If there was a “straight pill”…

…I wouldn’t take it. I still sometimes find myself reflecting on my “struggles” as a young gay church-goer 10 or 15 years ago. I cringe at the futile and ill-fated attempts to turn straight. If I knew then what I know now about the rightness and freedom of accepting my sexual identity, the joy, security, love and satisfaction that my 7 year (and counting) relationship has brought, then I most certainly wouldn’t have put myself through the torture of trying to deny such an intrinsic part of my being.

We went to a really fun and interesting party last night. After my recent rant about the rotten state of the gay scene in Sydney, it was so refreshing to be at an event that had a kind of more underground, friendly, non-meat-market feel. The event I refer to was called Non-Scene, A Winter Solstice. The venue was a bar called the Loft at UTS on Broadway. As the event’s name would suggest, the crowd was a bit different to the normal gay bar scene. There was very little preening and posing. There was very little sleazy cruising going on. Apart from a few joints being passed around, beer was about the only drug in evidence. It was just a congregation of couple of hundred people of every gender imaginable (and then some), misfits, friends and lovers and a very funny interpretive dance/mime routine set to Hotel California.

What has a good night out got to do with being queer? Well a lot really. At these kinds of events I always find myself thinking how fortunate I am to view society from outside the mainstream. To be in a room full of other “outsiders” where there is acceptance of diversity and where creativity and individuality can be expressed without fear of ridicule or judgement. Where men can walk around in frocks and makeup if they so choose. Where women can wear a tux and army boots. Two boys can kiss in one corner while two girls grope in another and none of this behaviour turns heads. Let and let live is the reigning philosophy.

I think of the millions of folk in whitebread suburban homes watching So-you-think-you-are-an-Australian-big-idol’s-dancing-brother or whatever inane shit is on channel ten these days. I also find myself thinking of the repression of sex and sexuality that mainstream western culture still imposes, and am thankful to be part of a community that challenges those norms. I’m glad to be able to dance like a lunatic if I want to. (There is something primeval and essentially human about dancing – maybe that is the “earth sign Taurus” in me speaking). Even though most of the people at these events are strnagers, there is a bond as we shrug off the mantle of the outside world and celebrate together.

Being an outsider in day to day life, as I move though the mainstream, I also think is advantageous – at least in a society like Australia where there is at least a modicum of tolerance for “my tribe”. I can see things from angles that others perhaps struggleto. I can empathise with other outsiders in the community. I think to be a gay man with my feminine and masculine sides in ying-yang-like balance is like being psychologically ambidextrous. There is balance.

True, these things are not the exclusive domain(s) of queer folk – far from it; but I would argue that if I were straight, I would be far less likely to be exposed to such alternative ways of thinking and living. And even if I was exposed to them, I wonder whether perhaps I would have inherited sufficient societal predjudices as to make me discount such experiences as the folly of complete fruitloops. I would also concede that there are many many gay men and women who wouldn’t identify with the sort of scene baba and I enjoyed and felt such an affinity with last night (and at other events like Kooky and Tropical Fruits at new year). Horses for courses. But even those in the thick of mainstream gay, those who pimp and preen and go to Oxford street venues several times a week, week in week out, those who get emotional watching Will and Grace, those who ring up and vote for the token gay “character” on the latest reality TV show, those who love their broadway tunes, and all the other cliches (some of which I must admit to holding dear), even those folk are set aside from their heterosexual bretheren by the very fact that biology has made them (us) different.

Here endeth the lesson

Just for good measure, here is Yet Another Article on the loonies over at Mercy Ministries. Interestingly, it has been reported that a significant number of companies have withdrawn their sponsorship of the cult and distanced themselves altogether.

In the news

This Story is just depressing.

and This one is just f’kn wierd. I quote selectively below.

Larry Sinclair, a gay man from Minnesota who alleges he snorted cocaine and had sex with the Democratic nominee, held a news conference.

His allegations have been sloshing around on the internet for six months, ever since he posted a YouTube video. But after he took a polygraph test and failed, he has struggled to get mainstream media interest in a story he said began in the back of a limousine in Chicago in 1999.

On Wednesday Sinclair booked a room at the National Press Club to produce the evidence and try to capture the national spotlight for his claims. But he spent much of the time answering questions about himself. He has what is called a colourful background: a 27-year criminal career which includes convictions for fraud, forging cheques, and stealing credit card numbers.

Sinclair was accompanied by his kilt-clad lawyer, Montgomery Blair Sibley. Sibley has had his own problems: a Florida court struck him off for vexatious litigation, most of it directed against his former wife.

“I don’t mean to be impudent,” said one reporter, “but why are you wearing a kilt?”

Sibley explained: “It has to do with genitalia. If you are on the smaller side, then pants are not uncomfortable.”

My own food safari

One of the things I’ll most miss about Sydney when we pack up and move back to Tokyo…is the ability to traverse the world in the space of a couple of suburbs.

Friday night we walked down Victoria Street to Malabar – our all time favourite Indian restaurant – for dinner. They specialise in South Indian food rather than the ubiquitous tandoori cuisine that defines Indian in Sydney. We started with half a dozen spiced pan fried prawns which were sweet, fresh and succulent and cooked to perfection (I’m fussy about prawns that tend to get overcooked and loose that lovely juicy “crunch”. For mains we had three curries: Goan fish (ten out of ten!!! Sooooooo good!!) Lamb Varuthi (the fresh curry leaves infuse the dish with a delicious, authentic Southern flavour. The meat is slow cooked and extremely tender). And a mixed Dal. It was all washed down with a BYO bottle of Penley Estate “Phoenix” Coonawarra 2005 Cabernet Sauvignon. (Predominantly fruit driven but far from one-dimensional).

