Con The Chancellor
I don’t know how Scott’s Travel Blog has become Scott’s Sex Journal, but stranded in boring old Brisbane, is there much else to do besides booze and gossip?
Well, my story continues on from the night of chalking. Being the master politico I am, I decided to take this thousand dollar fine head-on. And I knew how: In honor of the Vice Chancellor’s impending retirement, my res-college would be holding him an honorary dinner. He’s in power, he’s drunk, he’s putty in my hands.
Step One: Schmooze with the Vice Chancellor’s wife. Corner her, grab champaign for two, and find common ground. Just so happens, the old crow has been to America. Wonderful, time to recount my memories and invent some new ones to correlate to hers. Ski in Colorado? I loved it! And of course the fall foliage in the Adirondacks is breathtaking. So, where’s your husband?
Step Two: Talk to the Vice Chancellor about his wife. Talk all about the fun things they have in common, and about how good of a conversationalist the lovely woman is. Now, don’t get me wrong. The VC’s wife actually was pleasant to talk to. She actually is a thoughtful, well-spoken, and clever woman. But I make no claims that I was doing anything besides brown nosing.
Step Three: Seal the deal. When he’s had enough of his own champaign, ask him about how he feels social justice has changed in his tenure. If I’m right about him, he prides himself on a liberal campus. But no, my lesbian friend came up to me in tears yesterday, telling me how they selectively erased her chalk and charged an exorbitant fine that cuts nearly all of the Queer Collective’s budget. Which is all true, if you replace tearful lesbian with cynical queen. But I need to tug on the ol’ heart strings. He agrees, tells me to email him tomorrow, and maybe get in touch with the Registrar here tonight, the man in charge of levying fines.
Break time. An academic and professional dinner of course comes with dinner. More wine, too. Two steaks, mashed potatoes, mediocre string quartet recital, and nearly a whole bottle of white wine on top of three glasses of cheap champaign. I’m ready to take on the Registrar.
Step Four: Pull rank. Seek out the Registrar, pry him away from the Warden (lest it all be discovered), and relay the Vice Chancellor’s “orders”. I don’t need to. As soon as I mention the price of the fine, he says “That’s not going to happen. We don’t give fines that big, especially for something like this. If UQ Union or Security ever tried to levy a fine that big, they’d have to deal with me.”
So basically, I wasted my entire night, and risked outing myself to the entire college, on a meaningless attempt to feel like a hero? Basically. In the end, the President of the Queer Collective convinced UQ Union to drop any fine.
But there’s a twist to the tale. My exploitation of authority figures was not completely unnoticed. A boy I’d suspected was gay from the beginning comes up to me and strikes up a conversation. We continue to down wine shots of fortified Port. The boy unsubtly mentions an ex-boyfriend, but my ethanol-ridden mind doesn’t realize how obvious it is.
Before I can make any move, the Warden comes up and proceeds to do what he does best: Waste our time. He even has the gall to try and assign me a homework assignment, after learning I was a school paper reporter back home. We smile and nod, enjoying flirting and touching right under the Anglican minister’s nose. Upon which apparently rests a thick set of wine goggles.
As soon as the Warden wanders off to his next victim (or dog, but interchangeable), the subtle leaves. “How about you show me your room?” I hope he got a good look at the ceiling.
But this may have been a mistake. Hooking up within the college? At the Academic and Professional Dinner? Sure, that’s an accomplishment to gloat about, but at what price? Hedonism now, but it comes back to bite me in the ass…
Monday, August 20, 2007
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Chalk It Up To Coincidence
I was still pissed from Sunday. Seething from the chapstick outburst. But I didn’t have an outlet short of violence or outing myself to the entire college. So I just boiled silently.
Needing a place to vent, I went back to the Queer Room at the Student Union. My home school has something like that, but no one ever uses it. This one is actually popular, and where I met the guys I went clubbing with. I sat and talked. But halfway through my story, a new face popped in, a rather handsome one. Just for a brief moment, looking for someone. I decided this would be how I pass my evening.
Turns out, the boy is from Sydney, and this is his last day up here. He’s also part of some weird national coalition of queer rooms, and is came to critique UQ. Cute, well-traveled, and on a time limit. I love a challenge.
Except, there’s another layer of complication. He’s organizing a guerilla chalking expedition for his last night. This would involve running all over campus, writing gay things on the sidewalk. That’s pretty damn public, just short of announcing it on loudspeaker during assembly. But I committed myself to trying to get laid, so chalk I must.
We start at the bus stop, but I quickly develop writer’s block. They’re already starting to race ahead. So I try a little math:
“Your bus holds about 50 people. You’re probably standing next to a queer.” Or maybe just “Homo On Board.”
The dam broken, I quickly catch up. Scribbling across the Great Court, the Student Union, the parking lot, we spread around. Subtle messages, word puns, and occasionally something more graphic. The pedestrian figure painted on the ground is suddenly going doggy-style with a chalk man. But this isn’t activism anymore, this is just fucking around. The university can suck it.
It’s surprisingly exhilarating. It’s actually empowering. My rage at the day before is melting away onto the sidewalk. People are coming and staring, and I couldn’t care less. Until she comes.
One of the other Americans is coming back from watching an intramural basketball game. The girl comes up to me, asks me what we’re doing. I answer honestly, since she already knows all about me. Confused as hell, she begins to walk away, but not before giving me forewarning: The St. John’s College basketball team is only a few minutes behind her.
Against my will, I become nervous. I have yet to hear anything positive come out of my college’s mouth (except my very open neighbor), and all of a sudden, I don’t want to be caught here.
The Sydney boy must pick up on my sudden fear, and asks me what’s wrong. I tell him, so he tells me to go home. Somewhat taken aback, I tell him “Fuck you.” So he explains, somewhat gentler. “If you’re uncomfortable, or afraid of being caught, we won’t make you stay. Don’t do anything you don’t feel ready for, or will regret later. They’re coming, so you better hurry.”
