twobluefish

Love & Crime

2012-02-09T22:12:00.008+11:00

New project. Short story collection. I think it will be called something like Love & Crime. I appear to write about love and crime quite a lot. Maybe Love, Death & Crime. I'm getting it ready for the Penguin Monthly Catch gig. I want Penguin to be my publisher because I like Penguins. Failing that, I'm going to look at self-publishing, because this is fun.

Track listing goes like this:

Remembering Argos - A guy grows old. Will make you cry. Promise.

Ruben Jane - Leather jackets, loud music, drugs, love and death. Dark and beautiful. Been known to make people cry.

Blue Angeline - Hypnotic, narcotic, atmospheric. Forgotten trinkets, forgotten promises, forgotten love. I like this one even if no one else gets it.

Love Letter - A headstone can be a love letter. Sweet laughter in the cemetery. Happy tears this time.

Silver Screen Daydream - A loser in love. Funny and sad. You will laugh and want to hug Ewan.

Finding Davey - Family life gone wrong. It happens. Old age happens. Will make you sad.

Boy & Girl - Short and bittersweet.

Two Shadows - Not quite of this world, but close. Lovely and unrealistically heart-warming.

Treading Water At Turtle Bay - Proper melancholy at its heart but with some solid comedy.

Ants - An old family guy has some voyeuristic fun in the park. Unsettlingly amusing.

The Funniest Man In The World Tells A Funny Story - What, you need an explanation?

Man & Boy - I swear I had never heard of Oh The Places You Will Go before writing this. I think Dr Seuss would approve of this one.

Quick - Who is Quick? What is he? We're getting tough now. Everyone likes Quick, dark fucker that he is.

Best Man - Marriage? Love? Hahaha. Blam. It's about revenge. Bitch.

Stabulous The Clown - A story about being on acid, on acid. A vigilante in a clown suit. Fucked up and funny.

Being Groove Terminator - A case of mistaken identity that is a true story, except for the made up bits. Lots of fun. It really is a true story. Mostly.

Grumpy With Twitter

2012-02-08T16:34:00.004+11:00

A recent Grumpy column about my bafflement with Twitter. I gave it a go and I just don't get it. It just feels utterly pointless and yet another way to waste time on the internet... and a pretty annoying one at that. It must be me though because a gazzilion tweeters can't be wrong, can they.

Anyway, click n the image, then again to make it readable, and enjoy.

I'm off to post a link on Facebook now and see what everyone is up to.

See? Who needs Twitter when there's Facebook?

Birth Of A Loose Cannon

2012-01-31T16:28:00.002+11:00

GRUMPY

Grumpy is freelance writer Lee Bemrose (leebemrose@hotmail.com) Word on the street is that he's a bit of a loose cannon.

A while ago I was told that I was a stalwart, by two separate people on two separate occasions. In one weekend.

I guess this is something of an achievement, something to be proud of. Me, a stalwart. Two people. Two distinct and separate occasions. In fact it's possibly even a little bit cool because both people were talking about me being a stalwart of the doof scene. When they had first started going to outdoor parties, I was there, an entrenched part of the scene, and here I was all this time later still going strong when many other former stalwarts had lost some of their stalwartiness. I was a rock. You could count on me. Definitely, this was something to feel good about.

However, it made me realise that I had always harboured the desire to be called something else. I have been quietly aching to be called a loose cannon. Just once, by one person, on one occasion. Compared to loose cannon, being called a stalwart was like being told you are nice, as opposed to be told you are cool. I hadn't realised how long I had been carrying around this loose cannon thing until shortly after The Double Stalwart Incident. Why had no one ever told me I was a loose cannon?

I had even spent more time than I care to admit coping with my desire to be called a loose cannon by imagining that it was the kind of thing that was happening all the time in my absence.

“Wow, man, I was hanging out with Grumpy the other night and whoa, that guy is a loose cannon.”

“Tell me about it. When they came up with the phrase loose cannon, they had him in mind.”

However, thinking about it, that conversation has probably never taken place. More likely it would go:

“Gee – I was thinking about Grumpy the other day and you know what I realised?”

“Stalwart?”

“How did you know?”

“I was thinking the exact same thing. In fact I think you could go so far as to say he's a double stalwart.”

I eventually asked friends if someone could humour me and just call me a loose cannon, just once. Please? They asked me why they would do such a thing because to be a loose cannon you have to do the kind of things loose cannons do, and I did not do these things. Ergo, they mercilessly went on, I can't be called a loose cannon.

Okay so I'm not exactly Charlie Sheen, but I have my own loose cannon ways. Like, getting ready for a theatre opening night the other night I found I only had mismatched socks left. What did I do? I wore mismatched socks – and got away with it. Loose Cannon.

The other day I ate two rows of chocolate, which is my usual limit, but as there was only one more row left, I ate it too. Three rows. Loose cannon.

I spent a whole day recently being completely naked. Loose. Cannon.

I even posted Killing Joke's Loose Cannon on a certain social networking site as my theme song, just to drive my point home.

The really funny thing about my ongoing campaign – and yes I know my loose cannon activities are a long way from partying with pornstars and saying wild and crazy things in the media like “WINNING!” - but the really funny thing is that my very amused friends everywhere have started doing it. Friends I hadn't realised had been following this ongoing joke... it's been happening in emails, in text messages, and in real life. I imagine strangers overhearing my friends telling me I'm such a loose cannon, and them saying to their friends, “Watch out for that guy – I hear he's a bit of a loose cannon.”

Yes. WINNING!

Grumpy Is A Loose Cannon

2012-01-25T18:35:00.004+11:00

This is a work in progresscalled Loose Cannon. It will be my next Grumpy column, I feel. I've started a pretty lame campaign to convince everyone that I am a loose cannon. Odd socks to a theatre opening night? Loose cannon. Eating three rows of chocolate when two is my usual limit? Loose cannon. Going a whole day without wearing pants, I am a loose cannon, and that's how a loose cannon rolls.

More later.

Grumpy With The Internet

2012-01-12T17:16:00.003+11:00

A recent Grumpy column from the pages of Tsunami mag. Not the most recent, just the first one I grabbed after figuring out how to make the image thing on Blogger work properly again. And in fact, I didn't figure it out at all; someone else was having the same problem and someone who had figured it out told them how to fix it and I just followed their instructions. Click on the image to make it big, then again to make it readable.

Enjoy.

Christmas 2011

2011-12-24T10:10:00.006+11:00

Weird to think that this time last year I was in snowy Lake Tahoe in California having snowfights and snowboarding lessons and drinking in hot spas while the snow fell around us. I was there with The Dreaded One and Kathryn Shreve, two of my favourite people and it was the best Christmas ever. I don't know that it being Christmas was what made it a great time. It was more that Christmas means little to me and is usually a bit of a pain in the arse in one way or another and so I usually like to just get through it. That Christmas though was a happy time in every way.

And there was snow. Lots of snow. I like the snow.

I haven't posted much personal stuff this year because it's been a strange year. It got off to a shaky start, I got a job I was initially looking forward to but which quickly turned to shit. It wasn't all bad but when it was bad it was really bad. I should have left straight away but stuck it out for a bit, lost all my confidence, got lazy and stopped looking for other work and things just got worse. I started looking elsewhere again and got a couple of nibbles but nothing came through and then the end of the year started to loom. Even so, it reached a point where I really wanted out. Told them I wasn't being fair on them or me because I just didn't like the place and didn't want to be there. They said fine but can you hang in until the end of the year. I said sure and although it was tough going, I made it and had my last day a couple of days ago. So good to be out of there. Good people and I regret that I wasn't able to socialise with a few of them.

I'm in that familiar place again; unemployed with no idea what's going to happen next.

Well that's not exactly true. The Dreaded One and I just bought tickets for our next trip. We can't really afford it but we thought what the hell, buy the tickets and make it happen. We're going to fly into Athens and out of Barcelona, with a bit of improv travel on the way. Boom is locked in... oh fuck. Must get my ticket (she has bought hers but the site kept crashing when I tried buying mine. Something known as Error 05). And there is a road trip with a couple of great Spanish friends from Madrid to Boom in Portugal and some chill time planned down Sintra way. And we might hook up with a friend Nadia before that in South France. And we might hook up with our Sydney friends who spend the party season in Ibiza. And The Dreaded One wants to visit a couple of Greek Islands and the Amalfi Coast in Italy on the way to France/Spain... it's going to be a busy eight weeks. Must dust off my Accomodation Man costume. Looking forward to this. Leaving August 1st, 2012.

And I'm working on a play. This has been a very interesting development. The story goes like this... I got an email one day out of the blue saying that this person had been looking for appropriate reviewers of her new production company's play and my name kept coming up and could I please come along to review it. She had also read a bit on this blog, some of the Grumpy columns. This was shortly after we moved to Melbourne and I had only reviewed a couple of things. Her emails amused me. I offered to interview her. There were lots of emails, lots of amusement. I reviewed the play. Very good.

Then it went quiet between us. She was working on her next Tom Sainsbury play and would be in touch.

Several weeks ago she got in touch and asked if I wanted to do it all again. She asked how my writing was going. I happened to have a new short story out in a local lit mag and told her about it. She asked if it could be made into a play. I said no, I don't think so. She said, regardless, can you please write a play for me because I want you to write something that we can produce.

I was a bit baffled by this because... well just because. A play is very different to a short story. What made her think I could write a play? I asked her this and she said she was looking for some good local talent and thought I could write some dark, funny stuff or even just some funny stuff.

I sent her the first act of an unfinished play, something I'd written a while ago and just put aside. I never finished it although the concept was complete in my head. I said here's a sample of what my theatre stuff would be like if I wrote theatre stuff, tell me what you think and we can take it from there.

She wrote back saying that she loves it and lets do it, finish the thing and we'll make it. Just like that.

I've never had such positive feedback... well that's not entirely true. I have had friends and yeah, strangers too pay me really lovely compliments about my writing. It's pretty special each time this happens and I don't think I'll ever get used to it. It will never outweigh the bland rejections.

But to have this happen just after telling The Dreaded One that I need a creative partner or to be part of a creative group because otherwise I rarely see ideas through to the end... to have this person who gets the ball rolling and sees it through and makes a script come to life on stage, to have her wanting to set a date for the season based on the early draft of one act of a play I haven't even finished... man, that's saying something. She said she wants me to cast it, wants me to have my creative print all over it (this after I said she'd be great as the female lead because she really is a very good comic actor and she said if she acted in it we'd have to find a new director but it will be up to me whether to cast her or not).

This is all very unexpected and seems slightly unreal. But these things do happen. I moved to Melbourne on a whim. This person moved from New Zealand to Melbourne around the same time, I think. If it all comes together it will feel like this is what I came to Melbourne for. That play may never have been given another thought, so easily distracted am I, but it's come to life again with additional possibilities. It's not opening at The Malthouse or the MTC or anything. It will be small, but it will be the strangest experience to see actors delivering my made-up to an audience. That is going to be so strange.

So as well as having a job to find and money to save I have a play to finish. And cast. The play should be staged soon after we get back from the overseas trip. 2012 is going to be an interesting year.

Right now I'm going to sit down and finish reading Jennifer Egan's A Visit From The Goon Squad, which for me is up there with Patrick White's The Vivisector, Don Delilo's Underworld and Peter Carey's Illywhacker. Seriously good writing. I'm almost looking forward to finishing this one just so I can start reading it again.

Christmas Day tomorrow, lunch somewhere with The Dreaded One. Boxing Day a friend comes to stay and we party for a couple of days, then we drive out to the bush for Tribadelic for a few days of NYE partying.

Happy Christmas. Hope you're hanging with loved ones.

Get Smart Phone

2011-12-20T23:33:00.004+11:00

Grumpy

Grumpy is freelance writer Lee Bemrose (leebemrose@hotmail.com). He is very devoted to his partner and better half, The Dreaded One. Just saying.

The phone buzzes as a message comes in. I'm amused to see that it's a message from me. It's a very cute message. It says, “Why do you keep popping into my head? Don't you have some place to be? Love youuuu...” It's even accompanied by my Facebook profile pic, which makes the whole thing even more strange than it actually is.

Why has this message been sent to me from me? Because it's a message from my phone. You see, we've had wifi dongle problems and so have been using The Dreaded One's mobile as a wifi hotspot. Her phone is capable of such things; mine is not. And because I arrive home earlier than her and need the internet to send this very column, she suggested swapping phones. Sounded like a good idea, so that's what we did – after I had the briefest hesitation because what if she reads something she's not supposed to read? Stop being ridiculous, I reprimanded myself.

Thing is that now, as I re-read this message from me that's not from me, I realise it doesn't really sound very much it's from The Dreaded One either. It sounds cuter than her text message voice, kind of more cutesy-playful than she generally is. 'Keep popping into my head' suggests someone who hasn't seen me for a while. And, 'I love youuuu'? It sounds very much like a forwarded message from a third party. The very exact kind of message I had been so briefly worried about coming into my phone.

Think, Grumpy, think. So I think. Am I involved in a torrid love affair that has somehow slipped my mind for the time being? Me being me with my heightened ability to forget things, this isn't entirely out of the question. Then again, me being me as opposed to me being Russell Brand, a torrid love affair is not quite the kind of thing I usually find myself involved in.

Unless it's my old friend C. We were never involved in a torrid love affair, but we did become close enough to cause some friction between me and The Dreaded One. Things are cool now. C and The Dreaded One are great friends now. We all get along fine. We all tell each other that we love each other because we are life-is-short types who believe in telling our friends such things while we can. A few years ago maybe a message like this might have been a thing to fear, but not now.

Still.

Then again, what are the chances of my old friend C sending such a message on the one and only day The Dreaded One and I have ever swapped phones? What's that big word for little tiny things? Infinitesimal? The chance of this happening is infinitesimal. Laughable to even think such a thing. Ha. Hahaha. Hehe... oh, the lols!

Then a really stupid idea gets into my head: what if The Dreaded One is trying to test me in some way. What the hell is she up to? Is she trying to make me paranoid so that... so that... so that... nup, I keep getting nothing. I have no idea what kind of sneaky game she is playing.

I send a message back. A jokey, “So who did you forward that message from? (Smiley face with tongue poking out). Nah, thanks, I love you too.”

A few minutes later the message comes back, “It was from C.”

Infinitesimal indeed.

All is fine. I just need to remain calm because everything is fine. The column is written. The house has been cleaned. Pinot Gris is chilling. Dinner is bubbling away. Lovely rom-com DVD has been hired. The chances of there being trouble are infinitesimal.

Christmas Monologues Review

2011-12-15T23:05:00.005+11:00

The Christmas Monologues

This is the second production by new Melbourne production company, Mellow Yellow. It's another of New Zealander Thomas Sainsbury's many plays (check out here for a recent Q&A he did with Australian Stage), and as the title would suggest, it's a motley collection of monologues. The characters do not inhabit each others worlds; they are simply connected by having the opportunity to tell us, the listener, what Christmas means to them.

We have a wife and mother whose Christmas is regimented and time stamped and filled with duty; the abandoned and vengeful professional Christmas tree decorator; a Christmas bon-bon sweat-shop tycoon; an elf with Santa fetish; a pillow-wielding nurse in an old aged home; a sick turkey farmer and a born-again Christian.

As well as Christmas binding these stories is the thread of dark humour. These are seven quite wrong Christmas tales, the level of wrongness varying from monologue to monologue, but all in all, all pretty wrong. And quite satisfying to anyone who regards the various elements of Christmas with healthy cynicism.

And lets face it – who hasn't had enough of the dutiful Christmas day and simply wanted to bail on it all? Who hasn't wished vengeance on their too-content ex on Christmas day? Who hasn't been grateful for their sweat-shop factory making their fortune on this day of giving? Who hasn't been an elf with dirty Santa fantasies that got them into big trouble...

Okay, so some of them are funny because they are true, others are funny because they are just that little bit twisted.

The Christmas Monologues gets off to an unsteady start , but if you hang in there you will be rewarded with some genuine, quite deliciously un-PC laughs. It could be the writing in the early couple of monologues, it could be the acting, but it just felt a little flat.

When our lusty Santa helper hit the stage, however, it was all laughs. This was a hilariously perverse story told by an actor (Steph Lee) clearly enjoying this character and filling in every kinky corner of her being.

I think all of us – to some degree - think Christmas is a bit of a pain in the bum. Check out The Christmas Monologues to find out why this collection of disparate characters also finds the whole thing a pain. It's a low budget production with the quiet patches well-worth putting up with for the pay-off when the acting matches the writing - and when that happens, it's squirmingly funny.

Leonard Teale, Bushrangers, Tropfest Entry... Anyone Want to Make a Movie?

2011-12-14T22:13:00.005+11:00

Latest short story out in Inscribe, for you Melbourne people. Pick it up at your local litmag place (and ignore the typo in my name... grrr). Also, it would appear I'm gonna be a playwright in 2012 too. Alsotooaswell, if anyone thinks they can pull together a cast and crew for a last minute Tropfest entry, I have a potentially very funny concept and basic script. Leonard Teale's contact details would come in handy too.

Food, Art, Lament

2011-12-09T23:14:00.004+11:00

Our focus has shifted from art to food, from artists to chefs. I don't understand this because artists try to understand life; all chefs do is make big food into little food and heat it up. Sometimes they make it taste nice. It's just food.

I am over our obsession with food. Can there be more interest in art please?

Please?

Brainspill December 2011

2011-12-08T20:57:00.004+11:00

Someone reminded me the other day that a blog is an open diary, and that is indeed true. It's a personal diary that everyone is welcome to read. And I realised I haven't been doing much diarising lately, just posting my Grumpy column every two weeks and maybe a theatre review.

And in being so lazy, people everywhere throughout all the lands have probably been wondering what has been going on? What has been happening in the life of Lee and The Dreaded One since they moved to their new home city? What? What? Tell us, Lee.

So much. That is what. So much. Problem is, because I know people I know read this open diary, there are still some things I can't talk about. Big things. Dark struggles. I went through a bit of shit earlier this year. It was ugly, people, even when writing my stoopid Grumpy columns. All was not as it seemed. Maybe one day I'll talk about it. Maybe I'll just use it in some fiction. Just know, it wasn't a smooth landing in Melbourne after a year of leisure.

But I think I'm through it somewhat now. I still need to change things and I need to be around my kind of people more. I've realised I'm the exact same fish-out-of-water I always have been when around certain types of people. And in the work environment... oh God I turn to shit. Family, school, workplace, I'm shit because I'm in a situation I don't want to be in surrounded by people I have had no choice in. Some in all three of the above can be excellent, but mostly I'm just more comfortable when random humans have actually chosen each other.

But good stuff. There has been good stuff. See the photo above? The Dreaded One and me with my old friend Chloe, her new boy Toby and his old mate Greg. For some reason, this is one of my favourite photos of us. I like that there is history (both ancient and modern), that there is silliness and laughter.

Friends have been coming down to visit and it has been really cool. It's been great having those old familiar Ugg boots of humans. The ones you know so well. Morning hugs. Late night hugs. Endless mindless banter and the occasional earnest talk. Strange that your friends can come and stay with you and your home suddenly takes on a stronger sense of home. I've wanted them to stay, but we are all atttached to elastic bands pulling us back to somewhere else.

But it has been good. And I know they have enjoyed staying here and will want to come back and I know we want to go and stay with them.

And New People. Strange things afoot. Don't want to jinx myself so I wont, other than to say I appear to have bumped into a same-wavelength human and as a result will probably finish the play I started a while ago and forgot about. She the director of a new theatre co... I really shouldn't talk about it just yet. Other than to say that she has produced a couple of Thomas Sainsbury plays and that in looking for local talent capable of writing dark comed... no really. Let's see what happens.

And reading. Bugger me - who would have ever thought I'd be back into reading novels again. I really thought electronicdancemusicclubs&doof+seratonindepletion had ended my enjoyment of novels, but nup. Been eating them up. Most recently read a couple of Max Barry novels (Syrup and Machine Man) and am now reading A Visit From The Goon Squad by Jennifer Egan. Holy crap this last one is blowing my mind with the quality of writing. Seriously good stuff. Might write more about these books in another post.

What else... Had a short story published in a local lit mag, which was nice. Had my photo taken with Meow Meow. Met a theatre critic whose writing I like a lot by saying to the new local person, "Do you know the theatre critic Chris Boyd?" Meaning do you know of him because that man over there in the crowd looks a bit like him to me. She said yes. I asked if that was him (pointing discreetly). She said, "Yes - would you like me to introduce you?" They have been friends for many years and it was just a nice thing to happen. She introduced us and it was nice.

Then I said hello to Meow Meow and that was even nicer.

What else... Dreaded One is at her work Christmas party. She enjoys her job. This is a concept I cannot understand. Working for dollars... ergh. Necessary evil. But some people enjoy it. I was tempted to go and see Midnight In Paris while she was out but in the end really enjoy going solo to the movies in the afternoon. So I'm here instead, telling you stuff.

We are planning our next trip. Mid-next year. South of France, Spain, Portugal, maybe Spain again. It was the weirdest feeling to start researching accomodation and travel routes and it just feeling so natural. If I could do that for a living, I might just be happy in my workplace.

What else. Is there anything else? Yes. Yes there are more friends coming down this weekend and we are going to a Talamasca party at Ceres. And soon another friend is coming down and it will be Christmas very soon and I will be unemployed again, and January will involve road trips and parties (Rainbow Serpent coming round again), and then Maitreya and a new year of possibilities and endless credit card debts.

And there will be more theatre, more Melbourne. And hopefully I can shake the gloom, the gloom that ruins the magical sight of the hot air balloons hanging in the clear dawn sky each morning; the gloom of not being truly free.

That's all for now. Mostly, stuff is good and there is promise and there are posibilities and I am grateful for that.

I hope you enjoy the photo of old and new friends as much as I do.

Travel Arrangements

2011-11-22T19:41:00.002+11:00

Grumpy

Grumpy is night owl and freelance writer Lee Bemrose (leebemrose@hotmail.com). He thinks it's never too late to check the travel arrangements whilst humming classic Monty Python songs like “Sit on my face and tell me that you love me...”

Being a late night person, I usually go to bed after The Dreaded One. I usually open the door and wait to make sure the coast is clear; sometimes she snores and it's usually easier to just hit the other room or the couch. Tonight, the coast is indeed clear. I climb into bed as gently and quietly as possible. All is quiet. I realise I really should have gone to bed earlier as it's only four and a half hours until I have to get up again. This is usually the last conscious thought I have before drifting to sleep. Will I ever learn? I doubt it.

My breathing stops. I squint into the darkness to hear better... and yes. Damnit. I've been ambushed. She has waited until I am almost asleep before starting to snore. It's the tiniest, snuffliest snore. It's actually quite cute, but I know it has the potential to grow into something quite monstrous. It might flicker out of its own accord like a candle in the wind, or it could turn into a raging firestorm. I have no idea why I decided to use fire as a snoring metaphor, but there you go. There it is.

The snuffle grows. I bounce about a bit under the covers. This breaks the snuffle, but not for long. It returns like the bad memory of a really stupid metaphor. I caress The Dreaded One's forearm and this also stops the snore, but also, too, as well, not for long. The snore increases in volume and as I focus all my mind powers on not getting irritated, I start to feel irritated. I know it's a lost cause. I now have less than four hours before my alarm goes off, so I gently climb out of bed and head to the living room feeling mopey and tired. I stretch out on my couch and enjoy the silence. I feel I'll nod off quite quickly and think that four hours is not such a bad sleep.

Suddenly, I don't know what the hell happens. One second I am completely asleep, the next I have been hit on the head by something. Have I been punched? Am I being smothered? I can't breathe, which would indicate that some form of smotherage is taking place.

“Mmmmmppphmm!” I declare hysterically. “Mmmnnnthhhhppphhh?” I enquire hysterically.

The thing jumps off my head and I realise with bewilderment that The Dreaded One just totally sat on my head.

“Oh Grumpy, honey. I'm sorry. I didn't mean... did I sit on your head?”

“Totally. You totally sat on my head. Why did you do that?”

I'm in full-blown sulky, hard-done-by mode now. I've gone to great lengths to not disturb her sleep, and she returns the favour by sitting on my head.

“What's going on?” I demand, indulging in a little justified grumpiness. “What are you doing?”

“I'm so sorry... I was just checking on the travel arrangements...” She points to the corner of the room where I suppose the travel arrangements are supposed to be. Confusion starts to spread across her face, although it's not a patch on the confusion I was wracked by less than two minutes ago.

“You what? Travel arrangements?” I fondle my nose. It doesn't feel broken.

“Yeah, I just wanted to make sure the travel...” She is squinting into the corner.

“Ah. The travel arrangements. I see. You're not quite awake yet, are you?”

“I'm not... sure.”

She looks adorable. I wrap my arms around her and she snuggles in. “Come on, lets give this sleep thing another go.”

I ooze charm and chivalry, but I am thinking, no one sits on my head and gets away with it - I am sooo going to get her for this.

