Future proofing

My priorities in life have really started to crystalise over the past couple of years.
There are things I thought I wanted to do, which don't really hold that much excitement for me any more and there are things that used to regularly which just don't feature in my life.
Gin, for instance, is becoming more and more important. Night clubs never feature.
I occasionally get a little man-clucky. I don't try to wear the kinds of clothes people are wearing in video clips.
I was way too impatient to get an education. I just wanted to work. I thought I was going to be fabulous and I wanted to get on with it, rather than wait.
These days I have no desire to be fabulous. I value my anonymity above most things.
But I do have a desire to get the education I never got myself.
If you're reading this you probably know I have been studying Russian with a private tutor once a week for nearly 2 years. Well now my plan is to make that more of a formal thing.
Today I took a step beyond just thinking about it. I spoke to the senior lecturer and head of Russian Studies at Macquarie University. I'm going to do their certificate course, with a view to transferring to a degree after the first year.
And the great news is, I can start at the intermediate level, I don't have to start as a beginner.
They also offer $2000 grants for a month-long unit studying in Russia! It couldn't get more exciting if they could offer me a month as Marat Safin's personal gym towel holder.
My hope is that once I have the language down pat, my loves of politics and history and my background in journalism will combine into a really awesome career opportunity or two.

SMS alert

Very excited by this Text From Last Night.

(+61): yeah so this exboyfriend of yours reckons you're still together and he punched me in the face cos i slept with you last week. you might wanna have a word with him or at a minimum change your facebook status.

Not only was it piss funny I think "+61" is Australia, ladies and gentlemen.

The Onion are onto us

Conservatives Warn Quick Sex Change Only Barrier Between Gays, Marriage

Between you, me and the blog post

Sorry for the lack of posts recently. I can't really explain it. I've just been a little down. Maybe it is winter? Maybe it is a bit of the ol' black dog? Maybe I'm coming down from gossip columnists' high? Who can say?
Whatever it is, I've been feeling a little blue.
I've also been getting exceedingly frustrated and angry with the level of racism in this country, but that's another story.
There are some things which have been cheering me up. Not as much as rolling home to find Wentworth Miller waiting for me in bed or finding Edward Cullen has renounced his heterosexuality, but they are little things which have brought me cheer.
For instance, I've started getting up an hour earlier and spending the extra time in a cafe studying my Russian. It's doing wonders for my Russian skills - which have been as neglected as a grampa in a kerosene bath.
Then there is Thom, who's every apologetic-please-don't-beat-me-again-Chris-Brown facial expression melts my hard-bastard heart.
Then there is the notion I can look forward in just a few short months to being back in Europe - where I always thought I'd spend my life but have, in fact, spent precious little of it - and seeing Dancing Daniel, Pennells, London, Paris, Berlin and Barcelona. I would marry any of them but four of them are cities.
Then there is www.textsfromlastnight.com, which can quite literally stop me from trying to slash my finger tips open on the cheaply serrated edge of my tape dispenser. Oh, drunken shame. How I love thee as applied to others.
And lastly, there is the chicken murder trial. I cannot get enough of this. I look forward to my daily instalment in the paper with the kind of relish teenage boys reserve for sexting. It's so salacious. Our reporter at work, who is a good chum, said the other day he is pretty much writing it with me in mind as his audience. Which is flattering but means he's probably leaving behind anyone who doesn't have my appreciation of the absurd.
Every twist and turn fascinates me. Consider the facts, really. One of two gay millionaires, made rich through a chicken meat franchise, kills the other and then goes shopping with his 19-year-old gay lover, known only to readers as Mr X because his identity has to be protected. There are bloodstains in the bed, an in conclusive post mortem, photos tucked under the bed of Mr X in a choir uniform... and it's all made all the more tantalising by the fact Pennells used to live in the same apartment block and I've been drunk just a couple of metres from the scene of the death. I can almost taste this case.
I don't know what I'm going to do when this trial is over. I hope to God there is an appeal.
Anyway, if you see me looking glum, kick me in the shins and give me something moan about.