But I can’t. I’m invested. Not in getting laid, but (ok, yes in getting laid, but additionally) in making a statement. They can come, but I won’t lie.
They walk by, chatting with each other. Not really paying our group much attention. But they look up and read what we write as they walk. Just by coincidence, I had my back to them at the time. I can’t say I wasn’t pleased, but it wasn’t intentional either. As they walk on past, I go back to talk with Sydney Boy. But I made the mistake of looking at the team. One suddenly turns and looks over his shoulder. It’s the college student president. We make the briefest eye contact before I turn away.
Am I busted? Will I wake up tomorrow with a swastika painted on my door? Right now, I couldn’t care less.
The night over, we go our separate ways. I follow Sydney Boy to his car, and put my cards on the table. “You know, I owe you. The only reason I went chalking in the first place was because I thought you were cute.” He stands there for a moment, seemingly mentally debating with himself. “I told my friend who I hadn’t seen my whole time here that I’d go to his party before I go.”
Well, so much for my mission.
The next morning (as in, I wake up at 4pm), I set out to go jot down the better slogans. They’re all smeared or gone. The ground is wet. One of our other guerilla chalkers spots me, and comes trudging up. “An obscure school rule, you can’t chalk in the Great Court. It got washed away, and we got fined $1000 dollars. Though, how that spread to the bus stop and café is a mystery to me.”
Of course, I could see not everything was gone. Advertisements for last weekend’s Soiree party remained. Hell, I even spotted a chalked sign for the Cromwell Bunker party of three weeks ago. No, this was targeted erasure. The chalking wasn’t just for nothing. It was for a steep fine and a subtle admission of the university’s homophobia.
But speaking of subtle, they did leave one of my slogans. Something your average hetero won’t catch, but hopefully gives all the little gay boys a little hope they aren’t alone.
“Liza or Judy?”
Oh, and try as they might, they were never fully erase the pedestrian sign having buttsex.
Needing a place to vent, I went back to the Queer Room at the Student Union. My home school has something like that, but no one ever uses it. This one is actually popular, and where I met the guys I went clubbing with. I sat and talked. But halfway through my story, a new face popped in, a rather handsome one. Just for a brief moment, looking for someone. I decided this would be how I pass my evening.
Turns out, the boy is from Sydney, and this is his last day up here. He’s also part of some weird national coalition of queer rooms, and is came to critique UQ. Cute, well-traveled, and on a time limit. I love a challenge.
Except, there’s another layer of complication. He’s organizing a guerilla chalking expedition for his last night. This would involve running all over campus, writing gay things on the sidewalk. That’s pretty damn public, just short of announcing it on loudspeaker during assembly. But I committed myself to trying to get laid, so chalk I must.
We start at the bus stop, but I quickly develop writer’s block. They’re already starting to race ahead. So I try a little math:
“Your bus holds about 50 people. You’re probably standing next to a queer.” Or maybe just “Homo On Board.”
The dam broken, I quickly catch up. Scribbling across the Great Court, the Student Union, the parking lot, we spread around. Subtle messages, word puns, and occasionally something more graphic. The pedestrian figure painted on the ground is suddenly going doggy-style with a chalk man. But this isn’t activism anymore, this is just fucking around. The university can suck it.
It’s surprisingly exhilarating. It’s actually empowering. My rage at the day before is melting away onto the sidewalk. People are coming and staring, and I couldn’t care less. Until she comes.
One of the other Americans is coming back from watching an intramural basketball game. The girl comes up to me, asks me what we’re doing. I answer honestly, since she already knows all about me. Confused as hell, she begins to walk away, but not before giving me forewarning: The St. John’s College basketball team is only a few minutes behind her.
Against my will, I become nervous. I have yet to hear anything positive come out of my college’s mouth (except my very open neighbor), and all of a sudden, I don’t want to be caught here.
The Sydney boy must pick up on my sudden fear, and asks me what’s wrong. I tell him, so he tells me to go home. Somewhat taken aback, I tell him “Fuck you.” So he explains, somewhat gentler. “If you’re uncomfortable, or afraid of being caught, we won’t make you stay. Don’t do anything you don’t feel ready for, or will regret later. They’re coming, so you better hurry.”
But I can’t. I’m invested. Not in getting laid, but (ok, yes in getting laid, but additionally) in making a statement. They can come, but I won’t lie.
They walk by, chatting with each other. Not really paying our group much attention. But they look up and read what we write as they walk. Just by coincidence, I had my back to them at the time. I can’t say I wasn’t pleased, but it wasn’t intentional either. As they walk on past, I go back to talk with Sydney Boy. But I made the mistake of looking at the team. One suddenly turns and looks over his shoulder. It’s the college student president. We make the briefest eye contact before I turn away.
Am I busted? Will I wake up tomorrow with a swastika painted on my door? Right now, I couldn’t care less.
The night over, we go our separate ways. I follow Sydney Boy to his car, and put my cards on the table. “You know, I owe you. The only reason I went chalking in the first place was because I thought you were cute.” He stands there for a moment, seemingly mentally debating with himself. “I told my friend who I hadn’t seen my whole time here that I’d go to his party before I go.”
Well, so much for my mission.
The next morning (as in, I wake up at 4pm), I set out to go jot down the better slogans. They’re all smeared or gone. The ground is wet. One of our other guerilla chalkers spots me, and comes trudging up. “An obscure school rule, you can’t chalk in the Great Court. It got washed away, and we got fined $1000 dollars. Though, how that spread to the bus stop and café is a mystery to me.”
Of course, I could see not everything was gone. Advertisements for last weekend’s Soiree party remained. Hell, I even spotted a chalked sign for the Cromwell Bunker party of three weeks ago. No, this was targeted erasure. The chalking wasn’t just for nothing. It was for a steep fine and a subtle admission of the university’s homophobia.
But speaking of subtle, they did leave one of my slogans. Something your average hetero won’t catch, but hopefully gives all the little gay boys a little hope they aren’t alone.
