PRIDE

The ageless ever-fantastic Ms Lauper at the San Francisco Pride Parade on Sunday. I can't believe 3 months have passed already since I saw her perform at this year's Mardi Gras party. She was the highlight of the party. Oh to be at one of the hotspots in the Northern Hemisphere for pride festivities right now! I was in San Francisco and New York for their Prides five years ago. I had a such a good time. And alas, yet another year where Sydney doesn't have any Pride festivities.

C

Drowning in Bikram

I have been attending Bikram Yoga classes for the last month. Judy and I have been going up to four times a week. It is fantastic. Basically it involves doing over 70 yoga moves in 90 minutes in a room warmed to 40 degrees Celsius with 70 percent humidity. When I first did it, I thought I'd been dropped into a rice cooker and asked to do aerobics. It was one of the most exhausting physical activities I had done in sometime. A Dr friend had taken me after he heard me complaining that I was getting bored with bootcamp and needed something different. One session of bikram was like doing three sessions of bootcamp. I waddled in Roseanne Barr and strutted out Keira Knightly. I lost so much water, I could have kick-started the Murry-darling river system from my sweat glands. The first two times I hated it but by the fourth time, I've got to say I've gotten quite into it and love its intensity. The classes have mainly been filled with women and the odd twig resembling man (with exception of myself of course…. me being more a stump than a twig). Last night I arrived in my old Cronulla footy shorts and singlet. I was beginning to feel quite comfortable with my tontine (as in pillow) physique until I walked into the room. There lounging on their mats in their jocks were five lads who appeared to have wandered straight out of the French Rugby Team’s annual calendar shoot.
Call me Paris Hilton, but there was no other way to describe these guys other than hot; seriously hot. White alfa male hot. It was hot. The room was hot. They made it hotter. An exposed buttock and I would turn into the human equivalent of a kettle. The moisture drained from my mouth like steam. The class was full and so was everything else. There was only one spot left….right in the middle of them. Great; I didn't even have room to be beside myself. I took my place and sat upright in the foetal position hoping to look firm. It didn't work. Amongst these guys I looked like I’d just given birth to triplets.

The guy to my right (lets call him Hot Rugby Player 1: HRP1) was ridiculous and was straighter than god. He resembled a younger version of Eric Bana except bigger and stronger. Each muscle clipped onto his body like magnets covered in a nice deep Cadbury tissue finished in a perfect furry chest. He was s*x in a box. I was finished before I started.

HRP1 : Hey mate
Me (trying to find my voice): Yeah
HRP1: Is it alright wearing jocks? We’re from Melbourne and in the classes down there, we just wear our jocks.

What was I going to say? No ….they’re illegal in this state…take them off. I reached for my bottle of water wishing it was gin.

Me: Oh no it’s fine, we wear anything in Sydney.

HRP1: Ok cool.

Me: You’re from Melbourne?

HRP1: Yeah…..up for university rugby

How lovely jubbly

Me: You boys altogether?

In some sort five way gang bang marriage perhaps.

HRP1: Yeah we play for Melbourne University

He laid there on his side like a big beautiful cat. He was 23 if that but a man in full bloom already. I on the other hand felt like some sleazy old parker looking at a barmaid’s rack. My eyes kept drifting down to his strong neck, perfect pectorals, shoulders of rock, his intensely furry chest down to his v lined waist and legs made out of tree trunks. The game they play in heaven always produces men made in heaven. I continued the conversation.

Me: You been doing Bikram for long?

HRB1: Yeah for about a year. I love it. It’s great for your flexibility. I brought the boys along tonight….they’ve never done it before. You play rugby?

No I don’t but can you sit on my face. Ok no, I didn’t say that.

ME: Not for years….just at school.

I always say that but it is a complete lie. I played it for about five seconds at school. There are two religions at Catholic private schools: rugby and Catholicism; the former being the most important. I played it for a year in Grade 8 where I spent most games either sick or in a music lesson. I hated it. Looking back I can’t believe I turned down the opportunity to throw around or be thrown around by big sexy cats such as the one that was lounged in front of me. Ah the ignorance of youth

HRB1: Which position did you play?
Me: Oh lots of them

“John I’d ask you that you not speak. It is time for focus and breathing before your practice.”
It was Kyoko: The world’s toughest yoga instructor. She is half German and half Japanese. Yes the two protagonists of World War II wrapped into one woman’s body. You don’t fuck with Kyoko. She makes Madonna seem like Doris Day. I laid down quickly and found my focus. It was short lived.