This needs no introduction

Just follow this here link: www.textsfromlastnight.com

However, if you need convincing, it contains pearls like these:

(630): The girls stopped by my apartment. They caught me naked with a nearly empty bottle of vodka in one hand, drawing crop circles in the carpet with the vacuum.

(502): i was drunk at family dinner telling about my gay brothers sex ads on craigs list.

(804): omg this kid i'm babysitting is making a penis out of playdough ahhhh.
(804): He just rolled me a 'baby penis' as opposed to his 'big boy' penis that he crafted...he just demanded that I roll him a penis.

561): on a scale of one to ten, how awkward would it i told him i had to go change my tampon and then left?
(914): 11

(212): i want you now
(916): you need to stop dating girls with the same name as your mother...or stop drinking so much...I don't want to see this.

(925): is hooking up with someone you used to babysit wrong?

Abhorrent behaviour

The thing that has been playing on my mind all week, bizarrely, is this rugby league sex scandal.
I'm sorry but it has taken way too long for Matthew Johns to be condemned and other heads should roll as well.
That this time last week Channel Nine thought they could get away with an apology before The Footy Show started was already pathetic. But then it became completely offensive when Fatty Vautin (or whatever his name is) patted him on the back and said "well said mate".
W.T.F?
I'm sorry, no. Not acceptable. As if it was only a problem because the guy got caught. This is a serious issue you douchebags.
And watching Four Corners on Monday told us just how serious. Most telling of all was when reporter Sarah ball-tearer Ferguson said none of the men involved had asked after the girl.
Then the culture of rugby was exposed by those thick-as-fuck young blokes getting sex ed suggesting things like "if you treat em right by putting em in a cab afterwards then it will probably be ok". Terrifying.
Yes, how about you call come round and wank over me while a couple of your mates fuck me sideways and I'll keep quiet as long as you pour me, dripping, into a cab afterwards.
This is a national disgrace and it has been very sloppily handled.

Let this serve as a warning to you all

The whole sordid affair is finally over.
It cost me a grand total of $1500, but my car is back from the dead.
I come bearing advice for young players.
Children of the class of 1997... service your car.

If you don't service your car, you will find yourself 160km from Perth, in the middle of shitcreeknowherefuckmasister with your bonnet up and a wisen, chain-smoking cock of a mechanic giving you a humiliating discertation.
"You've fucked this car," he will say, letting the smoke reel out his mouth.
"When's the last time you gave 'er a service? Sez 'ere due 97,000, you've got 105,000on the clock.
"You've fucken killed this car. Shame. You've only got 105,000 on the clock. You've probably shortened its life by about 250,000 kilometres."
You sir, are a douche. I know it is fucked, I am perfectly aware it is fucked, it has been rattling for the last 50km with the oil light on despite me putting litres of the stuff in it.
All I care about is whether you can fix the fucker enough for me to get home.
"You're kidding right? You ain't going fucken nowhere.
"You've killed this car.
"I can probably fix it for you by Tuesday. Have to get parts from Narrogin. I'll open 'er up for yeh and see 'ow she looked. Probably need a new engine. Probably be a couple of grand.
"Shame."
Well I might be a reporter and not much chop with cars but I do understand research, sir. So I got a second opinion. The RAC came from the next town (having pinched me for $46 for a membership upgrade to cover me for a 200km tow... only to then confirm I needed to be towed 210km, and therefore I was not covered) and towed it to Perth...

...whereupon the princely Gavin The Mechanic fixed my trusty steed. He was also unimpressed with the state of the motor but reckoned it could be fixed for about $500. I said to fix everything that needed doing upto about a grand.
He did.
And he told me killing a car was a rite of passage for a gay boy and not to worry. Apparently we all do it.
From now on though, I shall get my car serviced as regularly as I can. I suddenly drive it with a whole lot more pride and might even get it detailed so it feels like a new beast.
Oh, and I have one last word for that dodgy grease monkey who wanted to charge me for a whole new engine.
SHAME!