“Liza or Judy?”
Oh, and try as they might, they were never fully erase the pedestrian sign having buttsex.
Friday, August 17, 2007
A Sunday Morning
Saturday night. The big St John’s College formal. I skip it, and instead catch up on my sleep. I need to be ready for Sunday morning.
8am prompt, Sunday morning. I get up, get dressed, and get to breakfast. I greet the boys in skirts and the girls with face paint and large antlers. Sausage, beans, and a muffin. I sit down at the table with a witch, a rugby player, an artic explorer, and a mouse. The witch graciously pours me a glass of orange juice. It’s almost time to walk to the bar.
After the formalities of last night (which thank god I missed), its time for the real party. Recovery. 10am, private rented bar, costumes, unlimited pitchers of beer.
Needless to say, the debauchery surpassed anything I have ever, ever seen in America.
Greeting us at the door were a series of cloth murals. Yosemite Sam fucking Minnie Mouse with a gigantic dildo. Betty Boop releasing her voluminous period on an aborted fetus. You get the idea.
I pilfered a pitcher to myself, and got down to the hard business of drinking, at my own pace. However, I feared this may soon be out of my hands. The trumpet approached. Perhaps you’re familiar with the American Beer Bong? Well, this is similar. A meter-long plastic bugle. A pint of beer down the top. Skull it, and blow the horn in victory. I’m fucked.
Thankfully, the instrument of my future hangover never arrived. Instead, our table was doused with a full pitcher of beer. One of the girls at our table marched over in protest, but slipped on the alcoholic ooze coating the floor and nearly fell on her ass. But yours truly was there with an outstretched arm.
Before I get the opportunity to speak up, “Destination Unknown” blares out the speakers. A mass stampede to the dance floor. But seeing how I dance worse than your average club-footed narcoleptic, I decided to hang back with the Spiderman Brothers. A child’s costume shared. The one with the top could barely cover his nipples. The one with the pants bared his asscrack for all to admire. The college student president, complete with hard hat and lion mane, invites us to the floor, but all three of us would rather booze in the sunshine.
We miss the first wave of sausages and face paint beginning to get around, but my stroke of good luck was not infinite. The minute I walk inside, a petite girl clasps her hands around my face, then down my neck. Blue racing stripes, she tells me. In the meanwhile, one of the boys I walked here with is half passed out on the couch, face dyed red, trumpet lolling out of his mouth. It is 10 minutes to noon.
I sit down with people I know, apparently in the middle of an ego circlejerk. Immediately, a friend of mine, male, puts his hand on my thigh. Is he hitting on me in his impaired state? I never get to find out, as just then his buddy next to him busts out chapstick. Drinking can give a man parched lips.
“Such a poof. Put away the chapstick, you fucking faggot.” He turns back to me, and slides his drunk hand higher up my leg. “You’re a legend, you know that.”
I can’t tolerate him. It’s time for a refill. As I approach, two boys fake hump and moan for a girl’s entertainment. Do all westernized countries have a homoerotic double standard? Even under alcohol, only ok if they think you don’t want it.
Before you think I’m just ranting, this matters later.
But hell, can you really stay mad when you’re double-fisting two Smirnoff Blacks while debating politics with strangers? This is the foundation of my life philosophy.
If you’ve never spent your Lazy Sunday getting shitfaced with the sun high overhead, I truly recommend it.
If you want some photos, especially of those insane banners, go here: Morning Booze and Fuzzy Things
8am prompt, Sunday morning. I get up, get dressed, and get to breakfast. I greet the boys in skirts and the girls with face paint and large antlers. Sausage, beans, and a muffin. I sit down at the table with a witch, a rugby player, an artic explorer, and a mouse. The witch graciously pours me a glass of orange juice. It’s almost time to walk to the bar.
After the formalities of last night (which thank god I missed), its time for the real party. Recovery. 10am, private rented bar, costumes, unlimited pitchers of beer.
Needless to say, the debauchery surpassed anything I have ever, ever seen in America.
Greeting us at the door were a series of cloth murals. Yosemite Sam fucking Minnie Mouse with a gigantic dildo. Betty Boop releasing her voluminous period on an aborted fetus. You get the idea.
I pilfered a pitcher to myself, and got down to the hard business of drinking, at my own pace. However, I feared this may soon be out of my hands. The trumpet approached. Perhaps you’re familiar with the American Beer Bong? Well, this is similar. A meter-long plastic bugle. A pint of beer down the top. Skull it, and blow the horn in victory. I’m fucked.
Thankfully, the instrument of my future hangover never arrived. Instead, our table was doused with a full pitcher of beer. One of the girls at our table marched over in protest, but slipped on the alcoholic ooze coating the floor and nearly fell on her ass. But yours truly was there with an outstretched arm.
Before I get the opportunity to speak up, “Destination Unknown” blares out the speakers. A mass stampede to the dance floor. But seeing how I dance worse than your average club-footed narcoleptic, I decided to hang back with the Spiderman Brothers. A child’s costume shared. The one with the top could barely cover his nipples. The one with the pants bared his asscrack for all to admire. The college student president, complete with hard hat and lion mane, invites us to the floor, but all three of us would rather booze in the sunshine.
We miss the first wave of sausages and face paint beginning to get around, but my stroke of good luck was not infinite. The minute I walk inside, a petite girl clasps her hands around my face, then down my neck. Blue racing stripes, she tells me. In the meanwhile, one of the boys I walked here with is half passed out on the couch, face dyed red, trumpet lolling out of his mouth. It is 10 minutes to noon.
I sit down with people I know, apparently in the middle of an ego circlejerk. Immediately, a friend of mine, male, puts his hand on my thigh. Is he hitting on me in his impaired state? I never get to find out, as just then his buddy next to him busts out chapstick. Drinking can give a man parched lips.
“Such a poof. Put away the chapstick, you fucking faggot.” He turns back to me, and slides his drunk hand higher up my leg. “You’re a legend, you know that.”