So to Saturday. I rented a car yesterday afternoon because I had to collect dad from the airport at 6:00 this morning. I was initially going to get the train out to his place yesterday evening to pick up his car ready for this morning, but the whole city’s train system had ground to a halt yet again. (The trains are something I won’t miss!!). Anyway, having a car is always an excuse for Baba and I to find somewhere new for dinner. The initial plan was to go to Haberfield, a predominantly Italian neighbourhood we haven’t explored yet. We arrived on the main restaurant strip around 7:30 and alas couldn’t get a table anywhere. It’s a good thing we had a plan B. It was good bye Italy and hello China – specifically Shanghai.

Back in the car and after five minute’s drive to Ashfield Ciao morphed into Ni Hao. Ashfield has become home to a large Shanghainese population. Whereas 90% of the resaurants in Chinatown serve up the relatively familiar cuisine of Canton, 90% of the restaurants lining Liverpool road serve the rich and vinegar-infused food of Shanghai. We had daikon pancakes (which were actually spherical in shape?!?!?), soy-braised river fish, dumplings that explode and fill the mouth with soup when you bite into their skins, hot and sour soup and fried noodles. All that food for $20 a head. The fish at $16.80 was on of the most expensive dishes on the menu!

One thing I’m afraid to say that the Chinese don’t do as well as some others is dessert. So, we got back in the car and drove another 5-10 minues down the road to Bar Italaia – THE Leichhardt institution. The same guy has been impatiently snatching customers’ money and making brilliant coffees for as long as I’ve been going to Bar Italia – at least 12 years now. The other thing that hasn’t changed in that time is the buzzof anticipation in the gelato queue. I am a creature of habit so always have the same two flavours; chocolate and panacotta.  One more constant at Bar Italia  is the old bloke in the beret who is a permanent fixture in the corner, chattering away in Italian.

Lunch today was a very disappointing serve of fish and chips (an attempt to satisfy a random craving).

Maeve O’Meara, eat your heart out.

“Action” at the Arthouse hotel…I smell a gay cliche

Apparently it’s the Queen’s birthday this weekend and HRH gave all her loyal subjects in the colony of New South Wales a day off on Monday to celebrate. Harruh!

Baba was going cold turkey having not put on his dancing shoes for quite some time. Seeing as it’s been a cold, wet, miserable weekend, I was rather inclined to stay in with a nice cup of tea. On Saturday night I prevailed and that’s exactly what we did. On Suday however we ended up going to the abovementioned party. While the music was fairly good (UK Hard house DJ Steve Lawler) and it suited our preferred tipple at such parties (Head Candy pills, aka legal e), I was quite underwhelmed by the shirtless, muscled clones shifting their weight from one foot to the other on the dance floor (doing the muscle mary shuffle as I like to derissively call their excuse for dancing), fists clenched, chest out, stomach in, dilated pupils scanning the room for trade. Baba kept saying “niku-ya dane…” (it’s like a butcher shop). Niku-ya indeed.

Obviously this is one gay subculture that baba and I simply don’t fit into. It’s a shame, because their parties often have the best music. Which brings me to my next point…there are so many gay “subcultures”, and bars and clubs that appeal to different tastes but I’m feeling somewhat adrift at the moment. I live 50 metres from Oxford St, but now almost never frequent any of the bars on the strip:

Stonewall – highcamp, tedious commercial top 40 remixes, hissy queens, too much cologne.

Colombian – decent music much of the time but ruined by too many patrons on Crystal Meth

Midnight Shift – Upstairs: (echo echo echo…) Downstairs: plenty of eye candy for those of us who like to perve at oriental men, but it’s got even worse music and it’s even more hissy than stonewall. All that with the added bonus of incest….or so I hear from friends who frequent the place and by 6 degrees of seperation have probably slept with everyone else who frequents the place.

Slide – Not bad, but having to run the Oxford Street gauntlet past teenagers spewing in the gutter and leering Lebanese guys in souped up cars hurling abuse at anything without tits – and shouting far more offensive things to those with tits – makes it a bit too much of a mission to get there. Once inside music can be good. Shirts tend to stay on (bonus) but that’s because they’re all fucking designer brands which cost their air-kissing owners hundreds of dollars….not unlike drinks at the bar. It can also go from completely full to practically empty without a moment’s notice.

Oxford – I’m old, but not quite THAT old yet but already way too jaded to go there.

Arq – Gay super club my ass! The place smells horrible, has sticky floors, is usually so packed with product-enhanced twinks that it is an absolute fire hazard, and it seems to be attracting an increasingly unsavoury crowd. Too many dizzy girls, not yet over the novelty of hanging out with their gay friends, flicking their hair about too much. Oh and who cares what the music sounds like (that’s if you can hear the old gramaphone-era speakers set to a slightly too sensible volume) when you’re 19 and so pumped full of drugs that you can’t remember who you were snogging 2 minutes ago.

From time to time it is possible to have a good night out in this town – see my earlier post on club kooky. But unfortunately, a lot of those non-mainstream events are often on a school night and even they tend to blend into each other in a dope-smoking, gay is passe, queer haze.

I think I’m going to put the kettle on.