Homoskedasticity

I close the door behind me, relieved to have the three pieces of paper finally in hand: discharge summary, medical certificate, prescription. I resist the urge to pull down the Oakleys on my head to block out the room’s fluorescent white. Its ability to separate my fringe away from my eyes, acting as makeshift headband, strengthens my resolve.

I notice him already looking at me. My eyes drift instinctively to his bare limbs; first the left shoulder and then the rest of his slender arm, following it down to the pale-coloured hairs on his legs. He sits patiently in the waiting room aisle with girlfriend to his right. He wears his loose, grey singlet and matching footy shorts with confidence just short of bravado.

The peak of his baseball cap blocks my view for a moment but after a few steps he shows me his pistachio green eyes. I nod appreciatively. He remains seated. I don’t glance back.

Pro Hart: The Tribute = $39.95
2 Damien Rice CDs = $19.99
The Cure's new album "4:13 Dream" = $19.95
Kandinsky: The Journey to Abstraction = $32.95

The look on mum's face when she finds out I'm spending manically again = Priceless

Appointment with p-doc on Wednesday went splendidly. For $280 per hour initial consultation, I should better well hope so. Thankfully, Medicare gives back $204.40. Subsequent visits are $150 ($104.55 refundable). Being crazy simply ain't cheap, is it? Needless to say, I milked every cent of it!

P-doc is a gentle grey-haired geezer named Robin, an erudite with epicurean tastes and sensibilities (read: gay) who didn't bat an eyelid when I described my poetics as Coleridgean. He even impressed with knowledge of Samuel Taylor's assistive devices when composing his best work. Yep, Robin is a keeper orright...

Next appointment is in two weeks when I plan to make my couch debut; p-doc's is a yellow, leather-bound monster fit for a king...or in my case, a queen.

Visit to narky nephrologist yesterday was altogether unremarkable. For one thing I am no longer "fat boy" but "bad boy" for failing to see him in twelve months. Gee, I wonder why? But rest assured his testicles were out of harm's way, or rather, my right foot's due to his 'improved' opinion of me.

All my tests and scans came back normal so my kidneys are in good shape. My high blood pressure is therefore genetically inherited (not renal related) so I'll need hypertensive medication for the rest of my life. I'm taking Coversyl again, which contains the active ingredient perindopril, a type of ACE inhibitor that in turn, lowers BP. I started taking this drug again three weeks ago (after a ten-month hiatus), but in its Coversyl-Plus form, containing another active ingredient called indapamide, a type of diuretic. This drug lowered my systolic BP, not just diastolic. Never should've stopped taking these pills in the first place but headstrong me thought good ol' diet and exercise could beat it. Even started ordering 'reduced salt' meals at restaurants. Still, no cigar. Obviously.

In other news, Dr Narky's scale is a liar - adding 5kg to my weight at the GP's and thus adding further credibility to his fat boy comments. But much to my relief, 6kg had been shed nonetheless (not 8kg as I had claimed in an earlier post). Sadly though, BMI still thinks I’m overweight. Boohoo!

Meanwhile, I’ve been given the all clear. Physically that is. Narky doesn’t need to see me anymore now that BP is under control, my sleep is back to normal and I exercise regularly. He was true to form when parting ways, however, frowning upon my snowboarding escapades and aspirations. “So you want to kill yourself?” he says.

Not on your life…

Mother is sitting next to me listening to Taylor Dayne bellow out "someday you will find me again, it won't be long". I signal left to turn into Copperfield Drive, a familiar routine this last three weeks, en route to the hospital to visit father. It's his fourth stint in ten months and second in as many.

Round the bend an indigo convertible with its top down cruises on the other side, in third. A middle-aged woman with brown hair, tied back away from her face, draws a breath from her cigarette, left hand on the wheel. She exhales while I finish my turn.

Song changes to Young Hearts Run Free. Looking at the rearview mirror, I can't help but give myself a Duchenne smile.

I place the white 'music maker' marked R in my right ear and the corresponding L in my left to drown out the fat man's inane talk. I can still hear him. He talks of a fruitless search for some exotic soundtrack at Sanity. Why didn't I sit somewhere else? I shake the silver Nano that's in my hand. The 'shuffle' lands on Craig David's Fill Me In. I think about giving it another shake. I don't.

A Punjabi boy and his little sister are running away from their mother on the platform. The mother is in a yellow ochre dress, the kind that makes a woman look like she's wearing pants and a long scarf is trailing her. She grabs her children in one swooping motion, with her right arm and hand. The kids appear to be screaming. Craig David breaks into chorus.

People are starting to mill about on the other side, on their feet and eager. I get up as well, glad to be in air-conditioned luxury very shortly, as I spot the Tangara. I join a crowd, one of many, waiting for the doors to open.

I stand behind him, close enough to smell sweat and cigarettes, matching the dirt patches on his fluorescent yellow polo and navy blue King Gees. I look up at his gel-styled blonde hair and strangely, not a piece out of place. Every wave, every strand, still intact. In precise alignment and unruffled by the day's work. Even the two rat's tails dangling along the back of his neck seem deliberate.

