Grumpy & Kafka Woman

Me and Loredana coming off a massive laugh about a tiny but really really funny thing.

Love.

Kiitos, Kiitos, Kiitos, Kafka Woman

Kafka Woman and Grumpy, last day in the cafe. Sadness. Proper sadness. And proper happiness that it happened at all.

The Art Of Kafka Woman

Today in the cafe... a little platter of half eaten morsels has been left in the dish-washing area. Grumpy looks at with a faint wince of distaste. "Who left this little mess here?" he asks, expecting the answer to be The Dreaded One's assistant because bloody typical.

"Kafka Woman," The Dreaded One replies.

"Kafka Woman left this here?" Grumpy asks, now looking and sounding like it's the most adorable art installation he's ever seen. "Oh that's all right then."

And So It Was Written: The Lament Of Saint Grumpy

And so it was to pass that all of the last customers of every day for all days to come would be the messiest customers of all the messy customers.

And it was to pass that all of these messiest of all the messiest customers to be the last customers of the day will order hedgehog slices with their lusciously loose toppings of desiccated coconut whose ultimate destination would be at the whim of the slightest of breezes.

And if these last and messiest of all the customers chose not to order the fucking annoyingly messy things called Hedgehog slices, it was depressingly inevitable that their second choice would be a toasted croissant, with its crispy and wonderfully flaky crispy flakiness.

And it would pass that now and forever more that there would forever be unrelenting storms of fucking coconut and fucking croissant flakes long after Saint Grumpy had swept the floor, weeping for the unrelenting eternity of his eternal punishment.

Loop. The Boy And The Man. A Short Story.

A boy sits in a park away from the other children who are playing a game with a ball. He watches blankly as they run madly about, laughing at their own antics. A man walks by, not old, but old in the eyes of the boy. He stops and also watches the game for a few moments before turning his attention to the boy.

“What’s the matter, boy? Why don’t you play with the other children?”

Boy shrugs.

“You look sad. You’re too young to be sad.”

Boy shrugs again. “I am sad.”

Man sits down next to the boy and together they look on at the children and the ball and the rules they all must follow.

“Why sad? Open up. Find the words. Tell me about your sadness.”

Boy thinks for a long time while the old man waits patiently.

“It’s not sad, really, it’s just not happy. Not right? Something feels not right.”

“You don’t fit in? You’re not like the others.”

“That’s it. And I want to be like the others. I like the way they are. I like how they laugh and how they know things and how they are so good at... um... they’re all so different. It’s like someone told them who to be, and so they know. I think I wasn’t listening when they told me who to be.”

“You daydream.”

“Yes.” Boy squirms a little.

“To escape.”

“I don’t know. It just happens. I get into trouble for it. I get into trouble for a lot of things.”

“I see. What do you daydream about?”

“Don’t know. Different things. Happy things. Sad things. Collecting words that feel the same. I don’t know.”

Old man smiles at this. “You’ve started, you just don’t know it yet.”

Boy looks at the man. “Started what?”

“Your journey.”

Boy shakes his head a little. “But I’m stuck here in this place. Trapped in this house I don’t like with a family that just isn’t right. I’m not going anywhere. At least not to anywhere you’d bother going to.”

“Don’t be so glum. You have a happy heart, you just don’t know it yet.”

“How do you know that?”

“I know things.”

“What things do you know?”

“Oh... I know the kind of things that make a young boy sad. I know about his daydreams and his longing. I know that lost feeling and that sense of not belonging.”

Boy is staring at the man now, seeing things in his eyes. “You look sad, old man, but happy at the same time. How can you be sad and happy at the same time?”

“They go hand in hand. Can’t have one without the other. Let me tell you something, since you weren’t listening when they told you who to be. Are you listening?”

Boy nods.

“You will feel this way for a very long time. You will be confused and quite alone. Your quiet nature will be misinterpreted in a number of ways. Your journey will take you to unexpected places and you will feel at times that if it doesn’t get any better there is simply no point. But at those times you must remember to keep going. Keep going even though you cannot see the resting place you are looking for. Understand?”

“But why? Why keep going if there’s no happiness.”

“Because things will change. Things will happen one by one. Good things. Good people. Love and laughter and music... these three things will come to define you. Not at once, but slowly, slowly. You will collect words that will make people laugh and make them cry. You will drink in the music and be awed by it. You will meet famous musicians and others not so famous who will become friends. You will do things you can’t imagine right now, things that, as an old man, will cause you to smile a sad smile as you look back and see how it all turned out after all.”

Boy thinks about this. His hands are under his thighs and his legs kick back and forth.

“Will there be a person for me. You know...”

Old man tips his head back briefly. “Ah yes. You are blessed that way. You will have love from a truly lovely being. But don’t ever take her for granted. You will take her for granted but try not to. And friends. You will have golden friends.

“Okay. That is a thing to look forward to.”

“Indeed. Indeed it is a thing to look forward to. And don’t hurt her. You will hurt her, but try not to hurt her.”

Boy is silent. He can’t imagine this. He can’t imagine anything so good as his own special person. Someone he loves. Someone who loves him.

A long silence as though nothing more needs to be said. Boy frowns. Old man stands and adjusts his collar. Time to go.

“Old man?”

“Yes, boy?”

“How do you know these things?

Old man turns and winks and climbs onto his zebra. He turns and dips his hat and chuckles to himself as he trots off into the sunset.

"Yeehaw!"

Crack of whip.

*

A man walks through a park. He sees a group of children playing soccer. He smiles and recalls a memory. He sees a boy sitting alone and recognises something about him.

“What’s the matter, boy? Why don’t you play with the other children?”

An Unexpected Poop Of Happiness.

An Unexpected Poop Of Happiness

If your life has been like mine, you do a lot of different things. You are a lot of different people with lots of different interests. Maybe you are several different people to different people. I've never known who the fuck I am and have always craved some sort of consistency. But that consistency has never been there.

Right now I'm the co-owner of a small and banged up little cafe on a cool street in Melbourne, hands-down the coolest city in Australia. We do good, unpretentious food and good, unpretentious coffee, all served by - I hope - good, unpretentious staff. I'm enjoying my work life right now. Lately, especially, I've been humbled by the good workers I've managed to find. Properly awesome people.

