The Mutton-Chopped Mutant

Just Quickly

2011-05-25T18:17:00.003+10:00

A couple of things have raced through my mind. In one ear and out the other - not much to slow them down on the way through you see, so here goes:

Why does Melbourne's peak hour traffic only ever stand still on one direction? I can either move North or South freely before hitting an East-West gridlock, or vice versa. Can anyone explain how that works?

This one gets me every time, you know that look on someone's face when you knock on their door and even though they know you're coming over their eyes light up when they swing the door open and see you there. I swear, it never gets old!

I've taken the first tiny step in my journey to no longer be a tanking fat-arse. I bought a bicycle. So far it has been ace, tearing along the Merri Creek trail, cool air stinging my face. The ultimate goal is to end up with fucking awesome legs - there's every chance I'll still have keep my keg-like stomach though. My biggest problem is that for someone who has never really ridden in the city, I'm a terror on a pushy. Jumping kerbs, tearing in and out of traffic, frightening anyone in my path and locking my rear brakes for tail-out action in the bends... Man I wish I'd bought one earlier!

Oh yeah - and in case you couldn't tell I am indeed still here, still breathing and still a scourge to society. To the touching blog-buddies who reached out and fingered me when I least expected it (or just dropped me a line), thank you. You kids rock!

Big Poof And Little Poof Take Sydney

2011-04-03T18:12:00.008+10:00

I remember the conversation well. It is one that will stay with me until my last breath, of that I'm sure. This is how it went down:

"You should take a day off either side of the Labour Day weekend, and we can go to Sydney for Mardi Gras and your birthday."

"Wha... My birthday is on Labour Day weekend this year AND Mardi Gras - that never happens."

But apparently it was happening - so without actually validating any of these facts I applied for time off work, was granted the time off work and then discovered that the fucking Mardi Gras was a week before that. Jesus. Fucking. H. Christ. Onamotherfuckingpushbike!

Bah, whadda ya gunna do. I've still got a five day weekend, and so we ran with it, but at every opportunity I reminded my travel companion, the Big Poof, that he sucks for taking us to Sydney on the wrong weekend. The truth was I was so excited that he offered to take me to Sydney for the weekend of my birthday that I probably couldn't have cared less what was or wasn't on that same weekend!

And so it was on a grey looking morning in March I found myself at Tullamarine Airport with the Big Poof, waiting to climb aboard this big bastard:

So it's getting juiced up here, departure time has been pushed back by fifteen minutes, all good right. Oh, departure is now half an hour later, no biggie. What's that, and hour later? Uh, sure.

So onto the plane we trudge. I'd already read most of the fucking magazine I bought to read on the flight, but that's okay. Ooh, an announcement from the captain! Yeah so we're an hour late because the cabin crew hadn't arrived in Melbourne on time, and now all we have to do is wait for an exit slot out of Tulla, as there's only one runway operating, but the good news is our flight is number twelve in the queue and we should be taking of in an hour.

Fuck me swinging - we should've driven up! As promised though, two hours after the scheduled departure time, we were up the the air and I was tearing pages out of Motor magazine, turning them into paper plans and pitching them at Big Poof.

My enthusiasm was in no way dampened though. I was pretty excited about Sydney and in the taxi on the way to the hotel, as the city unfolded before me, I was wide-eyed and stuck to the taxi window like a Garfield doll!

Even though it wasn't huge, our room was pretty fucking nice, and if it wasn't half-price there's no way in hell I'd have been there, but I was and it was pretty - also impossible to photograph, but at least my view was of the city high-rises, I like them!

Amazingly the green bits at the bottom of the picture are a rooftop school play ground. I thought that shit only existed in the movies, but nope!

So with check-in complete the next trick was:

A pint at Darling Harour! We also decided on a chicken parma while we were there and spent the entire frigging meal sucker-punching sea gulls in an attempt to defend our feed. Good times!

If there is one thing Sydney has over Melbourne, its that you can't possible take a bad photo in or around the city. It might have been laid out by an epileptic with a box of crayons, but the changes in elevation, curved streets, rolling hills and pretty buildings make it breath-taking at every turn. Also just like Paris and the Eiffel Tower, there's no place in Sydney you can't go without looking at the Harbour Bridge or the Opera House, seriously!

The traces of rain you can see on the pavement, combined with Sydney's legendary harsh sun meant that for me with a backpack on in a pair of jeans, it was akin to being stuffed into an industrial sauna. I still found it hard to care though. I got a ripping day for my arrival and that's all that matters. I must remember to pack more shorts in future though.

More proof of that Brige/Opera House theory, then again it might just be because I'm in The Rocks:

Anyway after walking for hours, taking a photo of every stationary, moving, illuminated, pretty, architectural or other item on the way we finally arrived at Circular Quay, just in time to see our friends Jason and Jason take off on a cruise on the Pacific Pearl for a week of tropical sunshine and all the piss you can drink. They'd already made a start as the boat pulled out of the harbour.

Our next few days meanwhile were spent walking EVERYWHERE, with me playing annoying fucking tourist by standing in the middle of busy thoroughfares to take the same photo as a million other cunts before me. Like Town Hall:

If you walked to the window of our room and looked down you can see the top of it, but its big and pretty, as is St Andrew's Cathedral beside it. Between these two buildings and the Queen Victoria Building I think I took something like 300 photos to satisfy my appetite for architecture. I promise I won't bore you with them all.

Big Poof and I had to hustle to get to our next adventure planned for lunch... A family dinner. Shock. Horror! Actually, nothing that bad at all, Big Poof's amazing big brother (and his gorgeous wife) took me to Chowder Bay for a fantastic lunch at Ripples restaurant, at the old HMAS Sydney naval base. We sat outside in the sunshine, drank, ate, laughed and soaked up the sun on a fabulous day, in a gesture that meant the world to me. Thanks so much A and L.

Just so you can be truly envious the view looked like this:

Oh yeah, that really is blue sky, blue water and boats sailing by. I also had to run around the corner and take this photo at an awkward angle to capture the rooftop and razor wire for artistic merit. Our actual view was unimpeded all the way back to Sydney Harbour. After lunch we decided to mosey on down to Bondi Beach, my first time there.

I see why the tourists flock there like flies to a steaming turd, it really is a pretty beach, but if you can put all the sand and fucking water behind you the place is crawling with smokin' hot men. That's my kinda beach! Even on a sunny, but not baking day the place was full as fuck!

Of course if it's beaches you want the next day was all about an early start to head over to Manly on the ferry (first Sydney Ferry ride) that was a whole lot of fun, and of course I was the guy hanging off the ferry at dangerous angles taking photos of absolutely everything. I'm not sure why I chose this one to share with you though, I just like it, what do you think?

Sadly, becuase he was out of town I didn't get to catch up with Muzbot, but on his recommendation we tried the Ivanhoe hotel for lunch. Seeing as it was a late lunch we were fucking starving. I was really looking forward to laying my ears back and ripping into my club sandwich when it arrived, but after my first mouthful I watched a dirty fucking worm crawl out of my sanga and my appetite instantly vanished. Fuck.

The staff were pretty good about it all, but there was no way in hell we were eating there, so we settled on a pizza slice from the kebab shop instead. Sigh. Still after lunch there was beers overlooking the beach, listening to live music at Shelley Beach and I was happy and sunburnt, but mostly just happy.

Before the sun sank too low though it was time to go home. Goodbye Manly, thanks for the grub!

Oh, and even though we missed Mardi Gras, we were still lucky enough to find a few late partiers riding the gayboat:

That's the spirit ladies!

More exploring of Sydney took place, this meant more walking and more photos, coupled with more fucking walking. Seriously, who had the barmy idea of building this city on such uneven ground? Anyway, because I have a revolving restaurant fetish Big Poof took me to lunch at the Centrepoint tower in the city on the day that commemorates 27 years since I punched my way out of the uterus.

I took a photo of each degree of the journey around, again I won't bore you, but seriously, isn't this amongst the more ugly city landmarks you've ever seen?

Hmm, maybe I'm the only guy who thinks so. Everyone in Sydney seems happy with it.

Anyway before I bore you all to tears I'll speed this up a bit. Near Parliament House there's an old court house built in the early 19th century to process convicts, and still used as a law court into the 1970's. Looking at it now its crazy to think how shitty it must've been to work there in its latter days, but I'm sure the multi-storey eyesore that replaced it is even more soul stealing. Meanwhile have you ever seen anyone so happy to be in court?

Big Poof, like me gets excited by obscure shit and together we orgasmed multiple times at this history-rich site, which now stands to educate the public about Sydney's criminal-processing history. Of course here he was just doing his best Few Good Men impression

We were also lucky enough as we passed Parliament House, to catch the opening of Parliament (at least we think it was) this means that the Governor appears and declares that the show is on the road or something. There was much pomp and ceremony which was great to see, but for me this was the very best thing:

That my friends, is the Governors car. As she is appointed to the Queen she gets an even better number plate than the Prime Minister. Bit of a shame they couldn't hide the mounting screws a bit better. So, a few things struck me as odd about this though. The car is a latest model WM Series II Caprice (the rear camera in the bootlid garnish gives that away) yet it isn't a top-spec Caprice V. That's kinda weird. It's also a V6, not a V8 like I would've expected. Anyway - car geek moment over.

Yet again, more proof that Sydney looks good from every angle:

But, what's that white thing off in the distance? Oh yeah, the Opera House! See what I mean now, it's fucking everywhere!

Now the most fascinating thing about Sydney to me is a particular building, standing in the shadow of the harbour bridge, which is considered an eyesore by many, but is a source of wonderment to me, Seriously, who lives here, is it a commission flat, is it architecturally designed, and what's with the uncommon for its era leafy communal rooftop gardens?

What say you, love it or hate it? I can't help but think before the water staining it was probably pretty hot, there's quite a bit of variation in the look of it as you approach from each side. Maybe all it needs is a coat of bondcrete and some fab new colours. Anyone up for a working bee?

So, the big deal is I had a ripping trip to Sydney. Days filled with exploring and nights of gay bars are just what the doctor ordered. I probably would've sat at home and ate an entire ice cream cake by myself it wasn't for Big Poof making me feel like the most important Little Poof in the world on my birthday. Thanks Monkey, you're the acest!

Crossing Sydney Harbour

The Other End

2011-04-01T19:49:00.002+11:00

I was a motivated motherfucker. I had a mission. Simple instructions, decisive action.

Then I changed my mind. I was all about shutting the blog down, turning tail, walking away. I thought there was nothing else to say. Then some pain in the arse American dude mentioned my name and, seeing as I think the sun shines out of his arse, I decided to hold on for just a little bit longer.

I still have no motivation. I think they call my current mood a funk, or a low ebb? Something like that, whatever it is that leads you to eat nothing but toast for a week, makes you too lazy to go out to get pissed and sees you waking up next to your fridge with a blinding headache surrounded by empty bottles.

One day I'll do the things I intend to, like wash my car (four months) or my sheets (seven weeks) maybe I'll cut my toe nails (five weeks) have a shave (three weeks) all those forgotten things that are easy to put off until later and later and later.

I might even get all cheery and post up the photos from my birthday. The one where a nice man, who is far better than I deserve, took me to Sydney and treated me to a lovely time with lots of nights out and fancy drinks on pretty glassware.

Maybe I'll settle on the fictional piece I've been telling myself I'll write for the last five years and write a corny gay romance about two buff country lads. Ooh, or I could go and visit the ever expanding list of places noted down in my phone and take the nice photos I've been thinking about for months.

Or I might just make myself get out of bed before lunchtime and eat something that isn't toast. Baby steps and all.

The facebook about someone volunteering to be my life coach, that was genuine. I'll take it on beard if you want to show me how to function properly again. My first self-imposed step is to not leave it two months between posts here, you can start timing me... Now, if you like.

Where One Hit Wonders Never Die

2011-01-23T21:12:00.004+11:00

This is just a quick one kids because there's a really fucking important event on the horizon and its of the utmost importance I tell you about it RIGHT NOW!

If you happen to be in Melbourne on the 27th, 28th or 29th of January then you must check out Craptastica - Where one hit wonders never die. My friend Dean is responsible for it and like all his shows its an all singing spectacular - this time though its all dancing too, with yours truly filling the role of Butch The Back-up Dancer.

The show is just one of a heap of great events that make up Midsumma, Melbourne's celebration of the GLBTIQ community. Neverwhere in Smith Street, Collingwood is where it'll all take place. For info and tickets go to midsumma.org.au or for a little more background on Dean's amazing work try deanarcuri.com .

I look forward to seeing you all there so you can watch me tear up the stage to a fantastic collection of the songs you all love to hate and hate to love. If you only see one Midsumma show this year, make sure its the one I'm in!

The Adventures of Big Poof and Little Poof

2011-01-04T06:02:00.000+11:00

Instead of scraping together all of my shiny pebbles, filling the tank in the Calais and schlepping across Australia in a mincing, screaming, belching, beer-drinking, monument-defiling imitation of a vacation, I decided to play it different in 2010.

There was no Balls Out Road Trip (but fear not, its still in the planning) instead I took a real, grown up vacation. I even took a boy with me and everything. Holidays are fucking expensive - especially when you have four-years of holiday payout burning a hole in your pocket and you decide to do things in style, hang the expense and fuck the bills!

So for those who care for such things The Monkey and I packed our duffle bags, found clean t-shirts and fucked off to Queensland for a week on the Gold Coast, where we pledged to "lie on the beach, drink cocktails and fuck surfer boys". His words, not mine, but an ideology that I was prepared to whole-heartedly endorse!

The first little issue we had was the flights we booked. Ours was like the first fucking flight to depart Melbourne, This means we had to get up early. I don't do early, I'm more akin to getting home at 4:00 am, not getting up then. Needless to say, it wasn't until I was in my car, hurtling along the freeway bound for Tullamarine airport that I finally came to life!

Then as I was trying to avoid inappropriate contact with my fellow cattle-class passengers on the flight the sun emerged and gave me a bit of this:

And I was all like 'oh yeah boyo!' I couldn't imagine a nicer way to start the day! Actually it just kept getting better. After landing at the airport the transfer that the Big Poof organised for us got upgraded, from a dirty old Holden Statesman (still good enough for me) to an Audi A8. Drool much? Then to top it all off, we were sitting facing the ocean, stuffing our faces with bacon and eggs, all before 9:00 am.

Sadly, due to construction works some of the most iconic vistas in Surfers Paradise was reduced to this:

No big deal though. There were still a bunch of boys with no shirts getting around, there was sunshine, there was seagulls and there was my all time favourite ever thing:

How else would you expect me to start the day?

Now, I've not been to Queensland since I was a kid, I must've been about seven or eight years old and I was amazed by the memories that came back to me as I walked around. I vividly remember staying on the seventh floor of the President hotel and the fucking place hasn't changed at all in 20 years!

I just stumbled across it behind the place we stayed at! We also had to pay a visit to Ripley's Believe It Or Not. I remember being so freaked out by the amazing exhibits as a kid, and almost 20 years later I was still beside myself with glee at all that was on offer. So. Much. Fun!

To go with my photo of Philip Island's Dame Edna chocolate mosaic, I now have a photo of Dame Edna made from coat hangers!

It also goes without saying that no collection of the absurd is complete without crickets painted to look like Michael Jackson. Ask and you shall receive!

Day two was all about Movie World - a tribute to all things Warner Brothers, and again strikingly similar to how I remember it as a kid. First priority of the day - just seconds after entering the park - was to ride the Lethal Weapon roller coaster. Wheeeeeeeee! Although knowing what I know now, I'd have left my shoes on the platform as a roller coaster with no floor is a fucking difficult place to try and keep your shoes on!

Then the Hollywood Stunt Driver Show. Apparently kids these days are too fucking stupid to know what Police Academy is, so the show has been converted to this, which is fucking UNREAL. It combines two of my all time favorite things: Lancer Evo X's and driving them like they're stolen! Hell yeah mother fucker!

With the adrenaline pumping there was only one thing to do. I had to subject myself to 3 Gs of force on the Superman Escape:

Big Poof sat this one out, so the poor unsuspecting bitch that sat next to me had to endure me hollerin' and whoopin' like a coke-fuelled NASCAR driver. As the ride pulled up and the harnesses were released she turned to me and deadpanned: "You scream like a woman" I just smiled and thanked her!

The next day we hired a car and fucked off to Byron Bay in New South Wales. Obviously the need to road-trip was just too compelling to ignore! It was quite a nice day and there was a whole bunch more surfie boys to look at - why else to you think The Monkey and I were grinning like idiots!

Also - like anyone that heads off from home, we were amused by some of the town names on the way there, like this one - which could only be the birthplace of the pure Aussie bogan, right?

Sadly it turned a bit overcast and there was a slight sprinkle of rain, however it wasn't enough to stop us enjoying ourselves.

We also got to check out the Easternmost point of mainland Australia, just behind that there lighthouse. Those level-changes are more extreme than they look though and I was rooted by the end of it.

We stopped for an ice-cream at the kiosk - obviously this Bush Turkey had the same idea. At first he was cute, then he started hassling tourists for change to make a phone call, and calling them 'dirty mother fuckers' when they declined him. Rude prick!

Following that we spent the next day doing a spot of whale watching. This allowed three things, the first was an amazing view of the Gold Coast skyline.

The second, as you'd expect, was seeing whales. The fuckers are notoriously difficult to photograph though so this is as good as I got.

The third part of the experience was ending up sick as a bastard from sea-sickness. I did not enjoy that part of it at all, but I was determined not to let it ruin my day - we got to see some amazing vistas of whales launching themselves towards the surface, and it truly is a majestic thing to watch.

From there we went on to Sea World. Now we all know I have a weakness for bears, but seeing these two just melted my heart!

Hudson and Nelson are the cutest little boys ever and they're so playful. Plus they've got really big paws and they love eating watermelon. Me too! I could've watched them goofing around all day, however there was also Dolphins!

And even though its for the kids, the Sea Lion show was the coolest thing I've seen in a long time. Claude the Sea Lion is such a fucking cool dude. I wanna be just like him when I grow up!

The wildlife everywhere proved friendly, like this little cutie who stopped to have breakfast with us one morning in our hotel room.

Speaking of our room, it was bloody nice - of course there was a spa and everything and a bathroom that was bigger than my house, see.

Oh, wait, you probably can't see much in that photo at all. Stupid blinding-white over exposure.

As a parting gift our last day was filled with glorious sunshine - perfect for a farewell walk along the beach.

Good bye Gold Coast

Good bye Meter Maids, you dirty, dirty tramps.

Good bye mysterious performing troop from a neighbouring island.

And finally with some severe cropping, I managed to land that iconic photo I was after.

Sigh - holidays are fun. Meanwhile, reality has a lot to answer for!

Farking Flying

2010-12-01T18:26:00.002+11:00

So, 2010 hey? It only started, what, like a week ago and we're already staring down the barrel of a new calender. Actually to be totally honest I don't think I've turned a page on my page-per-day calender since April, but that's not so bad as April was only a few hours ago, right?

Well I did set myself some lofty, ambitious goals and they were all to be completed before the end of the year. Little things like getting a tattoo, sitting my motorcycle license test and completing a Balls Out road Trip. Of course none of those things happened, what the fuck were you thinking? Okay so there's tentative planning for the ink, the bike riding has taken a backseat to car building and BORT 10 has been officially renamed BORT 11 for obvious reasons.

I also realised, as I climbed aboard my bathroom scales for the first time in months that without constant negative reinforcement and the threat of gaining a couple of grams, that I've somehow ballooned into a gigantic fat-arse. My current weight is a gargantuan ten fucking kilograms above ideal. I'm not sure where that weight is sitting, but that's only because I'm too afraid to look at my bloated stomach or hefty thighs.

To remedy that I've started a health-kick. My dinner was steamed salmon and steamed vegetables, and to further aid my cause I ate around most of the solids and just filled up on the steam. That should do it. Another sure-fire weight-loss accelerant is smoking, so after six months off I'm back on the fags, inhaling my way to a slimmer figure. Yeah, that ought to do it.

I can't help but wonder where it all went wrong. The correct answer is that it didn't. I just tend to be easily distracted. Instead of blogging I got hooked on the crack that is Grindr and Scruff. Of course the upshot of that is landing more cock than I ever thought possible, on the other hand - no, wait. I don't think there's a negative to that.

This morning as I rushed out the door for work with a piece of toast hanging from my mouth, buttoning up my shirt, with weet-bix already dabbed on the cuffs, I grabbed the bin in my bedroom to empty it for greater waste collection. That was when it all fell into place.

The contents of my waste receptacle were thus: Twenty-three individual socks that haven't had a mate for years, which I'd finally given up hope on. A ham and cheese sandwich that I got too busy to eat and let on the dashboard of my car for a week, until it started attempting to hotwire itself outta there. A used condom - no one came in it so it was probably okay to re-use but I couldn't work out which side should face out. An empty packet of Cialis, at $18 per erection I should probably stop chewing through them like tic tacs. And to top it off, yet another pair of broken sunglasses that I'd sat on, a victim of my lack of attention to my surroundings.

I wish I'd taken a photo, but I couldn't find my camera. Its probably at the bottom of that bin liner come to think of it. If ever my life were to be paraphrased in a physical medium, that is exactly what it would look like.

Hunting And Gathering

2010-09-23T21:38:00.002+10:00

Oh dear, looks like someone may have been a little slack with their blogging. Damn good reason for that though, I was busy shopping, I ended up with a pair of work slacks, four Matchbox cars, two Hot Wheels cars, a dent in the offside front door of my own real car and an iPhone that only took two days and two trans-Melbourne trips to get. More details and much hilarity coming soon, I swear.

The Feeling

2010-08-20T23:29:00.001+10:00

There it is again. That feeling, that sense. It isn’t quite déjà vu or promnesia or whatever the kids are calling it these days but there’s a certain familiarity swirling around.

Maybe it’s just me. I look for patterns in things, repetitions, tenuous links and strange coincidences.

I think the conspiracy theorist in me would love it all to be true, but that probably isn’t going to happen. Still, a boy can dream can’t he?

Sometimes it’s the things you say, maybe even the way you say them. The dark recess of my mind thinks ‘Ay, I know that line. I know that timing’ but the logical part steps in with ‘but you live in a part of the world were right now won’t happen for 14 hours’ so maybe I really don’t know you at all.

Sometimes you put things on a page that make me smile and laugh. They make me want the things that you want. Your ability to do that is amazing. The flip-side of that is that if you tell me about the bad things in your life I share your pain. I flinch, I mope and sometimes get teary.

But you local buggers are the ones that really get me. When I see your photos and recognise a street on my way to work, a café I have breakfast at, a bar I get legless at. That’s when it really spins me out.

Did you go there intentionally? Was that photo of the shoe store because you know I try on a different pair of runners there every week? Were you waiting for me to arrive or playing the cat-and-mouse game of trying to vanish before I emerged?

Then it hits me – the familiarity. It comes about not because of what you offer me, you offer the same thing to the world. It all happens because out of the world you had showed something that I wanted. Not the other way around.

You talk the same way people I know do. You wear the clothes I would wear. You explore the parts of town that I want to discover.

I know you’re close. You’ll continue to be around. Millions of people will pass through this city, but you’ll flow through the same veins as me and as such we’re connected. The physical mass of steel and concrete belies nothing of the colour and vibrancy that draws us together.

Maybe not the same time, maybe not the same place, fuck – it may not even be the same continent, but it is still there. Intangible, yet real.

Monkey Tales

2010-08-18T16:02:00.000+10:00

I swore that if anyone ever gave me one of those ‘cute’ nicknames I wouldn’t stand for it. I mean, those sickening couples you see that call each other ‘Poodle-snatch’ or ‘Schnooky-wookie’ or whatever are just too much. Worse still if they do it in public.

I mean it all started innocently enough, calling each other by the shortened versions of our proper names (as is the Australian way) except for when we were being scowly – then it was full names, or worse: First, middle and last names in that lecturous, parental way.

Then one night camped on the couch, listening to the rain strike his balcony windows he said “Come here and give me a cuddle, Boy”. Instead of balking or making a big deal out of who plays what role, I just moved in close, laid my head on his chest and wrapped my arms around him.

Somehow that then turned into text messages that started ‘Hey Monkey…’ and there it rests, via text I get called Monkey, in person I get called Boy and when I’m putting myself down it becomes Boof, short for Boofhead. Enough to tell me I shouldn’t be fretting about the non-existent flaws I get so hung up on.

Even though two jobs keep me flat out and I still manage to fit in visits with friends both new and old, shopping trips around the city and jaunty country drives. That’s on top of mid-week sleep-overs and entire weekends ‘just hanging out’.

“Did you bring your night insulin?” Sounds like a bit of an odd question – but as a diabetic I usually have to prepare for eating during the day as well as fill-in-the-gaps injections before bed. That means when the question is asked I can linger for the night if I like, instead of having to peel myself out of his arms and trundle home.

As much as I don’t like people making a fuss over stuff like that, it’s nice that he has taken the time to notice. It’s nice that he’s thoughtful and caring and patient. It’s nice that he’s a bunch of stuff that men I’ve known in the past haven’t been.

It also makes for a nice change to find someone who won’t let me get too big for my boots. A bloke who’s prepared to say things like “isn’t there anything that you don’t know something about?” when I start to carry on about a subject I’m probably not qualified to pontificate about. Someone who can go from hanging shit on me about my “chipolata fingers” or my grey beard to telling me how beautiful my eyes are before swinging back into something like: “but I almost didn’t notice because of your whopping great nose”.

Arsehole.

He also thinks his farts are hilarious and my objections to them have him almost splitting his sides. That’s okay though, because as payback I try to ramp up my usage of the term ‘cunt’ as this tends to rile him – particularly when out in public.

I used to think that the best a man could ever do was to pay attention to me for a couple of minutes at a time in between everything else his busy and important life dictated. Turns out I was wrong. Some guys actually do want so see me and spend time with me and don’t have an ulterior motive for doing so.

I never though I’d enjoy being wrong as much as I do.
Thanks Monkey.

The Visitors

2010-08-10T17:21:00.002+10:00

Lawd have mercy – I’m like, Melbourne’s newest (and most fabulous) up and coming socialite – okay, maybe not coming yet, but I’m certainly up and if you can keep your arse in the air I’ll see what I can do about the other bit.

Wait, wait – that wasn’t where I was headed. No, not at all. What I was trying to convey is that whilst I haven’t hit the road for the Balls Out Road Trip of 2010 in search of blogging friends and places to pull my wang out, I have had some bloggers come to me. Exciting right?

It all started weeks ago – my crotchety old phone chucked a wobbly on me and I was using a loan phone. During that period I received a pair of text messages that went something along the lines of: ‘I’ll be in town on X weekend’ which was nice and all, but with no numbers saved at the time I had to do some serious research (okay, check my old semi-functioning phone) to work out who was coming to visit.

Turns out my double feature was Adelaide’s Yani of Yaniblog fame and Sydney’s Stu, who doesn’t blog so much as lurks in the comments, despite my insistence that he should actually be writing things due the sheer brilliance that is his mind.

Anyway – Saturday night rolls around and its time to catch up with Yani. For the sake of simplicity, and because the poor bastard had spent the previous couple of days traipsing from one end of Melbourne to the other, I agreed to go with the low key option of catching up with him over caffine at his hotel.

The biggest problem with meeting someone for the first time, who has already seen your cock a million and one different ways (cheers to BORT 09) is what to wear. Always the creative sod though, my solution was only a pair of bottle green flares and a satin corset away.

Red Bulls were swilled with reckless abandon and conversation flowed freely. I had this sneaking suspicion already – but I can now confirm that Yani is indeed a dead-set fucking legend. Good for a laugh, knows plenty of stuff about stuff and just to put me well and truly to shame he knows his shit with a camera. Bastard.

