Dreams And Pumpkins

So, I'm slowly getting myself organised as my flight date gets ever closer, and yesterday's task was to clear out the increasing amount of paperwork I have piling up on my desk.

I found this short piece I had written a few months ago when, for a good period of time, I was having some insanely vivid dreams. I wrote a few of them down, mostly for kicks but also for record-keeping since I'd be lying if I didn't also say that a small part of me secretly expected that they may actually happen one day and wanted some proof when they did. Hey, it wouldn't be the first time. Seriously. Although, as you'll soon read, I hope these ones never ever do.

I've been having really vivid dreams in the last week, and I'm beginning to feel a little worried.

In one of these crazy trips, I was driving a car that plowed into a head on collision with a semi-trailer. I can't remember if I ended up getting hurt, or worse, dying.

In another, I reconciled with my estranged half-brother, even making him cry as we hugged, only for him to be suddenly taken away as a terrorist suspect.

And last night, I dreamed that I was being chased by the authorities and tried hiding in an old colonial mansion only to be found and tried in a court of law where I was found guilty of a crime I do not know of and then sentenced to jail. I was about to serve a lifetime of imprisonment when I woke up with a start, feeling absolutely relieved as well as traumatised to know that it was only a dream.

Random and somehow not. They all seem to be stuff of real-life events - despite being surreal and nightmarish, and highly improbable from happening.

I wonder what it all means?
I wonder what I'll dream next?

Pretty crazy and morbid, huh? And somewhat fitting that I share it today, being Halloween and all. Happy Halloween!

Now this is scary... nothing says Halloween like
an ass pumpkin!

Car Bingle: The Musical

Last night, my friends and I went to see Priscilla: The Musical...

But before I get to that tale, let me just tell you first what had happened to me after the show.

I lost a fight against a cement wall.

Well, rather my car lost a fight against the cement wall. Trying to reverse oh-so-carefully out of a tight parking spot in one of those typically mini-sized underground carparks, I inadvertently rammed the back of my car into a support wall. The reason: I was so preoccupied with trying to avoid from clipping my driver side mirror against the other car parked very close that I didn't even notice the looming concrete behind me. Boom! As soon as my ride rocked into an abrupt halt, I knew what had happened. I don't know whether I was more frustrated with myself for doing something so stupid, or mortified from embarrassment as the carpark full of theatre-goers, all on their way out also, gawked at the idiot who couldn't pull out properly. I got out of the car, quickly checked the damage (cracked brake light and 12" long deep scratch along the side bumper), feigned shocked and got back in. Made a hasty retreat with my tail tucked between the seats. Stupid, stupid, stupid...

Anyway, back to the show. Long anticipated, after having purchased my tickets months before, the wait was worth it. Priscilla was everything that I've heard of. Awesome. The lights, the colours, the songs, the costumes. It was like a bunch of frenetic drag shows strung into a one long fantastic performance. Sticking very close to the movie's plot, everything were familiar but new (with plenty of in-joke references for those who know the movie inside out). And although it seemed to lack the depth of substance when compared to the film, it was still a thoroughly satisfying experience, that stands on its own. Priscilla was, dare I say it, fabulous!...

...inane car bingle and all.

Stomp, Stomp, Splat!

Music Moves

It must be the inner maths geek in me, but last night, during the start of Darren Hayes' concert, I wondered what critical mass of people would be needed for the audience to go from being seated to up standing. The reason I wondered this was because my friend and I had already been told off twice by those behind us for blocking the view. Admittedly, they had every right, but we were only rocking it out as Darren opened up the show with a pretty funked up number.

Standing atop a mechanical gang plank right in the middle of the stage, his "One Show Only" Time Machine concert in Melbourne was off to a great start. The sounds were booming, the lights were flashing, and the screens were displaying random abstract images. It was very atmospheric and quite electric. The only problem was the two sods behind us.

It's an age old problem, isn't it? To stand up or to sit down? To rock it out without a care or to be restrained and considerate? Both sides carry valid points that could be argued until one is blue in the face, but really, all I wanted to know was, how many more people would it take to change the tide?

Apparently, two.