There’s a lot of bending over in yoga which is great for one’s back but not for the present situation I was in. Every time HRP1 bent over, I fell over. He would stretch to the left, I would slip over to the left. He’d reach to the ceiling on one leg; I would develop paraplegia and find the floor. I was a yoga car crash and Kyoko was relentless througout the first half of the class continually giving me instructions in front of the 30 member full class:

Kyoko: Breathe in through the nose John not the mouth; focus
Kyoko: Keep palms locked John and look in the mirror; focus
Kyoko: Keep feet together John and look in the mirror; focus
Kyoko: John we’re bending backwards, not forwards; focus
Kyoko: John we’re facing to the left, not to the right; focus
Kyoko: John focus on yourself and no one else. Focus.
Kyoko: John what’s wrong with you?

Kyoko looked at HRP1 then smirked at me as I lay spread-eagled on the ground after my failed attempt to sit down in a tree pose. Such a pose is meant to stretch your thyroid. HRP1 was in a perfect sit down tree pose stretching his thyroid into next week. Meanwhile the only thing I’d stretched was my dignity….right out the door.

We moved on to the second half of the class which we spend entirely on the floor. This was rather handy considering I’d spent the entire first part of the class down there anyway.
I was far more focused in the second half; doing my plane, rabbit and monkey poses with absolute professionalism. Kyoko complimented me a number of times whilst still gazing at my HRP1 and smirking at me.

The rest of the rugby boys however were starting to find the going a bit tough. It’s usually around this point that the bikram virgins start to fall. They politely turn on their back and hope for the end to be nigh.

Only two poses from the end, I was exhausted but confident. The heat as the class is finishing, really does become unbearable to the point where I am always worried that I am going to have a moment of turrets and start calling the instructor a c#*t. I was feeling this, as I lay down for my last rest two minute rest. I was lying there wanting it to be completely over, not even remotely distracted by the gigantic chest movements of my neighbour’s remarkable physique.

Kyoko : Upward valley rise, downward valley fall
Kyoko: Upward valley rise, downward valley fall.

Kyoko kept repeating the phrase to assist our breathing. It works every time. While I was concentrating on the movement of air through my nostrils, I could feel this niggle in my left calf muscle. I didn’t think anything of it. At that stage of the class your brain is flat out working how one’s nose works, let alone a distant niggle in one’s calf. As I pulled myself for my last sit up, I soon realized that the niggle was a warning of something that should definitely be heeded.
I pulled myself up and then noticed my left calf muscle flexing of its own accord. It was like seeing a tidal wave two seconds before it hits the ground. You know it’s going to be bad but you can’t do anything about it.

“Oh no,” I thought to myself. I went to stretch my leg hoping to stop it before it hit but it was too late. Like a knife going through my leg, the pain struck my nervous system. I screamed like Whitney and fell on my back. Fuck I’d forgotten how bloody painful a cramp can be.
The whole class stood upright looking at me on my back with my calf in the air giving a powerpoint presentation. Quicker than you could say Hot Rugby Player 1, HRP1 was right between my legs stretching my left leg down towards my body.

HRP1: Mate let me push and you try and flex at the same time

Was this the wrong time to ask for his number I thought?

As I was planning our wedding on a beach in Bali, my right leg decided to join my left leg. I yelled out again. While still pushing my left leg back, Hot Rugby Player quickly grabbed my right leg and forced it back. The pain was excruciating yet it was resulting in a strangely pleasurable situation. It was if my body was subconsciously trying to get myself into an awkward position with Hot Rugby Player. I soon realized when I looked at the side mirror though that the position was more than awkward, it was missionary. Great: I’d turned Friday night yoga into a live sex show.

HRP1: Release your legs let me push. Keep flexing

Kyoko is rarely lost for words but she stood there with her mouth ajar with the rest of the class’s mouths similarly positioned.

HRP1 kept pushing. I kept flexing. He kept grunting. I kept moaning. It was the perfect relationship…..except that there were 30 other people in the room watching. Finally the pain began to subside.

