Sunday, November 18, 2007

"You're so bumbling you should have been British."

A friend who knows me quite well said the bumbling line in a lovely and too rare phone conversation. Real voice action... phwoar.

I think she came to that conclusion as I was telling her about the meeting with the editor of the Big Magazine (shut it Bird - I know you came to that conclusion a long time ago).

Anyway, I told her about the train stations and how I sat on the train being astonished by all the extra train stations I had forgotten about. This is all the more bumbling because it is my old train line. The trip took twice as long as I'd allowed for. Then getting lost... a whole suburb in the suburbs I thought I knew so well.

Anyway, as I said in the previous post the meeting went smoothly right until the end when it just went a bit squirmy. We stood up to leave, shook hands, thanked each other for our time. Then in a blatant attempt to show off my sweeping broad knowledge of everything I looked at the huge painting on the wall of the meeting room and said, "Ooh - is that a Miro?"

"No," the editor replied, looking suddenly like the whole smooth thing had gone out the window and now she thought I was a bit odd. "No it's not."

I spent a day in the Miro museum in Barcelona, so I know a fucking Miro when I see one.

"What?" I asked, looking down at the signature in a way that was meant to indicate that I had recognised its Miro-ness from the brush strokes themselves and not the signature. "You sure?"

"No. It's a painting."

"Yeah but... what?"

"A painting." Like she was speaking to a special person.

"Yes. Painted by Miro, I'm quite sure."

"Oh sorry - I thought you were asking if it was a mirror."

I think the lesson to be learned here is if the meeting goes well, let it rest at that and don't aim for one final, ornamental flourish.

Friday, November 16, 2007


Ages ago, maybe a year, I picked an agent at random to see if they would be interested in syndicating a story overseas. Someone from the agency liked the story and was onto it. Then she went quiet and after a few months I added her to the list of promising things that would not eventuate, which have pretty well defined my 2007.

Couple of months ago I was wondering what had happened to this agent when I received an email from her telling me that she was no longer with the agency but that she was now the editor of a Big Magazine and she wanted me to contribute. She asked me in for a chat. I was really late for the meeting because I forgot about some of the train stations on the way and it took longer than I remembered. Also, once off the train I got a bit lost and wandered into the next suburb. This is typical of me.

Anyway, meeting went well even if I did keep wondering if this was all real. Maybe she had the wrong freelance writer and would soon realise this.

She said she was changing the tone of the mag and she wanted me to pitch ideas. She wanted serious stuff from me but I was interested in humour and suggested a story that was pretty leftfield. She liked the idea and said to give it a bash. I did the piece and sent it in, then did what I do so well. I worried and assumed it wouldn't be good enough and thought this was going to be another promising thing that falls through.

But after a tense day's wait I got an email saying all good. My leftfield comedy bit will take up two pages in the February issue of a high profile national glossy magazine. Happy? Hell yeah.

I think what I love most about this is the complete coincidence of choosing the agency at random and the person who happened to reply to me turning out to be the future editor of a Big Magazine. What are the chances? Sometimes all you can do is shake your head and say what the hell is going on here? I love it. Fucking love it.


Never post when drunk. That is the thing. That's why I just deleted the most important and poignant blog post that has ever been posted in the history of important and poignant blog posts.

I nailed it on love and friendship and the fleetingness of life and the lessons to be learned from death. Seriously, people would be leaving comments like good post dude - you clearly understand shit.

So when I sober up I'll tell you what this post is all about... provided I've left some indication somewhere that will enlighten me about what the hell I am talking about.

So there.

At least I wasn't rude to moths and didn't swear too much.

Happy motherfuckers?

PS: A nice thing happened to me today. A good and nice thing. Will tell you about it later.

Tuesday, November 13, 2007

Moth... er F*cker

Sorry about the previous post. I'm putting together a piece about various comedians and some of those comedians just happened to swear a lot. But just because that filthy minded Lenny Bruce c*cks*cker was a dirty mother*f*cking pottymouth doesn't mean I have to be one.

And just because Bill Hicks screamed... Totally f*cking screamed at a heckler because she was a drunk c*nt, it doesn't mean I have to sink to his depths.

So I'm sorry about that.

