A funnelweb attacked me. I was trying to measure its burrow, and it suddenly charged out and struck at my hand viciously. However, the would-be assailant was measured at only 4 millimeters long. Mid-strike, it let out an inaudible arachnid shriek, and dove back to safety faster than it came.
I knew I had to come back and tango with its big brothers later.
Came back that night with a fly, a spotlight, tweezers, and a believable backstory in case I got caught. It was time to feed the funnelwebs. I wandered down the narrow path into the rainforest, blind and alone. However, its hard to be afraid when the largest animal around is a wallaby. No, my only risk is stepping on a snake in the dark. That, or having the tweezer be just a little too short.
I find my first spider, but the pussy fucker recoils from the light. I offer it the fly on the tweezers. I didnt see anything happen, but I did notice the fly was gone. Damn, lets try that again!
Just by chance, I find a beetle on a tree. Catch it almost too easily. The thing is lazy as shit. I keep dropping it, but it goes nowhere, just twitching on its back. I offer it to the original spider, but I suppose he's already full. Next door, a trap door spider takes a peek through a little window. I offer the beetle, and its obviously tempted. Pokes its head out slowly. In, out, in, out. Cant make up its fucking simple arthropod mind. I give up on it, and move on with my beetle.
Next spider is not shy. It stands in full view at the edge of its den. And it is not alone. A cluster of over a dozen burrows surrounds it. That's 12x8 (almost 100) eyes staring at me hungrily. I offer the beetle to the biggest spider, and it immediately pounces. I discover why the beetle is so lazy; the spider cant break through its hard shell. But god, how it tries. It grabs on, and I realize I can drag the spider out for a better (and stupider) full look. I halfway succeed before it realizes and scurries back deep. The beetle is unharmed, and continues its lazy squirming until I accidentally drop it for good.
By chance again, I find a cricket. Catch it in the fly's plastic bag, corner it, and grab a leg with the tweezers. It simply rips its own leg off and hops away. I'm left with just a drumstick, but its worth a shot. Find a new web, and scratch the opening with the leg. Spider doesnt budge. I move the leg right in front of the spider. Not even a flinch... until it suddenly lashes out. It strikes blisteringly fast, then rears up on its back legs, flashing its fangs for me. This is the moneyshot. Those fangs must be atleast half a centimeter long each. When it appears I wont be intimidated, it backs off, and I leave the leg as a gift.
Coming back, I decide to find a Redback to make my night complete. Turn over a couple rocks. I fail to find a funnelweb, but a nasty centipede will have to do. Entemology may be boring, but entemology with venom rocks.
I return to find the few remaining awake smoking pot and playing with the thermometer guns. Who had the better night?
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Welcome To The Jungle
Lamington National Park: A warm subtropical rainforest filled with dangerous spiders, leeches, and many many cliffs. In fact, the dominant theme of the trip was the consistent near falling to my death. So many of our hikes, traveling through the rainforest or scrubby heath, make do with narrow ledges, pointy outjutting rocks, and just sheer dropoffs. Beautiful, but liable to kill me. I have no sense of balance as is; a one-shoulder backpack destabilizing my center of gravity and chronic lack of sleep destabilizing my mind doesn’t help the issue.
I seem to like dangerous things. I keep turning over logs to find snakes; nevermind most Australian snakes are highly venomous elapids. My project was on funnelweb spiders, and I keep trying to draw them out by teasing them with pine needles and food (but more about that later). Nevermind a bite will put me in a hospital. Oh, and I do so love climbing trees, scampering over rocks on steep mountaintops, and exploring closed-off trails.
Before going, I thought we were roughing it. I didn’t even bring soap, expecting no showers. Instead, we have running water, hot high-pressure showers, electricity, and even catered meals (with dessert). Atleast we lack AC.
Not that we needed it. Everyone was cold, usually bundled up in 3 layers and still shivering. I laughed at them as I strolled around in my t-shirt. Suppose it comes with being a New Yorker. Ah well, they’ll get the last laugh when I’m in Darwin during summer.
The work was easy enough. A few hikes, a few ridiculously early mornings to bird watch or mammal trap, and even a little frogging. Very much like my time in Vermont, only with more ways to die. Oh, and leeches. And paralysis ticks. Fun little guys.
For some reason, we brought along an artist with us. He painted trees. I still don’t get it, but we enjoyed our Bob Ross impersonator. He even brought along crayons for us to color with. I drew an out-of-scale picture of myself with a crocodile. Then I ate candy and took a nap. God I miss elementary school.
In the campground was a van with strange writing on the side. I realized it was katakana, the Japanese system of writing foreign words. Unfortunately, my high school Japanese was slipping, so I thought it said “Sete Macotte… wtf?” Luckily, we had a little Asian girl with us. “Saak mai kokku… what does saak mai kokku mean?” She looked at us, wide-eyed and innocent, as we barely managed to contain our laughter.
None of us had the heart to explain what “Suck my cock” means.
The owners of the van were actually renters. A couple of highly pierced German backpackers. They had no idea what the vans said, but were appreciative of the translation. Thanks to our little Asian, my katakana came back to me to read the other side. “Iit mai pushii… Oh, your van wants you to eat its pussy. And suck its cock. Well, atleast it’s fair about it.”
Despite neat vans and near tumbles, I was beginning to regret not going on the Fraser Island trip. I hadn’t seen a single snake, and would not for the entire trip. However, this changed when I had a staring contest with a Lace Monitor. Essentially, the little brother (but still damn big!) of a Komodo Dragon. It was less than a meter away from me, hissing and coiling its tail to strike. My TA essentially started prepping my will. But I refused to blink. Luckily, while monitors are closely related to snakes and have forked tongues, they have retained eyelids. Can’t win a staring contest with a snake, ya know? However, I won this round, and the goanna mellowly wandered off.
I got stopped by a ranger once. Not for fucking with monitors or funnelwebs. He simply pulled up in his truck, got out, and said “I have a specimen for you.” I wondered if that wasn’t some biologist pickup line. I just gave him a look. “You’re part of that group, right?” he asks, and takes out a crate, which contained a blanket, before I could answer. “It’s cute and pointy,” he says. Oh, an echidna. I thanked him, took it, and walked back to camp, only later realizing I had no idea where to release it. So we just upended the box out in a field. However, it clung to the bottom for dear life, so I had the rare pleasure of terrifying a monotreme by lifting its claws, one by one, until it fell out. The creature simply curled up into a protective spiky ball, and started digging. There it remained for the rest of the day.
With all of these experiences with wild animals, I felt my natural instincts kick in. I had a real urge to mate. Conveniently, the teahouse waiter was plainly gay. I know this because he admitted he has CDs for Pink and Mika in his car. That was my cue to go for it. I figured inviting him for a “night hike” or to go “snake hunting” or telling him I was “on my knees all day (dramatic pause) looking for funnelwebs” was hint enough. The “UQ Union: Friends With Benefits” t-shirt was probably overkill. Unfortunately, the lazy bastard was off on our last night, so I never got to seal the deal. Still, I got to enjoy innuendo with the waiter in front of 30 oblivious people.
So despite the lack of snakes, trouser or otherwise, it was still quite the pleasant week. Of course, the meat and potatos was the funnelweb experiments…
I seem to like dangerous things. I keep turning over logs to find snakes; nevermind most Australian snakes are highly venomous elapids. My project was on funnelweb spiders, and I keep trying to draw them out by teasing them with pine needles and food (but more about that later). Nevermind a bite will put me in a hospital. Oh, and I do so love climbing trees, scampering over rocks on steep mountaintops, and exploring closed-off trails.
Before going, I thought we were roughing it. I didn’t even bring soap, expecting no showers. Instead, we have running water, hot high-pressure showers, electricity, and even catered meals (with dessert). Atleast we lack AC.
Not that we needed it. Everyone was cold, usually bundled up in 3 layers and still shivering. I laughed at them as I strolled around in my t-shirt. Suppose it comes with being a New Yorker. Ah well, they’ll get the last laugh when I’m in Darwin during summer.
The work was easy enough. A few hikes, a few ridiculously early mornings to bird watch or mammal trap, and even a little frogging. Very much like my time in Vermont, only with more ways to die. Oh, and leeches. And paralysis ticks. Fun little guys.
For some reason, we brought along an artist with us. He painted trees. I still don’t get it, but we enjoyed our Bob Ross impersonator. He even brought along crayons for us to color with. I drew an out-of-scale picture of myself with a crocodile. Then I ate candy and took a nap. God I miss elementary school.
In the campground was a van with strange writing on the side. I realized it was katakana, the Japanese system of writing foreign words. Unfortunately, my high school Japanese was slipping, so I thought it said “Sete Macotte… wtf?” Luckily, we had a little Asian girl with us. “Saak mai kokku… what does saak mai kokku mean?” She looked at us, wide-eyed and innocent, as we barely managed to contain our laughter.
None of us had the heart to explain what “Suck my cock” means.
The owners of the van were actually renters. A couple of highly pierced German backpackers. They had no idea what the vans said, but were appreciative of the translation. Thanks to our little Asian, my katakana came back to me to read the other side. “Iit mai pushii… Oh, your van wants you to eat its pussy. And suck its cock. Well, atleast it’s fair about it.”
Despite neat vans and near tumbles, I was beginning to regret not going on the Fraser Island trip. I hadn’t seen a single snake, and would not for the entire trip. However, this changed when I had a staring contest with a Lace Monitor. Essentially, the little brother (but still damn big!) of a Komodo Dragon. It was less than a meter away from me, hissing and coiling its tail to strike. My TA essentially started prepping my will. But I refused to blink. Luckily, while monitors are closely related to snakes and have forked tongues, they have retained eyelids. Can’t win a staring contest with a snake, ya know? However, I won this round, and the goanna mellowly wandered off.
I got stopped by a ranger once. Not for fucking with monitors or funnelwebs. He simply pulled up in his truck, got out, and said “I have a specimen for you.” I wondered if that wasn’t some biologist pickup line. I just gave him a look. “You’re part of that group, right?” he asks, and takes out a crate, which contained a blanket, before I could answer. “It’s cute and pointy,” he says. Oh, an echidna. I thanked him, took it, and walked back to camp, only later realizing I had no idea where to release it. So we just upended the box out in a field. However, it clung to the bottom for dear life, so I had the rare pleasure of terrifying a monotreme by lifting its claws, one by one, until it fell out. The creature simply curled up into a protective spiky ball, and started digging. There it remained for the rest of the day.
With all of these experiences with wild animals, I felt my natural instincts kick in. I had a real urge to mate. Conveniently, the teahouse waiter was plainly gay. I know this because he admitted he has CDs for Pink and Mika in his car. That was my cue to go for it. I figured inviting him for a “night hike” or to go “snake hunting” or telling him I was “on my knees all day (dramatic pause) looking for funnelwebs” was hint enough. The “UQ Union: Friends With Benefits” t-shirt was probably overkill. Unfortunately, the lazy bastard was off on our last night, so I never got to seal the deal. Still, I got to enjoy innuendo with the waiter in front of 30 oblivious people.