I can’t tolerate him. It’s time for a refill. As I approach, two boys fake hump and moan for a girl’s entertainment. Do all westernized countries have a homoerotic double standard? Even under alcohol, only ok if they think you don’t want it.
Before you think I’m just ranting, this matters later.
But hell, can you really stay mad when you’re double-fisting two Smirnoff Blacks while debating politics with strangers? This is the foundation of my life philosophy.
If you’ve never spent your Lazy Sunday getting shitfaced with the sun high overhead, I truly recommend it.
If you want some photos, especially of those insane banners, go here: Morning Booze and Fuzzy Things
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Contest Interlude
I always wake up to spam. In modern society, this is a fact of life. But alas, a diamond in the rough. StudyAbroad.com is looking for students to keep blogs on their travels. The lucky sonofabitch will have his or her blog on BlogAbroad.com and win $500 for their trouble.
Seemed like a cakewalk. Most people I know love this blog, so why wouldn’t the general public? My narcissism assured my victory. I’d fill out their form, write the 300 word essay, and point them here. A little copy and paste for half a grand? Life is good.
But I never applied. I read the rules first.
- You must be atleast 18 and in good academic standing. Check.
- You must post atleast 3 times a week. Check.
- You must post atleast 3 pictures a week. No check, but no problem.
- You must reply to atleast 3 comments a week. Like I said, cakewalk.
But the next one put a slight drizzle on my victory parade.
- Throughout the semester, we will be providing you with a few small tasks (such as taking a picture in front of the Coliseum with your StudyAbroad.com T-shirt). You will be asked to complete them and share your adventure on the blog.
Now, I don’t mind being a human billboard. We all do it, willingly, and pay extra money for the privilege. I really couldn’t care if my t-shirt said Express or StudyAbroad.com.
The problem is the missions. Australia is not like Rome. You don’t hop on a bus to the ancient ruins. They’ll ask me to pose with Ayer’s Rock or the Sydney Opera House. Hopping on a bus to these tourist spots costs more than the money they give me.
But I could forgive these transgressions. Maybe it’s worth seeing Sydney or Uluru. What stopped me cold was the final stipulation.
- We definitely are not looking for inappropriate content (expletives, prejudices, chronic negativity, sexually explicit content, etc.)
Fuck those yeasty cunts. Without that, I wouldn’t even have a blog. Needlessly vulgur, consistently prurient, and gloriously cynical, that’s how I choose to live my life and write my blog. Censorship is not worth 500 dollars in blood money. Suck my dick.
Seemed like a cakewalk. Most people I know love this blog, so why wouldn’t the general public? My narcissism assured my victory. I’d fill out their form, write the 300 word essay, and point them here. A little copy and paste for half a grand? Life is good.
But I never applied. I read the rules first.
- You must be atleast 18 and in good academic standing. Check.
- You must post atleast 3 times a week. Check.
- You must post atleast 3 pictures a week. No check, but no problem.
- You must reply to atleast 3 comments a week. Like I said, cakewalk.
But the next one put a slight drizzle on my victory parade.
- Throughout the semester, we will be providing you with a few small tasks (such as taking a picture in front of the Coliseum with your StudyAbroad.com T-shirt). You will be asked to complete them and share your adventure on the blog.
Now, I don’t mind being a human billboard. We all do it, willingly, and pay extra money for the privilege. I really couldn’t care if my t-shirt said Express or StudyAbroad.com.
The problem is the missions. Australia is not like Rome. You don’t hop on a bus to the ancient ruins. They’ll ask me to pose with Ayer’s Rock or the Sydney Opera House. Hopping on a bus to these tourist spots costs more than the money they give me.
But I could forgive these transgressions. Maybe it’s worth seeing Sydney or Uluru. What stopped me cold was the final stipulation.
- We definitely are not looking for inappropriate content (expletives, prejudices, chronic negativity, sexually explicit content, etc.)
Fuck those yeasty cunts. Without that, I wouldn’t even have a blog. Needlessly vulgur, consistently prurient, and gloriously cynical, that’s how I choose to live my life and write my blog. Censorship is not worth 500 dollars in blood money. Suck my dick.
Abroad Abroad
I love theme parties. Sometimes they make me feel all warm and tingly inside, but that’s usually the rave and circuit themed. This time, it was an international theme. And, just this once, it was during the daytime.
Well actually, there’ve been a couple fun instances of daytime drinking, but that’s for later.
I’ve been anticipating the International House’s Soiree Party for a week. Set my clock for noon exactly. Plenty of time for a warm shower, a leisurely breakfast. In reality get out of bed at 1:50. This doesn’t shock anyone. Fuck the morning shower; it’s afternoon anyway. And fuck breakfast. Beer is high in calories.
I’m slightly lost. I can’t figure out just how to get to the party. But by chance, I happen to pass an older gentleman in a checkered kilt, clutching a bagpipe to his bosom. This is probably the right road.
The party is a sprawling maze of outdoor booths. Which wouldn’t be a problem, except for the fact that the winter sun is blazing my balls off. 80 plus and humid. SPF50 can’t save me now. They’ve really gone all-out in decorations: flags everywhere, confetti, balloons, and a giant cloth spiderweb draped between two buildings like that scene they cut from Spiderman post-9/11 like a bunch of PC pussies.
Entertainment too. On one stage, a woman with a silky smooth voice croons in an indecipherable language. Shitty j-pop blares from distant speakers. In the back, the cover band plays a low-quality cover of average British rock songs. Glorious cacophony.
I wander around, sampling my heritage. Polish sausage, Russian dumplings, an Israeli cheeseburger. Food is cheap, but beer is expensive as all hell. I make the mistake of wandering to my friend’s booth. Syrian Beef and Sri Lankan beer. 5 bucks a cup makes Union Jack’s look cheap, but I suppose UJ is only pretending to be British. And I suppose I didn’t have a choice about buying expensive beer at my friend’s booth.
