Lord of the Southern Fruitflies

I'm wearing the same clothes as yesterday (even underwear), my hair is matted, I smell of doggie sweat and there are tons of fruit flies hovering around me and trying to slide into my t-shirt.

I'm listening to the soundtrack to 'Morvern Callar', waiting for lunch to be served, and despairing at the giant fan over my head from ever cooling me down.

I received three phone calls yesterday:

1) Henrique, from São Paulo. He wanted to know when I was going to visit him, and if I wanted to go stay at his beach house. He has a giant scar that runs from one ear to the other, from an operation to remove part of his frontal lobe. He had an aneurism a few years ago. He is still the same person.

2) Ricardo, from São Paulo as well. He wanted to know if I would visit him in Curitiba (his home.) He will be flying into London in the beginning of April and I promised to take him out dancing with Silke and her friends. Popstarz or something just as gay.

3) Meire (roguejournal), from just around the corner. I asked if she wanted to come over for a cup of coffee but she was just about to enter the classroom. It was 8 o'clock at night. I'll be seeing her on Friday evening. She will take the Q magazine with Depeche Mode on the cover from my hands and hold it against her palpitating heart.



This morning, I saw two gay men in the park while I took Tete for a walk. Whenever I see da gays in Londrina, I feel a mixture of happiness and sadness. I'm happy because they exist here too, like myself; I'm sad because they look so drab, so incognito, as they try to disappear into the background and not get noticed. They were sitting on a table, clearly having just met. One of them was older, bald and smoked. The other was wearing a tight t-shirt (grand giveaway) and looking timid. I couldn't stay longer to watch them because Tete was too busy trying to catch the various cats that live in the park.

Now I'm off to take a shower. I have a couple of swimming pools to call this afternoon and find out whether I can get a temporary membership.

My Mom vs. Marcela Big Brother

I found out today that my mom got into a scrap with Marcela from Big Brother Brasil!!!

It all happened in a bank here in Londrina (Marcela is from here.) My mom had been waiting in line to see the line manager when Marcela walked into the bank. It was right on my mom's turn but Marcela went straight to the front of the line and told the bank manager that she insisted being attended first.

My mom: But I was here first!
Bank Manager: (looking at my mom) Do you think she is more important than you?
My mom: Of course I don't.
Bank Manager: Neither do I.

At this point, Marcela stormed out of the bank with smoke coming out of her ears. Apparently, she was wearing white boots and a fur coat. Total discretion, hein?

Con-Connections & Letters Behind Bars

Prisoners looking for Pen Pals, including gay & lesbians.

stickblackdress has already sent off her letter to one of them and, after having a look through the listings, I'm now tempted too! Not out of a sense to have a laugh, but more because I love to write (and receive) letters. Surely this is a fool-proof way to meet some people with very different life experiences?

I remember I once almost wrote to Charles Manson. I'd found out his address and was ready to write him a letter but, at the last minute, friends freaked out and thought he'd be able to persuade me to do crazy things through his letters. So they put down their feet in a collective thud and prohibited me from writing to him. Incredibly silly stuff now that I look back and think about it.

I would be curious to know whether anyone else on my friends list has ever corresponded with prisoners?

Ed: I didn't want to write to Charles Manson because I thought he was cool or anything like that. It was more because his address was available and (I think the article) mentioned he wanted pen pals. It was one of those dumb ideas, I guess, that I get every fortnight.