So despite the lack of snakes, trouser or otherwise, it was still quite the pleasant week. Of course, the meat and potatos was the funnelweb experiments…
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Am I Interrupting Something?
Tomorrow, I’ll be taking a blog hiatus. Its not because I don’t love you, because you know I love you all. No, it’s because of Lamington.
See, most of you have classes where a handful of exams decides your grade. In my case, its about 2 exams decide my grades. And in one instance, a 6 day field trip to a rainforest, and a report worth 75% of my grade.
Lamington is a sub-tropical rainforest in New South Wales. Cold, wet, leafy, and leech-filled. I will be without TV, without computer, without heat or central cooling, and without shower. The final details of my project have yet to be worked out, but I will either be poking Funnelweb spiders with eyebrow tweezers or investigating Wallaby shit with a nightvision scope. No joke.
So, goodbye my treacherous friends. I’ll see you in a week. I didn’t even get the chance to blog about last weeks’ steamy boy-love yet! Don’t you fret, kiddies; my life is not in short supply of fucked-uppedness.
However, I’d be glad to indulge you in one story for the road.
We went up to Noosa today for a class. Something on plants, doesn’t matter. It was however the first time I’d seen the ocean since arriving. The beach was beautiful. The cliff was breathtaking. The water was the cleanest blue I’d ever seen. In fact, the only thing marring this picture was the handful of naked old men flopping about.
Yes, our class took us to a nude beach.
Don’t think this was a good thing. It would be like going to a strip club, but all the strippers are 50+ geriatrics with sagging tits and a vag loose enough to insert a traffic cone without even grazing the clitoris.
I passed the sand, and scampered up the rocks. Eating M&Ms (my alternative to lunch) in the sea spray was refreshing in this irritatingly hot hike. Then, in typical fashion, I went hunting for crabs. Found a handful, but nearly all of them were dead. Just sitting there in a natural pose, no obvious predator hole. I became less trusting of the water.
Behind me, two TAs were sitting on the rocks and talking. I came over, holding two dead crabs, and asked them why they thought they were dead. No idea. I moved on, continuing to dig up crustaceans and crabs, only vaguely aware they were making out next to me.
Afterwards, walking back to the bus, two girls came up to me with icy glares. I couldn’t figure it out. “How could you butt in like that?!” one exclaims. I looked back dumbfounded.
“He asked her to marry him, and you just wander in with crabs? Jerk!” They storm off.
A quick check of the TA’s finger confirms it. Inadvertently, I had interrupted the most romantic moment of this couple’s life to show off dead crabs. But far more importantly, I still don’t know how these crabs died. Romance is irrelevant when there’s a scientific question to be answered. “Will you marry me?” doesn’t count.
See, most of you have classes where a handful of exams decides your grade. In my case, its about 2 exams decide my grades. And in one instance, a 6 day field trip to a rainforest, and a report worth 75% of my grade.
Lamington is a sub-tropical rainforest in New South Wales. Cold, wet, leafy, and leech-filled. I will be without TV, without computer, without heat or central cooling, and without shower. The final details of my project have yet to be worked out, but I will either be poking Funnelweb spiders with eyebrow tweezers or investigating Wallaby shit with a nightvision scope. No joke.
So, goodbye my treacherous friends. I’ll see you in a week. I didn’t even get the chance to blog about last weeks’ steamy boy-love yet! Don’t you fret, kiddies; my life is not in short supply of fucked-uppedness.
However, I’d be glad to indulge you in one story for the road.
We went up to Noosa today for a class. Something on plants, doesn’t matter. It was however the first time I’d seen the ocean since arriving. The beach was beautiful. The cliff was breathtaking. The water was the cleanest blue I’d ever seen. In fact, the only thing marring this picture was the handful of naked old men flopping about.
Yes, our class took us to a nude beach.
Don’t think this was a good thing. It would be like going to a strip club, but all the strippers are 50+ geriatrics with sagging tits and a vag loose enough to insert a traffic cone without even grazing the clitoris.
I passed the sand, and scampered up the rocks. Eating M&Ms (my alternative to lunch) in the sea spray was refreshing in this irritatingly hot hike. Then, in typical fashion, I went hunting for crabs. Found a handful, but nearly all of them were dead. Just sitting there in a natural pose, no obvious predator hole. I became less trusting of the water.
Behind me, two TAs were sitting on the rocks and talking. I came over, holding two dead crabs, and asked them why they thought they were dead. No idea. I moved on, continuing to dig up crustaceans and crabs, only vaguely aware they were making out next to me.
Afterwards, walking back to the bus, two girls came up to me with icy glares. I couldn’t figure it out. “How could you butt in like that?!” one exclaims. I looked back dumbfounded.
“He asked her to marry him, and you just wander in with crabs? Jerk!” They storm off.
A quick check of the TA’s finger confirms it. Inadvertently, I had interrupted the most romantic moment of this couple’s life to show off dead crabs. But far more importantly, I still don’t know how these crabs died. Romance is irrelevant when there’s a scientific question to be answered. “Will you marry me?” doesn’t count.
Friday, September 21, 2007
Why I Hate Doctors
As if my dive medical wasn’t bad enough.
Before my rediscovery of my ego, I feared for my sex drive. I simply didn’t enjoy kissing or fooling around. I would get bored easily, and start looking at my watch or thinking about class. It was infuriating. This absolutely contributed to my refusal to follow up with the French boy. I couldn’t figure it out. Hell, was I straight after all?
Against my better judgment, I asked my mom for help. She asked me if I was a top or a bottom. Trust me, you never want to hear your mother ask you that. Apparently, I had not yet conquered my gag reflex.
She followed up by suggesting I may have low testosterone. An open-minded straight boy with low testosterone and low standards. Thanks, mom. However, the idea didn’t seem too impossible. I decided to go back to Health Services for a hormone test.
I needed an excuse. So I told the doctor my libido was dead. That wasn’t a huge leap. In reality, I continued to be horny as fuck; I simply was bored once I got in the door. But a string of bullshit lies was all it took to get him to sign off on my tests and have it covered by insurance.
Remembering what the other doctor said about me having “small lungs”, I decided to take a peek at my 80-dollars-not-insured chest X-ray.
“Hey doc… what’s this odd spot on my lung?”
He looks at it, and scratches his head. “Not sure. It’s rather far away from your heart. Get a new X-ray in a few months.”
The man was awfully nonchalant about potential lung cancer. I suppose his non-alarm is a good sign though. I got my blood drawn, booked an appointment for next week, and was on my way.
The appointment was for 10, annoyingly early for me, but its all they had. I forced myself out of bed to go. I showed up on time, early even, only to discover the appointment was for Thursday, not Wednesday. Motherfucking hare-lipped bat guano from hell!!
Returned the correct morning:
“How’s your libido this week?.. Seems there’s nothing in your bloodwork that explains a poor sex drive. Your testosterone levels are normal. Your liver is functioning properly. In fact, the only thing strange is your shockingly low blood iron.”
I stared blankly. “Is that a big deal,” I ask.
“I’d say it’s significant. I’d almost call it severe. You’re highly anemic.”
Abnormally small lungs, check. Possible lung cancer, check. Inexplicable anemia, check.
“That doesn’t make sense, doc. I would understand something like Scurvy or Rickets, but this makes no sense. I hate vegetables, but red meat is the one thing I get plenty of. Hell, I’m the opposite of a vegetarian, I’m a carnetarian!”
He looked genuinely puzzled, and thought for a moment. Then, like any good academic, he assigned more tests. More blood taken, fair enough. Piss in a cup, easy enough. But what is Faeces Hemoccult?
“We’re looking for blood in your shit, Scott.” The man seemed to read my mind. “If you’re being honest about your iron input, it’s going somewhere. If your piss is clean, there’s only one other way it’s getting out.”
But how am I going to collect it? He continued.
“We usually recommend getting an ice cream bucket. Not only is ice cream tasty, but you can shit in the bucket, then use this little scoop [he held one up] to collect some for us. Store it in your fridge until you can get it to us.”
The problem with this plan is that I live in a dorm. One bedroom, shared bathroom. I absolutely refused to do it in my room; there’s a reason you’re not supposed to shit where you sleep. And the bathroom, I couldn’t just pop a squat on the tile floor. No, I needed a new plan. But I took the scoops anyway, and made my merry way.
My prayers were answered in the form of dinner. It was Mexican night. Perhaps the softer-minded readers would like to skip ahead, but the outcome is pretty obvious. Sit on the edge of the toilet, squeeze hard, and let the chili do its work. Presto, loose shit sticks to the toilet’s inner wall. Scoop a little, flush the rest down, and store the container in the communal fridge.
I showed up the next morning, paper baggy in tow, proud of my ingenuity. The ladies behind the counter greeted me by name. Goddammit, am I here that often? Well, doesn’t matter. Those dumb bitches were too preoccupied with Judge Judy. Its not enough they work in Health Services; they have to feast on all forms of misfortune. I apologized in advance for the contents of the bag, made a new appointment, and went to go have a lizard shit on my neighbor.
The week goes by, spent waiting with bated breath to hear about my bloody stool.
“Your serum iron is low and your Ferretin levels are low. Your urine test is clean. Your faeces hemoccult is clean. I have no idea where your iron is.”
I asserted from the very beginning that the outcome was likely a fluke. If my blood iron was that low, why wasn’t I experiencing any symptoms? I’m perkier than a nipple on a cold day with a botox injection.
Seeing as he had no clue otherwise, he conceded I may be right and instructed to get retested in a month. And hell, why not? If waiting a few months cures lung cancer, surely it does wonders for anemia. Has nothing to do with the commissions from all these fucking tests.
Before my rediscovery of my ego, I feared for my sex drive. I simply didn’t enjoy kissing or fooling around. I would get bored easily, and start looking at my watch or thinking about class. It was infuriating. This absolutely contributed to my refusal to follow up with the French boy. I couldn’t figure it out. Hell, was I straight after all?
Against my better judgment, I asked my mom for help. She asked me if I was a top or a bottom. Trust me, you never want to hear your mother ask you that. Apparently, I had not yet conquered my gag reflex.
She followed up by suggesting I may have low testosterone. An open-minded straight boy with low testosterone and low standards. Thanks, mom. However, the idea didn’t seem too impossible. I decided to go back to Health Services for a hormone test.
I needed an excuse. So I told the doctor my libido was dead. That wasn’t a huge leap. In reality, I continued to be horny as fuck; I simply was bored once I got in the door. But a string of bullshit lies was all it took to get him to sign off on my tests and have it covered by insurance.