I settled down to eat my Arabic meat and Sri Lankan beer next to a man playing a PVC didgeridoo. Surrealism is my favorite state of existence.
I know you’ve been wondering this the whole time, “What about the American booth?” I feared Budweiser, but was pleasantly surprised by Sam Adams and Moosehead from Canada. Seems they lumped them with the USA, proving my theory that Canada is actually the 53rd state.
Anyway, at 5 bucks a pop, there’s no way I’m getting sloshed this morning. Might as well take my leave. The party is also a bit of a disappointment. I wanted more of a real international feel.
As I walk towards the gate, I coincidentally run across the other Americans. Pleasantries, without real interpersonal communication. But as I start to walk down the street, I overhear my pretty female American cohorts being oogled and catcalled by the African guards on duty. Just for a fleeting moment, this party lived up to its promise.
Well actually, there’ve been a couple fun instances of daytime drinking, but that’s for later.
I’ve been anticipating the International House’s Soiree Party for a week. Set my clock for noon exactly. Plenty of time for a warm shower, a leisurely breakfast. In reality get out of bed at 1:50. This doesn’t shock anyone. Fuck the morning shower; it’s afternoon anyway. And fuck breakfast. Beer is high in calories.
I’m slightly lost. I can’t figure out just how to get to the party. But by chance, I happen to pass an older gentleman in a checkered kilt, clutching a bagpipe to his bosom. This is probably the right road.
The party is a sprawling maze of outdoor booths. Which wouldn’t be a problem, except for the fact that the winter sun is blazing my balls off. 80 plus and humid. SPF50 can’t save me now. They’ve really gone all-out in decorations: flags everywhere, confetti, balloons, and a giant cloth spiderweb draped between two buildings like that scene they cut from Spiderman post-9/11 like a bunch of PC pussies.
Entertainment too. On one stage, a woman with a silky smooth voice croons in an indecipherable language. Shitty j-pop blares from distant speakers. In the back, the cover band plays a low-quality cover of average British rock songs. Glorious cacophony.
I wander around, sampling my heritage. Polish sausage, Russian dumplings, an Israeli cheeseburger. Food is cheap, but beer is expensive as all hell. I make the mistake of wandering to my friend’s booth. Syrian Beef and Sri Lankan beer. 5 bucks a cup makes Union Jack’s look cheap, but I suppose UJ is only pretending to be British. And I suppose I didn’t have a choice about buying expensive beer at my friend’s booth.
I settled down to eat my Arabic meat and Sri Lankan beer next to a man playing a PVC didgeridoo. Surrealism is my favorite state of existence.
I know you’ve been wondering this the whole time, “What about the American booth?” I feared Budweiser, but was pleasantly surprised by Sam Adams and Moosehead from Canada. Seems they lumped them with the USA, proving my theory that Canada is actually the 53rd state.
Anyway, at 5 bucks a pop, there’s no way I’m getting sloshed this morning. Might as well take my leave. The party is also a bit of a disappointment. I wanted more of a real international feel.
As I walk towards the gate, I coincidentally run across the other Americans. Pleasantries, without real interpersonal communication. But as I start to walk down the street, I overhear my pretty female American cohorts being oogled and catcalled by the African guards on duty. Just for a fleeting moment, this party lived up to its promise.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Waking Up
Last week.
It’s already Monday, seeing as midnight is long behind us. Seeing as this is Australia, and I’m in a college, we’ve been drinking again. At The RE, unsurprisingly. But as I settle into bed at 5am, I know I’m not waking up. I set my clock for 7am, but my fate is sealed.
Miraculously, I get up in time for my noon class, at the expense of the first two lectures. These much needed extra hours do not prevent me from passing out in my one class, and walking home with criminological theories smudged on my face.
Tuesday. I’d like to believe I’ve learned from my mistakes. A reasonable bedtime, and classes that don’t start until 11. At 10am exactly, the alarm sounds. Somehow, I programmed it to a foreign language radio station, so a polite sounding women babbles at me in a possibly Asian language. Very melodic, but unacceptable at this hour.
I reach out, stretching as far as my considerably lengthy arms go, but only manage to flail at air. But I will not be dissuaded. I lunge the top half of my body out of bed and soar across the gap. My arm clings desperately to the table, while my feet dig in to the sheets for traction. My body makes a bridge over the turbulent dirty laundry below. With great effort in my half-asleep state, I slap the Snooze button, before doubling over my own body and resuming a curled fetal position under warm blankets. I can only dream about how proud that moment would make my yoga professor uncle.
But it was all in vain. Knowing myself, I set a second alarm on my computer. AC/DC breaks the still morning air. The strike came lightning fast: Covers peeled, feet hit the floor, two quick hops to the computer. Use the momentum from the last step to swing the arm, like a batter, and hit the space bar. Jump back into bed, conceal the body under warm blankets, and resume the curled fetal position.
The snooze cycle for both of these alarms are 6 minutes, and are staggered evenly between each other.
Dive for the alarm, dash to the computer. Every 3 minutes. Most people would be driven to insanity, or wakefulness, by this grueling cycle. I don’t need to tell you that I’m not most people. This waltz continues unchecked for almost an hour and a half, before I finally crawl out of bed. Lunch is the motivating factor, class is already over. I’m afraid this is less an isolated case and more the typical morning. My recurring nightmare.
Wednesday, I decide to give myself a fighting chance. Purposefully skip my first class, set the clock for 8. Chinese is replaced by German, and Bon Scott yields to a young Eric Clapton. And it almost worked. The mad dash went unabated for 45 minutes, and I gingerly got out of bed at 8:50. If I hurry, I can make my botany class. I’d only be a few minutes late.
Instead, I ate a leisurely breakfast, took a hot shower, listened to music in bed for an hour, and watched some old Doctor Who. If I’m going to have an ongoing feud with two alarm clocks for an hour every morning, I better damn well have a reason to get up. It’s sure as hell not class.