But 10 years and little bit more ago, this was not what I was doing or who I was. 10 years ago I was bumbling my way through a steep learning curve of magazine editorship and writing, and starting to realise that my sense of humour was worth putting out there. I didn't really know what I was doing, but I did enjoy being in this rare position of writing stuff that amused me and putting it out there, and I enjoyed the limited feedback from friends and occasionally strangers who told me that they enjoyed my writing/humour. Most of my working days were spent writing stuff that I knew amused me, sometimes found out amused the rest of the office, and rare occasions found out amused anonymous civilians.

But I did get feedback. And it's cool and nice to get positive feedback. The random text saying I've just made a twat of myself laughing at your latest column. Or talking to a new friend who, upon finding out which magazine I worked for, asked if I knew Grumpy.

And I got to say yeah... I am Grumpy.

Another friend recently said dude, always loved your writing - it was always the first thing I read in the magazine. Hearing this is weird because I didn't know this last friend at the time I was doing this writing.

But all of that is history. 10 years later I'm still Grumpy, partner of The Dreaded One in Grumpy & The Dreaded One's Little Cafe Of Awesome. The many years of my Grumpy column appearing in the pages of Tsunami mag have long ended. I make coffee now. I enjoy hospitality. I care about service and gathering a team that makes working together a pleasure. I'm not perfect on this last part, but I'm working on it and I'm getting better.

Yesterday... I get a message from the partner of a kind of oldish friend. He says that his girlfriend has mentioned that I used to write for a mag in Sydney - which one was it and what was the name of my column? I tell him about 3D World, about Acid Tongue, about Grumpy and my other writings, thinking he is maybe a writer thinking I might still have contacts, which I don't. I'm so out of the loop these days.

Turns out he was just curious. Had thought about the name of the cafe, the fact that I used to write and maybe I was a writer whose stuff he used to read. Things fell into place and his reply was something along the lines of... no fuck it I'll copy and paste... "I fuckin knew it, used to love that column. Thats why i asked.You sir are the man."

This was a little, unexpected poop of happiness. Made me wonder how many complete strangers out there enjoyed the thing and were made happy by my idiotic musings.

Now awaiting the PS: "Sorry man - I was thinking about another column written by another dude. You're probably okay, but you're not the man. Soz."

On Being Awesome, and a thing about Kanye Motherfucking West

My free pouring latte art shows signs of improvement.

In other news, I am a fucking idiot. Yesterday The Dreaded One and I had our usual Sunday lunch indulgence. Just went to a cheap local seafood restaurant, shared a meal and a bottle of wine in the sunshine, then moved on to a favourite drinking hole, The Black Cat on Brunswick Street.

On a whim, I texted fellow Team Awesome member, Bianca to say that if she and her guy felt like joining us for a drink, it would be really nice. They agreed and joined us for a couple of quiet drinks. They seem really lovely and even invited us back to theirs for dinner. I think it's safe to say that we might become friendly as opposed to just work mates. As I've said, she is an absolute pleasure to work with and he seems cool too.

So why am I a fucking idiot? Well. We've been pulling pretty long weeks. More than 50 hours a week, six days of the week. I really start to feel it towards the end of the week, especially given that I'm not a massive sleeper anyway. Basically, I had to bail on dinner because the combination of feeling physically tired, drinking booze in the sunshine, and being a fucking idiot mean't I started to melt. I felt myself going downhill fast and knew I had to get home and flake out. I said goodbye to the others with The Dreaded One heading on for dinner.

I made it home and passed out immediately.

And slept through my alarm. I awoke with a jump and looked at my watch - 8.30? How the hell did that happen? We open the cafe at 7am. We are so late. And another thing - where was The Dreaded One? Either she had left without me, which was unlikely, or she had pulled an all nighter. On a Sunday? What was she thinking?

I got dressed in a hurry, grabbed my things, my laptop, and dashed out the door. No time for a tram, I'd have to catch a cab. I called The Dreaded One to find out what the hell she was playing at but no answer. I flagged a cab down and we headed off.

In the far off back waters of my mind, a couple of things occured to me: something was wrong with the light, like it was just too overcast or something; and there seemed to be more people out and about. Some of the cafes were packed for that time of the day, and even the pubs seemed full. What had gotten into people?
I got out of the cab, feeling a bit rough. I crossed the road and got my keys out. The place next door was full, which was weird because they normally aren't even open on Monday morning.

No. Actually, something is definitely not right. I stood outside the cafe holding my keys and looked around a bit more. So many people... the light was not increasing, the darkness was.

Because it was 8.30 at night. I'd only fallen asleep for a couple of hours. I think the owner of the restaurant next door saw me and probably wondered what the hell I was doing. Feeling like the idiot that I was, I flagged another cab and went back home.

Sheepish? Hell yeah.

Also, speaking of fucking idiots, here is my latest piece for Soot mag. It's about the biggest fucking idiot there ever was. And I feel I can say that with authority, given that I'm no slouch in the fucking idiot department.

Conversations At Grumpy& The Dreaded One's Little Cafe Of Awesome

Conversations with our customers. I suspect this will be an ongoing series.

Customer: Oh. You serve organic coffee.

Grumpy: Yes, we serve organic coffee.

Customer: Do you have any that's not organic?

Grumpy: No, but I'm sure I can find some chemical to add to it.

(Grumpy makes the large organic coffee with no added chemicals but with added soy).

Grumpy: That's four dollars please.

Customer: No extra for the soy?

Grumpy: No.

Customer: Oh. Cool.

Grumpy: It's because it's not actually soy.

The Dreaded One, from the ladder where she is adding wall decoration to the cafe's walls: We've got some really caustic chemicals out the back if you want some.

Customer, raising his coffee: No, I'll see how I go with this first.

I enjoyed this conversation a lot. Customer was a funny bastard. I'm enjoying getting to know many of our customers. I am frequently intrigued. Sometimes I make instant judgement which is quickly proven wrong, or right. Usually I care. Generally I want everyone to get what they want and to be happy and satisfied. And overall, this seems to be happening. I'm being bombarded by every kind of human in the cafe (including the occasional Dalek), but mostly it's okay. Mostly you humans are okay. Some of the old ones have already melted my heart (Where the fuck is this coming from? I am me! I don't have a melty heart!). And I have made a small child or two smile by being nice to them. (Where the fuck is this coming from? I am me etc).