Remembering what the other doctor said about me having “small lungs”, I decided to take a peek at my 80-dollars-not-insured chest X-ray.
“Hey doc… what’s this odd spot on my lung?”
He looks at it, and scratches his head. “Not sure. It’s rather far away from your heart. Get a new X-ray in a few months.”
The man was awfully nonchalant about potential lung cancer. I suppose his non-alarm is a good sign though. I got my blood drawn, booked an appointment for next week, and was on my way.
The appointment was for 10, annoyingly early for me, but its all they had. I forced myself out of bed to go. I showed up on time, early even, only to discover the appointment was for Thursday, not Wednesday. Motherfucking hare-lipped bat guano from hell!!
Returned the correct morning:
“How’s your libido this week?.. Seems there’s nothing in your bloodwork that explains a poor sex drive. Your testosterone levels are normal. Your liver is functioning properly. In fact, the only thing strange is your shockingly low blood iron.”
I stared blankly. “Is that a big deal,” I ask.
“I’d say it’s significant. I’d almost call it severe. You’re highly anemic.”
Abnormally small lungs, check. Possible lung cancer, check. Inexplicable anemia, check.
“That doesn’t make sense, doc. I would understand something like Scurvy or Rickets, but this makes no sense. I hate vegetables, but red meat is the one thing I get plenty of. Hell, I’m the opposite of a vegetarian, I’m a carnetarian!”
He looked genuinely puzzled, and thought for a moment. Then, like any good academic, he assigned more tests. More blood taken, fair enough. Piss in a cup, easy enough. But what is Faeces Hemoccult?
“We’re looking for blood in your shit, Scott.” The man seemed to read my mind. “If you’re being honest about your iron input, it’s going somewhere. If your piss is clean, there’s only one other way it’s getting out.”
But how am I going to collect it? He continued.
“We usually recommend getting an ice cream bucket. Not only is ice cream tasty, but you can shit in the bucket, then use this little scoop [he held one up] to collect some for us. Store it in your fridge until you can get it to us.”
The problem with this plan is that I live in a dorm. One bedroom, shared bathroom. I absolutely refused to do it in my room; there’s a reason you’re not supposed to shit where you sleep. And the bathroom, I couldn’t just pop a squat on the tile floor. No, I needed a new plan. But I took the scoops anyway, and made my merry way.
My prayers were answered in the form of dinner. It was Mexican night. Perhaps the softer-minded readers would like to skip ahead, but the outcome is pretty obvious. Sit on the edge of the toilet, squeeze hard, and let the chili do its work. Presto, loose shit sticks to the toilet’s inner wall. Scoop a little, flush the rest down, and store the container in the communal fridge.
I showed up the next morning, paper baggy in tow, proud of my ingenuity. The ladies behind the counter greeted me by name. Goddammit, am I here that often? Well, doesn’t matter. Those dumb bitches were too preoccupied with Judge Judy. Its not enough they work in Health Services; they have to feast on all forms of misfortune. I apologized in advance for the contents of the bag, made a new appointment, and went to go have a lizard shit on my neighbor.
The week goes by, spent waiting with bated breath to hear about my bloody stool.
“Your serum iron is low and your Ferretin levels are low. Your urine test is clean. Your faeces hemoccult is clean. I have no idea where your iron is.”
I asserted from the very beginning that the outcome was likely a fluke. If my blood iron was that low, why wasn’t I experiencing any symptoms? I’m perkier than a nipple on a cold day with a botox injection.
Seeing as he had no clue otherwise, he conceded I may be right and instructed to get retested in a month. And hell, why not? If waiting a few months cures lung cancer, surely it does wonders for anemia. Has nothing to do with the commissions from all these fucking tests.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
You Knew This Was Coming
Because my life does not follow a linear flow of time, lets go back to Australia Zoo.
Turns out I didn’t have lab on one particular Friday. This was an opportunity I was waiting for to take a day trip, since it would be a long weekend for me but a normal working day for everyone else. So I called one of my travel friends, Martha, assuming she would have no classes too.
This was obviously a false assumption, but I pressured her into skipping her coral reefs class and coming with me, so it was sort of like we both had no class.
The 12-zone ticket cost me 16 dollars. Martha was giving me the strangest look, before only paying $8. Forgot I needed to flash my ID to get the student discount. However, I just brushed it off. 8 dollars is no big deal, right?
I resented it the rest of the day.
In the train station at 6am, we’re basically alone. Just us, and a short man of indeterminate age, faded skullcap, grotty unkept moustache, and sunglasses despite our being underground. The man struck up an unprovoked and likely undesired conversation with us on how much he had to drink last night. Explains the sunglasses.
Seems he’s going our way. We get on, and get to the next stop, before being swamped by an insane amount of people. The train goes from empty to packed in 30 seconds. Rush hour.
Despite the sudden company, the little man continues his life story. His mother used to buy him cigarettes. He fled Perth because he pissed of an asian street gang whose members wield katanas. The diarrhea he cleans as a janitor is always worse in the women’s bathroom. His girlfriend is a jealous cunt. The packed train does not seem to hamper his communication style. Martha sits away from us and pretends we don’t exist. I egg him on for my own amusement. It’s like watching a train wreck, ya know? The irony wasn’t lost on me at the time.
The little man gets off at Geebung. We take the train up to Caboolture, then hop on the Nambor bus and get off at Beerwah.
Seriously, who the fuck comes up with these names?
We finally arrive, and look for the entrance. On the way, we pass a woman walking her dog. Except, it’s actually a wombat. We haven’t even paid our ticket, and we’ve already pet a wombat. Good start.
The venomous snakes were our first target. Its helpful if I have a vague idea what I’m grabbing by the tail. But it was only a warm-up to the main course: The Crocodiles. Here on display are the crocs Steve is famous for. Aggro of course was on the top of my wish list, but he was sunk on the bottom of his lake. Graham’s enclosure was nowhere to be found. Things were starting to look disappointing.
We pass by Acco’s enclosure. This was Steve’s first big croc, and it happened to be his biggest ever. However, the crocodile I saw in there was surprisingly disappointing. We continue walking, only to notice there’s a tail next to what we thought was Acco. Two things become immediately apparent to us: The croc we saw first was a female, and this tail is longer and fatter than the entire female. Acco comes into view.
HOLY FUCKING SHIT! That’s about the only way I can put it into words. The monster is almost 20 feet long. It weighs over a ton. It’s believed to be around 70 years old, and could probably swallow me whole. Its tail could break me in half, and a headbutt could pulverize my bones. Trust me, I’ve gotten my hands on big croc skulls in lab. I stared, awestruck, for maybe 10 minutes. I would come back to Acco 3 times before the end of the day.
Meanwhile, Martha was entranced by the Galapagos Tortoise feeding. Boring.
Water Dragons parade around the zoo like it’s their home. They swim in all the croc ponds, and rest by their heads. You’d think “easy snack”, but there they are. However, some stupid little kids sauntered up to a dragon entering a fence and grabbed it by the tail. The poor thing flailed like it was on fire.
I huffed over, and told them to drop it. They actually looked somewhat scared. They dutifully obeyed, and scampered off. Suddenly, a terrible realization dawned on me: Those kids must consider me some kind of authority figure. Some kind of adult. Sonofabitch!
As fun as it would’ve been to feed an elephant by hand, the line was ridiculous, so we moved on to possibly the coolest part: The Crocoseum Show. We knew there’d be croc feeding, but we didn’t realize the coolest part would actually come earlier.
After some childish immaturity involving gorilla suits and audience plants that Martha really got into, they busted out some birds to show off. Pretty neat in its own right. We didn’t expect they’d let them fly.
Two dozen or so birds, including parrots, lorikeets, cockatoos, ducks, pigeons, hawks, and storks all took flight, whirling around the stadium and inches above our heads at dizzying speed. Again, there’s no words for it. I just know it was a sight I’m not going to forget.
Oh, right, the croc feeding. I wanted Graham, but we got Norman, a newbie known for being pretty destructive to his home enclosure. Fast strikes, big jumps, nasty jaws, and Little Richard from the tv show actually is that cute in person.
Outside the Crocoseum, a girl was walking baby goats on a leash. This seems to be a trend. Little kids were petting them. Needing to make up for my previous child encounter, I sauntered up to the lot.
“Hey, those must be the leftovers from the croc feeding show.”
The look the poor children gave me was a cross between horror and deep sadness. I had redeemed myself.
After walking around the zoo for a few hours, you learn to identify koalas from a distance by their smell. It’s rather distinctive. As per the trend, I pet one.
Finally, we arrived at Roo Heaven. Here’s the place where you get to feed and pet young kangaroos. Martha preferred the wallabies. We each took our photos with one, but it seemed unsatisfying. Everyone has a koala or a kangaroo photo. I needed something different. So with my nice clean shirt, I laid down in a pile of dirt and feces among a few resting kangaroos, knowing a bite wasn’t that implausible. As a result, I now have my favorite picture ever.
It was almost surpassed by posing with the giant wooden crocodile. Martha rode on top of it, clearly enjoying her regression here in Beerwah. I opted for oral. Wedging myself back into its mouth was way less comfortable than you might imagine. Those teeth were sharp and the gap was small. But I ended up with my second favorite photo and a nice bruise on my stomach for a souvenir.
After chilling with some rather ass-backwards birds, including the scariest emu and cassowary I’ve ever seen (I’d gladly tango with a venomous snake first), it was time to go. But not before paying our respects to the Steve Irwin Memorial. Mind you, the entire zoo is one creepy Irwin shrine, but here is where all the fan-sent memorabilia was collected.
Maybe I’m biased. Maybe I’m overly sentimental. But seeing the outpouring of love from all over the world really did kinda touch a nerve. I assume this was the intended outcome, as I promptly went and spent money at the gift shop.
The way home, I slept like a baby. Or would have, if I wasn’t way too big to curl up in these seats. God help fat people.
It wont be long now until we go back, this time with my messiah Craig Franklin. However, nothing really beats the intimacy of exploring freely. Australia Zoo is my Disneyland. It is my magic kingdom.
Oh, right, photos:
Aussie Zoo Facebook Photos
Turns out I didn’t have lab on one particular Friday. This was an opportunity I was waiting for to take a day trip, since it would be a long weekend for me but a normal working day for everyone else. So I called one of my travel friends, Martha, assuming she would have no classes too.
This was obviously a false assumption, but I pressured her into skipping her coral reefs class and coming with me, so it was sort of like we both had no class.
The 12-zone ticket cost me 16 dollars. Martha was giving me the strangest look, before only paying $8. Forgot I needed to flash my ID to get the student discount. However, I just brushed it off. 8 dollars is no big deal, right?
I resented it the rest of the day.