It’s already Monday, seeing as midnight is long behind us. Seeing as this is Australia, and I’m in a college, we’ve been drinking again. At The RE, unsurprisingly. But as I settle into bed at 5am, I know I’m not waking up. I set my clock for 7am, but my fate is sealed.
Miraculously, I get up in time for my noon class, at the expense of the first two lectures. These much needed extra hours do not prevent me from passing out in my one class, and walking home with criminological theories smudged on my face.
Tuesday. I’d like to believe I’ve learned from my mistakes. A reasonable bedtime, and classes that don’t start until 11. At 10am exactly, the alarm sounds. Somehow, I programmed it to a foreign language radio station, so a polite sounding women babbles at me in a possibly Asian language. Very melodic, but unacceptable at this hour.
I reach out, stretching as far as my considerably lengthy arms go, but only manage to flail at air. But I will not be dissuaded. I lunge the top half of my body out of bed and soar across the gap. My arm clings desperately to the table, while my feet dig in to the sheets for traction. My body makes a bridge over the turbulent dirty laundry below. With great effort in my half-asleep state, I slap the Snooze button, before doubling over my own body and resuming a curled fetal position under warm blankets. I can only dream about how proud that moment would make my yoga professor uncle.
But it was all in vain. Knowing myself, I set a second alarm on my computer. AC/DC breaks the still morning air. The strike came lightning fast: Covers peeled, feet hit the floor, two quick hops to the computer. Use the momentum from the last step to swing the arm, like a batter, and hit the space bar. Jump back into bed, conceal the body under warm blankets, and resume the curled fetal position.
The snooze cycle for both of these alarms are 6 minutes, and are staggered evenly between each other.
Dive for the alarm, dash to the computer. Every 3 minutes. Most people would be driven to insanity, or wakefulness, by this grueling cycle. I don’t need to tell you that I’m not most people. This waltz continues unchecked for almost an hour and a half, before I finally crawl out of bed. Lunch is the motivating factor, class is already over. I’m afraid this is less an isolated case and more the typical morning. My recurring nightmare.
Wednesday, I decide to give myself a fighting chance. Purposefully skip my first class, set the clock for 8. Chinese is replaced by German, and Bon Scott yields to a young Eric Clapton. And it almost worked. The mad dash went unabated for 45 minutes, and I gingerly got out of bed at 8:50. If I hurry, I can make my botany class. I’d only be a few minutes late.
Instead, I ate a leisurely breakfast, took a hot shower, listened to music in bed for an hour, and watched some old Doctor Who. If I’m going to have an ongoing feud with two alarm clocks for an hour every morning, I better damn well have a reason to get up. It’s sure as hell not class.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Aftermath (or pt 3, whatever)
I went to bed at 7am, and waited for the blood to return to my alcohol stream. But it didn’t last. Fucking kookaburras kept me up until 8, and a text message woke me up at 1pm. It was him. A nice gesture I suppose, asking me if I slept well, and telling me he had a nice night. I suppose it was to be expected. One could almost call it sweet.
The next morning, I was awakened by my phone ringing. It was him. But since I’m a lazy callous bastard, I just silenced it and went back to bed. Bad mistake. It was followed by two more, and a whiny sounding voicemail. And a text message asking me to meet him at lunch tomorrow. Now I had a problem.
See, I’m a chronically nice guy. I almost got pulled into a gang fight trying to help a bloodied boy. When I discovered I was actually the first boy he kissed, I decided the right thing to do was to be a gentleman about it, and give him a nice night. It was sweet how into me he seemed, and maybe it was the booze talking, but I almost developed a little affection for him.
This evaporated with sobriety, and the realization that chivalry earns stalkers. Something needed to be done.
I turned to the one man who would know exactly what to do: My brother. Perhaps a perfect gentleman now, but he had his sowing of the wild oats. This situation must’ve happened to him before.
I presented him with four options:
1) Ignore and hope it all blows over.
2) Cut my loses. Tell him it’s a one-time thing to never be repeated.
3) Actually try dating the little croissant, and see what comes of it.
4) Manipulate him into a casual fuckbuddy-type “relationship”
Clearly, 1 is just wishful thinking. And I don’t know if I have the heart, or skills to pull off 4. So, I ask him 2 or 3. Wise beyond his years, my brother says the worst thing I can do is date the boy out of pity. If I don’t have the stomach for 4, then I should say “That was fun, better luck in the future.”
My phone is silent in class. I miss another call and voicemail. Decisive action needs to be taken. Tomorrow, I’ll ask him what he expects out of me, what I can provide, and give him the fair and honest choice.
So I go and meet him at lunch. He’s with some guys I’ve met before, including others from the club. While its true I was drinking heavily the night before, and only got 2 hours of sleep, I feigned a tired hangover to avoid potential greeting intimacy. It’s a self-protection instinct, but I already know I’m on the wrong path.
At first I try to stick to my plan. I ask him what he thought about Friday, and what he expects to come of it. The shy and sheepish ass shrugs and smiles meekly, but says nothing. I’m pretty sure I can interpret that smile as “Bend me over and make me your bitch.” Or is my foul nature just coming out?
Instead, I basically ignore him, and make small talk with his friends. But I don’t neglect to occasionally look back and smirk seductively, or casually brush up against him in suggestive manner. Then I tell him to stop calling so damn much. Essentially, I’m giving mixed messages, and I’m doing it on purpose. I want him to be even more turned on by me, while putting on an asshole façade. One could say this is generosity. One could say I’m showing him what he can expect so he can make an informed choice. But I know that’s bullshit.
So yeah, I was knowingly and willingly being a manipulative bastard and going for the fuckbuddy option. There was a sudden transition along the way, and I can’t pinpoint where, but I’ve got from being a naïve experience-seeker raging over the trashy user types, to being exactly what I hated.
Luckily for everyone involved, my stint as the next Brian Kinney was mercifully short-lived.
We hooked up a second time. Went a little further. He loved every second of it. I just found myself checking my watch every few minutes. A matter of going through the motions, detached. Getting off, but not enjoying it.
