EVERYONE WANTS A PIECE OF BRIAN'S ASH part 1

  

   

    It's been two months and my typing fingers are twitching. The official mourning period I set for myself has ended and I can get back to stutterpussing (spellcheck says this is not a word but I disagree). 

   Paying proper tribute to Brian Murphy has been both the greatest task and the greatest gift I have ever been given. There has been an extraordinary amount of things to take care of, people to deal with, treasures of all different kinds to sort out and pass on, issues to contend with, decisions to make, and questions to answer. I am grateful to have had the chance to be the one to do it, and would have never wanted to do any less. 

     For starters, I had never been faced with finding a crematorium. Nor did I ever have to call the Coroner's Office before, or go to City Hall for a Death Certificate. But nothing compared to having to call 911 to report that I had found Brian dead. It took all the strength I had (I was scared that if I stuttered too much the police dispatcher would start to suspect I had murdered him, and so would the police when they arrived). 

    Everything involving Brian's death was a first for me, which made it all the more daunting, and all the more special. Though I might someday go through this process for someone else, it will never be either as daunting or as special again.

  There's one thing, though, that would have made all of it just a little bit easier. If Brian was so certain he was going to die at 41, why couldn't he have had a will drawn-up, or made a video of himself stating his requests instead of all the ones he made of himself jerking off. Or he could have easily dictated what he wanted done into one of his mini-recorders, or even just scribbled down instructions somewhere. He could have left a hint, a clue, a riddle, anything. But it's just as much my fault. In all the time we spent and all the conversations we had, I never pinned him down on specifics.  

   When he died, I realized I didn't know any of his last wishes. Who needed to get what, who didn't deserve anything, and who should get whatever they wanted? What should I tell, and who should I tell it to? And what stays secret? Who did I absolutely have to contact and who shouldn't be contacted at all? All I could do was speculate and try to put myself in Brian's shoes (thigh-high leather boots, in Brian's case). 

Even putting myself in Brian's thigh-high boots didn't make the decisions any easier, and I got headaches from thinking about everything (or maybe it was from the tight boots making all the blood rush to my head).

   He always trusted my judgment and relied on my fairness, so in death he just has to do the same. If Brian is not happy with the decisions I have made, I encourage him to come back and haunt me. It would give me the chance to ask him where was the new hiding place for the cash and drugs he stashed away. He changed it frequently, and had died before telling me where to look.

These two hollow books were his last hiding place I knew of, but they were already emptied.

           By now I'm sure the stash has been inadvertently discovered by someone who thought they were just getting a sentimental memento. If you are that someone and happen to be one of Brian's drug friends, congratulations. If it's one of his friends who are still in AA, call up your sponsor immediately!  

    Brian's ghost could also tell me what 15 of the thirty keys on his key-ring actually unlock, since I've only been able to figure out half of them. I know that somewhere in San Francisco there is a Moped parked in somebody's garage that I have the key for.  

   The reason why I know so little about any of this is because every time Brian and I started talking about his death, it would turn into a joke. According to Brian, I was supposed to either have him stuffed by a taxidermist and hung by suspension meat hooks in the MOMA, or have his head shrunken by a tribe in the Amazon, or, if he was cremated, mix his ashes into the sugar jar on the coffee table at the popular Sunday morning AA meeting. He also wanted to be put into the sand of the old Etch-A-Sketch he owned.

It's  impossible to draw Brian's star-tattooed 
 pierced nipples on an Etch-A-Sketch

 In addition, he insisted that some of his ashes be held aside to be put into the gas tanks of the undercover cops who tried to bust him. He liked to imagine that when his body was being consumed by flames it would explode from all the chemicals inside, or that the smoke from it gets everyone who worked in the crematorium high. 

  The only thing that I know Brian wasn't joking about was a deal we had agreed upon years ago. Bri and I had never scattered the ashes of either of our two boxers, Bronski or his son Mack, who had died in 2002 and 2005, respectively. We had promised each other that whichever of us died first, the ashes of the dead one would be mixed with the dogs' ashes.  We both assumed who that would be, and fate did follow the course that Brian had laid out.