Grumpy With Celebrity

2011-11-08T22:19:00.002+11:00

GRUMPY

Grumpy is Tsunami apprentice celebrity columnist and freelance scribbler Lee Bemrose (leebemrose@hotmail.com). Want him to wash your car in his undies? You couldn't afford it.

This whole celebrity thing has gotten a bit weird, hasn't it? I don't even know who most of the celebrity population are. Why are they celebrities? What did they do to become celebrities? And why do they seem so desperate to remain a celebrity? A celebrity sounds like an awful thing to be. I mean it's nice to get a bit of attention from friends and family on special occasions and when you've done something they can be proud of, but modern, full-blown celebrity seems to be a result of the complete opposite of these things. Get arrested lots of times for drink driving and you're guaranteed to stay in the pages of celebrity gossip mags. Make a celebrity sex tape and leaking it to the internet, ditto (have you ever seen celebrity sex tapes? Mostly they are poorly shot, there's little by way of plot and the dialogue is terrible. Apparently).

You can even become a celebrity by killing lots of people and going to jail for it. For a while there just after Carl Williams was bashed to death (by a guy who I'm sure is now some kind of underworld celebrity), mainstream media were reporting the story and referring to this murderous scumbag as 'Carl.' Surely first name basis is a term of endearment, no? I was waiting for the day they started calling him 'Our Carl.'

Oh and I have a confession to make; a column or two ago I referenced a celebrity in a joky way without even knowing properly who she was. I was trying to prove a point and said something like “It was like bumping into Kim Kardashian at a Mensa meeting.” At that time I didn't have a clue who this Kardashian person was. I needed a name to make a point of how unlikely this thing was to happen and the name Kim Kardashian came to mind. By the small amount of information that has made it into my mind by osmosis... let me re-phrase that: by the small amount of information about Kim Kardashian that has made it into my mind, I thought the idea of bumping into this particular celebrity at a Mensa meeting would be comically unlikely (as comically unlikely as the implied suggestion that I might ever be in a position to bump into someone at said meeting). But I really didn't know who she was or why this should be funny. Maybe she is actually really brainy, as well as having big boobs, a pretty face and a shitty TV show.

Something else that made it into my mind by osmosis is a thing... a terrible, terrible monstrosity called Celebrity Apprentice. Have you seen it? Oh dear. I saw a bit where another baffling celebrity, Pauline Hanson, changed into undies to wash some guy's car. Forget the damn car – use that power water gun to wash my eyes! Nothing – absolutely nothing – about this was entertaining. It was not funny. It was not sexy or even risqué. It was just dumb. As dumb as the entire premise of this show. It highlights just how desperately some celebrities cling to their celebrity. They have had their 15 minutes years ago but will do anything to rise from the dead and, well, do anything if it means getting their head on telly, vomiting up the last microbes of their dignity to cling with gnarled, bony claws to their precioussss, precioussss celebrity.

No doubt the gaggle of celebrities parading their buffoonery on this vacuum of intelligence, sophistication and dignity would say, “Grumpy – lighten up. It's just a bit of fun. And besides – look at the ratings. That many viewers can't be wrong.”

No, and a million flies can't be wrong, right?

I've said it before and I'll say it again – you humans, you baffle me.

Ghost Train

2011-11-04T23:08:00.003+11:00

Girl on a train,
Prettiest girl I ever saw,
I think you saw me looking at you,
I think you smiled,
But I looked away.

Girl on a train,
Prettiest girl I ever saw,
When you looked through the window,
Were you looking at me?
While I looked at you?
Ghostly reflections.

Girl on a train,
Train pulls away,
One last time I see you,
Looking through the window, ghostly reflection,
Girl on a train,
Prettiest girl I ever saw.

Sleeping Dog

2011-11-01T22:39:00.012+11:00

The best part of the day
Is when it's dark
And quiet,
Gentle and grey,
And there is the possibility
Of something.

The day will break,
but now there are lingering lights,
A hangover from the night.
And so many possibilities,
Of bright things.

In the early hours,
Time slows,
Time is gentle,
Time is quiet and grey,
And Out There is so far away.

I'm not happy in this grey,
This peace,
This hangover,
This shadow of possibility,
But at least that dog is quiet.

And I might just make it through to see
Another quiet,
Gentle, grey beginning,
Of another day.

You're amazing

2011-11-01T15:13:00.005+11:00

I was in a club last week with The Dreaded One. In hindsight we shouldn't have gone out. Not a bad night, just one we went along to out of habit more than anything. Okay night, it's just that I expect magic these days. Some nights, random magic and hilarity flies about all over the place.

One funny thing though... I was dancing away for a while and decided to take a break. As I left the dancefloor a girl stopped me and said simply, "You're amazing."

You're amazing. That's pretty big.

I was wearing my AD 2013 jacket, affectionately known by those in the know as Pretty, because it's a drop-dead cool jacket. I was also wearing my new Leafy Sea Dragons pants, which are drop-dead cool pants.

Possibly, the girl meant my clothes were amazing, which is a nice thing to say. I do like my clothes.

Or maybe - and upon reflection this is more likely - she was simply throwing a line at a random stranger to see if she could get a bite. Say that kind of thing and I guess most guys in a club are going to take the bait.

"Hey, amazing, you say? Why don't I buy you a drink and we can sit down and talk about all the ways you find me amazing." Something like that.

My reflex reaction? "Hoh - you are!" With an accusatory point. It was like we were eight years old on the school playground and she had just told me I was a smelly monkey's bum. I don't think it was quite the reaction she was expecting.

Her reaction? A moment of confusion, then, "No you are!" Adopting the mannerism of an eight year old who knows that it takes one to know one.

We laughed and it was a nice little moment.

Grumpy With Plans

2011-10-26T20:21:00.002+11:00

One of my latest Grumpy columns. Something has gone wrong with Blogger and it appears you can't magnify scanned versions to read them, which is very handy indeed. Especially as I've sent links to a magazine editor recently.

Anyway, here's this. Hope you enjoy.

Grumpy

Grumpy is freelance writer Lee Bemrose (leebemrose@hotmail.com). He enjoys sangria and Mr Tiddles as much as he despises phone companies and their arrogant plans.

Lets imagine that you are on a first date and... actually it doesn't have to be a first date. By setting this on a first date I risk alienating people who are way beyond the first date scenario and they might not bother reading on, and that would be a shame because I am about to make a good point here relevant to far more people than singles on a first date.

So. Lets just say it's no special occasion (though it could well be if you're the kind of reader with a soft spot for special occasions). It's just, you know, you hanging out at a restaurant (not necessarily al la carte but it can be if you want it to be) with a couple of friends... I know – it's a beer garden at a local casually elegant pub... on a sunny Sunday afternoon. There's a DJ playing chilled tunes, couples on first dates as well as long-term relationship couples, groups of friends, a lonely guy in the corner happily reading his book, there are gays and straights and there is even wheelchair access so that this anecdote welcomes everyone.

On the table is a particularly delicious carafe of sangria. This place really knows how to make a good sangria. Good quality wine base (red or white depending on your preference), loads of tropical fruit chunks, spritz of ginger beer, subtle undertones of vanilla and cinnamon with a nice sharp cut of, oh I don't know, Cointreau? Maybe a dash of gin. It's just about the most perfect sangria there ever was.

But as lovely as the sangria is, everyone's happy just kicking back enjoying each others company, shooting the shit, laughing and thinking in the back of their minds, gee this is perfect. The DJ even drops Mr Tiddles from Sasha's Airdrawndagger which no one has heard in years but everyone agrees is exactly the right tune for this perfect afternoon.

Then the waitress comes over and starts to take the half-full carafe of delicious sangria away.

“Excuse me – we haven't finished that yet,” one of the group says. “There's still half the carafe left.”

The waitress cocks her head to the side like yes she understands and she's very sorry. “Yes, I understand and I'm very sorry, but it's time. Did you want to order another carafe?”

“It's time? What is that supposed to mean? We still have half a carafe of delicious sangria left.”

The smile of understanding has not left the waitresses face. “But we don't sell our carafes of sangria by the carafe, as such.”

“You don't sell your carafes by the carafe as such? WTF?”

“We serve our drinks by the hour. Each hour, if you haven't finished your drinks but wish to stay, you are obliged to purchase another carafe or bottle of wine or whatever. It's just policy – I wouldn't worry too much about it. Now I take it by your tone you would like to order another carafe?”

“But we'd like to finish what's left in that one first.”

“As I explained, that's just not possible. Our policy is structured on the size of the beverage. 15 minutes for glasses of wine, beer and spirits, one hour for bottles and carafes. So another carafe?”

[Close anecdote]

How intolerably unacceptable would such a policy be? You wouldn't stand for it, would you. It would make you quite bloody angry, wouldn't it? And rightfully so because it would be bloody bloody bloody ridiculous.

So why are telephone companies allowed to do this? Every month we pre-purchase so many calls, texts and so much data, then when the end of the month rolls around it doesn't matter how much has not been used, we have to buy a whole month's worth again. Why does this this blatant rort exist?

Petrol companies must be shaking their fists in lament... “Why oh why didn't we think of selling petrol in weekly plans? We could force our customers to pay for a full tank each week instead of waiting for them to use up what they've already paid for... oh what fools we are.”

If someone knows of a company offering an open ended pre-paid system, please let me know, because I really hate bending over at the end of each month and letting my current company have their way with my bottom.

Whiteley's Incredible Blue, A Not-Review.

2011-10-18T18:00:00.006+11:00

Whiteley's Incredible Blue; An Hallucination.

Well I've just done something I don't normally do, and that is read other reviews before I've written my own. Not sure why I did this. Perhaps because I wasn't sure I was going to write a review at all. And I'm still not sure. I think what I'm about to do is add my two cents worth to a discussion that hasn't really taken place.

First up, scroll down past the recent Grumpy posts (do take the time to read them - they are sometimes a bit funny) to a Q & A I did with Barry Dickins leading up to the opening of Whiteley's Incredible Blue. That will give you an idea of what to expect from the play. I think if I had been a punter reading it (which I guess I am), I'm sufficiently interested in the life of Brett Whiteley and aware enough of Barry Dickins' talent for it to have persuaded me to check the play out.

Then check out Alison Crogan's positive review of the play here.

And finally check out Cameron Woodhead's negative review here.

There's also a bit of discussion in the comments section following Alison's review at Theatre Notes.

So what did I think of Whiteley's Incredible Blue? I've been telling friends that I enjoyed it and that yes, it is worth checking out.

Whiteley was, of course, a fascinating character. When younger I had probably always been aware of him even without being familiar with his art, being the boy from the burbs that I was. He was exotic, famous, creating weirdly beautiful paintings while living like a rockstar. For a while I lived around the Lower North Shore and it was as much a thrill for me then to glimpse the Whitely house at Lavender Bay as it would later be for me to walk past Patrick and Manoly's place at Centennial Park.

I also have a fascination for addiction and chemical experimentation, and Brett with his 30 years or so love affair with heroin... well what's not to be fascinated by?

Also, I laughed when he said something like, "I'd rather methadone than Ken Done."

So what intrigued me most about this play was that it came from a fever induced hallucination; was it going to capture the feeling of delirium, and would it be able to capture the kind of stuff that goes on in a head swirling in colourful storms of narcotic hallucination?

For me, the writing was spot on. This monologue of an overdosed artist in purgatory more-or-less looking back at his life was surreal, disjointed, occasionally garbled, poetic, sympathetic while exploring what Whiteley's ego must have been like. It's all speculation; it is indeed an hallucination.

Neil Pigot did a terrific job of becoming Brett Whiteley. Certainly he looked like him and appeared to move and talk like him. Was he accurately portraying what went on in Whiteley's head? Who really knows? But it felt authentic to me.

And yeah, it was moving, never more so that when the artist looked back at how he had played the role of father to the beautiful and tragic Arkie. Moving. Not sentimental. It would have been easy to milk the Arkie angle but I think Mr Dickins knew where the mark was and made sure he didn't overstep it.

Negatives? At first the voice-overs and the music were a bit jarring, but I think you either let yourself dwell on these or you kind of embrace them as part of the fabric of the thing. Jazz is not my favourite style of music but it fitted in with the somewhat helter skelter story we were being told. And like the story itself, amongst the jangling noise there were elegant sweeps of beauty.

I didn't read the "self-indulgent" biography written by Barry Dickins that Cameron Woodhead refers to, and I'd guess as a result I'd say this has not sent me in with any preconceptions. I like Whiteley's art. I am intrigued by how such artists think. When I heard of the artists death by overdose, I was saddened and wasn't one of the bitter humans Dickins talks about in my Q & A.

Consequently, I enjoyed this performance on its many levels and and do recommend it.

And that's my not-review. My contribution to this un-had discussion.

Until October 23 at fortyfivedownstairs, 45 Flinders Lane, Best City In Australia.

The Doughnut Of Love & AC/DC Wine Grumpies, Print Versions

2011-10-08T20:06:00.006+11:00

A couple of hard copy scans of recent Grumpy columns (click on image to enlarge, then click again to make it readable), now that the mag has started sending them through again. If you've already read them, apologies for the repitition. It's just kinda nice for me seeing them in print.

Was noodling with a Grumpy plan today. 365 Grumpy columns together in one book, The Book Of Grumpy or The World According To Grumpy. Or maybe The Year Of Grumpy. It's an idea I've been toying with for ages but a while ago I sent the idea to an online lit agent modelled on New York's Miss Snark. Big mistake because this person shot the whole thing down. Really crapped all over my confidence about it.

But to hell with it - the column has been going for years now and why not put a whole bunch together in book form? Mainly, it would be fun. And who knows, maybe it could be the best seller I need to not have to work at crappy jobs anymore. Maybe my new vocation could be sitting on stage in an armchair, sipping wine and reading from The Book Of Grumpy to Leegions of adoring fans. Maybe this time next year I'll be appearing at the Melbourne Fringe instead of reviewing Fringe shows. Perhaps I will be reviewing my own show...

Also, and I hope this works, here is a link to some recent photos taken at a party called Dragon Dreaming.

Whiteley's Incredible Blue; An Interview With Barry Dickins

2011-10-07T18:28:00.005+11:00

Whiteley's Incredible Blue

Barry Dickins Interview

By Lee Bemrose

During his lifetime, Brett Whiteley's flamboyant lifestyle more-or-less overshadowed the very art that made him famous. During the 60s, 70s and 80s even those uninterested in the art world knew about Brett Whiteley; internationally famous at the age of 22 and living a life of sex, drugs and art ever since. He mingled with the likes of Bob Dylan and polarised the populace with an exotic nature that often didn't sit right with average Australians and the Australian art elite alike, many of whom viewed him as a reckless upstart undeserving of his preternatural talent.

When Whiteley died of a drug overdose in 1992, the crescendo of gossip and superiority peaked as the biographies hit the bookshops. In his death, Whiteley had probably never polarised us more.

Amongst the many biographies was Black And Whiteley: In Search Of Brett by artist and writer Barry Dickins. As the title would suggest, this is a compassionate, non-judgemental biography, and indeed his new play, Whiteley's Incredible Blue, is also an intimate look at the mind of one our greatest artists and most colourful characters. In talking about this one-man performance featuring actor Neil Pigot, Dickins talks of poetry and dance, music and mystical manners, and drug-dealing Pink Flamingoes. All so very pure Whiteley.

For the full interview go to Australian Stage.

I saw the play last night and will write my thoughts on it shortly (short review: lived up to expectations and is well worth seeing; the 10pm show was pretty full, which is a good sign), but for now, read someone else's review at Australian Stage.

Appalling Behaviour, La Mama, Review

2011-09-22T00:11:00.004+10:00

Appalling Behaviour

Written and performed by Stephen House

Directed by Justin McGuinness

Reviewed by Lee Bemrose

I once heard about a play that was performed in an elevator. It was at one of those arty fringe festivals. Appalling Behaviour took place on a stage much more intimate. Seriously, I think this was the tiniest stage I have ever seen. Did it work in this shrunken version of La Mama? Hell yeah. This is a case where intimacy really works.

Stephen House wrote this play and could sit back happy that he has done a good job of writing it. It's one of those scripts (it's a monologue) that makes you want to read the words on the page as you watch the performance. It's lyrical. It's savage. It gives eloquence to people most of us ignore.

Story? There's a guy on the streets of Paris. He's broken and lost but clinging to the hookers and the dealers and the schemers who get him through each day, either in reality or the hallucinations and memories he needs to survive. You live in a big city, you see them each day. But you ignore them. You never enter their world. But you wonder, don't you. You wonder how they got there. You wonder what their life was like before they became grimy and fucked up and forgotten.

Acting? There's not one minute of this 75 minute performance that isn't convincing. This guy just a metre or so away in his shitty clothing with his bag of drugs and his tales of sorrow and his yearning for admiration and love and for things to be the way they should have been... he's like the forgotten ones we all see on the streets but step over or close our ears to. This homeless human that Stephen House has created gives a voice to these people. They are human. They have feelings. They have a past. Sometimes they are even tragically funny, just like the rest of us.

This is a big performance on a small stage that was hugely impressive.

Addendum: I was lucky enough to have an accidental post-show chat with Stephen House. Apparently the La Mama stage was so small due to the 6.30 performance of Blackbox 149, which explained the mysterious curtain at the rear of the stage that didn't do anything; it was not a prop in this show. House said that he was intimidated by the diminutive size of the stage and initially didn't think he could do it. He was used to performing Appalling Behaviour in bigger spaces and had to pull back his performance. On hearing this, most of us were surprised because this very intimacy enhanced the performance. You could feel the energy, the anger, the frustration, the sadness and longing.

There was a young kid in the audience who was from time to time disinterested and occupied herself by playing with her rubber ball. But even for her, as distant from this broken character's life as she was, she was frequently engaged, the toy falling still in her lap. House has indeed taken this performance to schools as well as theatres for us worldly grown-ups. However he said the most nervous he has ever been was when performing for homeless people. Understandable, because this was the acid test. Seems he got it right; Appalling Behaviour went down well with the very characters he was portaying. That's how good this performance is. That's how real it is.

As to why the story was set in France? House has spoken to many homeless people who have said that they feel they are speaking a different language, such is society's deafness to them; they feel like aliens even in their home country. He also likes the contradiction between the impression we have of a place like Paris and the reality. Indeed, spend a bit of time in, say, Pigalle, and you'll understand what he means. It's a short walk between vomit in the gutters and the shiniest shopping Paris has to offer.

At La Mama

205 Farraday Street

Carlton, Melbourne

September 21 – October 2

Pod Of Friends, Collins Street, Sept 20 2011. A Memorable Moment For No One.

2011-09-20T23:16:00.006+10:00

Walking along Collins Street today happily off in my bubble, I eventually notice that the street seems a lot more crowded than usual. Why is everyone packed in so closely and talking so much? I look around and realise I'd simply wandered into a pod of friends dawdling along talking to each other. They all look a bit the same. They talk in groups of two or three or more, sometimes one conversation spilling over into another. Outside the pod, the street is normal. Normal pace, normal space. I've been inside the pod for at least five minutes. I think about staying longer but decide it's time to go.

Life In Northcote Update, And Kimbra's Plain Gold Ring

2011-09-17T19:12:00.004+10:00

When I heard the Gotye track Somebody I Used To Know for the first time, I recognised Wally's vocals but when Kimbra came in I thought who the fuck is this? I saw the film clip and was amazed again. I've since read up, have since heard much of her music and whoa, how good is she? This track is my favourite. I like her other stuff too, but man, I watched this one this morning and just melted. She's 21 years old and clearly headed for big things. The track itself, originally performed by Nina Simone, is a wonderfully sad story of unrequited love. Nick Cave did a typically cool version of it. Kimbra's version... I think it's the kind of song you really have to feel to pull off. Watching her perform here, she is totally immersed in the song. Love it.

I was going to give an update on what's been happening in my life but I don't know if I'm in the mood. I am Limbo Man. I need a change. I need a good thing. I need a new adventure.

Yeah, a new adventure sounds nice.

Focused now on the 2012 World Trip Of Parties. Ozora, Boom, Ibiza, maybe Burning Man. This time next year we'd be heading back to Australia for Dragon Dreaming. I think we will work on making this happen. Living adventures like that, it's what it's all about.

For now though, things are not as bad as they were when we landed back in reality in Melbourne. I've gotten through the troubles, mostly. I think only The Dreaded One and Kat know what I'm talking about. Not good times even though I managed to pull out the smiles and laughs. Feel like I'm through a storm, shaken but okay. No one suspected a thing.

Fun times ahead. I really can't express how much... two things save my head. Writing silly stuff and hearing good music. I watched the Kimbra clip with tears in my eyes because I love how much she is getting into it. It's an amazing thing.

Oh there other things that save my head. The friends I know will hug me at the next doof. The new friends in this new city who are actual friends. The observations of The Buddha. The sight at Flinders station of a group of total wreckheads with tattoos on their necks, trashed clothing and one girl with a black-eye... seeing them enjoy taking time out from the life of carnage I know they live to enjoy a simple pleasure like buying icecreams on a sunny day. I passed by and took in all the information and it was a sad and happy picture. The girl with the black eye, she probably wondered why it can't always be like this. The guy with the tattooed neck she was passing the icecream to, he probably wondered the same. No doubt it would all fall apart hours later, but seeing these wrecks enjoying this moment of innocent enjoyment and being nice to each other for a while, it was nice. If sad. Why can't it always be nice?

Things are okay here. We like Northcote. We like Melbourne.

Grumpy And The Doughnut Of Love

2011-09-13T18:09:00.002+10:00

The new Grumpy column which will be out in the next issue of Tsunami mag. Unlike the mag version, you get to listen to a soundtrack as you read this tale of misguided romance.

Grumpy

Grumpy is freelance writer Lee Bemrose (leebemros@hotmail.com), and he has a problem, only it's not what he thinks it is.

Addiction can be a horrible thing. It makes you a slave. It makes a level-headed person change their habits and do things they wouldn't otherwise do. Addiction can ruin lives.

My name is Grumpy, and I'm a Bahn Mi-aholic. I love my Vietnamese pork roll. I love the crispy crust on the outside, the fluffy soft bread inside, the seismic crunch of cucumber and shallot and coriander stalk all so wonderfully juxtaposed with the cream-smooth pâté . I love the incendiary explosion of fresh chilli, the deft balance of salty soy with two-tone pork products. OMG, it's gotta be Bahn Mi for me.

Problem is, you start calling into the same place everyday to get your fix and strange things can happen.

It all started innocently enough. I saw that a local place in my new neighbourhood served Vietnamese pork rolls and remembered that I quite liked them. I'd had a bit of a thing for them before, so on a whim I decided I try these ones out. Ah yes, the memories came flooding back. So began my first steps on the road to ruin.

Soon the girl behind the counter started to recognise me as not just another random walk- in but as a regular customer deserving special treatment. Soon there were smiles and how are yous as our transaction got underway. Soon the thin spread of pâté seemed to become more generous – no mere scrape for this loyal customer; I, it seemed, was worthy of a luscious, thick spread that made my heart pound in anticipation. Likewise, the rest of this symphony for the mouth grew in quantity until surely I was getting the Mac Daddy of all Bahn Mi. I could feel the eyes of other Bahn Mi addicts on me, wondering why I was getting such royal treatment when they were receiving their pedestrian efforts.

I tried to restrict myself to one indulgence every second day but it was no good. I was hooked, and hooked good. Some days I almost made it past the bakery, only to be lured inside at the last moment. My Bahn Mistress' smile of greeting turned to a flirtatious giggle, her cheeks blushing as she set about professionally assembling my daily fix.

I knew things were spiralling out of control when one day, as we came to the dirty part of the deal, when I paid my $4 for her services, ever so softly, gently and I swear in slow motion, the tips of our fingers touched...And I don't know if you're an illusion, Don't know if I see it true, but you're something that I must believe in, and you're there when I reach out for you... Love is in the air, every sight and every sound...

But it got worse. How could it possibly get worse, you wonder? Like this: Lure, giggle, blush, Bahn Mi assemblage, payment, slow motion fingertip caress, cheesey 70s music followed by, “One moment. Something for you.”

Bahn Mistress has deposited a mystery item into a paper bag and slid it blushingly across the counter. I thank her and we smile blushingly and shyly, then I make my way through the thought balloons of the other customers (“Oh right – so not only does he get better pork rolls than us but now he gets mystery gifts as well.” “What's so good about him?” “What the hell is going on here?” “Where is that cheesy 70s music coming from?”).

Outside, curiosity piqued, I peek inside the bag: a doughnut. But given the circumstances, it's not just any doughnut but a Doughnut Of Love. And it might have been manageable if she had given me any other pastry (there were lamingtons and cookies and caramel slices and chocolate eclairs to choose from) but the symbolism of this Doughnut Of Love was unmistakable; she was clearly telling me she wanted to put a gold wedding ring on my finger.

This latest development happened just yesterday. I am due to be lured inside in a few short hours. I have no choice – I have to tell this Bahn Minx that I already have a Dreaded One. Perhaps I should let her down gently by making light of it and telling her that it's not her, it's Mi... no, that won't work. How oh how do we get ourselves into these things?