Maybe I’m just not the fuckbuddy type. My mom thinks I’m actually an extremely open-minded hetero with a low sex drive. My friends think I’m looking for my own White Knight. But in reality, I just can’t let myself go. I can’t separate mind from body and live in the moment. I can’t get over myself.
That’s a problem I have to deal with on my own terms. I can’t use this innocent boy as my testing toy, and there’s no point hooking up just for the sake of adding another notch to the bedpost (not to mention I don’t want to get fined for desecrating this rented room) if I’m not enjoying myself.
I’ll figure out what I need eventually, but I won’t drag someone down with me. Manipulative bastard is way too 90’s.
The next morning, I was awakened by my phone ringing. It was him. But since I’m a lazy callous bastard, I just silenced it and went back to bed. Bad mistake. It was followed by two more, and a whiny sounding voicemail. And a text message asking me to meet him at lunch tomorrow. Now I had a problem.
See, I’m a chronically nice guy. I almost got pulled into a gang fight trying to help a bloodied boy. When I discovered I was actually the first boy he kissed, I decided the right thing to do was to be a gentleman about it, and give him a nice night. It was sweet how into me he seemed, and maybe it was the booze talking, but I almost developed a little affection for him.
This evaporated with sobriety, and the realization that chivalry earns stalkers. Something needed to be done.
I turned to the one man who would know exactly what to do: My brother. Perhaps a perfect gentleman now, but he had his sowing of the wild oats. This situation must’ve happened to him before.
I presented him with four options:
1) Ignore and hope it all blows over.
2) Cut my loses. Tell him it’s a one-time thing to never be repeated.
3) Actually try dating the little croissant, and see what comes of it.
4) Manipulate him into a casual fuckbuddy-type “relationship”
Clearly, 1 is just wishful thinking. And I don’t know if I have the heart, or skills to pull off 4. So, I ask him 2 or 3. Wise beyond his years, my brother says the worst thing I can do is date the boy out of pity. If I don’t have the stomach for 4, then I should say “That was fun, better luck in the future.”
My phone is silent in class. I miss another call and voicemail. Decisive action needs to be taken. Tomorrow, I’ll ask him what he expects out of me, what I can provide, and give him the fair and honest choice.
So I go and meet him at lunch. He’s with some guys I’ve met before, including others from the club. While its true I was drinking heavily the night before, and only got 2 hours of sleep, I feigned a tired hangover to avoid potential greeting intimacy. It’s a self-protection instinct, but I already know I’m on the wrong path.
At first I try to stick to my plan. I ask him what he thought about Friday, and what he expects to come of it. The shy and sheepish ass shrugs and smiles meekly, but says nothing. I’m pretty sure I can interpret that smile as “Bend me over and make me your bitch.” Or is my foul nature just coming out?
Instead, I basically ignore him, and make small talk with his friends. But I don’t neglect to occasionally look back and smirk seductively, or casually brush up against him in suggestive manner. Then I tell him to stop calling so damn much. Essentially, I’m giving mixed messages, and I’m doing it on purpose. I want him to be even more turned on by me, while putting on an asshole façade. One could say this is generosity. One could say I’m showing him what he can expect so he can make an informed choice. But I know that’s bullshit.
So yeah, I was knowingly and willingly being a manipulative bastard and going for the fuckbuddy option. There was a sudden transition along the way, and I can’t pinpoint where, but I’ve got from being a naïve experience-seeker raging over the trashy user types, to being exactly what I hated.
Luckily for everyone involved, my stint as the next Brian Kinney was mercifully short-lived.
We hooked up a second time. Went a little further. He loved every second of it. I just found myself checking my watch every few minutes. A matter of going through the motions, detached. Getting off, but not enjoying it.
Maybe I’m just not the fuckbuddy type. My mom thinks I’m actually an extremely open-minded hetero with a low sex drive. My friends think I’m looking for my own White Knight. But in reality, I just can’t let myself go. I can’t separate mind from body and live in the moment. I can’t get over myself.
That’s a problem I have to deal with on my own terms. I can’t use this innocent boy as my testing toy, and there’s no point hooking up just for the sake of adding another notch to the bedpost (not to mention I don’t want to get fined for desecrating this rented room) if I’m not enjoying myself.
I’ll figure out what I need eventually, but I won’t drag someone down with me. Manipulative bastard is way too 90’s.
Friday, August 10, 2007
Dance to The Beat (pt 2)
The whole Mystery Tongue thing has happened before. In fact, it has occurred a few times this year, and each time, I wonder how it can happen without my realizing. How do I consistently return to conscious thought with someone’s tongue in my mouth?
He’s sloppy and inexperienced, but enthusiastic, so I go along with it. I want to stop soon enough, but I have reason to believe he’s new at this. Call me a nice guy, but I don’t want to make the boy feel cheap or used. I’d rather it feel good and special. So I persist.
Eventually, alcohol interfering with time perception, I break it off, and decide to look for my original friend. We find him playing a bizarro-world version of pool with a pack of bull dykes. He’s getting his ass kicked. French boy is all over me, and he appears to have gotten pretty attached pretty fast. I fear the clingy types, they me nervous. Luckily, a strange boy I’d never met or even seen before walks right up to me and gropes me for a good 30 seconds before walking off, never saying a word. Did my non-reluctance send a message? When he goes for a piss, I ask our friendly neighborhood bulldyke for advice. She tells me to tell it to him like it is.
Instead, we return to The Wickham, and promptly lose the guy who invited me. For a short while, it’s just me and The French. The floor is far more crowded this time, but its all older bear-types, and they’re starting to disrobe. By luck, we come across a pair of guys we’d talked to on the way in. They tell me Amsterdam has decided to ban pot smoking, and we get into a heated debate in which we all actually agree. I believe that requires alcohol, which I bum plenty of for free. The French is basically left out of the conversation as I try and see if I can get pot, pills, or sex from these guys. Instead, I get a phone number and the hint of potential in the future.