   Anyone who knew Brian back when Bronski and Mack were alive would think this deal makes perfect sense. The dogs were originally mine and my ex Pepe, but when Brian and I became boyfriends, Bri bonded with Bronski and Mack completely and permanently. His love for them was as great as his love for Felon, who came after. Felon is only seven, but when it is his time to check out, his ashes will be added to the mix too, just like Brian would want. I better not die before Felon and screw up this whole thing.


                               ***

 "One order of Brian well-done, no boxers please."

     When it came time to start giving out the ashes, some  people weren't jumping at the chance to get the house blend of Brian mixed with dogs. There were The Purists who wanted Brian Murphy Ash alone. The problem was no one realized how many other people were asking me for his ashes too. Everyone wanted a bit of Brian, and I wanted everyone to get some. After all, it was only right that he end up in as many different hands as he did when he was alive. But I knew as soon as the calls started pouring in that I wasn't going to have enough of his ashes. I only had 50% of him. There was only a limited amount of pure uncut Brian to give out.  

 

                          BRI-IN-THE-BOX

       Brian's wonderful Aunt Susie and I split his ashes, and she brought her half in a respectable urn back to Arizona to be placed beside the ashes of his parents. My half was still temporarily in the plain, black hard cardboard box the ashes arrived in. Like goldfish bowls and wedding cakes, the ashes of a beloved are among the things in this world you want to drop least. I held the box against my stomach until I found a safe spot for it high enough that Felon could not stand on his hind legs and reach it.

    Inside was a thick plastic bag tied shut with a little gold bendable strip with a number on it. 

    I opened the bag and whispered "It's you," into the ash, brushing my finger over the top layer.

     By that point, I had cried so freely and so deeply and so often that I expected to cry at the sight of Brian converted into ashes in a box. But no tears came. I was too fascinated by the ash to be sad. 

  These ashes are much less grainy and coarse than the dogs' ashes. They are almost like powder, and they float up like dusty smoke at the slightest touch or when words are breathed out too close to them. I wished somehow that Felon could understand it was Brian, but all the smell was baked out. I put a fingertip of the ash on Felon's nose and he licked off half of them. The rest stayed on until he drank water out of his bowl. 

   I retied the gold strip around the bag and closed the box. I was committed to be custodian, guardian, and protector of these sacred remains. I envisioned handing them out in a way as meaningful and special as the Japanese Tea Ceremony.

   

   For the two weeks that followed, I tried to make   each time someone came over to get ashes a special experience. Every person got to choose one of Brian's small, antique glass bottles that he collected,

and was allowed to scoop the ashes for themselves, instead of me doing it for them. Brian's friend Kevin was particularly lucky when he scooped his share of ashes out of the bag. Better than any Toy Surprise someone might find in a Cracker Jack Box, he uncovered a twisted staple made of Titanium that withstood the cremation flames. In honor of Brian, Kevin fondly refers to it as his Crack Jack Surprise. It is truly a one-of-a-kind piece of macabre Murphy memorabilia. Something sharp, dangerous and twisted, close to how Brian himself would like to be remembered.

                             end of part 1 

 Hey Friends-  I couldn't rest until I wrote the memorial for Brian, and now that it is finished, I am asking for some time off to mourn him. Those of you who have been reading my blog for a while know how important my ex-boyfriends are in my life.  Brian is my first ex to die, and it has hit my heart very hard.  It's been an amazing experience for me, and a painful one too. 
    Look for me in around six or seven weeks. I'm sure that's the longest I can keep myself from writing and keep away from you.

 

                                                ALL ARE WELCOME!

GYPSIES, TRAMPS, AND TATTOO SLEEVES.

 
      The only reason why I'm glad Brian Murphy is dead is because he won't find out that a Cher song inspired the title of this memorial. His taste in music was much cooler than mine, and needless to say he did not share my love of Cher. But even Brian would have to admit it's impossible not to think of him when you hear 'gypsy' and 'tramp'. 
      He was one-forth true Latvian Roma gypsy, which explained his thick black hair and brows and his wild behavior. It made him even more alluring, and also got him into more trouble. Almost every gay man I know wanted to have sex with him. And every gay man who had sex with him wanted to have sex with him again. Dykes, straight girls, straight guys, drag queens, professors, drug dealers, even his shrinks, all found him sexy. He had sex with so many men, both sober and when he was high, that it only made sense he was chosen to be the 'face' of Syphilis. 

