Monday, April 20

ONCE UPON A TIME...

...when I was much younger, it was the 80's, which seems rather obvious if I'm talking about my younger days but duh and carry on. Anyway it was well before Boy George confused me with his hair, makeup, funny hat and rather skirt like t-shirt. Before I saw that and thought 'wow she's a weird lady and why do they call her a boy?'. I had a baby sitter. Truth be told she was the family baby sitter and she was probably really there to stop my brothers and I from setting the house on fire, fighting, making scary noises that freaked out my little brother and making sure we went to sleep at some stage in the evening. As I was older I used to sit up with her after they went to bed and hang out with her. Eventually we became too old to be looked after, or my parents refused to pay for her or she more than likely refused to look after us as she needed a series of counselling sessions. Anyway we lost contact for a bit.

Then in the final years of my schooling, as I was preparing to leave and become an actor or a radio announcer or a dole bludger, she got a job working as a teacher at the school my brothers and I all went to. She was always funky and different, interesting hair, great glasses, the 80's were meant for a woman like Rosemary. She bought a small scooter which we helped her paint blue with yellow polka dots, including her helmet. This was the 80's people, you didn't do that in Adelaide, the woman was regularly pelted with rocks as she whizzed past your standard variety South Australian bogan. Anyway she faded in and out of our lives over the years. She and her partner took it upon themselves to help me realise I was a massive bender. I didn't realise of course (I was too busy making the occasional brooch or t-shirt decorated with puffer paints for my mums friends, clueless much?) but when I did they laughed and probably thought 'bless'.

Tonight, after not speaking to Rosemary for far too many years, something happened in my life that I knew only she could understand. So I reached out to her, for an ear, a soothing voice and the benefit of her wisdom and we talked for over an hour. Everything she had to say, was considered, soothing and made so much sense. After I'd thanked her and hung up the phone I hassled her for a final piece of advice via SMS. Her reply was beautiful and it closed with the the most perfect advice I've ever been given. It's private so I won't share, but in that instant I realised how incredibly lucky I am to have her in my life. How amazing it is to make contact again and find her as encouraging and thoughtful as she was when I was much too old to be baby sat, when I was burying my sexuality in arts and crafts and when she took the time out from her night with her own family to devote some time to me and my problems right now.

Thank you Rosemary for being who you have always been and sharing your friendship with a little kid who has only just realised, on the crest of his 40th birthday, how truly amazing you really are. I mean I had my suspicions of her amazing qualities but sometimes it takes a crisis to really get rock solid proof. Friends like Rosemary are few and far between, when they step forward and offer their advice, experience and love in times of need, it's one of the greatest gifts you can EVER receive. It also brilliant to know that after all these years, she still has the ability to baby sit me, even via an SMS.

Sunday, April 19

NEW AND IMPROVED IN 2009

Well you wouldn't fucken read about it would you? Well actually that clearly isn't the case, cos apparently you are reading about it, so what a fucken useless thing to start this entry off with. No doubt there will be more of that to come. Anyway, it's clear that one comment from the delightful spit and vinegar is all it takes for me to continue writing and completely spring clean my blog. Other mother from a far away land, thanks for the encouragement and I promise to be more proactive...how many fucken times have I said that? I've changed my template which is surely the blog equivalent of buying a new dress and making myself up real pretty like. Although going by my track record I'll wear this dress for fucken eons, forget to change and wash it and end up walking around clinging to the memories of when it was fresh out the box and not covered in body sweat, food remnants, sex junk and drool....mmmm classy. I've also added links of some of my favourite and less pornographic links, a new picture of me trying to hold my brain in my head and this entry. Fuck me I so deserve a gold star, or a ribbon, or a shitty arse trophy or even one of those medals that goes black within a week of exposing it to the air.

It's just after midnight on a Saturday night and I've got music videos on in the background (Bjork is singing about Human Behaviour as I type this) which is very convenient. Why? Well as it happens, down in the street below me, I can hear miniscule dicked fuckwits revving their car engines and squealing their tyres. Some cock snap just yelled at his girlfriend about being a fucken slut and a car alarm is going off in the distance. Living in inner city suburbs rocks huh? I so have to go out and buy a microphone so I can record the domestics that happen in the early hours of the morning. It's like Days of Our Lives on ICE with a speed chaser and an itchy groin thrown in just to push them over the edge. I'm officially an uncle, a big gay uncle at that too. Little Eli Joseph is so fucken cute I can't wait to corrupt him and do his head in with stories when he is old enough to listen. I am so proud of my little brother and his beautiful wife and so excited about their future raising Eli, they will be amazing parents and he will be an incredible child. I'm a few weeks away from another month in London with my tasty biscuit Martin. We are planning to get hitched if the intent to marry visa comes through and the waiting periods can be worked out. At this stage we will have the last 3 days of my holiday within which to say our I do's so it will be tight but who the fuck cares.

I sit surrounded by sugar free products, my heavy meat eating diet is back on and has been for 3 weeks and I've lost 7 kilos. It's virtually sugar free but fake sugar items are allowed so I make mouth love to bottles of Pepsi Max and Vanilla Diet Coke and suck the fuck out of any lolly stupid enough to claim its without sugar but liable to induce explosive bum reactions. Fun huh? I've also returned to the gym and am sweating it up with all the people I envy and ogle, plus I'm walking to and from work virtually everyday which is 4.1 kilometres each way. As a result I've become a purveyor of a variety of inner thigh injuries from chafe to ingrown hairs and all sorts of other things that two sweaty, meaty, hairy thighs can create when you add friction. Nearly two hours of rubbing and I'm pretty much creating enough inner thigh energy to power the electricity grid for a small house of refugees in a third world country. Perhaps that's the answer to the global warming and obesity problem. Rig all us fatties up to a series of treadmills, patch into our thigh action and see the planet glow from a few planets away. Anyway that's enough for this entry, will be back soon to add more I promise...enjoy.