The temperature drops the moment the doors slide apart. We let the Punjabi mother push her pram in first, her brats tugging at her sides. I spot a few empty seats upstairs. He remains standing. A schoolgirl gives up her seat. I climb the stairs and sit down. I can't see him anymore.

The mother takes a seat, resting an arm on the pram. I hear the beginnings of a guitar strumming and immediately recognise Jewel's Standing Still. The kids have escaped their mother's claw and are running up and down the upstairs aisle. The girl is screaming her lungs out. I can feel the carriage's collective wrath. The mother remains seated. Dejected.

I take deep breaths and turn up the volume. The girl's shrieking has jumped an octave. We come to a stop and the mother swoops up her children effortlessly once again, hopping out on to the platform with pram in tow. I sigh a sigh of relief as I hear the ever-familiar "Please stand clear, doors are closing" announcement.

I move over to the window. He's jumped out too. The wind is blowing his rat's tails to the left. He's carrying a grey CD Walkman in his right hand. His headphones are black.

He carries his helmet like it's a briefcase, light enough to be carried comfortably but holding enough material inside to put some strain on his right arm. I'm in front. He follows. The automatic sliding door gives me a glimpse of his reflection for a moment. Until it's cruelly snatched away.

I slot Michael Cunningham's The Hours through the chute, turning around briefly to steal another glance. I breathe the sweet familiar smell of CK 'One' as he walks to the service desk. He says something inaudible to the woman behind the counter, presenting a white plastic card as he does so.

From behind the catalogue terminal, his black heavy-set jacket, matching Billabong shorts with white horizontal stripes and dirty, worn-in sneakers offer a certain dubious allure, as I type QWERTY into the search field.

"That'll be $2.20 thanks. And you're on Number 4", says the woman.

I scan the aisles hurriedly for the spine F/WOO. Mrs. Dalloway isn't there. He disappears into the 'Technology Centre'. I follow. From a distance.

I don't see him sit down. The square, glass window provides an asymmetric frame around him and the guy he's sitting next to. I walk past, very slowly, to read Lonsdale on his tight-fitting grey shirt. He has dark brown hair. The word 'Mason' is tattooed on his left forearm in Old English Gothic font.

I walk back the same way, pretending to retrace my steps, only this time a little quicker. He catches me out and we exchange glances. He gives me a wry smile. Did I smile first?

I feel something vibrate in my pocket. The sultry Spanish singer belting out the salsa tune 'O Sono Mayor', the default ringtone of my Nokia Navigator echoes across the aisles. He looks up and I look away. Embarrassed.

I mutter a few words then hang up. I walk out of the building saying under my breath, "Maskulado".

Hold on a minute, isn't that Kelly Slater? Yeah it is. I gotta have a look. His head's shaved completely these days. "Kelly Slater is to surfing what Tiger is to golf and Lance is to cycling." Well duh? I coulda told ya that!

Flick, flick, flick. Page 56.

Ooh, there's a new surfing flick coming out November 6...that would've been Thursday this week. It's called Newcastle. Wonder if Marvette wants to see it with me? He's from Newcastle originally, isn't he?

A group of boys and couple of chicks go away for the weekend, yada yada yada, until tragedy strikes...

Sounds alright. Chick behind the counter's a bit of alright as well. She's a blonde. I think.

"Cheque", I say.

"PIN number and okay please."

Now who's this guy? Why is he looking at me? Have I got snot on my face or something? Nah, nuthin. Wonder if I know him from school? Is he the Asian kid I beat up in Year 7? Doubt it. This guy's pretty solid. And he's wearing Oakleys on the top of his head like all the cool kids.

"Cheers", I tell the blondish chick.

He's still looking at me. Should I smile? Say g'day?

Fuck, I better go to Woolies before it shuts! Is he still looking at me? Yep.

I spot him a mile away. Standing there in a blue Bonds wifebeater with white and lime green floral boardies, looking like he should be at the beach instead of the mall. I hear the girl behind the counter ask him, "Cheque or Savings?", as I give him the obligatory up-and-down while pretending to look for The New Scientist or The Economist.

"Cheque", he says. He must bank with NAB like me.

He acknowledges my stare and doesn't look away. I circle around him for a little while. I see pale, white skin covering a lithe but slightly muscular build.

He heads towards Woolworths while I go the other way, to Soul Pattinson. I turn around after a few metres. He's looking back too.

I sing softly some Roxette, "hold on tight, you know he's a little bit dangerous..."