Kyoko: Everyone, I think we might leave the class there. Keep breathing John.

If she told me to focus, I would have hit her. HRP1 slowly let my legs come back down. Kyoko gave me some water.

HRP: Turn on your stomach. Let me just massage your legs.
Kyoko smirked again: I’ll leave you two to it.

HRP massaged and I desperately tried not to think of any lustful thoughts which may have lead to completely losing my dignity once I stood up. When the room had cleared, we started chatting.
His name was Scott. He was 25 and was studying physiotherapy at Melbourne University. I detected a slight American accent and he said that he moved to Australia from LA when he was ten. He was father is Croatian and his mother is French. So my French rugby player comparison wasn’t far off.

Standing up on my jelly legs, I decided to throw caution to the wind and have a friendly crack: So does this mean we’re going out now?

Expecting a stuttering blushing straight man response, without a blink he said: “ Ha ha…nah. I already have a boyfriend.”

He winked and walked off.

C

TODD PANTS DOWN

Not since former PM Malcolm Fraser turned up in a hotel lobby stateside sans pant, has the "someone fiddled with me trousers" defence been raised. Todd "Collapsing Under the Stars" McKenney in a statement to police says the reason he had 100mils of GBH (enough to knock out a small elephant) in his pocket is that he was at a party at Potts Point where he was "dancing a lot" (funny that) so much so that he got so hot, he took his pants off. Now I've been to many a party, a nightclub, a dayclub, even a baby shower, where the dancing is taking off to such an extent that the odd shirt may be removed, but I've never been witness to the removal of one's pant at such an event due to excessive solid gold style antics…except perhaps a party of an entirely different style of dancing. For those of you who don't know, Todd McKenney is a local radio, television (judge on Dancing with the Stars) and theatre identity whose million dollar career is under threat through his arrest in April when he was found at a well known beat in Sydney at 3pm banging his head against a fence mumbling to himself with the said substance on his person. The "Pants Down" defence is more embarrassing than the actual offence. Todd…. Just plea guilty, go to rehab, discover god, come back and get your career back on track.

Sydney Morning Herald Article :
http://www.smh.com.au/news/national/todds-pants-off-defence/2008/06/25/1214073308559.html

To Lost Lovers...

It's a while since I put a "pome" up. One of my favourite poems from one of my favourites writers....David Malouf from his book Typewriter Music.

Revolving Days

That year I had nowhere to go, I fell in love - a mistake
of course, but it lasted and has lasted.
The old tug at the heart, the grace unasked for, urgencies
that boom under the pocket of a shit. What I remember
is the colour of the shirts. I'd bought them
as an experiment in ways of seeing myself, hoping to catch
in a window as I passed what I was to be
in my new life as lover: one mint green, one
pink, the third, called Ivy League, tan
with darker stripes, my first button-down collar

We never write. But sometimes, knotting my tie
at a mirror, one of those selves I had expected
steps into the room. In the next room you
are waiting (we have not yet taken back the
life we promised to pour into each other's mouths
forever and for ever) while I choose between
changes to surprise you.

Revolving days. My heart
in my mouth again, I'm writing this for you, wherever
you are, whoever is staring into your blue eyes. It is me,
I'm still here. No, don't worry, I won't appear out of
that old time to discomfort you. And no, at this
distance, I'm not holding my breath for a reply.

I Kiss You From The Inside

Judy and I in the last few weeks have got into the habit of going to yoga on a Friday night. In an attempt not to then go out and get blind, we have been following the yoga by a nice meal somewhere on Oxford Street, then coffee and cigarettes at Grumpy's Bakery . We sit out the front and announce running commentaries on the passing by crowd. Last Friday was the first proper Sydney winter night. There was a brisk south westerly adding a firm bight to the air. Yoga finished at 9 and we decided that with such a chill and considering we were both ensconced in scarves, it was time to have our first curry of the season. We took ourselves to Don Don's Japanese Restaurant near the corner of Oxford and Crown. For $9.50 we had the nicest Japanese curry and rice. I used to go to Don Don's a lot when I first moved to Sydney. I hadn't been for about five years and I don't think the prices have changed in that time. Located in a room slightly smaller than the average living room, the restaurant sits at its absolute maximum 21 people; so it's very cosy. There's actually a very lower east side Manhattan feel to the place. It's usually full of groovy young alternative gay professionals sipping on their miso soup clicking through their blackberries or iphones discussing the day they just had.