Whilst, there were random groups of upstanding peeps here and there, they were still outnumbered by the largely seated audience. And what a varied audience; lots of gay men, a sprinkle of lesbians and plenty of young women. Obviously, Darren's coming out hasn't had any ill-effects on his former-Savage Garden fans. And why would it, he still sang the same, if not better, and he looked very comfortable on stage.

Darren moved from one energised beat to another and my friend and I were once again on our feets. And predictably, we get asked to sit down. This time, though, instead of dropping our wiggly arses back, we leave our seats and head down the aisle to dance it up by the stage. At first, it was just the two of us. Then, two more joined, then three, and not long after, people began running from right down the back to swell the gathering throng up front. Suddenly, everyone else were up on their feet. And it was like that for the next hour and a half. Empty seats, almost the lot of them, save for those who remained rooted watching both Darren and the moving mass upfront, happy to have a clear view.

It was an amazing experience to be able to dance and enjoy a concert like it ought to be. And Darren seemed appreciative. He swayed close to the throng, grabbed hands and acknowledged the crowd. As for the cranky two behind us, well, they were up the front with the rest. Evidently, they couldn't restrain themselves either.

Music moves - never contain it.

Hens And Cocks

Here's one thing I thought I'd never ever see: my sister being dry humped from behind by a burly black man, with my mother whooping it up for encouragement. No, it wasn't some bizarre Jerry Springer kind of a family moment, but rather part of a wild evening that was my sister's Hen's Night. Crazy.

Even though she is technically already married with her Civil Ceremony having occurred earlier in the year, my sister is still madly organising for her Church Wedding in December. What makes her preparations doubly stressful is the fact that it is going to be held overseas. Bridezilla, she is close to becoming.

So, to hedge of any unnecessary, but quite likely, connubial homicide, we decided to organise a surprise Hen's Night to distract her from the hair-pulling stress of the past few weeks. Let me tell you, it would have been far easier to keep a State secret than it is to keep something like this from my sister. She sensed something was up, although not knowing exactly what. All she kept saying was, "there better be strippers!"

Well, that's exactly what she got.

With thirteen of her closest gal pals, along with two gay boys that included myself, and our mother in tow, we had pole position at Mandate, a male revue venue, and front centre of all the action. Bless. And ours weren't the only Hen's Night being celebrated with up to a dozen other groups there, all wildly screaming and jeering for the boys to come out. What is it with chicks and their seemingly unending propensity for creating loud piercing noises? I was hoarse after only a few goes.

So, after a long build-up - the stage version of foreplay - the boys finally came out and expectedly, all looked buffed and very hunky. They moved, they teased and they stripped. The girls were going absolutely stir crazy. Oddly, though, I found the boys rather ordinary. They were all good to look at, that much was a given, but really, better eye candy could be found at Exchange, a local gay haunt. No, it was their antics with the chicks that I found more entertaining.

Hens were brought up on stage for some very special, very close, one-on-one attention. Gropes, humps, licks and kisses, anything goes. Which leads me to my sister's hilarious turn. Her close encounter with the Black Cop stripper was relatively tame by comparison, despite the embarrassment factor of being groped and being done in front of all her friends and mother. At least, it wasn't like the girl who was made to lie down while a sweaty, oiled up spunk, wearing nothing but a shirt, knelt down in front of her up-turned face. Talk about being tea-bagged!

Lucky bitch.

Eight Is Not A Prime Number

I got tagged to do this meme on my other blog, but since I've already done the same one there before, I thought I'd do one here instead. So, here's 8 things you might not know about... well, Joshua:


I like eating liver spread and ketchup on toast for breakfast.

When I was a kid, my grandma owned a milkbar where I can pretty much take whatever I wanted for free. But sometimes, I'd sneak into the cash register and take some spare change to buy something at her competitors.

I once stuck a piece of rubber up my nose so high that I needed to go to the hospital to have it taken out.

I own a DVD collection worth the price of a small European car. I started collecting when I was 18 and it's now grown to a 1000+ titles. I've only seen about 25 per cent of them. Some are still in their original packaging.

I got very drunk on a whole bottle of black Sambucca and got very sick from it. Now, even the slightest hint of licorice smell makes me wanna gag.