And fuck me if I wasn't labeled a bastard during that stupid suspended coffee thing a while back because I thought it was more an internet phenomenon than a real thing. I was told I was a 'chode' or something because I thought it was a stupid idea. Thing is, I've served a spaced-out junkie his latte with three sugars when I should have thrown him out. I watched him walk out into the street and tip his coffee back and wished the fucker well, because he needs all the good wishes he can get.

And we have our regular recovering alcoholic hard case that comes in every day. Some days he has enough money to pay for his pot of tea, some days he doesn't. Some days he can afford the lamb casserole he likes so much, some days he can't afford all of it. He always gets his pot of tea and his hot meal, even if he can't afford it and might be bad for business with his air of hopelessness and fucked-upness. Ideallly I don't want him there, but he's okay, knows he should pay most times, and he's a broken human. How can you not give him his pot of tea and hot meal?

So yeah. I'm enjoying my conversations with the customers.

Grumpy With Mark Gambino

Grumpy With Mark Gambino

By Lee Bemrose 

Say hello to Mark Gambino. A random contributor to a magazine I once worked for when I felt like a fraud with no qualifications... primarily because I was a fraud with no qualifications. But I did seem to have a knack for spotting good writers. Lord knows whe had some terrible contributors, but one of the joys of that job was sorting through the  endless hopefuls and finding those few that really stood out.

What I liked most in potential contributors were the people that weren't afraid to do something different. That outside the square thing? That slightly not-what-I-was-expecting thing? If they did that, retained integrity to the topic and managed to make me smile, they were in.

In keeping with that ethos, here is an interview that didn't take place. Mark sent me a hastily written bio which answered all my questions before I asked them, therefore making the entire task of actually asking questions somewhat redundant. So what you have here is a series of imagined questions to real answers to unasked questions.

Read on. It's a rollercoaster of a ride.

 

Would you say the way you have been living your life has been very fulfilling?

Like many smart people, I’ve been able to comfortably get by in life by not doing very much. I realised recently that this is not a very fulfilling way to live. Since then I’ve focussed on following my passions and working my arse off, to very inspiring results. But where did it all begin?

That's a really great question, Mark. I was just about to ask you that very same thing. So tell us – where did your creative life begin?

My creative life began around 2001, after picking up a free street mag called Drink. It was about Melbourne bar culture. I thought I could write for it, so I pitched the editor. 

But wait on just a minute... did you have any real idea of how this writing business worked? Had you studied journalism?

At this point, having studied performing arts at university, I didn’t know how this writing business worked. But I could ACT like a writer.

I like your style. So you pitched to the editor of a booze mag. What happened?

She gave me a shot, and I began writing bar reviews. For free.

And then what happened?

I then picked up a Sydney dance music mag called 3D World.

Ah. 3D World. I think I've heard of it. What happened there? I hear they worked their staff and their freelancers like Trojans.

I pitched the managing ed, who passed me onto the editor - a guy called Grumpy - whereupon we started a nice conversation about Withnail and I. A friendship was born. I honed my craft working on this mag, writing everything from social commentary to a short-lived section of Melbourne bar reviews. I was given more credit than I deserved, but I worked like a Trojan for it.

Then what happened?

Then shit got real.

Oh no. I once saw that on a bumper sticker on the back of a ute... “Then Shit Got Real.” But you are a creative type. Can't imagine you driving a ute around.

I pitched a local fashion magazine (in Melbourne) and picked up some freelance work. It was then that I bought my first digital camera, and started taking photos to go with the articles I wrote. The publisher loved that they got two jobs for the price of one from me, and brought me on board to write, edit, shoot and distribute (I drove a fucking ute around and hand delivered the first issue)of a new sports magazine, Cinq. The irony is, I knew nothing about sport. In fact, I hated it. With a passion. You could say, when the subject of sport came up, I was passionate. It was certainly the best of times.

What else were you doing around this time?

During this time I also worked on General Pants’ Our People magazine. A thinly veiled marketing tool designed to pump what little money kids had out of their pockets and into the coffers or a corporate entity masquerading as a ‘youth brand.’ They weren’t the first. They certainly won’t be the last. See also: Monster Children.

How long did this gig last?

This lasted until the team employed to sell advertising in Cinq couldn’t, and I was turfed into the world of freelancing.

Do you have any stories about rollercoasters? I like stories about rollercoasters?

Years passed and I rode the rollercoaster of freelance writing.

I also like stories of scandalous love, pimps and prostitutes. Got any of those to share with us?

I worked part-time, then fulltime, at Borders. Fell in love with a married woman. Moved into a suburb where prostitutes would regularly fight with their pimps outside my window (“Why did you have to shoot him?!”).

How good would you say life was at that time?

Life was good.

And then?

Then came the call again: a fulltime job managing a team of people to produce web content on a ridiculous budget, to be sold to big companies for a ridiculous price. Out of fear of being litigated by one very large organisation that bought from us, I shall omit the finer details. Suffice it to say, I witnessed the worst in some people while in this job. It made me question my craft. I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion…

But I digress. 

That did sound like a bit of a digression of Haueresque proportions. Anyway. So what did you do? And do you have any more rollercoaster stories?

I quit. I dove into freelance life, and once again the rollercoaster began.

Oh no. Were things different this time?

This time, I was armed with a camera. And a shitload of experience shooting some of the world’s top music acts; interviewing some of the world’s most inspiring musicians and actors; and armed to the teeth with industry contacts.

And how is the rollercoaster of freelance work treating you these days?

My freelance ‘business’ has grown since that day - albeit with many growing pains - and now allows me to work anywhere in the world. As long as I have an internet connection, I’m always working.

 And rather than finish off with a final question, I'm going to predict that you are about to conclude with a statement I can relate to and which makes me doff my cap to you.

I've felt like a bit of a fraud most of my writing life. I may not have studied writing or journalism (I'm now a member of the Australian Journalist's Association - ZOMG!), but I have now made a career of it.
I've spoken on creative panels, giving advice to people way more educated than myself. I've quit jobs most people would step over my cold corpse to do. Most of the time I find all this hard to reconcile.

Cap doffed.Go here for more of Mark's work.

Grumpy With The Human Resources Obstacle

The Dreaded One has been out of work for a couple o f weeks now. Not good times. She worked (her arse off) for a totally petty bitch of a human. She went from being a casual chef to taking on the role of head chef, doing six days a week with sandwich hands instead of a single assistant chef. The owner of this particular catering company has absolutely no redeeming features. She cannot cook. She meddles unnecessarily. She fucks up constantly. Her office staff routinely add time onto their daily shifts yet the owner distrusts the chefs because... I don't know. Probably because she's an idiot.