Last Friday night was no different. In fact the mean age appeared to be a pleasant 22, making Judy and myself feel like we were there to apply for the pension, not a meal. A pleasant 22 year-old however is Judy's niche market and his face was soon planted with a permanent grin, as if he slipped over in pool of botox. We also realised that not only were we the only guys over 25/30 in the room but also the only ones speaking English. Predominantly French and Portuguese filtered throughout the room. Sydney lately seems to be over-run by gay Brazilians and Frenchmen; flapping their hands and delivering daffy duck stares. Apart from mild amusement, they generally don't do a great deal for me. Whereas Judy has bedded so many of them in the last few months, he's now fluent in three languages.

Judy: Colin. Oh my god, look at him.

Me: Who?

Judy: That one. He's hot.

Me: He looks like Mr Squiggle.

Judy: I love Mr Squiggle.

Me: No strings attached?

Judy: Oh my god it's Arnoldo.

We had met Arnoldo the previous Sunday night at Action (dance party) at the Art House Bar on Pitt Street in the city. I wasn't going to the party due to my assignment procrastination. I was sitting at home highlighting and facebooking when Judy rang me and advised that he had a free ticket. Putting up a dreadful fight, I accepted immediately and drove into town. Action is a leather come denim themed party where men basically take their shirts off and dance around to music which would be better suited to a satanic sacrifice. When I got there everyone was higher than Everest and Judy had made ten thousand new friends, of which Arnoldo was one. Arnoldo was a dancer from Sao Paulo who came to Sydney with Cirque Du Soleil six years ago and never quite left. He still works as a dancer but we're not quite sure where.

Arnoldo: Paulo (Judy) you left me the other night ?

Arnoldo not only looked like Daffy Duck, he sounded like him as well. He had a great body but as Judy always says about muscle maries, "Million dollar body with a face to guard it."

Arnoldo: We were to go disco dancing remember?

Judy: I lost you. We had a party to go to and I couldn't find you.

Which is always Judy Code for "I'm not interested go away."

Arnoldo: Well we must dance once more!

How very dramatic. Was he dying?

Judy: Yes of course

Judy stared cross-eyed at me.

Arnoldo: Please give me your number.

Judy then blurted out a phone number (certainly not his own), continental kisses were exchanged and Arnoldo disappeared into never to be heard from again. We finished our delicious curries, fixed the bill and made our way to Grumpy's.

Grumpy's is a bakery/café located just down from Stonewall and is the perfect position to watch the bedraggled characters of Oxford street walk by particularly when one of them has started working at the café. Carole has been at Grumpy's for about a month and is stark raving mad. She reminds me of a Muppet….a kind of cross between Miss Piggy and a borderline Jennifer Anniston. She wears a different wig each week and makes a killer hot chocolate. She was abusing customers for wanting tea strainers when we arrived.

Carole: ­­­ Fucking idiots ……what morons would want to strain the tea themselves?
What dickwits? Can you believe they got into Tony (the barista) for straining the tea before it was brought to them?

Judy: Dreadful

Me: Appalling

Judy: Two hot chocolates please Carole.

Me: Straining optional

Carole disappeared into the café, her blonde horsehair wig following. Judy and I settled at our favourite table just next to the old pale green electric metre box, safely situated a couple of tables back from walking traffic. This gave us plenty of room to pass commentary on those walking by without fear of them hearing us and retaliating.

Oxford Street on a Friday night (well any night for that matter) is a car crash of cultures, sexualities, styles and a lot of things waiting to happen. From our table we look into the bay maree of inner Sydney life with all its slices of pizza, chicken wings, dim sims and chikko rolls fried and well on the way to being over-cooked. Occasionally you get a piece of fruit walking by like the 20 year old bubble ass boy we saw wearing pinstripe shorts, a tight apricot shirt and pink slippers (yes …slippers…yes…pink) licking a gaytime ice block……in ten degree weather! This kid slapped the nancy back into boy. He was Lolita meets Mr Humphries. He stopped traffic literally…. The Chinese tourists at the next door table clapped, the homeless man thought he’d found his wife and the arab bouncers at Stonewall were confused yet strangely turned on at the same time. Bubble ass boy was clearly a hot looking guy who unfortunately had his sense of style hijacked by a munchkin. He minced passed the café.