And. So. Tonight. I'm all gentle and stuff and I'm saying goodnight to my Anngel and apologising because I was in a hyper mood because of all of the laughter yesterday and I'm telling her I love my friends and I love her too and reading about all these funny guys who died young, I tell her that I kind of like that I didn't die on August 9th five or so years ago, because fucking hell there are new people and the quality old people and the laughs... and it's really a sweet second chance. I nearly died. I didn't die. I thank the universe for that almost every day.

Then at this tender moment this offspring of nature makes its way into the room. It's a moth. This powdery moth with its wings and its eyebrow feeler things and its sweet determination to do... what exactly?

And I don't know how it happens but suddenly I'm standing on the bed and I'm clenched fists and sinewy necks... sinewy neck and I'm enraged and I'm fucking totally screaming at this fucking moth right into its sensitive little moth ears, "CAAAAAAARNT! YOU MOTHERFUCKING CAAAAARNNT! DID I FUCKING INVITE YOU INTO MY HOME? NO I FUCKING DID NOT SO WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING HERE YOU FUCKING CUNT OF A FUCKING MOTH?! HUH? WHAT IS YOUR FUCKING PROBLEM YOU FUCKED UP FUCKING FAAAAARCK!"

I have to start reading some Enid Blyton.

Saturday, November 10, 2007

Why I Think Bill Hicks Is A Cunt

That's right - not past tense, present. Is. He is a cunt. He made a mark and it's still here, so present tense it is. Bill Hicks is a cunt.

Some of the things he said were so utterly funny. I've been drinking up all this information about a few comedians and it wasn't until I started reading some of his material that I started laughing out loud. If you know me you'll know I don't laugh out loud much, but there I was alone in front of my computer screen falling about in my chair because this guy was fucking brilliant.

And dark. Man he could savage people. People in the audience who came to see him... he could turn on them and verbally fuck them over. It could be brutal. Same with idiots and wankers. He despised them and showed no mercy and sometimes it wasn't all that funny, yet strangely funny.

But that's not why I think Bill Hicks is a cunt. Wankers are despicable and idiots can be difficult to tolerate. Worse kind of person in the world is a malicious idiot who thinks highly of themselves. So I kind of enjoy watching Bill Hicks put the boot into marketing people, trailer trash and Billy Ray Cyrus. Especially marketing people.

Bill Hicks is a cunt because he bailed on us way to early. Dead at 33. It's like he knew it was going to happen. Got cracking on the comedy thing and was doing stand-up at the age of 14. Less than two decades later it would be all over.

Bill Hicks is a cunt because for all his dark humour and all his hilarious savaging of people, reading about his death moved me to tears. Fucker had a good heart. (Just had a shithouse pancreas). Superstar funnyman gets sick and what does he do? He moves back home with his mom and dad and he plays music on his guitar for them. And tired of the world and the way it was taking him away far too early, and not being a Christian with a glowing afterlife to look forward to, he opened Tolkein's Lord Of The Rings and re-read it. And for some reason that small and gentle act of escaping to that fantasy world really moved me.

I don't like it when people fuck with my emotions. And that's why you're a cunt, Bill Hicks. A funny, funny, magnificent cunt.

Saturday, November 03, 2007

Good Question

I think this is what every interviewer secretly hopes for when interviewing someone they admire and respect. C'mon... you know it's true.

Interviewer: Many people have cited your influences as such-and-such and so-and-so. Personally I've always detected the influence of whatshisname - albeit it with a post modern twist. Am I way off target there?

Interviewee: Not at all. No, quite the opposite. Remarkably, you're the first person to have ever noticed. Good call. Well spotted. In fact whathisname blah blah blah etc etc.

Wer: Do you think if whatshisname were alive today he'd hear those same influences, given that blah blah blah?

Wee: Good question. I've always thought that rah rah rah rah etc.

Wer: Whatshisname never achieved commercial success in spite of his critical acclaim. Do you think art and commercial success bleh bleh bleh bleh?

Wee: Right, that's a bloody excellent question. Too good for this time of the morning, hehe. Umm... blimey - I think you've stumped me with that one. Can I have a bit of a think about it and get back to you?

Wer: Sure. Sure, no problem. Erm... technology has been the backbone of much of your work. Do you ever wonder if rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb?