T’was an absolute pleasure to finally meet the lad, having been forced to break a date set almost a year ago. Next time he’s in Melbourne or I’m in Adelaide we’ll be doing it again. Clearly four hours of listening to me prattle on like a madwoman didn’t put him off. Must try harder next time.

The following day Stu knockered on my door to fill me in on his goings on since I last met him on BORT 09. The cheeky little bugger was every bit as sexy as I remember him, and still able to wield a sentence like master. That’s always exciting.

We decided on a bit of a wander down Brunswick Street in Fitzroy, stopping just long enough for me to have kittens at an Aston Martin Rapide on the roadside. Lunch followed, courtesy of Café Nova and the lure of the Rose Street market proved too much,

Of course, being the rampant consumer that I am I ended up buying a ring made from the handle of a spoon, originally fashioned to commemorate the 1954 visit of Queen Liz. How fitting – that queen’s spoon has now become this queen’s ring – or something like that. Feel free to construct your own filthy entendre.

Anyway poor Stu was forced to rifle through tray after tray of assorted jewelry created from old kitchenwares and I couldn’t help but feel a wee bit sorry for the poor bugger after that. Back to mine it was then for a cup of tea and the last of my homemade biscuits, you know after all that excitement and all.

After Stu had whipped off, headed in a homeward direction I was left all by my lonesome. No housemate to pester. No blog buddies to shoot the shit with. Just me and my empty, empty house. What better way to maintain the adrenaline then to have a nap. Honestly, sometimes my voracious appetite for life even surprises me.

Fulfilled

2010-08-01T09:34:00.007+10:00

Jayzus H Keeriyst on a bike! What a fucking week, no I'm not kidding - it was fucking HUGE. Lemme see, where should I start? Well at the beginning I guess.

So as you all know I was running around like a breathless tween at a Beiber concert because, because, be-fucking-cause... the Sisters were coming to town. It'd been like two years or more since the Scissor Sisters were last in Australia and there's was no way in hell this breathless fan was going to miss it.

I figured it might be nice to take someone along who could put up with my rampant fan-boyism, turns out no such person exists, but I dragged the bloke that I seem to be spending way too much time with. It is kind of strange to have someone look at you and smile with that twinkly-eye thing just because you're so excited about something. Everyone else was just rolling their eyes while I carried on a crazy woman.

So the rumour mill had reached fever pitch, to the point where Jake Shears all but confirmed that Kylie Minogue would be appearing on stage with the band in a radio interview that day. That was it for me. From that point on I was clock watching like a motherfucker and could barely contain myself.

Finally work was over and it was time to get ready - then the holyfuckingshitI'mgoingtoseetheScissorScisters reality kicked in and I had no idea what to wear, because clearly that's important! In the end I settled on a preppy-look with beige flat-front dress trousers, a grey waistcoat and a cropped, studded motorcycle jacket and fingerless leather gloves, as a tribute to both Jake Shears and Babydaddy.

After waiting through the support act (who were great, but seemed to take forever) the Sisters finally took the stage.

And that's when it began. I started to scream and didn't stop for the next two hours. The poor unsuspecting boy that I dragged along tweaked his ear and took a step away from me. And then another, but he looked at me and smiled, a big face-splitting grin, the kind that told me he was as beside himself to be there as I was. Scissor Sisters will do that to you.

Babydaddy looked utterly delicious, as always, and what's this, backup singers? Okay then!

Del Marquis is the only man who can put my muttonchops to shame. One day I want to be just like him!

Jake: Man made amazing. I dunno what it is about Jake Shears, but he oozes sex appeal, he's full of energy and he's a little bit nuts. Plus he looks divine!

I don't know how she does it, and I should hate her for it, but instead I lover her, because every time I see Ana Matronic she just looks more and more amazing

Between Ana's PVC dress and Jakes self-zipping pants (that's a hand sewn into the front) I couldn't decide which one I wanted more!

In my opinion no man quite matches the amazing talent, unassuming modesty and smoking-hot good looks of babydaddy - they're not all published here but I took hundreds of photos of him alone... heh heh heh, oh well, I'm only human, right?

Just seconds after I took this photo the band started to play Any Which Way. I turned to my man friend and squealed "This is where Kylie appears!!!" and wouldn't you fucking know it, but who should trot onto the stage but the one.

The Only.

Miss Kylie Minogue.

That was it for me. I lost my tiny mind. I screamed, I roared, I jumped up and danced and took photos and had quite possibly the most crazed reaction of my life!

Scissor Sisters and Kylie. On stage. Together. In my fucking town. Performing my favorite song from the Night Work album.

I'm actually amazed that I could take photos and that I didn't pass out. I know for certain that I was shaking like a leaf! Just incredible.

Better still though, for the first encore Kylie returned to sing the country-fied version of All The Lovers that Scissor Sisters usually do alone. More screaming ensued.

Jake and Ana's second encore costume change, post-reveal. I like that they both got their baps out. I swear, there's nothing hotter!

Then they finished with Comfortably Numb. I know the purists don't think much of this cover, but to me it epitomises the Sisters. I was one happy little mutant, let me tell you!

So now I could die tomorrow know that there's little in the world that could top that night - unless of course Babydaddy asked me to marry him - but until that happens I'll just keep reliving that night. I heartily encourage you to do the same!

The Part Where I Squeal Like A Bitch

2010-07-23T12:00:00.002+10:00

Oh, for fuck sake. It wasn’t supposed to go like this, but I guess it was inevitable, unavoidable, destined to occur if you will, but I’m having a moment.

A big, screaming, wrist flapping, mascara fanning, camp as tits moment. And who the fuck decided that tits were camp anyway?

See – it’s a big weekend this one. It all started innocently enough months and months and months ago, when I was furiously hitting refresh on the Scissor Sisters homepage, and I finally discovered that that they’d be performing in Melbourne at long last. Of course being the rampant fan that I am I booked my tickets as soon as they became available and was down hammering on the door of JB Hi-Fi until they relented and sold me a copy.

Now, in just three days time I get to see my glorious Sisters perform just for me, oh and a few thousand other fans. I’m so fucking excited I can’t even begin to describe it. All I’ve been listening to for the last week and a half is all three albums, over and over and over. And I still aint sick of them. I just want more!

And it goes without saying that I will be asking Babydaddy for his hand in a mockery of matrimony. That boy got hawt all over him in ways I can't even begin to describe!

But, before any of that can occur I’m off to see Kate Ceberano tonight. Why you ask? Because she’s a little bit bogan, a little bit wog, and a little bit awesome – just like me. Plus it’ll allow me to get some pent-up daggy dancing out of my system, even though the show is in Toorak I’m just going to pretend that I’m at the Altona RSL, if that’s okay with you.

So, that’s my warm up act and in the meantime I’m going to scour Melbourne for signs of one of my favourite Minogues: Kylie. She’s back home to visit her little nephew Ethan and just a couple of days ago she was mere blocks away from my work, being interviewed in Molly Meldrum’s house. Oh how I wish I could’ve been one of the overly stuffed Balinese cushions upon which she sat.

But, you know what gives me the biggest hard-on of all? Rumour has it that, seeing as Scissor Sisters are in Melbourne and Kylie is in Melbourne at the same time there’s a possibility she might just wander out on stage and perform with my Sisters. HOLY FUCKING GAY-GASM BATMAN, that’s like Mecca and Valhalla and the Emerald City all wrapped together and marinated in glitter!

Of course this may have happened once before. If my wish comes true I expect it to look a lot like this:

Just pick me up off the floor on your way out!

The Boast Of A Roast

2010-07-20T16:19:00.000+10:00

Bit of a strange one, this weekend. I didn’t realise until way too late that I’d be having an extra day off, so instead of booking my usual raft of appointments to hold my body together I was forced to sleep in, do things I wanted to and indulge myself. Such a hard life.

I’d already planned my Saturday. I’d be hitting the road, headed for Daylesford, Woodend and Mount Macedon to tackle some of my favourite winding country roads. To make matters worse, I’ve met this boy who happens to like hitting the open road just as much as I do, so I asked him to tag along too.

The drive was made oh-so-much better by getting caught in the midst of a cycle race for most of the highway trip, so much so that the plethora of lycra-clad, muscled thighs caused me to miss my exit to Daylesford. I’d like to say I didn’t mind the extra distance but I was getting hungry and had a perfect day all mapped out in my mind and any deviation from that plan was going to piss me right off.

My ballistics grade tantrum about missing the turn-off was certainly not my proudest moment.

Thankfully the back roads approaching Daylesford are beautifully tree-lined and amble gently through the countryside, which in concert with setting the climate control a few degrees colder to calm my reddened complexion, was enough to bring my blood pressure back to normal. By making a few quips at my own expense I was even able to get my travel companion to smile again. Now could we kindly never mention my volcanic dummy-spit again? Thanks.

Traveling in a car that has a massive glass pane in place of a normal roof allowed an open view of the rolling clouds in the crisp azure sky above. An aspect not lost on my cohort. Sadly as the driver I only got to glimpse snatches of the sky through the reflections in the chrome gear lever. Good enough I guess.

Pulling up in the centre of town revealed a problem however. Which establishment should win our patronage for lunch? The Daylesford Hotel seemed to have the largest local contingent as far as we could tell, so won out.

“What the hell are crumbed sausages?” asked the travel companion.

“It’s like a schnitzel, but made with sausages” I explained, which kicked off my craving, so that’s what I ordered, only to be greeted with an absolute mountain of food, the likes of which could’ve very well originated from my mother’s kitchen.

Of course the weather conspired against us after lunch, so after stopping for an overpriced coffee and chocolate brownie the size of a phone book, we hit the trails but elected to stay safely within the confines of the car, heater blasting and seat heaters toasting our wimpy behinds.

Somehow the evening, back in Melbourne, turned into a debauched but hilarious ‘on ice’ show thanks to gal-pal Big Red and her insistence we go ice skating with her siblings. As with my last ice skating trip one sock managed to loose itself into my skate and I’ve rubbed a hole in my left ankle – but at least this time I stayed upright, dry and free from any ice-rash. That shit is nasty.

To wrap up my weekend I decided to host what I like to term the Un-traditional Sunday Roast. For starters it doesn’t take place on a Sunday, but on a Monday as that tends to be when all involved are a little more available. The attendees aren’t all that traditional either with my very gay self, an Amazonian red head with a rope fetish and mis-placed Brit who likes to be spanked and abused (no, not by me) all converging at my house for tea.

The roast itself is far more traditional however with a towering slab of pepper-crusted beef topside, gravy, pumpkin, spuds, honey carrots and steamed broccoli finished off with choc-caramel cheesecake, the last one however was made by Sarah Lee, not me I’m afraid.

My efforts did extend to an afternoon of baking however and my kitchen is now packed with such delights as cheese and bacon muffins and my personal favourite, choc-peanut cookies, otherwise known as chocky pucks, thanks to their hockey puck-like shape and my penchant for clever play-on-words naming conventions.

So, with stomachs full of food and Tupperware containers filled with muffins and biscuits, the unlikely companions of mine headed to their individual homes, dragging their respective shibari ropes and motorcycle leathers behind them with the usual cries of: “You’ll make someone the perfect husband one day” without ever knowing to what degree they’re already occupying that void.

For as long as there’s friends to cook for, and drink Riesling with, and take home bundles of baked goods, and laugh and joke and share otherwise inane tales with, I reckon I’m covered in all the important areas.

(Over)haulin' Ass

2010-07-05T12:47:00.002+10:00

Things! That’s what this is all about: Things!!!

I’m quite a fan of things. I’m rather fond of stuff too. So, as you may have noticed Blogger-powered blogs seem to be undergoing an incredible amount of overhaulage and as much as I don’t ever want to be seen as one of the cool kids I couldn’t help but make shit look pretty. Or different, lets just go with different, shall we?

I like orange better than green, but I can’t seem to find a nice lurid orange on the colour finder thing. Lurid green will have to do I guess. I get the feeling this template won’t live long either, but who knows.

I also changed my own façade this weekend. After not going near a hairdresser for three months I was staring to look a bit lesbionic, so I decided that instead of keeping my ironical fringe, the whole lot should go. And it did. I now look almost human. Almost. I have to admit I kind of like the fact I only need to spend 30 seconds doing my hair instead of half an hour. Plus I don’t need to use product if I don’t want to (but I still do) and I can lay my straighteners to rest, well for a week at least.

I also bought some clothes. I guess I should be taking photos of all of this shouldn’t I?

Somehow after spending what seemed like thousands of dollars on getting a bunch of benign, tumory things cut off my head and face I though going out and throwing some dough at hot new threads might be a go-er. Despite the fact I need jeans and jumpers for the winter, I ended up buying a black satin corset and a black kilt. Neither one is exactly ‘mainstream’ but fuck it. The corset looks hot over my full-length, sleeveless, pinstripe, pencil-dress (gansta moll) and the kilt has been damn handy teamed with a shirt and tie for formal occasions.

It’s funny how, I tend to throw money at things to make myself feel better after a traumatic event. Funny how I go with the whole drastically different hair thing too. Funny how I somehow feel like it might be significant to mention here (of all places) that I’m back to the ol’ “table for one” side of life. Yeah, yeah, yeah after two and a half years The Husbear and I pulled the pin.

It’s all a bit funny when you know your relationship is doomed. But you carry on with it all the same. Then one of you makes the announcement. In case you were wondering, I was the one who called it off. Man, that’s a conversation that I never want to have again, or perhaps I’d like to have it a million times over to see if I can’t do it better. I dunno. There was tears, that means there was emotion involved (from both sides) and it fucking hurt to say goodbye, but it was just a ‘see ya later’ not a goodbye. We’ve spoken since – I think we’re okay.

Now it seems odd to think that a year ago I was breathlessly telling Phishez how I’d been shopping for an engagement ring. Funny how for some unknown reason I stopped myself. Perhaps I should’ve let The Husbear know all that was going on in the background, but ultimately better that I didn’t. Right?

So, things will return to normal, actually they really kind of already have. Life is an evolution – nothing ever stays the same, nor should it. The Husbear (I guess that should be former Husbear?) and I are still good mates, and will continue to be for a long time yet. And life goes on. And now, I have a kilt.

If I Knew Then What I Know Now

2010-06-28T10:30:00.002+10:00

Last week I found myself in the waiting room of a doctor’s surgery, flicking through carbon-dateable copies of Vogue and Marie-Claire when I came across a feature that looked pretty exciting, so I decided to give it a go. The article featured a bunch of celebs who had written to their 16 year old selves. I figure that instead of doing that last ten years re-cap thing that seems so popular I’d do this instead, seeing as my 16 year old self existed precisely ten years ago.

The problem with a project like this is the letter I’d be inclined to write would be vastly different from week-to-week depending on my mood or how drunk I am, but hey it has to be worth something, somehow, right? I’m going to push the friendship just the tiniest bit here too, because when you’re done reading it I’d like you to scurry off and write your own letter to the 16 year old you, post it on your blog, then leave a comment here so that everyone else can share in the joy.

Well, here goes:

Dear Ferret,

This might come as a surprise to you, but all those seemingly idiotic things that people say to you right now about your future could well prove helpful. Try and be patient, there’s nothing but good intentions behind them.

The world you’re about to plunge into is utterly amazing, but no one provides a user guide and if they did you’d probably only look at the pictures anyway. Amazingly enough that’s not a bad thing. Never be afraid to try new things, to practice, to experiment and to tinker.

When an opportunity comes along, take it. Don’t just sit on the fence umming and ahhing. When people tell you to jump don’t ask how high, just throw in a cartwheel for good measure.

When it comes to love you’ll struggle, but don’t fear that either. When you discover something worth fighting for you’re probably going to have to fight for it, but the rewards are worth it. That said you could probably do with some backbone kid – if something doesn’t feel right or you’re unhappy say so. It’s not really your place to bend to the whim of others.

Don’t tolerate cheating or abuse, you’re never going to spring back as quickly as you think. Don’t put up with distance or absenteeism and for the love of Christ, stop being so fucking stoic all the time. No one else will ever tell you this, but it is okay to wear your heart on your sleeve from time to time, just be aware that it doesn’t go with every outfit!

Speaking of outfits: You’re quite the sharp dresser with your American flag flares and your op-shop couture. Keep that up if you can. There’s always going to be detractors, but they’ll usually be wearing K-Mart tracksuits and probably aren’t worth the trouble.

You’re a little bit different from the rest of the world and that’s nothing to shy away from. But you’re not the only unique person out there. There’s always going to be people that are smarter, people that are funnier, people that have a bigger dick, or people that outweigh you in whatever insecurity you’re feeling that day. It’s not a bad thing; you can learn from them and should wherever possible.

Enjoy a drink, but reel it in a little bit - you tend to break things or end up a bit weepy and a mascara-streaked face is not your friend. Smoking isn't cool either - try and kick that habit before it becomes ingrained in you. It'll stunt your growth and you're won't be a fan of spending your life as a 5' 7" short-arse.

Oh, and then there’s cars and money. You’ll find that one costs you a whole lot of the other – but you’ll enjoy it so much you won’t care, and nor should you. My only advice would be to put a little bit of dough aside for a house, because those things just keep getting more and more expensive so it might be money well spent, even if a three-inch stainless steel exhaust looks like a better option, you can’t live in one!

Stay curious, stay healthy. Don’t panic about your weight or your face so much. The ‘spark’ that you have now will make you a lot of friends, you really ought to use it to your advantage. You’ll do a lot of things well, but you might make a few mistakes here and there too. If that happens don’t panic, stay calm and try not to loose too much sleep.

Every day of your life will be new and exciting, you’re just going to have to push yourself to get out of bed some days but you’ll enjoy yourself when you do. If I tell you much more than that I’ll probably give the game away. So have fun, keep smiling and enjoy the next ten years. I’ll see you when you get here little man.

Love Kez.

PS. Beware of tall men with exotic accents – you mightn’t know it yet but you’ll develop quite the fondness for some of ‘em and they’ll be the closest you come to loosing your tiny mind. Just enjoy them and don’t think too hard about them!

Wax Lyrical

2010-06-15T17:03:00.002+10:00

I never would’ve believed it had I not stumbled head-long into it of my own accord, but vanity really does come at a cost.

These are dangerous times for a modern homosexual to be alive, there are impossibly skinny jeans to squeeze yourself into, flat irons to inadvertently clamp your ear in, not to mention all manner of hair removal products that border on medieval torture.

Which brings us to today’s story boys and girls. In my eternal quest to altius, fortius, shineyarse myself I’ve decided to pander to the mass-media hysteria surrounding hairlessness.

Consider this the height of hypocrisy if you will, but I like my men hairy. Hairy legs, hairy arms and swoonage central when it comes to a hairy chest. Then there’s the small matter of a hairy arse – and if you’ll excuse me I just need to go and sit myself down for a moment.

By the same token, there aint nothing wrong with a little practical grooming. Everyone needs a little weed whacking from time to time, no matter how lovely you think you may be you’ll struggle to impress if people can’t climb over your border-hedge, so to speak.

Yet, while I like you hairy I also, for some reason think you’d probably like me more if I wasn’t. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not talking all over depilation here – far from it. No one want to see me streaking around looking like a pre-pubescent monkey. I’m even a little fortunate in that I’m not overly hairy and the places where I have a follicle smattering are mostly okay just the way they are.

But put yourself into the ‘magic factory’ and you’ll discover some stuff that simply doesn’t belong. Exhibit A, your honour is a pubic region that doesn’t give up until the mid-way mark of my thigh, and exhibit B, should it please the court, is a mysteriously hairy crack. Mysterious mostly because of my otherwise fur-free buttocks.

Anyway thanks to modern cosmetics these can easily be rectified. Of course my female readers will most likely nod and smile as they scan this, knowing all to well what comes next: How do you deal with a problem like Maria? Err, or like a hairy minge?

You wax that shit, easy right? Maybe – if your genitalia is internal. When you’ve got all kinds of sticky-outy parts competing for space with a wax-strip the whole scenario takes on a very different flavour. Running a strip down your thigh is no hard task, pulling up a little closer to the gravy bag, well that’s a more delicate matter and of course, me being all gung-ho about it dived straight in, not realising just how simple it is to laminate your lolly bag.

Which is precisely what happened. As the strip affixed itself to one side of my coin purse I stood bolt-upright, gripped by panic. You think that’s bad? That’s nothing compared to when the tail end of that same strip whips around at a hundred miles per hour to grab hold of the other side of my sack. Um, Houston – we have some serious shit going down here.

Look, I’ve got a fairly reasonable pain tolerance – hell I’ve even done a few anesthetic-free trips to the dentist (and I highly recommend doing so at least once in your life) but even I have limits and ripping that sucker off at speed is pretty much considered ten steps too far.

So I chickened out and attempted to bathe my balls in hot water to soften up the wax, immersing them in a sink full of hot soapy water until things had loosened up enough to get the waxy bit off. Well, I got the backing paper no problems, but I didn’t realise there’d be so much residue, so as I moved around and went to take a step towards the bin one nut slapped one leg (as they do after being soaked in warm water for a while) and that was where he stayed, well until I took a follow up step and…

YEARGH! Boo-ya. That’s the shit. You think your addiction to snorting Wizz Fizz is a hard-core way to wake up? try inadvertently waxing your ball-bag with your own thigh. I’m just about to slink into the fetal position just thinking about it.

You will be pleased to know, that after clawing my way into the bath tub and baby-oiling the living shit out of the remaining sticky goo I was able to see something other than blinding white light. And what I saw made me a happy fucker indeed – A smoother bikini zone you’ve never spied on a man, actually you probably have what with all the bits I’d missed, but a quick tidy up with a razor soon fixed that.

Most importantly though I’d learnt a very valuable lesson about vanity – and it had nothing to do with pain or suffering or laminating my balls with a wax strip. It came from the rewards associated with having the kind of arse boys will want to munch on for days. But I’ll leave that up to you to discover for yourself.

Weighting To Exhale

2010-06-10T12:16:00.002+10:00

If you make a wild and crazy suggestion to me, I’m compelled to say yes. That doesn’t guarantee that I will agree to your challenge, but I’ll consider it. You see, 2010 is my year of living dangerously, of taking risks and living a more ‘full-throttle’ life than I have so far.

Oddly enough for someone who (usually) blatantly refuses to take risks I’ve been doing the stupidest thing possible for the last 13 years: I’ve been a smoker.

Those of you keeping score at home may struggle with those figures but there’s no error, what you see is what you get: I have been smoking for half my life. Now admittedly I didn’t start on a pack a day or anything. As a too-cool-for-school youngster I was only smoking at blue-light discos so that the big kids would think I was awesome and would want to touch my doodle. Or something like that.

Of course, by the time I was 16 it was less of a 'social' thing and became a firmly regular part of my routine. It was about the same time The Motherload remarked that she and I smoked the same cigarettes, despite the fact she’d quit when I was about four years old and I can’t ever remember her smoking. She still took this as a positive symbol of our maternal bond. And yes, she is crazy, thanks for asking.

So, what changed all of this? Well a couple of things. For me the love affair was over, I was no longer smoking because it made me look all bass-ass and Johnny Depp-like, I was doing it because if I didn’t have a ciggy I started to wig-out and go all Anne Heche on people’s arses. Then there’s the convenience factor. Now that you can’t light up in a pub, bar, restaurant or even on the street in front of most buildings around Melbourne, there’s very little point fanging for a gasper only to be told to keep moving.

Now I’ve tried to quit before with obviously lame-arse results. Usually the pattern is the same, I decide that I want to quit so I look longingly at the last packet of durries in my pocket and work out how long the contents will last me, then I start informing myself that, ‘this is my third last fag, I’d better enjoy it. My second last… Savour the moment. My last cigarette – EVER! I really need to live in this moment because nothing will ever be as satisfying again for as long as I live!!!’

Of course, as you can imagine, that kind of mental conditioning is just setting myself up to fail. Luckily, this time around I did things differently, or rather fate intervened and set things up in a different way for me.

See I’d arranged a crazy-arse bet with a mate of mine that he couldn’t go for three months without shaving, and there’s one thousand dollars on the line, so the stakes aren’t exactly small. The next day he came to me with a counter offer – I could shirk paying the grand, provided I lasted the same three month period without having a puff.

Without a moment’s hesitation I shook on the deal and handed him what remained of my packet of Peter Jacksons. It wasn’t until later in the day I realised what I’d done, and what it could potentially mean for me and my fragile, soon to be nicotine-starved, mind. I think it was the lack of fanfare though that made this attempt so much easier. Usually one to two days into a quit-phase I’m scaling the walls for a ‘moke. This time around I only had the very slightest withdrawal symptoms, and only then because I didn’t know what to do with all the spare time I suddenly had on my hands.

Now at the halfway point of the challenge, I already find myself wondering what the fuck I ever took it up for in the first place. Don’t get me wrong, I haven’t turned into one of those nazi-style reformed smokers, but I do appreciate the fact that my sense of smell is returning (that isn’t always a great thing in this city) and my aerobic ability seems to be every so slightly extending. Hoo-fucking-rah.

But of course it couldn’t all be that fine and dandy, could it? Not a fucking chance. At first I was all super vigilant about not replacing the cancer sticks with food, and I was successful. Water became my main staple and I became the king of self-distraction every time I found myself reaching for the deep-fried peanut butter M & Ms. Throwing myself at the mercy of the bathroom scales helped me monitor the damage as well and thus the fallout was minimal.

That was until I stopped torturing myself with the scales and plunged head-long into a binge eating festival that, after two weeks, shows no signs of ending. Of course by now, I’m not eating in place of smoking, I’m just eating because calorie counting is tedious, I can’t be fucked obsessing about my figure, and I’m hungry. So very, very hungry.

The end result? Well, my body dysmorphia tells me that I’ve ballooned out to a size not too dissimilar to that of a small Polynesian Island. You may not think so, but my man-boobs and the inability to see my own cock tell me otherwise. Of course stepping on the scales indicates that I’m scarcely 2 pounds heavier than my pre-quitting weight, however I can’t be satisfied with this, thus the starvation will resume, just as soon as I’ve polished off the last of this side of roast beef, and maybe that left over cheesecake in the fridge as well.

Because being a non-smoker is the healthy option, you see.

Whipped Into Shape

2010-05-28T16:07:00.003+10:00

There’s really nothing quite like those fond memories from childhood that a million tequila slammers just can’t erase.

I always considered that growing up in regional Australia made me the luckiest little nose-miner in the world. Of course it wasn’t until my jaded adulthood (or should that be adultery?) that I realised every brat on the planet is conditioned to think the same thing.

One thing I have discovered since though, which truly makes growing up in Australia a kick arse affair, is the unique experience that is Mr. Whippy. For the benefit of my international visitors, Mr. Whippy is a guy who drives around suburban streets on the most appallingly hot days of summer, playing a wonky version of Greensleeves from a megaphone mounted on the top of a clapped-out old pink and white van that defies the laws of physics (and roadworthyness) by still being able to move.

I remember being something like eight years old and chasing frantically after a rooted old Bedford van that’d only stop every couple of blocks. How Mr. Whippy was ever able to understand the orders of twenty panting, exhausted children who’d ran, pedaled, and scootered after him halfway across town I’ll never know, but there he was, dutifully filling cone after cone with fresh, energy-restoring soft serve ice cream for something ridiculous like a dollar at a time.

Of course with time things change and I’m no longer a little boy forced to pound across scalding hot tarmac with a broken rubber thong trailing behind me, attempting to trip me up. I’ve wised up to Mr. Whippy and his sneaky ways – now I just chase after him in my car and if he doesn’t look like pulling over soon enough I’ll just lean on my horn and flash my lights until he relents and pulls into the curb to allow me to order a choc-dip with nuts.