This poster was intended 
to reduce the spread of Syphilis
in England, but there were many men 
who would have gladly gotten
an STD just to have sex with Brian.

He might have been the 'face' of Syphilis
but he was the 'back' of HIV, at least 
on this cover of POZ mag 

Brian cornered the market on STD's. He was more than willing to pose for any disease he contracted.
This was for HEP C. 

                                    
                                         *** THE FACE ***
    
       The gypsy in Brian, passed down from his grandmother, was the defining part of his background for him.  It sounded more dangerous than just calling himself Black Irish, which was the more typical way of describing his looks. The Black Irish are what the regular Irish dream of looking like. The only hint of Brian being Irish at all were his gorgeous green eyes, but even they looked dark until he got right in front of you. For sure, he certainly didn't drink like an Irishman. He had no cravings for it, and fell asleep the few times he tried to get drunk. Ironically, alcohol was the only substance Brian Murphy wasn't ever addicted to.
   He already had all the addictions he would ever need by the time he was 19.  Brian also had a penchant for piercings, and delved deeply into more extreme ways of lancing a body. He became one of the pierced performers at Club Fuck! in LA, doing notoriously anarchic but artfully executed stage pieces.

A few years later wearing the
'CROWN OF THORNS'

    After Fuck!, Brian and a few other performers moved to San Francisco and started  Retarded Whore Productions, a company that ran a club called Jesus. No other club flyer has ever managed to offend both Catholics and Sex Workers at the same time, along with the Handicapped.
    Brian also toured with the legendary performance artist Ron Athey, who was his lover and mentor at the time (Athey was robbed of the honor of being in the original NEA 4, but nevertheless, did get targeted by Congress in 1994.) Performing Athey's profane and profound pieces, Brian and the rest of the troupe caused scandals throughout Europe, where they ended up being chased by villagers with torches more times than Frankenstein.  


                     *** THE TATTOOS ***
        
       Before 1990, a person had to be a sailor or a murderer to be as heavily tattooed as Brian. By '92, when he was still in his early twenties, he had most of his major tattoo work completed, including Maori bats on his feet and Iceman crosses on his knees, black stars around his pierced nipples, a holstered gun on his calf, a Tibetan storm cloud on his stomach, his pyramid yoke collar, and a huge Polynesian line mask that covered his entire back. He had his upper sleeves tattooed last, which most people usually do first. 

   
    What made Brian's tattoos so distinctive was their placement, as well as the boldness of some of the less complicated designs. Artists Trev Marshall and Alex Binnie spent months designing them with Brian. His star nipples and stomach storm cloud were my favorites. Probably the most significant ones to Brian were the Mauri bats which were a tribute to his first boyfriend who has shot to death; the words 'Never Forget' tattooed with roses over his ribs to keep alive in spirit 'all comrades,  activists,and lovers who died of AIDS or drugs'; and his back mask, which was a gift he gave to himself at the one year mark of his first attempt at being sober.
   Out of all his tattoos, Brian's back mask stands out as being the truly iconic one. It was undoubtedly, and will definitely remain, one of the most photographed and recognizable tattoos of his generation.

The only picture I have ever seen of
 Brian without the mask completed.
 The outline is barely visible in the left pic.

A beautifully stylized photo
by Brian's dear friend, Aaron Cohen.
  BRIAN IN CORSET

     No one was more fascinated by his tattoos and piercing than my family. The highlight of the first Passover dinner I brought him to was when he did his 'human water fountain '. He would unscrew the small, steel ball from the pointed steel stem of his labret piercing under his lip and remove it, take a big gulp of water, tilt his head back, and push the water out of it like a blow-hole, aiming for my open mouth two feet away. It became a family tradition, even when we were all at a restaurant. A holiday wasn't complete until Brian spouted. 