Wee: (After long moments of phone silence). Um... Jesus, man. That one's a cracker of a question. I thought the others were good questions but that one is totally fucking awesome. Where are you getting this stuff from? What are you - some kind of genius? I think you must be some kind of genius to be coming up with all these gobsmackingly amazing questions. You're good, man. I don't think anyone in the media has ever understood my work quite the way you do. You take the understanding of my work to whole new levels. I'm going give your number to all my famous friends and tell them that if they want a good story written by someone who asks killer questions, you the man.

Wer: (Blushing and twirling a curl of hair around a finger). Really? You really think I'm asking good questions?

Wee: The best. Killer questions one after the other. If I'd known you were this good I would have been shitting myself with the anticipation of this call. Glad I didn't know how good your questions were going to be. Good questions, good questions.

Wer: Oh. Cool. Ok, moving right along... hang on - did you actually answer the last question?

Wee: Couldn't mate. Over the head stuff. Do me a favour and lower the bar a little would you? Hehe.

Wer: OK, I'll try my best. Ummm... blah-di-blah-di blah blah blah? Yada yada etc?

Wee: Oh fuck me - now that question is so utterly devastatingly good I have to slaughter a goat. Aaarrrgggh...

Wer: And finally - what can you tell us about the new directions this album is taking -

Wee: (Sobbing) Oh stop it. Stop it man. These questions - they're just too good. You're too good. I'm not worthy. I should be asking you the questions... only there's no way in hell they'd be a patch on your questions... which are really good questions, by the way. Man, I am sooo dedicating the next album to you. I'm going to dedicate my life to you. I'm going to name the next world tour after you. I'm going to re-name my first child after you...

Wer: Um... but your son is 27 years old.

Wee: Don't care. He'll get used to it or he's no son of mine. I'm already writing him out of my will. When I go, man, it's all yours. You are dead-set totally The Man.

Wer: OK. All right. I think we might leave it there. Thanks for your time -

Wee: Wow, man - genius and humble too. Humankind has a lot to learn from you, dude. I should be thanking you for your time. In fact I do thank you. From the bottom of my... my shallow and worthless heart. You have rocked my world and changed the course of my work and my life and destiny itself and -


King Tide Review In Drum


Griffin Theatre’s world premiere of Katherine Thomson’s King Tide is quality, home-grown drama exploring what motivates us and what defines us. It’s a play about division and acceptance and honesty. It’s both straightforward and complex and it pulls off an admirable blend of personal drama and social observation.

Sal used to be a hard-hitting political journalist, however two years after the drowning death of her son she is withdrawn and still in mourning at her beach-side holiday home. Daughter Beck takes in a mysterious Japanese boarder while hatching a plan to change the direction of her future. Although she excels at marine biology, she has decided that idealism is not the way of her future and that saving the world can wait until after she has made her first million. Enter Sal’s brother Jack (a Wheat Board guy) and his new hard-as-glass, grab-it-while-you-can girlfriend to pave the golden path to Beck’s future, and suddenly Sal is not just mourning the loss of her son but also time not spent with her daughter, as well as the loss of idealism and passion in younger generations and society generally.

Hmm. It all sounds a bit earnest, doesn’t it? Well it kind of is, in a good way, but it’s also - at just the right moments - really quite funny, the humour deftly breaking what might otherwise run the risk of being a bit of a diatribe. None of the characters are what they first seem – except for Jack’s bauble girlfriend who so accurately represents the increasing superficiality of modern life... the kind of woman who probably thinks the real estate section of The Herald is erotic literature. Each of the characters reveals more of their true nature as the play unfolds, ensuring a speedy momentum in this seemingly slow-moving story.

I really enjoyed the larger story of King Tide as well as admiring the writing itself, with some of the dialogue sounding like the narrative from your favourite novel. There’s some exquisitely drawn imagery here, and some deft handling of all aspects of a production that stays with you like good theatre should.

At SBW Stables Theatre until 24 November.


Friday, November 02, 2007


I think dying must be like sitting in an aircraft ejection seat. Been a great flight, lots of turbulence, nice things to eat (nuts are nice). You've seen pretty things, met interesting people, wondered why there are children when cats are so much more convenient, you've marveled at the surreality of it all.

And all too quickly it's time to go. Because it's all going down waaay too quickly, and there's no pulling out.

You hit that button.

And the last sound you will ever hear is...