Daheen's Being Green Album Review

2011-09-05T20:14:00.004+10:00

DAHEEN
Being Green
REGEN Records

Being Green is the latest release from Sydney psytrance producer Daheen (aka Dave Le Breton). It's an album with an environmental message, for sure, but the music is as fun as the message is, well, green. The tracks – a motley collection of proven favourites from Daheen's live sets – as often exist simply to smile and dance to as they do to remind us of the precarious situation we have gotten ourselves into environmentally.

Tracks such as Pirates Ahoy, Horsin' Around, Pink Panther and Master Yoda use often hilarious samples to get you smiling while you stomp. Who would ever have guessed that the likes of Peter Cooke and Dudley Moore's classic comic duo Derek and Clive would make an appearance on a trance dancefloor?

The real beauty in this album though is the music from nature. The natural rhythm of a frog's ribbit and cricket's chirrup (are they the technical terms?) provide the perfect base for the wonderfully fat title track. And lest you get caught up in the dark coolness of this track, who should make an appearance but the green one himself, Kermit The Frog. The following track draws on the symphony of sounds the great grey beast the elephant communicates with; it's an intricate track of shimmering beauty, dancefloor friendly but equally one of those tracks to close your eyes and think beautiful things to.

Printed and packaged in eco friendly materials, the album comes with a short story connecting the variety of characters who make an appearance on the album as our frog hero Neehad (where did Daheen come up with such a name?) embarks on a voyage to get to the bottom of the mystery of the disturbing shrinking world frog population. Whimsical, silly and with a whole lot of heart, it's exactly the kind of thing you could read to your kids at bedtime... just fast forward through the Derek and Clive section.

Daheen may have a message, but he knows the dancefloor is for dancing. As the Hopi Indian saying goes, “To watch us dance is to hear our hearts sing.” Dance to Being Green and hear your heart sing.

The Melbourne launch of Being Green happened at The Mothership Part 4, My Aeon, Friday September 9.

Lee Bemrose

Please Explain: AC/DC Wine

2011-08-31T19:06:00.003+10:00

Grumpy

Grumpy is freelance wine-maker Lee Bemrose (leebemrose@hotmail.com). Grumpy's Grenache is a mighty fine drop.

In the local bottle shop the other day I was a bit bemused to see the newly released AC/DC range of fine wines. It's... I mean, I like AC/DC and I like wine, but they just don't have anything to do with each other. Seeing images of Angus Young in Dan Murphy's was as bizarre seeing Kim Kardashian at a Mensa meeting. Or the Murdochs at the International Meeting of People With Integrity. Or Adam Sandler in a funny movie.

“What's going on here, Brain?” I asked my brain.

“I don't know, Grumpy. It's just not computing. It's as bizarre as seeing Kim Kardashian at a Mensa meeting. Or the Murdochs at the International Meeting -”

“Hey – that's what I was just thinking.”

“Great minds...”

Nobody was going near the AC/DC point of sale area. I guess everyone was having bemused conversations with their bemused brains. But I guessed a lot of shoppers, like me, were taking surreptitious sideways glances at this oddity of merchandising. Think Oz rock, you think black T-shirts, tatts, muscle cars and shouting. Think Oz rock and booze and you think beer or Jack.

And yet there it was – Hells Bells Sauvignon Blanc.

“Brain...?”

“I know. I saw it too.”

There's also Back In Black Shiraz, You Shook Me All Night Long Moscato and getting away from the Back In Black album, even a Bon Scott reference in the Highway To Hell Cabernet Sauvignon.

“Erm – Brain?”

“Yes Grumpy? I probably know what you're going to say, but go ahead.”

“Didn't the original singer of AC/DC die from an alcohol induced incident?”

“He most certainly did.”

“So as well as pretty damned weird, it's not really in the best taste, is it.”

No. I agree. It's a bit like... a bit like...”

“Releasing a Jeff Buckley range of swimwear?”

“Exactly what I was thinking.”

But it's not really the bad taste aspect that has stayed with me (others have suggested a Marc Bolan model Mini-Cooper to celebrate the vehicle in which he died, or a Mama Cass chain of sandwich shops), it's just the weirdness of the whole thing. Who, exactly, is going to buy this stuff? Certainly not cardigan-clad and knowledgeable wine buffs. Certainly not me or my bon vivant brain. Are AC/DC fans really going to buy it?

And rather than go down the bad taste road of releasing a celebration of the thing that killed a loved rock star, I'm a far more practical thinker. “Isn't that right, Brain.”

“You said it, big feller.”

What I'm wondering is, what do I eat with my Hells Bells Sauvignon Blanc?

“I'm thinking,” Brain tells me, “a well-ripened cheese. Maybe the Led Zeppelin Black Dog brie.”

“Sensational. Accompanied by a Black Sabbath Paranoid quince paste.”

“Exquisite.”

The Grumpy-Brain Advertising Corp next plans to release the Pauline Hanson range of Please Explain lingerie.

The Maids Review

2011-08-29T19:01:00.003+10:00

The Maids

Review by Lee Bemrose

(Photo by Joe Calleri)

This was one of the oddest plays I've seen in a while – not the least because I went in pretty blind as to what I was about to see. I don't really remember what initially interested me. It was on at La Mama. It looked like a bit of a dark comedy. The promo shots hinted at something a bit strange; might be worth checking out.

Basically, The Maids by Frenchman Jean Genet follows the story of a couple of maids playing naughty power games in their mistress' absence. They dress up in her clothes, wear her make-up, mimic and tease, both her and each other. Their game escalates until they dare themselves to murder her. She returns, almost discovers what the mice have been up to while the cat's away and... well I've already given away too much.

Although this is a one act play, it is constructed of three parts. There is the opening revelation of the curious nature of the maids followed by the return of the mistress, followed by what happens next when the mistress leaves again.

There is something strange about this production right from the start. The two maids, Solange and Claire, are played by male actors Matt Crosby and Ben Rogan. There's nothing wrong with seeing gender played by opposites, but in this case it was strange because... well because it was all very obvious. Matt and Ben are very masculine men playing very feminine roles, but in a very over-the-top way; women cast in these same roles would have played the parts very differently, I feel. There's a self-consciousness about it which adds to the feeling that all is not as it seems.

Looking around at the faces in the intimate space of La Mama, I did see a few staring on occasion into the middle distance rather than the actors on stage who frequently rubbed shoulders with the audience. There were jokes which occasionally raised quiet laughs, and there was this constant, unsettling feel about the thing. Why have male actors playing female roles? Why this campness? And what, exactly, was going on here?

In what is basically the second act, the limelight is stolen by Butoh and burlesque star Yumi Umiumare. This is also over-the-top camp, but somehow, suddenly, there is electricity. Yumi's Mistress is a loud Japanese pop-punk drama queen who struts, demands respect (the maids have become suddenly subservient in her presence after being so bold in her absence), and she also demands answers. What has been going on in her absence? Why these misplaced objects? Why traces of her make-up in unexpected places? Much of her barked sentences trail dismissively into Japanese, making her dominance even more comical.

The plot to undo the mistress is thwarted and as she leaves for what is basically the third act, the maids resume their power games, but with added edge.

Unfortunately, once Yumi left the stage, a bit of that middle-distance gazing came over again, and this third section felt a little too long. I'm pretty sure I wasn't the only one present who thought okay, I've seen the fun bit, let's get this over and done with.

Discussion afterwards between plus one and myself was along the lines of the opening line of this review. It is an odd, unsettling play. It's a play from a bygone time. I don't think it's timeless or even relevant to our times. I do thinking acting from all three cast members was very good. I am curious to see another production of this play because I'm not sure why gender came into this... although it was certainly about power and dominance, both of which often dance with gender and the roles we have to play. (Note – in reading about The Maids after writing this review it seems the playwright himself wanted male actors, so this production is being true to the spirit of the thing).

Like I said, one of the oddest plays I've seen in a while. Not entirely a bad thing.

Season Over.

Grumpy, Captain Jack And The Peacock Juice

2011-08-16T23:38:00.000+10:00

Grumpy

Grumpy is freelance pirate Jack Sparrow. He can be Shanghaied for writing at leebemrose@hotmail.com

The Dreaded One walks into the bathroom and asks where I left her eye-liner.

“Back in the other room. Near where you were sitting.”

She leaves to look for her eye-liner, and I ponder what a strange exchange this was. First time we've ever had such a conversation; I am not in the habit of wearing my girlfriend's make-up. However, we are going to a fancy dress party and I am going as a pirate. Weirdly, I have managed to fashion an entire, impressively piratey outfit from found items in my wardrobe. I have a scarf (which has for some long-forgotten reason been referred to as my terrorist scarf) which, when folded correctly, makes a splendid bandanna. I have a white linen shirt with French cuffs which when left un-cuffed looks like one of those billowy jobs pirates wear. Throw a vest over that, a sash around my waist and my leather Swear boots on my feet and hey presto! I'm Jack Sparrow!

Only I need some eye-liner. A quick lesson on how to apply eye-liner and I look fabulous. I become Jack Sparrow. I sway and swagger like an inebriated feline as I make my way into the living room and say things to The Dreaded One like, “You need to find yourself a girl mate. Or perhaps the reason you practice three hours a day is that you already found one, and are otherwise incapable of wooing said strumpet. You're not a eunuch are you?”

“What?”

“I'm Jack Sparrow. Captain Jack Sparrow, at your service.” I may not look exactly like Johnny Depp, but the accent is totally spot on. I am the whole package of swashbuckling sexiness.

Somehow The Dreaded One rolls her eyes whilst staring levelly at me. “You don't have to be Jack Sparrow. You can just be a regular pirate.”

“Will you please shut it?” I slur ever so slightly in the manor of Captain Jack Sparrow. “Listen to me. Yes, I lied to you. No, I don't love you. Of course it makes you look fat. I've never been to Brussels. It is pronounced "egregious". By the way, no, I've never met Pizzaro but I love his pies. And all of this pales to utter insignificance in light of the fact that my ship is once again gone. Savvy?”

“Oh God. This isn't going to be a repeat of Turkey, is it?”

Ah. Turkey. Yes. A dance festival with a total solar eclipse in the middle of it. A party in the pine forest populated by people of all persuasions; no pirates. Everyone, it seemed, had an accent, and after someone put a drop of something on the back of my hand and the pine trees turned to peacock feathers, I developed an accent of my very own. It was the accent of a swarthy European, a seasoned world traveller who is deep of voice, thick of accent and wise of head. It may or may not have been inspired wholly or in part by Sasha Baron Coen's Borat.

And because of the stuff that turned the pine trees into peacock feathers, my accent would not go away.

“Stop it please,”The Dreaded One kept asking.

“But I cannot. I am veddy solly, but it has... how you Eengleesh say... it is part of me. It is simply the way I communicate in your Western... tongway? Tong? Tung! If I must communicate to you in you preferred langoo-wage, I must speak in, eh, these accent. You must forgeeve. Ooh – look at the peacock trees.”

It's a strong relationship that can survive three solid days of this. I simply could not shut it off.

And this was what The Dreaded One was getting at with this Jack Sparrow thing. I had taken to being Jack Sparrow perhaps a little too naturally.

No problem. I just have to stay away from people offering peacock juice and everything should be fine.

A Grumpy Love Song

2011-08-01T21:48:00.005+10:00

This story will be familiar to some of you. I needed a Grumpy column and came across my one and only attemps at song-writing and the circumstances around it and thought I'd recycle a bit. It really is a coincidence that I've moved to this city and that I am currently working in this particular theatre.

Grumpy

Grumpy is freelance writer Lee Bemrose (leebemrose@hotmail.com) His new venture as a love balladeer extraordinaire may be shorter lived than he hoped.

When it comes to writing, I've tried most forms with varying degrees of success... or varying degrees of failure, depending on how you view these things. I've been lucky enough to win an award for a sad love story, have had sad and funny love stories published in a variety of mags and lit journals and even the odd crime story has found an audience. I just think what the hell, you have to give things a go.

Rummaging through old files recently I discovered that I have also tried a bit of song writing. It all came about after I reviewed an internationally famous cabaret diva and in my review (which, I guess, did turn into a bit of a declaration of love) I mentioned that by the end of her show I “was comatose with desire.”

Bugger me, I thought, wouldn't Comatose With Desire make a good song title. Sounded like something The Smiths would come up with. Next time I interviewed the internationally famous cabaret diva I told her about my idea for a song for her. Her response? “Stop stalking me.”

Encouraged by her enthusiasm, I set about writing my first love song:

Comatose With Desire

I would walk the desert sands for you,
Move mountains and part seas for you,
I would hold my breath and turn blue for you,
You make me comatose with desire.

Comatose with desire,
Comatose with desire,
You make me
Comatose with desire.

Your presence penetrates me,
It envelopes and smothers me,
You choke the very life out of me,
And make me comatose with desire.

(Chorus)

Your beauty intoxicates,
It makes my pupils dilate,
And my heart fibrillate,
I’m so comatose with desire.

(Chorus)

To know you is to know humility,
You degrade and humiliate me,
And leave me snivelly and whimpery,
And comatose with desire.

(Chorus)

My unrequited lust for you,
Has crushed my heart, it’s true,
And another vital organ or two,
And left me comatose with desire.

(Chorus)

I am a peaceful village,
That you rape and pillage,
My heart buuuurns for yoooo... because you set it on fire,
I am comatose with desire.

(Chorus)

Your indifference to me
Has made me quite loony,
I am drugged...
And bound...
And dribbling...
In the... mental... asylum... of love...

(Chorus, with sad echoey effects and maybe one of those eerie theremin things).

I sent the song to my diva. Her response? “Really, darling, if you don't stop stalking me...” She also pointed out that the song made no sense because if she sang it, who was she singing it to? Who was the 'You' in the song. Me, I ventured? “I don't sing love songs to stalkers.”

I interviewed her for another mag twice after that (“Stop stalking me! Stop stalking me!”), but it's gone quiet between us since then.

By complete coincidence, the new city I've recently moved to is also the hometown of our internationally famous cabaret diva. And by an even bigger coincidence I've scored a job at the very same theatre she performs her new show at in a few short weeks.

It's going to be so lovely to catch up with her again.

Grumpy With Job Interviews

2011-07-19T21:42:00.000+10:00

Grumpy

Grumpy is freelance writer Lee Bemrose (leebemrose@hotmail.com). He's not so good with job interviews.

Why do I do this? I wonder as I bumble through the panic of waking up feeling rough after a big night out, knowing that I am late and that this is typical behaviour and where are my pants and wouldn't it have been better to have laid all my clothes out the night before and in fact shouldn't I have stayed in for a quiet night instead of going out and getting wrecked? Wouldn't all of that have been the sensible thing to do? I mean, after all, this is A Very Important Job Interview.

I am not very happy with the sock situation. How is it that so many single socks have gone through the wash while their partners took the day off. Odd socks for A Very Important Job Interview is a well known bad omen. But I can I really pair one clean sock with an unclean matching one? More to the point – should I be spending so much time thinking about socks when I have to be at the place in a very short time? Stop being so superstitious and do something about the sock situation.

I move like The Flash. My mind sharpens and I prioritise. I grab stuff on the way past that I think I will need – phone, keys, wallet, stapler, it all goes into my (very fashionable) shoulder bag. I stop at the door because something doesn't feel right. I think at the speed of light. I turn around and run back to take the stapler out of my bag and stuff my resume into it. Oh I'm good.

I catch sight of myself in the hall mirror on the way past... fuckity fuck – haven't shaved. Seriously no time now so the electric shaver goes into the bag. I move fast because not only do I need this job, I want it so very badly because it's a very cool job.

I run for the bus. I'm one of those people you smirk at (from the comfort of your bus seat) who has lost all dignity, such is their desperation to make it to the bus before it pulls away. You smirk in justified superiority at me because YOU had a quiet night in and YOU laid your clothes out the night before and YOU have clean matching socks and... oh why don't you just fuck off.

Bus. Sorted. No seats. Standing room only. Still, all cool. So long as the traffic isn't broken and we don't get taken away by aliens, should be fine.

I fix myself up. I cool down by the end of the bus ride. I tell myself to stop asking me why I do this. I clear my mind. I think of the interview. This is a cool job. I must be cool. My outfit, it is very cool... so long as they don't look at my socks. My things, they are all very cool. My diary, my pen, my watch, my lovely lovely things will make an impression. Be calm. Relax, I tell myself, you have the questions you know they will want you to ask even though you know the answers... because you are a professional. A cool, professional cool person and their future employee.

I keep soothing myself like this all the way through the city streets, through the huge revolving door to this huge skyscraper. I whistle a little tune to myself as I look at the huge building directory, taking longer than I need to now because I even have a little time up my sleeve.

Elevator dings open. I step inside and press 34. I turn for one last look and – FUCK! Didn't shave. Right. Too late now. Just have to go for that so-cool-I-can-get-away-with-three-day-growth look. But can I? No, I cannot. I just don't have that kind of facial hair. I have gaps.

I also have my shaver. Because I plan ahead.

I lunge for the elevator buttons and press every one of them between current 7^th floor and the 34^th floor, my fingers tickling those buttons like I'm Mozart playing a very weird piano. The other occupants of the lift do not look overly impressed. I don't get the feeling that I'm very popular in that elevator, but if they knew the full story I'm sure they'd understand.

I rip into my fuzz with a satisfying buzz and we dawdle upward.

27^th floor and I am totally going to make it. Feeling good? Hell Yeah.

We leave the 33^rd floor and... the shaver dies with one half of my moustache to go.

Silence. Ding. 34^th floor.

Cool Like Amanda Palmer

2011-07-16T12:27:00.005+10:00

Geeze, what's with the Palmer infatuation lately. First Chili, now Amanda... although to be fair the Amanda Palmer thing has been going on for a while. She's a favourite blogger. I love her honesty, her sense of fun and adventure and her heart. She's got a big one. Read this blog post about the cuddling monk and her and husband Neil Gaiman's reaction to it. Weird, funny, beautiful, just like Amanda Palmer.

Also, because I don't feel like writing much at the moment, here is a link to a recent interview with the director of a new theatre company (Mello Yellow) in Melbourne. I haven't seen the production talked about but it's by award-winning New Zealand playwright Thomas Sainsbury and it sounds pretty good. I was also drawn into this because of the very funny Steph's handling of our interaction. Vibe says yes. I'm planning to review the performance in a couple of weeks.

Cool like Chili Palmer

2011-07-07T22:42:00.005+10:00

Grumpy

The Dreaded One and I have found a local club in our new city that we enjoy going to on an almost weekly basis. It's a psytrance club filled with trippy beats and fluffy people, as well as fluffy beats and trippy people. Slowly slowly, we are being recognised, friends are being made, roots, so to speak, are being put down.

Just last week at our new favourite club, I'm dancing away, sometimes with eyes closed, big dumb grin on my big dumb face. But it gets really crowded and soon there is a bit too much body contact for it to be properly enjoyable. There's been a DJ changeover and the usual rush at the beginning of the set takes place. I am patient, however, because I know that soon the crowd will thin out somewhat as the softies have had enough and head back to their nooks or the outside fire to continue chatting, leaving more room on the dancefloor for us hard types to keep stomping.

Someone keeps intruding on my personal space, though, even when numbers have thinned so that the dancefloor is only moderately rammed instead of insanely rammed. It's this bald little guy, looks a bit like Gollum. He's really short and really drunk. He wants to dance but all he can manage to do is kind of wobble about a bit, stagger and laugh at all the fun stuff going on in his head. He just keeps stumbling back so that I have to put a hand to his back to let him know that someone is standing behind him. I also step back to give him room.

But soon it gets too much. He's forcing me further and further from the sweet spot and, well, the sweet spot is Grumpy's spot. I get a little annoyed. I wonder whether I should get in his face about it. But then I think nah, he's having a good time, no need to piss on his parade.

Besides, I'm reading Elmore Leonard's Be Cool now, and Chili Palmer is about the coolest damned character ever written, and although Chili Palmer handles himself when he gets in mo'fo's faces, he saves the heavy stuff for special occasions. Sometimes, charm works just as well. Chili Palmer? He could charm the pants off anyone, and somehow I just know that in this situation, Chili Palmer would use charm over hard-guy.

The little Gollum guy laughs and flails his arms about, giggling with a mate. I put a hand on his shoulder, just firm enough to let him know I am here and I'm not backing away any further. He turns and looks up at me. I smile at him, creasing my eyes at the corners just like John Travolta as Chili Palmer would in a situation like this. I smile warmly in a way that lets him know everything is cool, but I could take your Goddamned bald head off your scrawny shoulders if I wanted to, but hey, I'm, as cool as Chili Palmer, so because I'm being nice to you why don't you be nice to me and stop pushing into my personal space, okay? He looks momentarily, I don't know, worried or something, so I reassure him with a cute little two thumbs up; it's okay dude, everything is cool. The guy smiles back at me at returns my two thumbs up, looking happy again because everything is cool.

As cool as Chili Palmer? I could give my man Chili some tips.

A little later The Dreaded One tells me about a dancefloor encounter of her own.

“You wouldn't believe what happened before.”

“What's that,” I asks softly, just like John Travolta as Chili in both Get Shorty and Be Cool.

“I was dancing away before having a really good time when this guy dancing next to me leaned over and said something to me. He said that him and his mate were wondering if me and my friend would want to go back to his place and have sex with them.”

“You and your friend?” This comes out in pure me. No sign of Chili Palmer.

“Yeah – they wanted you and me to back to theirs to have sex with them. Not just me, both of us.”

“They were two dudes?”

“Yes.”

“And they wanted us to go back -”

“Yes.”

“To have sex with both of -”

“YES.”

“Oh. Gee. Wow. Who was it?” I don't know why I ask this.

“It was this guy wandering about with two drinks. We just started talking and realised that we grew up in neighbouring suburbs in Queensland. He seemed nice.”

“He just wanted to have sex with both of us... did he have hair?”

“Yes. Why? You like hairy men?”

“Stop it.”

In reality, though, what I'm thinking is, is it wrong to feel ever so faintly flattered to be included in this little wished-for foursome? It's not like there was ever any chance of it coming to fruition, but it is kind of nice to be included. Kinda nice to know you still have pulling-power, as misdirected as it is... imagine if it was a straight couple though... like that lithe woman in the tight stripy dress and her boyfriend... imagine if it had been them... maybe it would have been something to consider...

I hear The Dreaded One's sigh through the sonic blast of the music. “You're wondering what would have happened if it had been a mixed couple instead of a same sex couple, aren't you. Or better still, if it had been a couple of girls.”

Whoa – imagine that. Awesome... hey, how does she do that? How does she know what I'm thinking?

“It's written all over your face.”

“What is?”

“What you're thinking.”

This was getting too weird. I had to stop thinking.

“You said he had two drinks?”

“The other was for his mate. You might have seen him. Little bald guy?”

Fuck. Suddenly the little drunk guys doesn't look as much like Gollum as he does a little drunk sex toy on legs.

“What's wrong?” The Dreaded One asks. “You look a bit strange.”

“I'm just wondering if this would have been before or after I gave him the two thumbs up.”

“What? You gave him two thumbs up? Why?”

“I was trying to be cool, like Chili Palmer.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Finished your drink? Good. Let's get the hell out of here. I'll explain it in the cab.”

Grumpy is freelance writer Chili Palmer. He's cool like Lee Bemrose. (leebemrose@hotmail.com)

Deya Dova Interview and Remixed Album Review

2011-07-04T22:52:00.005+10:00

Two more mag things about the amazingly talented Deya Dova. And check out Deya's website for even more music than covered here. The psytrance tweak of Spaceman is awesome.

Steampunk... The Way Things Should Be.

2011-07-02T12:05:00.005+10:00

The Dreaded One and I saw Circus Oz, Steampowered last Friday night. Steampunk was the theme and needless to say, it was a pretty awesome show. My full review for Australian Stage is here.

But what I did want to share here was my version of karma. A little thing happened last night that wasn't karma, because I don't really believe in karma, but it was The Way Things Should be.

I collected my tickets from the box office with the usual confusion about names etc. Review tickets are often booked through someone else and there's always a couple of moments of wondering if the tickets were actually there. Name. Confusion. Rifle throught the files and names scrawled last minute on sheets of paper. Then the box office person said, "Lee, is it?" I said yes and she handed me the envelope.

It wasn't until we took our seats in the big top that I saw in better light that the name on the envelope was Bree. I told the Dreaded One. We talked about it. I could have easily just said fuck it, not my problem. But I hate that feeling of being left stranded at the box office knowing that you really should have tickets waiting for you but feeling like you're blagging unjustified freebies. So not wanting Bree to miss her tickets, I took them back out to the box office and explained what had happened. They remembered me, understood the Bree/Lee thing and looked for my tickets. I started to think I had done the wrong thing in doing the right thing because they could not find any tickets under my own name. We finally figured out that the tickets had been booked in the editor's name (she had definitely told me tickets were in my name) and all was sorted. Back inside, we moved to our proper seats (marginally better ones) and I had a coupon in the envelope for a program, which Bree hadn't had, so I had done the right thing. We were only a few seats away and saw Bree take her seat, not knowing the trouble we had spared her.