Good wholesome family entertainment   

   
                         *** THE MAN ***


   I've come to accept the fact, and now admit it publicly, that Brian Murphy was much cooler than me.  He was actually the coolest guy I ever met. He carried himself comfortably around all sorts of people, and instinctively knew how to act in dicey or dangerous situations without ever seeming nervous or vulnerable (he was only vulnerable in matters of love.) He kept peoples' secrets, never gossiped, and had the enviable skill of knowing exactly how much to say in social situations, never too much or never too little. He never bragged about all he had seen and done in his 20's, or where he had traveled to, or even what famous men he had sex with. He didn't have to be overbearing for his opinions to matter, and for many people including myself, his yay or nay was the one that really counted. He was extremely smart and sophisticated but could still enjoy the genius in tacky or creepy things, without ever being tacky or creepy himself. Anything he put on looked good even if it looked bad on everyone else. He didn't need designer labels to have style, and his style was impossible to label.
   So besides being the sexiest and the coolest man I've ever known, it appears that he was also one of the most liked. Seriously. Brian's death has brought an amazing amount of attention to his life. People are coming out of the woodwork.  Calls, texts, emails. They're stopping me on the street just to tell me how much they liked him. Parents are telling me how much their kids looked up to him. People are even telling me how much their dogs liked him.

Bronski and Mack loved Brian's
 skateboard more than a steakbone

With his little Felon

  An extra sparkle lit up Brian whenever he was around children and dogs.


  The only people I've ever known to say they didn't like Brian were usually the ones who secretly loved Brian the most, but didn't get as much of him as they hoped for.
                          
                       *** THE LOVE ***


    I met Brian Murphy in San Francisco in 1997. By 'met' I mean had sex. We saw each other once after that, at a garage sale he was having.
              " Hey, it's you," I said to him.
              " Hey, it's you, " he repeated back. He told me he was moving to New York while he petted and kissed my boxers ( dogs, not underwear), as if he already knew that Bronski and Mack would eventually be his pets too.  
              " Too bad you're not staying here. Ever coming back? "
               " Who knows."  He flashed his silver-covered canines, reminding me that he had one of the most beautiful, fun smiles I had ever seen.  

I'm going to miss that smile

    By coincidence, or by luck, or fate, the dogs and I moved back to New York a year later to live with a man I had met over the summer on a trip to Fire Island. Just as my short-lived romance was coming to an end a few months after I arrived, I happened to be squatting down cleaning up Bronski and Mack's shit on Christopher Street when Brian rode by on his bike. 
              " Hey, it's you," I looked up and smiled as he quickly turned around his bike. 
             " Hey, it's you," he smiled down at me, " And them," he added, bending from his bike and reaching to pet the dogs.
             " When they shit in front of you it means they like you," I said, holding up the warm plastic bag as I stood. 
             "Well when I shit in front of you, it means the same thing," he said, grabbing the bag from my hand and peddling over to the trash can and back with his ass in the air.
   After telling him about my ill-fated romance, I asked him if he had any plans that night. I could see he suddenly got nervous. He told me he was in ' kind of a show, but more like an art piece'. He was hesitant to describe it, and even more hesitant to invite me. 
            "What happens if you don't like it and you get turned off?" Brian asked frankly.
             " It would be very difficult for you to turn-off anyone, Brian." I promised him a dinner no matter how I felt about the show. He agreed and gave me the time and address.
            " Will I recognize you?"
            " I'll be hanging around. You'll see me." Brian tried to smile but his nervousness only let him grin as he rode off.

   When I got to the space where the show was, I  realized why Brian didn't want to explain it. How does one explain being suspended from meat hooks pierced through your skin attached to elastic cords, without freaking people out? 

   It was my unexpected introduction into the world of Suspension. I had never seen, read or even heard of it before. Suspension, like so much else in the realm of tattooing and piercing, has its origin in tribal custom and dates back thousands of years. It moved underground in modern times but, like tattooing and piercing, was resurfacing again for nice Jewish boys from Long Island like me to see.
   In the past, it was more of a ritualized rite of passage for warriors that challenged physical endurance and mental control, but could also be used as a punishment or for torture. Now it's more of an artform, with modern warriors fighting against norms instead of enemy tribes.   

