Wisps In The Sun
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"We went there for everything we needed. we went there when thirsty, of course, and when hungry, and when dead tired. We went there when happy, to celebrate, and when sad, to sulk. We went there after weddings and funerals, for something to settle our nerves, and always for a shot of courage just before. We went there when we didn't know what we needed, hoping someone might tell us. We went there when looking for love, or sex, or trouble, or for someone who had gone missing, because sooner or later everyone turned up there. Most of all we went there when we needed to be found...
"Everyone has a holy place, a refuge, where their heart is purer, their mind clearer, where they feel closer to God or love or truth or whatever it is they happen to worship. For better or worse my holy place was Steve's bar. And because I found it in my youth, the bar was that much more sacred, its image clouded by that special reverence children accord those places where they feel safe. Others might feel this way about a classroom or playground, a theater or church, a laboratory or library or stadium. Even a home. But none of these places claimed me. We exalt what is at hand. Had I grown up beside a river or an ocean, some natural avenue of self-discovery and escape, I might have mythologized it. Instead I grew up 142 steps from a glorious old American tavern, and that has made all the difference."
www.thetenderbar.com
Taylor's Square. All sorts of scenes unfold before our eyes.
What about her, I say, pointing to a six foot six if she was an inch giant drag queen on the opposite side of the road. She looks amazing. She looked, well, like a drag queen who had been up carousing all night. It was 10am, the morning after the Mardi Gras. Music continued to thump from open bars, groups huddled on the street, seemingly unaware that the sun had come up and that they were no longer inside a bar. Sea gulls continued their scavenging in between these improbable scenes.
Yeh, she looks great, Amos the photographer said.
We pressed the buzzer, intending to head over her side of the street. But then suddenly she was heading our way, towering over everybody else on the crossing.
She swished her giant thighs, and as she got closer it was clear the makeup was trowelled on an inch thick; the wig in disarray from the long night.
Mind if we take your photograph, we asked, and like all good tarts she posed; batting those giant eyelashes, gazing down at us.
You look fabulous, I said. "Striking" would have been more truthful.
Do you think so? she bellowed. I don't believe you. A few hours ago maybe.
I jotted down her observations in a reporters pad, but her attention span was not great.
I've got to go, my boyfriend's over there, she said.
I watched her sashay back across the road, her giant legs on top of high heels, all spangles and makeup, glitter and chaos. That wig was getting wobblier by the minute.
Curious, I kept my eyes on her. I wanted to see what the boyfriend was like.
There's someone for everyone, they say, but was there really anyone for her? Out here in the sunlight, where everybody could see, where the traffic flowed slowly, jammed with suburbanites gazing out their windows from their different worlds. Look at her, look at her, laughing to themselves at all the sights on the street.
She was liaising with a group on the other side, in the plaza, the spot where more than 20 years ago all the city's derelicts used to gather, before it was renovated, modernised, and the ancient spirits that used to congregate there were dispersed. I wrote a story about it, I had written a story on just about everything in this town.
But now she was there, liaising with a clearly drunken group of young men; and then suddenly she was back, escorting, virtually dragging a young blond boy, handsome, all of a piece, maybe 20, no older, tiny in contrast to her, back across the road.
He weaved back and forth, clearly so drunk he would have no memory of what had happened the next day, in glorious blackout. His pants were falling down and he was horny, obviously. Drunk and horny and with absolutely no idea where he was or what was happening to him. She kept guiding him across the road, spotted a taxi and bundled him into it before he knew what he was doing.
Then a scene erupted in front of us.
A young man was at the door of the taxi, yelling, get out of the cab, get out of the cab. He had opened the door and kept yelling, get out, get out.
For a minute I thought it must be her jealous boyfriend, other boyfriend.
The drag queen was having none of this. She yanked the door shut and I could see her ordering the Asian taxi driver to go, just go.
He hesitated for a moment and then was off, the angry man on the street having no option but to let go of the door.
Bugger bugger bugger the man said, talking loudly to himself, perhaps offering us, the watching crowd, an explanation as the taxi roared off up Oxford Street. Bugger bugger, I can';t believe it, I can't believe it, bugger, bugger. I promised his girlfriend I would look after him. He doesn't even know it's not a girl. I promised his girlfriend I would look after him, now look what's happened. He doesn't know it's a drag.