The one thing that did take me an eternity to catch onto however, was that no matter where you go Mr. Whippy drives the same van. They’re all pink and white and all have exactly the same sign-writing. Over the years they’ve received an upgrade starting off as old Bedford rattlers with ‘powered by Holden’ badges on the flanks and becoming previous generation Ford Transit vans with short wheelbases and high roofs. Every single one of ‘em.

I think I was a little bit freaked out when I realised this. Is it the same Mr. Whippy from South Australia now serving me half-melted gelato in Queensland, and I didn’t I pass him on my way through New South Wales? You have no idea how disheartened I was to learn that ‘Mr. Whippy’ isn’t just a bunch of jovial chaps who’ve all decided they like the look of a particular paint scheme for their ice cream vans – nay, Mr. Whippy is a franchise, and with this discovery it’s safe to say that the sun-soaked child inside my mind died a horrible and painful death. One deprived of ice cream.

Of course ten minutes later I’d bounced back, and for some unknown reason had a mad craving for a frozen dairy treat of some description. I sat there contemplating what to do about the situation when, over the din of the traffic outside what did I hear? Why, none other than the faint strains of Greensleves in the air.

I raced outside, clutching my pocket change and looking up and down the street, waiting for my pink savior to appear, and indeed he did as if heaven-sent. This time there was no chase, he pulled up just a couple of feet from my doorstep. I approached the window, looked at the available options painted on the side window and went ahead and ordered the same old thing as always. “One choc-dip with nuts please” and just seconds later that was exactly what I had.

I buried my face into the creamy, nutty, chocolatey treat in my hand. Then stopped. It’s the middle of fucking winter – why the fuck is Mr. Whippy out and about at this time of year? And even more perplexing, how come I didn’t have to chase him into the next suburb before he’d pull over?

I stopped and turned around, glancing back at the pink Transit van in my street. There he was: all grinning face, white apron and hairy forearms. Just like every other Mr. Whippy in the country. Exactly the same. Exactly! I suddenly lost my craving for ice cream and all the while the hairy Mediterranean guy in the ice cream van just kept looking at me and smiling, not smiling in a happy, customer-service way though. Smiling in a now-you-know-too way. An uncomfortable you-know-too way.

Which is why I’ve decided this weekend, to start scouring the papers for a good second-hand short wheel base Transit van.

Once More, With Peeling

2010-05-24T11:43:00.002+10:00

I figured the most important thing you could possibly know about me at this point in time, is that I bought the wrong facial moisturiser last week, and my forehead now resembles that of a Chernobyl victim. I'm not sure why either.

Anyway, that isn't the sole reason I'm here. I'm here for a couple of things actually. I'd like to ask you a question to start with: Who asks a person to come over and watch porn with them, and then only wants to watch porn? Yeah you read that correctly. I got an invite for some porn-watchin' shenanigans the other night, which is usually code for "I'm too nervous to initiate sex, but if we jerk off together it'll go a lot smoother" Hell, even if all we did was jerk off together I'd be happy.

But no, the invitation was purely to watch porn. And not even the kind I could get a kick out of. I was polite and sat through a good 45 minutes of girl-on-girl bum fun (does that even happen in real life or is it a scenario devised purely to cater to the straight male ego?) and somewhere about the seven-minute mark of the second DVD (which at least featured some peen) I decided to leave.

God knows I tried to initiate some interest, y'know the usual questioning about hardness, turned on-ness and here, check out my bulging package-ness. I wasn't prepared to whip it out and start flogging though, after all this was one of those fragile 'hetero' lads. I'm so confused though - did I miss when watching porn became a purely platonic activity? Back when I was a lad 'watching porn' was never a euphamism for actually watching porn in the company of friends with a cup of tea and some cheese and tomato ryvitas.

Ruminations on mutual masturbation aside, I'm here to make a very important declaration. Ever since I signed up for the soul-sucking time-vacuum that is facebook, I've felt like I was being a dirty rotten cheater to this here blog. Blog posts bacame shorter, more disjointed and then finally waned to the point where I may as well have not bothered.

Then the photos started. Sure you had some nice things to say, which I truly appreciate but this aint no photography blog and clearly, I'm not even a photographers arsehole. So facebook is on the way out. I was going to be all symbolic and back the fuck out on May 31st which is supposed to be International Quit Facebook Day, but instead I'll get around to it some time this week.

Now, don't get me wrong, there's all the usual rubbish about murders and security and privacy, but I like think I kept my profile buttoned down tighter than a Snickers bar at a fat farm, besides you want to find me, you can probably do so by taking a peek at the electoral role. What I want to bitch and moan about most is what facebook does to creativity.

I'm reduced to relaying my life in four-sentence bursts. That just doesn't pound my prostate like it should. I'm all for a long-winded diatribe. Worse still all I seem to do is portray that I'm some kind of angry little man. Actually, come to think of it nothing changes there, but if I'm going to bitch I need endless paragraphs with which to do so!

I will not be stopped, but facebook soon will. To those buddies who follow me there, I'm sure you'll survive. It has been fun finding out all about what you had for breakfast, and what your kitty cat did to the arm of your sofa, but hows about you all man the fuck up and get back to blogging!

See you back here soon. Kisses.

Genderf#&king

2010-04-06T19:58:00.005+10:00

AKA: The Mutton-chopped Drag Race.

This one's all about me, bitches.

A Colourful Life

2010-03-11T21:08:00.002+11:00

Went To The Pub

2010-02-21T21:46:00.002+11:00

...but didn't get served. I think maybe they didn't like my outfit, but who knows for certain.

I'm not quite dead and buried yet, but hold on tight there maybe be a few more sharp changes of direction and some possible turbulence before we reach our finial desitnation. Have no fear BORT fans, there will be full coverage of BORT 10 when it all comes together mid-year. I get the sneaking suspicion you'll like what's coming.

Is It Time?

2010-02-06T21:20:00.002+11:00

None of y'all is stupid, so I'm pretty sure you get what's happening here. After weeks on life support it's become pretty clear that this blog lies in a vegetative state. It's time to pull the plug.

It's not that there isn't moments to share with you. There's plenty, but I'm months behind. I have photos, lives, experiences, sights, sounds and memories to share. I'm so far behind though that there seems little point.

What would you like to hear about, my adventures in taking jail-bait photos of teenage slackers at Britney Spear's Melbourne concert? How about drinking beers with hetero mechanics and finding out their deepest, darkest, dirtiest secrets (and body parts)? There's the entertaining tale of how I reached out to a mate of mine and had my good deed repayed with around $1000 of stuff missing from my house?

It's all such old news now. I have everything I need for myself. I have the memories locked away and harsh lessons etched freshly on my person.

But it might be time for me to keep a low profile. Unaccustomed as I am to keeping my fame-whoring self out of the limelight, I'm going to give it a shot.

This blog stays open in the hope that one sunny Melbourne morning I'll wake up and have an overwhelming urge to share the joy with you. Today though, like the day before it and the day before that, there is no joy. Rather than becoming the whining cunt who undoes himself online, I'm just going to step aside for now.

I have a broken heart, a fractured mind and a failing body. That's not for you to dwell on - that's just for me to clarify why I need to do this.

You guys have made this an astounding journey. I've enjoyed every comment immensely. I've met some brilliant people through this blog, shared a laugh and been richer for the experience.

I was actually naive enough to think saying goodbye would be easy. But it isn't.

If only you could see me now - mascara smeared across my face with tears flowing freely at the thought of leaving you all behind. But you will see me again. I want to come back, and I will - when I'm me again and not the shell of the man I once was.

Keep up the good work guys. You may not know that I'm there, but I am. Watching, smiling, and just a little bit envious.

And on that note, before I become any more self indulgent, it's time to fuck off into the sunset. I'll catch you lot down at the pub and we can sink a few rums together and belt out Denis Leary's "Asshole" at the top of our lungs. Until then...

Point Of View

2010-01-07T12:09:00.001+11:00

The following is an attempt to re-invigorate myself back into the world of blogging. The best way to do it? Why, audience participation of course. The most dangerous way to do it? Why, audience participation of course!

I’m about to launch into a platform of warbling on about aesthetics. Not every one revels in visual arts, design and symmetry the way I do, but you can’t deny the world around you offers some amazing sights. There’s naturally occurring beauty as well as that driven by the hand of man.

Whilst I may not have a design background, I do have a passion for design. Industrial design and automotive design in particular.

One of the most common problems I have is being able to see a designers original intent, masked by the ‘design by committee’ practices which cripple most organisations. It’s everywhere from consumer electronics to buildings to cars. And it must be the most soul destroying thing a designer can have happen to their work.

The other thing I understand is that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. No two people have the same perspective of the same object, both physically and cognitively. This is what makes the world so fucking delightful.

So, my question to you is: Who does design better, nature or humanity? Don’t answer just yet though – we’ll cover that in time. What I want to do is amass a collection of images provided by you. The things that you find disarmingly gorgeous. I want your comments, your feedback, I want to know what it is about an object that inspires you.

To get the ball rolling, I’m going to pick a relatively easy subject. You may choose to leave a comment or email me (address in my profile) and provide me with a link or image that I can use in a subsequent post. Let me know all about your relationship to the object: do you own it, do you want to, where did you first see it, was it love at first sight?

The first week is all about furniture. I told you it was easy, and broad… incredibly broad, but it’s a nice introduction at the same time. So get cracking and in the mean time I’ll keep my fingers crossed that someone actually replies.

The Christmas Wrap

2009-12-23T12:44:00.000+11:00

Did I mention I went and saw Britney Spears in concert? I was going to post up a heap of mockery-style photos and bitch and moan about how bad it was, but I never got around to it, and don’t worry, I sure as shit didn’t pay for the tickets, That was weeks ago now so there isn’t much point.

Did I mention that my Movember effort raised $504.69? Seeing as I hit my target I now owe all you contributing folk a beer. Thanks so much for helping me raise money for Beyond Blue and the Prostate Cancer Foundation, I really appreciate your donations. But, that was weeks ago now so there isn’t much point.

Did I mention I’ve been Christmas shopping and had run-ins and altercations with various shoppers and shop staff? I’ve been Christmas partying and had all kinds of interesting and arousing interactions with friends, strangers and co-workers? That started weeks ago now so there isn’t much point.

Usually the approaching end of the year throws up all kinds of blog-worthy tid-bits. This summer I’ve just been either drunk or hungover with one leading into the other. The excitement doesn’t want me this year, and I guess I’m okay with that.

I’m not sure what this is: Sorry? See ya? Who can tell? I’m going to take some time off (oh look, I’ve already started) chill out and see if I can find where I left my sanity. If I return in 2010 I’ll have more love to share. If I don’t I’d like to thank each and every one of you for your readership and comments over the last year.

Here’s hoping everything you wish for comes your way in 2010. Good sex to you all.

Thinking Out Loud

2009-12-10T08:35:00.002+11:00

So far so good: Looks like I've got two candidates lined up for BORT 10. That means I have two seats remaining - get in quick before they all sell out.

So what's the great Balls Out Road Trip of 2010 going to look like, well here's the idea I have in my head:

Except it'll be red dust, rear wheel drive and I'll get my cock out.

I bet you're itching to come now, aren't ya?

All The Single Ladies

2009-11-23T20:09:00.004+11:00

Now, don't get me wrong, I'm no Beyonce tragic. At least not yet, thing is I'm celebrating what my housemate would refer to as "a single girl's dinner" If you're not familiar with the idea, check out the image below.

Oh, hang on, not that one. You might want to try that again.
See, much better - and interestingly family-appropriate to, just for something different. This was my pre-dinner, house-cleaning energy booster, and I'll have you know that pork rinds are a complete, nutritionally balanced snack. Just ask the packet.

High in protien, low in sugar, gluten free aaand a source of dietary fibre. Yeah right and I'm fourth in line for the fucking throne. Interestingly no mention of sodium content or fat, but I'm sure sliced pig fat is low in both of those nasties.

Right now I think every single ounce of moisture has been sucked from my body. No shit, I'll be sleeping in the kitchen sink tonight, with the tap running slowly to replenish my H2O content.

Anyway I just thought you might care to know that I now have a fridge full of very bacony beef bolognese (what is it with me and pork products?) and I've scrubbed my house from top to bottom. It's becoming something of a Monday night ritual.

Even to the point where I've got a uniform to go with it. Okay, I dunno if it qualifies as a uniform exactly, but I've discovered the joys of scrubbin' the house in my undies.
Yeah - that's right. I'm serious about keeping the fucker clean... Can't you tell from that expression? Oh and once upon a time I used to think all Oroton made was handbags and sunglasses. Turn out they do some seriously sexy, but insanely overpriced, man-knickers too. Whadda ya reckon? Yay or nay?

Anyway, frippery aside, I'd like to get a little bit serious if I can. You see, Movember is into its final week. This means that after the end of this month the cookie duster comes off and the muttonchops return.

But I have a wee little problem. FUNDS! I need you all to contribute. Just quietly I'd hoped to scrounge up $500 for Beyond Blue, the depression initiative and the Prostate Cancer Foundation of Australia, and yet I'm not even halfway there. Please, jump onto this link here and make a donation. It can be as big or as small as you like.

And now my pledge: If I can raise $500 for Movember I promise I will buy everyone who contributes a beer, as my way of saying thank you!

And in case you were wondering how the mo was going, why not check it out for yourself:

I know. I'm such a hot little bad boy, huh? Remember to check out my MoSpace and rate my mo while you're there. I'll expect nothing less than five out of five!

So - what are you waiting for? Help me make a difference to the state of mens health. I'm going to dash off and find some pants, and when I get back I'd better be gearing up to buy you guys a beer or two! Cheers.

http://au.movember.com/mospace/70359

People Are Cool

2009-11-22T20:12:00.002+11:00

I really mean that. Some people are just really super fucking cool!

Other people, well I'm never so sure.

Take my little corner of the globe: Melbourne, Australia. Specifically the Fitzroyish Carltonish area which is full of bohemian, arty, chilled out, fun, exciting kinds of people. I mean, where else can you find a bunch of uni students perched on a couch that they've hoisted onto their very unstable looking verandah (on top of mind you, not under it) drinking micro-brewery beers and turfing water balloons at passers by on the street? Well, just around the corner from my house in fact!

Then there's the graffiti, amazing incredible works of art adding colour and vibrancy to what would otherwise be a dull, boring, inner city concrete jungle.

Then there's the things you see. Just last week as I plodded home from a hot and stinky day in the salt mines I was coming down my street past one of the old cobblestone laneways. Who should be lurking within but about a dozen uni students, all relieving themselves up against someone's wall. Further than that, about half of them then sprung out into the gridlocked traffic with their cocks still out, causing a sea of honking, cheering and applause to spring up from the otherwise humourless commuters.

Then there was the day the Housemate and I returned from a late-night cooling ale session to find one of the local homeless gentlemen from the area standing in front of the house next door. He had his bagfuls of shit scattered around him and was swaying dangerously too and fro whilst humming loudly to himself.

Oh, and his pants were down around his ankles.

"Do you think he's trying to take a piss there?" The Housemate asked.

"Nah" I replied "If he was, he probably wouldn't have bothered to drop his strides."

And with that we unlocked the door, gave him a wave and stepped inside, only to find he'd vanished less then a minute later.

But my all time winner occurred just yesterday. I pulled up out front of my house at the head of a line of parked cars, my idea was to only be 20 seconds then I'd just pull into the left-turn slip lane and be on my way without having to wait ten minutes to get waved into the oncoming traffic.

Anyway, I pulled up, backed back a little to straighten the car and headed for the house. As I passed the car behind mine, which I didn't realise was occupied, I hear a: "Excuse me" from the passengers window. I looked in the direction of the voice and spied a dirty looking bleached blonde woman in the passengers seat of a fairly tired looking VR commodore. "How the fuck're we supposed to pull out of here now?" she enquired.

I looked behind her car and pointed. "Maybe you could reverse into the five-feet of vacant space behind you." I advised and kept walking. I'm sure she was trying to thank me for my driving tip, but I could make it out over the strains of the rabid, psychosis-tinged shit-fit that she was having.

Man, I'm going to miss this part of town when I move.

Ready To Roll

2009-11-17T11:53:00.000+11:00

Right now I’m a ball of pure energy. You know why? Because I’m a sucker that’s why, also because I’m gullible and at times, over enthusiastic.

You see it all started last week while I was in the supermarket. One of the items on my list was fabric softener, Now, I’d just like to make it clear that I’ve never really understood the need, but being the modern, trendy, metrosexual cream-puff that I am I’m prepared to give it a shot.

And just so you know, growing up on the farm I never once saw the Motherload using fabric softener in the house. If anything I think out clothes were washed with a scoop of concrete mix, to toughen us the fuck up.

Anyway, supermarket: detergent aisle. I’m scanning all the softeners with their white peach and soothing lavender fragrances and thinking there’s a major missed opportunity for one that smells like diesel fuel, or maybe sweaty construction worker. God only knows I’d happily dry myself off with a towel washed in that gear.

So, the closest I could find wasn’t actually a fragrance at all, it simply said Energising on the label, which is good enough for me. Fast forward to yesterday and I’m stuffing my sheets into the washing machine, adding detergent and the afore-mentioned softener. For those who don’t know, all laundry additives in Australia now come in super concentrate form which means smaller packages and stronger products. Something to do with the environment. If you want to know more pick up a bottle of Omo and have a read.

Of course, I’m a forgetful Jones, so instead of the recommended three drops of softener, I add in waaaay too much. Ah well, no big deal.

Well, I was right. It wasn’t a big deal until I’d pulled the sheets off the clothes line and stuck them on my bed. By the time I’d finished I was just about ready to pass out from the waftyness of it all.

That was nothing though. After leaving the house for a few hours I came back to house that reeked of pure energy. I’m not kidding, as I unlocked my front door and attempted to push it inwards the scent in the air was so strong it just about kicked the door back into my unsuspecting face.

Being my bed and all, I was going to have to sleep in the fucker too, that was its own adventure. As I tucked myself snugly into bed I was overcome with the urge to find a park to jog around, a mountain to climb and a cycling track to negotiate. I guess they weren’t kidding, that stuff sure is energizing, unless of course it was just the sheer olfactory overload. Oddly enough as I attempted to drag my arse out of bed, I found the opposite effect to be true. There was no energy to be had. Then again that could be related to the fact I was up half the night, gasping for breath over the stench of energy.

The point of all of this is to inform you that my brain was pushed into overdrive last night and I started thinking about some things. You know this and that, boring shit mostly like: will my tie match my socks for work tomorrow.

But most importantly I started thinking about the 2010 Balls Out Road Trip. If you’re not familiar with the concept yet, have a look-see at the archives, I’m too lazy to link. Anyway 2010 is going to be HUGE! I have some incredible stuff planned, but it isn’t just going to be about me this year. I’m not going to do it alone.

For BORT 10 I want everyone involved. It’s likely that this will be the last trip I run in my faithful old Calais, so we’re sending the girl off in style by crossing the Nullabor! If you’re not an Aussie the Nullabor is a big fat stretch of desert in the middle of the country that isn’t much good for anything other then road trains, red dust and errant wildlife.

Oh, it also happens to be rather stunning, with some great iconic little towns along the way – and this is where you guys can lend a hand. First of all, the Calais isn’t exactly suited to a bush bashing adventure in its current form, so Aus residents, if you happen to know where I can get my hands on a bullbar, stone flectors and a rear suspension lift kit for a VS commodore with IRS I’ll be most grateful.

I’m also going to need a couple of additional 17x8 inch rims, roof racks, driving lights, radio communications equipment, truck mudflaps and anything else that’ll make my car look like a feral pig-dog!

That’s not all though – More than anything else I’m going to need a co-driver (or two or even three) someone who can navigate, drive, stomach utterly shit food, and hold a camera. I’m opening expressions of interest from today so if you reckon you’d be up for it, send me an email with a run sown of what’d make you an ace roady partner. If you happen to reside overseas and reckon you could make it over here then you’re more than welcome. Plus it’d give a nice international flavour to the whole affair.

So there you have it, BORT 10 takes its tentative first steps. Jump in now and help me make it something truly spectacular, I’ll even bring all the energising fabric softener we could ever need!

That Girl

2009-11-14T09:57:00.001+11:00

Hers was the name on everyone’s lips. I’d heard about her but hadn’t met her. Busy social schedules will do that I suppose.

So far I knew the bare minimum about her, except that she had perhaps everything I wanted. She owns an incredible property portfolio in all the right parts of town, has a successful career, a great car and the attention of every man she passes.

And last night she walked into my life. I’d already rehearsed a few possible scenarios in my mind. The one where we met, became instant friends and spent a lifetime of spur-of-the-moment shopping trips and sunset cocktails together. The one were we met, uncovered the seething jealousy beneath the surface, and became sworn enemies.

It didn’t cross my mind that I might not be important enough to neither adore nor despise. I had nothing she wanted, nothing she craved, nothing she needed. We just happen to have a few mutual friends.

When she walked into the room I suddenly understood the fascination. Everything was as it should be. Petite figure, knockout curves, flawless hair, perfect complexion, gorgeous features. To add insult to injury, after a day at work she’d arrived with flawless makeup and not a single crease in her tailored linen culottes.

Okay, so I wasn’t expecting her to turn up covered in brick dust or grease, but no one, and I mean no one can wear natural fibers for eight continuous hours and still look like their clothes are freshly pressed. Hell I can’t even manage to put on a pair of trousers without creasing them in the process.

We couldn’t be more different if we tried. Her with her summer scent and chilled white whine, and me smelling from a day in the salt mines, drinking a lukewarm domestic beer with shit hair, shit clothes and my shitty jealousy.

To make things worse, she knows exactly what she has. Every set of eyes in the room was directed at her as she breezed in and set down her handbag, tossing her hair over her shoulder and flashing her perfectly straight, white teeth.

Looks like the old cliché rings true: Men want her, women want to be her. Again, she’s fairly familiar with this concept. As such she has the world’s most wonderful man, but refuses to love him. He’s always kept at arm’s length for the moments he might be useful.

The change in his face and body language when she arrived was remarkable. Her subtle flirtations, irresistible. For months now he’s been pining for her and for the same amount of time she’s been drawing him in with one and casting him out with the other.

He doesn’t care though, such is her alluring power. I find it cold-hearted, but I’m pretty sure she thinks it entertaining. What could be better then having a relationship with the perfect man, and pausing it every time something newer, and more captivating crosses your path?

So I left the group. Took my wounded ego home to bed, disheartened at being ignored by her and jealous of the attention she received. She’s everything I’d like to be and nothing I am, and no one noticed me as I snuck out. Too entertained by her vivacious nature.

So now I get to grin and bare it. This won’t be the last time she walks in and captivates everyone’s attention. It won’t be the last time I’m left feeling lesser for just being me, and not being more like her. I’d like to say that I’m better than that though and that it’s the last time I let it erode my soul.

But it won’t be the last time. For as long as she stays the way she is, I’ll continue to have the bitter taint of jealousy on my tongue.

Sunday Sunshine

2009-11-10T16:24:00.001+11:00

The people I know are normal. No really. They are.

Take this weekend just past, for instance. As Melbourne warms up, the urge to get out in the sunshine becomes stronger and stronger, so a group of my friends decided to do just that.

Champagne Sundays are fast becoming a bit of a tradition. As soon as the weather turns nice we’ll hit the beach or a local park with a list of necessary ingredients. Namely: Champagne, sausages and a travel barbeque. From that point on the world is our oyster.

I arrived fashionably late, as usual. Not only did I hit the road late but I neglected to account for the rush of traffic headed beachward for the day. Never mind, timing is everything as they say and just as things started to turn good I was ready and waiting to jump in on the action.

Amongst the attendees was a pair of poofters from the periphery of the social spectrum. A couple of guys who are great fun to watch from a distance, but tedious to deal with in an extended stretch.

One has a voice like the hyenas out of The Lion King and a screeching laugh that can be heard seven suburbs away. His partner in crime looks for all the world like a mannequin coated in wet lacquer, resplendent in fire engine red finger nails with a trout pout to put Pete Burns to shame.

The pair do so love a drink, and with a dozen bottles of champagne on hand, that was exactly what they did. It didn’t take long for the booze and summer sunshine to take hold and the boys got very merry very, very quickly.

Before too long Trout Pout had the Hyena pinned to the ground in an awkward wrestling hold, with his chest flat to the ground, a knee in his back and his head turned through 180 degrees, yanked by the hair, while a bottle of champers was unceremoniously tipped down his neck.

From that point it was game on. The Hyena recovered quickly and without pausing emptied the contents of his wine glass all over Trout Pout. Thankfully it was only a plastic cup, as stage two involved burying the champagne flute into Trout Pout’s face.

No drink was safe from that point on as the Breaker Brothers began their merry jig of alternately pouring glass after glass of booze down their throats, or over each other – or anyone else who happened to be in the vicinity.

Every so often they’d take a little breather and Trout Pout would soak a slice of bread in champagne to give to a swan, while the Hyena tried to stuff as many cheese slices and strawberries into Trout Pout’s clothing without him noticing.

While this was going on the barbeque was sizzling away with a batch of rissoles. On standby, a pack of sausages, ready to complete our lunch. Or they would have been, had the terrible twosome not gotten their hands on them first.

I’m all for a good food fight. Hell there’s nothing more awesome when the mood is right, however when 90 percent of the people there are sober, drenched in someone else’s spilt grog and planning on heading out that evening it becomes slightly less funny.

Well, actually it would have been slightly less funny, except I managed to avoid the chunks of sausage mince being hurled from one end of the park to the other. I swear, there’s comedy, then there’s two screaming queens wrestling in the dirt, trying to slap each other with a raw snag.

For shits and giggles nothing else comes close. They even pulled the classic “Wait. WAIT… I’ve got something in my EEEEYE!” routine, before wailing on each other twice as hard with a fresh string of chipolatas. Comedy Gold, I kid you not!

Eventually we did manage to leave the park, tidied up our mess, picked up as many empty sausage casings as we could find and headed to The Laird Hotel while the perilous pair picked chunks of sausage mince out of their ears, hair, bum cracks and anywhere else it may have ended up.

And that my friends, is poetry in motion.

Gifted

2009-11-04T19:41:00.003+11:00

This is just a quick little note to let you all know that my faith in humanity has been restored. Some people are just fucking lovely, you know! There's some good souls out there after all, and here I was thinking that the entire planet was populated with arrogant, self-righteous arseholes like me! Sometimes it's nice to be wrong.

I'm going to jump all over the place here, so don't think it's not because I don't love you as much as the guy before you if you get mentioned here. I think you're a dead-set fuckin' awesome bloke either way - this way just helps protect the folks who use a reader!

Anyway. Jimmy from Sydney came to town the other day. He's a non-blogging kind of fellow, but I cooked him dinner all the same (okay, I ordered cheap chinese from around the corner) and when he rang my doorbell he was carrying these:

Bless him. If there's one thing I loose my shit over it's fresh flowers, plus I can count on one hand the number of times I've been given roses! We both laughed and carried on about how, for a pair of gay men, our flower arranging skills sucked the big one, but we got over that quickly enough and stuffed the greenery into a vase, added water and plonked 'em on the kitchen table to make any passers by jealous!

The next gift comes courtesy of one of Adelaide's star bloggers. I'm thoroughly pissed that I missed the chance to meet the man in person, however he was terribly understanding and gifted me anyway.

Now he and I may or may not have a little something going on that involves swapping photos of underwear (and missing underwear) so in keeping with the theme he got me:
So Yani, I'm sorry I never got the chance to grope you in person, but I hope you're happy with the results. I know I am! I'll model 'em for you next time you're in town, I swear.

The third and final gift has been on my want list ever since I saw it modeled by its creator. Thankfully, when I put in my request he happily obliged.

Last week, Gay Wallaby dropped by work for what was our first, but very brief meeting. Sadly I didn't get to demonstrate his gift in person, but he has been supplied with photos!