Here is the litany of charges from Gavin:

DESCRIPTION:
Source engine rattle. Remove tappet cover and check oil pressure - minimal oil getting to hydraulic lifters. Remove exhaust, sump, etc and inspect - oil pickup blocked, oil black and low.
Clean out pick up and check big end and main bearings for wear (OK). Refit sump, etc, reseal tappet cover and fill with 10W/30 oil. Add flush to engine oil and run engine - engine now running quieter.
Carried out service. Changed engine oil and filter and fit new spark plugs (worn). Fit new spark plug leads (engine misses under acceleration) and check all lights, brakes and fluid levels, etc - coolant gone off.
Flush cooling system, fill with coolant and fit new radiator cap. Blow out rear brakes and pump up tyres (spare flat). Remove belts, timing cover, etc and fit new timing belt, cam and crankshaft seals and belt idlers (noisy).
Refit covers, etc and fit new aircon, alternator and power steering belts. Wash down engine and underbody and fit new air filter. Fit new eye level stoplight and LH rego light globes. Check aircon operation, fit new front wiper blades and take vehicle for test run. Fit new aerial mast.
**Bring vehicle back at 106,000km for oil and filter change. Camshaft chain noisy - suspect tensioner full of gunk.

Ouch. My bad.

Horrific bigots

I am absolutely astonished.
The other day we printed something in the gossip column I write for which suggested a speech by a particular MP was, at least, ironic.
At best it was racist.
At worst it was bigoted racist intolerant bullshit which qualifies as racial vilification and for which he should be censured by his leader, the Premier. He won't be of course.
If you want to read it you can do so here.
We suggested it was intolerant, making his website "Putting People First" a little ironic.
The responses to my comments were among the most offensive I have ever read. Here is just ONE paragraph from the most shockingly racist letter:

Our eventual extinction and possible violent holocaust in decades to come is now more a distinct probability than a possibility as our numbers shrink further, our laws refuse to protect us against race-hate crimes and political correctness further silences our voices whilst promoting Anglo-Saxons as the only racist evil ethnic group ever to crawl out of the swamp.

Seriously?
Another woman also suggested a stroll through Lakemba or watching the Channel 7 doco "The Gangs of Oz" would fix my naivety about foreigners.
I didn't quite know how to respond. So I was thrilled beyond all proportion to find this YouTube moment. It says everything I wanted to:

My ideal woman...

Is Marlene Dietrich. Clearly I was meant to be born a lesbian.



But seriously, this woman just oozes class, sophistication, desire, lust, beauty, poise, grace, elegance. Incredible qualities which I wish I possessed in such abundance.
I loves her. Props.

Holy crap, there is a storm coming!

This is real:

This is funny:

A Gaythering Storm from Jane Lynch

I'm blogging from my phone

Which means this is going to take an incredibly long time to type and will doubtless be filled with mistakes. But I couldn't resist giving it a shot all the same. I fucking love this phone. Love it. Unfortunately I have nothing to say. Fin.