In the train station at 6am, we’re basically alone. Just us, and a short man of indeterminate age, faded skullcap, grotty unkept moustache, and sunglasses despite our being underground. The man struck up an unprovoked and likely undesired conversation with us on how much he had to drink last night. Explains the sunglasses.
Seems he’s going our way. We get on, and get to the next stop, before being swamped by an insane amount of people. The train goes from empty to packed in 30 seconds. Rush hour.
Despite the sudden company, the little man continues his life story. His mother used to buy him cigarettes. He fled Perth because he pissed of an asian street gang whose members wield katanas. The diarrhea he cleans as a janitor is always worse in the women’s bathroom. His girlfriend is a jealous cunt. The packed train does not seem to hamper his communication style. Martha sits away from us and pretends we don’t exist. I egg him on for my own amusement. It’s like watching a train wreck, ya know? The irony wasn’t lost on me at the time.
The little man gets off at Geebung. We take the train up to Caboolture, then hop on the Nambor bus and get off at Beerwah.
Seriously, who the fuck comes up with these names?
We finally arrive, and look for the entrance. On the way, we pass a woman walking her dog. Except, it’s actually a wombat. We haven’t even paid our ticket, and we’ve already pet a wombat. Good start.
The venomous snakes were our first target. Its helpful if I have a vague idea what I’m grabbing by the tail. But it was only a warm-up to the main course: The Crocodiles. Here on display are the crocs Steve is famous for. Aggro of course was on the top of my wish list, but he was sunk on the bottom of his lake. Graham’s enclosure was nowhere to be found. Things were starting to look disappointing.
We pass by Acco’s enclosure. This was Steve’s first big croc, and it happened to be his biggest ever. However, the crocodile I saw in there was surprisingly disappointing. We continue walking, only to notice there’s a tail next to what we thought was Acco. Two things become immediately apparent to us: The croc we saw first was a female, and this tail is longer and fatter than the entire female. Acco comes into view.
HOLY FUCKING SHIT! That’s about the only way I can put it into words. The monster is almost 20 feet long. It weighs over a ton. It’s believed to be around 70 years old, and could probably swallow me whole. Its tail could break me in half, and a headbutt could pulverize my bones. Trust me, I’ve gotten my hands on big croc skulls in lab. I stared, awestruck, for maybe 10 minutes. I would come back to Acco 3 times before the end of the day.
Meanwhile, Martha was entranced by the Galapagos Tortoise feeding. Boring.
Water Dragons parade around the zoo like it’s their home. They swim in all the croc ponds, and rest by their heads. You’d think “easy snack”, but there they are. However, some stupid little kids sauntered up to a dragon entering a fence and grabbed it by the tail. The poor thing flailed like it was on fire.
I huffed over, and told them to drop it. They actually looked somewhat scared. They dutifully obeyed, and scampered off. Suddenly, a terrible realization dawned on me: Those kids must consider me some kind of authority figure. Some kind of adult. Sonofabitch!
As fun as it would’ve been to feed an elephant by hand, the line was ridiculous, so we moved on to possibly the coolest part: The Crocoseum Show. We knew there’d be croc feeding, but we didn’t realize the coolest part would actually come earlier.
After some childish immaturity involving gorilla suits and audience plants that Martha really got into, they busted out some birds to show off. Pretty neat in its own right. We didn’t expect they’d let them fly.
Two dozen or so birds, including parrots, lorikeets, cockatoos, ducks, pigeons, hawks, and storks all took flight, whirling around the stadium and inches above our heads at dizzying speed. Again, there’s no words for it. I just know it was a sight I’m not going to forget.
Oh, right, the croc feeding. I wanted Graham, but we got Norman, a newbie known for being pretty destructive to his home enclosure. Fast strikes, big jumps, nasty jaws, and Little Richard from the tv show actually is that cute in person.
Outside the Crocoseum, a girl was walking baby goats on a leash. This seems to be a trend. Little kids were petting them. Needing to make up for my previous child encounter, I sauntered up to the lot.
“Hey, those must be the leftovers from the croc feeding show.”
The look the poor children gave me was a cross between horror and deep sadness. I had redeemed myself.
After walking around the zoo for a few hours, you learn to identify koalas from a distance by their smell. It’s rather distinctive. As per the trend, I pet one.
Finally, we arrived at Roo Heaven. Here’s the place where you get to feed and pet young kangaroos. Martha preferred the wallabies. We each took our photos with one, but it seemed unsatisfying. Everyone has a koala or a kangaroo photo. I needed something different. So with my nice clean shirt, I laid down in a pile of dirt and feces among a few resting kangaroos, knowing a bite wasn’t that implausible. As a result, I now have my favorite picture ever.
It was almost surpassed by posing with the giant wooden crocodile. Martha rode on top of it, clearly enjoying her regression here in Beerwah. I opted for oral. Wedging myself back into its mouth was way less comfortable than you might imagine. Those teeth were sharp and the gap was small. But I ended up with my second favorite photo and a nice bruise on my stomach for a souvenir.
After chilling with some rather ass-backwards birds, including the scariest emu and cassowary I’ve ever seen (I’d gladly tango with a venomous snake first), it was time to go. But not before paying our respects to the Steve Irwin Memorial. Mind you, the entire zoo is one creepy Irwin shrine, but here is where all the fan-sent memorabilia was collected.
Maybe I’m biased. Maybe I’m overly sentimental. But seeing the outpouring of love from all over the world really did kinda touch a nerve. I assume this was the intended outcome, as I promptly went and spent money at the gift shop.
The way home, I slept like a baby. Or would have, if I wasn’t way too big to curl up in these seats. God help fat people.
It wont be long now until we go back, this time with my messiah Craig Franklin. However, nothing really beats the intimacy of exploring freely. Australia Zoo is my Disneyland. It is my magic kingdom.
Oh, right, photos:
Aussie Zoo Facebook Photos
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
She's Just A Dirty Skink
You know, for a blog about Australia, its just been a lot of talk about bizarre situations at college and me slutting around. Lets talk Australian for a moment.
One of my courses is more Australian than most. It’s called Australia’s Terrestrial Environment, but most of the students and faculty here just know it as the Tourist Class. We talk about the Australian flora and fauna in the vaguest terms possible for the scientifically disinclined. Then we go on trips. Easy enough.
We’re doing a class on the local lizards, which is enough to drag my lazy ass out of bed early (I consider making an 11am class early). But to my pleasant surprise, the professor has brought two skinks, one in each arm.
No, I said skinks. S-K-I-N-K. See for yourself:
Anyway, he puts them in a plastic tank, and gets on with the lecture. I can’t pay attention, because I’m antsily waiting for the inevitable moment he passes them out.
Dragons, geckos, goannas, hurry the fuck up!
Finally, we get to skinks, and the moment we’re all waiting for. Because for once in my life I’m sitting in the front row, he goes to hand one to me first. But he gives me a quick warming:
“They’re so used to being handled, they won’t put up a threat display or bite. However, they might piss a little.”
As soon as I get it in my hands, his premonition comes true. Just a few droplets. Two on my notebook page, two on my desk. I smear the page and leave a yellow streak over the definition of heliotherms. I mop up the other two drops with the elbow of my shirt.
After petting it and loving it and wishing it was mine, I pass it on to the girl next to me. Apparently, the skink was not done being intimidated, as it released another few drops on her desk. Then, just to be kind, it releases a small nugget of white feces.
Then the dam breaks. A torrent of piss streams out of this lizard at a remarkable rate. The little drops quickly turn into a large puddle filling out desk. No longer or fatter than my forearm, and its already given off a piss like a good night of drinking. Our books vacate our desk faster than Elton John at an Exodus conference.
Then it goes to take another little shit. A turtlehead peaks out of its cloaca and hangs there. I wait a few seconds, then tap it at the base of the tail to dislodge the turd. In response, it magnifies tremendously, growing to be almost half its body length before bellyflopping into the puddle of piss and splashing us.
And just for amusement, it resumes pissing. For a good 20 seconds more, doubling the respectable puddle it already made.
The whole class is staring at us, and apparently has been for the past minute or so. I look at my watch. “We can wait…” I tell the ungrateful squamata.
Finally it stops, and my neighbor gratefully passes it on to the next girl. She’d been holding it in her hands the entire time, enjoying the front row seat. Her initial look of horror had long since been replaced by droll resignation.
The professor watched the whole spectacle from the front with a bemused smirk on his face. Had he seen this coming?
“This is just preparing you for motherhood,” he says.
Meanwhile, I enjoy the rest of the day with a fragrant elbow. Two drops of piss was stronger than any cologne, and frankly, it wasn’t too bad of a scent.
One of my courses is more Australian than most. It’s called Australia’s Terrestrial Environment, but most of the students and faculty here just know it as the Tourist Class. We talk about the Australian flora and fauna in the vaguest terms possible for the scientifically disinclined. Then we go on trips. Easy enough.
We’re doing a class on the local lizards, which is enough to drag my lazy ass out of bed early (I consider making an 11am class early). But to my pleasant surprise, the professor has brought two skinks, one in each arm.
No, I said skinks. S-K-I-N-K. See for yourself:
Anyway, he puts them in a plastic tank, and gets on with the lecture. I can’t pay attention, because I’m antsily waiting for the inevitable moment he passes them out.
Dragons, geckos, goannas, hurry the fuck up!
Finally, we get to skinks, and the moment we’re all waiting for. Because for once in my life I’m sitting in the front row, he goes to hand one to me first. But he gives me a quick warming:
“They’re so used to being handled, they won’t put up a threat display or bite. However, they might piss a little.”
As soon as I get it in my hands, his premonition comes true. Just a few droplets. Two on my notebook page, two on my desk. I smear the page and leave a yellow streak over the definition of heliotherms. I mop up the other two drops with the elbow of my shirt.
After petting it and loving it and wishing it was mine, I pass it on to the girl next to me. Apparently, the skink was not done being intimidated, as it released another few drops on her desk. Then, just to be kind, it releases a small nugget of white feces.
Then the dam breaks. A torrent of piss streams out of this lizard at a remarkable rate. The little drops quickly turn into a large puddle filling out desk. No longer or fatter than my forearm, and its already given off a piss like a good night of drinking. Our books vacate our desk faster than Elton John at an Exodus conference.
Then it goes to take another little shit. A turtlehead peaks out of its cloaca and hangs there. I wait a few seconds, then tap it at the base of the tail to dislodge the turd. In response, it magnifies tremendously, growing to be almost half its body length before bellyflopping into the puddle of piss and splashing us.
And just for amusement, it resumes pissing. For a good 20 seconds more, doubling the respectable puddle it already made.
The whole class is staring at us, and apparently has been for the past minute or so. I look at my watch. “We can wait…” I tell the ungrateful squamata.
