Yoko Presley and ‘Kav’ in the Let It Be Beatles green room, shortly after she was presented with a disc of her long lost demo ‘Don’t worry Sherbie, Yoko’s going to air dry the axminster’, it’s hoped the members of ‘Hush’ will reform with Yoko to overdub, and complete the song.
Being a card carrying Coulrophobic (Fear of clowns) i was recently sent into a twister of Flying High proportions. I know i shouldn’t post these photo’s, clowns are yucky, like .. ass mites* yucky, however, recently driving back from Sydney, i noticed the circus is in the park near Wolli creek, i had to drive using my knee because my hands were flapping in fear. Dirty weird clown bastards, i didn’t drive to Sydney for 6 weeks when the Moscow circus was in town, they had inflatable clowns everywhere advertising it.
Whilst in Melbourne recently, the boy’s and i stumbled into an Op Shop in St Kilda. I don’t know what came over me, weather it was the minx like forces of the Bel Ami-esque twink behind the counter showing off his bare chest and hypnotising three chest hairs, the exhaust fumes that had been feeding into the car via the opened sun roof, or maybe the preservatives i injested from the meal i gobbled in the Ikea food court, but laying on a chair in the Op Shop was an old plastic clown mask, before you could say ‘Pluck those hairs, put them in a vial and i’ll pay you handsomely’ i picked up said mask, and put it on!. Weirdly i felt anything but scared, just the opposite!, i felt emboldened, naughty, powerful, frisky and just a little bad, but bad in a good bad way. Strangely once i took it off, it all fell away. I can only assume i was in a euphemistic state of mind, and that i realised ‘One should not judge a clown until you’ve walked a mile behind his mask made of poisonous, petrochemical byproducts’, that .. or i realised i could get away with some really obtuse stuff with my face disguised.
* I have no personal experience with, nor do i even know if such things as ‘Ass mites’ even exist, i merely mention them, because on a ‘Yucky Scale’ i would assume they’d rank pretty highly.
If i close my eyes and drift off, i can still smell the heady aroma of a jar of Perkins Paste, a staple of every school kid of the seventies zip up pencil case. Oh what roads did those pre pubecent sly sniffter moments send me down in latter years.
So recently I’ve become an iPhone whore, after the initial excitement of sliding my fingers over the screen had waned, the next thing to sus out were ‘App’s’. After being responsible, and downloading the travel planner application, I of course searched out all the gay ones.
Perhaps it say’s more about me, and my marketability, but I’ve found these to be about as useful as the proverbial tits on a bull (not passing judgment on the handful of male bovines, who I’m sure would enjoy having tits), apart from skeezing around, and seeing who else in town has decided to take a shot at everlasting happiness, or a quick hand job and date finger while the better half is at ‘Thai-rific’ picking up the take away, it’s only real use seems to be how to accurately measure the lengths, and depths, of rudeness, arrogance, stupidity, and vulgarity in the digital world of App driven lust and love. All these things have there place, however it’s fantastic to have one application that enables you to collect all these things together, for statistical analysis.
I’ve learnt that Grindr is no place for basic manners, that ‘Catch up for coffee’ really means, “I want to come to your place with unmanicured toenails, and have you ravage me in five minutes”, that answering ‘How old are you?’ means you never hear from that person again, even if you’ve just been chatting as friends, that to ask for a photo from someone with a faceless profile, usually results in a pic of a badly lit penis being forwarded to you, I dunno, call me old fashioned, I enjoy seeing a persons smile before a smegmatic wang.
I’ve noticed a trend, that after nothing more than ‘Hello’, the next question is quite often ‘Do you have a dick pic?’, again, call me an alarmist, but I would probably be erring on the next question being along the lines of ‘Are you a serial killer?’, ‘Do you steal under garments from clothes lines of the poor?’, ‘Have you a penchant for defecating in the cistern of peoples homes you visit?’, you know, the important questions.