At intermission, The Dreaded One realised she had lost her bag. We looked everywhere in the area, under the seats etc before realising that she must have left the bag when we moved seats. Bree was not there but neither was the bag. However, on checking with lost & found we found that Bree had done the right thing and returned the bag with everything inside.

So. Karma? I don't think so. It's just The Way Things Should Be. Everyone does the right thing, everything will be fine.

Circus OZ - Steam Powered from Speaker TV on Vimeo.

Look At Me - I'm Chili Palmer

2011-06-22T17:46:00.006+10:00

I'm reading Elmore Leonard's Get Shorty now, taking a break from the bushrangers thing... although I am still in the middle of writing The True History Of The Kelly Super Gang (see post below below).

I'm loving this book so much. So well written. So deft. Such a perfect balance between cool and funny, and with enough reality in there to make it almost believable. His characters ring true, even the really dumb ones. And I just read that Chili Palmer was based on a real life friend of the author's, Ernest Chili Palmer who made a cameo appearance in the film. The story refers to real Hollywood stars and is about movie making, so knowing there was a real Chili Palmer, you can't help wondering just where the idea for this story came from.

I also can't hep getting very caught up in this book and will read Be Cool, the follow up, next.

Yesterday I was so into it that after the tram had been sitting still for a minute or two, I casually looked up and wondered where we were. Then leapt out of my seat and bolted arm-flappingly to the door because it was my stop. How in the hell did that happen?

And just now... I'm waiting on an email interview for a music festival and the director's answers are not in yet. Deadline is technically yesterday. I'm thinking the way Chili Palmer speaks now and emailed my editor with, "The Castlemaine guys, they haven't got back to me yet. You want I should wack 'em or lean on 'em some more?"

We're emailing in Mob-speak now.

Which in turn got me thinkng... you know how there is International Talk Like A Pirate Day? Well why not an International Talk Like A Mobster Day? The pirate thing doesn't go much further than aaargh me mateys and oim a poirate, but talking like a wiseguy? The possiblities are endless.

Guy behind the counter: "You want what? You come into my joint - a coffee joint - and you ask for a coffee and expect me - a motherfocking barista - to make you a focking coffee. Do you know who I am? Do you have a focking clue what you're dealing with here?"

Etc.

I wonder how one starts an International Day. I think I'll look into it. I'm thinking February 25th can be International Talk Like A Mobster Day... Happy focking birthday to you... happy focking birthday to you...

Grumpy With Bushrangers

2011-06-17T19:01:00.002+10:00

GRUMPY

Sometimes when I'm not looking, my brain wanders off to lands weird and whimsical, returning hours later with pocketfuls of fantastically fascinating if incredibly useless information which it is very keen to share with me.

Recently my brain was pondering the tough nature of the humble tow-truck driver. You don't get a tougher job than a tow-truck driver, my brain pondered. Except maybe gladiators. I'm pretty sure a gladiator would beat a tow-truck driver in a fight. But then gladiators lead pretty comfortable lives outside of actual gladiorating. They were well-fed and looked after by their owners so that they could train to stab people in the arena next tournament.

Now Australian bushrangers, on the other hand, were tougher than gladiators and tow-truck drivers. They roughed it and toughed it in the harsh Australian bush. They stole, they had gunfights. They had wit and daring, cold hearts and battle scars... and an astonishing number of them had really flamboyant names.

Sure, there were your regular Ned Kelly's and Ben Halls, but what's with all the ones that sound like they were Baz Lurhman characters?

Guys like Frederick Ward, whose bushranger name was Captain Thunderbolt. Now while Thunderbolt can come across a bit threatening in a Thor, Viking God way, it's highway cred is completely undermined by that Captain bit. When I think of Captain Thunderbolt I can't help but see a guy on a horse – or maybe a pony - in tights and a cape.

But Fred wasn't the only Captain ranging the bush. There was also a Captain Melville, a Captain Moonlight and two... two Captain Starlights.

Okay, so Ned Kelly with his bucket on his head asks me for money, I'm going to give it to him because only a tough, crazy bastard gets around wearing a metal bucket on his head. And his name is tough. It rhymes with dead. There's a subliminal thing going on there.

Captain Melville, on the other hand, he asks for my money and after I stop laughing my arse off I'm just going to tell him to piss off. What a stupid name. His real name was Frank McCallum but he not only decided to go with the Captain routine, he decided to camp it right out with something as silly as Melville... which is a fine name if you're an English professor or an accountant, but a bushranger?

As for Captains Moonlite (real name Andrew George Scott), Starlight (Frank Pearson) and Starlight (Harry Redford)... was someone putting something in the water? Moonlite as in bushranger lite? And did the two Starlights ever run into each other and have a pillow fight over who was the real Starlight? Did they get dressed in their Captain Starlight costumes and have Walk-off challenges like in Zoolander to see which Starlight shined brightest?

As well as giving the colonials a well needed laugh, the Starlights obviously caused some confusion because Harry Redford's full title ended up being “Captain Starlight – The Gentleman Bushranger.”

It's unclear whether he gave this as his full title when robbing people, but you can imagine the scene if he didn't.

“Hand over your money, for I am Captain Starlight!”

“Okay, but before we do... which Captain Starlight are you?”

“Oh not this again. There is only one Captain Starlight. The other one is a mere -”

“The other one what?”

“The other Captain Starlight. He's a cheap imitation -”

“So you admit there are two Captain Starlights?”

“All right all right. I'm the gentleman one. I am Captain Starlight, The Gentleman Bushranger. Now please give me your money.”

“Oh that's a relief. We were worried that you might be Captain Starlight The Bastard Bushranger...”

And don't even get me started on bushrangers Sam Poo and Jack The Rammer. No, I am not making this up.

Confusion

2011-06-08T18:20:00.008+10:00

Grumpy

The new place The Dreaded One and I live in, it's right above a large shopping complex. It's so convenient – run out of anything and it's a quick elevator ride downstairs (why is it still downstairs when it's an elevator ride?). I can be in the local bottle shop before most people can make it to their front gate.

Curiously, though, our downstairs shopping complex has two supermarkets from the same chain. Two Coles, known to us as Good Coles and Not Good Coles because although one minute's walk separates them, one is good and one is, erm, not good. I'm not sure what the differences is exactly... they both play the same crappy music, they both carry the same produce... it's a vibe thing. And the fact that The Person Who Decides Where Stuff Goes in Not Good Coles appears to be a direct descendant of Dali's.

Both stores recently implemented a policy of having a meet-and-greet person at the entrance. Their job is to smile and ask you how you are and hand you a shopping basket.

I'm not sure who thought this was a good idea, but it's a very strange experience. The people doing it are very good about it (although the dude at Not Good Coles is clearly struggling with what he obviously thinks of as the very extreme low-point of this whole stupid life but gives a grudging gesture of faux pleasantness with lips generally reserved for sneering), but you can tell that even the ones at Good Coles know that it's all a bit silly. Nevertheless you make eye contact and smile and tell them you are well and ask how they are as you accept the shopping basket.

Thing is, you get used to it. It's just a done thing. It all becomes almost second nature. It becomes as natural as putting one foot in front of the other. Suddenly there is a new person in your life and their role is to hand you a shopping basket. In its way, it's a change for the better because it takes the pressure off. It's one less thing to think about in our cluttered, busy lives.

But what happens if Shopping Basket Person is not there?

Maybe they're just hanging out outside getting a lung cancer hit. Maybe they've quit. Maybe... look I don't know where they are, all I know is they are not here and I don't know what to do. Usually they are here with the handles on the top baskets turned perkily up in anticipation of being handed from Shopping Basket Person to the grateful shopper. But they are not here and what happens next? The whole system has crashed. What next? What next? The confusion is overwhelming. How does the shopping basket get all the way into my hand if Shopping Basket Person is not there to ensure that this very complex process runs smoothly?

I move in confused circles. I desperately look for Shopping Basket Person. I flap my arms a bit. I scratch my head. The handles on the shopping baskets have not even been turned up. Is this a sign? Am I not allowed to take a shopping basket until someone with appropriate skills turns up to rectify the situation? Or do I go to the front counter and alert Front Counter Person that Shopping Basket Person has gone MIA. Or AWOL. Or both MIA and AWOL at the same time. Perhaps Good Coles is losing customers to Not Good Coles because they cannot cope with the confusion this... this... this crisis has brought on?

I'm sending this dispatch from my phone whilst stranded at the deserted shopping basket post. There have been no further developments. I feel weary. Please send help or I fear I may have to abandon the operation and make my way to Not Good Coles...

Grumpy is freelance writer Lee Bemrose (leebemrose@hotmail.com). He thinks the meet-and-greet thing would be much more successful if they replaced Shopping Basket Person with Hundred Dollar Note Person.

Elmore Leonard Versus Barbara Cartland

2011-06-04T11:23:00.007+10:00

I'm reading Elmore Leonard's Get Shorty at the moment. It's an excellent book, or at least what's on the inside is excellent. But the cover... what were they thinking? The issue I have (even camper than the one in the link) is various hues of pink and pastel blue with his name in shiny shiny gold. I'm almost embarrassed to be seen reading it on the tram each morning. I'm forced to whisper to the person sitting oppsite, "Elmore Leonard... not Barbara Cartland." Then a little louder to those sitting around or standing up in the aisle, "Definitely NOT Barbara Cartland, people - it's tough funny guy Elmore Leonard, okay?"

Also, I checked a rarely used email account yesterday and found this email from music journo Cyclone:

"Hey Lee!

I was given your contact by the 3D peepz.

You'll have heard that sadly 3D World is folding (http://themusic.com.au/newsletter/street-press-australia-to-launch-new-mag). I've been assigned to write a cover story on its history for the final edition (arghh). Of course, it's all come up late and after the usual official deadline (you know how street press is!) so it's been a mad scramble to find and contact people who may be up for a quote or two!

Anyway I was wondering if you would be up for answering any of the questions below given your iconic role as Grumpy?

I'd so appreciate it!

The plan is to slam something together tonight so if you can even answer a couple below, that would rock!

Cheers!

Cyc"

The email was sent three weeks ago. I totally missed out. It's like Marlon Brando said in On The Waterfront, "I coulda been a someone... I coulda been iconic instead of just a schmuck, which let's face it, I am." Something like that.

The Pyamid Of Northcote

2011-05-29T11:56:00.004+10:00

Heading out to dinner last night, we walked to Northcote train station. We dutifully tried to 'touch on' with our Myki cards but neither of the sensors were working. It's a good system, when it works. In a bit of role reversal, The Dreaded One gave up after a couple of attempts while I got all terrier on its arse. I was convinced I could get it to work by trying again and again, swearing at it and biting the end of my tongue. Finally it did indeed work, the little blinky light came on and the screen told me that $3 had been deducted from my account. Punch the air! High five! Yesss!

Then one of the two only other people on the station pushed the button that dials into the timetable place and the recorded message came over the loudspeakers to tell us that there were no trains running, that busses had replaced the trains. Awesome. This has happened before. What I don't get is why the hell someone doesn't put a sign up telling us that this is the case. There is absolutely no indication anywhere that there are no trains running. Just pin a hand-written note to the wall. Hell - they make automated announcements at other times telling us about delays - surely... oh never mind. Lesson learned after this happening for the second time - assume the trains are not running and confirm this before paying for your ticket.

The other couple left at the same time as us and asked if we were going into the city. We were going to Richmond, on the way to the city. The guy suggested we share a cab. They seemed like nice people. They had been laughing, they were well dressed, well spoken, young and good looking so we thought why not? This kind of thing always seems to be happening in Melbourne. Strangers strike up conversation at tram stops and railways stations. I don't recall this being quite so common in Sydney.

Anyway, we started walking back up to the main road. The Dreaded One and the guy walked ahead chatting about general stuff and I started talking to the girl. She was amazingly pretty and had a strange accent that I eventually had to ask her about. She said she was Persian. Conversation was easy. We flagged a cab and the conversation kept flowing. They seemed genuinely interested in our story of selling our home, traveling the world and settling in a new city. They lived nearby and I could sense this being the beginning of a new friendship. His name was Aria. Hers was Paria.

As promising as the vibe was I was content to leave things up to fate. If we bump into them again in the hood, cool, we'll say hello and see what happens.

But as we drew close to our drop off point, with Aria and Paria continuing into the city, the conversation changed colour.

"So," Aria said to The Dreaded One from the front seat, "if you're working corporate hours, I guess you have a bit of free time on your hands."

Everything about him changed in that one question. A dull bell chimed. My radar came on. Time to hit the conversational eject button.

We talked a bit about how we fill in our spare time. We have lots of interests, loads of things we enjoy doing with our spare time. Aria was deaf to this. He knew he only had a couple of minutes before we got out of the cab.

"So you have free time then... I just mention this because Aria and I are involved in a plan that help people and lets you make a bit of money at the same time. That's why we do it - because we like to help people. Maybe you're not interested in helping people though... "

It was time to get the hell out. The cab pulled over and we worked out how much we owed. Aria pushed on with his spiel. I felt compelled to be polite but was not interested, and in fact was pretty pissed that he had ruined the vibe like this. I asked upfront what the name of the scheme was.

"Oh I don't want to tell you the name of it without explaining it properly... I mean I could tell you the name but... maybe I can take your number and talk to you about it over coffee sometime..."

I asked if he had a card as I slid across the seat to the open door, Paria standing outside to let us out. He didn't have a card, but he could take our number and call us sometime.

Jesus. He hadn't been genuinely interested in us at all, at least not on a decent, personal level. He had just been profiling us to see if we might want to sit below him on whatever pyramid scheme he was involved in. I had gone from thinking this is one of those random meetings that could lead to new friendship to feeling like an idiot. Everything had gone from shiny to grubby in the name of peddling some sham scheme.

I got out of the cab and chatted to Paria about the weather while The Dreaded One politely gave Aria her number. This is fine because we can just tell him we're not interested. I kind of hope that they are decent people (I think they are) who will accept no for an answer then either stay in touch without bringing it up again, or they will accept no and disappear. I don't care either way.

I just find it a bit sad that someone can pretend to be interested in you, to appear genuinely interested in you as a person while all the time waiting for an opportunity to sting you. A family member did this once. Managed to get me to invite her over for dinner only to say something about something she could show The Dreaded One and I at the same time, because we might be interested in making some money out of this thing. I asked what the thing was. She wouldn't tell me because it really needed to be explained in detail and she could do that after the dinner we were going to cook for her. I called it off and didn't hear from her again.

I know Aria knew our walls were up. I know he knows we'll be a hard sell. Thing is, it won't work. When it comes to this kind of thing I like to get to the point, and the point is he's on some level of a dodgy money-making scheme and we don't want anything to do with it. Those things are for suckers. There will be no meeting to discuss things if it's not something he can't quickly and easily describe over the phone. We won't be dropping by their place if there happens to be a casual party at their place one afternoon. Thinking about it, his call will probably be screened and we'll probably not call back. We might bump into them on the street one day. We'll be polite but now better prepared, as soon as he gets his pyramid on I'll cut him off and explain that if they want to be friends, fine, but we are not his next targets and if that's all he sees us as, hasta la vista.

Also, Persian? Isn't that Iranian? I guess it does sound better these days.

Old Skool Grumpy

2011-05-17T22:18:00.005+10:00

I know you've probably read these before, but look at the adorably Grumpy avatar they've given me. And the header font is so old skool compared to the rest of the mag. I really like it.

If all goes according to plan, click on the image to enlarge.

For now, I'm going to bed in prep for the rest of my first full week at work in about 10 months... and even then I'm only doing 30 hours. Still, it's good to be back on the treadmill... Hmm.

Okay, you have to click on the pic twice... and some of it is blurry... am rusty. Gimme a Goddamn break.

Bad Music Writing

2011-05-12T13:30:00.000+10:00

I just read another interview with Deya Dova (scroll down for my effort) and I have to say I'm pretty appalled.

The writer spends the opening four or five lines talking about the fact that he has a British accent. When you only have what appears to be 500 words, you have to make ém count and I'm terribly sorry but as a reader I don't really give a shit what your accent is like or what effect it had on the person you are interviewing.

The article is supposed to be about Deya's new album, but the writer goes on to talk at great length about where the artist grew up and what effect that had on her earlier music, and where she lives now and what effect that has on her music. He (could be a she as they only give the first initial of their first name) does cover how nerve-wracking it was for Deya to give creative control of her creations to the other producers to remix the tracks before coming to a pretty garbled conclusion about how the artist found it all an interesting process.

There is not one mention of the list of fascinating producers involved. Not one mention of any of the tracks that have been remixed and how they differ from the originals. There is not one mention of the wide variety of genres covered. There is a tag line telling us where we can buy the album from, but what is the point in that if the reader has no idea of what the album actually is? There is simply no indication of what kind of music we are talking about. It's half a page of completely missed opportunity.

I've not heard of this writer before (I've since read an article they did with Deadmau5 and although better written they still made a couple of basic mistakes) but I suspect that they might be a rookie. I suspect they know nothing of Deya's earlier music. These things could both be overcome by some relevant questions though. The article is about the album - talk about the album, or at least ask questions about it. There is simply no relevant information in the article. And don't even get me started on the poor use of quotes and sentence structure.

But at least we do know the writer has a British accent.

My big problem is that I can't really complain to the magazine because I don't want to appear to be promoting the album (I have already written my own piece for another mag as well as an album review), and I am about to start writing for this very magazine so I don't want to risk pissing anyone off. The writing was bad enough but the editor, really, should have done something about it. They should have binned it and asked for a re-write with actual information in it. They should have pointed out that at no point does the reader get any idea of what the music is, other than electronica. Deya herself mentions the words trance and progressive house but no cue is taken to find out what other sounds are in the mix.

I don't know what they thought they were writing or why the editor let it go through, but I do know that it made me Grumpy... maybe I should rant about it in a Grumpy column. Although it's a bit dodgy slagging off other writers, innit.

Grumpy On The Job

2011-05-10T22:57:00.003+10:00

GRUMPY

When we got back from our World Trip Of Friends and moved to another city, the plan was for me to not go back into the same line of work but to get something different. Quite simply I had had too much fun travelling and being idle to want to work as a chef ever again. Cheffing is bloody hard work. I've been a stonemason and a bricklayer before and being a chef is harder work than both, and to be perfectly honest, six months of partying, looking at great art and funny shaped buildings, eating boozey lunches and snoozing on Mediterranean had taken its toll. I think I had deluded myself into thinking that I really could... nay – was entitled to keep living like aristocracy.

“So what are you going to do?” The Dreaded One enquired.

“Dunno,” I replied distractedly, smirking at the talking dog Youtube clip someone had posted on Facebook before hastily re-opening the employment page of Gumtree again and pretending to read it.

She kept up this brutal line of interrogation every day for months after we set up our new home. She, naturally, scored the first job she applied for and has been enjoying her working week more than at any time in her life. I felt as happy for her as I felt sorry for myself. Why could I not find that Idle Aristocrat Wanted ad? It was so unfair.

As the cash buffer ran low I did indeed realise something was going to have to be done. Ideally, realistically, I wanted something that involved writing. I wanted to trade in my chopping board for my keyboard. The perfect job would be to write this column, say, for a living. To just get up each day, thrown on some baggy clothes, crack open a beer (it's okay – my dream job would have me staying up nights because I am a night owl, and sleeping in to around midday) and simply regale readers with my daily adventures.

If I was going to go back into the kitchen, I didn't want the pressure cooker environment of a high- end restaurant, I wanted a daytime job in a nice little cafe, with nice, laidback co-workers.

Recently, I found such a job. Cafe kitchen in a very cool theatre. They gave me a trial day and offered me the job. I like it there. They are lovely people and the customers are all cool theatre types. Really nice vibe.

As timing would have it, I had also applied for an unusual-sounding writing job. This sounded as close to a dream job as you could get (Idle Aristocrat aside). I said in my job application that I don't have any writing qualifications but I have done a lot of writing. I have even won a national short story award and have been published in literary journals, but no formal qualifications. Also, I added, I don't have much of a clue of what this job actually is but it sounds weird enough for me to enjoy and I'd like to apply please.

The guy was amused and apparently impressed with my samples because he called to say I was on the shortlist. Five of us out of hundreds of applicants. We did a role playing interview and I wrote my piece up. The shortlist is now down to me and one other. Face-to-face interview happens tomorrow.

So now I've put myself in this quite horrible position of turning up at the cafe really hoping that my first week there is going to be my last, but really really also not wanting to let these good people down. I've effectively put myself in a position that I don't want to be in. But do. But don't. I hate letting people down but what else can I do? I'm basically putting a dagger through the heart of the trust of my nice new employers (if I get the job... which I will... won't... might... might not), and I don't want to be a murderer. Why did both jobs appear at the same time? What are you such a funny bastard, Universe?

I'll let you know how it pans out in the next column. For now I'm sweating out in a moody cocktail of angst and excitement, hope and sadness. Grumpy? Hell yeah. But happy too. I'm so fucking Yin Yang right now.

Grumpy is freelance Idle Aristocrat Lee Bemrose. If you have any freelance writing or Idle Aristocrat tasks, contact him at leebemrose@hotmail.com

Shadowboxing by James Gaddas, Review

2011-04-30T11:34:00.005+10:00

SHADOWBOXING

Written by British actor/writer James Gaddas, Shadowboxing is a one man play coming in at about one muscular hour. I was warned by director John Bishop before entering that “It's no Mary Poppins.” I'm not sure what it was about my appearance that warranted such a warning... I put it down to the sweetness of my tutu wearing, fluro dreaded partner The Dreaded One.

Certainly, Shadowboxing is no Mary Poppins. Nor was it the most gut-wrenching piece of theatre I've seen, as I may have started to expect after the Mary Poppins jibe, nor the most depressing. But it is tough. It's lean. And if I were the kind of reviewer to deploy lame themed descriptions, I might be tempted to say it pulled no punches.

Ron Kofler plays boxer Flynn. He's alone on stage with a punching bag, a bench, some weights and skipping rope. For the entire hour or so he slugs it out, lifts, skips, generally gives himself a thorough workout while sometimes narrating his story, sometimes acting it out. Rehearsal for this part clearly involves as much working-out as delivering his lines. It's a demanding part handled in this case, flawlessly.

And the story? Flynn has issues. He has issues with his father, also a boxer (not present in adult Flynn's life). There are flashbacks to young Flynn apparently traumatised at seeing his father take a beating in the ring which has a lasting effect on the course of Flynn's life, namely his determination to win. Young Flynn also has issues with bullies, all of this by way of background to give us some idea of what drives the adult Flynn.

Flynn also has issues with women, with ego, with his all-consuming determination to be the champ, with the very nature of boxing.

Overriding all these issues, however, is the big one that doesn't reveal itself until perhaps three quarters through the play. It comes as a bit of a surprise, even though, by this time, you realise the clues were perhaps there all along.

Flynn's world starts to fall apart and, embittered, he sets out to prove a point and in doing so makes things a whole lot worse for himself in a pretty disturbing climax.

It was during these final scenes that I started to wonder what the point was. Don't we live in more enlightened times? What we're seeing here – is this such an issue? But then this is elite sport and you only have to thinks of the appalling behaviour of some footballers in recent times to realise that no, many of these guys are far from enlightened. Still, as gripping as the story was, I still wondered about its relevance.

And then a beautiful touch right at the end. The back of the stage lit up with grainy photos of a couple of boxers from the 60s, their story silently told as the gentle optimism of Somewhere Over The Rainbow played, and it all fell into place. While Shadowboxing isn't a re-telling of this 60s story, it does seem to draw heavily on key elements, making Flynn's story very real and – given the nature of boxing as entertainment – very relevant. This haunting coda will leave you feeling quite moved.

It's a brave production company that would take this piece on, given that the script is very good and that it requires a very strong performer to do it justice under these conditions. And it's a good production company that can pull it off. Swampfox Productions is one such company. Well cast, well acted, and technical direction by Dietmar Brisker subtle enough to let this raw performance shine.

Worth the journey to Melbourne's far Eastern suburbs? Definitely. Well maybe not if you live in, say Manhattan, but you know what I mean.

Lee Bemrose

At The Bakery at 1812 Theatre, Rose St, Upper Fern Tree Gully on selected nights until May 14^th. Check www.swampfoxproductions.com.au for details.

Deya Dova Remixed: Interview With Deya Dova

2011-04-28T10:13:00.005+10:00

DEYA DOVA REMIXED

Currently residing in far Northern New South Wales, Deya Dova is a dynamic live performer who, with her full live band, is a popular fixture on the festival circuit. In 2009 she released the stunning album Burst which has now been remixed by local luminaries and international heavyweights for the album Deya Dova Remixed. The roll-call putting their spin on the Burst tracks includes Juno Reactor, James Monro, An-ten-nae, Antix, Tijuana Cartel and more, with musical styles as diverse as the artists themselves.

BY LEE BEMROSE

Burst was such a good album in its own right – why bother with a remix album?