Finally it stops, and my neighbor gratefully passes it on to the next girl. She’d been holding it in her hands the entire time, enjoying the front row seat. Her initial look of horror had long since been replaced by droll resignation.
The professor watched the whole spectacle from the front with a bemused smirk on his face. Had he seen this coming?
“This is just preparing you for motherhood,” he says.
Meanwhile, I enjoy the rest of the day with a fragrant elbow. Two drops of piss was stronger than any cologne, and frankly, it wasn’t too bad of a scent.
Monday, September 17, 2007
Sudden Conclusions
With all the excitement of the night before, I forget to go to the big reveal. Monday comes and goes, and I don’t hear a thing. At least, not for three weeks or so. Not until it all happens suddenly.
Friday night tends to be college bar night. A dress code of collared shirts and nice pants is strictly enforced. Except not today. Without warning, its Drag Night. Everyone gets dolled up as skankily as possible and enjoys an evening of homoeroticism.
I show up, and immediately feel out of place in my conservative skirt. Everyone’s really gone all out. It’s like the Las Vegas Strip, except more than the typical 30% trannie rate. Immediately, I run back to my room for a camera.
Boob grabs, upskirt photos, dry humping, drag parties bring out the latent homoeroticism everyone has but is afraid to show. For one night, let it free. I left early. Drag creeps me out, but god forbid I appear to enjoy myself. As always, its only ok if you pretend not to like it.
I only got called out once. The college VP, the one responsible for win-on announcements, yelled in a drunken slur, “Hey! Why are you taking photos of only the guys?!” Ignoring momentarily that my photos are about 50/50, I leaned over and said “Because the guy’s costumes are better.”
He stared at me blankly for a second before snapping back to consciousness. “Oh yeah, that’s right!”
That was the only warning I’d get.
The next day, I’m lazing around in Becca’s room, annoying her like usual. I pick up her pink hippo, her favorite stuffed animal. “It’s such a cute poof,” I say. She recoils.
“My hippo is not a poof! It’s tough!”
So I respond calmly that one can be a poof and tough at the same time. She just looks at me quizzically.
“You don’t have to be so defensive. We all know about you.”
*Blink Blink* What?
“Oh, you didn’t know? Your win-on was announced at the meeting a few weeks back.”
I laughed, then promptly left the room and walked across college. An independent source from another block confirmed what Becca said. It actually made me angry. Did nobody think to tell me?!
I was stunned. Who knew? Suddenly, it stressed me. College meetings have spotty attendance. Some know, some don’t. I’m like a timebomb. I’d have to out myself to everyone, but I needed a good test subject.
I hovered around the fresher block for the rest of the evening, looking for one particular guy who I figured would be helpful to show up. Unfortunately, my poster wasn’t going to do itself. The stress would have to be supplanted by homework stress. I’d simply have to live under the assumption everyone knew, and take problems as they show up. That’s how we all should live.
That night, I called Two. I’d been on a few dates, and we’d made out a few times. I invited him to go clubbing with me. He said he was too tired, but added that he didn’t think we were going to work. It both confused and amused me, seeing how amorous he’d been towards me in the past.
He told me he wasn’t looking for a relationship right now, so I did the most logical thing: I asked him if we could still fuck around. I’m being excessively crude; I quote myself. He told me he wasn’t looking for anything at the moment, and that he’s sorry if I expected anything.
I’m an exchange student. I don’t expect a thing.
According to his friends, this was inevitable. He has intimacy issues. Better we weed these types out in the beginning, no?
The next morning, out and single, I return to Carden Room, the place where it all started. Another typical afternoon, with the typical cast of characters. Until Sydney Boy pops into the room and asks if we know where he can find Dion.
My jaw drops. “What are you doing here?!”, but he’s already gone. I don’t know if I should thank him or slap him. All of this is his fault. An unbroken chain, starting from the night we went guerrilla chalking, and ending with a realization.
I was upset because there was no reaction to my being outed. Life went on as if nothing was different. And in reality, nothing was. My homophobic friends continue to be just that, my friends. I don’t scrub so hard to the The Beat stamp off my arm. Chalking was all about standing out, but in the end, it’s all about being mostly the same.
One of these days, I’d like to thank Sydney Boy properly. Interpret that as you will.
Oh, and because I know you’re all curious, enjoy photos from Drag Night:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2066580&l=6cd10&id=3108199
Friday night tends to be college bar night. A dress code of collared shirts and nice pants is strictly enforced. Except not today. Without warning, its Drag Night. Everyone gets dolled up as skankily as possible and enjoys an evening of homoeroticism.
I show up, and immediately feel out of place in my conservative skirt. Everyone’s really gone all out. It’s like the Las Vegas Strip, except more than the typical 30% trannie rate. Immediately, I run back to my room for a camera.
Boob grabs, upskirt photos, dry humping, drag parties bring out the latent homoeroticism everyone has but is afraid to show. For one night, let it free. I left early. Drag creeps me out, but god forbid I appear to enjoy myself. As always, its only ok if you pretend not to like it.
I only got called out once. The college VP, the one responsible for win-on announcements, yelled in a drunken slur, “Hey! Why are you taking photos of only the guys?!” Ignoring momentarily that my photos are about 50/50, I leaned over and said “Because the guy’s costumes are better.”
He stared at me blankly for a second before snapping back to consciousness. “Oh yeah, that’s right!”
That was the only warning I’d get.
The next day, I’m lazing around in Becca’s room, annoying her like usual. I pick up her pink hippo, her favorite stuffed animal. “It’s such a cute poof,” I say. She recoils.
“My hippo is not a poof! It’s tough!”
So I respond calmly that one can be a poof and tough at the same time. She just looks at me quizzically.
“You don’t have to be so defensive. We all know about you.”
*Blink Blink* What?
“Oh, you didn’t know? Your win-on was announced at the meeting a few weeks back.”
I laughed, then promptly left the room and walked across college. An independent source from another block confirmed what Becca said. It actually made me angry. Did nobody think to tell me?!
I was stunned. Who knew? Suddenly, it stressed me. College meetings have spotty attendance. Some know, some don’t. I’m like a timebomb. I’d have to out myself to everyone, but I needed a good test subject.
I hovered around the fresher block for the rest of the evening, looking for one particular guy who I figured would be helpful to show up. Unfortunately, my poster wasn’t going to do itself. The stress would have to be supplanted by homework stress. I’d simply have to live under the assumption everyone knew, and take problems as they show up. That’s how we all should live.
That night, I called Two. I’d been on a few dates, and we’d made out a few times. I invited him to go clubbing with me. He said he was too tired, but added that he didn’t think we were going to work. It both confused and amused me, seeing how amorous he’d been towards me in the past.
He told me he wasn’t looking for a relationship right now, so I did the most logical thing: I asked him if we could still fuck around. I’m being excessively crude; I quote myself. He told me he wasn’t looking for anything at the moment, and that he’s sorry if I expected anything.
I’m an exchange student. I don’t expect a thing.
According to his friends, this was inevitable. He has intimacy issues. Better we weed these types out in the beginning, no?
The next morning, out and single, I return to Carden Room, the place where it all started. Another typical afternoon, with the typical cast of characters. Until Sydney Boy pops into the room and asks if we know where he can find Dion.
My jaw drops. “What are you doing here?!”, but he’s already gone. I don’t know if I should thank him or slap him. All of this is his fault. An unbroken chain, starting from the night we went guerrilla chalking, and ending with a realization.
I was upset because there was no reaction to my being outed. Life went on as if nothing was different. And in reality, nothing was. My homophobic friends continue to be just that, my friends. I don’t scrub so hard to the The Beat stamp off my arm. Chalking was all about standing out, but in the end, it’s all about being mostly the same.
One of these days, I’d like to thank Sydney Boy properly. Interpret that as you will.
Oh, and because I know you’re all curious, enjoy photos from Drag Night:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2066580&l=6cd10&id=3108199
Sunday, September 16, 2007
This Only Happens In Cartoons
Let me tell you about The Family. It’s a nightclub in the Fortitude Valley area of Brisbane. It was rated top club in Queensland for multiple years in a row now. It has three floors, each with their own unique vibes. Sunday nights are Fluffy, a gay-themed night often complete with drag performers.
Oh, and it the easiest place in the whole city to score drugs.
I came with four friends: One was a boy I’d hooked up with a few weeks earlier. The second was a boy I suspected had a crush on me, a notion I actively encouraged by flirting with him whenever I had the chance. The third was a quiet boy with a known crush on the second boy. The fourth was an experienced club boy who’d seen and done it all before. He was the glue that kept our group together.
We’d already drank heavily before coming in, so it wasn’t long before we started dancing. Boy Four quickly wandered off by himself. I resumed flirting with Boy Two, and Boys One and Three starting dancing with each other by default.
I’m not sure how long we’d been there. I’m not sure how long I’d been dancing with him. I’m not sure what he said to me or why he showed me his cell phone. After the fact, I’d come to believe that he’d been texting a friend secretly while dancing with me. Apparently, the friend instructed him to kiss me. He showed me the phone, said something I couldn’t hear or can’t remember, and did just that.
I was gloating silently to myself. Yet again, I’d accurately predicted and created a favourable situation. He wanted me, I knew he wanted me, and he knew I knew he wanted me. It was inevitable, and we both knew it.
We moved upstairs; the couches were more comfortable. Unexpectedly, Boys One and Three were already there, though chatting placidly. We sat down and immediately resumed making out. I opened my eyes in the middle, only to be confronted by two jealous stares.
With perfect timing, Boy Four reappears by my side. Gently pushes Two off, who settles instead on my lap. Four whispers to me, but loud enough for anyone not suffering advanced follicle decay in a three meter radius to hear.
“Hey, I scored some pills. Want one?”
The reaction from Two was immediate. He bolted up, and gave me the strangest look. Part quizzical, part angry, part pleading.
“Cmon,” said Four. “These are slow acting, so lets hurry up before it gets late.”
Finally, Two piqued up. “You don’t need that to enjoy yourself. Stay here with me.”
Four replied “You said you wanted it, now you got it. What are you waiting for?”
I know some people personify their conscience with the Angel and the Devil on the shoulders. Unfortunately, this became very real for me. I wanted the boy and I wanted the pills. I knew I couldn’t have both.
Four decided to decide for me. “He’s not what you want. You know that. He’s not your type, he’s not attractive enough, and he won’t sleep with you. The boy wants a boyfriend, he’s a prude. Is that really what you want? Tell me I’m wrong.”
I sat silently, and looked at Two. He pretended he didn’t hear the exchange, but I knew.
A little peace of me slipped. “How expensive are these pills? And how do you know what’s in them? Are they from a reputable dealer?” Two’s face fell, and he seemed to inch away slightly.
My diversion didn’t work. Four pressed on. “Tell me I’m wrong about him.”