So, what has captivated my attention so? Two words: COCK RING, not the pierced knob kind though, just a wearable jigger . Now the following photo is an active demonstration of the ring in action (you have been warned), and incredibly for something that was manufactured without a single measurement I think GW managed to size me up perfectly. He's obviously been paying attention to some of my previous posts!

So that my friends is how my faith in humanity was restored in three easy steps! Of course there's still plenty of work to be done, so if you think I'm worthy you ought to throw me some free shit. You never know your luck, it might just end up being world famous blog fodder, or at least end up photographed at the end of my dick!

Mo Turning Back

2009-10-31T10:29:00.006+11:00

Picture this if you will: One Mutant sitting at home on his stoney lonesome, with the Housemate in Phuket and the Husbear in Brisbane. It’ll be just like those Home Alone movies, except instead of creating all kinds of hilarious mischief by myself I’ll have the assistance of on oversized cavoodle called Kanon.

So, for the next fortnight I’ll be taking the Housemates designer dog down to the local doggy park and fraternizing with the locals and their fur-children. Joy! I can just picture it now, Kanon and I will bond, we’ll share secrets, we’ll give other makeovers and we’ll sit on the couch, watching Family Guy DVD’s and sharing a bag of doggie-chocs. Excitement She Wrote!

I’ve also got an important event on over the coming month: Movember. If you’re not familiar with the concept, Movember sees guys from all walks of life growing a moustache to raise awareness and funds for The Prostate Cancer Foundation and BeyondBlue, The National Depression Initiative.

I’ll keep you all posted on my progress and I’d really love it if you could show your support by making a donation to the cause at http://au.movember.com/donate/your-details/member_id/70359/ .

Of course, growing a mo is not without its challenges. For starters I’m gunning for a big-arse 80’s Aussie cricketer handlebar mo. Of course my growth patterns will dictate the eventual outcome and my missing facial hair follicles will most likely see me looking more like Gomez Adams.

Then there’s the issue of my multiple chins. The facial fuzz I keep at the moment helps make it look like I have a defined jawline, sadly that’s just not the case and this will be the first time in about five years that I have a naked face, oh the humility I’ll suffer!

Then there’s the Husbear related issue. In the two years I’ve known him, the Husbear has never seen me clean shaven. Not even once! With him away for the start of Movember he’s absolutely seething that he’s not going to be around to watch it come off. For him it’s a kind of perverse experience. He wants to watch me shave, he even asked if he could do it for me.

I’m not silly enough to let him anywhere near my face with a razor though, but I do have to SMS him photos as soon as it comes off. Demanding little bugger that he is.

The Housemate wants in on the action too. As she’ll return two weeks into the event and the mo should (hopefully) be quite well developed by then she’s requested a day-by-day photo diary of my progress for her return. She’s also prone to just about wetting herself at the prospect of me looking like a 15 year old again. Considering she knew me when I was 15 the very thought mortifies me. If she decides to do another series of photos of me in my ‘awkward phase’ I swear the cavoodle and I are running away from home!

I know that you guys are an understanding bunch, and that you want to see me succeed. If you feel as strongly as I do about the causes involved, donate now! I’m counting on you guys!

Another big issue just about to lob, is Halloween. American readers may find it inconceivable, but Halloween is simply not the done thing in Australia. Although there’s always someone gunning to celebrate it one way or another, and my local, the Fox Hotel is doing just that.
There’s a whole theme night with prizes for best dressed, plus The Blow Waves will be performing, and despite the fact I’ve been told numerous times that I need to see these guys perform, the very best costume I could possibly come up with will be the ever reliable hole-filled sheet. Not a winner. I may just stay in and fend off the one or two trick-or-treaters who are likely to come by and will be promptly given an asparagus spear and told to fuck off.

Unless of course they’re particularly hot, in which case they’ll be invited in and ‘treated’ the best way I know how. Extra points to anyone who turns up as a zombie with a penchant for arse eating, as opposed the usual brains request.

I happen to have a bunch of buddies ripping it up tonight at various parties across the city, but seeing as I sit on the outer edge of most of those social circles as the ‘token homosexual’ I never scored an invite. I guess the risk of me turning up as Frank ‘n’ Furter was just too great.

Then on Tuesday there’s the jewel of Victoria’s Spring racing Carnival, The Melbourne Cup. The horse race that stops the nation is always good for boozy shenanigans. If you find yourself at the Flemington track you’ll be treated to a plethora of scrubbed-up, champagne-fuelled bogans. Men who don’t know how to behave appropriately and women trying to cross the green in stilettos. Fun to watch, but only for a maximum of ten minutes.

The alternate option is to grab half a dozen bottles of Yellowglen’s finest twelve dollar sparkling, a Woolworths roast chicken and head to a mate’s place for a quasi-posh luncheon. That way you can still watch the hoards attempting to get home on public transport, without the sun burn and uncomfortable fascinator required of the attendees.
As for me, well with the two biggest Cup fans I know away from Melbourne for the day, I’ll most likely be sitting on the couch, watching the race in my knickers and becoming intimately acquainted with a cask of white. Classy lass indeed. Worse than that though, I’m working on Monday, which is utterly ridiculous when you consider that 99.9 percent of Melbournians take the Monday off for a four day weekend, and no one will be coming near the place… Oh the joy of it all.

So, you know – that’s my haps for the next week-slash-month. I bet I’ve thrilled the fuck outta you, right? Oh hell yeah!

Nice To See Mutton C

2009-10-26T10:47:00.003+11:00

You all now my mate Stevie B, right? He’s the guy with the blog Nice To See Stevie B which, when you think about it, makes a whole lot of sense really.

Anyway, he likes to come across as this mild-mannered, all-American muscle cub who spends carefree summers in Denver, cruising around topless in his Jeep Wrangler and iPhone-photographing himself with wreckless abandon. But he has a secret. A dirty little secret.

Stevie, I’m sorry for blowing this wide open on the internets, but the world needs to know.

I spotted this yesterday and finally all the pieces clicked into place, you see Stevie is a super hero. How do I know?

Nice to See Super B

Click for enlargification

That’s how. Ever the shameless self-promoter Stevie has decked out his crime-fighting Škoda with the tell-tale Super B logo, no seriously – that says Super B – they just fucked up the spacing.

Looks like your cover is blown Stevie m’lad. It had to happen one day, I notice you’re not clever enough to iPhone youself in front of that one are ya?

What, nothing to say? Yeah – I though so.

All my love, Mutton C.

Silence

2009-10-21T11:48:00.000+11:00

Holy stinking dog shit Batman, did I ever get put in my place the other night. First of all though, to put things in perspective, I’ll give you some background.

I’m what you’d call a classic ‘loud guy’. You know that prick in the movies who’s trying to whisper to his girlfriend except he does it at the top of his lungs? Yeah, I’m him.

I grew up in the country, on a farm, isolated from neighbours and often working at the opposite end of a paddock or cattle yard to anyone else, which meant shouting was the only convenient means of communication.

As a result, my move to the city hasn’t been entirely smooth. I don’t have an ‘inside voice’ so when I’m contained within four walls my voice tends to bounce, carry and reach everyone in the room, regardless of whether it’s supposed to or not.

The other thing about me, as you’re probably well aware is that my vocabulary is rather tinged with vulgarity. I won’t stop short of swearing or being offensive. I don’t particularly care who’s in earshot. I’m not being rude, it’s just another aspect of that raised in regional Australia thing shining through.

So anyway, back to my story. On Monday night, as I was headed home from work I stopped via the supermarket and picked up a load of stuff to cook the Husbear a ripping meal. He usually joins me on Mondays as the Housemate is at the beach, I have the house to myself and don’t need to tip-toe about the place when she goes to bed at 7:30pm.

Anyway – the light of my life calls me to find out the plan for the evening. I told him I had a fat slab of Atlantic salmon ready and waiting for him, followed up by a fat slab of tube steak, should he feel so inclined.

He ummed and ahhed and professed that he really felt like a feed at the Irish pub around the corner from my joint. I voiced my disapproval but relented, shoved my salmon in the fridge and went about tarting myself up to a point where I’d be fit for public consumption.

Before long he’d turned up and we were seated at Pugg Mahones waiting for stuffed chicken breast and crumbed calamari. With a pint in hand, we started in on a bit of conversation to fill the awkward silence before our meals arrived. That’s when the trouble started.

As usual I was delivering biting social commentary and guffawing at my own jokes. One of the wait staff breezed by, a young guy, all clean cut and runtish – right up the Husbear’s alley. I pointed him out, something along the lines of “Check the twink waiter, bet you’d love to throw one up him?”

But instead of merriment and mirth, I copped the filthiest fucking look in history, followed by a lecture about how there are some things I should just keep to myself instead of sharing them with the entire room. Hmmm, catty. I scoffed at the suggestion and pointed out that everyone else was too busy shoving a steak down their neck to pay any attention to anything I might blurt out.

You see, the Husbear is one of those self-loathing homos that thinks the world at large will want nothing to do with him if he publicly admits being a dirty old cock-huffer. Foolish lad, clearly I get by without any dramas.

Anyway he went on to mention how he just wanted a nice quiet dinner. Well, what the fuck did he think he was going to get if he ate with me at home, a Tijuana brass band in one ear and a bus load of English soccer fans in the other? Fuck me swinging!

Perhaps the most painful part was when he said: “You should know what I’m like by now” Oh, really, should I? I reckon I’ve got it pretty sorted, but you know what, if we’re going to play that game I reckon you ought to have a bit of a handle on what I’m like too. I’m loud and obnoxious and yeah, I’ll pull my cock out at a moments notice, or did you miss all of that over the last two years?

I decided I wasn’t going to be responsible for ruining his ‘quiet dinner’ and did my very best Shut The Fuck Up on his arse. Then of course he starts protesting that I’m too quiet, uh, you think? Man was I steamed. I was still talking to him, but I didn’t want to waste any unnecessary words so I kept my responses short and barely audible.

Around us the rest of the pub was filled with gossiping old ducks, rowdy construction workers and two-pot screamer uni students who’d hit their second pot and were, well, screaming. That’s what you do in an Irish pub, you fill it with the happy noise of nonsense conversation. I tried my very hardest to tune into a conversation, but wouldn’t you know it, I couldn’t make out a single word over the roaring din.

As you can imagine there was no additional flippantry, we just finished dinner and went home. The Husbear politely declined my invitation to stay the night, although I can’t possibly imagine why, I was done with my cock-blocking antics for the night and was ready to turn on a whole heap of lovin’. Oh well his loss, I’m sure he’s learnt his lesson though: No one puts Baby in a corner.

Motherfucking Loganberries And Stuff

2009-10-17T11:19:00.001+11:00

Seriously guys, WTF? I haven’t posted anything here for an eternity and yet my stats are at their highest ever. Don’t check in every five minutes… Add me to a reader and come back when the stench of festering old news has passed.

Right, well I’ve been kicked in the cunt by a few concerned readers who need their regular Mutant fix and I’m going to get right onto that, I promise. Just as soon as I’m done fucking the collection of randy men who have gathered at my door in the arse.

Because that’s how they like it. They’re mainly wogs, they invented it, so why not huh?

Anyway I’ve been trying my hardest to be all, like, on the down-low. I don’t get much opportunity to read your shiz no more. I’m trying but it happens about once or twice a week. That means a bulk blog-fest and a few less comments then usual, but you’re still getting read and I still laugh and your crazy-town lives, so chillski, mmmkay?

So I’m very seriously approaching a point where I’d like to tell one of my employers to go roger themselves with a rusty rasp. Problem is, they provide an income which I sorely need, and I like some of the boys and girls on my team. Looks like I might stay put for the rest of eternity then. Eventually I’ll learn how to handle the constant arse reaming, right?

Socially I’m a bit of a cunt. I’m all: “Yeah, we should totally catch up,” or “Okay, Wednesday night I’ll come watch you get tied up, humiliated, pissed on and skull fucked.” Then when the moment comes I’ll do my best “Can’t make it, sorry – You’ll just have to blow me some other time.” Two jobs. 12+ hour days. Volunteer work. Broke-arsed-ness. You name it; all of these things are ruining my life like a cheese grater to the gonads.

On the other hand I refuse to be dragged down. Huzzah for drugs and chemically induced optimism! So I’m gearing up for summer. I’ve just received in the mail, the Charles Atlas Dynamic Tension program. It looks fucking good and if I get the promised results I should be the world’s most perfectly formed man in a matter of weeks. Plus I’ll look shit hot in leopard-skin posing trunks. Score!

I’ve also equipped myself with the ultimate summer weapon… Wax strips. I’m usually okay with the bits of my body that have fuzz, because there aren’t a lot of them. One thing I do not like is my pubic zone. You know all those crass teen movies that make fun of pubic afros? Yeah, funny right? No because I actually have one. I swear the fuzz from my zone extends halfway down my thighs.

That shit ain’t going to look no good in budgie smugglers at the beach this summer. Its gotta go! Problem is, because I’m such a huge sook I can’t bring myself to bring the torturous wax strips near my appendage. What happens is I accidentally mummify my coin purse? What’ll I do if I miscue and seal my arse shut? The complications are frightening, yet I cannot venture out in short shorts with yeti pubes from hell!

Maybe someone should just come and drink rum with me until I pass out, then wax me while I’m numb. I’ll even pay you. In dark rum, of course.

Other thoughts troubling me right now: We’re already half way through Rocktober which means the rockstar facial hair has gotta make way for a clean-shaven start to Movember. What do you think, should I or shouldn’t I?

I’m back looking for a secondhand car under $20,000 that’s going to help me pull the laydeeboyz, err wait, no bears I need a car that’ll help me pull the bears! Make a suggestion, and make it cool. I don’t want to hear ‘Why not buy yourself a Camry and go cruising for octogenarian cock at the bowls club?’ Because that shit will not be happening!

Before the end of this year I WILL have a tattoo. I have the design in mind, but I can’t draw for peanuts, so would anyone like to help create the eyesore that’ll mar me for the rest of my life?

Early next year I’m going for my bike license, well learners permit, so I need suggestions for a decent 250cc (or otherwise learner legal) bike. I’m more cruiser style than sport bike and retro appeal works. Any ideas?

Finally, the Husbear and I are fast approaching our second manniversary (hi Honey… love you!) he’s a special little tiger so I want to get him something good. Any thoughts?

Right… that ought to fill the awkward silence nicely, and you’ve got plenty of homework to do so get commenting!

Dr. Teeth And The Electric Mayhem

2009-10-02T15:02:00.003+10:00

You remember who those guys were, right? You know the muppet rock band, the one that Animal was the drummer for and Donatella Versace, err I mean Janice played the guitar. Yeah those guys. Well I’m not here to talk about them, although if you jump into Jay Jays right now you can buy a so-hot-right-now Electric Mayhem T-shirt. Mention this blog post for a go-fuck-yerself discount!

No, my tale of electric mayhem is a vastly different one. I want to talk to you about what happens when good appliances go bad.

It all started last week, innocently enough as I was getting ready for work. The usual procedure is shower, shave the few tiny bits of my face that need it, get dressed then hit the road.

Not this day though. The shower bit went as planned, but as I was shaving something went slightly wrong. Feel free to argue the merits of various shaving methods if you need to, but the important thing to know is that I use an electric shaver because it’s the best way to do it.

My shaver is a shit hot rechargeable item with a bunch of mutton-chop trimming attachments. Instead of rotary blades it has the foil type heads. If you’re familiar with these you’ll know there’s a tiny layer of tin over the oscillating head – and this is where the trouble started.

I must have done something to fracture the little tin strip because as I was shaving it became caught in the moving part, which had the flow on effect of causing the electric motor to blow up in my hand and shoot shards of hot, sharp metal into my face.

I stared at the smoking pile of junk in my hands in disbelief, and then went about extracting the barb-like chunks of tin out of my nose and top lip. Needless to say I didn’t bother shaving that day and went with the self-harming meth-chic look that’s so popular in Fitzroy and St Kilda these days.

It gets better though a couple of days later, while brushing my teeth with my nifty little electric toothbrush the fucker stopped dead. Sometimes I hot the off button, so I tried to restart it. Still nothing. I tapped it on the sink, still nothing. I gave it a shake near my ear but couldn’t hear anything loose. I tapped it some more, but to no avail.

The fucker was dead. I finished brushing my teeth manually (which now leaves my mouth feeling like shit after a super vibratey electro clean) and hurled the fucker in the bin, problem is, I’m a shit shot so I was aiming too high and shot it straight into the toilet. No using that one again.

My third and final calamity of the electronic variety happened to my lifeline. The one device I respect, worship and adore. My beloved mobile phone.

You know those tales people have of dropping their phone in the bogs at the pub, or hurling it from a balcony in Spain, or giving it to a mate to make a call on and receiving a handful of crumbled components back? Yeah my story isn’t like that.

I was out at Sircuit basking in the aftermath of the Mr. Leather Australia New Zealand competition when some idiotic twink staggered past, gaily swinging his beer in his limp wrist as he went. Of course he decided to take a wide berth around the group of butch looking leather men in harnesses and chaps and in the process waved most of his beer into my pocket.

I did the quickest dive I could to save my camera, which was thankfully dry, and my phone, which had amber fluid pouring out of every orifice. I looked at the screen to watch it perform its dying dance of psychedelic colours then, radio silence.

I wasn’t particularly happy about that. I’d collected a lot of phone numbers from a lot of hot men that night and was really looking forward to whoring myself out over the next week, but no. Not to be.

I pulled it apart on the spot in the hope of drying it out enough to rescue it, but I was not so lucky. The next day the phone turned on, but the keypad was cactus. As a last ditch attempt at saving my beloved I took it into the tech-guru guy at work. He proceeded to pull out a can of something and then drowned my phone in some funky smelling liquid.

“Ah, I hate to tell you this man, but you’re just desecrating the memory, and defiling the carcass of my phone in front of my face.”

He looked at me slyly and continued to spray away. Upon handing back my truly saturated phone he grinned and said, “Let that dry for a couple of hours then come tell me that you love me.”

I waited for my phone to dry then tentatively slipped the battery back in and hit the power button. Incredibly the screen danced into life and instead of the fucked up short-circuit signal it was outputting, everything was as before. I punched in my pin code and the phone greeted me with my usual 'set of boobies' wallpaper. I was over the fucking moon.

I swear I raced across to said co-worker and gave him the best rim-job of his life. Uh, figuratively of course. The screen is still full of contact cleaner so its like looking trough a lava lamp, but its slowly drying out, and until it does my phone smells like solvent, which is nice!

So my two great loves, my phone and beer didn’t love each other. Let that be a lesson to you all. Meanwhile before another appliance dies (or explodes) in my arms I’m off to join the Amish.

Man Up

2009-10-01T15:18:00.002+10:00

I got asked a question the other day and I answered it as best I could.

But it didn’t end there. The question grew, it fermented in side me, knawing on my insides. I wasn’t happy with the answer I gave. I wasn’t happy with the circumstances surrounding it.

Basically, I had a mate around at my house the other day and during his visit he needed to use the facilities. Okay, I’m not that polite, so this dude was hanging for a piss.

Upon his return from the shitter he asked THE question: “Man, how do you put up with that toilet?”

I’d never really thought of it. How do I? You see the lid on the crapper will stay up on its own, the seat though, will not. It refuses to.

I live with a woman, so she’s probably never noticed. But I’m not a woman and damn it I’ve noticed alright.

I’m a man. We stand to take a leak. None of this sitting rubbish unless it’s absolutely necessary. Except, now I live in a house with a toilet seat that won’t stay up and I’ve gotten sick of trying to hold it with one hand and my equipment in the other.

In other words, I now sit to take a slash.

This is wrong. All kinds of wrong. Multiple, dangerous kinds of wrong. I’m a man, a sweaty, grunting, smelly, hairy man. I can stand to piss. I can stand to piss on your mailbox, I can stand to piss on your fence, I can stand to piss on your car and I can write my name in the fucking snow – while I’m standing goddamn it!

But I don’t because I have a defective throne with a seat that won’t stay where it’s meant to.

Incredibly though, I’ve linked this to another recent phenomenon. Once upon a time I could never piss at a urinal. They kind of scared me; here you are at a long open wall in full view of the world, exposed to the elements and all kinds of potential dangers, with your cock on display. No thank you.

The problem there is that urinals are quick and easy and efficient to use, waiting for a cubicle is not.

However I’ve learnt, finally, to join the ranks at the piss-trough. No more trying to hide my tiny dick. No more shyness or awkwardness. If I gotta drain the vein I’ll get right in there.

You know why this happened? Because at home I gotta sit to piss. I’ve been emasculated in the most humiliating way. My reaction is to butch it up with a good, old fashioned, pissing contest.

And by fuck it is glorious. Since I’ve started I’ve had some awesome conversations with some awesome guys, and before you get carried away in straight venues it’s purely eyes up. I at least have that much respect (sometimes).

Of course on the gay side of town anything goes, so I’ve received some ego boosting compliments on my equipment and have been treated to a visual buffet of peen in all shapes, sizes and colours. Combinations I never thought possible. It’s all a bit exciting really.

And blokey – really fucking blokey. Standing for a slash is what its all about. Followers of The Mutton-chopped Mutant, I implore you – next time you answer the call of nature, don’t take it sitting down. Stand tall and proud, man-up and piss with fury.

Oh, and always remember to keep your back to the wind and steer clear of electric fences.

Taking Pride In What You Do

2009-09-21T16:34:00.004+10:00

Weekend madness – we’ve got plenty here. It just so happens to be one of my favorite times of year in Melbourne right now, no I’m not talking about spring. I’m referring to Melbourne Leather Pride of course.

While my collection of leather attire is actually starting to look reasonable, it could totally look a whole lot better, so when one of my mates asked if I wanted to join him for the Leather Fair at the Laird Hotel I was way ahead of him.Would you believe I actually decided to be a little bit subtle? I know, shocking right! See I decided that if I wore my cammo pants, steel cap boots and a couple of leather cuffs, that’d probably be enough for a daytime outing.

Of course I was well expecting that I could get away with as much or as little as I wanted, but I was saving something up. You’ll soon see why. Anyway I had me one hell of a fun and exciting day. Look at it this way: There was leather, there were beers and there were bears. That’s about as close to Nirvana as it gets for me.

Although I still find it odd being at the Laird in daylight, with women folk!

I finally got to get up close and personal with some of the hot ‘n’ horny leather pants from Marquis De Sade. WANT! I also discovered a goth/leather boutique that I must’ve been past at least a hundred times and never knew it existed, V & V Boutique in Lygon Street. I got sucked in by a very charming gothic tempress who uttered the magical phrase: “Custom-made male corsetry” between those magical words and selection of military style pin-stripe shirts and hats (in black of course) I think I may have fallen in love.

They also did a range of heavy grade leather and stainless steel collars, cuffs and restraints. I was starting to get pretty moist by this stage but promised myself that I would not spend a cent until I’d seen everything.

Mid-way though I had to stop to watch a live performance of Golden Shower,a rework of the Goldfinger Bond theme, and part of the comedy cabaret To Sir, With Love??? which I’m heading to see on Thursday night. If you’d care to join me then be at Neverwhere, Smith Street Collingwood by 8:00pm this Thursday 24th September. You won’t regret it. More info available here if you’re so inclined.

Not quite my thing but still fun to look at, and a must-have for any aspiring drag queen, were the leather and lace bustles and I can’t help but love the idea of a butt-plugging cock ring, or maybe a set of weighted nipple clamps? Ropes, restrains and arm and leg spacers also have a certain appeal – so too gimp masks in a variety of shapes and styles, if that happens to be your thing.

I was a little restrained with my purchases though. All I bought was a Vic Bears T-shirt and two different collars, one with square studs to match a cuff I already own, the other with ‘SEXY’ emblazoned across the front of it, although technically its more of a leather choker rather than a collar with press studs in place of a buckle.

After meeting Luke, the Vice President of Vic Bears (the hot guy with the mic below) I was swayed into returning to the Laird later that night for Brotherhood, one of Leather Pride’s dance parties. Didn’t plan on that, but decided that after the Collingwood Vs. Geelong AFL semi-final I should still be able to fit it in.
I probably shouldn’t have bothered with the footy. Collingwood went down like a lead balloon. Worst match of the season, goodbye Grand Final, but you know what? I didn’t mind so much because I had an excuse to wear my new Vic Bears shirt with my leather pants, boots and a seriously dangerous rocket-studded collar matched with an equally dangerous rocket-studded cuff. I swear, I was turning myself on I looked so hot.

Needless to say the outfit worked a treat with plenty of hot, hairy, leather-clad men coming up to check out the collar, lick my boots or give my nipples a friendly tug. In fact, so tugged were my nipples that I was worried they’d nearly fall off by the end of the night.

An event like that also brings out plenty of colourful characters too. I met a charming role-player who didn’t break from his dog fantasy all night and spent the night on all fours, chasing a rubber bone, drinking from a bowl, getting his tummy scratched and humping legs. There was also a seven-foot tall Scottish guy dressed from head to toe in red and black latex (who also happened to be quite an interesting chap) who reveled that getting in and out of the latex isn’t much fun when you’re hairy, but demonstrated the ‘quick access’ panel in the front of his trousers. How terribly convenient.

I managed to prove conclusively exactly what one wears under a kilt as well. Incredibly no one complained about my cold hands or the sharp studs encircling my wrists, which was exceedingly polite of them, or perhaps they just thought better of it while I had my hand up there, either way I have no complaints.

By far though the highlight of my night was (drum roll please) the trough pig. I’ve heard of such a thing before, but never been lucky enough to come across one. Well Saturday was finally the night. One of the bears I was drinking with excitedly returned from the toilets to inform us of his presence. I figured by the time I needed to take a piss he’d be long gone and when I did finally need to break the seal I’d forgotten all about him, until I approached the urinal and lo and behold, there he was, happily sitting up in the urinal chatting away to the leather daddies relieving themselves on either side of him and stroking his clearly excited appendage. Guess he was just happy to be there.

My night was complete! I’d spied the legendary trough pig in his native habitat, I’d been nipple-tweaked to within an inch of my life, had a large Scottish penis thrust in my face by a tall Scottish man and copped more than enough up-kilt action to last me a lifetime.

Best of all, that’s not all. I still have to check out To Sir, With Love??? on Thursday, plus on Friday there’s the judging of the Mr. Australasian Leather Man competition, think of it as the Miss Australia pageant of the leather community without a single bikini wax to be seen. Pictured below are Mr. Laird and Mr. Sircuit and I can’t for the life of me work out which one I’d rather by tied up and flogged by. Hopefully after Friday night it’ll all be a little bit clearer.
Happy Leather Pride to you all!

Ingratitude

2009-09-19T11:14:00.001+10:00

I can be a rude little bugger at times. I try not be, sometimes when you’re battling the forces of two jobs, plus all the other bits and pieces going on the world time just vanishes and before you know it you’re late into bed as a result of fitting in everything that has to be done before getting around the stuff that’d be fun to do.

So this week I’ve welcomed the Husbear back with open arms. All my fears that he’d come back from seven weeks in Italy and Hong Kong, and leave me in the lurch, vanished as soon as he appeared on my doorstep. Fuck I missed my boy and even though he won’t say it in so many words, his actions kind of indicate to me that he might have missed me too. Awww. Mushy. Vomit!!!

Of course there have still been beers with the Bromance when I can too – that’s always nice, and like I say there’s job number one and job number two to keep me on the ball. So, never a dull moment for the Mutant.

With all that going on the blogging has been a little sparse, but I’m going to do stuff to fix that. I promise. No, seriously I am. Soon, I hope.

I do need to give a big fat shout out to a couple of bloggers who made my fucking week (well two weeks really).