Wicked, thanks Lee. Burst was the product of a lock down in my studio for 12 months. It was a big learning curve for me being my first self-produced album, teaching myself the gear and software and developing my production techniques as I went. Although I was really happy with the result, I was still fascinated by the idea of hearing how an established producer would interpret my music. Also being inspired by so many styles of electronic production, I was keen to hear how the Burst songs would translate in different genres.

It's an eclectic mix of producers. How did it all come about? Why/how these particular artists?

I randomly started contacting producers online whose music inspired me for one reason or another. I introduced myself and my then new album Burst. The response was so overwhelming. Naturally some of them didn’t go for it, but most did and I simply followed the leads I had and allowed it to grow organically.

Did you feel nervous at all, waiting to hear the end results of the remixes?

Oh yeah, it’s been a wild process. Thankfully the mixes have all been fantastic and each producer has really captured the vibe of what I am doing, interpreting it through their own lens.

Is it the entire Burst album that's been remixed or just selected tracks?

It’s a selection of tracks. Some of the popular songs like Kyio and Burst got a few different remixes in different genres. For example Kyio got a super juicy tech house doing by New Zealand underground duo, Antix and then a sexy chill/ambient mix by global headliner James Monro.

How was it decided who got which tracks to remix?

I was keen for each producer to pick a track from Burst they most vibed with, so they could really have some fun with it. I made a few suggestions, in terms of particular tracks suiting particular genres, but mostly left it to the artists.

Which tracks are you most happy with?

Ohhh wow. Each track is a gem in its own right. I am a big progressive house/minimal tech listener so I got really excited by the moody, bass-heavy dance remix of Burst by Switchbox. I also love the fresh, European springtime feel of Nyquist’s Burst dance mix and of course the lush, building tech vibe of the Antix remix.

Which were the biggest surprises for you?

Juno Reactor’s rewrite of Hyperglider blew me away. I was naturally expecting a very Juno-esque track, something cinematic in line with his work in movies like The Matrix etc – but the sheer epic-ness of the journey through electronic, tribal and rock textures got me. As a visual artist the track fills me with wicked pictures of sci–fi speed chases, primal ceremonies and expansive landscapes.

I was also surprised by Tijuana Cartel’s remix of Petal – I really dig what they did with the vox at the top.

Did you have any creative input or did you simply put your trust in the remixers?

It was such a pleasure to work with all the international producers. There was a lot of trust, some delivered their tracks final, but most, which I hugely appreciated, were open to my input and feedback. Some tracks where very collaborative, shooting sound bytes back and forth through cyberspace.

It must have felt strange to hand over such personal creations to others. Do you have any feelings at all that anyone got it even a little bit wrong? (You don't have to name names).

I went into it with the attitude that there is no wrong, just different ways of seeing and hearing things. As a very particular and “detailsy” type artist, it was a great experience for me to let my work go out to other labs. I learnt a great deal about producing and writing, but also about what genres are more compatible with my voice and style. Having said that there was a couple of tracks I initially went “What!” but hey, at the end of the day I was into offering something across the board, not just for me.

I see amongst the diverse styles there is some dubstep, one of my least favourite styles of music. Who is responsible for this and what can you tell us about that track?

I was really keen to have dubstep represented on the album. In my own productions I love to flirt with favourite elements across the electronic genres. Although the metal darkness of dubstep doesn’t turn me on, the bass exploration of it does. I was stoked with the elative and super phat tribal mix San Fransisco’s DJ/producer An-ten-nae did of So Happy. And also with the more intricate and worldly dubstep mix Sydney based artist Kalya Scintilla conjured up for Toonmowi Tree.

My favourite tracks from Burst are Twinkle and Move U. What can you tell us about the remixes of these tracks?

Twinkle, inspired by the desert, is also a fave of mine. Aptly, Desert Dwellers have done a stunning down-tempo journey into Twinkle, and also a wicked IDM mix which I think Tipper is going to master in the near future. Adham Shaik tapped into his Indian ancestry and went wild with a West Coast breaks remix of Move U, which he’s told me is rockin' the dancefloor over there.

And another highlight, Bad Day. Can you tell us about this remix?

Quite a few artist took on Bad Day, not the easiest song to turn into a dance track. Dave Basek has served up a cheeky prog house/nu disco remix, I dig the quirky and hooky tweaked out vocal repeating “Ew”. I’m also looking forward to Dick Trevor’s remix of Bad Day which will be a follow up release to Deya Dova Remixed.

Bad Day is a gorgeous clip. Any more on the way? And any planned for the new album?

We had a blast making that clip! And thankfully got such great support from the stations – Rage, and Channel 10’s Landed Music. I'm really keen to do more music videos, a few fun ideas are floating around. Running the Reflekta label independently doesn’t leave much play money, so any sugar daddies of the music video kind out there, or any film makers and animators who are keen to collaborate - FB me :)

You keep yourself pretty busy on the live circuit. Are you also busy in the studio on new work?

Over the past year I’ve been devoted to developing the live show. Performing the material from Burst with the full band is such a high energy party, and I tend to go all out with new mixes, visuals and costumes, I love it. Between that and co-ordinating the Deya Dova Remixed album I’ve only had a chance to do a bit of vocal demo-ing and am looking forward to working with producers on the new material. Now with the release of the remix album I’m keen to get more time in the studio and put all I’ve learnt about song writing, production and dance music with some big phat bass.

Deya Dova Remixed is out now on the Reflekta label. Listen to samples and purchase the album at http://deyadova.bandcamp.com/album/deya-dova-remixed

A different version of this interview will appear in a forthcoming issue of Tsunami. Album review to follow soon.

Grumpy And The Little Voice

2011-04-27T16:01:00.004+10:00

Back from four days partying in the bush. Drove to Braidwood just out of Canberra and had a lovely time. Compared to the last doof we went to (our first in Melbourne that wasn't Rainbow), we knew so many people. It was really good to be at a party with so many friendly faces again... well the faces at Maitreya were friendly, we just didn't know any of them. This, on the other hand, was a real gathering and much fun was had. It was really good to get a solid hit of bush, barefeet and beats.

Needless to say, the apartment looks like a bomb went off. Clothes everywhere and we're trying to dry two tents out on our small balcony (it rained on the last morning we were there).

I've spent the day trying to get the tents and a hammock dry, washing clothes and writing. Had to write the Grumpy column below as well as editing a Q&A from Deya Dova for her new album of remixes and writing up a 550 word story from 1200 words. I haven't done that in ages and I still enjoy it.

I'll post the Deya Dova stuff shortly. For now, here's some Grumpy...

GRUMPY

Another long weekend, another road trip to another festival. This one's an interstate one involving quite a long drive so we decide to break the trip up and stay somewhere overnight.

“Where do you want to stay?”I ask.

“Don't know,” The Dreaded One replies vaguely, packing her bag days before we are due to leave. I, on the other hand, am Last Minute Man. The fact that she is planning so far ahead and I leave everything to the last minute makes things all the more ironic.

I look at the map and pick a couple of places that appear to be halfway. I suggest these halfway places. The Dreaded One is more interested in whether she should pack one corset or two, which tutu goes best with the chosen corset.

“Why don't we just wing it?” she suggests. “Just head off and stop somewhere on the way.”

“What – not book a room?”

“We'll find somewhere.”

I'm not sure about this. “But it's a long weekend. These places, they're halfway places. They're very popular stopping points. What if we get there and everything is booked out?”

“You worry too much. I'm sure we'll find something. Worst comes to worse we can always set up the tent.”

I make a thinky face as I watch her pack her big stompy fluffy boots. She is being completely delusional about using the tent in transit because although we always say this, we have never done it. Setting up the tent once in a long weekend provides quite enough friction; twice is simply out of the question.

“Okay,” I shrug casually. “Fine. Cool. We'll wing it and see what happens.” I am not convinced that this is a good idea.

And sure enough, we cruise through the first halfway place after several hours of driving and the entire town appears to be made of No Vacancy signs. Parking lots are full of cars while weary travellers enjoy cold beer in the pub, settling in for a night of pizza and telly. We don't say anything to each other as I gun it out of town heading for the next halfway place. I wanted to avoid night driving but it's looking like that isn't going to happen.

Two more halfway places, both full. Nothing is available and now it's fully dark.

“Why did we do this?” I lament. “These towns – they're where everyone stays halfway along. People probably booked their cosy hotel rooms days ago. We could have done the same. And if they weren't booked, people have already pulled over and taken the last available rooms. Why oh why didn't I listen to the little voice?”

“The little voice?”

“The little voice! The one that knows things. I should always listen to the little voice. The little voice is always right about everything.”

“How is it,” the little voice asks, “that you can so readily admit that I'm always right, yet you constantly choose to ignore me?”

“You stay out of this,” I blurt.

“What?” The Dreaded One asks.

“I was talking to the little voice.”

In the end we drive for almost an hour inland to a much larger town where there is more chance of finding accommodation because these shitty little towns along the main route are, well, shitty little towns. This town turns out to be a shitty big town, but it's late and at least there is a hotel room, beer, pizza and telly.

Will I listen to the little voice next time? Probably not.

Grumpy is freelance writer Lee Bemrose (leebemrose@hotmail.com). He suspects he will never learn.

The Curious Case Of Benjamin Button - Movie Versus Story

2011-04-20T14:50:00.005+10:00

I saw The Curious Case Of Benjamin Button for the first time last night. I'm a sucker for these kinds of stories, ones looking back over lives already lived. Throw in some poignant love stuff and I'm in there. I was pretty blown away by how well this movie was done. It took its time to tell this strange story and let the consequences of the situation manifest at an unrushed pace, drawing the viewer into this strange life. Brad Pitt was - as he so often is - brilliant. It was possibly one of his best performances. Good to see him using the restraint this roll called for. Cate Blanchet and Tilda Swinton were equally superb.

Not knowing where the story came from, I Googled during an ad break and was surprised that it was based on an F. Scott Fitzgerald short story from the 1920s. Another yawning gap in my knowledge. It just seemed like such a weird story for Fitzgerald to have written.

In further reading it turns out to have been inspired by a quote by Mark Twain, observing that it's such a waste that life is not lived backwards, that the best parts happen at the beginning of life and the worst at the end.

Reading on I found that the plot for the movie is very tenuously based on the book. Effectively the main character's name and the fact that as he grows in years he gets younger and younger are really the only things they have in common.

I really enjoyed the movie, in spite of it reminding me too often of Forest Gump. I had to read the story.

What a difference. The beginning feels overly dramatic and really not very well written. I find most of the story quite clunky. It feels forced and doesn't have the poetry of the movie, and I had expected the story to be saturated in that very unhurried poetry that made the movie so memorable and affecting. The story just feels like bad writing.

Until the end as Benjamin Button nears his strange demise, and here is simple language capturing the innocence of the way Button views the world in his final years, days, minutes. So sad and beautiful.

I'll read the story again, but I think this is one of those rare cases wher the movie version is better than the written version. The movie nailed it.

On a side note, I posted how much I enjoyed the movie on Facebook. A psytrance producer friend who is playing at a festival in Malta alongside Infected Mushroom said that he loved it too and that it had made him cry. I jokingly called him a softcock before admitting that, ahem, it had made me cry too.

Like A Doctor's Waiting Room In Here... or What Would Hiro Protagonist Do In A Situation Like This?

2011-04-07T18:12:00.010+10:00

A couple of random shots of our new Melbourne home. The top one is our all new Coffee Table Of Adventures. Each compartment contains a memento with a story behind it... although one or two of them, the story seems to have been forgotten. We're, like, what was the story behind the sweets again? I dunno - I thought that was one of yours.

Anyway, all settled in. Feels like home. And the sunsets from this place... seriously, on a clear day (and there have been many) they are just stunning.

Below is the next Grumpy column for Tsunami.

GRUMPY

I had to go to the eye specialist recently. I arrived at 9.30am thinking cool, I must have the first appointment. However there were already four patients waiting. Not so cool.

Worse was that when I checked my bag I realised I had forgotten the book I am writing as well as the one I am reading. I'm reading Snow Crash by Neal Stephenson. Action sci-fi goodness with lines like, "When the Deliverator puts the hammer down, shit happens." The Deliverator – AKA Hiro Protagonist – is a kick arse dude who wields a meaner Samurai sword than Uma Thurman in Kill Bill.

Noticing the lack of magazines on offer (I guess they thought there was no point offering reading material to a waiting room full of the vision-impaired), I pulled out the only reading material I had, which was a local theatre season guide, which I dragged out for 10 minutes, thinking, it's like a waiting room in here.

In that 10 minutes, the waiting room filled. People with eye problems slowly filed in and I realised they simply book everyone in at 9.30 and work through us one at a time.

And these people were old. I remembered this from the last time I was at an eye specialist... I was the youngest person in the room, and I didn't feel good about it.

I really wanted to be reading about the metaverse and Hiro Protagonist and Y.T and The Rat Thing and The Raven and... this was going to be painful.

The old dear sitting next to me piped up and said something about the thing the woman opposite was knitting. She was knitting a cardigan for her granddaughter.

"It's a lovely pattern. And a lovely colour. Where did you get the wool?"

Oh God.

"Bendigo Knitting Mill."

Spare me.

"Ooh I get my wool from Bendigo Knitting Mill!"

What would Hiro Protagonist do in a situation like this?

"Wish I'd brought my knitting," says one of the others. "Help pass the time."

So would suicide.

"Is she your only granddaughter?"

The knitter is amused by this. "No. I have seven granddaughters..."

The others are impressed.

"And 13 grandsons."

Suddenly the room is filled with talk of offspring and knitting patterns and the exact shades of the wool and where everyone originally came from (the Australian accents are way out-numbered) and suddenly the weirdest thing happens. I find myself thinking to hell with my sci-fi novel - this is fucking beautiful. The other men in the room sit silently through it all, while I sit there smirking in appreciation. It's actually, really, very cool. It is making me feel warm and fuzzy.

I'm there for a couple of hours, in and out of rooms for various tests, occasionally having to wait again and everyone just seems to have gotten to know each other better with each passing minute. Some of them, as they leave, they say goodbye to these people who were strangers just a short time ago. They're on first name basis now as they wave goodbye on their way to the next specialist's appointment, and I'm just a bit blown away by how nice everyone is to each other, how all these lives from far-flung places have come together and bothered to get to know each other in this shitty little waiting room in this corner of planet Earth.

I don't know. Sometimes nice is just, well, nice, I think as I walk home with my smile and my squint and my stupidly dilated pupils. I even think Hiro Protagonist would have got the warm and fuzzies.

Grumpy is freelance writer Lee Bemrose (leebemrose@hotmail.com). He quite likes that stuff they put in your eyes to make the pupils go big.

Grumpy With Farts

2011-03-29T18:31:00.002+11:00

Grumpy

I told the almighty Facebook that I had a Grumpy column due and that something funny had to happen to me very soon so that I would have something funny to write about. I wasn't sure what to expect, if anything. I simply put a wish to The Universe for something funny to happen, because as we all know, The Universe is an avid reader of Facebook.

The very next comment was from a charming and intelligent female friend. She commented simply, “I just farted.”

Fair enough, I thought. We all fart. I didn't need to know she just farted and I failed to see how I could possibly get an entire column out of this piece of information.

“I need way more info to get a column out of that,” I told her. “Like, where were you when this alleged fart took place? Situation is important. An elevator fart, for example, is a lot funnier than your garden variety toilet fart... although given the acoustics of the toilet bowl, toilet farts can be the Bill Bailey of farts...”

“The Bill Bailey of farts?” my friend enquired. “What kind of fart would be the Noel Fielding of farts? Or the David Mitchell of farts? I distinctly remember waking myself up to Dylan Moran on Saturday morning. The fart I mentioned yesterday was at my desk and in the privacy of my own home. No witnesses, no shame.”

No. The fart in question was strictly between my friend and I.

But it got me thinking, my friend's fart. I googled farting in elevators and was a bit shocked by the rich source of entertainment that unfolded before my eyes. Farting, it seems, is the single, most universally funny thing a human being can do. There are hours of footage out there of people fake farting in elevators (I assume they are fake farts), and the guaranteed reaction from every unsuspecting victim is laughter. A guy stalks his victims in a supermarket and squeezes one out and those around him double over laughing every single time. Two baseball-wearing kids are by equal measures disgusted and amused that someone in an elevator pops one out...

“Dude – you farted!”

“It wasn't me!”

The adult playing the prank lets another one fly, struggling to keep a straight face.

The first kid is wise now. “Oh I know who did that now.”

“Who?”

“Yo momma.”

Giggles all round.

I recall a time when one of my grandmother's ancient Pekinese dogs farted while asleep. The fart astonished the dog into sudden wakefulness. It leapt to its feet, looked around for this phantom creation and ran away, astonished and mystified and baffled by just what was going on here. And it was without a doubt THE funniest thing this kid had EVER seen in his entire short life.

Then I think about famous giggler and funnyman Peter Sellers. From memory, he had to do a scene where a bunch of gangsters get into an elevator, and one of the tough guys lets out a tiny little fart. They are supposed to play it straight, just look a bit disgusted and look at each other, like who's the dirty bastard who did that? But Sellers loses it and this sets everyone off. Again and again. They keep re-shooting the scene but they keep cracking up at the sound of the fart.

Eventually they decide they won't do the sound of the fart, the assistant director will cue them with the word “Now” so that they can react and wonder who the dirty bastard is, inserting the audio-fart later in the editing room.

At their new unfarting cue, they lose it again, time after time, giggling like naughty school boys.

It's a curious thing, how after hundreds of thousands of years of evolution something as basic as a fart can be such a rock-solid thing of comedy gold.

As Oscar Wilde famously said, “Why bother with wit when there are whoopie cushions?”

Grumpy is freelance farter Lee Bemrose. He's at leebemrose@hotmail.com

Skinhouse Review

2011-03-24T13:20:00.002+11:00

SKINHOUSE

Skinhouse is a two-woman performance from theatre director, playwright and performer Fleur Kilpatrick, and actor, singer and pianist Kristina Benton. It's a strange creation – not fiction and not fictionalised but a kind of factual revelation of a year these friends spent getting to know each other in their share-house. It's a movingly honest account of one friend trying to understand how this other friend deals with her life as a prostitute.

Perfectly suited to the intimate stage of La Mama, the audience feels very much like they are sitting in the living room eavesdropping on the conversation of these two friends...because that is precisely what we are doing. They are performers performing, sure, but everything about the script and performances is so very real.

And while a play about the sex industry has the potential for either shock value or glamorisation, Skinhouse deftly avoids both. There is honesty without going for shock, and there is humour without making light of the subject matter.

Creative couplings are often miracles of chance, and in the opening moments it's very clear that that's what we have in these two performers. They play off each other brilliantly and naturally. They chat away like girls, they tease, they argue, they discuss the reality of the sex industry to the sound of the clean linen and towels they fluff and fold in their nice home.

And they sing, beautiful harmonies, simple lyrics imbued with the honesty this play is all about. I for one am very happy that these two women met and have been brave enough to share their story, creating something quite beautiful out of a situation less than beautiful.

It's a short season on alternate nights so be quick. Oh and the CD is worth picking up too. All piano and vocals, it's reflective, sad, unsettling, strangely sweet. Like the play itself, a quiet little, unpretentious thing of beauty.

LEE BEMROSE

At La Mama Theatre, Carlton, until April 3

Juiced Up

2011-03-21T17:44:00.002+11:00

Now that we have all of our stuff in our new home, I'm finding that I'm really getting into the juicer. Fresh watermelon juice (and vodka) is delicious. And I've always enjoyed carrot and ginger. But tomorrow I'm going to push the envelope and try something new: meat juice. Surely T-bone steak that you can drink has to be a good thing.

Neighbours... Everyone Needs Good Neighbours...

2011-03-17T13:47:00.004+11:00

If you scroll down a few posts you'll find a Grumpy column in which I asked the universe to bless me with a few nice neighbours to play with in our nice new home. Well, I didn't get Cameron Diaz or Angelina Jolie or even Stewie from Family Guy.

The buzzer rang one day last week. It's one of those video jobs for extra security. On the little television screen was a man who appeared to be eating something from a paper bag.

"Hello?" I said.

"Hello."

"Yes?"

"Hi. I live in 501 on the same floor as you and I've locked myself out. Would you mind buzzing me in?"

I don't think I had seen him before but he seemed genuine, slight sheepish tone in his voice, so I buzzed him in and went back to whatever it was I was doing. After a couple of minutes I wondered how much help that had been to him because you need your swip key to get up in the elevator. Poor bastard was still stuck downstairs in the lobby.

I went to let him up but heard rustling paper in the hallway. I took a look and sure enough he had somehow made it up to the 5th floor and was sitting outside 501 munching on a piece of chicken. He wasn't wearing any shoes. I asked if he wanted to wait inside our place until someone came home and he was very appreciative. He went to shake my hand but it was covered in chicken juice. He washed his hands, accepted the offer of a beer and explained that he had just wandered out for a piece of chicken and forgotten to take his keys, and his partner ("a punk nurse") wouldn't be home for another hour.

Three beers and two hours later - with an ammended note taped to his door explaining where he was - there was a knock at the door and his punk nurse partner came in and seemed a bit bemused by this way of getting to know the neighbours. Something about the way she reacted to him being here without his shoes made me think it's the sort of thing he might do rather often. She also pointed out that he had left his phone inside as well.

So far from Hollywood sex bombs, the universe has given me a stoner as my first neighbour. A very appreciative one who couldn't stop saying that he thought The Dreaded One and I were lovely people.

At least after the third beer was opened he gave up on his plan to climb around the balcony and make his way to his apartment.

Quick 2011

2011-03-09T22:40:00.004+11:00

Fiction has just come back to me. My character, Quick... he's alive.

I'm three days into the second chapter and all good. One thousand words a day. Modest start, I know, and I will ramp it up (I think the published short story that is now the first chapter is 5,000 words). I wasn't sure I wanted to get back to this but I am really enjoying it. And I think it's good. I think I once did 5,000 words in one sitting, but I think 1,000 is a good minimum. Anything over that once I get rolling will be sweet.

Am enjoying the style. Not a style I've fully explored before. Stay tuned.

The Revengers' Comedy Review

2011-03-04T13:41:00.002+11:00

THE REVENGERS' COMEDY

Written by former Age theatre critic Leonard Radic and directed by Stefan Mrowinski, The Revengers' Comedy is interesting for a number reasons.

The the plot basically follows the breakdown of two middle-aged, middle class relationships. Max (Martin Mulvany) is bitter after being sacked from his job as a book publisher and is attracted to younger, former colleague Mallory (Jenita Spirtovic) in an unrequited way, all creating friction between he and his materialistic wife Helen (Lesley Harris). Meanwhile Robert (Steven Kennedy) has grown bored with his wife Jane (Renee Palmer) and is in the throes of leaving her for younger woman Polly (Beth Litson).

Billed as a black comedy, the story examines relationships without really coming up with anything new. These are pretty stock-standard characters caught up in all too familiar situations – which would be fine if the comedy was, well, a bit funnier. It has it's moments but also misfires a bit too often. Having said that, the title seems to allude to either Thomas Middleton's The Revengers' Tragedy or Alan Ayckbourn's The Revengers' Comedies, works I am not very familiar with so perhaps there are layers or references I didn't appreciate. The characters were uneven, often switching mood too suddenly and just not quite fitting together even in their fragmenting lives the way they need to to be fully convincing. It felt to me like a script that could benefit from a little more work.

As for the acting, sorry to say but two members of the cast appeared to be well beneath the task. It's early in the season so we can only hope they improve. They really need to because the other four actors are very good.

When Kennedy, Liston, Palmer and Spirtovic took to the stage there was real chemistry and energy. All had their moments to shine, all were clearly immersed in their roles and in lesser hands I'm not sure this play would have been as enjoyable as it ultimately was. I still found some facets of their characters sometimes a little unconvincing but by then was engaged enough by the overall dynamics of their relationships to let this slide and simply sit back and enjoy.

Set design was minimal, something that always puts the script and acting under a harsher light, and that being the case the script needs to sing and the cast needs to be rock solid. A good local production worth checking out, flaws and all.

At La Mama Courthouse, Carlton until 20 March

LEE BEMROSE

Bek's Mum's Undies

2011-03-03T17:03:00.003+11:00

This will possibly be the laziest (and earliest) Grumpy column ever. It's a copy & pasted conversation I had today on Facebook.

A friend is coming to visit and is bringing tutus made in Thailand for The Dreaded One. There have been jokes about the tutus really being for me. I simply posted a slightly whimsical, single line which turned into a bit of a crisis. Enjoy...

Lee Bemrose is lost but occasionally happy. Thinks it will be fine.

Bek You will be fine. I am bringing tutus and mum to melbs. xx

14 hours ago · LikeUnlike

Lee Bemrose Tutus and... why the hell did I just think 'no undies' when you said mum? Am I that perverted or was there a story about your mum and no undies... oh this is a horrible way to start the day.

10 hours ago · LikeUnlike

Bek It was indeed mentioned in my blog. Also, she is going to KILL ME if you mention this in her presence. And, I will make sure she is fully clothed at all times.