Again, I sat silent. Four took this as an agreement, and wandered over to my other side. Held Two around the waist and started to lead him away.
“Wait!.....” There was no follow-up to my quiet plea. I simply watched, somehow helpless, as Four whispered in his ear. The boy looked crestfallen. Is this really how people operate here in Australia? Or is this a reflection of the gay community around the world?
Two returned, and restored his head to its resting place on my lap. A dark glare from me was enough to convince Four that I wasn’t in the mood for pills. He wandered off. One and Three had done so sometime in the middle of our dispute.
A short time later, Two received a text from One. They had decided to leave, and Two would go with them. I followed him to the door. “Are you coming with me?”
I should’ve said yes. But Four was right. I wanted pills and I wanted sex. I wouldn’t get either from Two. So I told him I’d stay a little longer.
“You can walk me to their apartment and come back,” he suggested rather optimistically. But I said no, there was a good chance I’d miss the 3am lockout and not get back in.
Then I kissed him in the doorway for a good minute or two before sending him on his way. Not to be romantic, but to keep him interested in me, just in case. I’d reached a new low of depravity. Promiscuity, drug use, and the manipulation of a poor innocent boy.
I returned to find Four. He smirked as I approached, having likely seen the whole thing. I asked him for a pill, but he told me they were too slow acting. It was too late tonight, and he’d rather save them for another party.
I moved on, back to the dance floor. Spent a little time with some guys without their shirt on, who tend to be a sluttier breed, but they went home before long. Inebriated, I sat down on a speaker to rest. They must’ve thought I was too drunk, so security gently escorted me out despite my spontaneous recitation of the alphabet backwards.
4:30am, and out on my ass. I thought I could have all three, and I got zero. If my conscious had been embodied earlier in the night, now karma was taking center stage. I resolved to make it up to him, if I could. Maybe I’d do the unthinkable and get a boyfriend.
Oh, and it the easiest place in the whole city to score drugs.
I came with four friends: One was a boy I’d hooked up with a few weeks earlier. The second was a boy I suspected had a crush on me, a notion I actively encouraged by flirting with him whenever I had the chance. The third was a quiet boy with a known crush on the second boy. The fourth was an experienced club boy who’d seen and done it all before. He was the glue that kept our group together.
We’d already drank heavily before coming in, so it wasn’t long before we started dancing. Boy Four quickly wandered off by himself. I resumed flirting with Boy Two, and Boys One and Three starting dancing with each other by default.
I’m not sure how long we’d been there. I’m not sure how long I’d been dancing with him. I’m not sure what he said to me or why he showed me his cell phone. After the fact, I’d come to believe that he’d been texting a friend secretly while dancing with me. Apparently, the friend instructed him to kiss me. He showed me the phone, said something I couldn’t hear or can’t remember, and did just that.
I was gloating silently to myself. Yet again, I’d accurately predicted and created a favourable situation. He wanted me, I knew he wanted me, and he knew I knew he wanted me. It was inevitable, and we both knew it.
We moved upstairs; the couches were more comfortable. Unexpectedly, Boys One and Three were already there, though chatting placidly. We sat down and immediately resumed making out. I opened my eyes in the middle, only to be confronted by two jealous stares.
With perfect timing, Boy Four reappears by my side. Gently pushes Two off, who settles instead on my lap. Four whispers to me, but loud enough for anyone not suffering advanced follicle decay in a three meter radius to hear.
“Hey, I scored some pills. Want one?”
The reaction from Two was immediate. He bolted up, and gave me the strangest look. Part quizzical, part angry, part pleading.
“Cmon,” said Four. “These are slow acting, so lets hurry up before it gets late.”
Finally, Two piqued up. “You don’t need that to enjoy yourself. Stay here with me.”
Four replied “You said you wanted it, now you got it. What are you waiting for?”
I know some people personify their conscience with the Angel and the Devil on the shoulders. Unfortunately, this became very real for me. I wanted the boy and I wanted the pills. I knew I couldn’t have both.
Four decided to decide for me. “He’s not what you want. You know that. He’s not your type, he’s not attractive enough, and he won’t sleep with you. The boy wants a boyfriend, he’s a prude. Is that really what you want? Tell me I’m wrong.”
I sat silently, and looked at Two. He pretended he didn’t hear the exchange, but I knew.
A little peace of me slipped. “How expensive are these pills? And how do you know what’s in them? Are they from a reputable dealer?” Two’s face fell, and he seemed to inch away slightly.
My diversion didn’t work. Four pressed on. “Tell me I’m wrong about him.”
Again, I sat silent. Four took this as an agreement, and wandered over to my other side. Held Two around the waist and started to lead him away.
“Wait!.....” There was no follow-up to my quiet plea. I simply watched, somehow helpless, as Four whispered in his ear. The boy looked crestfallen. Is this really how people operate here in Australia? Or is this a reflection of the gay community around the world?
Two returned, and restored his head to its resting place on my lap. A dark glare from me was enough to convince Four that I wasn’t in the mood for pills. He wandered off. One and Three had done so sometime in the middle of our dispute.
A short time later, Two received a text from One. They had decided to leave, and Two would go with them. I followed him to the door. “Are you coming with me?”
I should’ve said yes. But Four was right. I wanted pills and I wanted sex. I wouldn’t get either from Two. So I told him I’d stay a little longer.
“You can walk me to their apartment and come back,” he suggested rather optimistically. But I said no, there was a good chance I’d miss the 3am lockout and not get back in.
Then I kissed him in the doorway for a good minute or two before sending him on his way. Not to be romantic, but to keep him interested in me, just in case. I’d reached a new low of depravity. Promiscuity, drug use, and the manipulation of a poor innocent boy.
I returned to find Four. He smirked as I approached, having likely seen the whole thing. I asked him for a pill, but he told me they were too slow acting. It was too late tonight, and he’d rather save them for another party.
I moved on, back to the dance floor. Spent a little time with some guys without their shirt on, who tend to be a sluttier breed, but they went home before long. Inebriated, I sat down on a speaker to rest. They must’ve thought I was too drunk, so security gently escorted me out despite my spontaneous recitation of the alphabet backwards.
4:30am, and out on my ass. I thought I could have all three, and I got zero. If my conscious had been embodied earlier in the night, now karma was taking center stage. I resolved to make it up to him, if I could. Maybe I’d do the unthinkable and get a boyfriend.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
9/11 Interlude
Allow me to take a small detour from Memory Lane. There’s a side alley I’d like to visit.
9/11 came and went with no fanfare in Australia. I saw it mentioned once, briefly, on a muted news program. Frankly, its not news anymore.
10:46pm (also known as 8:46am EST) rolled by, and I didn’t realize it until well after 11:30. After six years, it had simply dulled away.
The next morning, 9/12, was the morning of the res-college photo. 6am. I refused to go, seeing as I had an exam at 11am and a poster due at 4pm. However, my window had the misfortune to be near the bleachers, and all the yelling and blathering woke me up promptly at 5:42. I hated them by 5:47.
No sleep, no study, boy issues, family issues, exams and projects. Today was going to be miserable. The sun was aggravatingly bright again, and I couldn’t even walk outside without sunglasses.
After achieving a few more hours of sleep and being jolted awake by the Scissor Sisters at 9:52, I felt a little better, albeit wholly unprepared for the day. My little cousin leaves for college tomorrow but I couldn’t be bothered to call.
Dressed myself in dirty clothes I picked off the bottom of the floor pile, and didn’t bother to brush my teeth or comb my hair before heading off to campus. It seemed like wasted effort to me. Hell, waking up today seemed like wasted effort. I’d gladly go back to sleep, wake me up for mid-semester break.
But you know what? It’s entirely impossible to stay angry. The aggravatingly bright sun is rather pleasant when you’re wearing sunglasses. We may be in the middle of a crippling drought, but that just means the sky is free of clouds. It’s that perfect warm with a slight breeze. The locals are smiling, and I have a chocolate bar hidden in my backpack.
At 10:38am, the realization hit me: I’m happy. I don’t care I have an exam or a project, nagging moms or nosey friends. I don’t care that my credit card got stolen or my check went missing in the mail. It’s a beautiful morning, and I’m so fucking happy to be alive that I just cant put it into words.
9/11 came and went with no fanfare in Australia. I saw it mentioned once, briefly, on a muted news program. Frankly, its not news anymore.
10:46pm (also known as 8:46am EST) rolled by, and I didn’t realize it until well after 11:30. After six years, it had simply dulled away.
The next morning, 9/12, was the morning of the res-college photo. 6am. I refused to go, seeing as I had an exam at 11am and a poster due at 4pm. However, my window had the misfortune to be near the bleachers, and all the yelling and blathering woke me up promptly at 5:42. I hated them by 5:47.
No sleep, no study, boy issues, family issues, exams and projects. Today was going to be miserable. The sun was aggravatingly bright again, and I couldn’t even walk outside without sunglasses.
After achieving a few more hours of sleep and being jolted awake by the Scissor Sisters at 9:52, I felt a little better, albeit wholly unprepared for the day. My little cousin leaves for college tomorrow but I couldn’t be bothered to call.
Dressed myself in dirty clothes I picked off the bottom of the floor pile, and didn’t bother to brush my teeth or comb my hair before heading off to campus. It seemed like wasted effort to me. Hell, waking up today seemed like wasted effort. I’d gladly go back to sleep, wake me up for mid-semester break.
But you know what? It’s entirely impossible to stay angry. The aggravatingly bright sun is rather pleasant when you’re wearing sunglasses. We may be in the middle of a crippling drought, but that just means the sky is free of clouds. It’s that perfect warm with a slight breeze. The locals are smiling, and I have a chocolate bar hidden in my backpack.
At 10:38am, the realization hit me: I’m happy. I don’t care I have an exam or a project, nagging moms or nosey friends. I don’t care that my credit card got stolen or my check went missing in the mail. It’s a beautiful morning, and I’m so fucking happy to be alive that I just cant put it into words.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Crawling Home
Lets go on a pub crawl. Doesn't matter that my life is under intensive scrutiny. Doesn't matter that I tend to spill secrets when I'm drunk. Doesn't matter that I got a sneak peak of the team list, and discovered my win-on partner is now on my team. Hell, doesn't even matter that it's a Tuesday and its only dinnertime. Lets go drinking.
There are 3 teams, and the rules are simple.
Rule 1) Protect your team's lawn gnome. Attempt to steal or destroy the other teams' gnomes.
Rule 2) You must drink atleast one drink at each pub.
Rule 3) When a certain song is sung, everyone must chug the drink currently in their hands.
Rule 4) Everyone is given an Uno card necklace. If you find someone with a matching number, you are strongly encouraged to make out with him or her.