Anyway, things came to a head. Part of the reason The DreadedOne wanted to get another chef in was because she knew she would not be around forever and the owner had no back up. The Dreaded One said she would be leaving in the not so distant future and the owner spat the dummy and said she had to give at least two weeks' notice. The Dreaded One said she was not giving notice yet, but yes of course she would give two weeks notice when the time came.

Then on Good Friday, the owner tells The Dreaded One that she has another chef and there was no more work for her. No notice at all. What a fucking cow.

So The Dreaded One is out of work. No biggie, really, because she always lands on her feet. She sends her resume out and FIVE MINUTES later a catering company calls to say what freaky timing - we're just about to advertise for a sous chef. They chat. They line up an interview.

I'll add here that other things have happened that have not been so good, so this is a real bright spot. Weboth know that The Dreaded One will bag it.

Then the HR person from the catering company calls to say that The Dreaded One has to bring her papers in to prove she is a qualified chef.

The Dreaded One is not a qualified chef. She has been chefing for maybe 20 years. She has been sous chef under Matt Moran's head chef at The Sydney Opera House. She has run her own catering company.

But she does not have papers verifying that she can in fact chef.

This was explained to the HR person but there was no budging. I know that if The Dreaded One was just given a trial shift she would be in. She knows the deal inside out. She is passionate and skilled, reliable and hard working. She has it all over some of the qualified chefs we've encountered... ass clowns, some of them.

It's this kind of thing that stopped me from applying for writing jobs so long ago. Invariably you get some HR jerk you have to go through first, and if you are not a qualified journalist or don't have appropriate tertiary qualifications, you're dead in the water.

It doesn't matter that I've been a magazine editor, or that I've been published in Quadrant and Southerly as well as countless other mags. It doesn't matter that I've been shortlised in competition and have even taken out a first prize in a national comp, have had a humour column for years... all this paper is meaningless because I don't have an official piece of paper confirming tha fact that I can write.

What a blinkered, myopic, hinderance of a concept Human Resources is. Get the fuck out of the way and let real people get in touch with the people who will recognise real skills and real talent.

It hasn't been fun seeing The Dreaded One treated so poorly. But she is soldiering on. There is one sure fire way to ensure you don't work for dickheads or have anything to do with Human Resources drones.

Grumpy With Small Talk

Grumpy With Small Talk

I've been noticing once again that I'm really not very good at small talk. For some people the stuff just pours out of their mouth. The person I work with at the moment is and absolute master of small talk. She rarely stops talking. Sometimes it's just garden variety small talk (weather/ what did you do on the weekend/how is your day going/gee that's a nice tie). Other times, it's more random. It's like there's no brain-to-mouth filter so that what comes out are the sometimes startling whimsical musings of a truly nomadic mind.

I had wanted to believe that I'm no good at small talk because I just don't care and small talk doesn't matter. I vaguely recall a quote in an interview about film maker Rolf De Heer in which one of his colleagues said, “Rolf doesn't do small talk.” Don't quote me on this because I can't find the interview in which it took place anywhere so it is quite possible that it was said about someone else... or it was the result of this nomadic mind thinking it would be cool if someone was interviewed about me and they said it about me. Because it struck me as being a pretty cool thing to say. Especially if it was said about me.

The thing is, small talk is a complex thing. There is the absolute utter rubbish small talk... that pseudo-scripted shit that goes something like this:

Person 1: “So how are you today?”

Person 2: “Oh all right. Can't complain.” (Dramatic pause). “Well I could but there's no point; no one would listen.”

People – every time this conversation takes place, a puppy dies... in a random instance of spontaneous combustion. In a little boy's arms. On his birthday. And the little boy, overcome with grief, wanders crying onto the street and under the wheels of a passing bus. The bus driver goes through counselling but never quite gets over the unbelievable coincidence of running over his own son on his 10^th birthday right outside the family home. He turns to alcohol and eventually takes his own life. Which would have devastated his wife if she hadn't already taken her own life all those years earlier after witnessing the tragic death of her only son. Obviously the only remaining offspring, the once innocent daughter, is totally fucked up by the demise of her family and turns to drugs as a means of escape, then prostitution as a means to fuelling her ever-soaring drug habit. She falls in with a party crowd who ply her with drugs and abuse her body in the most debauched ways imaginable. She (again) overdoses at one of the wild parties but unbelievably is rescued by a visiting Hollywood A-lister who shall remain nameless due to legal reasons (we'll call him, I dunno, Matthew Newton? Because how hilarious would that be? Matty Newton – Hollywood A-lister. Get it? Hahahaha...).

Back in Hollywood, the daughter dries herself out in rehab but still attends the kinds of parties mere mortals like you and I can only dream of. At one such party attended by the impossibly rich and vacuous, she meets a short, fat, pretty idiotic, deranged leader of a renegade Asian nation with a newly improved mixed bag of nuclear arms which he is pretty keen to show off. The daughter, occasionally suffering flashbacks to that day when the new puppy spontaneously combusted and set off this haunting train of events, doesn't really believe that a short, fat, pretty idiotic leader of a renegade Asian nation would really fire nuclear missiles around the world and risk world destruction just to impress an ex-crack whore like little ol' her. But this is just the kind of opportunity Kim Lil Nong Nong has been waiting for. Bombs away! Missiles ahoy! Destruction! Retaliation! World annihilation!

All because you said I could complain but no one would listen. Think about it, next time you consider engaging in this bit of dialogue.

And then there's that other stuff that starts out sounding like pointless noise but ends up going somewhere. Nice necklace. Thank you, I got it in an exotic holiday destination. Oh really – I've been to that exotic holiday destination – we have something in common.

And then these people with something in common decide to go out for a coffee and talk about some other exotic holiday destinations they'd like to go to to buy nice things. On the way to the coffee shop, there is an unexpectedly loud explosion that sounds very much... like... a puppy dog spontaneously combusting...

Anyway, in thinking about where I was going to go with I'm-not-good-at-small-talk-because-I-don't-want-to-be I decided to ask the internet what it thought about small talk.