And now returning to the topic of ‘The dick pic’, you know, if you’re going to digitally display your tossel, and use it as a calling card, or as an artistic display in which to lure guys into your lustful peeny spiders web, how about exercising a little artistic quality control?, a wang is usually a difficult thing to make look attractive at the best of times, laying back, squinting an eye, holding up your iPhone on a wonky angle, and photographing said member from upside down, very rarely produces the most flattering of results*, it either captures your Smurf collection, lined up on the chest of drawers at the end of your bed, a sickeningly coloured, or discoloured bedspread, a flash of wallpaper hung in 1978, or in one photo sent to me in a futile attempt to win my heart, it strangely looked as if the person had only one nut, now I’m not a ‘Nuttist’, but if you have a full set, then don’t do yourself a disservice get your swingers well lit and positioned, unless you’re angling for a niche market. Sometimes a smear of vaseline would be better placed on the lens, than on your member.
I dunno, these fangled things, i know what the parameters of Grindr are, but I still like romance, the art of conversation, the mystery, the allure. Any willing, and capable applicants, please mail me, I promise I won’t block you.
*No such photo’s of me, can, or will, ever appear on the net, to the great relief of many I’m sure.
A true disciple knows another’s woes as his own. He bows to all and despises none.
“As long as you can find a moment of joy in even your worst behavior, it’s something to be thankful for”. John Waters 2011.
Thinking of all the people like my dad, who made it possible for us to take so much for granted, who wrestled the world back from insanity, to the point where we now extend the hand of friendship to nations like Japan, in the bigger picture that’s a beautiful and amazing thing they enabled, and i guess shows that they believed a forgiving humanity was worth fighting for.
I wish i could call this baby mine, but i can’t. Visiting a friend in Melbourne was made all the more special by my allocated play time with the above pictured Rickenbacker 12 string, it was amazing to hold, it felt so comfortable and within seconds of holding it, riffs fell off my fingers effortlessly, one day a Ricky and Vox AC40 will be mine .. i just need a sugar daddy to bridge that gap.
I think i have the German pressing of this, must get it on the Krysler three in one soon.
Found this at a record fair recently, i don’t mind saying, i wept a little tear of joy when i locked eyes on this piece of gold.
“What are you doing tonight?, Mardi Gras of course!, Pfffft, Mardi Gras”
This was the exchange i had with a friend the afternoon of Mardi Gras, i flinched when i first read the comment, by the next morning i was quite angry about it. As per usual there was the last minute flurry of who was going, who wasn’t, and of course the friends who say they aren’t going who always end up with a smear of lippy, and a tail of tinsel hanging out of there ass, with ticket clutched in hand.
Maybe i fail my basic ‘Gay ABC’s’ because i never stress who is playing at the party, where, when and what DJ is playing, and most distressingly what I’m wearing, my main concern is, ‘How many friends are going?, hope to catch up with some old ones, and maybe make some new ones’ and that’s really it.
I can’t go to these parties and just switch off, in fact i can’t do anything switched off, I’m always observing, always contemplative, I’ve been thinking about this recently, and weather or not this is a good or bad thing, I’m going to run with good, i seem to be able to do this internally, while the outside facade has a great time partying.
I had to travel in by train, talk about a melting pot of loon’s, Queens, moperer’s, hard core Dykes, bewildered straits, drunk supportive strait guys and girls, drunk homophobic assholes (they know they want it) but a melting pot none the less, and that’s a great thing. I stared out the train window, and watched the people squish into the cramped carriage.
I had a big smile on my face, because all these people were getting on at suburban train stations, and many of them were dressed up, and also dressed down (in the best possible way), I realized ‘This is a chance for people who normally wouldn’t have a chance, to get in touch with there inner filth’, it’s a night where you have an excuse to dress up as Snow White, or as a tart with a heart, to stretch the norm, and to feel that it’s okay to step outside the box, even if it is for one night, it’s a taste of freedom, and hopefully a taste of ‘Fuck you!’.
This is what i hope is felt by the strait community who come to party, or to show support, they’re the ones who need to spread the word that’s it’s okay to be ‘different’, we feel it, they need to understand it.
For all the problems Mardi Gras has with some anti social behavior, I’m certain the good that is done by smooshing all these people together, far outweighs a public pissing incident in Taylor Square, or an inappropriate fondling of a police horse, you see, it’s all about visibility, and normalization.
I know normalization is an odd word to use in relation to Mardi Gras, by that i mean, people seeing that no matter how dressed up, how outlandish the behavior, how confrontational, it really all comes down to people wanting to be treated equally, that not everyone has to conform, and most importantly that no matter how far the boundaries are pushed, the sky hasn’t, and won’t fall. Someone way smarter than i once said ‘Change comes slowly’, maybe that should be ‘real change’, because tho on the surface things may look okay, even great in some instances, the truth is there is a lot more work to be done, before even the deepest and most hidden seams of homophobia are exposed and defused.
