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About Hamilton

Sometimes I wonder—Llewyn’d prob bang an escort, write a song bout it. “Where’s its pussy?”—he’d ask, lost in his haze, missin the point. Me? I’d tip extra, just for the balls it takes. Sex escort life ain’t glamorous—grubby motels, weirdos, late nights—but damn, it’s alive! Exaggeratin? Maybe, but who cares? It’s raw, messy, and fuckin human. Maniacal grin, “Here’s Johnny!”—that’s my take, buddy!

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A walk into the Hooker glacier at Mt Cook to see the ranunculars which were quite sparse this year must have been the dumping of snow.

Finally, I make my way back home, and I’m just exhausted. But as I’m walking down Flaxmere Ave again, I see the sunset. It’s like the sky’s on fire—pink, orange, all the good stuff. I stop and just take it in. I’m like, “Damn, Flaxmere, you know how to end a day.”

Roaming dogs on a cat-killing spree: 'Something has to be done'