It seems that I exited New Zealand just in time to avoid the rampant homo-ism that's likely to overtake the country once that cub thingy I keep hearing about is introduced to the world. Good work there, Tibby.
Now, I don't know whose cub it is (I'm guessing it's the love child of a certain Mr. Hide), but once it grows into a bear I'm guessing it's going to have the time of its life. Mothers, lock up your sons. And maybe your daughters.
Maybe it's time therefore to expand the public consciousness a little and accommodate this new social development. So I'm asking Mikey Havoc over at bFM to do a public service and repeat an old gag I heard a few years back, where, realising that the Inuit had a bunch of words for 'snow', he got listeners to call in with the many, many words for 'pecker' or 'boobie'. It's my opinion that 'the people' will be better served with a better range of words to really label this new section of society. After all, great kiwi derisions like 'mayhey' deserve their place in the sun, don't they?
There's every chance that it's the smoke from that speaker fire that has me coming over all funny, because I also found Sandra Paterson's article a little offensive to even my strenuously assertive and undeniable heterosexuality. I mean, “Making Law a bigger ass”? Why not call the article “Making law wear a halter top and mince in some fine Italian pumps”?
Oh, and thanks for that by the way boys, you've now entered an entirely separate section of the 'gig hall of fame', that is, separate from the wanker who called Jack White a 'fucking poofer' when they played the Dogs Bollocks. Not to mention the White Stripes themselves, or that time I knocked my self out cold stage-diving at a Fugazi gig (my very first mention in a major newspaper? "some fool").
As I may have mentioned in a previous post, Sandra and I grew up in the same town, so I remember her, and her brother from many, many years ago. Oh, and by the way Sandra, you're still a looker. If all of this liberal defence of those pesky homo's hasn't discouraged you.... I'm no bear.
I'm a tiger, baby. grrrr.... tiger.
Anyhow, when I lived in Wellington I had this one flat, well, dive really, I shared with a few suitably 'het' blokes. Actually, no, that's a lie, one of the guys was a bouncer at a bar on Ghuznee or Dixon Street (I can't remember which), but he doesn't count. Snorting excessive amounts of 'Rush', and making statements like 'I could only be a bouncer at a gay bar' doesn't necessarily maketh the man.
This flat was up a huge number of stairs behind Victoria Hall, a studentey, hostelley-type place on the Terrace. As I was leaving the flat one day, I happened to look up at the halls to see a bloke taking a slash out a fourth floor window. Now, the years have clouded the event and my role in it, which in all likelihood means I've put too much of a gloss on my own virtue and my glory days, but I seem to recall the conversation that followed going something like this.
Me: Good sir, please cease and desist this extravagant display!
Him: Nah, go get 'stuffed' ya 'flaming' big 'enjoyer of self-entertainment'!
Me: Why I never! Such language will result in someone calling the constabulary!
Him: Let them call the pigs ya 'fellator'!
Me: My word! Shall I be forced to issue an invitation to a duel with you good sir?!
At which point a second voice issued from the window, and said, "That you Tibby?" Strangely, it turns out that the roommate of the urinator in question was none other than the aforementioned little brother of Ms. Paterson.
To be honest, I found this pretty convenient. I haven't ever kicked anybody's ass, and trying to do so while they tried to shower me from four floors up was always going to be difficult. Following Little Brother’s invitation, I found my way through to their room and accepted an invitation to soothe ruffled feathers over a beer at a bar in town.
Now, this is where the story gets a little weird.
The boys were convinced that the place to drink at this time of day was a bar on Willis Street called 'Legends', because it had cheap pints and this great decor of 1950s pop idol prints a-la 'Burger King'. Having heard about the place I was however dubious, and asked the guys if they were sure they wanted to drink there. Asserting that they did, I double-checked just to be sure, and off we ambled.
Seated in the bar I looked around and confirmed my suspicions of the place. Big Marilyn photos, lots of James Dean, and the occasional Elvis, i.e. cliché city. More importantly though, the clientele was exactly what I had expected.
I questioned the boys about this.
Me: "So, you guys like this place?"
The Boys: "Yup, great place! Cheap piss, friendly crowd, close to the halls (etc.)"
Me: "Oh. So you don't think there's anything 'funny' about it?"
The Boys: "Nah. Why?"
Me: "Oh, dunno, except maybe those two blokes over there holding hands."
I don't think I've ever seen two people finish their drinks and exit a place so quickly in my life.
Good het bloke that Little Brother. Must be the upbringing.
PS. grrrr... tiger.