Today, I had some very impure thoughts for a married man, with kids. I think I have a DILF fetish.

More on fetishes, I get really horny when riding elevators. I have fantasies of being stuck in one with a really hot guy where we fool around to kill time and then a really hot mechanic catches us when he jumps in from the roof, but instead of leaving, he joins in and we have hot, greasy three-way elevator sex... Wow, is it me or is it hot in here?

Whilst Joshua isn't my real name, it was actually one of three I added to mine and pretended to have back when I was in high school. It was a "I wish I had a middle name" thing. But it didn't hold up for very long since I kept forgetting the right order they were supposed to be in. Stupid, huh? The other two names: Andrew and Kenneth.


I won't tag any other bloggers to continue the meme but if you do happen to read this, then you must leave a comment with something about you that no one else knows. Let's call it Group Emancipation. So, go on, press that "Comment" link.

Is It Wrong That...

...whenever someone mentions they're having a baby, the first thing I think of is that they've had sex?

Food, Glorious Food

For the last week, I've been on a detox diet. Partly for health reasons but mostly in preparation for my upcoming overseas holiday, I'm on a restrictive eating plan that would make even a rabbit binge in disgust. Carbs, sugar and fats are out and so is alcohol, and more depressingly, coffee, too. Instead, I've been munching on fruits, eating steamed veggies, downing protein shakes, and drinking lots and lots and lots of water. I've never gone to the toilet so much in my life! Aside from the initial headaches due to caffeine and sugar withdrawals, I feel great - my insides feel clean, I have energy to burn and my cravings are gone. I've even lost a kilo when I did my weigh-in this morning.

One thing I hadn't counted on though is the effect it's having on my social life. It's been rather interesting this past week.

Have you ever noticed how our relationship with people or the way we relate to others usually involve some form of eating or drinking? No, really. Take a moment. Think about it. We are beings who celebrate with food and drink. We have dinner with family, share a beer with mates, have meals with friends, catch up for coffee, and heck, we even give out edible treats as presents and gifts.

It's something I've never really taken notice of and, I guess, something I have always taken for granted, but lately, it's something I've recently become acutely aware of.

With a friend visiting from Sydney, my friends and I had organised to meet up for dinner. The venue was a place I have frequented often with plenty of favourites on the menu. The challenge this time was to find something that will fit my prescribed eating plan. Caesar salad, tandoori chicken, Vietnamese spring rolls were big no-nos. Instead I went for a bowl of vegetable chick pea soup and a side of steamed vegetables. I was fine with my rather meager choice when the waiter was taking our orders... until he asked what I'd wanted to drink. Just plain water, thanks. I could almost hear what he was thinking and see him turn his nose up. I wanted to tell him that no, I'm not really a tightarse scrimping on cheapies. I have money. Really I do. I just can't eat or drink like a normal person for now.

And just this past weekend, I attended another social event. A friend's birthday soiree... at a bar. I lost count of how many times I had to explain to people why I was nursing a bottle of water and not getting suitably lubricated like everyone else. You should have seen the looks of bemusements and pity on their faces. I felt like a real right pariah. I think I should just say no to invites. It'll be easier.

In any case, I still have at least another week to go. I'm hoping that by that stage I'd have the pre-holiday body in check, ready to get fattened up again. In the mean time though, I'm gonna stick to my guns. I'll try not to succumb to the collective jeers, remarks and temptations. And I hope that by the end, I haven't done too much damage to my social life. Or lost all of my friends.

Hmmmm... cake!

Lost In Translations

For the last couple of months, I've been working on translating a series of mobile phone text messages as a favour for a friend. The SMS have all been sent by the estranged husband of my friend's niece and documents, frankly and vicariously, the acrimonious breakdown of their relationship. It's an interesting, if not a draining, experience as I attempt to accurately interpret each message that range wildly from desperate and begging to nasty and abusive. Clearly, he isn't coping very well with their separation.

But the thing that gets me, aside from the spiteful words and terrible sentiments being passed on, is that this man clearly still has feelings for his wife. He pleads for her to speak to him and to see her and the kids and even offers his assistance if she ever needs it. It seems that it's only when he doesn't get a favourable reply that he turns nasty on her.