Mardi Gras (no matter the politics of the organization) plays a huge roll in this process, it’s a reminder to people, like ‘Pffft, Mardi Gras’ friend, that there is still work to be done, we still have a lot of yelling to do, petitions to sign, hearts to reset, minds to reprogram, or hopefully gently massage towards the direction of equality, and addressing what is essentially a disparity in our human rights.
I don’t care if the floats are shit, i don’t care if some of it has been seen before, i don’t even care if NAIR hair removal cream paid top coin for a float, to subliminally entice all those unmanscaped, glorious, strait guys to get a smear of pink cream on there ball bag, to smooth out a wooly nut (actually, i do care about that .. a lot, and for all the wrong reasons).
At work the following Monday I overheard a class of fifteen 18-23 year old trade students all talking about Mardi Gras, some grizzled that there girlfriends dragged them along, some recounted the fun they had, some recoiled as they relived the memory of seeing their first Leather Daddy, and a few protested a little too much (Shhh, I won’t tell) but they were talking, it was stilted sometimes, and a few you could hear the hesitancy in there voices, as they tried not to let on how much fun they really had, but these guys were ‘talking’ and they are ‘exactly’ why we need less ‘Pffft’ and more visibility, because it’s people like these guys who need to be comfortable in and around the GLBTI community, and a big party, with tinsel, and glitter, and flashing lights is just the way to slowly show them that ‘It’s okay’, it’s like the old psychological trick of exposure therapy for those with phobia’s, if you’re exposed to something long enough, it simply becomes mundane, ordinary and accepted.
We have to be seen, we have to keep moving forward, that’s what i picture as the parade lurches, farts and backfires up the street, i see people moving forward, P-FLAG mum’s dad’s, nana’s, grand dad’s, same sex couples with kids, young GLBTI kid’s marching for the first time, the aged in the community, the Bears, the twinks, the Dykes on bikes, all moving together.
Until myself, And family, and friends in the GLBTI community can move as freely as our strait brothers and sisters can ‘anywhere’ we wish, until I, and those who share a differing sexual attraction, or are gender diverse, are ‘completely’ comfortable, safe, and at ease with displays of loving affection, then we still have work to do, ‘Well enough’ is not ‘Good enough’, not in homophobia, not in sexism, not in racism (insert your own ‘Ism’ here) even ‘Pffft-ism’.
Later at the party I was very aware of a brotherhood and sisterhood, an energy. I was greeted at the gate by an ‘Emotional baggage handler’, where I was asked to check in any woes or emotional baggage I may be bring, no matter if it was Louis Vuitton, the baggage was to stay at the door, and before me lay our special little land, a little corner of the universe in Moore Park, where all the things I mention above are real (well, sort of, at least you get a glimpse of the promise of it), it’s a little pocket of what (with a little tweaking) things could, and should one day be (more) like.
It was so empowering, and so joyous, to see the shy, the outrageous, the happy, the sad, the gay, the strait, the Bi, the intersex, the transgender, the ‘whatever’ all moving and flowing with each other, no looks down noses, no looking over shoulders to see who might be following you for holding hands.
I gasped and glowed, as I watched just your average guys and girls walking around comfortably, and proudly, holding hands, looking like anyone on the street, that’s what myself and others fought for, and worked for all those years ago, that’s ‘all’ I really wanted, nothing more, nothing less, than anyone else on the street, all I wished and worked towards was a time when your average guys could be seen walking along proudly, lovingly, and adoringly holding hands, for the life of me I cant see why people would fight against that, or be afraid of it.
What i saw as i danced, were others all dancing in time to the same music, i looked at these guys holding hands, some from ethnic backgrounds which i could only imagine how tough it may have been, or could be, to be out and safe. I saw older guys who had obviously seen first hand the horrors of HIV, i saw young girls wearing t shirts saying ‘I haven’t told my boyfriend yet’, i saw happily married, strait couples dancing with us to show love and support, and i saw people who perhaps this was the only time, and space they could feel this freedom.
