Make that Forty upright this instant. Heath would want you to share it with friends.

I was heartened over the long weekend to learn that my slackness over the last several weeks has caused a several people a small amount of disappointment. For the record, this blogger has been somewhat pre-occupied by festivities and the endless search for employment that does not does not facilitate insomnia/lazy sweat.

As Sam De Brito would say: boys need good role models. Ahh, the less-fair sex, where to begin et. al.

Below is a story that I was going to read ALOUD at an evening based around "erotic fan-fiction." Unfortunately it was not deemed erotic enough. The first part of the story was similar (identical) to a piece I wrote towards the end of last year, so I did not include it. I am sorry about this. The second part is completely different (and fairly raw).

---

This starter sentence proved later to be a little bit too perfect. He didn’t want to hear me talk about his music – even he was bored of that. The conversation flowed easily from growing up in the Hills to why people in bands from Sydney don’t tend to support a football club. Interesting, but overall I felt like I was indulging Tim more than I would have liked – he hadn’t even asked me a question yet.

By the second time I had followed Tim to the toilet for a bump of his terrible cocaine, my shyness had well and truly left me. I was ready to become a partner in this conversation.

My opportunity soon arose when our conversation naturally veered towards Russel Crowe’s body of work. Desperate by this stage to open up, I waited for Tim to draw breath and light another cigarette.
“When I was about ten, I watched the Sum Of Us with him and Jack Thompson. You remember it? Russ plays a gay bloke.”
“Yeah, I saw it”
“Yeah, yeah. Well, I was a bit young to understand, ‘cos you know, Russ’ character plays footy and stuff, he seemed ‘normal’. I was convinced I was gay for weeks after.”
“Are you gay?” he asked, appearing reasonably bored with my anecdote.
“Nah, not at all. I just figured that if he had turned out gay, there was a chance I would too.”
“I have a theory about gay gents,” he said leaning back in his chair and sticking a Lucky Strike behind his ear in a text-book display of only half-warranted arrogance.
“What’s that?” I asked, sensing that his intense eyes probably meant he thought about this a lot.
“Gay men are simply the men who love sex the most.”
“Yeah, I’m not really following.”
“Anal sex is the most aggressive and stimulating of the entire repartee. Why would a chap like me bother with women anymore? I’m not marrying another Spanish bitch, I’m too old for Annandale sluts and Adalita isn’t interested.”
“What, so you bend Davey over his amp after rehearsal?” I half joked.

Apparently he did, or had anyway. Too scattered to act shocked, I sat there half tuned-out to a description of Rogers and one of the members of Dallas Crane in a hotel room above a dimly-lit Adelaide pub.

“Yeah, Uncle Timmy has done a bit in his time,” he chuckled, leaning slightly forward on his chair. “What do you reckon?”
“Um, were Dallas Crane supporting you, or was it the other way round?” I asked. No metaphor intended, it was just becoming slightly hard to make small talk when a weathered man in Blundstones was reaching his hand under the table in the direction of your crotch.
“Right!” He jumped up. “I’m off to the toilet if you care to join,” tapping his nose and winking suggestively.
The decision I made came remarkably easy in the end. It was not that I was desperate to milk Tim Rogers’ prostate in a public bar toilet, it was that I could not be sure that it was a bad idea. So I followed him.

My only lucid thought whilst the “last gunslinger in town” treated me like a lead guitarist was a joke I’d read earlier that day. It was about a cartoon bear that highly regarded his mouth’s reputation for the “staunch avoidance of perinea.” I could no longer relate.

The Drones.

Last weekend I attended the Annandale Hotel to see The Drones. It was brilliant (this is a review). My highlights included seeing not only Tim Freedman, but also Phil Jamieson enjoying the show. Freedman is either the world/Newtown's youngest looking 60 year old or the oldest looking 26 year old - it's hard to tell. I estimate that he is closer to 60 than 26, as he apparently used to date the mother of a kid in the year below me at school. Whatever the case, Freedman spent the early part of 2004 recalibrating in New York. Phil Jamieson is a shorter man than I had previously imagined. Resplendant in a navy blue business shirt and a smug look, his head to toe profile read like a speech bubble: "I am the lead singer in a very good band. I know you are all aware of my personal issues as you saw me talking to Andrew Denton on television. Ah, talent and the problems it brings: Cobain, Whiteley, Doherty, Cave, Jamieson."

Phil Jamieson's speech-bubble projecting aura is very similar to one of my former high school PE teachers, Mr X. This particular teacher had never been interviewed on Enough Rope, but made up for it by being allowed to wear tracksuit pants to work every day. There is not many men in a hundred, or even a thousand that can boast that.

Several years after high school finished I ran into Mr Q., an old maths teacher whilst drinking at a pub. Mr Q. was always considered a pretty cool guy, as he smoked across the road during lunch and swore on occasion. During the course of our chat I worked up to asking him what Mr X. was like to work with. My old maths teacher paused for a second to think and adjust the cuff of his short-sleeved shirt: "Without using the word 'fuckwit' or 'idiot', the best way to describe X. would be anecdotal. I'm not going to use any specific examples, though. A specific example will just give you a story to repeat, and you asked for a brief summation of his character."
He paused and stared over my left shoulder momentarily. I didn't bother turning around myself, I had an inkling that he was deep in thought rather than staring at a pie-warmer.
"Mr X. is the kind of bloke who... The type that would... I don't know, he's just a cunt. He'd take your last cigarette, rip it up and say 'one less nail in your coffin, mate. No worries, don't thank me.'"
"Did he actually do that?" I asked.
"No, he didn't."
---
Strontium-90
Removed from milk
As curious an entity
As bullshit writ on silk
- The Drones.