Judy: Is it an act?

Me: An act? He’s on tour.

Judy: Maybe he's peddling beauty products.

Carole : Fuck off you fucking faggott. Jesus he's always catwalking around here.

Carole was back with our hot chocolates and obviously had not taken a liking to our gaytime friend and his amazing technicolour outfit.

Judy: Carole ….you can't say that!

Carole: Yes I can. He hangs around here trawling for business and twice he's walked away without paying for his coffee.

Me: What do you mean by business?

Carole: The world's oldest profession darling….what do you think?

Judy: Oh my god he's a hooker?

Carole: Trawls for trade going from coffee shop to coffee shop. He targets the old timers.

Me : Is he always licking a gaytime?

At that point gaytime himself turned on his heel and walked back past the café giving both Judy and myself the eye. It was good to know we fell into his target market. I lit another cigarette. Judy and Carole remained in conversation about the hunting habits of young hookers. I looked to my right and found myself being stared at. I caught him out. He grinned, put out his cigarette and went back into the New York Slice pizza store two shops away. Carole was now explaining to Judy that she sold quilts for a living. I was very curious as to who Mr Starer was. I decided to go and get some money from the ATM located next to New York Slice. I walked past and Mr Starer was located behind the pizza counter. He was middle eastern…..tall, dark eyed, curly haired, lanky swimmer's build…early 20s....not exactly my type but quite pretty just the same. I withdrew my money. I turned around and there he was right in front of me.

Mr Starer: Hello

Me: Hi!

He came right up to me and whispered in very broken English.

Mr Starer: You are mine in half hour. I kiss you everywhere.

Had I been sold on e-bay without knowing or had someone finally read my manhunt profile?

Me: Oh thank you. Ummm…I'm John

We shook hands.

Mr Starer: I am Ahmed. We meet later yes? I kiss you on lips and then I kiss you from inside.

He then grabbed me around the waist leaving me in no doubt as to what he meant by kissing me from the inside.

Mr Starer: I must have you.

I love arabs. It's all or nothing. It's either completely blank you or they will start a world war if they don't have you.

Me: Well not tonight. I'm really tired….I have to go home to bed.

Mr Starer: Why not?

Me: I'm tired

Mr Starer: I want you

It was like every relationship I'd ever had reduced to two minutes.

Me: I will give you my number and we'll catch up some other time…just not tonight

Mr Starer: I will have you.

My god there was no such thing with this guy as romancing the girl a little. It was like being hit over the head with a club. I went to give him a fake number when I noticed the single vein going up his arm and over his bicep. I love that. He was hot and I'm as two dimensional as the next homosexual. I scratched out the fake number and gave him my real one.



C

BECOMING MASTER COLIN

I handed in my second last paper this morning. I have one more assignment to do and I am finished my Masters. Yay! I am never going to study again. I have spent the last two months continually procrastinating over this paper like I've done with every paper I've done in this Masters degree. My apartment has never looked so clean and organised. Any time I attempted to do research would result in a fascination with a dishcloth and/or a vacuum. Thankfully during the past weekend, I was able to focus and finish the damn thing off. Now all I have left is a 2000 word paper which is nothing compared to the 10 000 words I had to write for the one I've just finished. Once that is completed, pass marks permitting I will then have a Masters Degree In Laws majoring in Human and Social Rights……whatever that means. It will be about as useful to my career­­­­ as Amy Winehouse going to rehab, but it will be great for dinner party conversation and perhaps getting people to do things for me.

"Judy pass me the salt, I have a masters degree"

“Hey Mum, iron my shirts, I have a masters degree”

"Hey Hugh Jackman, come to bed with me, I have a masters degree"

"Hello Mr Billionaire, take me to New York on your private jet, I have a masters degree"

“Hey spunk buy me a drink, I have a masters degree”

"Hey shop assistant, take 50% off that Ben Sherman Shirt, I have a masters degree"

"Dance with me, I have a masters degree”

"Sit on my face, I have a masters degree"

You get my drift. I will let you know how I go.


C

GETTING CARRIED AWAY....

