Shagged

Shagged. Just finished two 15 hour reasonably hectic shifts with a five hour nap separating them, so I don't really trust myself to write anything that makes sense. So instead here is my next Grumpy column as it appears in Tsunami mag.

Commencing intense alcohol wind down. Night night... Ooh - Nick Cave special on the telly. Sweet.

Grumpy

Lee Bemrose

Sometimes my working lives are so far apart from each other it does my head in. For example, I am somehow part of the team of chefs at The Sydney Opera House that will be feeding George Bush and his Australian girlfriend John Howard during this fiasco called APEC. Various spook organisations have apparently done background checks on us to ensure that no matter how much we might not like these storm-trooping world leaders, we’re not going to attempt to assassinate them. Brilliant idea, isn’t it? Get some of the world’s most unpopular leaders together in a building that doesn’t exactly blend into the background, shut down the city, close private businesses, commandeer private carparks in the surrounding area, spend squillions on defence so that the leaders of various countries can... can do what exactly? Talk about stuff. Oh yeah – and last night on the news it was announced that the public will be denied access to nearby public areas to watch the massive fireworks display being put on for George & Johnny. I’m glad they get to watch the fireworks in private. It’s so romantic it makes me shit in my pants. With all the security and undercover going on, we keep making nervous jokes about how we should be paid danger money. But you know, I kind of think we should be paid danger money.

At the other extreme, I have this very cool clothing shop called Psydeways. It’s a great little place that pulls all sorts of party people. International visitors drop in to find out about the local scene. I meet like-minded party people all day long, talk about various parties and DJs... you call this work? Also, I get to dress the mannequins and girliquins. And I’m fucking good at it too. As good as any gay guy I know.

Also, the other day a customer came out of the changeroom wearing a cute little top. Checked herself out in the mirror. Turned one way, then the other. She looked hot. She looked pleased, then frowned. She jutted out her perky chest a little and said, “Is the top see-through?” I looked at her breasts but couldn’t tell. So I moved closer and squinted while she jutted... and yeah, it was kinda see-through. “But in a good way,” I reassured her. She looked pleased again and bought the top.

The job with danger money or the one without? Hmm. Think I’ll take both.