First of all, Damien over at 2 Cents Worth Down Under emailed me when I returned from my Balls Out Road trip and asked if I’d be interested in taking part in his profile series. Hell. Fucking. Yes, came the reply. If you haven’t had a read of Damien’s blog I’d strongly suggest you do so. Not only is he the hottest thing this side of the Tasman Sea, but he covers all kinds of cool shit: politics, camp entertainers, hot men, you name it.

His profiles are a particular joy and there’s some great reads from everyone from the hottest bloggers to the sexiest porn stars. And now me! If you haven’t read the profile, check this out for a deeper insight into the workings, or should that be failings, of the Mutant’s mind. Thank you so much Damien – just ask the Housemate how happy I was. I’m pretty sure she has footage of me dancing around the house like a goof when I got your email… Perfect blackmail material really!

Following on from that honour, I got an Honest Scrapper award from Helen at Bonding Over Lizards. This girl has one hectic life. For starters if she’s not locked in the lab handling radioactive materials, then she’s out in the field chasing after lizards, exciting much? I think so!

She also has a fabulous social life and is battling with the complexities of mastering Tai Chi. I’m enthralled by her Seth Afrikan goings on and am totally honoured to receive this award. Of course it comes with conditions and I will be following up on those, but for now I just wanna bask in the glory that comes with it and say a big, honking thank you to Helen, who believes I should be read at your own peril. Wise words indeed!

So even though I sometimes wear the crankiest cranky pants ever, stuff like this makes me grin like a fucking psychopath and reminds me that sometimes people are just way cool. There’s a bunch of shit-hot Aussie bloggers who stole my heart when I was whoring my way around the country too, and I promise (what that’s been, two weeks now?) that I’ll dedicate a tribute to you guys very, very fucking soon. Scouts honour!

Got My Grump On

2009-09-16T16:27:00.003+10:00

…Wore it just for you.

I try not to do this often, in fact this has to be another of my firsts, but here I am stealing phrases from lolcats and trying to play like I’m all kinds of internet cool. I’m not, but you already know that. Case in point: One of the guys I work with just mentioned his 80GB iPod… the hard drive on my desktop PC is only half that size. Cool, I am not.

That isn’t why we’re here though. We are gathered here today because I broke a promise. I got all excited about a new look blog and new look Mutant and I said there’d be photos of said new look Mutant and three days later there's nothing more than the sound of crickets chirping and the occasional cough from an otherwise silent audience.

Poor form no matter how you look at it. Y’know why though? Of course you don’t which is why I’m going to tell you all about it.

I got grumpy. I know hard to fathom that a funny, charming, likeable guy like me could ever have a day that wasn’t all sunshine and roses, but I did.

Worse still I had a weekend off work, no place to be and plenty of time to myself and yet the dark storm clouds gathered overhead and followed me everywhere. On Saturday night I was to go to a friend’s 40th and boy was I ever looking forward to that.

Well, I was right up until Saturday itself. On the day I couldn’t shift my mood. I knew what I was in for too. This particular guy, let’s call him Derrick because no one will ever connect that with his real name, is a great guy. He’s a barrel of fun, good for a laugh, super friendly and handsome as buggery to boot.

Well, the last couple of years I’ve ran into him by accident on his birthday and he always has a blast. This year I copped an invite to his big four-oh. I thought to myself “this is going to be one hell of a shindig” and was counting down the days.

Then when I finally arrived the final grump-arse piece of whatever screwed up puzzle was going on in my head, clicked into place. I didn’t know many people there, maybe two or three at the most. I made happy faces at Derrick, gave him a hug and lots of air kisses, then went to the bar, bought a beer and sat in a far, dark corner feeling like a lost little puppy.

A few of the people I knew came over to say hi, but I think I must have been punching out a fairly strong fuck-off vibe because they took off pretty damn quick. So I sat in the corner, admiring beautiful men that I couldn’t put myself in the right frame of mind to talk to, and piling up bottles of beer around me in an attempt to build a fort.

I didn’t get a fort built and after two hours I stood up and walked out. Just like that. By the time I hit the street I realised what an arsehole I was being so I ducked off for a cheeseburger and tried again.

I walked back into the party and still, nothing. I couldn’t even crack a smile. A couple of people asked me about JD Hoodie – I tried to small talk but it probably sounded more like I wanted to punch them in the throat and spit in their eye-socket.

Eventually I decided I was bringing this shit down and needed to fuck off. So I found Derrick, made up some lame excuse and took off. He did that whole “We’ve gotta catch up some time” thing which is code for: thanks for pissing on my party – I won’t ever be speaking to you again.

Can’t say I blame him. I even tried to make nice with the fags at the Peel, it was a four-stage process:
1. Buy beer
2. Get groped by old man with no concept of ‘personal space’
3. Get yelled at by drunken queen who called me enough names to hit me where it hurt
4. Finished beer, left the Peel.
About a seven minute adventure in total. I was still home before midnight.

Sunday wasn’t much better, hence the lack of rat-tailless blonde boy action on the blog. I’ll have to reschedule that for some other time. Be sure to stay tuned.

Over-haulin' Arse

2009-09-10T14:53:00.001+10:00

Looks like the new spring fashions have arrived, Makes sense really, new season: new look.

To start with I’ve shortened the chops and all but eradicated the goatee.

Phase two was to kiss the rat’s tail off for summer. I now look like a normal Joe from behind.

Phase three includes blonde highlights. I forget the last time I coloured my hair, there was once a time when I’d forgotten what my natural colour was so I’m seeking out some middle ground.

As for phase four, well that’s the only one you can see for now. The blog has copped a screamin’ new look for summer too.

I already miss the old black, white and orange, but I’m a bit of a traditionalist like that. Hell I keep hanging onto clothes I had in high school because I can’t bear to part with them. Anyway I’m keen to hear your impressions on greys and green.

As for the first three phases, well I figure I’ll get all retrograde on your arses and there might just be a return to the ol’ Sunday Self Portraiture on the way so you can check out what Summer’s Mutant is all about.

All for your entertainment, of course.

Confessions Of A Lipstick Junkie

2009-09-08T12:29:00.003+10:00

Right now would be a good time to un-think everything you think you know about me, then again maybe not. Perhaps I fit your stereotypical view to a tee, who knows for certain? Anyway it has come to my attention that I may more a genteel fembot than I first realised and less of the bear-baiting filth-pig that I so aspire to be.

Despite my penchant for leather and bondage, it looks as though I may have some cracks appearing on the surface. Okay, admittedly there are not a lot of labels that fit me terribly well. I don’t do drag shows - unless you offer something genuinely entertaining beyond the lip-sync norm, I don’t go to the gym, I don’t gush about the latest teen pop-starlet and I don’t go to sex-on-site venues.

I do attend rallies for same-sex rights, I do hang around in dimly lit bear-bars, I do dress like a himbo/bogan cross and I do get a kick out of motorsports. Starting to get the picture yet? Nah me either.

One of my long held fascinations has always been androgyny. The ability to blur the lines between masculine and feminine. Starting to get the idea now? Yeah that really clears things up a little bit. To that end I see nothing wrong with throwing a corset on over a pinstripe shirt and a pair of flared jeans. I’ll go with denim shorts, a wife beater and a string of pearls. Raised eyebrows? Pfft, I got used to that back in high school, of course, back then I would’ve been getting around in genuine bell-bottoms or my super-wide American flag pants and a studded dog collar.

Since I’ve gotten back from the great Balls Out Road trip of 2009 I’ve also attacked my living space with gusto to try and bring some semblance of order to the room I spend the most time with my eyes closed in. Of course it’s also the room I do the most entertaining in, so I figure before you end up face-down in my pillow I should make it look nice for you.

I now have neatly laid out a rack of ties, a coat hanger dripping with scarves, a selection of jewelry, a selection of leather collars and cuffs and most shocking on all, a little box filled with cosmetics. This is the one concept I’m grappling the most with, and yet I’m not really.

Within said box there’s the essential Friday night survival tools: guyliner, mascara and tinted lipgloss. Let’s face it, I have killer eyes and I like to make ‘em pop. There’s also a variety of hand creams and lip balm, from the moisture intense for winter through to the SPF 30+ for summer. Then comes the special occasion stuff, for when I’d like to look slightly less like a pasty Irish boy so there’s a variety of concealers, foundations and powder compacts for that flawless Hollywood finish. Although try as I might I never end up looking like Eva Longoria, but that’s okay I’m aiming for more of a Sophie Ellis Bextor-style ‘London look’ anyway.

And there you have it. The definitive answer as to why my bear-baiting attempts are so stunningly unsuccessful. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all about subtlety and I’d rather under do it and have no one notice, then over do it in a case of ‘all eyes on me’. There’s always inevitable outcomes though. It usually starts with something like “I like what you’re wearing” then there’s conversation then there’ll be a bit of pash action and with all that close up attention to detail there’s something like “Is that eye-liner?” and just like that *POOF* they magically vanish.

The thing that gets me about it all is this: The reason I caught your eye is because of how I looked. Let’s face it, you don’t spot someone’s personality at a bar and decide you’d like to fuck it. You see their face and work your way down. Just because the fine detail reveals my attention to detail, doesn’t mean that I’m a cross-dressing nancy-boy. Far from it. Judgement, judgement, judgement… How about next time you leave yours at home?

The Husbear has pulled me aside one or twice and questioned me about it too. In that knowing way like when your dad pulls the whole: “What time did you get home/whose car were you in/were you drinking young lady?” routine, when he already knows the answers. As a result I’ve given up around him (the Husbear, not my dad), hilariously enough it makes me feel dowdy, unattractive and less worthy of his attention. Silly boy, doesn’t he know he’d get blown a hell of a lot more often if I felt sexier? Oh well, his loss I guess.

And there you have it – forging an identity or just good old fashioned gender confusion? If you could clue me in that’d be much appreciated because I really feel like a beauty pageant contestant, heading for the swimsuit competition with no hot wax at hand. Clearly, the results could be ugly.

Oh look, Ms. Ellis Bextor has just arrived to distract you. Mixed Up World, how appropriate:

There, that should be distracting enough.

BORT 09: Day Eleven and Twelve

2009-09-04T19:59:00.006+10:00

As they round the last post its onto the main stretch, with one final squirt before crossing the finish line. Or something like that anyway. I'm home - Kahloo, kahlay, I'm home!

I'll be honest with you - I've lost track of where I was and when, but bare with me - I'll try and put it all together.

I've crossed the line back into Victoria, first stop: Orbost for a spot of lunch. I swear, I got served a steak sandwich that would feed a family of five. I would've taken a photo except the local villagers probably would've deemed my digital camera or mobile phone a gift from satan and burned me at the stake, so I left well alone.

I was however, rather excited to find that the main street of Orbost looks exactly the way a main street should, with not a single multi-national conglomerate to be seen. Hoorah!

After Orbost it was on to my last over-nighter of the trip, Lakes Entrance. I know it's not much of a town, in fact Gaydar indicates that there's only six men there who've got gay and I'm sure most of them are married and living secretive double lives. Trust me, it'll be funny when they cop a blowjob of their own son at a glory hole one day.

As well as half a dozen gay men, there's also a selection of wooden sculptures dotted along the main drag. The artist is John Brady, he's done work in other towns too, but these are by far the best maintained. They've been commissioned by the local RSL, so they all feature a World War One and Two theme, which is a lovely tribute, in my mind:

After leaving Lakes Entrance I started to panic... Man, I am so fucking lost:

It took a little while, but I eventually worked out that if I lie on my back and rub myself, my cock will always point to the sky, useless for navigation, but a whole lot of fun.

Oh, and I also ended up with a nasty allergic reaction to something, thanks to running around in the bush with no pants on. That'll teach me. Before you get carried away it cleared up within half an hour and WASN'T from anyone I'd met along the way, thank you kindly.

Now, because you've all been so nice you get a bonus round! A picture from last night's drunken blogging/facebook extravaganza! Haunting, wouldn't you say?

Oh, and a final, parting glance at Lakes Entrance. The town may have nothing in it, but by fuck, it's pretty - kinda like me really.

Even though I'm safely home and nestled in between a beer and some cheese on toast there is a little more BORT madness to come. I've still got some scandalous stories to share on the Canberra and Sydney blogging scene, plus there's probably a butt-load more photos I could bore you with, even though You've seen most of the best ones.

I promise you though that my mundane life shall resume shortly - I think we can all breathe a sigh of relief at that idea!

Notes On A Failure

2009-09-03T20:45:00.002+10:00

Righto kids - it's been a great Balls Out Road Trip (BORT 09) so far, and it's not over yet, although 24 hours should be enough to knock it down... Anyway, I'd like to put BORT 09 aside for a moment if I may, to break one of my self-imposed blogging commandments: Though shalt not blog drunk.

I warn you, this is going to turn all shades of self-indulgent with plenty of inappropriate leering and lots of "I love youse guys".

So - without further ado, lets crack this fucker wide open, huh? Facebook friends will know that what flows across the keyboard when I'm pissed is usually far from healthy. That is what this is going to be. If you suspect I'm about to be a turkey, cut straight to the comments and let me know. If you're a fan of a trainwreck however, read on.

So, where did it all go wrong? Take a look at me right now, sitting at my laptop in flip-flops, tartan shorts and a Transformers T-shirt topped off with ludicrous thinning hair. I'm not 16 anymore, but to defend myself I like to think that 'growing older is inevitable, growing up is optional'. What a crock of shit.

There was so much I wanted when I was a kid. I pictured myself as a successful guy with an adoring partner, a nice house and a disposable income. Didn't really get any of that now, did I?

Actually, speaking of relationships, lets analyse that, shall we? There is the Husbear. My rock for the last two years. Without him I probably wouldn't be here today (I'll examine that further too) but if you were to ask him his top three priorities in life, I wouldn't be one of them. I'm also damn sure that he has a delightful spray of issues about me ready to roll. I'm not a good boyfriend. Probably never have been. I try, but somehow I don't think I can pull it all together too well.

Mother-fucker, I'm such a light-weight. Six beers in and barely able to sit up straight. Nevermind, carry on.

Lets have a look at my recent past... I used to think that depression and self-harm were for the weak, the attention seekers amongst us. You'll be pleased to hear I now have a very different opinion. within the last six months I've tried to kill myself a couple of times, and have a series of handsome self-harm reminders on my left thigh about just how bleak that time in my life was. Some of them are rather deep, so there's not much chance I'll ever be able to forget.

I still haven't learnt my lesson though, and I'd much rather be balled up in a dark corner somewhere, hyperventilating and hating myself, rather than seeking help.

There's a hell of a lot of ways I'm a letdown. There's friends I've neglected due to my own insular nature. There's basic commitments I fail to keep as a result of my own selfishness. There's family I no longer bother with and there's a parade of broken hearts and dejected men behind me.

There's little point in denying it. I'm now officially damaged goods. I don't know what it's going to take to turn that around. If I could manage to keep my trap shut I think I'd be doing better, but instead I offer little glimpses, like this, for people to needlessly fret over.

And now I'm at a point where I realise I've said too much already. I'll still hit 'publish' though. Tomorrow is a new day, a new hangover and a new adventure all rolled into one.

If you're one of the lucky ones who has, or can pull it all together, then I'll happily take on board any advice. As for this craptacular me-fest... Tune in tomorrow for the thrilling conclusion to the Balls Out Road Trip so that we can put all this behind us. Merci.

BORT 09: Day Nine and Ten

2009-09-02T17:14:00.007+10:00

First of all, some notes on dining.

1. If you want to piss me off call me 'sir'. I may look battle-weary, but I'm not that fucking old.

2. If you're going to bring your flaky teenage daughter out for dinner, do the right thing by other diners and take her outside when she has a meltdown at the table. If she's prone to multiple outbursts, leave her home.

3. If you happen to be waiting my table, and you're cute, with a punk rock sensibility and a crooked smile, you can expect a tip. A big one. Of course the polite thing to do would be offer your 'tip' in return... I'm only staying just around the corner and I'll be waiting for you when you knock off. It's the polite thing to do when I just tipped you four hours wages.

Anyway - enough of that, on with the show! Last night was spent in Batemans Bay. It's such a lovely little sea-side village. I thought I'd died and gone to heaven, there's even a little lift-up bridge on the way into town. Big points for nautical kitsch guys! See:

I scored a lovely room right on the waters edge. For under $100 per night, who could complain? Better still, below my balcony was a waterside walkway and the jetty just off to my right. If ever I needed and excuse to get my cock out this would fit the bill perfectly. I decided the sleepy little Batemans Bayers could do with more than just my naked self, so I treated them to my new outfit:

I call this one Still Life with Coffee and Cigarette.For my efforts I got one cheerful "Good morning" from a chap passing by. He was about twenty years over my upper age cut-off though, so I didn't bother to invite him up.

After leaving Batemans Bay I made my way along the coast towards Merimbula. I'd heard about the South Coast bushfires and wondered if I'd be coming close. Amazingly I ended up much closer than I expected:

Just after that photo was taken I came across a hitchiker. Now I know I promised I'd pick one up if I saw one, and guess what - I did. Sadly he was only after a lift to the next town as his car had broken down. I never caught his name, but I can report he had a shaved head, massive arms, generous thighs and a killer tan. I'd put him at about mid-thirties. The fact he'd been walking in the sun gave him a nice manly fragrance too. I was very much testing the limits of my underwear's containment, alas all to soon we reached his town. Better luck next time, huh?

I also passed through Bodalla and Bega, two towns known for their cheese-making. Neither factory was particularly photogenic though, so instead I settled for the lovely Bodalla Anglican Church. I'm a sucker for a grandiose old place of worship, more-so if it is from the gothic school of architecture. Well, Bodalla has a winner in that respect:

You can also have a sticky-beak inside, which I did. Every bit as stunning inside as out. If you're ever there have a look for my little posting in the visitors book. As tempting as it was, I didn't leave a link to this blog. I figured I'd avoid the condemnation of the religious types that way!

Today was only a short day on the road, but that's okay. If I cover too much distance I run the risk of arriving home too early. Upon pulling into Merimbula I spied this beauty:

Yeah, another pink car. I'm fascinated by them. This one in particular as it's almost identical to my own car, plus it has my initials on the number plate. I spoke to the owner - some chick who works at the veterinary clinic. She picked the body kit and colour herself. I applaud both choices, although again I'm going to have to deduct points for not colour matching the door handles. Easy to to on a VS Commodore as they're metal and piss easy to paint. I also have to applaud the interior, custom black and pink. Very classy.

Also in Merimbula, the worlds most rickety private jetty. I ran to the end of it to see if it'd colapse. It was kind of like running on a big plate of jelly, but the damn thing stayed up.

I remember coming to this town about ten years ago. I was with The Parentals, visiting some friends of theirs. That couple has since moved, but I went past their house and spoke to the new owner who was out on the front lawn. I think he thought I was a complete nutter, but he was nice enough.

Finally, Merimbula has these little babies scattered all over the place. Hilariously there were a couple of real pelicans there too, but I couldn't frame them all in one shot. I'm actually more captivated by the sculptures, made up of scrap metal, then I am by the real thing. Old pipes, car parts, gears, cogs and the like. I want one!

Needless to say I finished the day with a classy meal overlooking Lake Merimbula. I couldn't help but remember the promise I made to myself a decade ago: That I would one day live in this part of the world. I'm still captivated by it. I have no idea what I'd actually do here, but if I could wake up every morning and look across the crystal blue water I wouldn't care if I was scrubbing toilets for a living.

I must get back to working on those plans of mine. I wonder if the Husbear wants to tag along?

BORT 09: Day Seven and Eight

2009-08-31T19:33:00.007+10:00

Martha Farker - How full on is this road trip? It's been go-go-go ever since I arrived in Sydney and I'm proving to myself that I'm no longer the 24-hour party boy I used to be. Advancing age can suck my dick as far as I'm concerned. After plenty of late nights and early starts all I wanted this afternoon (after a pepper kangaroo pizza) was to have a little nanna nap.

I resisted though. Instead I powered through and as a result, after battling with Blogger and its infuriating photo upload tedium, I'm pleased to bring you an update on the last couple of days.

So yesterday was actually a bit of a lazy day. Phishez and I (almost) slept in. She took off to the gym while I cruised around Westfield Parramatta, spending money like there was no tomorrow. I've got to remember that this holiday does actually have a finite budget, otherwise I'll be sleeping in my car and turning tricks for petrol money. Now I know you'd all be delighted to see that, but the answer is no. I've put that life behind me now.

Anyway, spot anything gorgeous up above? I know. Sydney shits all over Melbourne when it comes to scenic spots and fabulous scenery, and by 'shits all over' I'm talking one big, huge, Cleveland Steamer. The above photo was taken at Bradley's Head just beyond the Taronga Zoo, looking back towards the Sydney Opera House and Harbour Bridge.

Of course, there is my good fame-whoring self. Now prompted by a facebook comment the other day I'm proud to present to you my 'morning hair'. Enjoy that shit mother-fuckers, usually no one gets to see this. Not even the Husbear. You have Ben to blame, direct your ire at him. I know I will.
Cow-lick, much? Anyway, I got a bit of a history lesson today, about the forts built in the first and second world wars to protect Sydney from incoming attacks coming from the harbour. It's hard to fathom now in peace time, but there was once a time when Australia's idyllic shores were set up as the first line of defence, should Australia come under attack.

I've got Stu to thank for showing me around and giving me a little guided tour. The boy is amazing!
What you see above is the gun circle and concrete structures associated with the tunnels and ammunition stores at Middle Head. It's quite a haunting area now that it's deserted and falling into disrepair. I'm a bit of a stickler for history, so I'd like to see this kind of thing preserved, although that said, if it were it'd certainly be busier, which wouldn't particularly work in my favour. You'll see what I mean.

Before we get to that though, I couldn't help myself. I saw this and nearly had kittens. Yes that is a Holden Rodeo, and yes it is nipple pink, with ludicrous dub rims and a wide-body body kit. Why you'd bother, I'm not really sure, and if you're going to respray a car, why do the mirrors but not the door handles? Cock-jockey!

Anyway... Middle Head - a rather appropriate name really. Now as I was saying, it was mostly deserted, which suits me perfectly as I got to climb stuff and, well - you'll see:
If you'll stop looking at my wang for a moment you'll see bits of Sydney in the background. One hell of a view, wouldn't you agree?
Facing the other direction there's even more of sydney to see. For those who care I'm perched atop a circa WW2 look-out post.
"Hey, I can see your house from up here!"
Now, if anything gives away the fact that I'm a tourist it'd be me barring up at the thought of crossing the Harbour Bridge. I've been across it plenty of times before, but that was back when I was working up here, and it failed to thrill me then. I just wanted to get my work done and fuck off home. This was heading back from Middle Head towards The Rocks for lunch.

Of course that was all today - last night I had the most exciting opportunity to meet Muz, from Muzbot and Victor, from Someone For Me. Two more amazing men you're not likely to meet. And both so fucking handsome I had to hold myself back for fear of saying something inappropriate. As if I would!

Now don't stress - I've got photographic evidence of the encounters and everything. I'm saving up a special post dedicated to the bloggers I've met along the way though, so if you want to know all the filthy details and clandestine secrets, keep your eyes peeled for that one!

As for me. I'm in Glebe tonight, staying in a motel staffed by some of the hottest cubs and otters I think I've ever seen. Tonight is going to be my old man night though, so it'll be an early one for me. Of course that's not to say I won't don a flimsy bathrobe and go lounge around in the lobby for a while, see if I can't attract somebody's attention!

As for Sydney and I, the love affair has to end. I'm heading off tomorrow and venturing along the South Coast of NSW back into Victoria over the next couple of days. With each passing kilometre the cold, hard reality of returning to my life and my responsibilities will become more and more real. Sigh. Why can't every day be a holiday?

BORT 09: Day Five and Six

2009-08-29T21:22:00.006+10:00

Has it really been six days on the road already? Why yes, yes it has. God damn. This holiday is going nowhere fast. I'll be back at work before you know it. Boo, hiss.

Anyway while I'm here I'd better make the most of it I suppose. I'll be leaving Sydney in the next few days, but before I go there's some important things you need to know, the first is that I've got over 400 photos already, so if you've agreed to slide night, I've got to warn you, you're in for a big one.

Thanks to my painfully slow wireless internet though, I've just spent over two hours trying to upload images, so you get what you're damn well given!

I was so stunned to find that unlike Melbourne, Sydney has not drained all of its fountains and water features, so whilst at Darling Harbour I couldn't help myself.

The other thing I couldn't avoid was the Chinese Friendship Garden, which was stunning.

Of course you'll have to take my word for that for now... more photos will be coming later. My tour-guide for the day though was the fabulous Phishez:So while we had Chinese tea in the sun, and fed the koi into a frenzy, we also managed to find a nice secluded spot in the garden:

And wouldn't you know it, I managed to loose my pants - C'mon you can't honestly tell me you don't have a fantasy about sitting on Buddha's face, right? No - must just be me then!

After a full-ass day of sight seeing and shopping we hit Oxford Street, which isn't nearly as gay as I'd thought it would be, then onto Kings Cross, which was every bit as dirty as I expected, plus some. There are photos (naturally) but again, I didn't have the patience to upload them.

My big purchase for the day however was a studded leather collar and leather 3/4 harness. Hot as fuck, and I promise you, those two will be featuring in a post of their own very soon!

Just when we thought our little legs would carry us no further, we decided that day six would be ideally spent at the Jenolan Caves in the Blue Mountains. Well, the scenery was so breath-taking I think I may have orgasmed at least half a dozen times on the way up there.Once again though, my patience for photos is severely lacking, so while I took hundreds of them, you only get to see a couple, like Phishez standing with the 'broken column' as well as:However, the park rangers weren't to keen on me getting my todger out in the caves, something about upsetting the natural balance. Instead we ventured outside and...

Reflected on a very busy and successful day.

As for what comes next. Well I'm going to attempt to put my cock in the hands of some of Sydney's most notorious bloggers. Wish me luck with that won't you!

BORT 09: Day Three and Four

2009-08-28T09:37:00.005+10:00

Oh look... Patchy updates! Sorry about that. Just so you know I've arrived in Sydney, so consider yourselves on high alert!

Anyway - First and foremost, Canberra. I've gotta admit, it's a curious little town. I decided at 11:00pm to head out for a drink and wouldn't you know it, at exactly that time of night everything was closing down. I couldn't find a single bar in the CBD that looked like it'd be a rollicking good time, so instead I went back up to my room, ran a bath and hit the mini-bar.

So, on Wednesday I caught up with Kate from Sparsely Kate. I gotta tell you now, the girl is a total wow. We'd long-ago promised to sit at her big kitchen table, eating home-made slice and drinking tea. Wouldn't you know it, but I turn up, there's the aroma of freshly made lemon and coconut slice in the air, and in no time at all the kettle was boiling and the tea brewing.

Katie showed me around all the quintessential Canberra landmarks, I got to see Parliament house, and old Parliament house (which isn't particularly old) as well as the portrait gallery. Of course there is lots more to see and I'm kicking myself I couldn't have stayed longer.

There was also plenty of sitting around and chatting with Kate and her three gorgeous kids. Now, don't get me wrong, I haven't got a maternal bone in my body, but I swear - if I could be assured I'd have polite, bright little tackers like that, I'd sign up straight away.

After the kids were tucked into bed Kate and I sat up and watched movies, drank vodka and sparkling wine and talked and talked and talked and talked.

Next day it was back on the road for me. After a few photos with the gorgeous Kate (which I will pull across soon, but my craptacular internet connection is killing me right now) I was on my way to Sin City. Along the way I stopped in the tiny township of Collector (like the cheese ad says, collector is not famous for collectors) One thing I didn't realise it had though, is this fantastic sculpture:

It's like a Geiger-inspired piece and it's utterly fucking huge. I was rather surprised to find something like that in a town with a population of 150.

