You have to find the humour in the situation really. There we were, Ant and I, and Lyle and Damien, out last night to celebrate Damien's sister's birthday... at a straight venue... on the night of Mardi Gras. 'Frostbites' was the name of the venue, famous for their wall of brightly coloured alcoholic slushies, attractive barmen, and clientel that were generally atleast ten years younger than me.
I had no strategic pattern in what drinks I choose to consume. I started with a Cosmopolitan because it seemed the most... well... cosmopolitan. But then I realised, as they handed this fluro liquid in a plastic cup to me, that we were one of the few men in the venue actually drinking the cocktails. If you were a 'man' there, beer and spirits seemed to be the dejour. Of course, we did muse that if The Market decided to go down this same path, their beer and spirits sales would plummit as most gay men simply can't refuse anything that they can fashion co-ordinate with.
And then there was the music. It began very urban and commercial. We had lots of Outkast and Black Eyed Peas, complete with girls squeezed into tight tops gettin' jiggy wit it on the podiums downstairs to a pack of boys too afraid to do anything other than grin stupidly, drink beer, and act like tough blokes.
Then the music stopped, and (strangely) they had one of the heats for Mr Bachelor Of The Year... or something along those lines. At this point, one of the contestants friends had strayed in front of us on the balcony and blocked our view. Sadly, the youth of today seem to have lost the concept of pants size, or what belts actually do, and i'm sure I saw more brands of underwear in one evening than necessary. But in this instance, the lad was slightly more fuller figured than most in the venue, and we were not greeted with the sight of studly bachelors but of a plumbers crack so large, we were afraid we were being pulled into it like some form of black hole vortex.
I did catch a glimpse of some of the contestants, and surprise surprise - the two that took their tops off were the two that went through. Hey, who would've thought that skin sells? I did hear that they were both 20 years of age... meaning that they were born in 1984... small things make you feel older. In 1984, I was in my final year of Primary School. I had Frankie telling me to 'Relax'. I had Wham telling me to 'Choose Life' and to wake them up before we went went. We had Cyndi telling us that her breed just wanted to have fun and we had Madonna lying back in the middle of a deserted road playing nypho-vixen, much to our delight. We had INXS discussing a subject called 'Original Sin', and we had Quiet Riot inviting us to feel the noize. But we didn't know we'd be standing in some venue called Frostbites drinking chilled alcoholic radioactive waste and watching some jiggling bum crack yell out praise to his topless friend. Doesn't life work in mysterious ways?
I was asked why I wasn't dancing. Apart from the fact that the music wasn't very 'me', I explained that my dancing had far too much 'hip' in it, and it would give me away as a big willy woofta within seconds.
And then it got worse. I raised an eyebrow when 'We Want Some Pussy' started to be played. It also gave Damien's sister fuel for ammunition as she dancer around us, pointing at us, singing the line with a perplexed look on her face. Then the Choirboys 'Run To Paradise' came on. I bought the 7" when it came out. Some of the people in the room weren't even born when the song was released. And yet they all seemed to strangely know the words. This was followed by The Proclaimers '500 Miles', and Bon Jovi's 'Living On a Prayer'. By this stage, I had decided that I had had enough post life regression for one evening and perhaps it was time to make a move.
Chapel Street wasn't as infested with Grand Prix revellers as what I thought it would be. Sure, it sounds like there are constant flies swarming around my suburb, and if I hear one more feckin' fighter jet fly overhead, I will scream. But in the back of my mind, I just remind myself that it is only for a few more days before the rev heads leave my area alone and life can resume as normal. I went to Priceline yesterday, and had to endure the poor woman on the checkout dealing with Sydney meathead mentality.
"Where you going tonight?" butch overbuilt man #1 asks.
"Moomba.", checkout girl replies.
"What type of club is that?" butch overbuilt man #1 enquires.
"It's not a club. It's a festival in the city."
"Can I hold your hand there?", bom#1 askes, going in for the kill.
"No.", says checkout girl. I admire her brutality.
"Oh, Please." - yep, all very smooth as I try to with hold bursting out in laughter and explaining to them that they might actually try thinking before speaking.
A few minutes later, she finally gets them to move on. Two walk out the front while the third stays to finish the transaction.
"You're from Sydney?", she askes.
"Yeah! How did you know?"
"I can just tell..."
I approach the counter.
"Hi, I'm from Melbourne", I state, handing over my item.
"Thank God!", she says.
My transaction took little more than 30 seconds, much to her, mine, and fellow customers relief.
What can I say? I've never been able to understand the fascination of sitting there and watching cars do laps really fast several times. But hey, each to their own. It's the straightest weekend i've had in a while anyway, and all I can say is 'Praise the Lord for Gay culture...'