Good service, bad service, lip service

We aren't quick enough to praise in our modern fucked-up consumerist and selfish society, so I'll start by praising the extreme efficiency and attitude of the girl at Vodafone in the Galleria this morning.
She hooked up Thom and I with an iPhone each without a seconds hassle or annoyance.
Beautiful work Carly, very pleased.
It was a rare show of competence from a telecommunications company. They're not my favourite corporations at the moment, generally.
For a month Dad an I have been without the internet at home. iiNet has assured us every second day for four weeks that they are fixing the problem. Sometimes that they were actually working at the exchange at the very second they were talking to us. That's not been the case clearly. We've also been told several times someone is handling our case personally.
Needless to say, we never hear back from them.
The service is merely lip service, which is really disgusting. As Dad continues to remind them, he's been with them since they were a tiny company - an entire decade ago. He's very disappointed in them.
They took a new tac on the phone last night... blaming Telstra for the problem and refusing to do the work on the exchange.
Which is a neat segue to my next gripe: Fucking cunting mother fucking Telstra.
My phone died. Spectacularly. Come to think of it, I've had nothing but trouble with Nokia's for ever so long.
So I went into the Telstra shop yesterday morning. They don't sell many iPhones. The Blackberry also had problems but they sell more of them. I can keep my $80 cap. Plus I have to pay Blackberry. Plus the phone cost.
Riiiiiiiiiight... .
Needless to say, I walked out.
This morning I walked into Vodafone and walked out with two iPhones, it having cost me not a cent whatsoever and on a $79 cap. Ah, bliss.
The only hiccup at all was ringing Telstra to get my account number from them.
They LIED!
I rang them, they know if you're asking for it you want it cos you're changing carriers, so they LIE and give you a different number. The helpful Vodagirl said they often do it.
I didn't want to believe it, but then I called them again to get the correct number and they LIED AGAIN!
I'm going to write a strongly worded letter to The Times. It's a disgraceful practice.
I cannot wait to pay my last phone bill to those WANKERS.
In the 21st Century, in our modern consumerist and selfish century, where plebs like me can broadcast our bile to the entire world through the intertubes, major companies and service providers - especially those in telecommunications - CANNOT afford to give such poor service.

Finally, something to look forward to

We've done it. After a drunken argument about the correct route around Europe and which gay Spanish beach to plonk ourselves on for a week of homo-erotic sunbaking, Thom and I have finally booked our tickets to Europe.
As it stands the itinerary involves a week in London with a possible jaunt to Edinburgh, four or five days in Munich for Oktoberfest with Pennells and Tom, a week in Barcelona, Bilbao or some costa del hot-spanish-boys.
From there we train it up to Bordeaux for Kurve's 50th birthday bash in her brother's house. (Who the fuck has a house in Bordeaux, just quietly?). Then a couple of days in Paris and back to London for the flight home.
We are going to do all of this on the smell of a tick's fart because frankly, we are broke.
I have put the tickets (two people, London-return, $2880 all up, inc taxes) on my credit card which is now, understandably, maxed out.
Thank fuck for Rudd money. Actually with Thom's two lots and my one lot... it pays for the tickets as well as stimulating the economy.
Sure, it's the Singaporean economy not the Australian economy but it is a GLOBAL financial crisis. Right? Riiight?
I don't care, I fucking need this. One month in Europe. Awesome.
Now I just have one minor hurdle to jump... the fact that I neglected to ask work for the time off before I booked the tickets.....

Slightly bored and frustrated

It's one of those ludicrously slow Sunday's at work. I mean I could be busy, but no, I chose to do all my preparation on Friday and then p.r.e.t.e.n.d that I was doing the work today. So I've sat here bored on Facebook all day and metering out the cups of tea and toilet breaks so as to keep my interest.
Oh Bolton, will you never learn?
Meanwhile, bored as I am, I am sitting here wishing I had more time to study my Russian. I love the language and thoroughly enjoy my lessons but I never get time to study at home. It's a source of endless frustration to leave my tutor every Saturday morning so amped to study and then suddenly find it's Thursday and I haven't opened my text book even once. I hate myself.
Work at the moment is an endless source of frustration. I think I am ready for some kind of internal change. I don't mean inside me, you understand, I don't mean I want to move my liver a little to the left to make more room for my kidneys or anything. I mean internal as in within the company. I can't be bothered with the hole interview-stress-impress-people-meet-new-colleagues-fit-into-existing-office-politics-fill-out-forms-inform-your-superannuation-company kinda change. Way too hard. I just want to be shuffled around here a bit.
There is a new position in the offing and I'm seriously considering it. That's despite several colleagues describing it as "the worst job ever" and "a suicide mission".
Hey, feeling reckless is more exciting than feeling bored and frustrated.

Les be friends!

This may just be the story of the year.
There is nothing I can say that will add anything to the story. I can't get crazier, it can't get funnier. It is, quite simply, gold.