    When I first realized Brian was one of the performers hanging from the meat hooks, I was shocked, but luckily only for a moment. Only wearing white pants, his entire upper half was covered in white powder. The black-green of the mask was still showing through, along with dried blood where each hook was inserted. The mask's shape was being contorted by the pulling of the hooks, as if it was making faces at me.The more Brian leaned forward, the more the mask lifted away from him.         

    For a half an hour, I stood in back of him just watching as people stopped and stared. I heard all kinds of comments, from ''disgusting' and 'fucked up' to 'holy' and 'metamorphic'. After a few minutes I stopped caring what anyone was saying, and didn't even hear their voices anymore. Brian's slow movements and the shifting of the mask's shape were hypnotizing me. I started to see the beauty of it, and I saw an even greater beauty in Brian's artistic fearlessness. I wanted to defend him and show him off at the same time.
   I felt something inside that I recognized from my past. It was a feeling that I had known twice before. My heart, which had been sitting on the sidelines for 4 years recuperating from my break-up with Pepe, had suddenly appeared again and was back in the huddle, joining my mind and cock in the game. This was all going on inside me as I continued to silently watch him. I had fallen in love with Brian before he even knew I was there.  
   He was leaning forward with his eyes closed so he didn't see me come from behind. I stood right in front of him and leaned forward too.
              "Hey, it's you," I whispered into his ear.
   He opened his eyes and found me staring right at him. I saw a moment of panic in his eyes before he read the love in mine.
              "You are so cool. I'm so proud of you," I told him. I gave him a quick, gentle kiss on his powdered lips. " Is it OK if I wait until your done?"
             " If you want to. Of course," he smiled and straightened up, forgetting for a moment that he was attached to the meat hooks.
               " I'll be hanging around, " I smiled, saying good-bye with a toast of my drink as I started to walk towards one of the club's couches.
               "Hey," Brian called out to me.
    I turned and looked back at him.
               "It's you." 
                               
                 *** THE PROPHECY ***  

   There was a part of Brian that was even darker than his darkest gypsy features. It was the only part that was as powerful as his allure or his adventurous, wild spirit. The difference was that his spirit reached outward while this darkness burrowed in, like an auto-immune disease.        
    He was absolutely fearless and fun loving, but his heart was surprisingly fragile, especially for someone desired by so many. Physical pain didn't scare him. He laughed at piercings and lancing that would make warriors cry. The pain of being betrayed and then left was what frightened him so much. It was what his first boyfriend did by being murdered, it was what his next boyfriend William did by cheating on him, and it was what it felt like when his father, Wayne, got killed in a car crash when Brian was 12 months old, and when his mother, Robin, died from a pill overdose when Brian was 21. After she died, Brian was left with no family, except one wonderful aunt, Susie, who lives in Arizona and loved Brian like a son.
   He told me all of that and other facts as well, totally revealing himself that night, more than anyone ever does on a first date, and more than some people reveal themselves in an entire lifetime. He showed me levels of vulnerability and strength that I had never seen in someone. That first night, he also told me something else. Something that he was certain about. What he told me was melodramatic and macabre, but he said it so casually that I laughed it off. At 28 years old, Brian was totally comfortable telling me without hesitation or doubt that he would not live past the age of his mother's death, 41. 
   I was not the first one to hear this, or the last. Anyone who knew Brian well eventually heard the prophecy. When Brian felt a strong enough connection to strangers, they sometimes heard it too. He toasted to it each of the 13 birthdays I celebrated with him, including his 41st one, which was 11 months ago on May 22. 
     The whole subject of dying young was not as foreign or frightening to Brian as it is to the rest of us.  He already had his father die at 22, his first boyfriend get killed at 24, and his mother died at 41. Compared to 22, 41 must have seemed like a good, long life to Brian when he was growing up.
   Add to that the specter of AIDS that loomed over Brian's head in the late 80's and early 90's, when he was still living with the death sentence of having HIV before the protease inhibitors stopped all the mass dying in '95. Premature death was all around him, and he was forced like so many other gay men to reconcile himself with a shorter life, and somehow put a good spin on it. 
   Brian had been so familiar with premature death, and spent so much of his early life imagining his own early demise, that he had no real concept of growing old. 41 was as old as he knew how to be. It was the target he aimed for, the last island before a vast sea of uncharted waters. 41 was his lighthouse. There was nothing beyond it to guide him.  
   In Brian's eyes, 41 was a great accomplishment. He considered it quite a feat to have lived to this age. Considering his copious drug use and his 'big heart' 
( he was diagnosed with cardiomegaly, or enlarged heart, 5 years ago) he was holding up pretty well. 
   No one else can say if another person has lived a full life or not; some people feel they have had full lives in only half the time. Brian's fast-forward button was pressed long ago, and he tore through his life like very few other people in this world. He traveled more, saw more, fucked more, performed more, got photographed and interviewed more, read more, learned more, laughed more, dared more, risked more, and cried more than most people do in 70 years. 
   Brian truly expected to have a shorter life, and Brian usually got what Brian wanted. He was extremely stubborn and tenacious, and could do anything when he put his mind to it. That was how he became one of the youngest to ever be a Master Piercer in the entire piercing industry, and how in his mid 30's, right before his heart condition developed, he was able to graduate a Teaching Credential Program at SFSU with straight A's while being high everyday ( Yes, frightening yet astounding.) 
       Only such a person could get what he wanted from even Death Himself. Somehow Brian managed to die  exactly like he told me he would thirteen years earlier. Robin Murphy died on April 13th at 41, Brian Murphy died at 41 on April 14th exactly twenty years later. The unbelievable thing about this, the thing that makes it exquisite, the thing that makes it nothing less than stunning, is that Brian Murphy pulled this off without actually killing himself. Sure, he was absolutely gambling with his health everyday and speeding up his demise faster than most, but that's different from actually pulling a trigger, or swallowing pills, or jumping off a bridge. 