More than 10,000 people took part in the 9km Sunday Telegraph body+soul Bridge Run which was won by North Wollongong’s Russell Dessaix-Chin (00:26:33), followed by Rowan Walker of Page (00:26:51) and Bulli’s Ryan Gregson (00:27:24). The first woman across the line was Eliza Stewart of Marsfield in 00:30:36, with Elizabeth Miller of Randwick (00:31:38) in second place and Anita Keen of Wollongong (00:32:31) third.

http://res.championchipaustralia.com/cert.asp?ID=1094&athID=734190
Bib Number = 16703
Time = 00:52:22
Category = M20-29
Overall Place = 3,957 (out of 8,475)
Gender Place = 2,363 (out of 3670)
Category Place = 678 (out of 958)

1. Wish You Were Here - Incubus
2. Top Of The World - Brandy feat. Mase
3. You Can Do It - Ice Cube feat. Mack 10 and Ms. Toi
4. Buy Now Pay Later - The Whitlams
5. Comedown - Bush

For the full set, go to my Picasa. For my faves, go to my Facebook.

Just spent $55 at the Smith Family Store in Campbelltown – bought 7 shirts at $2 each, Hugo Boss pants for $20.50 and Versace jeans also for $20.50 (yes I am a labelwhore). And to think I usually spend that much on a shirt alone! I hereby declare that I am strictly an op-shopper from now on. Now if only there was a catwalk about…

PS. I’m thinking about changing my profile pic to this:

Yea or nay?

It’s my last day at work before three and a half months of lazy and leisurely pursuits, courtesy of uni summer holidays. Ah, the joys of paid annual leave for ‘seasonal’ employees! Despite not clocking in each day, I’ll still be raking in the same amount of peanuts money as I’d normally do had I been working. For the whole three and half months! I love the way that cookie crumbles.

I’ll have so much free time on my hands, I doubt I’ll find the time for much else at all. Except be free, that is. And as usual, I’ve made no definite plans to travel or do anything exciting, as most people would do when in Rome. I’m not much of a traveller. Or a planner. I tend to just go with the proverbial flow, ride the wave to wherever this cliché will take me.

Unlike an annoyingly ‘well-rounded’ workmate of mine who has all these grand plans for the summer: jetsetting off to Thailand next week, organising a Christmas party for the Wayside Chapel in Kings Cross (he does volunteer work with junkies, prostitutes and the homeless every Friday night), producing an ABC documentary, cooking classes, ballroom dancing, starting full-time work as a suit next year, blah blah blah, the list goes on…

I guess I’m just not a very interesting person. In fact, the most interesting thing about me is how incredibly dull I am. Not that I’m complaining, of course. Being interesting requires effort and frankly, I prefer to live effortlessly. But in saying that, I will need to pull my socks up a little bit so I don’t become completely uninteresting and/or apathetic. Up the ante and raise the bar, as they say on Idol. So I’ve set myself three short-term goals for the next three and a half months. Hopefully, by writing them down and announcing it the whole world (or at least the LJ world) I’ll set the wheels in motion. And keep them turning until I cross the finish line. Gosh, I’m a walking clichéwhore today!

( Driver’s Licence )

( Health and Fitness )

( Piano )

Meet my new TV boyfriend, Leon Ockenden, who plays Callum in Tripping Over.

Come celebrate Friday the 13th tomorrow night at Club 77. I haven't stepped foot inside this once familiar haunt since the turn of the century (seven years ago) so it'll be a trip down to Nostalgia Lane for me. Should be spooky...

So far my retinue consists of one so feel free to add to it! C'mon join the joyride...

It seems I've had another wardrobe misplacement over the weekend. My black Bonds wifebeater has gone AWOL, last seen in the vicinity of Fagstreet on Saturday morning between the hours of 2am and 7am. Surprisingly, I managed not to lose the blue shirt I had on top of the aforementioned garment but do not recall ever removing the missing item during the period in question.

My last recollection of the misplaced item of clothing was on the dancefloor at the Shift, where a down-and-out young man of nondescript appearance (and a voice strangely reminiscent of Kermit The Frog) proceeded to tell me a sob-story of how he had been crying earlier in the evening, for reasons I could not hear over Christina Aguilera’s ‘Ain’t No Other Man’ blaring in the background. When he looked like he was about to burst in to tears again, as he continued his narrative, I did what any kind-hearted man-of-questionable-conscience would do: I kissed him. And we carried on kissing for what seemed like an eternity.

When our mouths finally agreed to part company, he started talking again about god-knows-what in a more pronounced Kermitian fashion. I soon put a stop to that. Alas, he didn’t transform into Prince Charming. As the dancefloor heated up, beads of sweat started to appear on my forehead. This signalled the obligatory de-shirting ritual; black singlet exempt, of course. Ritual dictated that my blue shirt be tucked neatly away in my back pocket, while further dancing, sweating and kissing ensued.

Soon enough Kermit asked the inevitable, to which I noncommittally replied, “Maybe later?” as the turntables spun Nelly Furtado’s ‘Promiscuous’. That was the last I saw of him. And my black singlet.

While on my lunch break at Pitt St Mall today I witnessed a street-theatre magician swallow a two-metre long tubular balloon (the ones used to make balloon animals) in front of a very receptive audience. With so many school kiddies around, on account of school holidays, I couldn't help but think how inappopriate this performance was. I nearly gagged just by looking at him. I noticed a few nearby spectators looking away as the tube disappeared down his throat. Obviously their gag reflex ain't as good as mine!