I often wonder at what point in a relationship do things start to go sour. Is there a flash-point event involved or is it more gradual, the build-up of tension and erosion of respect? Just when do you stop from having your good side show that is so persistent at the beginning and start being less than warm and downright nasty to the other person? Working on these translations has definitely resonated that curiosity.

For me, in my limited personal experiences with relationships, it has often been a case of what I've dubbed as my "three-month itch". Basically, at the point when the honeymoon phase of a relationship is about over, I get restless and invariably break-up with the other person. I've already explained previously the chief reason for this but put simply, it's because of the fact that I get real involved from the very beginning and often, I find the response lacking. It's not something I'm blaming on anyone else but rather, one of those unfortunate character traits that I need to work on. In any case, at least I'm glad that most, if not all, of my break-ups have been amicable and I remain on speaking terms with my ex's. I'd hate to go through the pain and stress that my friend's niece and her husband are going through.

Oh, and I forgot to mention the reason for needing to translate said text messages. It's legal: to make it easier, potentially, for lawyers to understand in English the SMS that have been sent to my friend's niece, in the event that they need to be used as evidence in Family Court. Pretty full on, huh?

So Wrong, But Oh So Funny

Little Sally came home from school and with a smile on her face told her mother, "Frankie Jones showed me his willy today!"

Before the mother could raise a concern, Sally went on to say, "It reminded me of a peanut."

Relaxing with a hidden smile, Sally's mum asked, "Really, small was it?"

Sally replied, "No... salty!"

Tool

"Nice to meet you, Joshua."

"Nice to meet you, too, Nate."

"And that's your friend Jug?"

"Yes, that's him."

"Hmmm. That's funny."

"What?"

"I have friends named Joshua and Jug. And they're a couple.... Are you two a couple?"

"A couple of best mates. Yes."

"Oh. So you're not together?"

"Nope."

"So you're single?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Joshua, would you like a drink?"

"Thanks, but Jug's getting me one already."

"The next one then?"

"Oh, but it's my shout next."

"Right. Well... I'm just gonna go say hi to my friends. Might catch you later."

"Sure, Nate. Catch ya."

I'm a tool sometimes. A real daft one.

Almost There

I've just read the last six month's back-catalogue of posts on my other "real" blog and felt a quiet stir of emotions.

In fact, amidst the varying posts that swung wildly from poignant and sincere to total fluff and nonsense (was I on drugs or something then?), I started to question why I ever stopped? Was there ever, in reality, the need to disappear, or was it all just in my head? I seriously wondered whether I made a big deal out of nothing.

But then, I get an anonymous comment like this:

"I agree your writing has been a bit stale for awhile, and a break might do you the world of good. I was about to applaud your brave decision! Or were you just fishing for compliments?"

I admit that I get very insecure and defensive when subjected to criticism and feedback that seems unwarranted and not wholly transparent, but that's because I'm fiercely proud of what I write and of what I've written. Maybe I'm just a little too over-protective, maybe I'm not as enlightened as I'd like to believe.

A fellow blogger and friend asked me recently what it felt like to blog on a smaller scale? "To be able to count your readers on one hand", as he puts it. My answer: an irrational sense of relief. It took a little while to find it but I eventually worked out the balance between the need to post that I previously constantly felt to the whim of just posting when I wanted to. Here, I feel something that is assertive and welcoming.

Still, without sounding like a self-absorbed wanker, I've been quietly impressed to read what I've written on the "real" blog. I've loved the challenges that it has presented - antagonistic nameless comments included - as well as the evolution that my creativity has taken because of it. I catch myself every time wondering how I've ever been capable of such words, turns of phrase, and expressed sentiments. A big deal for an immigrant who didn't learn how to write nor speak English fluently until the age of eleven.

Anyway, enough of my ego-stroking platitudes. I just wanted to let you know that part of what quietly stirred within was also a tempered sense of excitement...

I'm almost ready to go back.