Rule 5) One girl per team per pub is given a rubbery squeaky dog toy. It is her mission to get a stranger to buy her a drink without revealing her goal.
Rule 6) The last person on the bus must wear girl panties on his or her head at the next pub.
We arrive at the first bar, and I decide to slowly nurse a rum and coke. Plenty of time, only 7pm, why rush? Slowly I finish it off, but I'm uncertain how much time we have left. I ask our team leader, who tells me we have 20 minutes left at this bar. I order another rum and coke. 30 seconds later, he announces that its time to go. I scowl, and skull the whole drink. Off to a good start.
Second bar, and a new goal. I'm going to be the American who breaks the other teams' gnomes. However, they seemed to have hidden it very well. Standing near the chew toy girl gives me a good vantage point to scope everyone out, as well as enjoy the show the girl is putting on. She succeeds with flying colors, but I find my mission in vain. The other teams are leaving for their next target. Drastic measures must be taken.
I grope everyone on their way out. At least, that's what I pretend. In reality, I'm looking for a hidden gnome. This strikes me as a likely first in recorded history.
Bar three, and a new drink. Rums, coronas, and smirnoff blacks are behind me. I've discovered scotch. Really, scotch is far too classy to be mixed with coke, but I'm not British enough to order scotch on the rocks.
I take to the dance floor in my finally inebriated state. For the first time since arriving in Australia, it did not result in me disassociating with Americans or hooking up with someone I later regret.
Normally, I dont like to use names in my blog. It's all very Dragnet. However, I must make an exception. This boy's name is Blake. Every boy named Blake I'd ever met, spoken to, heard or read about, has been gay. Blake is the quintessential twink name. And my booze goggles made him cute. This was in the bag.
I dont get the chance to make a move. Something [his friend] comes up. The boy is cuter, looks sluttier, is a great dancer, and wears rings that give off definate gay vibes. Why waste my time with Blake? I'll get the twink later.
Fourth bar. I've been here before. It's the Down Under Bar, where I first went with the other Americans. That must've also been a Tuesday night, because its Male Stripper Night again. Luckily, this time he's cute.
After enjoying the show with Blake's Friend, I go in for the kill. BUZZ!
"Everyone thinks I'm gay because I dance, but I'm not."
I dont have the heart to tell him that his dancing is the least of the reasons I questioned his heterosexuality. However, the boy is surprisingly gay-friendly. Considering I've added a few vodka tonics to my tally, I'm not surprised my whole story comes spilling out of my mouth. At the time, I believed I'd found a sympathetic ear; in retrospect, I was likely sowing the seeds of my own destruction.
I break away for another drink. It is at this point that I cross off a life goal from my to-do list.
In this very hetero bar (albeit, with a male stripper performing), a somewhat older but still cute guy is eyeing me. I look back. He smiles and seems to nod me over. I oblige.
Turns out I was completely right. He starts flirting and touching, toussling my hair. I play along because I'm an attention whore.
"I'm actually a flight attendant on international flights. I'm only here in Brisbane for 2 nights, then its back to Thailand. I'm staying at my friend's place, but he wont be home tonight so I have the place to myself..."
Picked up by a flight attendant. In a straight bar. That has to be worth something. However, momma must've taught me well. I dont go home with him. However, I still count it as a win. The sex is not nearly as important as the ego boost, and I'd already got what I'd come for, without ever coming.
Really though, you shouldn't let these things go to your head. With my temporary boost, I felt empowered to out myself to the entire college. Stick it to the assholes, ya know? My two-faced 'friend' from Recovery, he's first...
If it wasnt already 3am. Time to go. I'm essentially dragged out of the bar against my will by Blake and his Friend. I'd lost count of how much I'd had to drink after my 12th mixer. Fear of being exposed at the next meeting was not on my mind. So walking to a taxi, I openly gloated to Blake's Friend about the Flight Attendant. Blake's jaw dropped. Realization slowly dawned on him.
"So what," I said. "I'm [blank], big deal."
The blank of course being to maintain atleast some ambiguity.
His response actually stunned me.
"I must admit, I'm kinda homophobic. But you dont fit any of the stereotypes. Maybe I'm wrong."
Why isnt it always this easy?
Somehow, we picked up a strange girl to make four to a taxi. She silently vomited in the backseat. We declined to inform the driver.
With my newfound confidence as a homophobia destroyer, I decided to cure my 'friends' here and now. I'll martyr myself if I have to; the hero complex strikes again, at shortly before 4am. I sat down in front of the worst offender's door, and waited for him to return.
I was discovered the next morning passed out in the middle of the hallway. Luckily, I still had both eyebrows. It would remain to be seen if the evening's conversations would stay with my first heterosexual Blake and friends.
There are 3 teams, and the rules are simple.
Rule 1) Protect your team's lawn gnome. Attempt to steal or destroy the other teams' gnomes.
Rule 2) You must drink atleast one drink at each pub.
Rule 3) When a certain song is sung, everyone must chug the drink currently in their hands.
Rule 4) Everyone is given an Uno card necklace. If you find someone with a matching number, you are strongly encouraged to make out with him or her.
Rule 5) One girl per team per pub is given a rubbery squeaky dog toy. It is her mission to get a stranger to buy her a drink without revealing her goal.
Rule 6) The last person on the bus must wear girl panties on his or her head at the next pub.
We arrive at the first bar, and I decide to slowly nurse a rum and coke. Plenty of time, only 7pm, why rush? Slowly I finish it off, but I'm uncertain how much time we have left. I ask our team leader, who tells me we have 20 minutes left at this bar. I order another rum and coke. 30 seconds later, he announces that its time to go. I scowl, and skull the whole drink. Off to a good start.
Second bar, and a new goal. I'm going to be the American who breaks the other teams' gnomes. However, they seemed to have hidden it very well. Standing near the chew toy girl gives me a good vantage point to scope everyone out, as well as enjoy the show the girl is putting on. She succeeds with flying colors, but I find my mission in vain. The other teams are leaving for their next target. Drastic measures must be taken.
I grope everyone on their way out. At least, that's what I pretend. In reality, I'm looking for a hidden gnome. This strikes me as a likely first in recorded history.
Bar three, and a new drink. Rums, coronas, and smirnoff blacks are behind me. I've discovered scotch. Really, scotch is far too classy to be mixed with coke, but I'm not British enough to order scotch on the rocks.
I take to the dance floor in my finally inebriated state. For the first time since arriving in Australia, it did not result in me disassociating with Americans or hooking up with someone I later regret.
Normally, I dont like to use names in my blog. It's all very Dragnet. However, I must make an exception. This boy's name is Blake. Every boy named Blake I'd ever met, spoken to, heard or read about, has been gay. Blake is the quintessential twink name. And my booze goggles made him cute. This was in the bag.
I dont get the chance to make a move. Something [his friend] comes up. The boy is cuter, looks sluttier, is a great dancer, and wears rings that give off definate gay vibes. Why waste my time with Blake? I'll get the twink later.
Fourth bar. I've been here before. It's the Down Under Bar, where I first went with the other Americans. That must've also been a Tuesday night, because its Male Stripper Night again. Luckily, this time he's cute.
After enjoying the show with Blake's Friend, I go in for the kill. BUZZ!
"Everyone thinks I'm gay because I dance, but I'm not."
I dont have the heart to tell him that his dancing is the least of the reasons I questioned his heterosexuality. However, the boy is surprisingly gay-friendly. Considering I've added a few vodka tonics to my tally, I'm not surprised my whole story comes spilling out of my mouth. At the time, I believed I'd found a sympathetic ear; in retrospect, I was likely sowing the seeds of my own destruction.
I break away for another drink. It is at this point that I cross off a life goal from my to-do list.
In this very hetero bar (albeit, with a male stripper performing), a somewhat older but still cute guy is eyeing me. I look back. He smiles and seems to nod me over. I oblige.
Turns out I was completely right. He starts flirting and touching, toussling my hair. I play along because I'm an attention whore.
"I'm actually a flight attendant on international flights. I'm only here in Brisbane for 2 nights, then its back to Thailand. I'm staying at my friend's place, but he wont be home tonight so I have the place to myself..."
Picked up by a flight attendant. In a straight bar. That has to be worth something. However, momma must've taught me well. I dont go home with him. However, I still count it as a win. The sex is not nearly as important as the ego boost, and I'd already got what I'd come for, without ever coming.
Really though, you shouldn't let these things go to your head. With my temporary boost, I felt empowered to out myself to the entire college. Stick it to the assholes, ya know? My two-faced 'friend' from Recovery, he's first...
If it wasnt already 3am. Time to go. I'm essentially dragged out of the bar against my will by Blake and his Friend. I'd lost count of how much I'd had to drink after my 12th mixer. Fear of being exposed at the next meeting was not on my mind. So walking to a taxi, I openly gloated to Blake's Friend about the Flight Attendant. Blake's jaw dropped. Realization slowly dawned on him.
"So what," I said. "I'm [blank], big deal."
The blank of course being to maintain atleast some ambiguity.
His response actually stunned me.
"I must admit, I'm kinda homophobic. But you dont fit any of the stereotypes. Maybe I'm wrong."
Why isnt it always this easy?
Somehow, we picked up a strange girl to make four to a taxi. She silently vomited in the backseat. We declined to inform the driver.
With my newfound confidence as a homophobia destroyer, I decided to cure my 'friends' here and now. I'll martyr myself if I have to; the hero complex strikes again, at shortly before 4am. I sat down in front of the worst offender's door, and waited for him to return.
I was discovered the next morning passed out in the middle of the hallway. Luckily, I still had both eyebrows. It would remain to be seen if the evening's conversations would stay with my first heterosexual Blake and friends.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
More Cliffhangers?
"Bloke? What bloke?"
This was the cheapest form of defense I could come up with in my semi-sober defense. Am I flat-out lying, or am I simply asking for the definition of obscure Australian slang. Plausible deniability, I rationalize. At the moment, I was disconcertingly curious about the straight boy I was hitting on's reaction, but he'd already vanished. And by the time I'd realized it, so had my accuser. Without further comment to me, the crowd shuffled out of the bar and into the night.
The next day, I sat down at lunch with a person I know heard. I strongly believe he was sober. He chatted in his usual quiet demeanor, nothing different. That morning, I'd noticed no swastikas painted on my door. Apparently I had nothing to fear... until I went to pay the freshman block a visit. It was quiet and empty. I turned to leave, when a boy exited the bathroom in a towel. He looked at me, then turned to walk down the hall. I recognized him from standing next to me at the bar last night. I called after him "Why's it so quiet tonight?"
He turned back to look at me again, same stony look on his face. Without responding, he resumed walking down the hall. Now I felt worried.
