Archive | August, 2010

Do you like pina coladas?

26 Aug

So,

Now I’m looking for a housemate and my social cosmos has coughed up no viable entrants. It looks like I’m going to have to go Joe Public and broaden my radar to the big cold universe in the search for intelligent life. Here, intelligent means, you-understand-a-man’s- need-to-be-monosyballic-every-now-and-again-along-with-the occasional-jam-on-a-door-handle-incident-in-an-otherwise-fairly-happy-life.

In short. Welcome to my cave, please excuse the mess.

So, there are sites that deal with this. Find a house buddy kind of thing. But oh, the horror upon logging on.

No. No! No!! Not this again!

The Vietnam of internet dating comes whoop whooping back. I’ve got to pen a self description and one for who I’m looking for. Oh Jesus! I mean, really?

Err..Do you have a pathological loathing of men? What’s your view on the hung parliament? If you were a colour, I mean, no, seriously, like, what colour would you be? OH EM GEE! Me too!!

Thankfully, this site has some helpful catch all banners you can click that will feature as a slogan for your profile. Some of the choices are Loves to Party, Gay Friendly and I’m Reliable! There’s also Christian and Clean and Tidy. *cough*

The closest one I could possibly pick is Loves Animals, which troubles me with its breadth. I mean, I love huge sharks. Dinosaurs aren’t too shabby. Dogs are so cool it’s stupid. Cats belong in a lakeside sack. Lambs are both cute and delicious. I’m not much on wombats but I do like a kookaburra. Emus can plain get fucked.

So, if you’re going to have to select arbitrary categories, let’s do it stupid FB style. You know, those personal quizzes that with a few clicks answer the burning question, “What Superhero are You?”, or “If you were a murderous fascist, you’d be…”- and you delete and re-submit because it keeps coughing up Robin and Pol Pot.

There was one extremely fine quiz that asked you to choose the five things you’d want to survive a zombie apocalypse. An Apache Gunship, Hot Babe, Shot-Gun, Machete and Time Machine.

Der.

They’re as reliable as anything really. I mean, anyone who describes themselves as having a good sense of humour makes me deeply suspicious. Good? That’s like a five out of ten. Easy going? Don’t believe you.  These things are deeply contextual, and one man’s easy-going is another man’s passive aggressive post-it notes around the house fiend.

Ahhh. I’m procrastinating. Erghh. Maybe I should put up a joke profile and feather through those who get it. No. Then I’m one of those snark elitists who mistakes quips for communication.

Which scene in JAWS is the most awesome?

If you had laser eyes which city would you destroy?

Favourite early eighties porn star?

Here’s a banner.

I LIKE CUPS OF TEA.

There, that should say it. That I’m a most-of-the-time-emotionally stable person who sometimes gets sad and can’t find the words to describe it. Sometimes I lie, but I mostly tell the truth. I’m not much for religion, and even less for atheists, and I sometimes get angry about things that confuse me and confused by the kindness I find in untilled corners and most of the time it takes me two or three passes to grasp it and if you too like sipping delicious hot water and chatting sometimes about…. stuff…. I think we’ll be fine.

P.S  Pretty ladies only.

Desperate and Chippless

19 Aug

Political rants are like listening to someone describe a dream.  Indulgent and tedious. So beware, I have a dream.

I love elections.

There are few days of ritual that make me feel more connected to my Australian identity than the one of rocking up to  a local school hall on a Saturday morning and penciling a political destiny. It’s all so polite and chipper. Sure, there are the How-to-Vote  hounds who bark and wave their little red books and generally behave like footy thugs, but, everything else is commonly courteous. There’s a bit of banter and chat along the queue, but ultimately, there is an intrinsic understanding that talk of politics is out of the question.

There are commentators who profess this is emblematic of our political apathy. Of our lack of engagement  with socio-political issues. Sometimes these folk like to trot out the “people die for the right to vote” to press their point. I know this is true of the world, but having never experienced political oppression personally, to bark its verse, well,  it just seems a bit on the vain side.

