I was reading a few things from Linda’s one liner Wednesday and wondering if I could come up with something clever that someone had said recently to contribute. I couldn’t.

But I was reminded of something I heard John Safron say (John is an Australian documentary maker) about a time that he was covering some extremist gatherings that were happening in Melbourne.

He was seated in a cafe across the road from parliament (those of you from Australia probably know exactly the spot I mean) having a coffee. The waitress was rearranging the tables in preparation for the lunchtime rush and he asked her,

“When does the race war start?”

She looked up from her work, thought about the question for a moment, and answered casually,

“Oh, sometime around midday, I guess.”

For anybody interested, here’s a short piece that he wrote about it.

Fear and Loathing in Suburban Melbourne

I saw something from supernaturalsnark suggesting that you don’t have to look like someone you find very attractive to be incredibly attractive yourself. I may be slightly overstating what she said, in fact. But that’s not the point.

I am wondering how much you need to look like someone your lover finds incredibly attractive to look very attractive yourself. Not very much, I am hoping.

Because it was only last night, as I was watching the cricket, that the current Mrs Richmond leaned over my shoulder and said, “you know …. I could really do that guy”. She wasn’t talking about one of the players. She was talking about the commentator.

His name is Brendon Julian. He’s seems a nice enough sort of chap.

He used to be a cricketer, but he’s not anymore. I used to be a cricketer. I’m not anymore, either. He really wasn’t all that good. Neither was I.

So far, then … there’s nothing in it. He and I are virtually identical.

All right. I admit it. Statistically speaking he was better than me. Quite a bit better, perhaps.

But I don’t think Mrs Richmond cares much about cricket. I think she was thinking of something else.

Should I be concerned?

This topic popped into my feed from braveandreckless so I jotted a few heartfelt thoughts down in response.

As always, there is a risk that my contribution may come across as trite, but may I assure you all that it is, in no way, intended as disrespectful.

I will stop short of suggesting my effort is suitable for serious publication other than right here …. but I would encourage others to shoot something off to Christine at the Cafe in order to properly celebrate the reality of liberation and joy.

Girls like girls

just look at them talk

Girls like girls

just look at them walk

Girls like girls

so, Girl … go and get her

Girls like girls

‘cause they smell so much better

Girls are prettier

don’t you know?

Girls are superior

from head to toe

Girls are cleverer

just like your mother

So it’s no surprise

that girls like each other

Girls like girls

It’s a matter of taste

Girls like girls

and they’ve no time to waste

Girls are good company

Boys are such bores

Girls sometimes argue

But girls don’t start wars

Girls like girls

as someone to wed

Girls like girls

‘cause they’re better in bed

Girls like girls

I don’t want to be rude

But girls like girls

‘cause they look better nude

I have no issue with erotica. I am all for it, in fact. But the success of E.L. James I find to be inexplicable. So I thought I should have a go, from a slightly different angle – in the hope of becoming an overnight millionaire.

Actually I may have posted this silly poem before, in a slightly different form. I doubt that anyone would remember it but I would be awfully impressed by anyone who did …

Heads you win

Tails I lose

That’s the outcome

That we choose

Please tell me, Madam

Of your plans

Now that my life

Is in your hands

This slave to love

Can you not see?

Is your

Responsibility

My hands are tied

I will not move

So what do I

Have left to prove?

The light is fading

Shades of grey

What do I

Have left to say?

I’m suffocating

Out of breath

So give to you

This little death.