Down the road a little further and the lure of the Big Merino in Goulburn was just too strong to ignore so of course there's the Merino:

Me with the Merino:

And you can't tell me there isn't a single tourist in the world who doesn't take this photo when they visit:

Anyway, Sydney now. Not sure what to make of the whole experience so far. When I arrived there was no power on in Phishez apartment, which meant cold sower this morning, but hey - it's not so bad, there's also a bulding site across the way, which means I get to perve on plenty of this:

And yes, I've already picked a favorite. Oh, and if you were waiting for a bit of Canberra balls out action I hate to disappoint you but Kate wouldn't let me get my wang out anywhere good. I honestly wouldn't have minded if one of the burly Australian Federal Police officers threw me in cuffs and man-handled me, but no. Instead my Canberra balls out is a bit of a balls-up really, but if you'll stop looking at my luscious rump for a few minutes, you'll see the Canberra CBD in the background.

Be warned - day five's update will include Kings Cross and Oxford Street. I can only imagine how dangerous that's going to get!

BORT 09: Day Two

2009-08-25T19:42:00.005+10:00

I've decided I'm over this holiday thing already. PSYCH!!! Yeah right, as if. I'm loving it, sleeping in, cruising around, lunching out. It's fucking bliss!

Anyway, today saw me traveling all over the place. First stop was Gundagai, for the legendary 'dog on the tuckerbox' which is five miles out of town.

I'm starting to worry I'm holidaying on the Slim Dusty plan. I've been to Tarcutta (he sings about that) I've been to the dog (he sings about that) Next thing you know, it'll be "lights on the hill" for me, if you're not familiar, google it!

After Gundagai I went back the way I'd just come to geek out at the hydro-electric powerplant in Talbingo. That place is so fucking cool, six big arse pipes run down the dam to the plant, each big enough to drive a double-decker bus through (apparently) and the turbine rotors on display are bigger than my loungeroom. That shit is totally nerd-tacular!

From Talbingo it was on to Wagga Wagga, I'm not sure why though. I had nothing I wanted to see there, so I just stopped off for a piss then hit the road again. Along the way I did stop in Adelong for lunch and had a chat with a very flirty old bird running a country cafe, FYI, today is all about the pork. Bacon for breakfast, roast pork for lunch and neither place knows how to do a runt-sized serve. I've got an entire pig in me right now!

After leaving Wagga Wagga I hit the Hume Highway again. Next stop... Canberra. On the way there was a dirty, smelly old hitchhiker with his thumb out. Now I know I promised I'd pick up a hitcher if I saw one, but what I really meant is that I'd pick one up if he was young and hot and looked like he could take me by force. This man was none of those things, so I left him on the roadside.

Now, Kate, I know I said I'd be here tomorrow, but I'm not going to lob on your doorstep unannounced, so I'll still see you tomorrow. Tonight is all about me baby. Flash hotel room, big fuck-off bath. You bet your arse I'll have my wang out for the office workers across the road tomorrow too.

Of course I haven't had the chance to go balls out in the nation's capital just yet - so stay tuned. Instead you can see what it's like to wake up next to me. Taken this morning in the world's worst hotel room - wouldn't you love to wake up to this every morning? Be afraid, be very afraid!

Oh, and I've already filled my flickr allocation (those fuckers) so you'll have to wait to see the rest. I'll still post the good bits here of course. It just takes its sweet fucking time. Boo yah. Sydney, here I come. I can't wait to meet Kate tomorrow. I can't wait to see Phishez in Sydney - plus Muzbot, Monty, Stu, Victor. Bring that shit on!

Balls Out Road Trip 09: Day One

2009-08-24T20:51:00.005+10:00

So as I was cruising along the Hume Freeway today, and idea hit me. From this point on my road-trip adventure shall be referred to as the Balls Out Road Trip of 2009, or BORT 09 for short. Currently I'm lodged in Tumut, in the Snowy Mountains region for the night. So, what happened on day one, you ask? Lets find out, shall we?

As usual I hit the road way too late, never mind though. I cut through Melbourne like a scalded cat and before too long I was hurtling along the Hume in my little Silver Bullet, my companion for the next two weeks.

First stop was Euroa to wash the car for photos along the way. At the carwash I discovered a bulge in the sidewall of one of the front tyres - great start that. It was only minor, so I decided to press on.

Thanks to Sparesly Kate I was able to find a bakery in Benalla. Kate was such a gem, ringing me from the highway to tell me where to stop for lunch... I was a very happy boy after that.

In Glenrowan, the place where Ned Kelly's last stand too place, I snapped off a few shots for The Motor Report as well as some of big Ned in the main street then continued on my way.

Next stop was the Ettamogah Pub. I've never actually been able to work out what the big draw is with this place... it's a deliberately wonky building, sure, fine. Other than that, what does it offer? Maybe I'm missing the point, also I think I'm the only person who can photograph it so badly, it actually looks square!

From then on it was highway, highway, highway. Better still - I can across the sign to end all signs: "ROADWORKS NEXT 125KM" Surely, that must be wrong, 12.5 km perhaps, but 125? Guess what, it was no lie - the Hume is finally being duplicated, about 30 years too late, but why the hell do it when I'm on holidays???

From there I went on to Holbrook - the town with a giant submarine in the middle of it - At first I only found the 1/5 model sub and wondered what all the fuss was about, after taking a few photos I jumped back in the car, and lo and behold half a block later the full size version appeared. More photos were taken.

Finally after a day on the road I rolled into Tumut. Shouldn't have bothered. Would have been better going to Wagga instead. There is nothing to do in this damn town. I did find a $10 chicken snitzel, then a pub full boys in high-viz gear. Yet again... pass.

And of course there is the promised land: The 'balls-out' part. Tumut has nothing scenic that I could find at night, but I did find a deserted Ford dealership - so I decided to knock on the door and see if anyone was home. No one answered, but someone did have a camera... And there you have it folks:

There's more photos available on my Flickr page too so check those out, otherwise stay tuned... tomorrow will bring more mad-cap, mundane adventures! Enjoy!

No Turning Back

2009-08-23T20:25:00.004+10:00

Holy shit, it's on! in a little under 12 hours I'll be on the road, hurtling towards Canberra then on to Sydney for (drumroll please) The Second Annual Mutton-chopped Mutant Roadtrip.

If anyone remembers last year, you'll know what you're in for. For any newcomers be warned, there will be hi-jinx, obscene behaviour and best of all, random nudity.

I've just finished packing all my stuff. I have a bag big enough to fit a body in filled to over-flowing with clothes. I've packed two bags of toiletries, 20 pairs of jocks, leather pants, 6 different electrical chargers, and my iron (because you never know what might come up) and I'm ready to roll.

This year my darling Calais, which has served me so very well in the past, will be staying in Melbourne as I tour the East Coast in shock horror a four-cylinder, 2.0 litre small car. Aw, what do I care... It's got cruise control and a CD player at least, that's pretty much all I need.

Besides, its a couple of thousand kilometres on someone else's car, plus it means my holiday turns into a working trip, so I can claim it all on tax. Nice work really.

Bloggers, are you ready? I think I've emailed most people to let them know I'm on my way, if I haven't been in touch with you, or you'd like to meet me along the way hit my profile link and contact me via email.

Other than that I'll be in touch along the way. Please be good while I'm away - I'd hate to miss anything exciting. I guess you fuckers will be seeing my naked arse soon, and don't you for get it!

A Cutting Issue

2009-08-20T12:47:00.000+10:00

Here’s a thought provoking one for you.

Male circumcision. Contentious issue, wouldn’t you say? Currently in Australia the legality of male circumcision is under question. Female, non-medical circumcision is banned in this country, and rightly so. Male circumcision is now being looked at in the same way.

The question being debated centers around whether a parent’s consent for a non-medical, or cosmetic procedure is acceptable. What about the rights of the child? Further compounding the argument: only 2 percent of Australian boys are now circumcised, compared to around 90 percent in the 1970s. Those children who end up circumcised risk suffering emotionally for their ‘difference’.

I want to ask this question as many ways as I can. Firstly, to my gentlemen readers, as you all possess a penis you can probably answer this quite convincingly. Are you circumcised or not? If you are, at what stage in life were you and how do you feel about it? If you had children (of if you already have children) would you have them routinely circumcised, would you leave them ‘intact’ or would you give them the choice later in life? And, seeing as a large proportion of my male readers are gay – Has anyone noticed a difference between the sexual sensitivity between a circumcised man and one who isn’t?

Now, as for the ladies, do you have a preference? I’ve read an article long ago that stated circumcised partners can increase the risk of cervical cancer due to the fact that they thrust harder and more erratically during sex, in attempt to replicate the sensory experience an uncircumcised man would feel. Is this true? Does this possibility frighten you at all? What choice will you make for your own children?

I also understand that in some circumstances circumcision is a medical necessity. If this is the case I see no problem with the procedure. For the comfort and health if a child a parent should be able to consent to this.

Now for the big reveal… My own opinion: I do not believe that any parent should have the right to alter the appearance of their child for any non-medical reason. I believe routine circumcision is wrong, ugly and essentially, horrific.

Say you have a child and you’re not happy with the length of their arms. You can’t have them shortened. No doctor would ever allow such a thing. Why should you be granted the same right to alter your son’s penis? Put simply you should not.

We live in an educated and (in the western world) hygienic society. Teaching your son to clean under his foreskin properly is not difficult. In the longer term leaving a penis intact means that the glans, or head of the penis, is protected from abrasions from clothing, maintains its sensitivity, and will result in greater sexual pleasure for both him and his partner.

I find the idea that a parent would inflict a circumcision on their child barbaric. Perhaps, decades ago, before anyone knew any better and our society was uninformed, then it was acceptable. Still not right, but acceptable. Now we know much better. Again, I’m not against circumcision if a person chooses it, or of it is deemed a medical necessity, what I am against are a child’s rights being stripped from them without consent.

I come from the point of view of a circumcised man. My experience is my own, and I know everyone’s is different, we all have opinions and experiences that vary, and I welcome yours. I can’t begrudge my parents for their decision either. They simply followed what was deemed the best advice of the time.

By all means, comment with your own opinions and experiences, anonymously if you prefer. I’m interested in knowing what the rest of you make of this.

Bromance

2009-08-15T11:21:00.002+10:00

I’m tipping by now you’re probably familiar with the term ‘bromance’ Urban Dictionary defines it thusly, however as usual an over-share of information seems to have muddled the term. To me a bromance can be summed up simply as two guys (without reference to sexuality) who share a close frindship, without ever delving into that murky sexual side of things.

I’m pleased to announce that I’m enjoying a bromance of my own right now, and it is a truly beautiful thing. Allow me to set the scene for you. I know a guy, he’s straight but he’s fairly open-minded about most things. We share a shit-load of information. He’ll detail his relationship with his girlfriend, I’ll provide info about my relationship with The Husbear.

We spend time together socially, sometimes with his mates, sometimes with mine and occasionally we’ll throw the whole lot together. Then there are times where just the two of us will catch up for movies, dinner, drinks, whatever.

We de-brief, before you jump to assumptions I may be a horn-dog but underwear stays firmly in place, we’ll sit around, drink beer and unlock the mysterious depths of each others souls. He teaches me things and I teach him some. Thanks to me he now knows how to air-kiss like a homo. A handy skill should he meet my mother, which inevitably he will.

We also touch on the stuff we don’t really mention to anyone else. Fears, dreams, desires, fetishes, hard-luck stories, jokes. The kind of shit you just can’t mention to anyone else for fear of repercussions, be they negative or just plain underwhelming.

We give each other hell too. I cop it for the way I look, the way I dress and for being a namby little poof. He cops it for being an uncoordinated goof, for being ridiculously tall and for being a conformist hetero. Nothing malicious – just boys being boys.

Also there’s a bit of back-scratching that goes on. Not in the ‘you do me a favour, I’ll do you one’ style though. I mean literal back-scratching. He’s got a thing about having his back scratched, and seeing as I like to pride myself on giving a good message, combined with having a great set of claws I’ll rip my nails down his back and watch him pull that face that dogs make when you scratch them just so.

Oh, and the most bromantic thing, the real line-crosser for most manly dudes: He’s a hugger. That suits me fine. I’m all for a bit of non-sexual close contact. I’m a huge believer in the healing power of the human touch.

Take last night for example. He invited me over for a couple of drinks, so I dropped by to sink a few cold ones. We started talking about shit. Cars, motorbikes, computers, work, the usual array. Then we got a bit deep, the universe, existence, the meaning of life, mortality, relationships and that kind of malarkey.

We watched some TV without paying attention to it, slumped side by side against each other. As the night wore on he slung his arm around my shoulder and I was safe in the knowledge there was nothing sleazy or dirty about it, like there might be with a gay guy. Basically for a homo like me fills the kind of role assumed by gay men for their straight female friends. Safe, trustworthy and with enough shared interests to keep things interesting.

The night wore on, and on, and on. Then the morning wore on, and on, and I’m sure you get the idea. I was starting to run out of petrol tickets, as was he, so the conversation slowed a little bit, but we still threw in the odd jibe for the hell of it. He still had his arm over my shoulder and I’d started to lean against his chest. No risk, no danger, no attachment, just close, contented and comfortable with each other.

Before long the alarm on my phone buzzed – it was time to wake up. Problem was, I’d never actually slept. So being the champion bloke he is, he made me a strong coffee, wrestled with me in the kitchen in an attempt to pick a friendly fight, slapped me around the head a few times to make sure I was awake then sent me home to prepare for my day.

I’m kind of getting the feeling that this post is all a little bit raw and honest (and way too long), but I haven’t slept and I’m happy in the knowledge I have a firm friendship. Something I’ve been lacking for the longest time. This is how a happy Mutant should be.

Fly Me To The Moon

2009-08-13T15:37:00.005+10:00

Back in 1964 the world was an entirely different place. Sure it looked much the same as it does now, but it was also new, different and exciting. Well, I like to think it was. It’d be another 20 years before I hit the ground.

That doesn’t mean I’m lacking in appreciation for the era though. In 1964 a gentleman by the name of Lee Iacocca helped to create what has since gone on to become a legend. One noted for its design and performance. That iconic legend? The Ford Mustang, of course.

To celebrate the Mustang’s 45th anniversary Iacocca commissioned 45 special edition models featuring bespoke bodywork, an eye-catching fast-back profile and motivation provided by Ford Racing Performance parts.

Now, please be aware, I am a GM fan so for me to post this is a bit of a big deal, but when you see the end result you’ll understand why. Allow me to introduce Los Angeles, Frank Sinatra, power-oversteer, Mr. Lee Iacocca and the 45th Anniversary Iaccoca Edition Mustang.

Enjoy:

Update: With added images because I can't help myself!

I don't ever want to hear you lucky-arse Americans whinging about anything ever again!

Public Planning

2009-08-12T15:02:00.002+10:00

You’d almost think that by this stage of my life I’d have a bit of a handle on the disorganisation thing and be taking steps to do something about it, wouldn’t you? Oh, you’d be ever so wrong though. In the most typical way possible I’ve bought my good intentions with me, but left the supporting evidence sitting at home on the kitchen table.

I figured for those who care to know about my approaching holiday - or vacation as the American readers will call it, or as I’ve taken to referring to it: My super-awesome, kick-arse, no-holds-barred, East Coast nudie-run road trip – Uh, where was I? Oh yeah, for those who care, here’s a small run-down of where I intend to be at particular points in time:

I’ll be shipping out of Melbourne at sparrow's fart on Monday the 24th of August. I’ll be powering along the boring bits of the Hume highway (or is it freeway now?) taking in quick stops in exciting towns like Holbrook, Tarcutta, Gundagai and Yass. I’ll be rolling into Canberra on Wednesday the 26th of August with super special thanks to Sparsely Kate who has offered to put me up (or should that be ‘put up with me?’) for the night.

On Thursday the 27th I’ll be back on the road and rolling into Sydney, where the gorgeous Phishez of Sanity Optional fame will be doing her very best to lead me astray. Rest assured I’ll be doing everything in my power to ensure she get her norks out. I’m going to hang around for the whole weekend and then shoot off on Monday the 31th of August or Tuesday the 1st of September, depending on how hungover I’m feeling.

Of course I promise that there will be no hitchhiker too smelly, no truck-stop hamburger too greasy and no stopped truck driver too horny for me to investigate, with commentary and photos so it’ll be just like having you all along with me! As with last year’s road trip madness I will be nuding up in every town I stay in (by stay, I must be there for an overnight stop at least) but I won’t limit myself either so there may be more nudeness involved. Don’t be too alarmed if you think you see me doing odd things to the dog on the tucker box at Gundagai… I most likely will be.

After Sydney I’ll be journeying home along the coast and having a bit of a look see at places like Ulladulla, Bega, Merimbula and Lakes Entrance. Of course this trip is all about the bloggers, so Muzbot, Victor and serial commenter Stu have all been forewarned about my arrival. That’s not to say I’m not willing to take on more. If you’d like to knock back a beer with The Mutant drop me a line and let me know where along the way I might find you. You can hit me up at kerr_kc (at) yahoo (dot) com (dot) au I’m going to assume you know how to turn that into a real email address, right?

So, less than two weeks to go now. I can’t wait. I’m not the most patient person in the world, so from when I first put in my leave application at work, two months ago, up until now has been a killer. By the end of the next two weeks I should be just about frantic. Oh, and if you see me on the road, don’t forget to wave, or flash me some boobs, cock, arse, or whatever you’ve got really.

My Guilt-trip: You Know You Want Some

2009-08-09T19:21:00.002+10:00

Always lovely to see the olds, always. Yesterday I finished work at 1:oo PM, threw myself into this week's car and hit the highway bound for home. This week I happen to be in charge of a sinfully fast, yet disturbingly practical, v8 wagon... Those that care can check out the review in a week or so, anyway...

Heading home to visit the parental units. It's always nice to go home, have meals cooked for me, be given money, get a handshake and a hug then be sent home, feeling like the greatest son that ever lived. But that's the idealist's view. In reality there's lots of: "How do I fix this?" "Take a look at the digital camera/GPS unit/set-top box" "While you're here, can you change the audio/trip computer/climate control settings in my car/ute?" and so on.

This time around I set myself up so there'd be no time to spare, just a flying visit and most importantly no early start the next morning as two semi-retired farmers with no idea how to sleep in start rattling plates and pots at 5:30 AM. Instead I opted for a three hour drive home, four hours with the olds and a three hour drive back... Perfect for decompression if required, plus I'd have my own bed and no guilt complex to take with me. Lovely.

So, at bang-on 4:oo PM I pulled into the driveway. One very excited dog and a very excited father were there as my welcoming committee. Dad oohed and aahed at the car, sat in it, poked under the hood, prodded the throttle and started working out the finance figures to buy his own. The dog on the other hand just sniffed me a few times then pissed on a wheel. Good one, Taz.

Before long the Motherload arrived home in a flurry of shopping and air-kisses. If you ever want to know where my gay came from, look no further than the flash-bird in the corner with bum-hugging pink pants and asian-bride shoes. No not me you fool... My mum!

Anyway, she too rushed over to the car. Sat in it, opened the tailgate - sat in there too to see how much merchandise she could carry, looked under the hood - pretended to be interested, scoffed at the colour "It's bright green - do they make them in any colours you'd want to be seen in?" and attacked me for another round of cuddles and kisses before rushing inside to do, well, I'm not entirely sure actually. Get changed and adjust her hair and make-up I suppose. See where I get it from now?

Dinner was made up of this week's macro-biotic fad-diet, coupled with organic-barley cordial and a seedless-strawberry yogurt for sweets. I couldn't help but look back fondly at the the KFC I'd gulped down on the Hume Highway. Be thankful for the little things, I always say.

Then came Q and A time: "How's work?" "Do you have enough money?" "Do you need any socks?" "Are you being nice to your sisters?" and then the big one. The question that bought the night's conversation to a screeching halt... "When are you going to have kids?"

I'm sorry mother, dear. I think I mis-heard you. Did you just mention me and procreation in the same sentence? Sorry dear, you did? BWA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA. Oh? What?? Fuck me, you're serious aren't you?

I watched as my mother began a misty-eyed diatribe about the joy children can bring to your life. Oh, sod off woman. It wasn't that long ago that I was a kid. I remember mashing ice-cream into the sofa, trying to flood the bathroom for kicks, terrorising the cats, chasing down the neighbourhood boys and watching you and Dad tear your hair out as I turned into a free-spirited, strong willed, independent, teenage fag. Don't give me the 'joy of children' speech.

Actually I stared at her for a while. Blinked. Stared. Realised she wasn't kidding. Blinked. Then started to stammer out some kind of response as to why I hadn't had kids yet, how I'd like to one day. Anything to make this conversation go away.

In return I got given the whole: "You and your sisters just don't know what you're missing out on." Of course, my other three siblings have provided the Motherload with more grandkids then she could poke a stick at, but I don't think that crossed her mind. The other thing that probably didn't occur to her is that I'd need to be sleeping with women, not men, for someone to fall pregnant. I decided to leave my tasteless joke about 'failed insemination attempts with the husbear' out of this conversation.

And then... All too soon it was 8:00 Pm, and well: "I'd better hit the road so as I'm not getting home too late." So I got to the car, got more handshakes and air-kisses, was given some money "Just in case you need to call a tow truck on the way home or something." and half a cabbage, and was on my way.

Ha, children indeed. Good one Ma. I nestled back in the drivers seat of the big, family sized V8 wagon that I'd fallen in love with... Children - how the hell could I ever adapt to a life with children?

Discovering The 'Local'

2009-08-02T20:37:00.002+10:00

For those unfamiliar with the concept your 'local' refers to the bar or pub which is closest to your house or work, whichever applies. My local is located just half a block from my front door, however I don't go there because I'm pretty sure I'm not cool enough, or uni student enough to fit in.

For the gays, their local is usually the nearest gay bar. So, when I lived in Richmond it was DT's and I'd spend many a Thursday evening, Friday night, Saturday night and Sunday afternoon there. Did I just say 'and', I meant 'or' *ahem* of course.

Now that I'm in Carlton my local is Sircuit in Collingwood, of course The Laird is just a hop, skip and a jump away and The Peel lies in between. Sadly they are a touch further than staggering distance away, but still reasonably handy.

Last night, after the delights of attending a charity art fund raiser for a local primary school I was fed up with children, parents and teachers and needed to do something to remind myself why I was so fond of the cock.

I decided I night of beer-swillin' nancy boys was just the thing, but instead of heading for the local I decided to broaden my horizons and check out the west end of town. Should you not hail from Melbourne you should probably be aware that the west here has a reputation for being, well lets just say a little rough and classless. To put it politely.

The Commercial Hotel in Yarraville looked like a goer. I'd not set foot in there since I left Yarraville so I jumped online to see what was on. As luck would have it, Saturday night's entertainment is provided my none other than a bunch of cock's in frocks. Perfect. I do love me a good drag show. Hell I even love the the bad ones.

So over to Yarraville I did frolic, only to find rude shock number one. The joint was empty. That's okay though. It's still early. I've just beaten the rush. I scanned the few patrons already in attendance. Not a single gay lookin' lad amongst them. Possibly a dyke or two, but Yarraville is supposedly the suburb for lesbian lovers, so that's not unusual.

I started to panic. My night of social butterflying had been replaced by an evening of tracky daks and bad mullets. As patronage grew I held less and less hope that I'd make it out alive as bogan sheilas strode in attached to the arms of bogan blokes. They know they're coming to see a drag show, right? Right???

I decided to have another beer. If anything was going to make this crowd look pretty, it'd be beer. But as I returned from the bar I couldn't help but notice that the big, butch, tough, tradesmen looking men who walked in with their birds were in fact ordering bacardi breezers, air kissing each other and skipping across the dance-floor to make it in time to groove to a Miley Cyrus/Avril Levine mega mix.

These were the men of legend. The promised land I'd heard so much about. I thought I was the only one, yet all this time I'd been led astray. I was surrounded by... gay bogans!

I shed a tear then grinned to myself. Before long I was playing pool against a brickies labourer and a carpenter in a flannelette shirt. Raising eyebrows as the carpenter, who must've weighed at least 155 kilos, kept dropping the fly of the brickie to gain access to his tackle.

I felt right at home as every second word uttered around me was 'fucken'.

"Oi, mate. Get us a fucken beer, ay?"

"He's fucken hung like a fucken donkey, ay?"

"Nah, the fucken clown wouldn't fucken know what was fucken good for him if it fucken came up and bit 'im on the fucken nutsack."

And so on and so forth. I nearly wept openly with joy.

Whilst at the Commercial Hotel I had the pleasure of meeting Sharon. Sharon is a fag-hag who spends her evenings seeking homosexual men in need of conversion. Last night I believe she found one in the form of the brickie. At one point the two could be seen trying to perform a tonsillectomy on each other with their hands firmly attached to each others genitals. Classy.

Sharon really was a delight to watch as she went from dainty pristine blonde princess to staggering, slurring gutter-moll in about five beers flat. Watching her standing with her legs splayed, balancing a beer and trying to counteract the effects of a swaying room was just priceless.

Eventually the brickie tired of her though and took me under his wing, shouted me a coke then dragged me from the pool table to the bar to the beer garden with me firmly lodged under his arm while he told me all about how much fucken hard work is involved in his fucken job, which he fucken loves, by the way.

The dragging continued and before long we were headed to the toilets. Abort, abort. I thought, but rather than try to pin me against the wall to kill me, mug me or rape me he just wanted some company whilst he took a slash. Charming, convenient also that I needed to take one too, otherwise it would have just looked like I was hanging around to eye off his equipment.

So he stood there, or tried to stand but couldn't, so he tucked me under his wing again for support. He swayed this way and that. He told me about how much the neighbourhood had changed since he was a kid, growin' up in Footscray. I looked across to see him pissing on the sleeve of the jacket he had tied around his waist. I elected to say nothing and tried to step out from under his smelly armpit to distance myself from his erratic stream. I was mostly successful I think.

All too soon the night came to an end. I was watching the carpenter and another chap play pool while the brickie poured bourbon and beer down his throat in alternating sequence. The game ended, the carpenter lost, hands were shook between the players, then the brickie decided he should shake the winner's hand. The winner didn't want to so the brickie broke his nose instead.

I cheered, watched the two tussle on the edge of the pool table for a while, then cheered some more as a dozen large islander-type bouncers started throwing punches to calm the fracas. Before I could see the outcome I made a bolt for home. Reckon I might go back next week too.

Break Ya Neck

2009-07-30T11:56:00.002+10:00

Ah, the glory of an early morning start. As much as I’d like to look like one of those Special K ads where vivacious young things spring out of bed with perfect hair and make up and bounce off to the gym, this just isn’t me.

Instead I’ll usually grumble my way out of the fart-sack, swear at my alarm clock on the way past, then plod down the hallway in my frumpy pajamas, scratching my arse and bumping into things because I haven’t woken up properly. I’ll stare at a bowl of cereal for at least half an hour until I work out I should eat it, then I’ll flick the radio on so I can keep track of time while I battle with keeping my shower to three minutes, and wrestle with getting my hair ‘just so’ to hide my numerous, expanding bald-spots.

This morning I was all class. Things just fell into place and I felt like some kind of movie montage. I felt sexy and energized and ready to jump head-long into the day ahead.

I’d just toweled myself off, splashed on some anti-perspirant and slid into a fitted T-shirt and a pair of briefs with amazing package-enhancing abilites when the morning rasio-jocks shut the hell up and the music began to roll. Cue Beyonce’s Sweet Dreams. I looked at my reflection in the full length mirror behind me, the steam had started to lift, my head was obscured, but my body was reflected in all its tightly-packed glory.

It started out innocently enough, with a little hip-swaying, but before long I was power-ballading with the best of them. Shaking my groove thang and hamming it up like the whole world was watching me. I don’t even like Beyonce, but I gave the performance of a lifetime, such was my effervescent mood. Of course, being unable to see my own head, but watching my co-ordinated shirt-n-trunks bump and grind was really starting to turn me on. I decided to focus and set about dressing, primping and preening until the desired effect was reached.