What election days demonstrate so very well is that voting is a private thing. You step into your booth, you make a final weigh of what is important to you, and you accord judgment.  Like prayer, it is a private contract between you and something bigger, whatever you deem that bigger thing to be.

But this year, there is little sacred about the ritual. There is no private moment to be relished. For, after six weeks of  Punch and Judy,(only less eloquent) there is no sense of that something bigger to make contract with. Gillard and Abbott have literally worn us into the state of apathy we as Australians are so often accused of.

They played some of Obama’s acceptance speech on 774 this morning. Now, what the realities of his leadership are I do not know, but to hear the fluidity of ideas was to be excited by that most isolated of emotions, hope. Soon after, the ABC cut to sound bytes from our leaders. I thought I was eavesdropping on a neighbour’s dispute over who pays for the new fence.

Perhaps sentimentality clouds me. But I can recall in 1976 being transfixed as one Don Chipp literally spat with passion as he gave his election pitch to camera. He thumped the desk as he leant like a drunk uncle and implored us to keep the bastards honest. He was also a man who admitted to coming into politics with no real ideals and having some very strong ones forged by the ambivalent brutality of the game.

His party is a long spent force. The Greens may yet rise in their place; but as I watch and hear our current mob take yet another limp cheap shot, I wonder just where their beliefs have been forged; outside of a carefully monitored focus groups and petty ambition that is? Success through consensus has always been a part of politics, but rarely has it had stereo of such  monotonal linguists as its figureheads.

There’s a saying we get the leaders we deserve.

I love elections. I really do.

But I have a dream.

Man..Woman..Friend?

15 Aug

So,

as I’m choking to death on smoke, jamming a five foot log into a three-inch fire, sure that the sheer force of my masculine intent will blaze it to life, the conversation turns to women. It’s 3am. That’s letstalkaboutwomen-o-clock.

It’s an old question. Can a man and a woman truly by friends? No. Scratch that. Wrong question. Can a woman and man truly be friends if there is sexual chemistry?

Well.

Yes. No. Yes. Yes. No. Yes. Oh. Sorry. No. Yes.

This is the correct answer in the correct order.

So, as the smoke gives way to flame (smaller sticks, not testosterone), I listen as a female friend (there, I said it) ruminates on male folly and foible, madness and light, and I have the privilege of again getting a totally different take on things, BECAUSE I have female friends. No. Scratch that. Because I have amazing female friends. Grounded, compassionate, sensual cyclones.

At the peril of sounding like one of those spoon fed toolfucks who wafts on and on about his respect for women, and the great mystery of motherhood, and the ferocity of the lioness and the yeah yeah I-download-porn-and-whimper-as-I-watch-it-too, if I take stock of my feminine brood, honest injun, it’s wall to wall babe town.

So is that part of the kick? Part of the spark and mischief that I find so invaluable in any friendship? A smite of unpredictability that peppers the secret language all friends have, because, well, secret languages are part of friendships. Part of a much bigger word, intimacy. How can you not find someone attractive when they trust you enough to be vulnerable? To make themselves  available for potential ridicule, but to with steady smile, give you the masculine confidence to not do that. To not ridicule.

To be a man.

Ahhhh. I dunno. Way down there, where my beliefs lie in some still pool untroubled by social mathematics, there’s a little waxed paper boat with the word “Yes”  scrawled in crayon that glides the surface. Occasionally, it bumps into the other little boats with the answers to other stuff like, “Is there a God?”,  “What am I afraid of?” and “Will I go bald?

It’s an important moment, when these boats bump. A yes meets a no. A maybe brushes by a still not sure. A shrug meets a I really hope so. These are the moments when ranges are formed. When men are changed.

So, as much as I really hope that little YesBoat is answering the question, can a man and woman truly be friends if there is sexual chemisty? – I think it’s actually floating upon a much larger question.

Am I a man?

And to that, even a tiny wax covered metaphor seems crudely painted if it bears just one word.

Yes?

No?

I don’t know.

But I really, really hope so.

..