Well, after a couple of years as a member I suppose it's time to participate in full rather than as a mere tourist, visiting every so often to bask in all the beauty here (looking at you, my Friends and Faves ) and occasionally, clumsily, reaching out to some of the truly exceptional people I find here (still looking at you). So, if anyone out there is interested in who's behind those random friendships requests, occasional bouts of correspondence, and declarations of awestruck admiration, here's a potted bio which I hope will give you a smile rather than the willies. (Forgive the third-person, not being snobby it's just easier to write).
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Conceived by accident (not 'mistake', as his Mum says) and born during wild cyclonic floods & industrial chaos, Bodie's early life was hardly bucolic. More a mix of naive awe at the wonder and beauty of existence, and confused belligerence against the injustice of regular disciplinary floggings with a triple-thonged, leather-backed bamboo strip.
Liked school. Played some footy (that's Australian Rules & Rugby). Boxed a bit.
After attending the Kindergarten of Getting the Shit Kicked Outta You and the School of Hard Knocks, he spent a bewildering half year in the Navy - barely escaping with his cherry before meandering into work life as a chauffeur/chaperone for Brisbane's less reputable escort agencies (ie all of them) and roadying a bit. Unfortunately, a government inquiry into police corruption and the (then illegal) prostitution industry completely fucked everything.
Read widely and well. Played some footy. Boxed a bit.
The good times ended with marriage to the Wicked Witch of Everton Pk and working a proper job as a wage slave, cleaning shitters all hours of the day for a pittance. Despite the impediment of matrimonial obligation to the love-child of Mary Whitehouse and an archetypal sub-Saharan dictator, he still managed to enjoy great swathes of his time overseas in Turkey, Europe and especially England by occasionally indulging in massive drinking binges, taking more drugs than a touring funk band, and participating in several impromptu bouts of aggressive fisticuffs. (Well, he's Irish and Scottish. It's the way of his people ).
Read widely and well. Played plenty of footy. Earned some scars (but not much cash or cred) in a few Muay Thai and other organised bareknuckle bouts.
Mercifully, the partnership with WWEP ended without fatality or even violence. After a couple of years of lolling smugly, he was utterly smitten by an intelligent, talented, fun, witty, compassionate, humble, awesomely beautiful Princess. Remarkably - indeed, incomprehensibly - the feeling was mutual, and the best decade of his life began. He nurtured and loved his Princess as much as she did for him. He had learned from his past relationships. He wrote a (bad) novella. He enrolled in and graduated from the University of Life with a degree in philosophy (minors in politics, theology and Eng lit). He found less aggressive sporting pursuits. He joined the Army and learned to drive tanks, sneak around, kill people, and do other upright and properly manly things. He fucked his back up (well, he was 35 by then). He joined the public service and worked his arse off for his Princess, without demur, and he rejoiced as she flourished.
Read widely and well. No footy. No fighting. Yoga & tai chi. Lots of sharing, love and happiness.
However, he was too deluded and arrogant to recognise that he was being stalked by a Black Dog. Without warning, it attacked. Before he could recognise what it was and how he should defend against it, his marriage - and his happiness - was over. His Princess, while she still cared for him, was gone - driven away by its snarling and its pointy yellow teeth. Muzzled and chained at his feet though it may be these days, he still treats it with respect, knowing that a momentary lapse of vigilance will see it once again at his throat. (Good luck, mongrel. He may be a slow learner, but he's a deep one. He's got your number now. And he owes you big-time for the gaping, Princess-shaped hole in his soul).
Read not much at all. No footy. No fighting. Some yoga, tai chi & dancing. Plenty of time with his head up his arse.
These days, life sees him as a gauche but good-natured middle-aged dag. A bit wrinkled, a bit scarred, but - miraculously - no grey hairs or beer-gut, thank *insert deity of preference here*. A career of sorts in a certain public service sub-culture (think Defence, think security, think a bunch of self-important deluded wankers in dark glasses), writing for obscure philosophical & socio-political journals, and imparting to his many nephews the dubious value of his insights into fighting, philosophy, footy, work, learning, love and life (and how they are all essentially interconnected) sustains his Self these days. The love and support of his few 'immediate' friends (and the non-rejection of his offers of affection, however inappropriately effusive, to his on-line ones) sustains his Soul. The slightest kindness to him from someone of worth earns a wealth of goodwill and loyalty.
Reads with learned discrimination. No footy. No fighting. Tai chi & some dancing.
He's a bit clumsy, and a lot prolix, and more than a smidge socially autistic. He likes spouting complex ideas in over-formal language (in the interests of accuracy), but his essential humour - the self-deprecating Australo-Celtic sparkle in his eye - is lost in the written form. But he's sincere, genuine, and essentially harmless (to anyone who doesn't bear him any active ill-will). He just wants to love and to say what he means honestly, without anyone freaking out.