Back to The Beat. I look up, and The Village People are playing on a TV screen. This is too obvious, so I move on. I get more to drink, and bum more freebies, and my total gets pretty high. Allow me to explain:
I started pregaming on 2 beers. Then had what I believe 3 vodka bitters, but it could’ve been 4. Then a vodka and red bull at Wickham. 2 more vodka bitters at The Beat. Back at Wickham, I poached the latter half of someone's Smirnoff Black, then got one of my own. Then another beer. Then poached the second half of someone's vodka and red bull. And back at The Beat again, the latter half of someone else's beer. And the latter half of yet another Smirnoff Black. I'm enjoying the free booze.
Anyway, I challenge The French to a contest. Who can dance with the most strangers. Again, I’m hoping this sends a clear message. I take an early lead, but he accuses me of cheating when I dance with a bisexual girl. She takes it upon herself to teach me to dance. It never works.
I rediscover our original friend breakdancing on the floor with his shirt off. Whatever.
Somehow our contest has ended, and we’re dancing together again. Somehow we’re making out again. Somehow, I like it. I suppose I’m enjoying that he’s so into me, but it could just be the excessive drinking this evening. The kiss goes on, and becomes pretty sensual. Kinda sexy to an outside observer. He seems to be copying my lead, trying to learn from me, but considering the vast majority of my hookups have been drunken, sloppy, and unexpected, I can’t imagine I’m a great tutor. But he’s learning. As the kiss continues, it actually becomes downright romantic.
We exit the dance floor, and make out near the bar for what’s gotta be like half an hour. Persistent boy has won me over. But as the clock approaches 5am, I decide its time for Cinderella to go home. He wants to continue, move forwards, but I stop him. If I’m right about him, he’s pretty innocent. If I were in his shoes, I’d rather take it nice and slow. It’s my good deed of the week.
Take the bus home, we go our separate ways. Despite being on public transportation, I sneak in a goodnight kiss before his stop. As I walk home from mine with a case of self-imposed blue balls, I laugh a little. I intended to go to The Beat to meet new people, and I end up with the one I knew already. But I have to wonder if anything can come of this. We don’t seem to have much in common, besides raging hormones. Hell, I have trouble even understanding what he says most of the time. But maybe I should try. Perhaps take a chance, or put in some effort. I might be pleasantly surprised.
He’s sloppy and inexperienced, but enthusiastic, so I go along with it. I want to stop soon enough, but I have reason to believe he’s new at this. Call me a nice guy, but I don’t want to make the boy feel cheap or used. I’d rather it feel good and special. So I persist.
Eventually, alcohol interfering with time perception, I break it off, and decide to look for my original friend. We find him playing a bizarro-world version of pool with a pack of bull dykes. He’s getting his ass kicked. French boy is all over me, and he appears to have gotten pretty attached pretty fast. I fear the clingy types, they me nervous. Luckily, a strange boy I’d never met or even seen before walks right up to me and gropes me for a good 30 seconds before walking off, never saying a word. Did my non-reluctance send a message? When he goes for a piss, I ask our friendly neighborhood bulldyke for advice. She tells me to tell it to him like it is.
Instead, we return to The Wickham, and promptly lose the guy who invited me. For a short while, it’s just me and The French. The floor is far more crowded this time, but its all older bear-types, and they’re starting to disrobe. By luck, we come across a pair of guys we’d talked to on the way in. They tell me Amsterdam has decided to ban pot smoking, and we get into a heated debate in which we all actually agree. I believe that requires alcohol, which I bum plenty of for free. The French is basically left out of the conversation as I try and see if I can get pot, pills, or sex from these guys. Instead, I get a phone number and the hint of potential in the future.
Back to The Beat. I look up, and The Village People are playing on a TV screen. This is too obvious, so I move on. I get more to drink, and bum more freebies, and my total gets pretty high. Allow me to explain:
I started pregaming on 2 beers. Then had what I believe 3 vodka bitters, but it could’ve been 4. Then a vodka and red bull at Wickham. 2 more vodka bitters at The Beat. Back at Wickham, I poached the latter half of someone's Smirnoff Black, then got one of my own. Then another beer. Then poached the second half of someone's vodka and red bull. And back at The Beat again, the latter half of someone else's beer. And the latter half of yet another Smirnoff Black. I'm enjoying the free booze.
Anyway, I challenge The French to a contest. Who can dance with the most strangers. Again, I’m hoping this sends a clear message. I take an early lead, but he accuses me of cheating when I dance with a bisexual girl. She takes it upon herself to teach me to dance. It never works.
I rediscover our original friend breakdancing on the floor with his shirt off. Whatever.
Somehow our contest has ended, and we’re dancing together again. Somehow we’re making out again. Somehow, I like it. I suppose I’m enjoying that he’s so into me, but it could just be the excessive drinking this evening. The kiss goes on, and becomes pretty sensual. Kinda sexy to an outside observer. He seems to be copying my lead, trying to learn from me, but considering the vast majority of my hookups have been drunken, sloppy, and unexpected, I can’t imagine I’m a great tutor. But he’s learning. As the kiss continues, it actually becomes downright romantic.
We exit the dance floor, and make out near the bar for what’s gotta be like half an hour. Persistent boy has won me over. But as the clock approaches 5am, I decide its time for Cinderella to go home. He wants to continue, move forwards, but I stop him. If I’m right about him, he’s pretty innocent. If I were in his shoes, I’d rather take it nice and slow. It’s my good deed of the week.
Take the bus home, we go our separate ways. Despite being on public transportation, I sneak in a goodnight kiss before his stop. As I walk home from mine with a case of self-imposed blue balls, I laugh a little. I intended to go to The Beat to meet new people, and I end up with the one I knew already. But I have to wonder if anything can come of this. We don’t seem to have much in common, besides raging hormones. Hell, I have trouble even understanding what he says most of the time. But maybe I should try. Perhaps take a chance, or put in some effort. I might be pleasantly surprised.
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