I went and saw Sex and The City Monday night and despite the lukewarm reviews, I really enjoyed it. In fact I think it added depth to the television series. Yes it was different to your conventional movie the way in which the television series was different to your conventional television series. As a result you do have to know the television series inside out to gain the full benefit of the film. The movie for me was like catching up with old friends I hadn't seen for a while. Yes Carrie, Miranda, Samantha and Charlotte have all grown older (haven't we all) but they still look fabulous without any desperate attempts to hide their older ages. If anything it's the men who have aged badly. ‘Big’ sports the worst hair dye job throughout the entire film which makes him look an extra off the Munsters, Smith (Samantha's) looks like he has hepatitus and Steve (Miranda's) looks like a crack addict. Harry (Charlotte's) is the only bloke who hasn't changed at all and when I come to think of it, nor has Charlotte.....she has not changed both in persona and looks in ten years!

The film, written and directed by Michael Parker King who was executive producer and chief writer of the series drawn from journalist Candace Bushnell's columns (and her later book), is basically five new episodes stitched together, again set in New York City. This stretches the movie to 145 minutes which many critics did not like but if you are a diehard SATC fan like myself….I loved the length…I wanted it to keep going!

All the original's basic ingredients -- sex, relationships, careers, shopping and Patricia Field's fashions -- are there, with the lives of the four main characters resuming three years on from the concluding TV episode. There hasn't been such a female friendly box office blockbuster since Renee Zillwegger became Bridget Jones and Goldie Hawn, Bette Midler and Dianne Keaton formed the First Wives Club in the 90s.

While the gals are well and truly into their 40s-- Sarah Jessica Parker as narrator and central focus Carrie, Kim Cattrall as the lusty LA-based entertainment executive Samantha, Cynthia Nixon as the uptight married lawyer Miranda, and Kristin Davis as the house-proud Charlotte -- continue to try and work out what the deal is with life, love and happiness.

Of course the big question is whether Carrie and her ‘manfriend’ Mr Big tie the knot. Now if you haven’t seen the pic yet….don’t read on! I think it was pretty obvious if they were going to do a SATC film that Carrie and Big’s wedding was going to fall apart…..otherwise there wouldn’t be anything to do a film on! Yes Big gets the old fashioned cold feet and pulls out of the wedding as Carrie is making her way up the wedding steps in her Vivienne Westwood gown. And it is some of the best acting I’ve ever seen SJP do. She gives Carrie a third dimension beyond that manola bhlanik wearing barbie doll image which she never managed to overcome in the series. The scene where she confronts BIG just after he pulls out of the ceremony is haunting to say the least.

The wedding disaster is not the only romantic entanglement to be sorted out in the course of the movie. There are crises of varying impact in each of her friends' lives as well. Miranda is too tired to have sex with Steve due to running a legal practice, a household, raising a child as well as raising Steve…..the guy is a 12 yr old trapped in a 40 something yr old man’s body. Due to the lack of action in the bedroom, Steve has a one night stand. All hell breaks loose and the couple spend the rest of the film trying to work it out. Cynthia Nixon is still by far the best actress in the group. She knows and absorbs the character of Miranda so well; not to mention I think she’s the hottest out of the 4.

It's not difficult to tell that director Michael King is gay; there are more bare male buttocks on display on this film than there are manola bhlaniks. As I said before Steve has aged something chronic, but there is a hot scene of him shagging Miranda and my my, he’s got a very nice peach. And then there is Samantha’s neighbour…..the man whore who shags a different girl every night. The guy is piping hot. The scenes of Samantha perving on him are hysterical.

In the film, Samantha is trying to survive outside of NYC managing Smith in LA but is failing miserably. …….even if her house right on the beach is to die for. The LA coastline looks amazing in this film. Samantha eventually leaves Smith remaining true to her character, which I felt didn’t happen at the end of Series when she moved in with Smith.

And then there is Charlotte who as I said before, really hasn’t aged at all. She finally realises her dream in this film, falls pregnant and has a baby. There are still some classic Charlotte scenes particularly when the girls go on Carrie’s all expenses paid honeymoon to Mexico and Charlotte refuses to eat any of the food except the bottled food she has brought with her from the states.