Blind Freddy could have told you she was a drag queen; but maybe he didn't really know, he was so pissed.
Maybe he didn't really care; the things she had whispered in his ear she would do for him.
Amos and I glanced sideways at each other and then burst out laughing.
This job had its moments.
That bloke's going to get a shock when he wakes up in the morning, Amos said.
What a sight that would be, I said, and laughed some more.
And all around, the party continued. Nobody had had any sleep; sunglasses hiding bloodshot eyes, bleary drunken faces, never say die, no one wanting to call it a night, or day, and go home. There was always one more dance, one more moment. There was always a future life, a path not taken. Muscle Marys, leather boys, aging party girls, twinks, handsome young men, straight couples out for a party, they drifted by, singly or in knots; and the seagulls and the traffic and the dust swirled into one great camp moment, the flapping wrists and the bar laughter, the canned moments of liquid ecstasy coating the day, a glorious fun he could no longer access.
THE BIGGER STORY:
http://illawarra.yourguide.com.au/news/local/general/i-was-just-doing-my-job-hay/1194103.html
Two days after being stood down from her role as Parliamentary Secretary for Health, Noreen Hay was still trying to come to terms with the political and personal fallout of being linked to alleged corrupt developer Frank Vellar.
The Wollongong MP said she suspected her name might be mentioned during the ICAC public inquiry into allegations of corruption at Wollongong City Council, but had not been prepared for the reaction.
Speaking publicly for the first time yesterday, Ms Hay told the Illawarra Mercury that she had done nothing wrong and that her dealings with Mr Vellar were part of her job as a NSW MP.
She harbours no animosity towards Premier Morris Iemma for ordering her to stand down from her parliamentary secretary duties.
"After the tough stand he took in the Parliament in the middle of last week, he had little choice when my name came up in the commission," Ms Hay said.
But she was taken aback by the attention paid to her by some sections of the Sydney media, which she claimed misrepresented the brief dealings she had with Mr Vellar, when he sought her political support in relation to his development application for the upgrade of the North Beach Bathers' Pavilion in October, 2006.
http://www.smh.com.au/news/national/iemmas-toughest-ugliest-days/2008/03/02/1204402275117.html
MORRIS IEMMA has admitted that the past 10 days have been the toughest and ugliest in his political career as the Wollongong City Council corruption scandal worsens.
The Premier was trying to boast yesterday about a new index ranking Sydney as the best city in the world but all attention was on the crisis that has now implicated at least one of his MPs, the member for Wollongong , Noreen Hay.
It was revealed on Friday that Ms Hay had agreed to a request from allegedly corrupt property developer, Frank Vellar, to solicit the support of three Wollongong Labor councillors for Mr Vellar's North Beach Bathers' Pavilion.
Mr Vellar also gave Ms Hay the rent-free use of an empty shopfront for her re-election campaign in 2007. Ms Hay has maintained she has not acted inappropriately.
"It's probably the toughest period, it is probably the ugliest period but it does not change my resolve and determination to see it through and get the job done," Mr Iemma said.
He said he would sack the council, even if the Independent Commission Against Corruption did not recommend it.
"If there is a recommendation, the council will be sacked immediately," Mr Iemma said yesterday.
"If he doesn't make a recommendation that the council be sacked tomorrow, or at the conclusion of his inquiry, it is still open if there is evidence and information that goes to the reputation of the council - I'm not ruling it out," he said.
http://www.theaustralian.news.com.au/story/0,25197,23308220-5006784,00.html
MORE dramatic revelations are expected to be made today before the NSW Independent Commission Against Corruption as the inquiry into corruption involving influential state Labor figures draws to a close.
Commissioner Jerrold Cripps QC is likely this morning to recommend that Wollongong Council be sacked because of "systemic corruption". Premier Morris Iemma would almost certainly act on that recommendation immediately.
Links with the embattled Iemma Government are likely to be drawn today when Joe Scimone, a confidant of NSW Ports Minister Joe Tripodi, gives evidence.
Mr Scimone held several senior positions at Wollongong Council from 1992 to last year. After leaving the council, he was given a $200,000-a-year job in Mr Tripodi's department, despite the pending ICAC investigation and despite leaving the council after a sexual harassment case was brought against him.
Joyce and Northshore Robin. The streets of Waterloo, Sydney.
