Tag Archives: friendship

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.

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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.

..

Oh doctor my doctor

13 Jul

So,

I take these hardcore tm prescription meds for a sleeping disorder that require I front to my doctor face to face so he can ring the official drug yeppers and be yepped.

Yes. Give that man them pills. Tick.

Honestly. It’s a drag. Making a booking. Turning up on time. Sitting in a waiting room for an hour or so…. waiting.

I mean, my doctor knows who I am. I know who he is. The phone yeppers don’t even ask if I’m there or how I’m going or anything.

But last time I went in, things were different.

Dr.Lee has been my doctor since, well, I’ve been going to doctors. I remember being enthralled by the fish-tank behind his desk on my first visit. I guess I was about six. He had some mad crazy fish. Spiky, antenna, floaty, fanny things that hovered and gulped. No dumb-ass orange fish (Oh no, I’m golden), but a seriously intense eco chain and a seriously awesome sunken pirate boat. When I got up on to the consulting bed, my head was right at it.

Then he dacked me and stuck a needle in my arse. It took me a while  to trust chinese people again.

Dr.Lee had one of those crinkly smiles that smart people who don’t care that they’re smart seem to have. Cheeky. Kind. Patient. A haiku smile.

He’s pretty much seen every part of my body and heard every one of my embarrassing admissions. He’s always have that same crinkly smile  as I blurted or moaned and then he’d nod and say okay mate in that beautiful chinese/australian accent.  Often, he’d go in to the other room and return with an elaborate model of a body part and show me step by step what was going on. I loved how his voice sounded when he did this.

But on my last visit he wasn’t there. His receptionist told me he’d retired.         Gone bush and running a hobby dairy farm.

Then I thought of the visit before. How he had returned to his surgery after a long lay off. How he’d lost a lot of weight and how his smile had effort in it now. How he’d  quoted somebody as I sat and then leant forward and said, makes you think..

I can’t recall the quote nor the author. What I can recall is knowing, right to my bones knowing, that this man who had cured and kept me for the best part of a third of a century was reaching for words to find himself and was inviting me in.

And I flinched from it.

I was pissy from having to wait. I was grumbly for having to front up for a prescription. I was in a hurry to get some place for some thing at some time o’clock.

And I flinched.

I shifted in my seat and looked away. You’re a doctor. Doctors don’t get sick. He, being the gentleman he is, delicately returned to being that doctor for me, filled my script and then rose and offered his hand as I left.

Truth comes at the strangest times. Or perhaps it is always there and sometimes we are just forced to acknowledge its naked face. Men like to think we are creatures defined by the big moments and I am most certainly a manwholikestothink.  As men, we can float  through our moral narrative, but as long as we hit the big cues, the show will be fine.

I wish I’d listened to the truth in his tone. I’m glad he was the man he was to forgive me instantly for lacking. I’m glad I am the man I am that shaking his hand was the most perfect thing in the world.

I like to picture him now. A ridiculous straw hat. Gum-boots.  Leaning over a huge head holding a home built model of an udder as that lovely timbre explains the whys of the universe to a mind that will never quite get there.

Fair winds Dr.Lee.