In the end, it was Brian's big heart that apparently, and ultimately, killed him.

    ============================

    There he was, Baby Brian, the quintessential man-boy. Dead but still amazingly beautiful. He was laying in bed, propped up on pillows with his head gently resting on his left shoulder, with his lube bottle and penis-pump nearby, porno set to 'repeat mode' still playing on the TV, and his clean-up towel already draped over himself. Brian Murphy, who could have died a hundred different times in a hundred different scenerios in a hundred different places with a hundred different people, died painlessly and peacefully after a little pleasure, safe in bed in the most comfortable position, at the age he always wanted to. I am so grateful for that and happy for him. I'm a little jealous too. We all hope we go as perfectly, but of course we won't. Only Brian Murphy gets to exit so exquisitely, that lucky stiff.

            

MONA PRISCILLA

     The best way of apologizing for being late with my next blog is to offer you this masterpiece of my mother Priscilla.  It is hard to place a value on such a rare photograph, but experts have appraised it somewhere in the $5-6 million dollar range. Never has she been captured so primal, with the same startled expression (and hairdo) as Big Foot.
    I had no idea what was inside the large envelope my brother Mitchell mailed me. When I opened the envelope and saw this, it felt like I found a lost Rembrandt or Picasso. I hope it is enough to keep you satisfied for at least a few more days until my next entry....

Priscilla at 58 once again appropriately dressed, this
time for her grandson Jared's 6th birthday party.

My ex Pepe  insisted that I post this picture of me
from one of my Halloweens. I can't imagine why.
(or I just don't want to admit it)

 ..

 It's only fair that my host, Michael V, have the chance to recall his memories of my trip...
      
             LIST OF 10 THINGS I CAN'T FORGET
   (or WHY I WOULD KILL MYSELF IF GARY COMES BACK TO AUSTRALIA )

 1. Gary's towel falling down to my friends' horror in their first meeting
     within an hour after his arrival in Sydney. I had specifically asked him
     not to embarrass me.*
 2. Taking the photo of my ass at The Harbor Party, once again
     embarrassing me in the glamour set.
 3. Gary falling asleep (passing out) at the most inappropriate times,
     causing me more embarrassment.
 4. Gary fucking all my friends, or at least asking them to
     show their asses, almost causing me social ruin.
 5. Not getting even one of the "supposed" fancy dinners he promised me.**
 6.  Overcooking a piece of some kind of white fish with freezer burn and serving it over clumpy white rice.  A colorless smorgesbord of blandness that looked and tasted like dirty snow.
 7. Gary's ever present ability to turn any situation into "his" situation.
     The discussions, the analysis, the coversations...the exhaustion!
 8. Gary 'watching me', correction, I meant to write 'stalking me', in my own apartment.
 9. He leaving more crumbs on my carpeting than Hansel and Gretal.   
10. Making my week wonderful & full of fun and love. Michael V
                                                                                          xxxxoooo  