I knew when we left this space that we’d be leaving a little more empowered, a little more aware, and maybe, hopefully able to take this awareness into the outside world, and slowly, but surely show the world that ‘It’s okay, it’s going to be alright, you have nothing to fear, but so much to gain’
So, here’s raising a glass to the world’s biggest exposure therapy party, long may you run.
Ps/ yes that was me at 2.00am standing in front of the Gozleme stall, staring for half an hour, waiting for a show to begin, it’s Mardi Gras, you get that.
My little nephew Kylan (AKA ‘Wilbur’) has his great grandmother wrapped around his little finger, when he visit’s ‘Nana Spud’ he know’s exactly where the biscuits are, he also knows to lead Nana away from the povo ones on the bench, and to get her to open the fridge where the chocolate ones are kept iced .. smart kid.
Wouldn’t you just love to get your moosh into Betty’s bowl after she’s whipped up the filling for these airy wonders?, yum!!. Any chance i get i still try to get my tongue around a dripping beater, after an OH&S approved detachement from the whirring Sunbeam multispeed mixer of course.
Everything has to be handed to us on a platter these days, when i was little i had to cross dress my own Ken doll, and in fact as i look across the room to my toy display cabinet, i notice the Six Million Dollar Man is dressed quite fetchingly in my ‘The Nanny’ doll’s clothes, who knew a leopard print jacket could look so fetching on an eight inch plastic Steve Austin.
A family dinner with various nieces and nephew at Amigo’s, i care not one whit the propensity for bitch tit enhancement by eating the food here, don’t fuck me around, just get me more avacodo and sour cream, and i’ll even run my tongue around the lip of a Margarita. For some reason it was decided that we would strike the traditional Japanese peace sign pose for this family portrait, perhaps Margarita driven, perhaps not.
I love how they rate the spice of the chilli, despite an onslaught of Americanisiation on and in every facet of our lives, i’m still old enough, and Ostrayan enough to stiffle a titter when i read ‘Ass Reaper’, ‘Baboon ass gone wild’ and my all time favorite, the uber Ostrayan ‘Aussie Ringstinger’. Konichiwa!!
In a fashion spread that is so common place these days, but not so much in Marta’s time, she took the opportunity to be dressed and stylised as some of her favorite icons. As is now expected of Marta, it was more ‘Razors’ than ‘Cutting’ edge. Pain, self mutilation and careless regard for society’s mores is all de rigour when Marta steps before the camera, so moisten a finger, and prepare to flip through the pages of Marta’s latest documented fashion gift to us ..
ABOVE PIC: Marta tips the hat, and quite possibley the scales, in this tribute to Courtney Love, Marta spared no comfort zone in her dedication to nailing her inspirations, right down to infusing her Courtney-esque wig with head lice, and hacking out a piece of her septum.
ABOVE PIC: Esther Williams never needed goggles, but that isn’t going to stop Marta interpreting what she believes Esther should have been decked out in. In true Marta fashion she insisted that her goggles carry her prescription, so in a fashionabley aqueous act she could wear these goggles with evening wear, and to the theatre.
ABOVE THREE PICS: Annette Funicello come on down!, it’s ‘Beach blanket bingo’ with Marta as she takes to the waves, and risks getting sand in her crack, and a pelt matted by the drying effects of salt water, all in the name of fashion. Speaking of, Marta can’t help herself, she has to fuck with our minds. In the first of the above three photo’s, you can see in tribute to the material girl Madge, Marta got a pair of pliars, and snapped off one of her top mollars, unlike Madge, who merely used black gum make up, Marta self medicated, and snapped the fucker off in front of the bathroom mirror, why? .. for Fah-Fah-Fashion.
ABOVE PIC: Cool as ice, or warm as an ice pipe?, Catherine Deneuve gets the nod here, the all too obvious beret, the beige Jackie O mid seventies jacket, and Marta’s own diamond earings cut from the nastiest mountain in South Africa. What can i say, cool, icey, aloof, chilly .. textbook French.
ABOVE PIC: The first of two biker girl tributes by Marta, and it’s no one you would think. Here Marta takes on the role of the sexually unsatisfied Olive Butler from the UK tv series ‘On the buses’, played by Anna Karen. Poor Olive was always relegated to the side car of her husbands motorbike, which Marta feels was a euphemism for women everywhere, and there circumstance at the time. Marta recognises, and pays tribute to the subtle work done in breaking down these barriers by making sure no bugs ever stuck in her teeth, and it was okay to wear diamonds, even tho relegated to a submissive roll in a motorbike side car, and most importantly, to suck on the exhaust fumes, and get off your nut as you were forced to be merely a passenger (even tho zoning off into the alpha).
