oneplanetmikey

While it is lovely that Il Papa Benedict is here having a gay old time in Sydney, I am concerned he is leading his happy pilgrims into an unsustainable and deadly lifestyle.  Personally, I think they are being conned.  This post is not intended to be one of my anti-religious rants.  Far from it.  I have liked what the church has done in regard to providing health care and education.  I may even like Pope Benedict.  I am sure has lots of good things going for him.  I like his little red shoes.  The Pope wears Prada. 

No, it is not Benedict that I have the problem with.  It is what he is in charge of, and it is what his church teaches.  The Catholic church has intellectual scurvy, and many of its’ leaders have pestilence of the noggin. 

Take for example the ongoing sadness in Africa.  With birth rates spiralling out of control at two and a half times the world average (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_countries_by_birth_rate), and with Africa recording 6o per cent of the world’s HIV figures (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/HIV/AIDS_in_Africa).  The greater sin is not fucking without a condom, but fucking with lives to such a great extent that people are born to suffer in famine and sickness.  Every sperm is sacred, but people more-so. 

And let us not forget kiddy-fiddling by the Clergy.  It is quite simply wrong and is most probably a result of that ridiculous vow of celibacy that priests must undertake.  And if it is not kids, it is the ‘needy’ and those with ’special needs’ that tend to receive the attention.  Take for example my old flatmate.  He was, and is a screwed up, drug addicted, lapsed Catholic.  In 2000 he met the now-late and not lamented Father J., who ’ministered’ to him, in that ’special way’ gay boys like.  

Father J. did very little for my flatmate.  And for my former flatmate, going down on Father J. did very little for him, or his fragile mental health.  But there is good news in this, the old priest turned up his toes earlier this year and is quite possibly now being spit roasted by the devil over the coal-fired pits of hell. 

But burning coal doesn’t seem to be a problem, for only this week we had Torquemada, err Cardinal Pell exclaim that “I’m a bit of a sceptic about the claim that human activity is likely to produce a man-made catastrophe.”  I’m well aware that over … hundreds of years there have been great changes in the climate and whether we are going through one of those changes or whether we are contributing to that, I don’t know.”

So now we know it is fine.  Keep those hell-fires and that brimstone burning kids, Cardinal Pell said it was okay.

Normally if I was without job I would freak out.

Not this time though.  I knew something good would happen sooner, rather than later.  And after six week of waiting with some very dodgy temp work in between, a couple of muggings to make ends meet, a trip to Shakespeare Grove to see if I could cut it as a rent boy (actually forget about that, I was just cruising), something good did happen.

Yep, that’s right folks I am now the Curriculum and Projet Manager of a commercial visual arts college here in Melbourne.

Yay me.  Clever me.

I start next week.

When the meanest man in Australian history was knifed by the Australian public on that glorious Saturday in November, I was overjoyed. 

I wept, I drank and I passed out. 

However no matter how happy I was,  I had always suspected that one day far too soon that my disillusion with the conservative Kevin07 would soon manifest itself once again in tele-temper, where I would start yelling and swearing at the TV. 

On Saturday 30 May 2008, after a six month remission, I succumbed.

After a flying start, apologising to our Indiginous brothers and sisters and reigniting the republican debate, I began to suspect Mr Rudd wasn’t quite as conservative as I had feared.  I was wrong. 

Australian political debate in now marred in the quagmire of ’super or unleaded’. 

That’s right folks, we are stuck talking about measures that will save the average punter less than one hundred bucks a year, while hitting top gear as we propel ourselves headfirst into environmental oblivion.  Great!

It gets better though.  In the recent budget, money earmarked for employment services was reduced by $500 million bucks.  (I bet Therese ain’t too happy about that).  If Australia is to be a fully inclusive society -  and they keep palavering on about wanting a nicer, more comfortable and relaxed Auastralia, then that money needs to be spent in getting the long-term jobless into work.  Not continuing the meanness of Howard’s rock painting Work for the Dole scheme.   

What can I say?  I told me so. 

Who’d a thunk I’d be an internet sensation. 