*  To clarify number 1, Michael's friends had arrived early and I had just gotten out of the shower. I quickly put on a jock and wrapped a towel around myself so I could come out and say hi.   
   When Michael saw me, he yelled " Gary! I told you never to have a towel on
in front of my guests!"
   "I'm sorry, I forgot. No towel, " I said, ripping off my towel and standing in front of his friends only wearing my jock. "I'll never wear a towel in front of guests again."

 **  To clarify number 5, Michael was on his conference calls almost every weeknight, and on both The Harbor Party and Mardi Gras weekends, we forgot what 'dinner' even meant. Anyway, Michael eats as healthy and regimented as an Astronaut. He takes all the fun out of eating. The only thing he has at night is compressed tofu patties. He keeps no food at home so I had to do food shopping everyday at the Duffy's, the most expensive and gayest supermarket in the world, where mixed salad greens were $16 per pound.
    I'll be happy to take him out for a fancy meal when he comes here on a business trip two weeks from now. Deal?

gary glassMANLY --- Australia part 3

     Unfortunately, I was too busy moving washing machines, making calls, waiting for phones and computers to re-charge, writing my blog and having sex with Michael's friends to possibly do any sightseeing. I was having a great time without venturing out much, but everyone seemed to be worried that I wasn't seeing enough of Sydney.  Personally, indoor sightseeing is just as interesting to me. Eating out of someone's refrigerator, food shopping at the local Supermarket, having sex with someone's friends and neighbors and seeing their apartments, hearing someone's conversations with family and with people from work, meeting shopkeepers, having conversations with cab drivers, reading a newspaper or two and listening to the radio a little can tell you plenty about a country and it's culture.
     I have known Michael V for 16 years but this is the first time we are actually boyfriend-free at the same time. I am witnessing  Michael Untethered, alone for the first time in 14 years, able to do whatever he wants, and live wherever and however he wants. Lucky for me that the 'wherever' is in a very modern two bedroom apartment complete with a furnished guest bedroom at gay ground zero in Surry Hills. This trip to Australia gave me the chance to see Michael at all different times of the day and learn his habits and routines. It was my version of bird watching, only I didn't have to go to the Australian bush.  I could just hang around the apartment and watch Michael, who was louder and fancier than the Cockatoo or any other bird in the wild.  
    One of the most fascinating and foreign things to me that I witnessed a few times was the nightly ritual of the conference call. Very few people ever witnessed Michael on one of these calls, so I felt privileged to experience it. I would sit across the dining room table from him writing my blog on one of his laptops as he sat  facing my direction with his other laptop he used for work. The calls didn't include a web cam hook-up so he could wear his gym shorts and tank top as he talked into his cellphone on the table switched to 'speaker phone' mode. Michael led each call, orchestrating with perfect ease whichever three or four HR employees he wanted to talk to. He asked questions and then listened to thei responses, chiming in when he felt it necessary. 
    I always tried to stay very quiet when he switched on his speaker to comment to the group. I didn't want to ruffle any of his feathers when he was busy like this, or do anything else during these calls that would cause him to peck my eyes out.  Occasionally, he would look at me and smile, and other times he would pass me notes that said things like 'if you don't stop watching me I'm going to bash your head against that marble countertop.'
   Ever since I met Michael, I've wondered how a man who behaves like a high school girl is able to climb so high up the corporate ladder. Hearing him so skillfully juggle several employees as he comes up with answers or solutions on the spot to every question or problem thrown at him,  I see why he's paid so well. He speaks in a way that commands respect but still manages to be playful and even  bitchy when he wants to.
     This is what makes Michael V such a unique person. He is in touch with his goodness and with his badness, and is happy to unleash both of these parts of himself out into the world without hardly any restrictions. He doesn't favor one part over the other, and never apologizes for the behavior of either of the two. He is not embarrassed to let both show, and really doesn't care if anyone is offended by them.  He brilliantly blends the confident, assertive, shrewd business man he needs to be with that silly, sexy, stupidly generous and shamelessly shallow high school girl he wants to be. This cocktail of charecteristics makes him into what can only be described as a cross between Rupert Murdoch and Marilyn Monroe.   