That dinner, another friend approached. You may recall him from my first visit to The Valley. He offered to accompany me to the gay bar for the cheap drink specials, but decided against it when he realized there'd be a cover charge. 10 minutes later, he was spouting anti-gay rhetoric at me, telling me how disgusting they were and how he'd refuse to fraternize with them. I simply rolled my eyes, and wished for once that Teh Ghey actually was infectious.
"I heard you had a good night after the A&P dinner. You were with somebody. Who was it?"
I had long ago learned to focus in on pronouns. Clearly, a game of Telephone had been at work, and a few steps back, 'bloke' had slipped from the secret message.
"You know, we were drunk on champaign and port that night. You know the rule: What happens on port, stays on port... What, not satisfied? Fine, I'll come clean. It was the Warden. That old man is a fox in bed!"
I was almost off the hook, but I still had to survive the weekly College Meeting. One of the major orders of business is to announce any "win-ons" or inter-college hookups. Plainly, I was fucked, right? Maybe not. The call for win-ons came and went, and no one piqued up. I breathed a sigh of relief as the meeting came to an end.
"Wait, there was one win-on this week... At the A&P Dinner! But we wont announce it just yet. More info next week." As he says this, he appears to stare right into my eyes.
Peter figures they know I had a hookup with somebody, they just have no clue who, and they cant announce a win-on unless they know both parties involved. They used the announcement to stall, so they can investigate the story intensively in the ensuing week.
So either they're bluffing, or they're about to go over my life with a fine-toothed comb. This could end poorly.
This was the cheapest form of defense I could come up with in my semi-sober defense. Am I flat-out lying, or am I simply asking for the definition of obscure Australian slang. Plausible deniability, I rationalize. At the moment, I was disconcertingly curious about the straight boy I was hitting on's reaction, but he'd already vanished. And by the time I'd realized it, so had my accuser. Without further comment to me, the crowd shuffled out of the bar and into the night.
The next day, I sat down at lunch with a person I know heard. I strongly believe he was sober. He chatted in his usual quiet demeanor, nothing different. That morning, I'd noticed no swastikas painted on my door. Apparently I had nothing to fear... until I went to pay the freshman block a visit. It was quiet and empty. I turned to leave, when a boy exited the bathroom in a towel. He looked at me, then turned to walk down the hall. I recognized him from standing next to me at the bar last night. I called after him "Why's it so quiet tonight?"
He turned back to look at me again, same stony look on his face. Without responding, he resumed walking down the hall. Now I felt worried.
That dinner, another friend approached. You may recall him from my first visit to The Valley. He offered to accompany me to the gay bar for the cheap drink specials, but decided against it when he realized there'd be a cover charge. 10 minutes later, he was spouting anti-gay rhetoric at me, telling me how disgusting they were and how he'd refuse to fraternize with them. I simply rolled my eyes, and wished for once that Teh Ghey actually was infectious.
"I heard you had a good night after the A&P dinner. You were with somebody. Who was it?"
I had long ago learned to focus in on pronouns. Clearly, a game of Telephone had been at work, and a few steps back, 'bloke' had slipped from the secret message.
"You know, we were drunk on champaign and port that night. You know the rule: What happens on port, stays on port... What, not satisfied? Fine, I'll come clean. It was the Warden. That old man is a fox in bed!"
I was almost off the hook, but I still had to survive the weekly College Meeting. One of the major orders of business is to announce any "win-ons" or inter-college hookups. Plainly, I was fucked, right? Maybe not. The call for win-ons came and went, and no one piqued up. I breathed a sigh of relief as the meeting came to an end.
"Wait, there was one win-on this week... At the A&P Dinner! But we wont announce it just yet. More info next week." As he says this, he appears to stare right into my eyes.
Peter figures they know I had a hookup with somebody, they just have no clue who, and they cant announce a win-on unless they know both parties involved. They used the announcement to stall, so they can investigate the story intensively in the ensuing week.
So either they're bluffing, or they're about to go over my life with a fine-toothed comb. This could end poorly.
Sunday, September 9, 2007
Temporal Defenestrations
Him: "You know, I'm not really looking for a relationship right now.
Me: "That's ok, can we still fuck around?"
Yesterday was a surprising day of conclusions and relevations. All the events I never blogged about seemed to come to a head. However, because I believe in the linear flow of time, I'm going to go back to the beginning.
Though, yesterday was also a day where I touched my third crocodilian species since arriving here, and I had a Carpet Python crawling around on my head. Go ahead, look it up.
Anyway, the post that seemed to horrify my neighbor's friend. At the time, I considered it a pretty good accomplishment. Frankly, I still do. But I didnt rest on my laurels. The realization finally came to me: One of the best parts of sex is the ego boost. Despite never being the sex-craving fiend that some boys seem to be, I liked the self-gloating and very much wanted another hit. In yet another way, Australia has made me a worse person.
I returned to Carden, because outside of The Beat, this is the only known collection of gay people. Basically, I hit on anyone who walked through the door, even the lesbians. People responded, flirted back. I felt like the weight of my head might break my clavicle.
One boy who I knew was into me invited me to a party. I openly flirted with another boy in front of someone I'd already hooked up with. I invited yet another boy to come with me to the first boy's party. I was being cruel and self-centered again, and relishing it.
But, perhaps karma exists. At college bar that friday, three days after the A&P dinner and one day after I'd been a shameless flirt, a girl came up to me. Now, until this point in bar, I'd been hitting on a straight guy. I didnt know he was straight until it came up in conversation, but I pressed on. He seemed flexible, and I was feeling above my station in boldness lately. The crowd was small, but all bunched up against the bar. I'm pretty sure everyone heard her.
"So, who was that bloke leaving your room the other night?"
Me: "That's ok, can we still fuck around?"
Yesterday was a surprising day of conclusions and relevations. All the events I never blogged about seemed to come to a head. However, because I believe in the linear flow of time, I'm going to go back to the beginning.
Though, yesterday was also a day where I touched my third crocodilian species since arriving here, and I had a Carpet Python crawling around on my head. Go ahead, look it up.
Anyway, the post that seemed to horrify my neighbor's friend. At the time, I considered it a pretty good accomplishment. Frankly, I still do. But I didnt rest on my laurels. The realization finally came to me: One of the best parts of sex is the ego boost. Despite never being the sex-craving fiend that some boys seem to be, I liked the self-gloating and very much wanted another hit. In yet another way, Australia has made me a worse person.
I returned to Carden, because outside of The Beat, this is the only known collection of gay people. Basically, I hit on anyone who walked through the door, even the lesbians. People responded, flirted back. I felt like the weight of my head might break my clavicle.
One boy who I knew was into me invited me to a party. I openly flirted with another boy in front of someone I'd already hooked up with. I invited yet another boy to come with me to the first boy's party. I was being cruel and self-centered again, and relishing it.
But, perhaps karma exists. At college bar that friday, three days after the A&P dinner and one day after I'd been a shameless flirt, a girl came up to me. Now, until this point in bar, I'd been hitting on a straight guy. I didnt know he was straight until it came up in conversation, but I pressed on. He seemed flexible, and I was feeling above my station in boldness lately. The crowd was small, but all bunched up against the bar. I'm pretty sure everyone heard her.
"So, who was that bloke leaving your room the other night?"
Friday, September 7, 2007
Apathy
If you've noticed, this blog hasnt been posted to very much these past few weeks, despite the surprising popular demand.
Its not like nothing is going on. Hell, there's plenty. There's the continuing stories of my sluttiness and its ceaseless untintended consequences. There's fun with animals. There's fun with doctors. There's even fun with street bums.
And I'm sorry sir, but when you're digging through the trash cans at the ferry stop for an unfinished cigarette butt, you're addicted.
So why am I writing this now? It certainly has nothing to do with the popular demand. Frankly, I love to watch you all squirm. No, it entirely has to do with my sadism.
I was talking to my neighbor today, while his friend came to visit. I asked him for a little advice, but for the benefit of the friend, stayed pronoun-neutral. The friend piqued up, trying to remain neutral himself, but couldnt avoid slipping 'he' or 'him' in there. I was perplexed, but amused? Was I busted already?
I asked him later how he knew. Was I being too obvious in my gender neutrality? Or was Pete right, and gossip had already spread my identity through the college like wildfire?
I doubted it. I hadnt had any swastikas painted on my door yet.
The logical answer, of course, is to ask him. So I did. He told me I was being alittle too obvious, but he knew beforehand. Much like he does, he was Facebook browsing, and happened to come upon my note linking to this blog. Considering he was a Facebook stalker already, why shouldnt he read his friend's neighbor's blog? Big mistake. He told me the contents of this blog horrified him, especially the last entry where I'm groping a boy while I chat with the Warden. He freaked out, closed his browser, and cleared his history.
Good on him. Despite being absolutely horrified, he still harbored no ill-will towards me, and was even able to offer sound advice on what must be rather unsavory to him. If he ever reads this again, he should know I'm impressed.
So why the return? Simple: I hope to hear more stories like his. At the end of the day, I'm an immoral sadist, and I want other naive souls to run away in horror.
Dont get your hopes up for something new and funny everyday. But long story short, I'm back bitches.
Its not like nothing is going on. Hell, there's plenty. There's the continuing stories of my sluttiness and its ceaseless untintended consequences. There's fun with animals. There's fun with doctors. There's even fun with street bums.
And I'm sorry sir, but when you're digging through the trash cans at the ferry stop for an unfinished cigarette butt, you're addicted.
So why am I writing this now? It certainly has nothing to do with the popular demand. Frankly, I love to watch you all squirm. No, it entirely has to do with my sadism.
I was talking to my neighbor today, while his friend came to visit. I asked him for a little advice, but for the benefit of the friend, stayed pronoun-neutral. The friend piqued up, trying to remain neutral himself, but couldnt avoid slipping 'he' or 'him' in there. I was perplexed, but amused? Was I busted already?
I asked him later how he knew. Was I being too obvious in my gender neutrality? Or was Pete right, and gossip had already spread my identity through the college like wildfire?
I doubted it. I hadnt had any swastikas painted on my door yet.
The logical answer, of course, is to ask him. So I did. He told me I was being alittle too obvious, but he knew beforehand. Much like he does, he was Facebook browsing, and happened to come upon my note linking to this blog. Considering he was a Facebook stalker already, why shouldnt he read his friend's neighbor's blog? Big mistake. He told me the contents of this blog horrified him, especially the last entry where I'm groping a boy while I chat with the Warden. He freaked out, closed his browser, and cleared his history.
Good on him. Despite being absolutely horrified, he still harbored no ill-will towards me, and was even able to offer sound advice on what must be rather unsavory to him. If he ever reads this again, he should know I'm impressed.
So why the return? Simple: I hope to hear more stories like his. At the end of the day, I'm an immoral sadist, and I want other naive souls to run away in horror.
Dont get your hopes up for something new and funny everyday. But long story short, I'm back bitches.
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