Sugar Pushers Exposed!

I was in the middle of writing a hard-hitting post exposing the seedy and corrupt underbelly of Melbourne's notorious Krispy Kreme mafia - those unrelenting and unforgiving sugar pushers must be stopped! - when this annoying headache crept in and decided to make a mess of my otherwise intelligent, sexy brain.

Full blown migraine now.

So, while I go turn down the lights, get naked and soak myself in a bath full of ice and vodka mixers, check out the following videos. Do more for the cause of animal welfare than that damn WWF panda. You'll love 'em.

How freaky is that lemur?!? O__o

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Sorry, peeps. Been totally meaning to update the last few days but I've been kinda sidetracked. And yesterday, when I had the whole day to do so, I spent it staring at the laptop instead. Apparently, lack of sleep isn't conducive to creativity. Or brain flow for that matter.

Anyway, interesting thing happened on the weekend – and it all came about from a single line of text message I got on my phone.

I know what you did.

Not a missive from a potential serial killer from summers past, the SMS actually came from a friend, Adrian. He and I first met back in the late 90s when I joined a youth group local to my area. I had just come out and needed to meet some like-minded individuals. He was the president and co-convenor.

Amongst this tiny ensemble of funky lesbians, lip-wristed twinks and uber-political queers were two guys: Daniel and John. Daniel was Asian. John was European. And the two were a couple. Both were approachable and friendly – not to mention cute – and so were the ones I naturally gravitated to. Mutual admiration ensued and before too long, we became very close friends.

We spent lots of time together; going out, spending in or just shooting the shit. It was all good until I started noticing John give me those too-friendly touches and too-suggestive smiles. All behind Daniel's back. I guess apart from being a freshly out kid back then, I was also pretty stupid – and horny. Which led to the fateful night spent with John while Daniel was away. In Daniel's house. In Daniel's bed.

To say the experience was nowhere near worth the fall-out would be an understatement to the nth degree. When Daniel eventually found out, the proverbial excrement hit the spinning machine in the ceiling. I stopped making contact which was just as well since I would have been cock-blocked. The two boys separated and all three of us left the group without giving any explanations. A whole lot of drama for a few dark hours spent merely on mutual fondling – and nothing more.

That was ten years ago and all but forgotten until Adrian's text message.

Quite by accident, he had run into Daniel at a bar. And I guess after not seeing each other for so long, the two had plenty to catch up on. And I mean plenty.

It seems that after all this time – a whole decade – Daniel had not only not forgotten about what went down between the John and I but remembered more of the story than I ever would. According to what Daniel had told him, Adrian said that I apparently sucked off John. That I apparently then let John suck me. And that when we were both dry of saliva, that I apparently fucked him. And he me. It was a far steamier session that I actually experienced.

I tried pleading otherwise but Adrian simply refused to believe me. It seems the thought of something so scandalous happening under his nose and instigated by his otherwise unassumingly nice guy friend is just way too titillating news, especially after all these years. Seems nostalgia is far more appealing than reason. Regardless of how clouded it may be.

Even Britney can't work up that kind of notoriety.

Glasses Maketh The Man

I've been wearing the same pair of glasses for the last couple of years, the rimless kind with thin lenses held together by two flimsy bits of metal. It's so light and inconspicuous that sometimes I forget that I even have them on. I guess some people don't notice either.

I realised this the other day when I found an old pair of specs that I had hidden in the drawer. They're the bookish kind, the type with the narrow black plastic frames that you often see geeky sorts wear. Suffice to say, these ones are very conspicuous. When I wore them to work this morning, I was surprised by the number of compliments I received from people about how good glasses suit my face and at the same time, confused by their asking if I've always had them before. Uhm, these are people I see every day.

On my lunch break, I popped over to the shops to buy the daily newspaper. Whenever I've come to the store, I always get the same chick at the counter with the dourest disposition. Of the times I've had her ring up the register for my paper, not once has she ever said hello or made any kind of small talk. And forget about her cracking a smile. That would just be one thing too much for her $10 an hour job.

But today when I came to pay, eager to just give her the money and get back to work, I had to stop and stare when she greeted me with not only a "hello" but also with a "how are you?". She was even smiling! I wondered what had caused her to be so friendly. Perhaps she got a raise, perhaps she got up on the right side of the bed that morning, or perhaps someone took pity on her and she got lucky the night before. Whatever it was, I was feeling curious and suspicious by the change in her demeanour. Until she said, "nice glasses".

I couldn't believe it. Can something as innocuous as spectacles really elicit that kind of change in people's reactions? Enough for them to go from Feral Beryl to Flirty Myrtle? I guess if today's experience is anything to go by, perhaps that could really be the case.