Big mistake. Here I was thinking that small talk is nothing more than a really annoying way to ruin a perfectly good chunk of silence that hovers between two people engaged in some sort of mutual activity between strangers, the occurrence of which, in itself, doesn't demand the blossoming of a lifelong friendship or even a fleeting friendship. Why does friendship have to come into it at all? You're the barrista. I need my coffee. Why do you have to interrupt my musings about the weird nature of small talk by asking me about what I did on the weekend? What is it to you what I did on the weekend? I just did stuff. But I can't say, “I just did stuff.” I have to stand there watching you make my coffee and think about the stuff I did. I have to go through it all in the time it takes to froth a jug of milk and pick out the highlights. Then I have to select the highlights that are socially acceptable (because maybe I got up to some really interesting stuff that's NSFW) and that are easy to explain in the time we have left that it takes to make a cup of coffee. I scramble. I say that I had a quiet one, what about you? Yeah same, nice and relaxing, it was good.

However, It's a big mistake to be so dismissive of small talk, according to the internet, because loads of brainy types have spent a lot of time studying the concept of small talk and have deemed it A Very Important Social Skill.

Which means I'm fucked. Like Rolf (real or imagined), I just don't do small talk. It's not my thing. I mean I do try. Working with my nomadic-minded small talk master, I have listened and observed and have seen the rewards... the rewards being a fair exchange of small talk. I have tried.

Them: Hello.
Me: Hello.
(Long easy silence which stretches and bends into a slightly awkward silence, because they are expecting actual small talk while I am trying to amuse myself with the comic potential of this ridiculous small talk thing people are so obsessed with).
Them: How are you?
Me: I'm good. Want to hear a good story about exploding dogs and the end of the world?
Them: Erm...
Me: Sorry. No. Erm...
Them: Erm...
Me: Erm...
Them: Are you okay? You like you're in pain.
Me: No it's okay. I'm just trying to think...
Them: Trying to think? What are you trying to think of?
Me: Something...
Them: Something?
Me: Something to say. Something to say that might, you know, be an appropriate thing to say in a moment like this.
Them: Ah. I see.
Me: Yes. Erm...
Them: Erm...

So don't take it personally when I don't small talk with you. I just totally suck at it.

Grumpy With Friends

Well as it turns out, 2013 has gotten off to a pretty weird-arsed start. I've realised that the quiet, outsider me is still very much there. All that's happened is over time I've managed to find (they have found me) some really good people who I'm relaxed with and that brings out the confident version of me. I've been reminded that there are emotionally retarded, irrational people out there and that they can make things unpleasant simply because they view the world in a very self-centred way. My friends, my good friends, are generous, caring, intelligent people. I love them dearly and have new-found appreciation of them. I miss them and look forward to seeing them again. (My Nadia and my Cuff buddy are visiting for Maitreya in a few weeks... bring it on).

I recently said to one friend, fuck humans, I'm going back to being a recluse. Typical of the things I used to say. She said the things that a true friend would say, and of course I was only half joking. I am genuinely not very interested in making new friends... in fact that's probably always been the case; I have always felt my friends have found me because I don't go looking.

Having said that, out at a day party in the park yesterday, The Dreaded One and I lay out our plush red blanket and settled in for a day of just us with other people who knew each other. We're pretty good at spending loads of time together so all was cool. But someone came over and said hello, gave us a hug, brought her things over to sit with us. Clearly we had met before but I was rusty. It was one of those situations where you've forgotten details and it's obvious and these days I don't bother with tricks, I just asked what her name was and soon we were talking. Confident me made a reappearance and she was laughing and telling us we had really good stories. She seemed genuine and funny and spoke only of positive things about other people. I admire and respect that in a person. A friend of hers joined us, then more friends and soon there was quite a group of us. And they were all cool and funny and interesting. The music was pumping, I danced, people on the dancefloor talked to me and there was no nonsense. This was what life was about. Joy. Kindness. Laughter. Meeting good people. Music. Dancing.

Which brings me to my new project. As I haven't told you, Tsunami mag/website has folded and my Grumpy column is no more. It must be approaching 10 years now so it's not been a bad run. Gutted, yes, I was; I'll fess up here and say that many times, writing that column brought me out of really dark moods, possibly actual depression. And for so long I got to tell people that I have my own humour column, which was good for my self esteem. No more. But I think of that little saying, don't be sad that it's over, be glad that it happened. It was a fun ride. And I do need to compile The Book Of Grumpy.

Meantime, I'm doing something called Grumpy With Friends. I woke up last Sunday with the thought that fuck me I know a lot of creative people. I'm lucky enough to interview people like Nick Ravenswood and Imogen Kelly (as well as all the really famous people I've done over the years - put interview into the search box if you're interested), but I personally know some really good DJs, music producers, actors, writers, globe trotting hair dressers, film makers, pixies, fashion designers... why don't I interview them? They have equally interesting stories to tell as the ones with higher profiles.

So that's what I'm going to do. It's just for this blog and it's just for fun, but they get to tell their stories, I get to do what I enjoy so much (engage with these creative types) and hopefully it will make for some good reading. It makes me happy to do this kind of thing. The response, when I put it out there, was pretty solid, and I think once the ball gets rolling, others will be interested.

Grumpy With Friends, it's going to be fun.

It's a Dream, You Idiot

Grumpy - It's a Dream, You Idiot.

Last night I had a dream. I was hanging out with an old friend. Not old in age – she's younger than I am, but we've been friends for a long time. We're buddies. Mates. We do the kind of things buddies and mates do together. We phone each other up when we feel like a bit of a chat. Sometimes we go to the movies or out for drinks and talk shit. You know the kind of person. We all have them. They're easy to hang out with. They've known you for long enough that they've decided that your foibles are worth putting up with because you're a good egg. And you think they're a pretty good egg too. (Is that a thing? 'Good egg'? Do people say that or have I just made it up? It sounds like a thing. Must look it up...)

I don't recall exactly what my friend and I were doing in the dream, but I was quite shocked when she started rubbing herself suggestively against me. It was just not something I ever expected her to do... I'm going to have to give her a name, but not a girl's name in case I give her identity away or give someone else the wrong idea that it was them... let's call her Egg.

“Egg! What in the hell do you think you're doing?”

“I'm feeling you up, Grumpy. Feels nice, huh? You wanna fool around?”

I moved away. “No. We can't fool around. It's us. We're mates.”

“Mates can fool around. C'mon. Haven't you ever thought about us doing it? I have.”