With hair looking like it had been expertly tousled by the hands of the gods I exited the bathroom, just as another snappy tune filled the room. I had no choice but to conduct a merry old jig down the hallway to the strains of Lily Allen’s Not Fair.

Of course just as it kicked into action I reached my bedroom, threw my PJs across the room, launched myself at my bed and pulled a few anguished faces before getting up and square dancing my way back to the kitchen to prepare my lunch and sing out the window to two very bemused looking cats.

Well, that was the good mood taken care of. But it didn’t end there, not by a long shot. Out the door and across to my car I managed to find an elusive break in traffic that meant I was able to dash across effortlessly without having to wait and get sprayed with the unburnt diesel from hundreds of heavy-haulage trucks. I looked around, I couldn’t see anyone filming a revised version of the Mary Tyler Moore opening credits, so I figured this was actually for real.

And just as I thought that things couldn’t possibly get any better – you guessed it – they sure did. This morning must have been some kind of national jogger’s meet. Now usually I’m not overly fond of jogging men, except when they fit a particular set of criteria. I swear, there must have been at least fifty men jogging around the outskirts of Melbourne’s CBD this morning, all with rather large arms, all with buzz-cut hair and goatees and all wearing sweat pants. Tick, tick aaaaaaand tick!

Sweat pants you say? Indeed, but better still, from what I could tell there were no undergarments to be found, so the jogging action resulted in what can only be described as two kittens wrestling behind a curtain. If there’s a better way to get to work in the morning I’m yet to find it. Of course the resulting neck strain is a totally different issue, but with happy thoughts running through my mind, I can’t see that being such a big deal.

Looks like I’m going to make it after all!

Open Roading

2009-07-26T20:24:00.004+10:00

The complaints were getting too loud to ignore.

My guest - having travelled all the way from Denver, Colorado, via Christchurch, New Zealand - wanted to get out and see Australia.

Fair call really. I can't imagine sitting in my bedroom and waiting for the action to come to you is a whole lot of fun, so I relented and we hit the road for a good old fashioned grand adventure.

I pointed the car towards Daylesford, otherwise known as 'the town that gay saved', and decided to terrorise this sleepy little tourist town with J.D.

Daylesford, for any non-Victorians is the spa centre of Australia, thanks to all its natural springs and such. I tried out the water and I have to say, afterwards my mouth tasted like I'd French-kissed a crow-bar. If rusty water isn't your thing, I'd recommend staying well away from drinking the stuff, try the bath-house instead.

Also, just past Daylesford, on your way to Hepburn, you'll find the place where the willow used in genuine Australian cricket bats is grown. Personally I find cricket a monumental snooze-fest, although I'm getting a feel for the twenty-twenty stuff. Either way, we spotted a road-side tribute to 'Cricket Willow' which got Hoodie rather hot under the collar.

We aslo stopped in at the Wombat Park Botanical Gardens in Daylesford, which are rather lovely, plus they have a way cool observation tower there, and me being the little monkey-boy I am, I had to climb it.

Towards the top I was ready to die - yes that is a cigarette in my hand, which probably explains a hell of a lot really, also when you look back down it all comes into sharp focus.

104 steps may not seem like much, but when they're steep, wet and slippery and you decide it'd be fun to see how long it takes to to sprint from the bottom to the top, things tend to get a little dangerous.

If it wasn't for the shitty, damp, drizzly weather the view from the top would be awesome. I was just happy with the fact the ground was a long way down.

Look at them tiny people, they look like ants! Oh, wait there are no people there. I really wanted to take a leak from the top of the tower, because my puerile mind gets a real kick out of that, but J.D. decided we should act like grown-ups, hence why I was taking pictures of the two of us doing unsavory things in a public toilet, see:

Try explaining that to the local constabulary. Anyway, we moved on. J.D. mentioned how much he liked the look of sleepy old Daylesford, so we decided to check out the local property scene and see if there was anything that took out fancy. The house below was described as a 'charming two-bedroom workers cottage, with plenty of natural light and an open, airy feel. A real renovators delight.' No fucking kidding. After putting a rusty nail through my foot on my way out to see the courtyard we decided to leave that idea behind. Shame really because with the cash I had in my pocket I could've bought it.

As night closed in we made out way back to Melbourne after a grand day out. Sadly the weather was pretty nasty so we didn't get to meet any new faces. We did get to enjoy some Australian native highway cuisine on the way home.

With a diet like that, I have no idea how Hoodie manages to keep such a slim figure.

One Side To Too Many Stories

2009-07-24T17:39:00.001+10:00

I’ve been rather self analytical of late. Everything I do, everything I say, every action, every consequence has come under scrutiny. There’s been a lot of blame, a lot of guilt and basically a lot of wallowing in my own self pity.

Why is it that I’ll spit a vitriolic tirade at someone who I actually get along with? Do I hope to get a laugh, am I trying to do some damage?

Why can’t I ever seem to stand on my own two feet? Am I going to need to be helped through my entire life, is the ultimate solution co-dependency?

Before you start gesticulating wildly in the direction of a probable cause, let me stop you right now. I’m very much fucking aware of why I’m feeling this way. I took a heart and tore it in two. I didn’t put much thought into what I was doing – I cared more about getting my end in than I did about any long term implications. I’m not the smartest peanut in the turd. I’ll admit that.

So how’s this for poetic justice. My husbear is taking an extended overseas vacation. I knew he was, he’s been talking about it for months. I let him go, figuring he’d be off to Italy to see his family. Turns out he’d set aside two weeks towards the end in Hong Kong, designed to line up with my own vacation time. Sucks to be me: I have no passport and already planned my own trip to Sydney, like a fool, missing all the dropped hints thrown in my lap. How’s that for karmic-equality?

Tonight is probably the last chance I’ll get to see him before he ships off to Europe and Asia for what sounds like an awesome vacation. There’ll be no romantic ‘just the two of us’ tonight, he can’t stand to be alone with me right now, so instead it’ll be he and I and twenty of his rowdy mates. He won’t tell me he loves me, he won’t say that he’s going to miss me. In fact his new trick this week is calling me “Mate” and “Buddy”.

There’s two ways this holiday will work. Either he really will miss me like crazy when he returns, or he’ll be smart enough to work out he’s better off without me. I’ll take bets too if you’re interested in pulling some cash. FYI, odds are currently at fifty-to-one he’ll hang around, you want in?

So, here we are – after big-noting myself as your typical weekend warrior for the last eighteen months I have a confession to make. I hadn’t had a drink since March 2008. Eventually I decided no harm could come of it, the husbear thought it’d be nice if I started drinking again, socially of course. So I did. See where it got me? Last Friday and the previous Sunday are prime example of why this is not a good idea.

I’ll repeat the performance tonight for kicks then it’ll be back on the wagon until I’m a grown up. Believe that and you’ll believe anything I suppose.

This is a post that shouldn’t go up. It’s likely to be the first post that doesn’t stay up. Basically I wanted to share with you all my big bag of woe. There is a prequel to this story actually. Remind me to share it with you some day. It has photos and everything. For now though, I’m just going to go and live with myself for a while.

No Happy Ending

2009-07-21T20:07:00.002+10:00

Quite possibly the best thing about driving other people's cars for a living is that you get to be seen in them. Now this is an amazing feeling when you pull up at the beach in a Lamborghini convertible, not so shit-hot when you have to spend a week in a Proton Savvy.

Tonight, however, I was in luck. Whilst I can't name names I was in quite possibly the worlds most pointless SUV, which I think is sublime piece of design and not for the faint of heart to be seen in. Better still, there's a twin-turbo V8 lurking beneath the bonnet that barks like a hell-hound every time you poke the throttle, and massive 20 inch rims at each corner.

So, onto the main event. Tonight as I was leaving work I was driving the previously mentioned car. I had the windows down so as not to miss a moment of that guttural V8, but when idling at the lights I'd crank up the premium sound system and escape into some tunes.

I have no idea what CD I had on, something an ex of mine mixed for me years and years ago, which encompasses neither of our musical tastes. Anyway I was sitting at an intersection near home with some grungey, hard-core, euro thrash-metal music pumping into the street. Small children were hiding behind their mothers legs, while the elderly scampered back into their homes for refuge.

Attention? What do you mean centre of attention? For added effect I'd stab the throttle from time-to-time just to add to the crescendo of noise. It was all quite primal really. Then out of nowhere this tight little jogger arrived on my side of the street, the kind of man I'd throw myself at the mercy of in an instant. Buzz-cut hair, arms like tree trunks, thick well-trimmed beard, solid legs, a hairy chest and for the icing on the cake, running shorts that were almost tight enough to reveal every follicle on his - no doubt - furry, tightly packed arse.

He looked over at me. I was waiting for the 'wanker' eyes, but instead he looked my car up and down slowly, then started nodding his head to the music. Score! If I play this juuuuust right, who knows what could happen. I decided to go for full effect and blipped the throttle. The sound ripped though the cold night air and I could see the hair on his neck (and shoulders) stand on end.

It was really working for me, then - of course - it all went pear-shaped. The Azerbaijani death metal finished and next track on the CD cued up. To prove what a short attention span that particular ex had, what do you suppose the next track was? We'll if you guessed 'techno remix of Shake your Booty by Scooter' then well done, you're tonight's winner.

I desperately smacked the dash, trying in vain to shut the damn thing up, but my aim wasn't good enough. That's it. My dreams of hot, bearish bliss turned into a disco-scented puddle and run through the cobble-stone streets.

Or so I though until I looked at the hot sweaty daddy-bear and saw him tapping his foot to the music. We locked eyes and he let out a "woof" that although inaudible from my vantage point would have been deep, low and well, pure sex really. I gave my best smoldering eyes, then the lights turned green so I buried the accelerator into the carpet and tore off towards the horizon, leaving a wake of thunderous V8 bellow and candy-apple disco behind me.

As I pulled up around the next corner I felt spurred on to hit my fitness routine hard. I dived into the house, threw on my tracksuit, pulled a few quick warm-ups and hit the street. As usual it didn't take to long before I was marinating in my own sweat, red-faced, puffing and grunting, clutching my hefty sides as they jiggled themselves into a stitch.

And of course, who should come gliding effortlessly around the corner looking all super-fit, fresh and perky? Yeah, daddy-big-guns, of course. With nowhere to go I was forced to head straight for him. He saw me coming an cracked a smile, then noticed my pastel pink velour tracksuit, the pained expression on my face and my generally disheveled look, and his look quickly turned into one of: 'Oh, you though you could play with the big boys, huh?'

He dashed past me, all effortless and gazelle-like as I swore silently an my pure unathleticism. Of course there was no better time to stop to catch my breath and watch his tight-as-a-drum arse bounce off into the fading light.

Needless to say, (I'll be getting rid of that tracksuit immediately, and...) I've found my inspiration. He'd just want to hope I don't catch him anytime soon.

Blink And You'll Miss It

2009-07-20T19:49:00.002+10:00

A three-day weekend you say? Yes please, I'd love one. I'm only scheduled one of those a month, and thanks to staff shortages I usually work the Saturday meaning I get a two-day weekend once a month and a single day the other three weeks.

You can only imagine how much I was looking forward to this. The only problem is, I stilll have to fit my part-time job in around that too, that usually takes place on Saturday and Sunday, but the hours are fairly flexible, and besides I still had Monday to spend in my pajamas. Well, that was the idea anyway.

To celebrate I accosted one of the boys from work and suggested that we should go out and get severely written off on Friday night. He umm-ed and aah-ed and tried to make excuses about plans for the next morning, but I was having none of it. I bundled him into my car, stopped in at a bottle shop, grabbed more beer than was ultimately safe and set he and I up on his couch, necking stubbies and allowing the hardships of a working week to melt away.

Before too long we'd both of us drank ourselves past sober and were on our way getting legless. Then the suggestion was made that we should hit the town, surprisingly I was the largest objector as I was still in my work uniform, but it didn't take too much to convince me.

So there I was, swaying like a palm tree in a tropical storm, dressed like an office worker, with giddy fags prancing merrily around me and a straight mechanic with his arm around me for moral support. I know it sounds delightful, but it was not to stay that way.

Accompanying us was the light of my life, my darling husbear. At some point I had a hissy fit about something I couldn't find: Keys, bag, phone, whatever. So he took me back to his car and helped me locate them. Somehow this turned into an indescribably long sob-fest with me pouring my heart out about how I'd slept with someone else earlier that week.

I stood there, in the middle of Commercial Road, swaying and lurching in the breeze, trying to focus on my gorgeous boyfriend's face, so I could look deep into his eyes. Of course, to prove how perfect he is, he laughed the whole thing off, assured me that I was only human and told me he knew it wasn't likely to happen again.

Back at the bar I was thirsty... So very thirsty, so I kept pouring beer, rum and whatever else I could get down my neck. Stirring up the hornets nest within. A group of friends had gathered to watch the spectacle that I was fast becoming. Usually I'm the sober one, the designated driver or the one who has to leave early. Not this time.

My phone chimed with an SMS, someone requesting my location. I informed them and continued drinking. All too late it struck me who it was I'd just told to come and meet me out. The other man. That thought really only struck me as he walked in the door. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

He walked over to where me and my boyfriend were standing along with a couple of my friends, and stood there, grinning. Rational thought gripped me and I jumped into action mode: "Uh, S this is the man I cheated on you with. D, this is the boyfriend you didn't know I had" followed by the rapid skulling of a fresh rum and coke.

And of course everything went merrily downhill from there, didn't it. Two men in that bar wanted to kill me, and of course because I was off my chops I decided the whole thing was hilarious and: Continued. To. Drink. Foolish boy.

Not five minutes later the keys and bag I was so worried about were thrust at me, and as I gathered myself I saw my other half storming out the door. I had a very upset one-night stand making gooey eyes at me from the other side of the bar and I could not seem to pull myself away from the beer tap, which may as well have been an IV drip by now.

Thankfully the lights came on and it was time to go home. I decided now was as good a time as any to reveal to my co-worker that he is a very sexy guy and he should take his pick from the drooling masses eyeing him off, go home and have the night of his life. He declined, put his arm around me and steered me through those same salivating vultures, to the safety of the street. God bless his pure, loving soul - for that alone I think I need to buy him something. Maybe a box of beer?

Of course Saturday morning would have been a glorious occasion to sleep in, except for the customer who thought I'd be at work, so called my mobile instead of the work line. As soon as he realised he'd woken me he apologised profusely. I simply told him to fuck off and ring work. Then the guilt set in and I rang work back and told them that, if that customer needed a delivery I could run it out to him.

Needless to say, half an hour later I was on my way to the middle of nowhere, fighting the mother of all hangovers and gasping along the way as shreds of the night before returned to me. The rest of Saturday didn't go particularly well either, as I had a shattered boyfriend to mend things with. The good new is, he's still around. The bad news is, every time he looks at me all I can see is the betrayal I inflicted, bleeding from deep within him. This isn't going to mend itself quickly.

Of course amongst all that I had to fit in my part-time job, same again on Sunday too, so you can only imagine how much I was looking forward to today with my grand plans to head to the Victorian snowfields for a day trip.

Of course this morning started at 8:00 am, much earlier than expected with a phone call from Saturday's customer. Again I told him to kindly take the largest spanner he could find and insert it sideways into whatever orifice was currently pointed south. I think he got the message. I decided I may as well get up, and lo-and-behold, not five minutes later the part-time job called and asked if I could fill in.

Always hungry for cash I stupidly said yes, meaning my trip to the snow would have to wait until I was finished. I finished at 3:00 pm, and embarked on the three hour drive, only to turn around after two hours thanks to the fading light. Sigh.

I was taking someone with me too, you see. J.D. Hoodie, the traveller from America - I promise I'll make it up to him though. If you haven't added him on facebook, do so now, it's the best way to keep up with his worldwide journey.

As for me, I'm ready for bed. It's been quite a weekend and I really feel like I could do with a day off tomorrow.

AWOL with JD

2009-07-13T16:45:00.005+10:00

Melbournians, rejoice. For this week is AWOL week. Yeah, yeah we all know the military’s use of the acronym; however for those in the underground gay subculture of hyper masculinity you should probably acquaint yourself with A Week Of Leather at the Laird Hotel in Abbotsford.

I decided to last night, so before I ventured out into the cold winter night I donned my leather pants, leather jacket, studded belt, steel toed boots, leather cuffs, leather armband and leather jacket. Yeah I don’t do this shit by halves. Needless to say the Laird, as always, did not disappoint when it came to hot, hot men with huge arms, buzz-cuts and questionable facial hair. I’m determined to be a bear one day. No one knows how to party like those boys.

Particularly the two guys I was sent to rendezvous with: Carlos and Toby, visiting from New Zealand. These two guys are friends of Freddy’s and two more woof-alicious men you will not find anywhere. As an added bonus they guys had bought JD Hoodie with them, the traveling hoody which has made its way out of the USA, over to New Zeland and is now in my possession so that I can show it the sights, sounds, smells and men of Melbourne.

If you check out that handover photo, you can see why I was so enamoured with the kiwi lads, you can also see that I was rather stoked to get my hands on JD. Of course JD isn’t exactly the most pure of lads and it wasn’t long before he found himself a tall, muscular bear to drape himself across. Lucky bastard.

If only I could remember this guys name, but he was dark and brooding and hot as the sun. Plus he’s a former mechanic so he knew his shit when it came to cars. Needless to say I was both weak at the knees and maybe a little bit hard. When he asked if he could try JD on, what else was I to do but oblige?

Anyway I blame JD, Toby and Carlos in equal measure for a debaucherous night which saw me drink and swinging off a variety of heavy-set bear-type men. Worse still, my inner trash-bag took over and I made it home at 5:00am Monday morning, which gave me just enough time to powernap for an hour before getting up for work.

To say that I feel like death warmed up right now would be the understatement of the understatement of the century, but at least I didn’t go home alone… I had JD to keep me company.

So, if you haven’t added JD Hoodie as a friend on facebook yet, I strongly suggest you do so, that way you can keep up on all of his global adventures. Freddy will keep you up to date too and while JD is hanging with me, I’ll bring you all the inside goss on what the lad gets up to!

Don't Forget The Little People

2009-07-09T16:53:00.001+10:00

Last night the other half called me excitedly from his car to tell me all about the hot twink that had just served him at the drive-through window.

“You should have seen him” He gushed, “He had reddish auburn hair like that wig of yours, and tattoos all up his arms, but he was probably only 17 so he’d have to go on lay-by for a while.”

I sighed. “Well, if he’s got tatts then he has to be 18 at least.”

“Really?” I could hear the gears in the husbear’s mind racing to process the good news. “Are you sure? He sounded as gay as the hills.”

“I can only imagine the flirtation flying between the two of you. Why don’t you go back and pretend there was something wrong with your order, find out what time he knocks off and offer to give him a ride home?” For those who are struggling with the concept, that was laced with sarcasm.

“But he’s not your type” Came the dejected reply.

“Of course he’s not. Clearly he’s no bear, but he sounds like he’s right up your alley. I have no involvement, you go back there and have the time of your life, I’d hate for you to miss out” I shot back.

“You know somewhere out there there’ll be a bearded midget, and when I see him I’ll bring him home for you and I to share.” He soothed. Aww, bless his furry little heart. He really was paying attention all those times I dropped hints about my midget fetish and my penchant for facial scruffage.

So what should happen, not 20 hours later? Two of my co-workers approached me, having just returned from a road-test. “We just saw the perfect man for you.” They claimed.

“Do tell” I replied, dubiously.

“Well, he was this tall” and they both indicated a spot somewhere around the four-feet-from-the-floor mark. “And… he had a scruffy little beard.”

“You’re fucking with me aren’t you?” I accused.

“Nah, we’re not. I would’ve taken a photo, but I was driving. He was just on Chapel Street if you’d like to go and find him” One of them suggested.

I toyed with the idea but decided to let it go, then I relayed the story of last night’s events, which had them in stitches, both declaring that they’re in a lot of trouble, if they turn up looking clean shaven and boyish when my other half is around, they’ll end up attracting his attention, whereas should they go for a scruffy look they’ll have me to contend with.

I eyeballed them from top to toe and sneered. “Nah, doesn’t matter what you do lads – you aint going to raise my pulse in a hurry!” I quipped.

“It’s not your pulse I’m concerned about raising” came the reply.

Touché, but enough outta me… I’ve got a fuzzy-midget to find.

Home For Lunch

2009-07-06T12:33:00.002+10:00

I knew that no good could come of this. I knew it, I knew it, I knew it.

What to do on the weekend when you have a job that requires you to become intimately acquainted with an automobile for the purposes of reviewing it? Well I decided I should probably check in on the Motherload and il Papa, plus I could show off something that has lots of buttons to push and plenty of things that open and close.

So once again it was just me and my best buddy, the open road, screaming down the highway in search of a place less hectic than Melbourne. Along the way to the farm I decided to stop in Rushworth for coffee and a cigarette. First failure of the day, if you want coffee in a town that hasn’t much progressed from its gold-rush era days, be prepared for acidic tasting Nescafe.

Deciding against the coffee idea, I sat in the reserve in the middle of the main drag, watching locals dawdle past in beaten up old Hiluxes or trundling along with the assistance of a shopping jeep. Dear god, that country air must be good, some of those folks would be pushing at least 130 years old.

As I walked back to my strongly on-road focused SUV I caught the sneers of mothers with prams, loading their children into high-rise Land Cruisers and Patrols with hefty bullbars and 9,000 pound winches. More fool you bitches. I don’t need low-range to get up my driveway… try living in civilisation, huh?

A little further on the track and I arrived at the Parental Unit’s farm, to be greeted by no sign of life at the house. That’s not good. Up to the dairy I journeyed, still no one. A quick scout of the machinery sheds revealed all tractors in place and no missing motorbikes. Back to the house, where shock horror, both cars were out. So much for the element of surprise!

So I calls the Motherload, and I says: “Mother dear, loin of my fruits… Where the fuck are you?” To which the Motherload replies: “Oh, I’m in Moama darling. Are you at home? Why not pop up and have lunch?” Deal done then. Back into the car and on my merry way. Half an hour later, on top of the two hours I’d just drove, and I was in the charming little bowrder town of Moama, freezing my cherished items off, searching for my mother amongst a sea of slack-jawed market shoppers.

Eventually I located her, befriending some poor misfit who’d made the mistake of looking in her direction for more than five seconds. I rushed across, greeted my brightly clad fashion mentor and allowed the stranger their only possible chance for escape.

“Oh, you’re looking thin. Must be all that running? Show me your teeth, have you had them whitened yet? Are you getting taller or am I getting shorter? See these pants? I bought them from the mail order. Look over there at that Faustina girl from down the road, you know the one, you used to go to school with her cousin…” And on and on it went.
“So, lunch was it?” I chimed in during a momentary lapse in her recitation of all local events, bankruptcies and relationships occurring in the district during the last month.

With the stern warning that I wouldn’t stay long we went in search of something edible and coffee that could be described as at least passable. Instead we found fish and chips served by a very stern woman, and more instant coffee. So that’ll be a pass on the coffee then, and one piece of flake, two steamed dim sims, a battered sav, six calamari rings, two potato cakes and minimum of chips… What are you having Ma?

All too quickly it was time for me to hit the road, of course that’s not as easy as it sounds. After a solid hour of “Come and have a quick look at this” and “There’s Linda from my quilting group, she asks after you, come say hello” I finally managed to shake loose and dash madly toward Melbourne, leaving the bitter taste of instant coffee in my wake. Two and a half hours of white-line watching turns out to be just the thing you need to reset your cognitive functions to ‘sane’ again.

Or at least as sane as one can get coming from the kind of brilliant stock that would wear a bright red bob, pink specs and burnt orange puffer vest with no regard for the fact she’s approaching 70. Bless her.

The Wonder And Glory

2009-07-01T20:20:00.002+10:00

There are things, so many incredible, wonderful, amazing things that I want to tell you , but I just can't. As I sat down this evening for a relaxing evening of blog-filled goodness I realised that I'm totally fucking hammered and I only got halfway though the backlog of incredibly important reading that I've missed out on.

I'm still running like there's a angry redneck on my tail and I'm getting better, I can now make it half a block further than when I started before falling into a stitch-riddled, gasping, sweaty heap. Yay fitness. *shakes pom-poms* Conveniently, that also explains why I'm so friggin' useless right now.

Anyway there are two important things you need to know:

1. I bit the bullet and joined facebook, I hate not being cool.

2. I've booked my fucking annual leave bitches.

What does this mean for you? Well it means that if you happen to live between Melbourne, Canberra and Sydney and will be around between August the 24th and September the 4th drop me a line because we are so catching up for a beer.

Phishez, Sparsely Kate, Muzbot, Monty, consider yourselves on high alert... Anyone else I've forgotten? You're going to get sucked in too.

So the plan is the motherfucking road trip to end all motherfucking road trips! There will be one mutant, one Calais, one CD tuner, one laptop, one wireless modem and one digital camera. Put 'em all together then bring on the open road baby.

If you have any idea where I should go, what I should see, or any places I should stop then clue me in because you guys are planning this vacation for me. I have no idea where I'm headed or how to get there but I want to go inland to Canberra, the capital of fireworks, porn and Australia, then onto Sydney where severe drinking will ensue then home via the coast.

If anyone knows how to put all that together then: details people, details. I look forward to seeing you on the road kiddo! YEEE HAAAAAAAAAAAA!

I Love It When You Say 'Crap-fest'

2009-06-28T20:44:00.002+10:00

Okay, so for those who've seen Transformers 2: Revenge Of The Fallen you'll know exactly what this blog heading means. I hope.

After what seems like an eternity I finally got to see the new Transformers flick. I know, I know, the film itself has only been out for a few days, but I'm one of those sad cases who has been feathering my throttle for a sequel right from the point there the closing credits started to roll on the first film.

I'm not going to do the whole spoiler thing, but let me dot-point the fuck out of this shit in order to save you and I a lot of time:

Robo-warfare doesn't get much better than this.
The whole film is a HUGE showcase for GM (BC, that is 'Before Chapter 11').
That may not sound positive but it is.
Megan's Box and Shea LeDouche do look pretty hot on screen.
Decepticons and Autobots look way hotter though.

Okay so in case you couldn't tell they were the positives, but unlike the first installment which was almost flawless this one deserves some harsh criticism:

It takes half an hour too long for anything decent to happen.
The love story does NOT need to be there, but I guess it keeps girlfriends interested.
Why are the Chevrolet Beat and Trax so heavily featured and the Corvette Concept and Volt almost ignored?
What is the deal with all the important plot points that make a mockery of the first film?
Slapstick is great in a film like this when used sparingly, Michael Bay, take note: this was not sparing use of slapstick.
What's the deal with the sudden drop in CGI quality for the ten minute period towards the end?

So, knowing these limitations you should have a grand old time. Melbourne it seems is gripped by Revenge Of The Fallen mayhem as very few cinemas had tickets available. The Coburg Drive-In however was the venue of choice and arriving an hour early meant only lining up for tickets for about 20 minutes... Score.

Now if you're going to see a car-based film at the drive in its best to go in either a car with awesome 5.1 channel sound, or something muscled up, hardcore and butch as fuck.

I went in a BF Falcon wagon. That is not a good start, to make it worse it was e-gas powered which takes any potential fury and replaces it with the smell of barbeque fuel. The stereo is not really what you'd call grand but at least the cargo bay is huge, or it would be if the spare wasn't mounted inside the car thanks to the gas tank living in the spare wheel well.

Never-to-mind though, I like my rides to come with excitement so when the cargo barrier decided to let go and crash awkwardly against the drivers seat you can bet your arse I was excited.