I've always considered them a bit of a nuisance but it seems glasses can - and sometimes do - maketh the man.

Monkey + glasses = mildly funny internet fodder

A Bad Day At Work

I will never ever complain about my job again. Ever.

Death And Hot Chocolates

The Sydney trip went well as Jug and I spent a few relaxing days catching up with friends, exploring the city and doing what comes naturally while on holidays: eating, drinking and pretty much bugger-all.

It was a pleasant experience that almost became a distant memory as soon as I got in to work the following day. Aside from the usual pile of crap that I was expecting to be waiting at my desk, I also had to deal with the sad and shocking news that one of our client had recently passed away. It threw me for a loop.

Leah had only recently joined the Club but soon became friends with almost everyone she met including me. She had one of those infectious bubbly personality which you couldn't help but be gravitated to. One of the things that I would remember about her is her fondness for hot chocolates after our training sessions. And she only ever asked me to make it for her. My hot chocolates do kinda rock.

The weirdest thing that keep playing through my head when I learnt that she'd died – aside from not fully believing it despite confirmation from her family – is the conversation we had before I left for the weekend. Leah asked if I was sticking around after the session for our usual post-workout drinks but being short for time and wanting to get some last-minute clothes shopping done, I made some lame excuse and basically lied to her about why I had to leave early. It's such a small thing but still, I can't stop but feel guilty about it.

Death seems to be something that has been prominent in my life of late. An old friend of mine lost his brother from a tragic accident just last month and over the weekend, I learnt that one of the participants died during the City To Surf marathon, the very one that I'd only recently been watching. Now, to know that my client and friend Leah will no longer be asking for my hot chocolates... Well, I find it just strange. Real strange.

Friends And Marathon

So, I'm heading to Sydney this weekend with my friend, Jug. He's a bit of an athlete and does all these crazy sporty stuff like pounding the asphalt, running non-stop for kilometres and wearing really short jogging shorts. Yes, some people have weird fetishes.

On Sunday, he's doing the Sydney City to Surf 15K marathon and I'm going with him for a bit of moral support. So, I'll be cheering and watching. From the hotel balcony. While drinking a glass of champagne.

The other reason for our trip to Sin City is to be there for a friend's birthday. Jim is turning thirty and to his credit, instead of lamenting the beginning of the end of his gay life, is going to celebrate his special day with much gusto. He's kick starting the night off with a Moroccan banquet of at least 10 courses with wine to match, followed by more drinks as we go bar-hopping. It's going to be a different kind of marathon.

This means that I'll just have to eat more than I normally could, drink more than I generally would and look more fabulous than I usually do. Ah, the things I do for my friends.

See y’all at the flipside!

To improve his time in this year's run,
Jug is trialling a new, more aerodynamic running suit.

Another Grumpy Monday

I hate Mondays. In fact, I hate Mondays so much that if it were a person, it would run away crying from the relentless barrage of expletives that I can throw at it. And all before noon.

The reason for my lack of fondness for the start of the working week is more than mere Mondayitis, which, according to recent research, is now merely a psychological illusion borne from those who have had way too much fun over the weekend. Scientists are such killjoys.

No, my hatred of Mondays stems from some serious lack of sleep that has to do with voluntary work that ends way too late on Sunday evening and paid employment that starts way too early the following day. Four hours shut-eye at most. Not even enough time to get some decent snoring action.

It makes for being a cheerful door bitch very, very, very, VERY hard work. But I manage.

That is until "Grumpy Guts Sally" walks through the doors.

Looking like she's just rolled out of bed, Sally enters wearing her trademark crusty-eyed frown and equally crusty demeanour. A friendly question about her health elicits no more than a simple grunt – which is just as well, since seeing her thin-lipped mouth still stained with dried drool would probably kill a small animal when she actually opens it.

Today, I came close to throttling her.

Me: Morning.
Sally: Hmph.
Me: Erm, okay then.
Sally: Well, what’s so good about it anyway?
Me: It's the start of a new day?
Sally: Only for people who get to sleep in.
Me: Maybe – but I don't. And I don't get to sleep until late either.
Sally: That's because you stay out all night partying.
Me: Not at all. I do voluntary work.
Sally: Wait until you have kids. You'll know what sleepless is like.
Me: Up yours, lady.

So, I didn't really say that last part, but boy, if I was already a millionaire and wasn't working hard to sustain my childless lifestyle, well, she would have been like Monday running away.

Whatever You Do...

...don't click this link.

www.lemonparty.org

No, really. Don't.