Her arms were like tentacles, all over me. It was insane. What the hell did she think she was doing? There had absolutely never been any indication that this kind of thing was going to happen. Ever. We've been really, really drunk together and been on benders but had never done anything remotely resembling what was going on here. This was really shocking. What was she thinking?

“Come on Egg. Stop it. This is ridiculous. Stop it. Stop it! Get off me!”

“Stop being silly, Grumpy. It's not ridiculous – it's sexy. Here, give me your hand and -”

She totally made me feel her breasts, and although not altogether unpleasant it was just so utterly, utterly wrong. We're both in relationships... what was The Dreaded One going to say when she found out that Egg made me touch her on the boobs?

I realised with a kind of horror that it was more like Egg was feeling my hands with her breasts, and I was kind of paralysed, just unable to move properly away. Not only that but Egg was really getting into it.

It was the most awful thing ever. We were going to get into so much trouble if anyone found out... and yet... nice boobies...

“NononononononononononononostopitEggstopitatonceverybadthingswillhappen... your arse feels really nice, btw...”

“Mmm... mmmmmmm... touch me here, Grrrrrumpy. Ooh yeah, that feels so hot...”

“Seriously, no. This is so wrong. If The Dreaded -”

I was cut of by what can only be described as a voice-over. A very commanding voice came over a kind of dream PA system and said, “It's a dream, you idiot.”

I looked around in confusion. “What?”

“I said it's a dream, you idiot. Just go for it.”

I thought for a moment. The voice, which sounded quite a lot like my voice, was making a very good point. This was a dream. This wasn't really Egg, it was dream Egg. And this wasn't real me, it was dream me. And this wasn't real sex, it was drea-

Suddenly Batman was bitch-slapping Robbin and saying, “We fucking get it!”

And then Grumpy and Egg... that is, dream Grumpy and dream Egg were totally getting it on. And it was hot. Egg was sensational. And I'm happy to say that I was really, really good.

“See?” Egg said afterwards. “How fun was that? We should totally do it again sometime. We could do it every night... every night... night... night...”

Then I woke up and felt very odd. Such a vivid dream. Egg and I... we did it. And it was really good. And perfectly okay because we can't help what happens in our dreams, right? And there would be no repercussions. Not even if we did it every night.

I trudged upstairs and flicked the lappy on, thinking that the voice-over bit was pretty damned funny. I had to share this with Facebook.

And suddenly there were repercussions.

The Dreaded One was not impressed. “It's a bit creepy, isn't it?”

“Creepy?” I repeated, hurt. “It's funny. Hehe... the voice-over saying it's a dream, you idiot.”

“But what's it going to be like when you see Egg – and I don't want to know who Egg is, by the way. All the girls are going to want to know who it is and...”

I palmed the air. “All right. All right. I'll delete it. It's good material but I won't use it on Facebook.”

“Good. Very sensible of you.”

“I'm a very sensible man. We'll just keep this between you and me.”

Grumpy is freelance writer and dream lover Lee Bemrose (leebemrose666@gmail.com)

Some Things That I Have Done That Are Not An Accurate Reflection Of My Character

GRUMPY OUT OF CHARACTER

On the weekend, at a crowded street festival, I did yet another thing completely out of character. A guy was walking along just in front of me. He briefly looked at his little son walking just behind, and put out his hand in a clear indication that he expected the little boy to take his hand. He looked up and ahead again and did not see that the boy was still walking along but had not seen his father's hand. He was interested in other things. So I put my own hand out and this complete stranger and I walked along holding hands.

We made it a lot further along without the guy realising than I thought we would. Somewhere between 30 seconds and a minute, the guy actually gently squeezed my hand, a sign of fatherly affection. What was going on here? Did the little boy have exceptionally large hands? Were mine much smaller and child-like than I realised.

Needless to say that by the time the guy turned to look at where his son's face should be, then quickly up an my own face, I was just about pissing myself with silent laughter. Making eye contact, I lost my shit entirely.

“I don't believe you actually did that,” The Dreaded One told me in what would normally be admonishment but this time was a kind of dumbfounded amusement.

Completely out of character, and yet somehow strangely familiar.

Like the time at the self-checkout at the supermarket when we'd finished scanning all the things with barcodes and I grabbed a potato and tried to scan it. Again and again, with more frustration each time. I looked over my shoulder at the helper and shrugged and made a face, like what's the deal with this potato? Is it broken or something?

“Please don't make him come over,” The Dreaded One said, eyes closed, slight shake of the head.

“Awesome,” I replied. “He's coming over."

In pure Apu from The Quickie Mart, the man asked, “Excuse me sir but is there a problem?”

Somehow, I dead-panned it. Still scanning the potato I told him, “This potato. It won't scan. Everything else went through fine but the potato? Not happening.”

Swipe. Swipe. Swipe. "See? Nothing."

“Sir, it is not necessary or indeed possible to scan the potato. With the potato, you simply...”

He explained the procedure for dealing with potatoes in a very professional manner which carried just the hint of amusement, like he knew damn well he was dealing with a smart-arse rather than a moron. I was barely holding it together. The Dreaded One was smirking and shaking her head silently. A couple at the next register was giggling.

Again, so out of character.

Like the time my publisher boss asked me (an editor at the time) to join him in a meeting with the designers. One the way to the meeting, he got called to the phone. In the meeting room were the designers with the only available chair being the one at the head of the table with my boss' things spread out. I paused, then sat down in this chair. The meeting hadn't really stopped, it just carried along sounding very meetingy.

When my boss entered the room I remember thinking that a normal person would apologise, stand up and give their boss their chair back. But suddenly I wanted to see what would happen if I just ignored the guy. I stayed seated, resisting the urge to fiddle idly with his things, but considering it. The meeting kept rolling along. My boss cleared his throat, hovered for a bit, then left the room. I imagine he told others what had happened and how he just didn't understand why I would do such a thing. I can also imagine what their reaction would have been.

Again, it's just not the kind of thing I do.

Or the time I scored the DJ spot for me and The Dreaded One, long before we had a clue about mixing. At a party, as a joke, a friend told a promoter on the lookout for new DJ names that we could DJ. The promoter approached us.

“Someone told me you guys can mix.”

“We are awesome mixers,” I replied with confidence.

“Really? That is what I heard.”

“Love mixing. Nothing like it. It's my favourite thing, mixing.” I cocked my head to the side so that my right ear was resting on my right shoulder, then I did a really tight mix on my air decks.