The second half of the film introduces Dreamgirls Oscar winner Jennifer Hudson as Carrie's personal assistant, Louise from St Louis who loves Louis Vuitton (ya…it’s a little too much). Hudson does her best but this character just doesn’t work. There is no point to her character and it doesn’t assist in carrying the film along at all. In fact most of the dialogue between Carrie and Louise sounds like it’s written by Hallmark Cards: Louise to Carrie: “I’ve come to New York to find love.” What? Get out. I would have preferred to have seen more of Stamford who gets about two minutes in the film and was sadly missed.

Seen even more briefly and to even less effect is Candice Bergen as a Vogue editor, lacking the bite of Meryl Streep's Devil Wears Prada role. Bergnen appears really tired, overweight and sounding like she’s reading her lines off an autocue. It was embarrassing.

Apart from those few blemishes, I loved the film and definitely will be seeing it again. Like the series, the heart of this film is about friendship; the tight plutonic bonds that can exist between four human beings. Something we can all relate to…..even the most alpha of males. There is talk of a sequel, which I couldn’t comprehend at first as this film does tie up the loose-ends left by the series. However, these characters are so rich, I would love to see them again, but not in two years’ time. Perhaps they should consider a film every five years. I think it would be really interesting to see a movie franchise (that isn’t an action film) which narrates the lives and tribulations of four best friends over twenty years.

C

A Nice Cuppa

Mum and Dad have been married for 37 years as of 11am today. Dad was a handsome dairy farmer with his own property in Christmas Creek, a little valley one hour south of Brisbane just outside of Beaudesert: otherwise known as Ba'desert if you're a local. My mother was a pretty 24-year-old primary school teacher from the northern Brisbane suburb of Sandgate. They met in 1968 at the weekly dance at the Hill-view Hall located at the top of Christmas Creek. Dad thought Mum was a snob and Mum thought Dad was arrogant. It was love at first sight. They were married less than three years later.

Dad said that they had the wedding early in the day because everyone had to be home by 5pm to milk the cows; so wonderfully rural Queensland. The wedding was at the Sacred Heart Church at Sandgate where Dad's Uncle, Father Jim married Mum and Dad. The reception was at Market Street which was THE place to have your wedding party in Brisbane at the time. 165 guests attended…….mostly Dad's relatives some of whom my mother said she met for the first time that day and never saw again!

After the wedding and the three-month honeymoon travelling around in a lime green Holden Kingswood Premier, they moved back to the farm in Christmas Creek and stayed there for 18 years. In that time they had both my brother and myself. We then moved to Toowoomba so that my brother and I could attend secondary school. They moved to Kenmore in Brisbane about 12 years ago and they have been there ever since.

Mum and Dad's relationship is still the benchmark in relationships for me. I rate every relationship I've ever had against theirs. Unfortunately for me they set an incredibly high standard to which I am always failing to aspire.

Yes it's clichéd to say but they do still love each other as much as they did the day they got married. But as Mum said it is a different kind of love to that newlywed romantic love they had when they first exchanged vows. It's one that has evolved and grown into a richer more familiar love. Mind you, as they both say, it hasn't been easy. There have been times when either of them could have easily walked away from the marriage…. particularly during some very tough financial times. But they hung in there. They've had to work hard every day at their relationship and they continue to do so. I guess with Mum and Dad, it's the little things I notice. They always make sure they have "tea" (as in dinner) together, they go out to dinner somewhere nice once a week and Dad always brings Mum breakfast in bed! I've never been able to convince my previous boyfriends to do the last activity! Dad calls mum Herb and Mum calls Dad Mary. So as I said….it's the little things. LOL.

The best advice my dad has ever given me was this:

All you want in a 'mate' at the end of the day is someone you can share a nice cuppa tea and a bit of a yarn.

So true….

Happy Anniversary Mum and Dad!

JBxxx

THE RETURN OF THE LAST TRUCK-STOP

Manacle (Sydney's only leather bar…although I use the term loosely) finally re-opened Friday night almost 8 months after its closure at its Taylor Square premises. I think most of us were convinced it was never coming back. Situated underground beneath the Taylor Square Hotel, Manacle had become an icon of the Sydney gay scene in the previous four years. It was dark and dingy with its black smeared concrete walls and its bathroom full of chipped enamel and mildewed pipes. Dirty underground for this place was an understatement. Manacle had been an alternative to the queen scene of Oxford St and the waxed chests of Arq. At night, it was primarily a club for men where you could have a couple of beers and not have Kylie or Madge bellowing down your ear. There was true grit to the place. It was promoted as a leather club but it didn't enforce a strict dress code. Sure there were leather caps and chaps galore but you could be equally at home in a polo and a biscuit pant. There was never discrimination.

