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Do you like pina coladas?

26 Aug


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.


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.


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.



15 Aug


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?


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.



I don’t know.

But I really, really hope so.


Buy this shirt and I’ll shag you

20 Jul


I wander down Bridge Rd, Richmond to peruse the various men’s clothes stores. It’s a Tuesday and nice and quiet; nothing like the rolling maul of Saturdays, where it seems every woman in Melbourne converges here in one hysteric mess.

I’m heading interstate on the weekend, so I think, a tidy shirt, yes, a nice tidy shirt is just what I need. A little sparkle to ritualise the trip.

Anyway, anyway. I skulk into various stores and only get the this would look great on you routine from a couple of sales-folk as they hold up an aubergine skivvy or some godless ‘nam’ flashback of a shirt. I scare a couple off with my barking “NAH. IT’s NOT FOR ME.” I don’t mean to sound like I just got out of Long Bay, it’s just that my social banter skills regress to an eight year old being dragged for a haircut whenever I shop.

If I like – I buy. If I no like and you want me buy – well, we’re both in for an awkward twenty minutes.

Which, in the last shop, is exactly what I got. My bad. Alarm bells went off as soon as I entered and saw I was the only customer and that the stock was in sparse and immaculate piles. Warning!Milliondollarshirtzone!Warning!

Being unnerved by the symmetry, I engaged the enemy with a question about boot cut jeans. I mean, I didn’t want to look like some palooka from Glen Iris in his thirty dollar jeans. The sales assistant, a late thirties Greek gal with crazy hair pinned back, swiveled a glance to my ripped runnered feet and purred,

What sort of boots?

……confused silence…….then…awkward silence…..

Err Cowdy

Cuban heel?


What colour?

Err Dark Cherry?

Where’d you get them?


And then I notice as she’s been talking she has maneuvered her self between me and the door and is starting to remove shirts from a nearby rack. Shirts for me.  All the while she’s still talking.  

You should come back and show me them.

Show her what? Hey…oh….you mean the…does she dig me?

You’re very tall.

A shirt gets laid out before me.

This would look great on you!

And the eight year old now regresses to the level of potty training. I am bathed instantly  in this ridiculous feeling of guilt and a sinking need to buy something. From her. To please…her.

Ohh..errrr..I….its…not….really….ah..errr.         Plonk.   Good boy.

Ultimately, I did manage to get out of there. I did manage to not buy anything, but there are no trumpets for triumph of the will. It was a mercy release. I think maybe beyond the sales glide she did actually have a soft spot for rangy, scruffy types and in some old boyfriend archetype pity projection, she smiled, stepped aside and wrapped it up with a..

well, good luck with your hunt...

and I darted like a flathead.

So, it’s back to faceless department stores for me. Where I can hunt in silence and examine collars sans stalkers. Where I can turn a private price tag and mutter a healthy fuck me!

Where I will not be reminded, that even though I know they are singing a commercial melody upon me, that I feel utterly exposed and adrift before it.

That,  for all my this’s and that’s, where’s and why’s, I remain ultimately, one nervous cog in in the great wheel of jingle.