The Dreaded One was looking at me like she didn't know who I was.

“Would you like to play at my next party?”

“That would be fantastic. We'd love to.”

“So I should book it in then?”

“Book us in. Thank you. Thank you so much.

As the promoter walked away, the Dreaded One looked at me and said, “What did you just get us into?”

What I got us into was a very steep learning curve, and a pretty satisfying first DJ gig.

But yet again, this simply is not the kind of thing someone like me does. Just ask me – I should know.

Grumpy is freelance writer Lee Bemrose (leebemrose666@gmail.com). He is a man of characters.

Grumpy & The Num Num Plumber

GRUMPY NUM NUM

The Dreaded One and I have moved into our new home after two months of travel and one month of couch surfing. It's wonderful to be surrounded by our things again. After doing our condition report on the state of the apartment, we booked a plumber to come in and sort out a couple of problems with two taps.

The Dreaded One took the call from the plumber. He asked when we could be home to meet him. I said I could be home at 3pm any day of the week. He said the traffic is too bad at that time of the day and that he could only make it at 10 o'clock, just for a quick inspection to find out what parts would be need to fix the problems.

“AM or PM?” The Dreaded One asked. It was PM. Not ideal... in fact pretty damned odd, in hindsight, but if that's what it took to get the job done, so be it.

10 O'clock the following night, the intercom buzzes. A little guy who sounds very much like the Peter Sellers character in The Party (birdie num-num) asks if The Dreaded One is here. “No she isn't,” I reply and wait for him to introduce himself.

And this is where the relationship goes into its downward spiral.

Peter Sellers clears his throat and announces with a grand flourish in his tone, “I am here to inspect the building.”

I stare at the image of the guy on the little screen. He doesn't look like he's getting into the bemused silence I'm sending to him.

“You're what?” I finally say.

“I am here to inspect the building,” he num nums grandly again.

No introduction. No mention of which company he is from. Suddenly I do not like him one little bit.

“You mean you are here to look at the taps.”

“Yes, that is correct, num num.”

I buzz him in. When I open the door to my apartment, he marches right on in, straight past the first bathroom towards the living area, a man with purpose.

“Excuse me – where do you think you are going?”

“Where is the birdie num num bathroom?”

“It's here. You just walked right past it.”

The tap has a rod that you pull out to switch the water flow from the bathtub to the shower, with the problem being that the pressure has to be permanently high or the water cuts from the shower back to the tap, thus wasting too much water. Peter Sellers does not seem to need to bother himself with such details. He drops to his knees, turns the tap on high and tugs at the switch. Water gushes first from the tap, then from the shower, then from the tap, then from the shower. The man is pretty wet pretty quickly. I fold my arms and shake my head as I watch.

“Erm...” he says eventually. “Can you please show me how to operate this device.?”

“You must be joking. You don't know how to work the tap? I'm absolutely not going to show a plumber how to turn a tap on.”

“But I just need you to tell me how the device is -”

“What kind of plumber doesn't know -”

“But I am not the birdie num num plumber. I am just a contractor, and if you would be so kind as to show me how to operate the device...”

“It just gets better and better... if you can't even figure out how to work the tap, how are you going to tell the plumber what the problem is?”

A drop of water quivers on the end of his nose as he num nums a bit more, but I silence him and tell him to come through to the kitchen to look at the other tap. This one simply wobbles about when you turn it on and off. My hopes are not high.

Again, Peter Sellers looks like such minor details are insignificant trivia best to be avoided. He grips the tap like he's choking a spitting cobra that is about to attack him. I have no idea what he hopes to achieve.

“It moves back and forth,” he informs me.

“Yes. It moves back and forth. It is not supposed to move back and forth.”

“Are you quite sure it is not supposed to move back and forth?”

I take him into the second bathroom adjacent to the kitchen where the taps are the same design. “These are the same taps. They do not move back and forth.”

He lunges for the spout with both hands and with some effort forces the tap from side to side.

“But it moves back and forth if you do this.”

“Why would you do that? Why would you think... why do you... why... why... I think you'd better go now. I'm getting reeeally cranky and I don't like getting cranky this late at night.”

On the way past the first bathroom he num nums up again, telling me that in his considered opinion the entire tap unit needs to be replaced because he believes the problem is with the washer, yes indeed it is the washer. I slam the door behind him.

I still have a pressure problem and a tap that moves back and forth.

And no idea when Num Numpty The Plumber is going to return.

Grumpy is freelance writer Lee Bemrose (leebemrose666@gmail.com). If you don't know what all this birdie num num stuff was about, hire a copy of Peter Sellers' classic comedy The Party. It's funnier than a plumber who can't turn a tap on.

Nude Grumpy

New Grumpy column up on Tsunami Mag (in case you missed it). It contains nudity, which might be why The Big Issue said it was not suitable for them. Or maybe it's just not funny. I think it's funny. I didn't think it was funny at the time (yes, it's a true story, like all of my Grumpies)... okay, I thought it was a little bit funny at the time. In a caught-with-your-pants-completely-off kind of way. It was squirmy funny. It was oh-fuck-this-is-so-not-funny funny. It was funny-if-it-happened-to-someone-else funny.

But still not appropriate for The Big Issue. I think that mag wants funny but with something a little heart-warming or life-affirming at its core, which is good because I like that stuff. So it's back to the drawing board.

Cue thinking music...

(Am in a much better frame of mind when I posted this link a couple of posts ago. Things are turning).

Grumpy On The Amalfi Coast

Hmm. Not sure what happened but this column went missing in action. It was supposed to be up on the mag's website weeks ago. I was just tweaking my resume to send it off and suddenly remembered I had written this but not seen it. Funny little brain with its random way of thinking. Anyway, better late than never. Enjoy. I'm back to rubbing my face in the fact that I have not had a very sensible work life, and that it's nearly impossible to get any paid work as a writer. Oh joy.


GRUMPY

With the magic of the internet it is possible to keep working while you are travelling. I go a bit stir crazy if I don’t write for a few days, so it’s brilliant to be able to sit here like I am now on my hotel balcony with a view of Mount Vesuvius across the Bay of Napoli and write this column. That's not what the photo is; that's me on the Amalfi Coast.

Last week, however, I got an email invitation to attend a theatre opening night for review. Unfortunately, the opening night was in Australia. My reply to the invitation was “I would love to come along but unfortunately (wrong word entirely) I am on the Amalfi Coast.”