ABOVE PIC: Ethnic chic as Marta travels to the Middle East and plays a role within a role, here Marta is styled after Michelle Phillips in ‘Valentino’, who was herself playing Natacha Rambova in the movie, shades of the famous Dali painting, of a painting, of a painting, of a painting etc. A subtle nod also goes out to Linda McCartney who refused to shave her legs, and was pilloried from pillar to post because of this act of non conformity, Marta (who personifies the the words ‘In your face’) does not fuck around, and for weeks before the photo shoot, mainlined testosterone directly into her temple, to ramp up the pelt on her upper chest as a casual ‘Fuck you!’, and as a nod of solidarity to her more hirsute sisters.
ABOVE PIC: The second in the ‘Biker girl’ series, here Marta don’s a ‘Pleather’ jacket, jumps out of the side car, takes the handlebars, and becomes Shelly Winters in ‘Cleopatra Jones’. Note the totally Sixties face viser, the collagen stung lips, and the Easy Rider profile, no happy accidents here.
ABOVE THREE PICS: Marta does Martha (‘Stewart’ that is). Is it any wonder that Marta chose to pay tribute to a woman who’s life has encopassed crocheting colostomy bag covers, macrame wall hangings (used primarilly for auto erotic asphyixiation), and two years hard labour in an all womens prison?, didn’t think so. Anyone who thinks that the cream canister in the first pic is going to be used for the desert is vastly mistaken, Marta knows that nothing rocks your world like having a hit of nitrous from a cream canister, immediately after hammering a bucket bong.
In the second photo Marta contemplates using the flacid chicken as a hat, of course this predates Lady Ga Ga’s meat dress by a good thirty years, but the dripping bacteria from the gibblets swayed Marta away from this act of poultry fashion terrorism, even Marta draws the line at stomach cramps, and projectile gastric in the name of fashion.
Can we please make mention of the stately outfit?, from the drop flowered diamond earrings, the almost, but not quite, hounds tooth dress, the finely cut blouse with what i can only assume are Saville Row tailored sleeves and buttons, and the double, and wide banded watch. All for the kitchen, and all for glamour.
ABOVE PIC: ‘Jocelyn’ nothing more to be said.
ABOVE PIC: Lauren Bacall all the way, Marta makes a flowing entrance, it’s all about the movement and the moment. The scolloped front flows down, but pulls up short of the pubic region, it’s Marta saying ‘You can have a bit, but not everything’. For her cuffs Marta has hacked the cuff’s off an old pair of bell bottom slacks and grafted them on here for winter covereage, i’ve seen this dress worn in spring without the extended arm length, making this dress a little more interactive. The flower burst diamond (of course) earings are on display for all to ogle, and in true Marta fashion, her stockings, or leggings, are actually made from the stretched foam coverings used to protect stone fruits in supermarkets. Jeannie Little may have made a career out of making dresses from garbage bags, but no one recycles waste into fashion like Marta.
ABOVE PIC: With a look of stoicism, unaffected detachement and a serene calm, Marta holds aloft no mere accsesory, but a symbol of repression everywhere in the GLBTI community, the humble turkey baster. Years before ribbons, fundraisers and awareness campaigns, Marta would appear at openings, red carpet roll outs and celebrity events clutching the baster, and much like how Paris Hilton walks around with her rat dog living in her purse (what dog wouldn’t want to live in a confined space packed with drugs) Marta would use this not so much as an accesory, but as more of a statement, to get people talking, to open up a dialog and break down the walls of misunderstanding. In this one photo Marta pays tribute to not only every downtrodden GLBTI actor and actress, but to every GLBTI person who has been shitlisted, shafted, derailed and denied the fundemental, and basic human rights that so many others enjoy. Cast aside your ribbons, and hold aloft the turkey baster as the international symbol of working around, and defeating archaic beliefs and systems, put in place to stop us progressing and procreating. Thank you for this gift Marta, thank you for giving us a visual to identify with, VIVA LA BASTER, VIVA LA MARTA!!.
This collection is dedicated to Shelly, a fine person who knows her Simian style.