3 hours ago · LikeUnlike

Lee Bemrose Phew. Also - mention it? I don't even want to think it. That's gone and done it - I will think it in her presence and smirk and you will know what I'm smirking at and smirk and she will ask what all the smirking is about and I'll snortle which will make you snortle and... oh dear. We're in trouble now.

3 hours ago · LikeUnlike

Bek i think she will know already since she can see this in her feed.... ><>

2 hours ago · LikeUnlike

Lee Bemrose No. Really? Oh... can we delete something? Can we delete everything? Seriously - what does one do in a situation like this?

2 hours ago · LikeUnlike

Bek I don't know! I've never been in this situation before.

2 hours ago · LikeUnlike

Lee Bemrose Your previous comment required an exclamation mark or italics to fully convey the, erm, squirminess of the situation. If you come up with anything, let me know. Must think of what to do... what would Thor do in a situation like this?

2 hours ago · LikeUnlike

Lee Bemrose I just thought of something. We can pretend we forgot to sign out and someone else wrote all of this and the real Lee and Bek don't know what we're... what they're talking about. Will that work?

2 hours ago · LikeUnlike

Bek HEY, i didn't write this!! What the? How the? OH, I left myself signed into Facebook - someone must have written all that other stuff. Oh silly me!

2 hours ago · LikeUnlike

Lee Bemrose Whoa - me too! I forgot to sign out of Facebook and while I wasn't looking someone else came along and wrote all this stuff that I would NEVER write. That's the last time I forget to sign out of Facebook... (do you think it's working?)

2 hours ago · LikeUnlike

Bek not sure, I'll have to ask mum...

about an hour ago · LikeUnlike

Lee Bemrose Let me know how it goes. I personally don't think it's going to work. Will try to come up with a Plan B.

about an hour ago · LikeUnlike

Grumpy With Time

2011-03-01T19:48:00.002+11:00

New Grumpy column. I hadn't realised Amelia Earhart was so cute. Quite a woman.

Grumpy

Just when you think you have a grip on stuff and know how things work, it all goes to shit.

I wrote to a friend recently to wish her a happy birthday. Simple enough, except that the internet makes everything so instant, and given that she lives in another part of the world I wasn't sure if we were on the same day or not. So I looked it up and sure enough, I was in her future. I should have left it at that, but a favourite hobby of mine is to get distracted by stuff and things instead of, say, getting this column in before deadline.

So I wondered how this time thing works. Big mistake. How is it, I pondered, that I am in my friend's future? How is it that I lost a day when I flew back from another part of the world. How did the International Date Line come into being? Who put it there? And where, exactly, did they put it? Was it a straight line or a wiggly one? Apologies, my patient Ed, but my Grumpy column would have to wait because this required further investigation...

From Wikipedia: “Until 1867, Alaska began Russia's day, with the date line following the partially defined border between Russian Alaska and British North America, including the colony of British Columbia. The day before the purchase by the United States took effect, it was Friday, 6 October 1867, in the Julian calendar (used by Russia at the time), which would have been 18 October in the Gregorian calendar. The time in New Archangel would have been 12:00 when it was 12:02, Thursday, 17 October, at the future site of Whitehorse, Yukon, and 12:49, 17 October, at the future site of Vancouver, British Columbia. With the transfer of governance, the date line was shifted (moving Alaska back a day), and the calendar was changed (moving Alaska ahead 12 days), and being effective at midnight the calendar moved ahead one day as well, for a net change of 11 days. Friday, 6 October, was followed by Friday, 18 October (not Saturday, 7 October).”

Gee, thanks for clearing that up, Wikipedia. If my brain wasn't hurting from thinkiness before, it certainly was now. Who could have imagined that something as basic as time could be so complicated?

Also, if you've ever wondered what happened to Amelia Earhart (aviator who disappeared while flying around the world), she got gobbled up by time. No GPS nav bitch with a British accent to tell you where to go back then, so Amelia had to rely on her male navigator who apparently got confused about the day of the week (dude, I can sooo relate). He didn't take into account that they were crossing the International Date Line (which is very wiggly, fyi) and this put the plane way off target. Adding to the weirdness of their disappearance is the fact that they are recorded as still alive and flying for several hours on July 3 1937 after disappearing in July 2 1937.

There is more stuff and things I could hurt my brain with involving Magellan, The Pope, Zulu time, Umberto Ecco and Jules Verne, but I have a column to write before time runs out.

Grumpy is Lee Bemrose, freelance writer and Man From The Future. Contact him at leebemrose@hotmail.com

Grumpy, The Universe And Everything.

2011-02-15T22:24:00.003+11:00

Grumpy

I don't know whether it's a new thing or if I have just been made aware of it, but people seem to be getting into this ask The Universe thing quite a lot. You want something, you ask The Universe to give it to you and you visualise yourself having this thing. You don't apply for a job and then hope you are going to get it, you assume the job is already yours and The Universe will deliver. It's a nice belief, if hopelessly flawed; what if two people apply for the same job and both are into this ask The Universe thing?

I'm also reluctant to get into it because I've just come back from a trip around the world, and in the six months I was away nothing went wrong. No flight delays, no lost luggage, no illness, no natural disasters. Far from asking the universe for anything, I'm happy enough to just thank it for being so nice to me.

House-hunting has been a bit of a nightmare, though, and when finally The Dreaded One and I found a place that we really wanted, I thought maybe I would ask The Universe after all. This was a very nice apartment and we had already missed out on a couple due to a very competitive rental market.

Weirdly, there were signs that this might be our new home. In scouting around the area the first shop we came across was a doof shop, selling doof clothing, psychedelic artwork and music. As you may or may not know, I heart doof. In the music section I found a couple of psytrance albums by friends of mine, albums that I hadn't seen before, so I bought them. Playing in the shop was a familiar track by a producer called Lost Keys. Lost keys? Was The Universe telling us we had found the keys to our new home? And The Dreaded One pointed out that the name of the apartment block was Acacia Apartments. The Acacia plant is a rich source of, erm, vitamin DMT, which is one of my favourite vitamins. Maybe the universe was delivering. God bless you, Universe, you noble and generous great big thing.

We visualised and assumed, even if there was a niggly voice telling me it didn't really work like this.

The phone rang. It was another real estate agent returning our call to set up an inspection time for another apartment. Was this The Universe telling us not to get our hopes up? That all the signs for the place we really wanted were part of an elaborate joke? Fuck you, Universe, you hostile son of a bi-

The phone again. It was the good real estate agent telling us that our application had been approved. The place we wanted was ours. Seriously – it worked! We asked The Universe and it delivered. Holy shit. Magic happens. For real. Oh Universe you kind, wonderful great big thing.

We waited for two days for an email confirmation that was supposed to be sent immediately. Nothing. Universe you prick-teasing whore of a great big thing... no one likes a smart arsed universe, Universe. Just go and poke your head back up your bum. I hate...

A phone call revealed that the real estate agent had been waiting to hear from us. After double-checking the email address we all realised there had been a simple typo in the way of getting things done. Oh Universe – come over here and give us a hug, you big hunk of a great big thing.

I don't want to push the friendship, but I'm currently thinking about my new neighbours. I am visualising Cameron Diaz... Angelina Jolie (sans Bradley and kids)... um... Shakira? Yeah, why not... ooh and Stewie from Family Guy, he would be a cack to hang out with. Who else...

Grumpy is freelance writer Lee Bemrose, leebemrose@hotmail.com. He is looking forward very much to meeting the new neighbours The Universe has given him to play with.

HomeHunting Part 27

2011-02-12T16:27:00.004+11:00

Northcote is back on the list, an area called Ruckers Hill. We saw a place today that is unbelievably cool. Brand new, district and city views from the fifth floor. Checked the area out and the first shop we came across was a doof shop called The Pixie Collective. They were playing a very familiar Lost Keys track. Lost Keys? Found Keys? They stocked copies of Daheen's Green Chillies album and Regen Records' Regeneration, which we bought. These guys are friends from Sydney and we hadn't seen the albums before. The Dreaded One also pointed out that the apartment block is called Acacia Apartments, Acacia, of course, being a rich source of Vitamin DMT.

I'm still not going to get excited about the possibility of getting this place (except that I already am, a little bit), but the signs are certainly being friendly. I asked the girl in The Pixie Collective if there are many doofer types in the area and she said yes and talked about the parties and the fact they have a renegade stage at tomorrow's St Kilda Festival.

We had a bite to eat and some good coffee at Ruckers Hill Cafe. Good vibe, owners (I assume) were really friendly. The area doesn't have the sceney look that Fitzroy does, but it does have its own cool. We both like it and can se ourselves living there. It's 7km out of the city, but that's okay. The apartment itself would be such a step up from our old one and our things will look great there. We'll keep looking in the meantime.

In other news, I almost walked out of a booze shop today with a case of low alcohol beer. I squealed like a girl and put that damn stuff back. Close call.

*Update - the above happened on Saturday. On Monday we got a call. The signs were accurate. Our application was approved.

Hostile Universe? Not Always.

2011-02-11T11:24:00.003+11:00

So. Here we are in Melbourne (not the two knuckleheads in the picture, The Dreaded One and me). Been here a couple of weeks now but still don't have a home. We're staying in a serviced apartment while looking around and there is much confusion. We always felt we'd live in or around Fitzroy but it seems a million other people also want to live in or around Fitzroy. You can find a place you like and can see yourself living in, but you have to get that application in quickly and pay them what they want. I suspect people are offering more than the asking rental or even bribing the property managers. The latter makes perfect sense - slip them a couple of hundred bucks upfront to get you the place. Maybe that's being too cynical. Maybe it makes perfect sense. I don't know.

I do know that Fitzroy is starting to lose its appeal. We've looked at a lot of areas now and it's very confusing. Everything has shifted. Now the shortlist is Melbourne CBD, Brunswick, Brunswick East or... I don't know. A really lovely real estate agent (yeah they do exist) yesterday recommended Brunswick. She seemed to have us pegged. Mentioned music gigs etc, so I've read up about it and it sounds appealing so we'll drive over there today and wander about for a bit, soak up the vibe.

We also threw into the mess of what we are doing right now the possibility of going back overseas. I can't express what a perfect trip that was. Nothing went wrong, everything went right. The universe really delivered. When we were in Madrid and had to buy a tent for Boom, we couldn't find a place that sold tents. They just didn't exist. One day to go, we got hopelessly lost and stumbled upon a place that sold tents. The 'salesperson' has achieved legendary status for us - she was pure hate. We asked if we could look at a tent (it was, after all, a tienda specialising in tiendas) and she screeched at us, "No tienda!" We asked if we could look at one of the tiendas hanging on the wall and she insisted, "NO TIENDA!" We politely insisted that one of the display tiendas would be fine and with some Spanish cursing and a roll of the shoulders she stormed of, got our tienda from the back room, stomped her way back in, threw the tent onto the counter and told one of her minions to sort us out. Hilarious WTF moment.

Point is, we got lost and wouldn't have found the tent shop otherwise. Sometimes, stuff happens for a reason. This was merely one of countless incidents that made me feel like the universe was not hostile at all but was actually being rather nice. Things just fell nicely into place when we were traveling.

I'm not complaining about having trouble finding our home in Melbourne. I think after such a charmed trip we probably assumed we'd just walk into our new home. Thinking about it, I'm not surprised it's a bit of a shitfight. We've had a dream run. We have to put in a bit of effort now and that's cool and maybe the universe knows what it's doing. We'll still look at Fitzroy this coming Saturday, but there was something about that real estate agent and her recommendation. There was a vibe, like she knew something. We shared a laugh and she gave us some of her time and both The Dreaded One and I thought there was a vibe. We'll see how this pans out.

The other thing about the universe is the friends I have at the moment. The picture above? One of my favourites. What you see there is a picture of damn near perfect friendship. It's ridiculous to think those two people met at all, let alone became such solid friends. There is no clash of ego, no struggle for dominance, no bullshit of any kind. There is just acceptance of this other human who for whatever reason is cool in the eyes of the other. It's a beautiful thing.

And I have a few precious people in my life right now. Some I've spent a lot of time with, some only a short time but knew then that there was a vibe. Solitary guy doesn't feel quite so solitary anymore. He feels very grateful.

In other news, my new phone is waaay to smart for me. It's doing my little tiny head in.

Still Calling Australia Home

2011-02-01T18:36:00.003+11:00

Photo - me on the phone to Kat whilst feeding some locals. They like the peanuts.

New Grumpy column attached. Wonder if it will ruffle any feathers.

Grumpy

It's a bit of a shock, this coming home thing. Not that I have a home to come back to, but I guess because of various bureaucratic rules I still call Australia home. And I'm not very comfortable with this for a number of reasons.

Firstly, that damned Australian accent. I hate it. I've spent the past six months hearing nothing but proper accents. My ears became completely accustomed to hearing Portuguese, Spanish, Italian, German, Mexican, French, Czeck and even English and American accents. In America I heard black people talk to each other just like movie black people and they weren't even trying to be funny, and soon I just got used to it. I started thinking in whatever accent I was surrounded by... although one American guy, upon hearing that I was Australian, wanted to hear everything I knew about crocodiles, marsupials and The Great Barrier Reef because “he could listen to my accent all day long” – and I don't have a Goddamned accent. (Although once at a party in Turkey I did, due to a random bit of liquid a friend of a friend gave to me, develop a kind of generic euro accent. Amusing at first, it became tedious after the second day but I just couldn't stop it).

But the Australian accent. It disappeared from my ears. A few times I was mistaken for being British, but this has always happened. Perhaps because of my travels I became even less Australian- sounding. Whatever the case, as soon as I stepped on board my QANTAS flight home, I was shocked to actually hear the Australian accent the way foreigners must hear it. Far from having that slightly lisping, delicate way of talking that most flight attendants have, the QANTAS guys spoke like rool bloody blokes mate. Just like when I first heard a black guy call his friend a mofo, I thought these guy must be joking. Surely no one really talks in such a broad, nasally, avuncular drawl. But as the plane slipped at a blinding speed over the Pacific, I realised that I wasn't Over There any more, and that sadly, yes, we really do sound like that. Crikey.

My ears have by now acclimatised, but there are some things it is taking longer to get used to. Keen to postpone reality for as long as possible, I spent some time on the Southern Victorian coast, and I felt really sorry for International travellers almost as much as I felt sorry for myself. On other coasts the seafood was fresh and plentiful, plucked straight from the sea and served as nature intended or lovingly shaped into the most aromatic bouillabaisse or rich chowder, but here in Oz? Burger joints, cafes, local Chinese - AND everything closes so early. I am now part Spaniard, Goddamn it, and dinner happens alfresco some time after 10pm!

And don't get me started on the clothing... too late – I've already started me on the clothing. Why do none of you Australians – males especially – make the slightest effort in the dress department? Just as I was hearing the Australian accent with foreign ears, here I was seeing the Australian fashion aesthetic with foreign eyes. Guys – thongs, shorts and an O'Neil T shirt is just wrong to go out to dinner in, even if it is the local Chinese. Hairy legs and bare feet do not belong in a restaurant.

Don't get me wrong – I have been to the opposite end of the spectrum to the coast of Victoria with a mercifully brief visit to St Tropez (travel tip re St Tropez: don't bother unless it's a port-side shopping centre for the mega wealthy you're looking for), and things can go too far. But for Goddsake and the mercy of my international sensibilities, make an effort!

So here I am, back in a country I reluctantly call home. It's been a good round the world trip. It's opened my eyes and ears and allowed me to see and hear what we're really like. Either that or it's turned me into a stuck-up wanker. Beauty.

Grumpy is Lee Bemrose, International Man Of Wankery and freelance writer. Tell him he's a wanker at leebemrose@hotmail.com

Postcard From Lorne

2011-01-26T17:14:00.004+11:00

God I am crap at this formatting thing. Nevertheless... We are in a place called Lorne right now. South coast of Victoria, and rather than head into our new city we are driving further down the coast because it's just so Goddamn pretty and we don't have jobs to start on Monday or pets to feed or anything. We do have jobs to find and a place to live to find and a pet to buy to feed to find, but reality can wait a few more days.

I am properly back into the outdoor, hippy-type thing. I was hooked on cold a few short weeks ago but am back into the baggy clothes, barefoot, sun-tanned lifestyle and can't imagine life being any different. Rainbow Serpent was amazing. Such a well organised party. I love camping, love the music, love the craziness of it all. It seriously needs to think about being a longer festival (four days just isn't enough), but I am grateful for it existing at all.

Bumped into friends from Adelaide who we haven't seen in years. We had lost numbers and email addresses and everything and randomly bumped into them at the markets. Partied a bit, lost them throughout the weekend, caught up on the dancefloor again, then as we were packing up to leave at the end of the party realised that the flag pole marker at the campsite next to ours that we had been using as a guide home was theirs; they had been camping next to us all weekend.

The party was excellent. So many Sydney friends... I had the 4am horrors for the first time about leaving Sydney. 4am is great to party through or sleep through, but when you wake and think it's a terrible hour, and it goes on for hours. At the core of my being I am quiet ad solitary and not very good with people, but these past few years I have amazing friends and I am leaving so many of them. Some were at the party, others were not. At 4am, I missed them all and really wasn't sure why I was leaving Sydney.

And I really missed a couple of friends who weren't there. They know who they are. Really missed them. I hope you felt the love.

There was much laughter though. A favourite moment was when the husband of a friend told The Dreaded One that he had spent the weekend trying to connect with me but it didn't seem to be working. The Dreaded One told him, "What you have to understand about Lee is that he wanders around living inside a bubble, but once you get inside that bubble he's quite nice and quite funny." He said he was going to perservere and get inside the bubble. He didn't need to persevere. I took notice and he is indeed a lovely guy and I hope we are friends. That was my favourite conversation about me that I wasn't there to hear. I like that The Dreaded One said that. She could just as eaily said that I am a wanker and to not bother.

We've made friends from Melbourne who we are seeing next weekend. Friends of friends, it's all about the friends.

Lorne... cute little beachside town. We pulled up outside a hotel, whipped out the lappy and booked a hotel online because it was cheaper to do it that way rather than walk in and make a booking. I fucking love technology.

Friends rocked up to our nice hotel with our stunning view overlooking the beach in three campervans. It was a few more people than we were expecting but cool, friends of friends are friends. It doesn't always work out that way but this time it did. I would welcome these crusty, manky doofers into my home anywhere as much as I welcomed them into my hotel room. Cool people, new friends. We ate and drank and celebrated a birthday on Australia Day. I even sang that fucking birthday song. It was all very cool.

Now the place is empty except for music and cockatoo screech. I am listening to more Goddamned Posford because he is that good. I have just chatted to kid sister in San Francisco for almost an hour and there are unicorns and angels down in the street... okay, life is almost that good.

Tomorrow we head down the coast to The 12 Apostles and Port Campbell, possibly to meet up with our new German friends, hopefully drink some wine and swim under a waterfall, and at some point contemplate the future.

The photos above? Some (not nearly all) dear friends, and me and my new funky arsed hat with its funky arsed feathers. Fun times.

Grumpy, Zeus, Poseidon, Buddha and Pork Products

2011-01-18T13:54:00.001+11:00

GRUMPY

I have this special friend... let's call her Pork Products. Why? Because she likes to call me Pork Products and I just think it's only fair that if she calls me Pork Products, we all call her Pork Products. It's a kind of reverse psychology thing. She started calling me Pork Products so I started calling her Pork Products in the hope that she would cease and desist. Alas, she calls me Pork Products with even more enthusiasm than before. A typical conversation might go like this:

“Hello, Pork Products.”

“Hello Pork Products!”

“No you're Pork Products!”

“No you are.”

“You are the original Pork Products.”

“No you are.”

It's this kind of sophisticated mind play that keeps us bonded. We're like a couple of classical Greek philosophers when we get together.

Imagine my relief, then, when sitting in Mission Dolores Park in San Francisco one such conversation is interrupted by a couple of trippers who are quite clearly tripping hard, one of whom is a self professed “Qualified High Priest of Diana” who wants to bless me and The Dreaded One because we are Australian and he studied Australia for a fifth grade project.

“Oh yeah,” he enthuses. “I love Australia. I want to go to Sydney and Perth and Melbourne and Adelaide and Brisbane and and and I want to see marsupials and... did I mention that I'm a High Priest of Diana and can I hold your hands and give you a blessing?”

“Sure dude,” I reply, “knock yourself out.”

High Priest's friend rocks back and forth as he starts rapping about how cool it is to be sitting on a hill with Australian marsupials, High Priest takes The Dreaded One and me by the Hand, and Pork Products just about wets herself with laughter, because this is exactly the kind of shit that goes down daily in Mission Dolores Park.

High Priest (highest one ever, I suspect), looks to the heavens and starts his blessing. The words spill forth and weirdly... so weirdly, he is coherent. What he is saying all makes sense. It's like he's tapping into something higher. It's an actual blessing. It's like he knows us. It's like he's on the hotline to God. It's like he's picking up the news from the cosmos, and unbelievably, I feel something. I am moved. Some of that emotion stuff, it stirs. WTF?

I can see The Dreaded One has been moved too. Even my beloved Pork Products has stopped giggling; she has been moved as well. This guy clearly knows his shit.

“By the way,” High Priest of Diana tells me at the end of the blessing, “while I was holding your hand I was picking up the vibes of... Zeus, Poseidon and Buddha.”

I look across at Pork Products. She hasn't moved, but quite clearly she has mentally smacked herself in the forehead. This is the very last thing she wants to hear. She's been trying so hard to make this Pork Products thing stick, and then this. Zeus. Poseidon. Buddha.

Excellent.

Am I going to pick up this ball and run with it? Am I going to milk this for every last drop? Am I going to battle Pork Products with my divinity and mythology and all round coolness? Um, yes?

San Francisco, I love you.

Grumpy is Lee Bemrose (AKA Zeus, Poseidon and Buddha). They are contactable at leebemrose@hotmail.com

What Next?

2011-01-09T06:58:00.005+11:00

In a mellow mood right now. We're staying in the place below, The Inn at 943 South Van Ness, Mission District, San Francisco. Our room is the big bay window on the second floor. Above is me reading Eat, Pray, Love in that very Bay window. I'm feelling chilled, enjoying the book and listening to Zoe Keating's Into The Trees (again).

I know I've said I could live in most of the places I've been to. I've had the piss taken because of it. Fact is, as this trip draws to a close (fuck me if we won't be partying at Rainbow Serpent in less than two weeks... so much to do before then), but it's true. I haven't missed Sydney once (The friends, yes, the place, no), and I haven't lived in Melbourne yet or even set up a place to start living there, so I really feel no loyalty to Melbourne. It just feels like a better place to live than Sydney.

But looking around at San Francisco... it's an exciting place, the food is so good, the weather is mild and just look at these San Fran buildings. They are everywhere and they are so beatuful - I'd really like to live in one for a while. Set up a writing desk in one of the bay windows and get back to some real writing. Apparently The Dreaded One can get an American passport so maybe it's possible. There is still so much to explore here that I know I want to come back at least to visit, but why not explore the possibilities of living here?

There is reality to deal with, of course. Always the fly in the ointment. Employment is the biggie. As it is I don't have any particular skills that will guarantee me work back in Australia, let alone a foreign country. The idea when we settle in Melbourne is for us to start our own catering company and for me to pick up whatever freelance writing I can, maybe have a proper go at some travel writing, but it's all going to take time. It would take a much longer time to do it here... (as I write this I lean over and tell The Dreaded One what I am writing and she has suggested looking up what the competition or prospective employers are like here)... thing is I just don't want to work for anyone else for any longer than I have to. I'm not very good at it. Or rather, I've just been much happier when we've been self-employed. (The Dreaded One has just whipped out her Android and is looking up catering companies in the Bay area).

I don't know where I'm going with this. Elizabeth Gilbert's book is making me want to write. It's making me want to keep traveling. I'm very aware all of a sudden that our trip is nearing the end. Naturally I feel less than thrilled about this. More importantly, I feel extraordinarily priveleged to have experienced it at all. It only took the minor upheaval of selling our home (such a short sentence but I can't explain what we went through to actually go through with it... all the sensible people insisted we were mad and irresponsible; our traveller friends and our doofer friends were supportive so it was a confusing time), and we still face a lot of unknowns but it was all worth it in the end. Best thing we've ever done.

I suspect I'll hit Rainbow and be dancing with friends and will feel at home. I always feel properly at home when bare-footed and dancing in the sun surrounded by friends. Funny concept, feeling at home when you're in a field with music and friends. But I know it will happen. And we will probably start putting down roots in Melbourne and life will take us in another direction.

Thing is, you just never know. This time last year I had no idea I would be here in California, hanging out with my beloved spiritual kid sis. It would be months before the idea of selling up and travelling would even be planted, a couple of short months after that that our home was sold, our life packed into boxes, world trip planned and us making it through those final, hectic days to be Madrid-bound on the start of a very cool adventure.

You just never know.