Anyway enough of that nonsense. I'd like to take a serious moment with y'all if I may. *Stands up* My name is The Mutton-chopped Mutant and I'm becoming a lard-arse.

...

Awww, you pack of cunts, that's the point where you're supposed to applaud my ability to confront my problems head on, haven't you ever been to an AA meeting? No? Oh, that'd just be me then.

Okay so these mornings when I get out of the shower I'm confronted by the reflection of a man with a hefty gut hanging off the front of him. I've looked around but I can't see anyone else in the bathroom with me so it must be me stacking on the poundage.

Being the pro-active individual I am, I've taken steps to counter-act this shit before I turn into a walking Big Mac Meal. Since Thursday evening I've been lacing up my runners and... wait for it... running.

Now I'd like to explain that I'm a smoker with an aversion to any physical activity outside the bedroom, this means I usually make it three doors down from my house before I'm grunting like a convulsing pig with sweat pouring from my every orifice. Attractive, wouldn't you say?

This has to be overcome though and drastic times call for drastic measures. My goal at the end of this is to look like the emaciated young tyke I was in high school, but to have also gained five kilograms, replacing my jiggling largeness with refined, powerful muscle.

Pretty ambitious huh? I've got this awesome running schedule all worked out and I'm throwing in 25 sit ups, 25 push ups and 25 girlie push ups (from the knees) as a starting regime which will be built up over time. To prove I'm fucking delirious I also walked from Carlton to Collingwood back to Carlton then rode my bike from Carlton to Abbotsford and around Princes Park.

I know, right? In, like, a matter of days I should have thighs like a hungarian shot-putter. So, who wants to join me for a jog some time? Any takers? At all? Argh, fuck the lot of you!

The Workings Of The Warped

2009-06-21T19:41:00.003+10:00

Please tell me I'm not the only filthy-minded little misfit out there. I know that to be polite you'll all nod your heads knowingly at what I'm about to say, then whisper behind your hands about what a deprived little freak I really am, but here goes anyway.

A couple of nights ago I was on the tram on my way home from work. Usually I view tram-time as a great opportunity to people watch. I'm a bit of a fantasist so I like to invent little scenarios to fill in the back story of people I know nothing about.

"That tall bird in the floral blouse, she lost her job two weeks ago and now just rides into the city each day to sit across from her old office to seethe with rage and plot implausible revenge scenarios. The goth kid in the stairwell with long hair and too many piercings, he aspired to be a high end male model until his dreams were dashed by the jock-brigade at high-school delivering him into the clutches of anti-conformity."

And so it goes for anyone who takes my eye, whatever the reason may be. Usually once I'm off the tram those people are forgotten about and life goes on for me and for them, even though it's not the life I plotted out for them in my mind.

The other day though, a guy got on the tram in the city and I started my usual scenario-planning. "Okay so he looks a little bit Forty Year Old Virginesque... I wonder if this guy really is a forty year old virgin?"

"Maybe he is, perhaps he's just dying to have a little action. He'd go alright too I reckon. Okay so he's not the height of fashion, but those black jeans and that navy T-shirt aren't totally out of place."

"He's tall and thin and naturally olive skinned. I wonder what he'd look like with those clothes off? Would he he be gentle and romantic or more of a rough assertive type."

"I bet he's got a hairy chest and despite his thin build he'd be pretty well hung."

On and on the internal monologue continued - then I changed gear from thinking filthy things about a total random stranger to worrying about his welfare.

"There's no wedding band on his finger, does he have someone waiting for him to get home? Is there a guy or girl at home cooking him dinner and watching the clock, counting down the minutes until he walks in the door?"

"Does he have kids, if so how many? Does he live with them or does he only get access to them every couple of weeks?"

"I wonder what he does for a living. Is he comfortably set up or struggling to make ends meet. Does he have any family anywhere? Is he away from home and does he miss it if he is?"

Before long I realised I was staring straight at this stranger on the tram. He wasn't looking in my direction so hadn't noticed me. I began to feel guilty that I'd thought such explicit things about him earlier.

I focused on the passing cars outside the tram window, but my mind kept wandering back to this man I knew nothing about. I wanted to know more but knew better of pursuing it.

My stop came up and I disembarked. The cold night air hit my face and crept in through my coat. I tilted my head into the breeze and began to stride home.

My tram ride was over, but this time the stranger on the tram was still puzzling me.

"Where was his stop? How far was his walk home? Who was waiting for him at the other end?"

And the most difficult question of all: "Does anyone ponder these things about me?"

Dan Doesn't Live Here

2009-06-16T16:37:00.001+10:00

So last night I was relaxing in my parlour with dinner gently simmering on the stove and the subtle sounds of elctro-euro-funk teasing my ears. I sighed a deep, relaxing sigh. After a glorious day of cruising around the rolling hills of central Victoria nothing could be better.

Then the doorbell rang. I looked at my watch for no other purpose then to confirm that a door-to-door salesman had indeed called upon me at dinner time. That’s usually how it goes.

I got up and answered the door expecting to deliver a curt ‘thanks, but why not fuck off and leave me in peace’. Instead I was greeted by a weedy looking nerdish chap with a hefty looking back pack slung over one shoulder and a plastic bag filled with takeaway food in his other hand.

“Uh, hi. Is Dan home?” he enquired.

“Sorry man, no Dan here” I replied, then pushed on “What number did Dan give you?”

“Number 36” He said.

“Uh huh” Said I “Well this is number 36, Is Dan a uni student?” I enquired.

“No man, Dan works full time” Came the response.

“Oh, my mistake, well then does Dan at least live in a share house?” I quizzed

“Yeah, that’s right” Replied the geek, desperate to get off my front porch.

“Dan isn’t a doctor is he?” I went on, the guy to my left is, you see.

“Nah” replied the increasingly nervous nerd.

“Oh, then I think you want that place there” I said, pointing to my right.

“Thanks, sorry about that” Trilled the nerd as he skipped off my front step and bolted for the house next door.

This is not the first time someone has come and knocked on my door looking for Dan, it would appear Dan doesn’t know his address. Often Dan’s guests arrive closer to midnight so I was thankful this one called at a more reasonable hour. I’m sure enough of Dan’s friends have been traumatised by having me answer the door in little more than my jocks.

I’ve spoken about Dan’s midnight visitors to friends of mine before. Their recommendation is that I tell the door-knockers that Dan is waiting for them, drag them inside, lure them into my bedroom, drop my drawers and introduce my ‘little Danny boy’. As tantalising as that sounds I can’t see it happening any time soon. Plus Dan’s friends are an all-sorts variety of seriously unattractive dufuses (or should that be dufii?).

Meanwhile I’m still waiting for a knock from the bear of my dreams offering to take me away from all this to his country estate in the rolling hills of central Victoria. Why haven’t you knocked yet?

It's Been A While

2009-06-13T18:13:00.003+10:00

The other day I got to thinking about how it's been such a long time since I did the ol' self portraiture thing. Seeing as I'd just rugged myself up to fend off the rather offensive Melbourne winter I figured: No time like the present.

Now, as an aside - I know that within Australia, Melburnians are somewhat renowned for their fondness of black, but I'd just like to go on the record as confirming that I didn't grow up in Melbourne and, whilst black is nice, I figure it's better used sparingly.

I'm all for a splash of colour, although that said I am rather fond of grey - that could just be the pasty Irish boy inside who doesn't look good in sold black coming out though.

Of course in keeping with my new-found fondness of not smiling I couldn't help but look like scowly cantankerous prick that I really am deep down inside.

I also managed to find my old scarf from two winters ago that I thought was long gone. Gee I missed it. Wrapped one around my neck like this it's still long enough for both ends to clear the floor by about four inches, plus come summer it can be converted into a funky looking halter top. Needless to say, I don't wear it that way very often... At least not until I work my gut off.

I'm really trying to reach out to my readers lately - does it show?

Of course it aint easy trying to look good for the camera, at least not for me. To get five good photos I had to take about fifty. That really isn't much of a success rate. After all that posing and fame-whoring I just had to sit down. I was plain exhausted.

Now be a gem and go fetch your poor tired Mutant a beer would you? I can't keep up this hectic pace all night!

Anyway enough of that, maybe next time I'll show you what a bad hair day looks like. I haven't decided... I'm having one right now and damn is my trigger finger busy. grab my camera while you're up, huh?

Atta girl.

A Frenzied Fan Of Ferguson

2009-06-10T14:55:00.005+10:00

So, whoda thunk slopping around in the mud all weekend would be wicked fun – but it was.

My long weekend back in the country was a total hoot. It rained all weekend and was cold as charity but by fuck did I have fun! I know I promised photographs, but thanks to the shit weather most of them came out as nothing more than grey smudgy nothingness… stupid digital camera. I got one photo all weekend that actually worked and it wasn’t even my bloody tractor. Next time, Gadget. Next time.

Anyway, its been a couple of years since I’ve been along to the Echuca Steam, Horse and Vintage Rally, held at Rotary Park on the banks of the Campaspe River. I used to go every year but since I moved away that got harder to achieve. It was so awesome to turn up this year though and see so many of the same old faces. People who are madly passionate about their vintage machinery and always keen for a yarn. Having not seen them for a number of years only makes then twice as keen to catch up for a chinwag.

As usual there was old John Deers, McCormick Farmalls, Howards, Cases, Internationals, Fordsons, Minneapolis Molines, Massey Harrises and David Browns along with a shitload of other old tractors. There was cars, horses, stationary steam engines, massive steam powered traction engines as well as displays from farriers, blacksmiths and country cooking too good to ignore with damper and scones with jam and cream being my firm favourites.

I got me an awesome new belt buckle too. I’ll be wearing it everywhere so if you see me ask me to show you. It’s a big heavy brass buckle from my tractor club with a grey Fergie tractor in the middle of it and the club name around the outside. It is seven kinds of awesome and I love it to bits! Also my old man was awarded life membership to the club, after over fifteen years of organising the rally site for the club as well as countless other bits and pieces he’s done I believe it was well deserved and couldn’t be prouder!

Anyway – I promised there would be photos but I can deliver only one. That there ute and trailer are the preferred modes of transport for the family tractors, the tractor loaded up there ready to roll belongs to my oldest brother, it’s a Ferguson FE 35, these were a Ferguson tractor built with the assistance of Massey Harris. The rear axle and gearbox housings have MHF (for Massey Harris Ferguson) as part of the castings. Most people are probably more familiar with the red and grey MF 35 which is essentially the same tractor but built under the new Massey Ferguson name which is still around today.

Next time I get home I’ll snap off some pics of my girl, the Ferguson TE-A 20, plus I’ll try to get Dad’s Ford Ferguson 9N included as well for good measure!

Anyway after a weekend of plodding around in the mud, of hazy steam in heavy mist, of chugging steam engines and popping old petrols, and crazed vintage enthusiasts I’m exhausted… Can’t wait for next year!

This Is What Happens When It Doesn't Happen

2009-06-06T12:12:00.001+10:00

So, I was going to post a post about, well fuck knows what actually. I was planning in the ol’ ‘sit in front of a compter, slam my head against the keyboard a few times and see if the resulting concussion causes anything interesting to run out of my ears’ approach. However there are a couple of things that mean that won’t be happening.

For starters it’s too bloody cold. I’m sitting a big, early twentieth century shed which is open at both ends with the wind howling through in bitter gusts. My fingers refuse to move the way I want them too, so rather than backspacing my way through a whole post I’m ready to give up and sit on my hands until the feeling and colour returns.

Secondly, some people have no tact. My morning buzz was totally killed by a combination of mentally unbalanced customers and conclusion jumping co-workers. Okay I’m not going to pretend I’m without blame here. Shit went down and I started in motion the series of events that just escalated. Long story short, I broke my own rule about crying at work. Okay, so it wasn’t for a sympathy vote, I actually had the good sense to switch on my voicemail hide in my office and have a private blubber, but still – mood killer much?

Thirdly, actually I don’t have a third reason really – maybe the time ting is my third ‘not posting’ excuse. See right now I’m supposed to be washing my car, then I’m supposed to be packing my bags, then I’m going to drive 200 kilometres in a northward-ish direction to Echuca (on the Victoria/New South Wales border) for a vintage machinery rally. Sounds thrilling, no?

There’ll be stationary engines, tractors, blacksmiths, cars, motorbikes, horses and wood-fire baked scones. The air will be heavy with steam and smoke and something about the cold and the oldness and revival of yesteryear is just magical. I’ll let you in on a dirty little secret too: I own a piece of machinery that’ll be on display there. A 1948 Ferguson TE-A 20. No shit! I’ll be sure to grab a few photos over the weekend and tell you all about it.

Oh yeah, and it’s a long weekend here, with Monday off for the Queen’s birthday. Thanks Liz! So, what are you all up to this weekend? Whatever you do, make sure you do it well enough to go down in infamy should you get caught! Have fun – be safe – say no to drugs, and on that note, I’ll be off kids!

$20k Challengers

2009-05-30T11:51:00.011+10:00

Righto kids, a couple of weeks ago I set out with the grand idea of getting you suckers to come up with a new Mutantmobile for under twenty large.

Of course those that follow the comments will know that the response was overwhelming, except only two of those comments actually bothered to mention a car I could buy. True to my word I’ve decided to revisit those suggestions to either praise em up or shoot em down.

I also came up with a winner, the perfect fit for me and my busy lifestyle, or some wank like that.

First of all Jen suggested I should get something red, but Freddy countered that be recommending something green. Victor though I’d look good in a tram, Tom put forth the idea of something with enough room in the back for, um, vigorous pursuits. Kate loves her Mazdas and though I’d look hot in a Mazda3 like hers.

Andy has way too much time on his hands and hasn’t made the decision making process any easier by throwing a few more cars my way to take into consideration, First on Andy’s list is the unltimate rice-racer-fully-sik-boyz R33 Skyline GTS-T running a GTR V-spec engine.

I have the utmost respect for Skylines, the fucking things are giant killers. Essentially a reasonably low-weight coupe packed to the gills with an almost indestructible engine and able to handle insane amounts of boost through the engine and driveline. However, they have a certain stereotype that buys them, if you’ve seen The Fast And The Furious then you’ll know what I mean, plus I lack the patience to put up with the headfuck that is trying to obtain parts for a car which was never officially sold in this country.

Obviously Andy is something of a Nissan fetishist as next on the list is an 03 V35 skyline. Looking at the equipment list it certainly ticks most of the boxes, leather trim, climate control, Bose audio, DVD/TV tuner with sat nav and a 3.5 litre V6.

Not so handy however is the attached CVT transmission which would infuriate the fuck out of me, plus the fact the DVD player and sat nav would most likely be useless in Australia due to the region and mapping differences between Australia and Japan. Read the above imported vehicle diatribe for further details. Although it does come in a choice of sedan or coupe.

Of course if Andy figures I’ve got a shred of class he’d suggest something a bit more prestigious, like the BMW 735iL on his list. This is more my style, it’s a big fat limo, the cream of the BMW crop and perfect compensation for my tiny dick.

Inside there’s electric everything and leather galore. Of course the other side of the coin is that parts for the fuckers cost a bomb, that’s okay though because I’ve got plenty of aftermarket contacts. Sadly in Australia the terrain is just a little too harsh for the autobahn-spoilt Beemers, which means it won’t take long before costly brake, suspension and electrical components have rattle to pieces or wilted in the heat.

Still with the prestige Euros though and the Mercedes Benz C200K coupe was mentioned. Yes it’s a Merc, yes its rear wheel drive. The end. Andy, seriously what were you thinking? For starters I’m not a fucking hair-dresser, secondly have you ever seen one of these? I mean really?

It looks like a lizard that’s dropped its bloody tail and as a result the handling is up to shit thanks to a weight balance that is all front no rear. On the other hand the quality thing is pretty well sorted. Mercs only ever shit out expensive stuff, but I’m sure you’ll put your hand up for the $5000 every couple of years to keep it running, right Andy?

The most ace selection if the list though was an Alfa Romeo 156. Specifically mentioned was the manual as the selespeed robotized manuals have a habit or shredding clutches and destroying selector pumps every 6000 kilometres or 7 months, whichever comes first. They say to be a true car nut you have to have owned an Italian car. I say bullshit. That just makes you truly nuts.

An Italian car lures you in with seductive looks and styling to make you weak at the knees, by the end of it though you’ll be a poor man, lacking in sanity and most of your hair as problem after problem springs up with the electrics, oil leaks sprout from places never deemed possible and trim bits fade and crumble right before your eyes. They are damn sexy though.

Finally we have the Forester XT – by means of full disclosure Andy owns one of these which means to maintain out friendship I’ll heed my mother’s advice about saying nothing when you have nothing nice to say.

The hands down winner though was Celesticles who came up with this:

And said: Hey Kez, I think this car would be perfect for you! Its small enough to fit into those annoyingly 'too small' parks right out the front of the shops. Its white paint makes it classy and stylish, and its retro as hell, which I know presses your buttons. Modifications, well, you could really do anything with it, its so versatile, but im thinking some low profiles, new coat of paint, new engine, anything really. Your best bet would be to save the money in case something goes terribly wrong.... But, if you do get this car, you certainly will be turning heads... but maybe only because you have broken down in busy intersection...

Celeste, you get the gold star darling because you’ve combined my love of Eastern Bloc remnants with a desire to learn creative engineering solutions (thanks to a regular scheduled breakdowns) AND with enough money in the budget to go nuts with a full array of mods like fluffy dice, illuminated washer jets and maybe even a subwoofer! AWESOME!

Loose Yourself

2009-05-26T14:54:00.005+10:00

I would like to know that I’m not the only one. I need to feel a little common love. Surely my bewilderment is not mine alone, or is it? Christ, I’m fucked if it is.

Y’see the problem I have is that I have the navigational ability of a mars bar. I’m so easily lost. I can traipse from work to home on a daily basis but that’s about it. If I need to visit you I’ll have to be glued to a street directory most of the way there, even if you tell me you live just one street over from the main road of a popular suburb I won’t find you without assistance.

I’m easily disoriented too. Put me into a shopping centre, turn me around twice and I’ll struggle to find my way out. It’s not fun. Take yesterday for example I wandered into the city to collect a few items on a whim. Normally if I hit the CBD I stick to about three our four streets that I’m reasonably familiar with to ensure that I can always back-track out again.

Yesterday I thought I was going alright. I’d braved Swanston Street on which my tram runneth and ventured down Bourke Street without too much drama. Then I got too clever for my own good. I decided that if I cut through Myer I could make up some time and avoid getting rained on. Yeah, stroke of genius that one.

Of course I got distracted by something shiny, then decided to leave the ground floor, then walked a few laps trying to work out where I’d come from, then I needed to take a piss so decided to find the leak-house, then suddenly had no fucking idea where I’d come from or where I should be headed. After about half an hour of walking into wall mounted mirrors and finding dead ends I finally came to an exit except it wasn’t on Bourke Street. Bugger.

Thankfully I was able to take the cheaters way out and I followed the outside of the building around in what I hoped was the direction of Swanston Street. Turns out it was. Thank Christ.

I’m the same in airports – friggen hopeless. Needless to say my days of traveling between Sydney and Melbourne for work were usually filled with mad sprints to catch a plane because I’d managed to loose myself somehow, regardless of the fact I was only headed to the same departure lounge I’d been to fifteen times before.

Don’t even get me started on finding my car in a carpark. Unless my bay is clearly next to a very obvious landmark, like say the Eiffel tower, I won’t have a chance of finding my car without a good forty minutes of leg-work first. The degree of difficulty is of course of multiplied by each additional level in the car park.

Err, now where was I? Fucked if I know really – navigating through a conversation often proves to be as difficult as navigating through the burbs. I loose sight of where I was headed and forget where I’ve already been. And who says being simple is no fun? You learn something new everyday, even if it is the same thing you learnt yesterday.

I'm At That Light Up A Smoke Then Go To Sleep Stage

2009-05-20T16:15:00.003+10:00

You know how sometimes you just have the most incredible sex which leaves every single part of your body electrified. The kind of orgasm that shakes you from head to toe. An experience which leaves you breathless and giddy and wanting so much more.

I just had that experience, with no sex (and no messy fluids to mop up afterwards). So what does it take to give a mutant multiple orgasms?

Well, I could tell you but I’d rather you put in the hard yards and discover for yourself! It’s much more fun that way. Then again I could just come clean and tell you.

If you want me to quake from sheer enjoyment you need to strike a delicate combination between the following:
-Slutty outfits.
-Broken English.
-Cheesy pop music.
-Lights.
-Colours.
-Wind machines.
-Fake Tan.

Yeah yeah yeah, I know I’m still in full ‘squee’ mode thanks to Eurovision. I know some of you haters, well, hate it. But the thing about it is, it isn’t any good, and that’s what makes it so bloody great.

The choreography is often woeful. The songs are basic as hell. The costumes are frightening and for that reason it is gold! I know you’re not supposed to rag the contest in front of Europeans so I apologise to my Euro readers.

By now I think I can safely reveal that the winner was Norway’s Alexander Rybak. Not hard to see why he won, he had pretty blondes “la la la-ing” and some nice looking back up dancers, plus with all the flirting he was doing with the camera I felt like I should’ve asked what he’d like for breakfast in the next morning. His final score was 387 points which put him a whopping 169 points ahead of Yohanna from Iceland who performed some truly terrible ballady thing which was decribed as “three minutes of pop perfection” I wanted to hang myself each time I heard it.

Anyway, enough of the bad shit, I know you want to know what The Mutant fell in love with. Well, long term followers will know that I have a total soft spot for two countries: Ukraine and Turkey, and they certainly didn’t disappoint this year either.

First up I give you Hadise from Turkey with Düm Tek Tek – I challenge you not to get it stuck in your head!

Then there is Svetlana Loboda from Ukraine with Be My Valentine (Anti-Crisis Girl) – I mean could this bitch get any filthier if she tried, and those boys, phwoar!

Yeah you’re totally getting it now, huh? On top of that you may want to look at… Oh fuck it, I actually think you should watch the whole bloody thing. By the time I scour YouTube looking for links we could be here for days.

So the only other thing you need to know is a real, grown-up performer with real, grown-up credibility did incredible things for France:

And of course everyone on the planet seems to be in love with this boy:

“I love you Europe, Thank you for loving me!” Yeah and um, just so you know It'll take me months to come down from this high, and I'll be re-watching those clips for weeks on end. I've already ordered the fan book which is on its way out of Europe as we speak! Should only cost me about $90 by the time it lands too - bargain!

MOSKVA 2009

2009-05-16T10:27:00.005+10:00

I promise I’ll keep this short, otherwise I’ll risk sounding like a breathless homosexual fanboy.

Of course, that’s probably the most accurate description, so without further ado, can I just say EURO-FUCKING-VISION 2009 bitches!

After Russia scooped the pool last year with their soppy, painful ballad the Eurovision circus has traveled to Moscow, where the host country has been so desperate to host the event that they’ve gone utterly overboard with the set. If you can find a single inch of that stage that doesn’t feature an LCD or LED display could you kindly point it out to me.

Anyway, Australia is waaay behind civilized society when it comes to televising the event, but I’m sure some places in the world are even worse so I promise I won’t spoil anything for you, except to say that at the conclusion of the first semifinal I could only identify one truly OTT act, and one mildy camp act. I won’t say who, but I’m sure you’ll figure it out if you watch, which you can do via the SBS website.

Oh and the Russian semifinal hosts may have been drunk – half-pissed, awkward in front of a camera with lots of broken English, it’s like reaching nirvana really isn’t it? After a couple of years in the wilderness of crossover rock acts, its nice to see the early theme emerging this year seems to be operatic inspiration, however there seems to be no hard and fast rules so its open season as the music world cringes at the oh-so-chic aural assault.

I must go through and get the official stats for white costume appearances, they’d be simply mind blowing! Only one slightly scary wig for the first semi, one chick that looked like a man and one dancer who almost slipped. I’m probably the only person disappointed by that. I still want that fucking wig too, it’s just how I always pictured myself!

So with the second semifinal televised in Australia tonight and the grand final on Sunday it looks like being a busy weekend for me. Just so you know I’ll be ignoring the outside world for another 36 hours or so.

Kick It

2009-05-14T12:25:00.004+10:00

I had to do something to get rid of the festering pile of curried sausages assaulting readers everywhere in link lists and on readers and RRS feeds.

Oh damn, listen to me, I almost sound like I know what I'm talking about - but I don't, all I know is that there's prettier stuff to look at than me stuffing my head full of pizza.

To that end I give you an important landmark in the history of The Mutant. A moment that will live on in the hearts and minds of readers for years to come. I like to call it 'the turnover'.

Gape in amazement as this:

Becomes this:
It is probably also worth noting that the grand event actually happened months ago so I'm over 195,000 kilometres now and I'm more than a little bit sad to announce that someone will be leaving the Big Brother house tonight - It's time to go... My car.

I figure the old girl will be happier pensioned off to a quite life of rolling hills and open plains to explore. More likely though some outer suburban shit-for-brains will by the Calais, put a set of "fully sick mate" chrome rims on it and run doughnuts in the maccas carpark until they blow a power steering pump, a diff or at least until they blow a tyre, barrel out of control and injure half a dozen spectators.

Oh damn, I could shed a tear just thinking about it.

Now comes the fun part though - replacing my baby!

Readers, your challenge should you choose to except it, is to find me a car to take the place of my pride and joy. Limitations are thus:

-Vehicle must be available in Australia, either in factory spec or a grey-market import.

-Advertised price on the car may not exceed AUD $20,000.

-Used vehicles only, nothing new or ex-demonstrator.

-If you'd like a leg-up use CarSales or CarPoint or any other Australian auto trader site to help you out

-Bonus points will be awarded if you come in under budget and can recommend potential modifications which can be included in the twenty grand price.

Leave your suggestions in the comments. Be aware though I'll be selecting the best and worst for an upcoming post and I will try to shoot your selection down in flames, so make sure you justify it and justify it well.

I'll be scoring your efforts on originality, eccentricity, absudity and your ability to relate an automobile to my uniquely magnetic personality - or something like that.

Winner gets to take a spin around the block in my new wheels, if you're lucky!

The Last Supper

2009-05-11T20:39:00.008+10:00

Sometimes I'm a bit of a fool. I did some stuff on the weekend that means I nearly wasn't here to bore you shitless today. But as luck would have it I pulled though and thus I'm proud to present to you: Dinner!

I went all out tonight. I've been thinking to myself that I need to push the balanced diet thing a little harder, so no more pre-packaged meals for me. Hell no. Tonight was all about curried sausages, or snags, or bangers, whatever you prefer.
I could hardly wait to get into that sucker - and that mashed potato, yes it is covered in grated cheese and made with real butter and cream. The pumpkin is cooked in butter too and I like to fry my snags in a mix of oil and butter. Sublime!
Of course if that wasn't good enough last week I decided I'd have a roast spud feast, what you see before you is what that turned into. While perusing the supermarket shelves I decided pizza was a better slap-up meal.
Say hello to chorizo, cheese, capsicum, mushrooms, pineapple (yeah, its fucking essential, okay) sundried tomato and feta. Jesus, I think I may have orgasmed, twice, just thinking about it.

Of course putting me in a kitchen with sharp shit and hot stuff isn't always safe, although I'm pleased to say I only had one disaster, and I refuse to take responsibility for that, blame faulty packaging.
Yeah, the cheese may have exploded slightly. I decided against the three-second rule and just let the cats inside instead. Clean-up took them all of about 15 seconds!

By the way if you think looking at me stuffing my face is dead-shit boring you're totally right. How would you like to watch me get out of the shower instead?

Okay - you asked for it:

It's official, I've quit smiling - aggression looks way hotter, non? Nah probably not. Tom, you wanted to see the hair, so there you go - I reckon there's only a few months left at the rate I keep finding it around the place.

So anyway, I've got stacks of left-overs, fancy a bite?