Manacle on Friday and Saturday nights would close at 3 in the morning and then re-open at 7am for Manacle Bent…..the best dance day club in Sydney. I always described Manacle Day Club as the last truck-stop to hell….the venue you went to when all other venues had closed. Every walk of life gay, straight and everything in between ended up at Manacle Bent. It was a true den of inequity. Andy Warhol would have loved the joint.

So it came as a big shock to the scene when in October last year the proprietors of the Taylor Square Hotel decided not to re-new the lease to the Manacle owners, Andrew and Stuart. Manacle in the previous 18 months had become very popular particularly the day club attracting a broad mix of gay and straight people with the club completely full most Saturdays and Sundays. It left a pretty sour taste in most Manacle patrons' mouths when Taylor Square Hotel re-opened the venue, as it's own club two weeks later. Ironically Sydney City Council shut the club down a week later due to lack of proper exits from the venue. I often used to wonder when I was down there, where the hell we would go if there was a fire!

For months the rumour mill was out of control as to where Manacle was going to end up; some were saying it was moving to Melbourne or to Cairns and as the months rolled on, people started to believe it was never going to come back at all. It was to everyone's surprise when they picked up the gay papers a few weeks ago and read that Andrew and Stuart had bought The Clarence Hotel…..Manacle's new home. The Clarence is located on the corner of Parramatta Road and Crystal St, Petersham…..just down from Little Italy/Leichardt on Norton Street. Ironically it is the hotel where I did my Theatresports Graduation performance nearly two months ago. It is a huge hotel and since The Newtown and The Imperial closed down last year, there has been no gay venue in the inner west …..so a new gay pub in the inner west is long overdue. And it's about five minutes drive from my apartment door. Dangerous!

Trev, Wanda, Bernice, Judy and myself went along to the opening (not the official…apparently there is an official one on in about a month's time after the renovations) Friday night…..along with about 600 other Manacle fans. The place was packed. Unfortunately there were only about three bar men on which meant the average wait for a beer was about two hours! Apparently a number of staff they had arranged for the night pulled out at the last minute. Very annoying! The back area which used to be the comedy theatre will now house Manacle and it appears to be well into it's renovation with the walls blacked out already…..I couldn't believe it was the same place at which I performed theatre sports six weeks ago.

It was a great turn out for their first night. Whether the boys will maintain the patronage remains to be seen. I think they will. The inner-west has been hanging out for a gay pub for ages. Apparently they are going to resurrect the day club again as well. I'm not sure how this will go. It certainly is a great venue for it but I think it might be a little too far from the big clubs of Oxford Street to succeed as a day club. I can't see people jumping in cabs after Arq or the Shift and paying 20 bucks in fares to go to a day club in the inner-west when they could walk down the street to Phoenix Rising (new day club on oxford st). Only time will tell.

http://www.manacle.com.au/

9.15

Judy and I have a general response to questions or people we don't understand, comprehend and most importantly don't like. It's our verbal emergency exit.

"9.15!" (as in the time) shouted towards the protagonist's face, a gulp of one's mixed beverage and a 180 degree turn on the heel usually results in such bedazzlement that it provides a safe exit for one to escape such declarations as "G'day I'm Barry" "How's ya night?' and the wayward grab of your left buttock by the said Barry.

It is particularly useful between 3am and 11am at speakeasies where various Barries will approach you and ask to sign your dance card. There is also the awkward situation of the continually lost faghag who has been abandoned by her fag for a raffle in cubicle number 2. These women will generally corner you in the smoking alley, immediately commence breaches of personal space and say that "you're lovely". Akin to a leach, such a female needs to be stopped before she engorges her arms around you and you have no escape. The same can be said for the nymphomanic bisexual (male or female) who seems determined to sleep with anything….male, female or potted palm. These people will not take no for an answer. Telling them to f-off is like moth to a flame….it will simply invigorate them to keep pursuing you. 9.15 however totally confuses them either into believing you're a vocal clock or having a stroke. Either way, they leave you alone.


C