Grumpy In San Francisco

2011-01-07T15:05:00.001+11:00

Grumpy

I've covered quite a lot of ground on what has become Grumpy's World Tour Of Friends. In five months I've lived approximately 35 Cities or towns in nine different countries... not bad for a lazy bastard like me. There has been all the stress and hitches you expect in such a long haul and somehow Mrs Grumpy (aka The Dreaded One) has put up with me through it all. I'm not exactly a stress head, but for a chilled out dude I do have me share of neuroses and occasional outbursts of sartorially-induced hysteria. It's best you don't ask.

I've learned a lot about all the places I've visited, and this week's column is a bit of an over-view.

In Madrid I discovered that most of the male waiters appeared to be frustrated matadors. Some of them were some of the angriest bastards I've encountered, especially if you ask a barista to make a cappuccino, which I did time after time because the reaction was so funny. It infuriates them, which is a cack. Arrogance of the French? The French don't have anything on the Madrid guys. In fact the French were lovely people. My time in France was basically one long party followed by one long hangover. In Berlin I realised that no one goes anywhere without a drink in their hand, preferably bagged bottles of beer but wine is also acceptable. God knows what it's like in October. No kidding, the very efficient Berlin trains were jam-packed with drinkers at all hours. In Portugal I discovered that no matter what restaurant you went to, no matter what they called the dishes, the menus were identical. Same six options on every single menu no matter if you ate at a cheapy in a back lane in or a five star place, all the same. I got excited about something called 'Secret Pork' in one place, thinking it was some esoteric variation of the ubiquitous sauceless grilled pork only to discover there was no secret about it, it was exactly the same sauceless grilled pork as all the other sauceless grilled pork. In Italy the most striking national trait was passion. They are passionate about everything from art to icecream. In random places you'll even come across bridges almost collapsing under the weight of thousands of padlocks, tributes of passion between couples with their names engraved on the locks and the keys thrown away. You have to love that kind of shit. And football? The Italians start singing their myriad team songs hours before the game... and all we Australians can come up with is Ozzie Ozzie Ozzie oi oi oi. In snowy England I found another national stereotype alive and kicking: The Whinging Pom. With climate change being harder and harder to ignore, England is being more snowed under than ever. The snow belts down each year, roads turn to chaos, airports are closed and letters to the editor flood in: someone is to blame and something must be done. I asked why no one has snow chains and was met with the reply, “Why should I buy snow chains when I will only use them once or twice a year?” Erm... because once or twice a year those snow chains are going to save your arse. Same snow stuff happens in America and the Yanks get up like a cowboy thrown from a horse, they dust themselves off and get on with things.

And this has been the biggest revelation for me – Americans. I came over here and kicked the saloon doors open armed with a whole bunch of preconceptions and it turns out I was firing blanks. For example, hands up who thinks New Yorkers are arseholes? Just as I thought, heaps of you. Well you're all wrong. New Yorkers and San Franciscans are so polite and friendly and helpful and just all round nice that at first I was suspicious. Was this some new mugging tactic? Stun them with nice and then attack? Because one thing I knew without a doubt was that I was going to get mugged in America by some arsehole American. And while I'm sure there is a fair bit of crime about, aside from the minority of shooty and stabby Americans, most of them are just so... nice. The more time I spend here, the more I realise I could live here, not something I ever expected to say.

Who knows – I might even end up being nice.

Goodbye, 2010.

2011-01-01T06:51:00.010+11:00

Wherever you are, happy new year to you. However 2010 has been for you, I hope 2011 is better.

As for me... I left a job I had no heart for. I was treading water which was fun for a while but I realised I need some challenge. I need to learn. In a way I still don't care what I do for an income because it's just a means to an end, but at the same time I need some stimulation.

So I quit that and we sold our home and travelled. It went something like this:

Madrid (Spain) 12th Aug - 18th Aug
Boom (dance party in Portugal) - 18th Aug - 25th Aug
Sintra 25th - 28th Aug
Pria Macais 28th - 30th Aug
Lisbon 30th Aug - 2nd Sept
Faro 2nd Sept
Seville (Spain) 3rd Sept - 6th Sept
Granada 6th Sept - 9th Sept
Denia 9th Sept - 12th Sept
Ibiza 12th Sept - 21st Sept
Barcelona 21st - 25th Sept
Arles (France) 25th - 28th Sept
Marseilles 28th - 30th Sept
Cassis 30th Sept - 1st Oct
Arles 1st Oct - 4th Oct
San Rafael 4th Oct - 8th Oct (Day trip to St Tropez, that's where the photo was taken)
Nice 8th Oct - 11th Oct
Levanto (Italy) 11th Oct - 15th Oct
Pisa 15th Oct - 17th Oct
Florence 17th Oct - 21st Oct
Rome 21st Oct - 26th Oct
Venice 26th Oct - 29th Oct
Berlin (Germany) 29th Oct - 5th Nov
Prague (Czek) 5th Nov - 11th Nov
Paris (France) 11th Nov - 18th Nov
London (UK) 18th Nov - 24th Nov
Brighton 24th Nov - 6th Dec
Oxford 6th Dec - 9th Dec
New York (USA) 9th Dec - 15th Dec
San Francisco 15th Dec - 22nd Dec
Napa Valley 22nd Dec - 24th Dec
Lake Tahoe 24th Dec - 27th Dec
San Francisco - 27th - 12th Jan

We've covered quite a bit of ground and I've discovered many places I could relocate to. Faves? Hard to say because each place has its own unique personality to offer. Madrid had art, food and lifestyle... in fact that was all of Spain. And Italy and and France. Had my most perfect lunch at a beachside place in Barcelona, think it was called CDCC. Magical afternoon. Ibiza was fun and as with everywhere except Seville, I'd go back at the first opportunity. Berlin lived up to the hype - great new city with a fascinating and fucked up history. Checkpoint Charlie moved me to tears a couple of times because amid so much War history, here was real hope and in the end triumph, some glimpses of all that is good about the human spirit. There's a photo of a border guard helping a little boy getting through the barbed wire that has imprinted itself on me. The guard looks terrified that he is going to be spotted and the boy holds his arms up, expecting to be lifted to join his family on the other side of the wire. The look on he guard's face is amazing. Sheer fright, but you know he's going to help the kid. I love it. I love that so many of the guards helped their fellow Germans cross the border by turning a blind eye or being the worst shots in the army. Sadness in the history of the Berlin Wall, but happiness as well.

I loved Paris as much this time as I did last time. I still didn't encounter the arrogance of the French. I think it's an out-dated cliche. The people were as friendly as all the others we encountered, and I loved being in Pigalle with its seediness, art and history. And Areles... that was one long party finished off with a very long hangover.

The UK... hmm. I thought I loved London last time. Probably I did. This time however I just didn't get as into it. For the first time I really saw a national stereotype in action: The whinging Pom is real. A snowstorm closes down airports in the USA and the people get on with it. In the UK? Papers and forums are filled with anger and finger-pointing, someone is to blame and something must be done. There is such a big difference between the people of the UK and of the USA. The UK is gloom, the USA is bright. I enjoyed my stay in the UK and I know lovely people there, but there is a very real culture of complaint.

And this has perhaps been the biggest revelation to me - The USA. The people here are genuinely friendly. Strangers ask how you are and hearing your accent, they ask where you are from and then they ask about Australia. This is not like Turkey where they are merely trying to make a connection to get your money, they are simply curious and want to know about this far away place. I thought New Yorkers were meant to ba arseholes (and of course you get arseholes in all flavours) but for the most part they were really friendly people.

I think my impression of the USA is best summed up by our day trip to The Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island. Ellis Island really captures what good intentions America had. America had open arms to refugees from all over the world. The fluctuating population statistics on display are fascinating. Such good intentions, youthful America had, but somewhere along the line these good intentions were replaced with arrogance. It's not the people overall, it's the government. The people I've met have been some of the friendliest people in the world, and I want to come back to this place to explore further, something I just wasn't expecting. The only individual Americans I had a bad impression of were a jaded couple in Marseilles who were complaining about the arrogance of the French and how they have never been endeared to the French. Hell, I'm more convinced than ever that you attract exactly the kind of shit you are expecting to attract, at least as far as the way people treat you.

I've been very lucky this year. The trip has been awesome. I've met up with friends from home in all parts of the world. We've been lucky with the weather, we've been lucky with travel with nothing going wrong, no luggage lost, no major delays or major hitches. The relationship between The Dreaded One and myself has been tested, as you'd expect from being together 24/7, especially after selling our home and leaving our jobs. There has been stress but we seem to have pulled through and still seem to be friends on what I've started calling the Lee & Ann World Tour Of Friends.

I'm writing this in the living room of this place. It's gorgeous. It smells of pine from the 10ft tall Christmas tree. There is classical music playing and I'm sipping some complimentary Californian sherry and waiting for my spiritual kid sister to arrive. The three of us will goof off for the day, maybe grab a bite to eat, have some laughs, maybe go to Golden Gate Park. Hopefully my swollen knee will have gone down enough for me to dance at the psytrance party we are going to tonight. I danced too much the night before last. I need to remember that I'm not 17 anymore.

So that's me for 2010. Rainbow Serpent is going to soften the blow of going home. And then? New life in a new city. I don't know what's going to happen. But I've been in a similar position before. It's going to be fine.

Good wishes to you all for 2011.

Christmas Postcard From Lake Tahoe

2010-12-26T10:32:00.012+11:00

A few more group shots and random shots. The first pic is us with a former workmate of Ann's (and briefly and sporadically mine) who we bumped into completely unexpectedly in downtown San Francisco. The chances of that happening are so slight. We didn't know he was in SF and he though we were in Europe and had no idea we were in SF. If we'd left to go out a few minutes earlier or if we hadn't taken the F car and had walked instead we might not have run into each other.

Turned out he and his party were going to Napa the following day, same as us. We hooked up for dinner (oh crap - I have to post a photo of the chicken we had for dinner... weirdest damn thing ever) and he told us about a place he wanted to go to afterwards. Place that serves food from an old caravan, stays open till late with a fire in a big tin drum. We didn't know about it but it sounded cool. By coincidence, a friend of Kat's (called Turtle) was there, a random friend she had met at this year's Burning Man. Turtle is well connected in the Napa wine scene and drove us around to some pretty special wineries the following day. We were treated well and tasted some spectacular wine, stuff you just don't get in Australia. Quite amazing how it all came together. At the end of the day we went back to Turtle's for dinner, drinking and darts. And much hilarity. It's great when you meet generous, like-minded people.

Also in these photos is Group Shot With Golden Gate Bridge, Group Shot With Alcatraz, a couple of Group Shots with Lake Tahoe and a shot of Napa and one of our place in San Fran, which we are returning to in a couple of days.

Right now we are enjoying a lazy Christmas day in front of the fire while drinking a very large bottle of Mumm bubbles. We'll go for a walk by the lake and sink into the outdoor hot tub a bit later before roasting turkey and mashing potato and drinking eggnog. There is still snow everywhere even though it hasn't snowed for a few days. They are expecting a storm to blow through tonight with more snow tonight and tomorrow. We're going to take snowboarding lessons tomorrow and see what happens. Hopefully I'll get as hooked on that as I am on darts. I am soooo getting a dart board and French Bulldog when our new life starts in Melbourne.

Have just listened to Younger Brother's Last Days of Gravity and am now listening to Zoe Keating's Into The Trees, and all is good in the world.

I hope your Christmas is as good as mine is.

Postcard From San Francisco

2010-12-22T08:29:00.005+11:00

Long time between blogposts. We're in San Francisco now and I'm behind with photos. These are a couple from New York, part of what has become The Group Shot Collection. It's basically just the two of us with a famous thing in the background. We were taking the soup tin shot and a friendly American offered to take a photo of the two of us and we couldn't explain that the point of the group shot is that we take it ourselves. We said yes please and thanked her because it was nice of her, even if it did defeat the purpose.

So New York was a revelation. I didn't expect to like America but New York is brillliant. And I thought New Yorkers were meant to be arseholes but for the most part the people were really friendly. It's a hectic city that really has so much to offer... so long as you can afford it.

San Fran is not so spendy and also has a lot to offer. We're staying in The Mission District and there are so many quality eating places. It's ethnically diverse and there is some really good quality food for really reasonable prices. Some areas are potentially rough in a way you don't really experience in Sydney with some very dodgy looking characters around, but so far we've been left alone. It doesn't feel threatening, exactly, but you do feel it's wise to keep your wits about you.

We rode bikes across The Golden Gate bridge to a beatiful little town called Sausalito and caught a ferry back. We went to Alcatraz yesterday and that was a haunting place. Very atmospheric as they haven't really upkept it since it closed. There are still bullet marks and grenade marks in the floors and walls of some cells from the attempted escape and seige of 1946. Very poignant were the accounts (recorded voices of one-time prisoners) of how close San Francisco was, but how out of reach as well. Apparently when weather conditions were right the prisoners in some cells could hear the sound of celebration from the mainland on New Year's Eve. I know these were hard-core criminals, but you can't help thinking about the impact this must have had on the humans they still were.

Anyway, it was a totally harsh place. Really interesting to have been.

At the other end of the accommodation spectrum, we found this really beautiful Victorian mansion/ B&B to stay at. We booked it as a splurge for two nights because it's close to dear friend Kat (who is the main reason we've come to San Fran). We mentioned to the owner that we're in town for a couple of weeks but need to find somewhere within our budget. He offered to do us a deal and that's just what he's done. He's a real character and seems to have taken a shine to us. He moved us to one of the premium rooms instead of a budget one and said we could have it until someone else books it and it's just so Goddamn lush. We move into a smaller room when we get back from a short trip away, but even the smaller room is plush and comfortable.

Side trip tomorrow to the Napa Valley for some wine tasting, then on to Lake Tahoe. Snow is predicted in Tahoe every day. The Dreaded One, Kat and myself will be having a white Christmas (my first ever) and we have a place with a kitchen so we can roast a Christmas dinner too. Snowboarding is on the agenda, which should be interesting.

Oh - last night... the weather has been grey and rainy here since we arrived. There was a full lunar ecplise last night but it didn't look like the cloud was going to clear. The three of us went for dinner and came back to our room to play board games (Jenga and Monopoly, lots of laughs) but we climbed up onto the rooftop to check on the moon just in case. Amazingly, the cloud was breaking up. We had seen glimpses of the moon earlier and it was brilliant white and as full as it gets, but through the thin wisps of cloud you could see the shadow eating it away. We went back up a little later and it was in total eclipse and glowing deep read.

It was apparently the first full lunar ecplipse to take place on the Winter solstice in 372 years, which was pretty special. Back downstairs my laptop was tuned into Psyradio and The Dreaded One said of the current track, "That sounds like Barry."Sure enough, it was a track called Lucid Dreaming Pt2 by our friend from Sydney who produces under the name of Third Drop Reflection. Weird time to hear a track by a friend being played on international radio.

Back soon, hopefully, with more group shots.

Warney Version 2

2010-12-18T07:52:00.003+11:00

Okay, so the previous post was to be the next Grumpy column but the editor said they couldn't run it because they might get sued. I kind of thought that might be the case because I just lifted a story from a paper and substituted the names, which is clearly a copyright infringement. Personally I'd be happy to see a copyright case like that go to court because it would be brilliant publicity, but I think in the end it would b the paper taking the magazine to court and they wouldn't see it for the laugh that I would.

So. I whipped up the following on the flight from New York to San Francisco. It chewed up almost an hour and was a lot of fun. The quotes are real, the rest is made up and not only did I get to have fun with the story itself but I got to have a poke at gossip journalism. The Ed loved it which is a relief because I had been worried that she might not like me pushing the same idea when she had asked for something else.

Read and hopefully enjoy while I sit here icing my knee after a 15km bike ride from San Francisco port across The Golden Gate Bridge to Sausalito. I need to get more exercise.

Grumpy

In what has been dubbed by media sources as one of the most unlikely love-matches in the sporting and entertainment industries, Tsunami can reveal that everyone's champion league bowler and one of the world's most smouldering model actresses have severed ties with their former spouses to be together.

Fred Flintstone and Jessica Rabbit are officially an item.

Fred Flintstone has confirmed wide-spread rumours that his turbulent relationship with Wilma is off again, releasing a statement saying that "Sadly and unfortunately, Wilma and I split up a while ago. Our close friends and family were informed at that time."

The pair have remained close throughout the protracted separation for the benefit of their daughter, Pebbles.

"It is a private matter so we did not make it public. Wilma and I remain friends and will continue to be good parents."

Model and actress Rabbit, also a mother of one, confirmed via Twitter that she had separated from her millionaire husband “a few months ago.”

"Our close family and friends were aware of this," the model wrote.

Since grainy images of the pair canoodling at a London hotel emerged, websites and magazines have been running hot with the news, with many believing the story to be a hoax.

“As if,” said one reliable source. “I mean, c'mon,” the source added. “Like, yeah, right,” he elaborated. “WTF?” he concluded as he giggled off into the sunset.

Reflecting such disbelief, another source is quoted as saying, “Pffft. Flintstone and Rabbit? Get outa here. She's way too hot for him and he's kind of... well a bit of a schmucklehead, really. He's a caveman and she's, like, classy and stuff.”

However a reliable source who can be named has confirmed that as bizarre as they first sounded, the rumours are all true.

“Good old Fred,” a Mr Rubble chuckled. And chuckled. He kept on chuckling and saying good old Fred until our correspondent grew old and died of natural causes. Police say there are no suspicious circumstances.

Also not suspicious is that we at Tsunami are as willing as the next reputable media outlet to quote more unnamed sources.

"It's more than just a fling. Jessica is really falling for Fred," the friend of someone told someone. "They have grown very close and there is an intimate bond between them. The only thing standing in their way is the geography.”

When pressed on the issue of geography and what this had to do with anything, the source looked a bit sheepish and shrugged. “I don't know. I think Jessica must have failed geography at school she must be hoping that Fred can teach her a thing or two about geography. Because of all the rocks?”

The chubby and jocular Flintstone is to host his own talkback show next year, and the pair's flirty tweets broached the possibility of Rabbit appearing on the show, rumoured to be called Stoney.

“I'd love to interview you on my show,” tenpin bowler tweeted, immediately sparking a flurry of rumours that he would like to interview Rabbit on his show.

“If I make it to Bedrock next year I'll definitely do your show,” Rabbit cooed – as much as it is possible to coo on Twitter, sparking a wave of confirmation of the flurry of rumours that the smouldering sex siren would, in fact, be appearing on the show.

“Yabadabadoo,” Flintstone enthusiastically tweeted in reply, leaving no doubt that the eruption, the veritable Big Bang of rumour and speculation over the likelihood of such a mismatched match was undoubtedly worthy of our most careful speculation and closest examination and analysis, the details of which we will bring to you as they emerge.

After all, weirder things have happened.

Grumpy is freelance writer Lee Bemrose, leebemrose@hotmail.com

Flintstone, Rabbit In New Year Rendevous

2010-12-14T00:47:00.010+11:00

SEXPOT Jessica Rabbit plans a rendezvous Down Under with new love Fred Flintstone as the spin king yesterday confirmed his relationship with his ex-wife, Wilma Flintstone, was over.

Flintstone acknowledged on his website that his on-off-on romance with Wilma, with whom he has two children, was off again.

"Sadly and unfortunately, Wilma and I split up a while ago. Our close friends and family were informed at that time," Flintstone said.

"It is a private matter so we did not make it public. We remain friends and will continue to be good parents."

Mother of one Rabbit also took to Twitter to confirm she too had separated from her multi-millionaire husband Arun Nayar "a few months ago".

"Our close family and friends were aware of this," the model wrote.

Confirmation that both the model and the spinner are single clears the way for them to go public with their romance, after the pair were snapped pashing at a London hotel last week.

A friend of Rabbit's told a London newspaper there was chemistry between the couple.

"It's more than just a fling. Jessica is really falling for Fred," the friend told the Daily Mirror.

"They have grown very close and there is an intimate bond between them.

"The only thing standing in their way is the geography.

"Fred is mesmerised by Jessica. She's the first person he has felt so strongly about since his divorce. They have so much chemistry."

Rabbit is tipped to arrive in Australia this month and attend the fifth and final Ashes Test, starting in Sydney on January 3.

The face of Estee Lauder cosmetics is an advocate of breast cancer awareness and is keen to promote the Pink Test, which supports the Jane McGrath Foundation.

Flintstone spent yesterday with his children, Pebbles and Bam Bam, at his Bedrock mansion.

Long before he was caught publicly canoodling with Rabbit, Flintstone and Wilma had agreed to end their relationship.

They continued living under the same roof for their children's sake, but in separate bedrooms.

The flourishing relationship between Flintstone and Rabbit began when they met at the Goodwood horse races in England in July.

The pair sent dozens of flirty messages to each other on social networking site Twitter.

The flirting culminated with reports the pair spent two nights together at a hotel while Flintstone visited London to shoot interviews with Top Gear host Jeremy Clarkson and singer Susan Boyle.

Flintstone has tweeted about how he would love to interview Rabbit on his Channel 9 show Freddie.

"If I get to come to Sydney for Breast Cancer Awareness I'll def(initely) do your show," Rabbit tweeted last month.

"Yabadabadoo," Flintstone tweeted in reply.

The buxom beauty is the star of one of his favourite movies, Who Framed Roger Rabbit.

Courtesy of the Herald Sun, kind of.

Tipping Point

2010-12-12T01:15:00.001+11:00

Grumpy in New York

Welcome to The United States Of America, the land of have a nice day and tipping. Tipping, tipping, tipping. I was aware that this ridiculous concept had – like so much American culture – infected parts of the world where it was not required (try tipping in Portugal and they think you are mad... they'll accept your 10%, but they'll be laughing their arse off on the inside at your stupidity), and I was aware that it existed here because the basic wage in the hospitality industry was embarrassingly low, but I was not aware of just how entrenched and how fundamental it was to every transaction. Well not every transaction, but most transactions involving food and drink.

Brief history – tipping apparently came about in the Great Depression of the 1930s as a way of restaurant owners keeping staff on without paying them, leaving the staff to rely on their good service to earn their tips. Quite a nice story, really.

Cut to now. HELLOOO - IT'S NOT THE 1930S ANYMORE. Sure, things might not be as good as they could be right now, but overall it's just not as bad as it was during The Depression. Why, then, is the hospitality industry in the good old U.S. Of A still underpaying their staff and forcing its patrons to fix it up by paying for fake smiles and forced bounciness? And it's complicated too.

Just off the plane, The Dreaded One and I asked how much for a cab from the airport to Manhattan. “Fifty five bucks - not including the tip.” It was $7 for the subway which would be quicker and a lot more adventurous, so we took the subway. I'd kind of thought the tip for the cab would have been a couple of dollars or just rounded up to the nearest dollar, but ooooh no. In restaurants now they give you three suggested levels of gratuity – 15%, 20% or 25%. I've read that if you go to an expensive restaurant you are automatically expected to pay 25%. You don't have to go all out to clock up, say $200 on a meal. So that will be an expected $50 you also hand over to the waiter for doing their job. And at bars? You buy a drink and it's say, $12 for a JD & coke, but you add another dollar on for the tip. In fact they give you loads of $1 notes in your change because you are expected to pay a tip for each and every drink you buy. Needless to say, you don't stay out getting shit-faced very often.

You do tip waiters. In some cases you are supposed to tip the host, the front person who shows you to your table. You don't tip behind the counter people. You do tip cabs and hair cutters. If someone grabs your bags to help you with them (dude, I've made it around the world without little you by my side to help me so back the fuck off), you are expected to tip them for each bag they have groped. If a hotel guy takes you to your room and points out where the telly and the bathroom is (one guy actually did this – he even opened the closet door and told us it was the closet and closed the door again), you are supposed to tip them. You don't tip housekeeping staff... unless you have stayed three days or more, then it's a dollar a day. It was all so confusing I was starting to see visions of pugs in top hats (and wondering how much I should tip them).

And check your bill if you're with groups of friends before adding on your tip because in all likelihood, the restaurant has already kindly added on an extra 18%tip.

You start to question quotes like the one on the horse-drawn carts that take you around Central Park. Average price between $20 and $50. But does that include the tip? How much is the tip?

The end result of all of this? I will probably not do the horse and cart thing. I will not get pissed at bars very often. I'll eat out less and will probably only go to one reasonably nice restaurant while I'm here because otherwise I will be broke. It's already an expensive city, the last time I looked the Aussie dollar was doing okay but was still a few percentage points behind the American dollar, and alsotooaswell – start paying your hospitality people a basic wage, American hospitality industry. You can do it. Presumably you know about cost breakdowns, profit margins etc, stop being so lazy. Or greedy.

I'm guessing a lot of the hospitality industry like the tipping system because I've seen some bar staff rake it in. But the overall effect... well I wonder. I'm not a tight-arse and I am tipping what is considered the appropriate amount (when in Rome etc), but I can't be the only person who just can't afford to spend as much as I would if I wasn't expected to throw away extra chunks of my hard-earned cash at (almost) every transaction.

Grumpy is Lee Bemrose (leebemrose@hotmail.com). He suggests a 15% gratuity for reading this column. Have a nice day.