Tenty thousand readers and counting.  If you have read oneplanetmikey and liked it and chuckled; A big thanks. 

And if you are the twenty-thousandth reader.  I’ll buy you a beer.

Anna Cretin and the creeps at Toady Tonight were this week found to have defamed Mercedes Corby.  After an expensive five-week trial prosecuted by my media hero Stuart Littlemore, it took a jury less than a day to find the nasty folk at TT had made damaging and unsubstantiated  allegations against the sister of convicted drug smuggler, Schapelle Corby.

And now they have had to pay!  In a confidential out of court settlement, Channel 7 has had to sign what is presumably a big fucking cheque and hand it over to Mercedes Corby.

You would hope that would teach the evil folk at Toady Tonight a lesson, but I suspect their insatiable desire for ratings, means they are rather stupid and slow learners.

All this could have been avoided if when Seven’s head of News and Current Affairs boned Naomi Robson, the convicted serial drink driver Peter Meakin had accepted my suggestion to have her replaced with a garden gnome.  The difference would have been minimal and Seven could still  have promoted the show as Today Tonight with Gnomie Robson.

Thanks for watching good night.

Ahh, how the mighty have fallen.

Once I was a high flying training administrator looking after a former half-Colonel at a multi-national petrol company.  (He recently resigned after he was demoted for idiocy and belligerence).

Now I am a humble temp worker, cataloging books at a second-rate educational institution.  And now matter how much fun that may be - my rate of pay,  which is slightly better than working for the dole but not quite as lucrative as selling the Big Issue, leaves much to be desired.

So, to get me out of the shit I have decided that I need a sugar daddy and real fast.

So dear reader, this post is a call to arms and I am now considering all applications.

I am not particularly fussy and I can guarantee all applicants for this position, that there will be lots of different positions, and that I will put the fun into funding.

I’m waiting.

This is my dole diary.  Some of this may be true.

07:00 Hit snooze

09:00 Berate myself for flushing the alarm clock down the toilet.  Fucking thing doesn’t work.  Must use neighbours loo.

09:01 Turn on Kath and Kim on Ten.  Can’t decide if David Reine is faking stupidity.

09:03 Put kettle on and make a large plunger of strong coffee.

09:05 Regret final drink, which even though I can’t remember drinking, now believe to be completely unnecessary.

09:09 Check out KAK to see if she is still wearing canary yellow.  She is.  And even though I should be disappointed, decide she is a trooper.

10:00 Breakfast on High Street

10:45 Return home, have shower. Make self look half decent.  Thank the powers that be for Clarins Beauty Flash Balm.

11.00  Look for job.

11:11 Speak to recruitment consultant.  Visualise recruitment consultant.  Wonder how recruitment consultant made career leap from asking customers if they “want fries with that”  to big time successful recruitment consulting.

11:30 Submit application.

12:00 Lunch.

12:20 Decide it is time for nana nap.

12:25 Regret flushing alarm down the bog.

12:27 Coma.

13:50 Awake.

13:51 Coffee.

14:05 Check email.  Not important, no one writes.  Consider spamming myself.

15:00 Supermarket run.

15:20 Look at supermarket from moving tram.  Will buy groceries after a quick drink at the Grace Darling Hotel.

18:30 Refused service at Grace Darling Hotel.  Make abusive phone call to boyfriend for refusing to meet me for a drink at Grace Darling Hotel.

19:00 Safeway is expensive.  Decide budget restraints mean I can no longer afford to eat.

19:05 Catch tram home.

19:20 Tram Inspecttors throw me off tram in front on Bender Bar.  Convenient.  Good thing boys don’t know Vanessa at the Grace.

19:22 Final drink.

19:39 Final drink.

20:02 Final drink.

21:15 Allegedly visit neighbour.

23:05 Wake up on couch.  Head hurts.  Wonder why boyfriend is ignoring me.

The train that took us from Flinders Street to the Showgrounds, was packed with excited punters.   I should know - I was one of them.  Although, for once, I was being rather quiet due to near fatal alcohol poisoning. 