The Sad Thing Is, It's Friday Night

I spent the last two hours playing Mahjong on my laptop instead of blogging as I'd originally intended. The reason I wasted so much time on it was because I was trying hard to finish a game. It took about ten tries before I did, and the reward I got for my troubles, apart from a hint of smugness and self-satisfaction: some computer-generated Chinese fireworks.

I used to be addicted to Mahjong many years ago when it was installed on our first computer - a 486 Pentium behemoth. It was the perfect distraction from the responsibilities of high school that involved endless essays, assignments and practice exams. MySpace and Facebook were yet to be invented. It was perhaps the sole reason why I failed Specialist Maths with such spectacular results (5 marks out of 50) during the final exam when I had all of an hour to cram a whole year's worth of formulas and equations, after spending the whole night on the game. And that's the excuse I've been sticking to.

So, yesterday, when I actually got around to exploring the other programs that had been pre-installed on my notebook, it was with both surprise and dismay when I found the game amongst the items listed on the Start menu. Surprised because it was good to see an old fave, and dismayed because I knew this was going to happen. Hey, at least it actually inspired this post.

As for what I was originally going to write about, well, here's the first and only line so far:

One of my biggest fear is finding myself stuck in a public toilet cubicle without toilet paper and yesterday, it actually happened...

Maybe I'll get around to finishing it tomorrow. But for now, just one more game.

On And On And On

I was watching the telly yesterday when an ad came on for a new R&B compilation album and in the background played an old familiar song.

Every time I hear Zhane's 1993 hit, Hey, Mr D.J., I'm fifteen again and back in high school. During those days when cool kids wore bright oversized Cross Colours pants, carried Country Road duffel bags, and listened to Sony walkmans, I was a chubby, timid boy, not part of the cool click. I was into R&B when everyone else seemed to be into something else - headbanging heavy metal music and pop that was popularised by the then locally manufactured group, Girlfriends. I was also in an all boys class that I couldn't completely relate to. It was a confusing and isolating time.

Hey, Mr. D.J. will also always be the song that will remind me of MJ.

MJ and I met at a friend's house party and got on easily and became bestfriends very quickly. He was the first male friend I had that appreciated what I did: writing, dancing, and R&B music. Finally, a kindred spirit - and I didn't have to pretend in having interests in cars or sports. There were many afternoons spent chilling to the groovy tunes made by the Black artists from the States that were big in Australia at the time, but particularly over Zhane's song. We almost wore out my cassette single tape of Hey, Mr. D.J.

At the height of our friendship, MJ and I were inseparable, and everything was going well until R came along. The new girl at school, MJ befriended her and I could sense that he was really interested in her. Not long after, he began spending less time with me and more with R. I couldn't understand what I was feeling - I just knew I didn't like what was happening between us. So I acted out. I ignored him when he paid me attention, I got annoyed at him when he didn't, and I was a complete bastard to her. Somehow, I thought by acting the way I did, it would bring MJ back closer to me. I was just being an arse.

In the end, the tension between us became too much and he and I came to blows. In our one and only fight, I called him a faggot. I don't know why I said what I did but as soon as it escaped my lips, I knew I'd lost him for good. He didn't reply but simply walked away. We stopped speaking from then.

Looking back, I realise that I was really in love with MJ, even though at the time, I considered him more like a brother. In a way, he was my unrequited first love and the friendship that we had was a relationship where unrecognised and unacknowledged needs were sustained - if not mutually, at least mine - for a time...

Ironic how things pan out, isn't it? More than 10 years later, here I am, the one that actually turned out gay, and last I heard, MJ is about to settle down with his long-time girlfriend. To this day, we've neither spoken nor seen each other. I only ever hear of him from friends of friends.

I've moved on now - no longer regretting what had happened. I've made many friends since and I even have a better bestfriend now, but I'll always hold a special place for MJ. And, of course, there will always be that song that will remind me of him... on and on and on.

Funniest Old Ladies Joke Ever

Two elderly ladies are sitting on the front porch, doing nothing.

One lady turns and asks, "Do you still get horny?"
The other replies, "Oh sure I do."

The first old lady asks, "What do you do about it?"
The second old lady replies, "I suck a lifesaver."

After a few moments, the first old lady asks,
"Who drives you to the beach?"