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"We went there for everything we needed. we went there when thirsty, of course, and when hungry, and when dead tired. We went there when happy, to celebrate, and when sad, to sulk. We went there after weddings and funerals, for something to settle our nerves, and always for a shot of courage just before. We went there when we didn't know what we needed, hoping someone might tell us. We went there when looking for love, or sex, or trouble, or for someone who had gone missing, because sooner or later everyone turned up there. Most of all we went there when we needed to be found...
"Everyone has a holy place, a refuge, where their heart is purer, their mind clearer, where they feel closer to God or love or truth or whatever it is they happen to worship. For better or worse my holy place was Steve's bar. And because I found it in my youth, the bar was that much more sacred, its image clouded by that special reverence children accord those places where they feel safe. Others might feel this way about a classroom or playground, a theater or church, a laboratory or library or stadium. Even a home. But none of these places claimed me. We exalt what is at hand. Had I grown up beside a river or an ocean, some natural avenue of self-discovery and escape, I might have mythologized it. Instead I grew up 142 steps from a glorious old American tavern, and that has made all the difference."
www.thetenderbar.com
Taylor's Square. All sorts of scenes unfold before our eyes.
What about her, I say, pointing to a six foot six if she was an inch giant drag queen on the opposite side of the road. She looks amazing. She looked, well, like a drag queen who had been up carousing all night. It was 10am, the morning after the Mardi Gras. Music continued to thump from open bars, groups huddled on the street, seemingly unaware that the sun had come up and that they were no longer inside a bar. Sea gulls continued their scavenging in between these improbable scenes.
Yeh, she looks great, Amos the photographer said.
We pressed the buzzer, intending to head over her side of the street. But then suddenly she was heading our way, towering over everybody else on the crossing.
She swished her giant thighs, and as she got closer it was clear the makeup was trowelled on an inch thick; the wig in disarray from the long night.
Mind if we take your photograph, we asked, and like all good tarts she posed; batting those giant eyelashes, gazing down at us.
You look fabulous, I said. "Striking" would have been more truthful.
Do you think so? she bellowed. I don't believe you. A few hours ago maybe.
I jotted down her observations in a reporters pad, but her attention span was not great.
I've got to go, my boyfriend's over there, she said.
I watched her sashay back across the road, her giant legs on top of high heels, all spangles and makeup, glitter and chaos. That wig was getting wobblier by the minute.
Curious, I kept my eyes on her. I wanted to see what the boyfriend was like.
There's someone for everyone, they say, but was there really anyone for her? Out here in the sunlight, where everybody could see, where the traffic flowed slowly, jammed with suburbanites gazing out their windows from their different worlds. Look at her, look at her, laughing to themselves at all the sights on the street.
She was liaising with a group on the other side, in the plaza, the spot where more than 20 years ago all the city's derelicts used to gather, before it was renovated, modernised, and the ancient spirits that used to congregate there were dispersed. I wrote a story about it, I had written a story on just about everything in this town.
But now she was there, liaising with a clearly drunken group of young men; and then suddenly she was back, escorting, virtually dragging a young blond boy, handsome, all of a piece, maybe 20, no older, tiny in contrast to her, back across the road.
He weaved back and forth, clearly so drunk he would have no memory of what had happened the next day, in glorious blackout. His pants were falling down and he was horny, obviously. Drunk and horny and with absolutely no idea where he was or what was happening to him. She kept guiding him across the road, spotted a taxi and bundled him into it before he knew what he was doing.
Then a scene erupted in front of us.
A young man was at the door of the taxi, yelling, get out of the cab, get out of the cab. He had opened the door and kept yelling, get out, get out.
For a minute I thought it must be her jealous boyfriend, other boyfriend.
The drag queen was having none of this. She yanked the door shut and I could see her ordering the Asian taxi driver to go, just go.
He hesitated for a moment and then was off, the angry man on the street having no option but to let go of the door.
Bugger bugger bugger the man said, talking loudly to himself, perhaps offering us, the watching crowd, an explanation as the taxi roared off up Oxford Street. Bugger bugger, I can';t believe it, I can't believe it, bugger, bugger. I promised his girlfriend I would look after him. He doesn't even know it's not a girl. I promised his girlfriend I would look after him, now look what's happened. He doesn't know it's a drag.