It was Melbourne’s first full V Festival after the Mini V, maxi-cost fiasco last year. And it was an event that I had been anticipating for quite some time.  Where else could you see Duran Duran, Air and Roisin Murphy all on the one bill, all on the one stage and all, one after another?

My day kicked off with Cut Copy, a Melbourne band with a number one record that reminded me of New Order. I am glad they weren’t entirely like New Order because had they been New Order they would have walk off stage between songs and keep us waiting for 8 years. 

Roisin Murphy is an odd presence; beautiful, aloof and possessing the same voice you hear when the angels come to get you. She held and caressed the crowd of gum chewers and those special boys like me, with her distinctive, chanteuse-like electroica.    

Whatever it was, whatever she did, she sucked us in, as the showgirl came out and morphed into different visions-splendid, resplendant in feathers, hats and mirrored sunnies and the lovliest jackets  this side of Dior.

I have always had a love/love/loathe relationship with those French hipsters Air, and their minimal, but elegant electro. But having deliberately avoiding their Moon Safari CD for the past ten years after I played it to death, umm ten years ago, I was ready for more.  I had checked out their more recent offerings and was looking forward to hearing them live through a vocoder. If you were looking for a show with action, then this was not the place for you. But if you were looking to get lost in the music while the performers flirted with the audience, then this was the place for you. 

And then it was time for the big guns -  those wild boys from Birmingham, Duran Duran.   There was much excitement and anticipation as people who hadn’t moshed since 1984 politely elbowed their way to the front of the stage to mosh as much as 40 year olds can. 

Duran Duran played a greatest hits setlist that did not disappoint.  All the hits including my two favourites ‘A View to a Kill” and ‘The Reflex’ were there, as was their latest single, ‘Red Carpet’ Massacre and 2004’s ‘Sunrise’. 

By the end though; no matter how good Duran Duran were and no matter how many hits they played, and no matter how sexy Simon is and because I am sure Nick Rhodes is Andy Warhol cloned, they struggled for an audience. 

Which was a shame, because there was a band who knew what to do, and were very good at it. 

The last two weeks have been hard. 

I have had feckless and spotty youths asking me how old I was as I grooved to the Chemical Brothers.  

I have had teenagers asking me if I was a cop as they acted suspiciously while I acted suspiciously and checked out their shirtless, eighteen year old form. 

And the phone!  I have had no fucking phone and have even resorted to going down to the phone booth with a handful of fifty cent coins and phone numbers scribbled on the backs of old envelopes.   Of the indignity!  Oh the shame!

Oh the germs from public handsets.  OK - I know I am turning into Howard Hughes, but I really do insist on the use of latex gloves to stop super-bugs.  And my cunning plan to build a build a Spruse Mikey-Moose over the Easter long weekend is soon to be realised. 

And the smell of people pissing in phone booths.  Not that I mind so much, but I do wish that guy had waited until I finished my call. 

But not now!  No sirree Bob!  For I have just ordered a wondrous thing of beauty; the LG Viewty with five mega-pixels of camera and inbuilt image editor. 

Oh the coolness!  Oh the techno-porn.   Oh how me!

I lost a part of myself on Sunday when I became permanently separated from my rather cute Sony Ericsson K610i mobile phone at the Future Music Festival here in Melbourne. 

At the time I didn’t care because I was very excited to see John Digweed, and was almost in rapture at the thought of getting down and getting funky with the kids as I danced Mikey style, to the Chemical Brothers. 

Actually - scrap getting down with the kids, because on three separate occasions I was approached by different spotty youths asking how old I was. 

Spotty Youth.  “Dude, how old are you?  You must be forty.”     

Mikey.              ”Err, I’m 38.”

Spotty Youth.  “Wow man, you are as old as my mum.  That’s cool.”

Mikey.               ”Just because you are…….”

Anyway, I didn’t care because ”Hey Girl, Hey Boy.  Superstar DJ.  Here we go”!

So until I buy a new phone I will be carrying this  around.                              

Cool, huh?