*
So, there you go.
*
Conceived by accident (not 'mistake', as his Mum says) and born during wild cyclonic floods & industrial chaos, Bodie's early life was hardly bucolic. More a mix of naive awe at the wonder and beauty of existence, and confused belligerence against the injustice of regular disciplinary floggings with a triple-thonged, leather-backed bamboo strip.
Liked school. Played some footy (that's Australian Rules & Rugby). Boxed a bit.
After attending the Kindergarten of Getting the Shit Kicked Outta You and the School of Hard Knocks, he spent a bewildering half year in the Navy - barely escaping with his cherry before meandering into work life as a chauffeur/chaperone for Brisbane's less reputable escort agencies (ie all of them) and roadying a bit. Unfortunately, a government inquiry into police corruption and the (then illegal) prostitution industry completely fucked everything.
Read widely and well. Played some footy. Boxed a bit.
The good times ended with marriage to the Wicked Witch of Everton Pk and working a proper job as a wage slave, cleaning shitters all hours of the day for a pittance. Despite the impediment of matrimonial obligation to the love-child of Mary Whitehouse and an archetypal sub-Saharan dictator, he still managed to enjoy great swathes of his time overseas in Turkey, Europe and especially England by occasionally indulging in massive drinking binges, taking more drugs than a touring funk band, and participating in several impromptu bouts of aggressive fisticuffs. (Well, he's Irish and Scottish. It's the way of his people ).
Read widely and well. Played plenty of footy. Earned some scars (but not much cash or cred) in a few Muay Thai and other organised bareknuckle bouts.
Mercifully, the partnership with WWEP ended without fatality or even violence. After a couple of years of lolling smugly, he was utterly smitten by an intelligent, talented, fun, witty, compassionate, humble, awesomely beautiful Princess. Remarkably - indeed, incomprehensibly - the feeling was mutual, and the best decade of his life began. He nurtured and loved his Princess as much as she did for him. He had learned from his past relationships. He wrote a (bad) novella. He enrolled in and graduated from the University of Life with a degree in philosophy (minors in politics, theology and Eng lit). He found less aggressive sporting pursuits. He joined the Army and learned to drive tanks, sneak around, kill people, and do other upright and properly manly things. He fucked his back up (well, he was 35 by then). He joined the public service and worked his arse off for his Princess, without demur, and he rejoiced as she flourished.
Read widely and well. No footy. No fighting. Yoga & tai chi. Lots of sharing, love and happiness.
However, he was too deluded and arrogant to recognise that he was being stalked by a Black Dog. Without warning, it attacked. Before he could recognise what it was and how he should defend against it, his marriage - and his happiness - was over. His Princess, while she still cared for him, was gone - driven away by its snarling and its pointy yellow teeth. Muzzled and chained at his feet though it may be these days, he still treats it with respect, knowing that a momentary lapse of vigilance will see it once again at his throat. (Good luck, mongrel. He may be a slow learner, but he's a deep one. He's got your number now. And he owes you big-time for the gaping, Princess-shaped hole in his soul).
Read not much at all. No footy. No fighting. Some yoga, tai chi & dancing. Plenty of time with his head up his arse.
These days, life sees him as a gauche but good-natured middle-aged dag. A bit wrinkled, a bit scarred, but - miraculously - no grey hairs or beer-gut, thank *insert deity of preference here*. A career of sorts in a certain public service sub-culture (think Defence, think security, think a bunch of self-important deluded wankers in dark glasses), writing for obscure philosophical & socio-political journals, and imparting to his many nephews the dubious value of his insights into fighting, philosophy, footy, work, learning, love and life (and how they are all essentially interconnected) sustains his Self these days. The love and support of his few 'immediate' friends (and the non-rejection of his offers of affection, however inappropriately effusive, to his on-line ones) sustains his Soul. The slightest kindness to him from someone of worth earns a wealth of goodwill and loyalty.
Reads with learned discrimination. No footy. No fighting. Tai chi & some dancing.
He's a bit clumsy, and a lot prolix, and more than a smidge socially autistic. He likes spouting complex ideas in over-formal language (in the interests of accuracy), but his essential humour - the self-deprecating Australo-Celtic sparkle in his eye - is lost in the written form. But he's sincere, genuine, and essentially harmless (to anyone who doesn't bear him any active ill-will). He just wants to love and to say what he means honestly, without anyone freaking out.
*
So, there you go.
VIEW 3 of 3 COMMENTS
mylene:
Thank you!
gener:
thank you for add! Nice to meet you!