Blind Freddy could have told you she was a drag queen; but maybe he didn't really know, he was so pissed.
Maybe he didn't really care; the things she had whispered in his ear she would do for him.
Amos and I glanced sideways at each other and then burst out laughing.
This job had its moments.
That bloke's going to get a shock when he wakes up in the morning, Amos said.
What a sight that would be, I said, and laughed some more.
And all around, the party continued. Nobody had had any sleep; sunglasses hiding bloodshot eyes, bleary drunken faces, never say die, no one wanting to call it a night, or day, and go home. There was always one more dance, one more moment. There was always a future life, a path not taken. Muscle Marys, leather boys, aging party girls, twinks, handsome young men, straight couples out for a party, they drifted by, singly or in knots; and the seagulls and the traffic and the dust swirled into one great camp moment, the flapping wrists and the bar laughter, the canned moments of liquid ecstasy coating the day, a glorious fun he could no longer access.
THE BIGGER STORY:
http://illawarra.yourguide.com.au/news/local/general/i-was-just-doing-my-job-hay/1194103.html
Two days after being stood down from her role as Parliamentary Secretary for Health, Noreen Hay was still trying to come to terms with the political and personal fallout of being linked to alleged corrupt developer Frank Vellar.
The Wollongong MP said she suspected her name might be mentioned during the ICAC public inquiry into allegations of corruption at Wollongong City Council, but had not been prepared for the reaction.
Speaking publicly for the first time yesterday, Ms Hay told the Illawarra Mercury that she had done nothing wrong and that her dealings with Mr Vellar were part of her job as a NSW MP.
She harbours no animosity towards Premier Morris Iemma for ordering her to stand down from her parliamentary secretary duties.
"After the tough stand he took in the Parliament in the middle of last week, he had little choice when my name came up in the commission," Ms Hay said.
But she was taken aback by the attention paid to her by some sections of the Sydney media, which she claimed misrepresented the brief dealings she had with Mr Vellar, when he sought her political support in relation to his development application for the upgrade of the North Beach Bathers' Pavilion in October, 2006.
http://www.smh.com.au/news/national/iemmas-toughest-ugliest-days/2008/03/02/1204402275117.html
MORRIS IEMMA has admitted that the past 10 days have been the toughest and ugliest in his political career as the Wollongong City Council corruption scandal worsens.
The Premier was trying to boast yesterday about a new index ranking Sydney as the best city in the world but all attention was on the crisis that has now implicated at least one of his MPs, the member for Wollongong , Noreen Hay.
It was revealed on Friday that Ms Hay had agreed to a request from allegedly corrupt property developer, Frank Vellar, to solicit the support of three Wollongong Labor councillors for Mr Vellar's North Beach Bathers' Pavilion.
Mr Vellar also gave Ms Hay the rent-free use of an empty shopfront for her re-election campaign in 2007. Ms Hay has maintained she has not acted inappropriately.
"It's probably the toughest period, it is probably the ugliest period but it does not change my resolve and determination to see it through and get the job done," Mr Iemma said.
He said he would sack the council, even if the Independent Commission Against Corruption did not recommend it.
"If there is a recommendation, the council will be sacked immediately," Mr Iemma said yesterday.
"If he doesn't make a recommendation that the council be sacked tomorrow, or at the conclusion of his inquiry, it is still open if there is evidence and information that goes to the reputation of the council - I'm not ruling it out," he said.
http://www.theaustralian.news.com.au/story/0,25197,23308220-5006784,00.html
MORE dramatic revelations are expected to be made today before the NSW Independent Commission Against Corruption as the inquiry into corruption involving influential state Labor figures draws to a close.
Commissioner Jerrold Cripps QC is likely this morning to recommend that Wollongong Council be sacked because of "systemic corruption". Premier Morris Iemma would almost certainly act on that recommendation immediately.
Links with the embattled Iemma Government are likely to be drawn today when Joe Scimone, a confidant of NSW Ports Minister Joe Tripodi, gives evidence.
Mr Scimone held several senior positions at Wollongong Council from 1992 to last year. After leaving the council, he was given a $200,000-a-year job in Mr Tripodi's department, despite the pending ICAC investigation and despite leaving the council after a sexual harassment case was brought against him.
Joyce and Northshore Robin. The streets of Waterloo, Sydney.
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