home, drank Coopers and chatted with my neighbour. She said she had been to the Coorong Peninsula (two hours drive South) for the weekend. I replied that we had been to Rundle Street (two minutes drive North). Beat that! Later on we watched Queer as Folk so I have now watched QAF with my Mum, my Dad, my sister-in-law, my nappy-clad nephew and a room full of hairstylists (don’t ask). Dad’s only comments were rhetorical questions, specifically “it’s quite graphic isn’t it?” and “is there really this much drug use in the gay community?”. Yes to both.