I just fired it off without thinking. Then I sat back and said it out loud. How often in my life, I wondered, am I going to get the chance to say that? I can’t make it because I am on the Amalfi Coast. Possibly never again. Hmm.

I logged into Facebook where a few invitations to club nights were left idle. I had intended to just ignore them but decided to post replies now. “Sounds like a great night but I won’t be able to make it because I am on the Amalfi Coast.”

A friend was having a birthday drinks get together so I told them that I would love to come but I am on the Amalfi Coast.

Another friend was online, so I started a conversation.

“Hello.”

“Hello, Grumpy. How’s the trip going?”

“Good, good. What are you up to this weekend?”

“Not much. Having the gang over for dinner tomorrow night, other than that, having a quiet one.”

“Dinner? That sounds lovely. You know, I’d love to join you but I’m on the Amalfi Coast.”

My friend went quiet for a while, so I said, “The Italian one.”

“What?”

“The one in Italy.”

“Sorry - got a few conversations going. The Italian what?”

“The Italian Amalfi Coast. I’m on it, and that’s why I can’t make it to dinner tomorrow night.”

“I didn’t invite you because I know you’re away. Been following your adventures on FB. Why are you banging on about the Amalfi Coast?”

“Because I’m on the Amalfi Coast.”

The friend must have had a bad connection because they dropped out shortly after that.

I emailed friends at random to announce that if they had any parties/marriages/anniversaries/funerals etc, I couldn’t make it because I’m on the Amalfi Coast.

I wondered if I shouldn’t have been doing this two weeks ago when I was in Santorini.

“I can’t make it because I am in Santorini,” I said out loud.

The Dreaded One looked up from her book. “What did you just say?”

“I said I can’t make it because I’m in Santorini.”

“Why did you say you can’t make it because you’re in Santorini?”

“Because I wondered if it sounded better than I can’t make it because I’m on the Amalfi Coast.”

“What are you actually doing? I thought you were supposed to be writing your Grumpy column.”

“I am. Kind of. I just need to tell one or two people that I can’t make it to one or two things because I’m on the Amalfi Coast. It would be rude to simply not respond to an invitation.”

The Dreaded One’s gaze lingered for several long moments, as though she suspected me of being up to something rating extremely highly on The Stupidometer.

I got back to work. I got in touch with long lost relatives, old school friends, even one or two friends I’d had fallings out with, just to say we should forgive and forget and we should catch up for drinks sometime soon - just not right now because I’m on the Amalfi Coast.

Finally done, when I didn’t think there was another living soul who needed to know that I couldn’t make it because I’m on the Amalfi Coast, I decided to indulge in a long, lathery shave before getting ready to go out for dinner. I was feeling pretty good about this Amalfi Coast business. I felt like a pretty smooth mofo. Yeah baby, can’t make it to the thing because I’m on the Amalfi Coast.

Then I reached for the bidet towel to dry my face.

Oh yeah, I’m one smooth mofo.

Grumpy is freelance writer and smooth mofo Lee Bemrose (leebemrose666@gmail.com). If he can’t make it to your thing, it’s probably because he’s on the Amalfi Coast.

Postcard From Atrani, Amalfi Coast, Italy

Getting a bit behind here, but we're actually on the Amalfi Coast, Italy. Specifically a little town called Atrani. Since the last post we've been to Corfu and Naples, or Napoli. The shot above is one of our Group Shot series, this one being Group Shot With Mt Vesuvius. We're in Pompeii in the pic, which was pretty damned amazing. Napoli was less amazing, but unfortunately we have to go back there for at least a day to fly out to Madrid next week... not the least because The Dreaded One left her phone there.

There is so much to write about that I feel I'm drowning in unwritten... erm... writing. I want to write reviews of hotels and restaurants we've been to - this hotel we're in now, Hotel L'Argine Fiorito is going to be such a fun review... they have the weirdest rules and are quite Nazi about them... and it was a fucker to get to. Wasn't a good feeling finally making it here to find no fridge, The Dreaded One had left her phone and the adaptor for the lappy in Napoli (say that three times quickly) and there appeared to be no internet connection anyway. All good though. Bought an adaptor, we can have a fridge for a small fee and the internet connection is fine if we move the desk and chair out onto the balcony... it's actually pretty damned nice writing out here beneath these massive cliffs with a stunning view and to the sound of birdsong, church bells and waterfall. Pictures of the Amalfi Coast will no doubt be posted when we're in Madrid, or maybe towards the end of our week on the coast. It's a bit stunning here.

Today is a designated Lazy Day. It really was a trek getting here. So many people, the usual language problems, a bus ride on the edge of a cliff, cab drivers who are clueless about the true delicate art of ripping off tourists... God, so many details that I'm worried that I'm going to forget, and I have Grumpy columns to write. Think we're going to visit a very cool looking grotto today then laze on the beach, and I'm going to make loads of notes, reminders for when I have time to write properly. We've also got some serious walking to do (it's famous for its walking tracks here), a day trip to The Isle Of Capri, and of course some serious lunching.

For photos of Corfu, click here. 

For photos of Naples and Pompeii, click here.  (And make sure you click on the first photo and use the arrows to go through the photos because I've captioned most of them and you might get a smile out of some of them).There are more of Pompeii than Naples because Naples didn't really inspire us. Kind of cool in that any big city is kind of cool, but it felt quiet on the weekend for such a big city, and it's possible that we just didn't find the cool bits, no matter how lost we got or how much we walked. We even went to the most legendary pizzeria in Napoli - Da Michelle, and quite frankly it was disappointing. It's really old and Julia Roberts ate there (it might have been written about in Eat, Prey, Love), but the pizza was okay, the experience ordinary. Massive queue to get in - well over an hour - two choices of pizza, beer only and not bottles of wine because they want you out of there as soon as possible to herd fresh cattle in. Anyway, ticked off the list, will write a detailed review for Tripadvisor as soon as I can.

For now, got to get out there in the amazing Amalfi sunshine. The town of Amalfi itself is a 15 or 20 minute walk along the coast, so going to head in and see about Grotta dello Smeraldo, or The Emerald Grotto.

Hopefully later I can come back and do links to these places. Just don't got no time.

Update - here are the first batch of photos from the Amalfi Coast. Capri tomorrow, I'm sure there will be more photos.