I should stay indoors permanently as I only get into trouble when I go out into society. The Piccolo Cafe is an endless source of grief yet I suppose I need the spice of life it provides for I yo-yo in and out of the hotspot like a zombie. I was sitting there, lonely and desperate, when an old ex non-boyfriend showed up and asked if he could sit with me. His name is Adyll and he is a DILL! He has robbed me twice over the years and I hate his guts but he gushed friendliness all over me, seemed straight and clean, and his crotch bulged erotically so I gave in and smiled in return. Big mistake as he turned up at my flat a few days later, talked bullshit to me for a few minutes then stole my best sunglasses as he went out the door.
Then he had the nerve to come back the next day as innocent as mud-pie and when I accused him of being a moronic thief he went into an ICE-cold rage and chucked a rock thru my window, screaming blue murder for half an hour, threatening to kill me if he saw me at the Piccolo. (On revisiting one of my all-time favourite movies, "Midnight Cowboy", I realised I'd led a life close to that of poor Ratzo with years of squatting in derelict dumps, scrabbling for food wherever it was handed out, rifling thru punter's pockets, hustling my butt or that of my mates, a pauper poof without the spunk of Joe Buck, my story could be more appropriately tagged "midnight cowfag" but at least I didn't die in a puddle of piss on a bus to Queensland.) Anyway, I shat myself for a week imagining the hobgoblin Adyll at my door then I fled to Melbourne, hoping it would blow over. I'm always escaping from one imbroglio to another like an outlaw on the run, never ever settling down into complacent quietude, a restless homo sap sap sapien.
Yet I lucked out, for I was led straight to a cosmic event in a Pub in inner-city Melbourne, a memorial concert to a woman named Gaia, a great soul who had given her life to helping Aboriginal artists find their way. She was a white woman who had married a black and was the only known whitie to have walked the song-lines of Northern Auz on the directions of the Elders. The royalty of Aboriginal music flew in from all over Auz to perform, each act better than the one before, Joe Gaia, the Dili All Stars, David Bridie, Amy Saunders, Dave Mann, Sally Dastey, on and on, such sweet voiced heartfelft soulfull music that I wept with sad joy, all culminating in Archie Roach singing his big hit, "They Took the Children Away", with a choir of all the other acts behind him. A white light exploded in my head, my eyes rolled back in ecstasy, he'd never sang it better, especially the refrain "bring the children back home", it went to my heart, for that Pub was in Richmond, where I had been born and spent the first 7 years of my life, and after travelling the world for 50 years, I was another troubled child who had found his way home.
I've been to 49 trully great music recitals in my life and that was definitely one of them, convincing me that the first tattoo I'm to do upon myself with my new tattoo kit will be an Aboriginal design of a kangaroo, for after all I am a 7th generation Auzzie, Auz is deep down in my blood, and I pray there's even some Abbo genes in there somewhere, my family's been here long enough. And how cool my family was to me for those loving 2 weeks I hid out in Melbourne, lots of counter meals in pubs and cakes in French patisseries, then off to the Coburg drive-in movies to relish "Pirates of the Carribean 3" with hamburgers and pot in the car, and gyspy music from "Babaganoosh" in a funky hall in Fitzroy, white Auzzie maestros who again pushed me over the edge into bliss, especially the girl violinist who did a Verdi song.
Back in Sydney I reverted to the Piccolo for my daily dose of drama, Hamid the gay black African commiserating with me over the pitfalls of unrequited, unasked for bad-love, both of our nemesis showing up as if summoned by a seance, for him the dreaded Stephan who had broken a bottle over his head after Hamid had given him a blow job, for me the horrid Adyll smacking me on the back of the head as he strode past, yikes, what a life! The two goons met on the corner and blabbed drug deals then marched off without another look at us two sorry fags. That fucker Adyll is a bad-arse Christian wog from Syria who had been sponsored to Auz by his uncle and from the moment he arrived at the age of 17 has done nothing but bash and rob any Auzzie unlucky enough to cross his path. Now at 32 he's spent half his life in gaol, apparently has assaulted yet another victim recently and so hopefully will not be free for long. I'd like to see him parachuted back into Syria where he'd quickly learn the differance between paradise and hell. But I was a fool for even looking twice at him, he glows trouble, so I deserved all the grief I got.
Like a murder of crows on Desolation Row, the poofs seated outside the Piccolo all gazed at me as if shellshocked. There was Fat Greg smoking up a storm, just out of hospital after his umpteenth heart attack, the fire brigade had to get a crane to lift him from his bed and heave him into the ambulence. He had the Last Rites read over him and still he staggered back into existence, three cigarettes in his mouth, this guy wants to kill himself, he can't take "the horror" no more. And oh oh, here comes the 'gay priest', white collar choking and black frock flapping, a smug, holier than thou look upon his face, his aura electric with deviant angst. He's come out from England to proselytise us godless colonials and espouses some weird hybrid Christianity, mad as a UFO cult, with arcane crucifix tattoos on his arm that he flashes as proof of his hipness.
Three doors up from the Piccolo Cafe is John's antique store. His sister Sue came rushing into the Cafe in tears, hysterical, she couldn't take IT anymore. For she'd been begged into letting her main bedroom to the 'gay priest' and he wasn't as lovely as he made out. He'd turned the pristine room into a pigsty, weeks old food stuck all over, fan heater on full blast for days and blowing the circuitry, refusing to pay his share of the bills, tapping into her internet account, a real user and bludger of the highest order. He's always drugged up, even on Good Friday he lay about his room drunk as a skunk, spends most nights in the backrooms on Oxford street giving sex to all and sundry, and has nothing but abuse for us Auzzies, declaring us to be uncultured, iredeemable boors whom he hates thoroughly. What kind of 'priest' is this?
No priest at all we now suspect. It's all a con job, he's come out to the antipodes hoping to fleece the stupid colonials with his outrageous costume of black frock and white collar, like it will get him an easy living. What a nerve, what a fuckwit! As he strides by me I'm tempted to step on his black robe and trip him up, then kick him in the arse. It's bad enough being a priest amongst pagan atheists, but to be a false priest, and egregiously gay at that, takes the half-baked cake. Over the 30 years I've hung out at the Piccolo I've seen all types of con artists and bullshitters creep by but this guy gets the Wooden Spoon award, shoved up his black frock hopefully. Talk about midnight cowfags, even Mother Gaia would disown him. At last I can feel smug about myself, I'm a demonic angel in comparison.