Postcard From Brighton

2010-12-05T21:57:00.006+11:00

I've been very slack with blogging. I've been pretty slack with writing generally, although I am toying with the idea of applying for a creative writing course when back in Australia. I've never really been into the idea of studying writing and I'm not sure even now if it's for me, but it might be a fun thing to try. I think I've always felt that the short story award so many years ago and the few stories published and short-listed proves that I can do it so that's enough. But what the hell. Who knows.

Anyway. Last day in Brighton today. The above photo was taken in Prague, not Brighton, but it kind of captures my mood of late. Read into it what you will.

So how has Brighton been? Mixed bag of lollies indeed. In the first hour of being here we got caught up in student demos which threatened to turn into riots. There were riot cops out in force, dogs, 'kettling', helicopters... it was full-on.

Then there was snow. There were a few light falls, then one night it really came down. So pretty, so delicate and gentle. Being Australian I'm used to thunderstorms, hailstorms and heavy rain, all loud and potentially destructive. But snow just drifted about and settled gently, not making a sound. At times in the orange light outside the pub The Dreaded One and I sat in that night, the snowflakes looked like embers from a fire as they flurried about. Strange that such a beautifully gentle thing as snow fall can cause such havoc. Roads closed, trains got stranded, schools closed, airports shut down. It was amazing.

It was an impressive dump and it was such fun to be out amongst it. I've loved the cold and the sound of snow under-foot. And the smell of the snow. When it first started coming down I noticed a strange smell I hadn't noticed before and couldn't quite link to anything else. The smell persisted and I started to wonder if it was the snow, the way you can smell ozone just before rainfall. I said to The Dreaded One, "This might be a stupid question, but does snow have a smell?" She didn't know. I've never really experienced snow before so I thought maybe this was a common thing.

I googled and sure enough, lots of peopple can smell snow. Described variously as clean and ozone-like, I wondered how it was that I'd never encountered the concept of snow odour.Very distinct.

We made the most of this early, freak fall. Snow fights and sliding down hills and just generally being out in it. It turns everyone into children. So nice to hear the shounds of the protests and police sirens replaced by the hoots and child-like laughter of children and adults alike.

The snow has gone and life has returned to normal, except for the hangover of blame. The debates going on about who is to blame for everything turning to shit because of the snow is amazing. It seems each time this happens - heavy snowfall - the country grinds to a halt and someone is to blame. I don't know. I think it doesn't happen often enough for there to be proper systems in place to cope with it (if it happened for six months of the year every year I'm sure the situation would be different), and if that's the case just ride it out. But the Brits love to blame someone, and they love to do it with anger.

Speaking of anger, I also saw a ridiculous pub fight break out. The argument was over someone taking a bar stool that someone else had been using. Classic case of class divide because one guy was working class and the other sounded and looked a bit of an upper class twat. The twat kept baiting the blue collar guy by questioning his intelligence because he wanted to punch someone over a barstool. He had a point, but the other guy did back off at the urging of his mates, but that the twat kept making things flare up only proved that he was, in fact, precisely as stupid as the other guy. At one point the shouting even included questioning which of them was the more authentic Brightonian.

I don't know whether we are more egalitarian in Austraia or whether it's more that you don't get such distinctly different classes at the same drinking hole, but I'd never seen anything quite like it. Funny and disturbing. We got the hell out when furniture started flying about and other patrons started getting involved.

We also took part in an artwork designed by Thom Yorke from RadioHead. This involved us standing around in blue ponchos with thousands of other people assembled to look like King Canute while a plane flew over and took photos. It was bitterly cold and about as much fun as it sounds, but strangely fun.

And today is our last day in Brighton. We're off to Oxford tomorrow for a couple of nights because people say it's nice. Then it's back to London for one night before we fly out to New York.

Hopefully I'll ge back into regular updates. And posting more photos. God, I am so behind.

Found: One Gold Ring

2010-11-17T20:16:00.004+11:00

We're walking along a street in Paris when this guy just in front bends down and picks something up. He looks around at us and holds out a man's gold ring in the palm of his hand, his expression asking if I had just dropped it. It takes about half a second for me to think it's not mine and clearly it's not his but one of us may as well have it. I instinctively put out my hand and he gives the ring to me.

It takes another second for me to realise the ring is still warm from body heat; if it had been sitting on the cold stone for even a couple of minutes it would also be freezing cold. I look around for who might have dropped it and see a well-off older guy who has just removed a glove and realise the ring must be his. I move to approach him but the young guy who gave me the ring has moved off, thought for a second, then decided to ask me for a small reward for returning the ring.

I pull out a few coins without looking and give them to him whilst keeping an eye on the older guy.

But the young guy wants more money. I have only given him 50 cents. I know where he's coming from - it's an expensive ring, he has done the right thing, the least I can do is reward him decently. Maybe the ring is worth several hundred dollars, maybe more, so what is 10 or 20 Euro in comparison? Problem is, I'm not going to pay paper money for a ring I am about to return to its rightful owner.

I give the kid 2 Euro to get him out of my way because the old guy is moving away now and I really want to give the ring back to him.

But the kid gets shitty with me now and starts demanding more money because it's for food. This really pisses me off. He has simply done what he though was the right thing to do - why expect money for that? I wave him off, leaving him shouting in exasperation. I chase after the old guy.

"Did you just lose a ring?" I ask him.

He looks at his watch. He can't speak a word of English. I point at his ring finger. I show him my rings. I pull the gold ring out of my pocket and mime finding it on the pavement. He does not recognise the ring and walks away muttering.

So. Suddenly I am left with a solid gold ring and now way of returning it to its rightful owner. I look around for anyone looking for a lost ring. It could be anyone. By now they could be anywhere. I feel bad for them and don't know what to do. I think about taking it to the police. I think about selling it. I'm just not sure.

We talk about what an odd thing to happen this was. About the frustration of feeling the owners body heat in the metal. About the pushiness of the kid and how dumb he was to think it was mine when it was in front of us and not behind.

Next day, standing outside the Louvre, looking at the Seine, a fresh faced girl approaches us from behind and says look what I just found, a gold ring.

The Dreaded One and I look at each other. Oh yeah?

"Yours?"the girl asks.

"No," we both say.

"Is it gold?"

We shrug.

"You take it. For good luck."

"No, you keep it for good luck."

She leaves us alone to look for another victim.

What I like about all this is that it's an inventive scam. If you get sucked in properly and hand over the 10 or 20 Euro I've since read occurs, you have your own greed to blame. You know this supposed gold ring is not yours, but you realise that 20 Euro is a damn good price for this chunky ring. Hell, who knows how much it's worth. It's a good little scam.

I now know where the warmth of the ring came from. I'm glad I only forked out a Euro or two (it will make for an amusing addition to our coffee table collection of trip memorabilia), and I amused to think the old French guy probably thought I was trying this local scam on him.

And I am very glad I didn't hand it into the police or take it to a jeweller to be valued. They would have gotten a good laugh out of it though.

Grumpy In Prague

2010-11-09T21:15:00.003+11:00

Latest Grumpz column. This was verz last minute and I wasn§t sure how it would turn out but the editor simplz replied with lots of hahas and LOVE IT in caps. Zou have to like a response like that.

I have heaps of photos to share but am on someone else§s computer, so I can§t post anz photos just zet of mz adventures in Prague.

Grumpz In Prague

Greetings from mz new hometown, The Cyek Republic§s capital, Prague. It§s been prettz non-stop since I arrived a few dazs ago. I have friends here which is a good thing because thez know all the cool places to go and thez know how to speak the local lingo which is a good thing because the further into Eastern Europe zou go the weirder the languages are. In Spain, France, Italz and Germanz, if I stare at a slab of writing and summon all mz mental powers, I can generallz get the gist of a bit of it. But in Cyek, forget it…

Whoa. I just read over what I§ve written here and either I§ve picked up a Cyek accent or this is one weird-arsed kezboard. Or it could be the beer. I§ve been drinking rather a lot of Cyek beer… and Absinthe. Mazbe the green fairz is making me see funnz shapes and mispellings where there are none. How is this looking for zou, mz fair editor… am I coming across as a little under the weather or simplz merelz… I forgot what I was going to saz.

Anzwaz. So. Prague. I went to possiblz the cooloest club I§ve ever been to. It§s called The Cross, and it hands down beats anz other club ever in the cool pants department. Contemporarz metal sculpture for furniture, nooks, crannies, art on the wall and rammed full of friendlz, unpretentious people. I wanna live in that place. If zou§re ever in Prague, do check out The Cross. Come and saz hello §cos I§ll probablz still be there.

Also another club worth checking out is 02. Mz friends said there§s a pzstrance night at 02. I said great, lets go. Thez said not sure because it§s a bit small. I said don§t care. Thez said no it§s reallz small. I said what are we talking here, a night club for hamsters insert question mark I can§t make the question mark kez work. Mz friends said not it§s for humans but it used to be a toilet block in the local park. Well that sealed it – never been to a club night in a toilet. Not an actual toilet.

Indeed, this place was tinz. If six people were on the dancefloor, it was crowded. It was hilarious bacause there were waaaz more than six of us on the dancefloor towards the end of the night. We told the guz running it that he needed to build a bigger dancefloor. He scratzched his chin, looked around, then got a couple of his bozs to také some of the tables and chairs outside. Now zou could fit twice as manz people as six on the dancefloor… that would be 12… sorrz, brain in szrup mode… and now I§ve distracted mzself and can§t remember waht the next bit was going to be.

We took a break from clubbing and drinking and stuff for a daz and went forest hunting. This wasn§t about shooting animals in a forest, it turned out to be a hunt for an actual forest.

There§s meant to be heaps of them just out of Prague, but we couldn§t find a single one no matter how much mud we trudged through. We found lots of fields and there were lots of trees scattered about that if all squished together might have made nice forests, but no actual forests. We did find a place with some prettz water at that base of a steep cliff but unfortunatelz the fog was so thick we couldn§t see the prettz water.

Reallz nice fog though.

Two more things I§ve learned whilst in Prague… damn can§t find the colon kez. So anzwaz, to more things are 1 – zou don§t want to go to a nightclub in Prague. Well zou might, but not for the same reasons zou might want to go to a nightclub anzwhere else in the world… well mazbe thez could be the same reason… what I§m trzing to saz here is that nightclubs in Prague are brothels. And I mean that in the same waz I saz the 02 club was a toilet. Zou want to dance to loud music, zou go to a dance club or a music club. Zou want to paz a stranger to have fun with zour wang, zou go to a nightclub.

Lesson B is… that is, number two lesson I§d like to leave zou with, is don§t spill the Absinthe on the bench when zou are trzing to do that thing with the fire and the sugar cubes and the spoon with holes, because that shit WILL make the bench go on fire.

Okaz, gotta go. Friends have just called to ask if I want to go to the toilet again. Got to put out the fire and head out.

Grumpz is freelance writer and gzpsz, Lee Bemrose. Contact him at leebemrose@hotmail.com

Grumpy At The Colosseum

2010-10-28T18:06:00.003+11:00

Grumpy

When you go to Rome, this is what you do: You find the Colosseum. It's not hard because it's a really old, big thing. You go down there with your map and you mingle with the people. There will be lots of people because everyone wants to experience this big old slaughter house. Pick your target. Walk up to them as you look at your map, puzzled expression on your face.

“Scuzee... can you tell me where the Colosseum is?”

Regardless of their nationality, they will understand by the words scuzee, Colosseum and your puzzled expression and the way you are carrying the map that you want to know where the Colosseum is.

“There,” they point.

You don't look at where they are pointing, just at their face. Then back at the map. “I think it must be around here somewhere.” You circle an area on the map where you think the Colosseum must be.

“Turn around. Look up. There. There is the Colosseum. Behind you.”

You continue looking at the map. “See, I came down this road, took a left and I think I should have maybe gone right at that fork... do you have any idea where it is?”

They think you are mad and so they move away, telling their spouse that they think you are mad.

You turn around and there are some guys dressed as Roman Centurions. They make their living by wandering around in these costumes, brandishing their wooden swords and letting you pay them for taking your photo with them. Pretty silly way for grown men to make a living. Still, they are your next targets.

“Bongiorno, Centurions,” you tell them.

“Bongiorno. Photo?”

“Yeah in a minute. Steady on. Firstly, I need to know where the Colosseum is. You must know about the Colosseum? The big stabby place? You know Colosseum?”

Long pause. “Si... yes.”

“Do you know where it is?” You ask. “I can't seem to find it on my map.”

“Eh... turn around. The Colosseum, it is behind you. You cannot miss it.”

They look at each other and burst into Centurion laughter. They say something in Italian about crazy foreigners and the Colesseum. They laugh some more of their Centurion laughter.

“But I can't find it,” you push on. “I need to find the Colosseum on the map. I thought it would be easy to find, but I can't find it. I've been looking for ages. I thought you might be able to help...”

“Signore... I assure you, the Colosseum is right behind you. Trust me. You are at the Colosseum. Look.” The Centurion points with his wooden sword.

You drop your shoulders a little and turn around. You eyeball the Colosseum for a couple of moments, then turn back, open the map again and say, “Okay. Fine. But where is it on my map? I've narrowed it down to this area but I just can't quite pinpoint the exact location on the map...”

There is about as much point in doing this as there is a point to this column, but you will enjoy yourself. And you can take this with you anywhere you go. Eiffel Tower. Sydney Opera House. Statue of Liberty. The Pyramids of Giza. Amusement every time.

Grumpy is Lee Bemrose, freelance writer at leebemrose@hotmail.com He still can't find the Colosseum on his map.

Postcard From Pisa and Florence

2010-10-21T05:02:00.006+11:00

Seems I haven't written anything here since I was in Levanto... probably because I haven't written anything here since I was in Levanto. It's hard to do all the touristy/traveller stuff you have to do and find the time to sit down and write about it too. You lose half a day in transit even for short hops and researching the new place and booking accommodation and train tickets in foreign languages chews up as much time for a long stay as it does for a short one. Then usually we arrive (the city rejoices) we and head out to get a feel for the place.

From Levanto we went to Pisa, mainly because I wanted to see the Leaning Tower. We were a bit naughty and booked a five star hotel a little out of town because we'd never experienced five stars before. It was kind of our style, but kind of not. And we only did it because of my new best friend booking.com which comes up with some amazing deals. Quite frankly, Park Hotel Argento in Levanto was a bit better than Abitalia Tower Plaza in Pisa, and it had one less star. Both were luxury places, but Levanto is Levanto (soooooo pretty) and Pisa is Pisa (not so pretty, but with pretty bits and a fascinating history). And the emotional shower in Pisa wasn't a patch on the one in Levanto. You getting the impression I liked Levanto? So peaceful. Actual quiet when sitting outside watching the sun go down. The quiet you get when the doof has packed up and everyone has gone but you've decided to camp over that extra night... real peace. And when the surrounding villages up in the hills chimed their bells, each village just out of sync with the others and with its own arrangement of bell-ring... so peaceful.

Anyway, Pisa. Loved seeing the tower. Was very quickly annoyed with the crowds all doing that silly photo of pretending to hold the tower up. First guy who did that shot, funny guy. Everyone else... oh just stop it.

Still, the tower is wonderfully kooky. It has an elegance, but it's a silly elegance. Didn't climb it, did sit and admire it. Did go to all the attractions in the Plaza Del Duomo – there's a museum with amazing fresco work from about a thousand years ago, the cathedral, the Baptistry (beautiful moment in here when these angelic voices started harmonising into the great chamber. We were up on the second level way up high and peered over the edge. I asked The Dreaded One who was doing this. She said that guy there, and pointed to a single figure with his head tipped up to the high ceiling of the dome, and sure enough, he was sending out notes of varying length which would soar up to the ceiling and bounce back, and he would open his mouth and harmonise. The acoustics were so perfect that he could get three notes, maybe four, going at a time. After a few minutes in which everyone inside had stopped in their tracks to listen, he moved off. You have to love that kind of stuff), and the Opera Museum, I think, which was a general museum of all things Pisa. Oh yeah, and the memorial cemetery which has gone through a lot of shit and was nearly destroyed during the war but which is being restored to full splendour as I write. I love that these things survive and that people care enough about them to ensure they survive.

We were in the museum soaking up the very rich history of Pisa, and there were hardly any tourists in there. It was kind of good because It was quiet and I got some shots of the tower from angles you don't normally see, and the toilets were without queue and that's always a good thing, but it was kind of depressing that just outside the walls there were thousands and thousands of people taking those stupid photos and buying junk souvenirs and that was their experience of Pisa.

We explored on foot, quite enjoyed parts but it wasn't really our place. Was happy to have been, happy to leave.

Florence is a bit different. We are not here for long enough. Dumped our stuff off and went straight out to the Ponte Vecchio... no - lunch first, then the Ponte. It's the only one of the original 13^th century bridges across the river to survive the war. Fucking disgusting how much great architecture and art has been destroyed by war. I'd like The War to pop around to mine one day (except I don't currently have a mine) so I can kick its Goddamned retarded arse. And I know, yes, human loss is tragic and unforgivable in so many ways, but we are transient anyway; the stuff we leave behind should not be transient but should be a reminder of the beauty we are capable of. In my opinion.

We checked out this strange bridge of jewellery shops and gelato bars, had a look at the size of the Pitti Palace, walked back into the centre of town to look at the Uffizi Gallery, spotted the great dome of, erm, one of the great domes, and realised that we had bitten off more than we could possibly chew in three short nights.We booked an ectra, feeble night in Bilbo's Florence holiday home.

Next day, nothing was open. It's nuts. The crowds this place pull are immense, and all of the major attractions close on the same day. I love your titties off, Florence, but get a clue and stagger your closing days. Where is the sense in everything being closed on the same day? In fact, here's an idea – with unemployment being as high as it is, hire extra staff and stay open all week. It can be done. The big dome... Brunelleschi's Dome was open on Monday and fuck me you should have seen the crowds. Because nothing else was open. Nuts.

So we went shopping. The markets are amazing, sprawling through the streets in a massive maze of shopping and shopping and shopping. It felt wrong to know that Leonardo and Dante and Michelangelo and their cronies were about and we were going shopping, but what else could we do? Sorry Renaissance masters, we tried, we really did.

The Dreaded One bought a stunning one-off coat made from a variety of dead things' fur (it's a bit nice) and I picked up the biggest winter jacket I've ever owned. I kept seeing coats that seemed good but she kept saying they're not big enough for me in the UK and New York in winter (it's true, I'm not good with cold), so in the end I have this thing that weighs about my body weight in feathery down filling and weather proof shell. If it warms up a little here (which it does with annoying frequency – everywhere people are taking off winter jackets to be in T shirts as soon as the sun comes out only to have to put them back on again a few minutes later when the sun goes), I take this coat off and it feels like I'm carrying a sleeping bag around. All I can say is, UK and New York? You'd better be reeeeeally fucking cold.

Yesterday we went to Galleria Dell Academia which houses the statue of David, amongst other artistic treasures. I'd been planning to see the rest of the stuff and leave David for last. Kind of like how you eat your vegies first and save the roast lamb for last. But fuck me if I didn't take the first turn and THERE HE WAS. In all his glory. Brilliant. So the rest of the Academia was going to be nothing but vegies. Awesome.

Different galleries have different policies about photographs. Some you can, some you can't, some you can so long as you don't flash. I checked around and couldn't see any signs. Besides, we'd just gone through airport-tight security and they let everyone in with their cameras so it must be okay. Still, best to be discreet and don't flash. I took a photo of one of Michelangelo's unfinished sculptures and FLASH! Shit. I put the camera away after switching off the flash and looking around like it wasn't me you didn't see me you can't prove it.

Nothing. Cool.

Took in a few more of the unfinished sculptures because they really are amazing. Everyone bangs on about how he was releasing the figures from the stone, but it seriously appears that way. They really appear to be struggling to get out of the stone.

But the towering figure of David under his dome really pulls you in. I approached some of the way but still kept a distance, took the camera out, raised it above my head and fired off a shot without the flash.

“NO PHOTO! NO PHOTO!” came a cry that was to become amusingly familiar.

They have a little sign on the wall just before you reach David saying that no photos or video are allowed, but that's it. So everyone assumes it's okay to take photos and the caretakers or whatever they're called (Gallery Shouters?) spend all their time shouting NO PHOTO! NO PHOTO! It's a bit stupid and a bit funny. I couldn't help thinking about the interview process... “Right well your CV seems quite excellent. You've almost got the job. There's just one more little test...”

Also, this is a flash mob prank waiting to happen. It would be a cack. Get hundreds of people in there (again, they let you take your camera in) and at a given point everyone goes totally paparazzi on David's arse, flashes popping all over the place. These people take the NO PHOTO thing very seriously... they would have a seizure. “NO PHOTONOPHOTONOPHOTO... NO YOUYOUYOUANDYOUNOPHOTO!!!!!!”

Ahem. I do take the art seriously, but my mind also wanders a bit.

Statue of David. Awesome chunk of rock and it awakened my interest in the story of David. Stayed up late reading about the statue and its history as well the biblical stuff. This is what does it for me with art – the portraits of wealthy people and royalty don't often do it for me, but if there are great stories in there, ya got me. I love the stories.

Spent most of today in the Uffizi, and stories and stories and stories. I'm even getting a bit interested in reading the bible because there are some amazingly good stories there. A lot of blood thirsty, angry stories, but they are powerful stories nevertheless.

And I saw a painting of the story of Ulysses today, told in pictures on wood in the 13^th century, and I'd forgotten how well I know that story. That one rocked my childhood. The story of Ulysses and Penelope and the faithful dog Argus. Great story and one I should read again.

Okay, there is more to tell. Stuff about our Hobbit Hotel in Florence, about the room in the Uffizi of statues all cowering from overwhelming forces with hands raised but who I suspect started the whole thing of taking photos of holding up the Leaning Tower, about stuff and stuff and stuff, but The Dreaded One is back from having her hair cut before we leave for Rome tomorrow, so it I'll leave this lengthy ramble here.

Via Dell Amore

2010-10-13T21:26:00.005+11:00

I had read about this place years ago without ever imagining I would be here. Couples in love, they engrave their names on padlocks and lock them, then throw away the key. Cynical bastard that I can be and cold to tradition, I love this kind of shit. Lately I've been seeing cathedrals and memorials of war and so much art dedicated to Christ being murdered, but here was a living, growing monument of love. And it was a bit fucking cool.

Grumpy With Testicle

2010-10-12T16:43:00.001+11:00

Grumpy

Recently at a cool little place in Southern France called San Rafael... a restaurant across the road from our hotel looked a bit cool. Kind of place I really wanted to go to. But the entrance was a bit weird and the place just didn't seem to be open. Off-peak season so plenty of places do close. But I kept an eye on it anyway. The door was closed and there were security cameras there, and a buzzer like it was really exclusive. After two days I googled it and there appeared to be two restaurants in the same area with the same name, same paintwork, same menu. Odd. Then I got my Sherlock on and realised I'd been keeping a close watch on the back entrance of the restaurant. Oh I am sharp.

Unfortunately this wasn't the most embarrassing thing to happen in San Rafael.

The restaurant was very French. The menu was all in French. I recognised the word canard so I ordered that dish because I like duck a lot. The Dreaded One recognised the word for veal and ordered the veal. Bottle of French pinot noir and all was good in the world.

Being the (sophisticated) Viking that I am, I finished my meal before The Dreaded One and she asked me to help her with her meal. More than happy to because I like veal almost as much as I like duck. I tucked into the veal whilst continuing to regale her with hilarious stories that spill so easily from the head of this bon vivant and raconteur. After my fifth mouthful of veal, I stopped talking and stopped eating, because all was not right in the world.

“What's wrong?” The Dreaded One asked.

“This veal...”

“Yes? Good?”

“Weird. Weird texture. I've had it before.”

“Ah.”

“By accident. It's...” I scrutinised the lump of meat on the end of my fork and continued chewing.

“I don't think it's the flesh of the veal,” The Dreaded One offered.

“If it's not the flesh of the veal... what is it?”

“I think it's an organ of some sort.”

Then it came to me. “Testicle!” I accused.

“Don't jump to conclusions. It's not necessarily testicle.”

“You knew it was testicle all along, didn't you. You tricked me into eating testicle!”

“I don't think it's testicle.”

“I can't believe you made me eat something's testicle.”

“I didn't make you eat testicle. I offered it to you and -”

“Ha! So you admit it is testicle,” I accused as I aimed my fork with its bite-sized piece of testicle skewered on the end. “Why didn't you just tell me it was testicle before I started eating it? You think it's funny to trick someone into eating testicle?”

“It might be something else altogether. Like brain or liver or -”

“I've eaten testicle before – by accident – and I know the texture of a testicle when I put one in my mouth.”

Clearly I was making a rock solid case because The Dreaded One stopped arguing back.

“Yeah, well, you can laugh now – 'ho ho ho, I made Lee eat testicle' – but I will have my revenge. Oh yes.”

“You know – for someone of such average intelligence, you really can be so very silly.”

“Whatever. But I will have my revenge.”

And I will.

Grumpy is Lee Bemrose, freelance writer at leebemrose@hotmail.com He knows that revenge, like testicle, is best served cold.