 

 Getting the opportunity to witness Michael V in his natural habitat was a rare treat. I really didn't have to do anything else in Australia to consider it a successful trip. Michael thought otherwise.
     " I didn't spend all that money flying you here and on that expensive camera for your birthday so you could take a picture of my ass blocking The Opera House at the Harbor Party",  he said as he turned and walked into my bedroom and came back with the camera he bought me. "Here," he said, putting the camera in my hand. "You've got one day left before all the Mardi Gras parties start. Go and see Sydney. And I want proof. Bring me back a photo of The Opera House and of Manly Beach and of three other interesting things." He held up my keys to his apartment that he must have grabbed when he got the camera off the dresser in my room. " I leave here for work in 25 minutes. That's the amount of time you have to get yourself ready to spend the entire day out seeing the city. The door locks behind us at 9 A.M. and doesn't open again until I got home at 6 P.M." He dangled my keys in front of me then put them in his pocket. "Better start getting ready, darling."
   As an extra punishment for starting my sightseeing so late in the trip, God sent down rain just to make my task more challenging.  Luckily my friend Michael P gave me simple directions to get me from Michael V's building to Sydney Harbor. The wet trek was basically in a straight line, which meant it was almost impossible for me to get lost. I walked through Hyde Park  and onto the beginning of Macquarie Street, where the original prison stands that was used for the British convicts shipped off to Australia,  called the Hyde Park Barracks. A lot of historical sites are on Macquarie Street making it perfect for my high speed whirlwind tour as I headed towards the Harbor. Along the way, I saw the first Mint building and went into Sydney Hospital that looks more like a museum. Then I went into the Royal Botanical Gardens where I stood in the rain and took pictures as proof that I was actually there.

Sydney Hospital dates back to late 1800's.

The Royal (And Wet) Botanic Gardens

I considered this fabulous woman in her eighties named Trish to be
one of the most interesting sights of the day.

      I continued my pilgrimage until I saw the top of The Opera House. It reminded me of when my ex Alex and I walked 5 kilometers at 3:00 AM in Paris to reach The Eiffel Tower, and how exciting it was to first spot it in the distance. I was proud that I found The Opera House by myself, though in all honesty, the route is so simple that Helen Keller could have tracked it down. 
   What surprised me immediately is that The Opera House is actually three separate buildings right next to each other, which isn't overly obvious in many of the pictures I've seen. They actually look like a mother dinosaur and her two children sleeping on their stomachs sunning themselves.  
   Michael didn't say which part of the Opera House I should take a picture of, so I went inside to the lower level and took these shots of the mens bathroom. I liked how the the curves of the stalls and of the long singular sink play off the shapes of the huge curved domes of the buildings.

I made sure no feet were showing

I waited until no one needed it

    
  

      I did take one shot of the Opera House from the deck of the ferry as we pulled away from the dock ( I tend to be drawn to the backsides of things).

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These bonnets were the inspiration for the design of the Opera House roofs.

     It was pouring 20 minutes later when I reached Manly Wharf. There was no beach in sight, so I had to ask for directions. Already looking crazy walking around in the pouring rain, I frightened two separate people by stuttering on the word 'Manly', as I do quite often with m's. One of them got so scared that she just pointed in the direction as she hurried away. I had to ask a third time in a gas station before I finally knew where to go.
     The beach was on the other side of the island from where Manly Wharf was. I started walking with my hat and headphones on and didn't stop until I found it an hour later. I crossed the last street and climbed down the wet sand covered steps onto the beach. I couldn't believe I was the only one there! What happened to the famous Manly Beach with all it's manly men?  If they were really manly, they would be at the beach in the rain. That's what a manly man like me does.  I mean a manly retarded man, which was what I must have looked like to anyone passing in their cars watching me taking pictures of myself on the beach in the rain.

I took a shot of my arm just to show how wet I was

                                                     MANLESS BEACH