Specks In This Cosmic Storm Of Chance

This is us, New Year's Day 2018. The Dreaded One and me, we made it through a struggle of a year. I don't really know how I made it. The urge for non-existence was strong early in the year. That urge never really leaves. It has always been part of me. It gets close, and it fades away.

But the survivor in me has never given into that urge. Partly because I know moments like this are possible in the future. Grumpy and The Dreaded One, they seem to be making each other happy again. When we're good, we totally fucking rock. After all this time, we still make each other laugh, and we still hold hands.  Humans and that freakish chance encounter thing... The Dreaded One was born three days after me in San Francisco. I was born three days before her in Sydney. What are the chances of us bumping into each other years later? What are the chances of us liking each other enough to eventually love each other for all these years? We're all just specks in a cosmic storm of chance.

And Marciano on my right in this picture is a perfect demonstration. She wrote the perfect job application for the position of working with me in the cafe. Perfect because it spoke to me. As with a previous co-worker, April, I kind of knew from those words on the page that something was there. Some beautiful connection. I was right both times. Both have become treasured friends.

Today was Marciano's last day. I have enjoyed every minute of her company.  We share a gentle, quirky sense of humour. We have made each other happy. We have hugged a couple of times a day, but today's last hug was a long and tight one, and I don't mind telling you that when she said into my shoulder, "Lee... my big brother"... well I might have teared up a bit.

What are the chances? What are the chances that a person born in Uruguay 25 years before a person born in Sydney will bump into each other in Melbourne one day and share such a silly sense of humour and become such close friends? What are the chances, in this cosmic storm of chance?

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."

Please Forgive Me

Today walking along Smith Street... I love this song. It's one of my favourite songs ever. And the video clip... so fucking beautiful. Today walking along Smith Street, this song started playing from some unknown place. I smiled, because I love this song so much. La laa laaa, please forgive me, I never meant to hurt yoooo... la la la laaa

I vaguely wondered where the music was coming from until it eventually stopped. Then I remembered that I like this song so much that it's my ring tone. The Dreaded One had been trying to phone me.

This is not the first time this has happened

Legs Eleven At Adelaide Airport

At Adelaide airport the other day, I was buying a pint for myself and a gin & tonic for The Dreaded One.

At a random point during the preparation of the drinks, the barman looks at me and says, "Legs Eleven?"

He may as well have slapped me with a wet fish, because wut? The fuck is legs eleven all about? Have I wandered into a game of bar bingo? Is this some new bar jargony thing that I don't know about? If so, how did I get out of the loop so drastically and so quickly? Even more baffling because bars are basically my second home.

This barman and me, we stare at each other with impressive blankness for an unfeasibly long time. I can think of absolutely nothing to say in response. Is it a joke I'm not getting? If it was a joke surely he'd be showing some sign that it was a joke... raised eyebrow... wry smirk... a nod or a wink... but he's giving me nothing.

Finally, after a long, long, long, long time of nothing, the barman ends this stalemate of stupid by using a pair of little tongs to pick up a wedge of lemon and putting it in The Dreaded One's gin & tonic.

The Thousand Year Laugh

I feel like I've heard that laugh
for a thousand years.
Never tired of it,
I want to hear it
For another thousand years.

Lols In Grumpy & The Dreaded One's Little Cafe Of Awesome

I get mixed reactions when people read my old Grumpy columns in the cafe... and yes I usually disecreetly watch when I see that someone has flipped to the back of the menu and is reading. Sometimes there's just a kind of blankness about the reader, which makes me want to not be there because apparently they think whoever wrote this dribble must be an idiot. The most common reaction is smirking with an occasional chuckle. Sometimes couples will read together, and when The Dreaded One Takes their meals out, they whisper to each other and nod in her direction - that must be The Dreaded One. The other day a guy smirked his way through one column, then when he came over to the counter to pay his bill he grinned a bit more and said "Cheers, Grumpy, I'd like to pay my bill."

Recently, however, I had one of the better reactions, a real life lol. I looked over and someone was really enjoying my story about the time I was too busy being on the Amalfi Coast to make it to anything. It made me smile because, well, it was nice.

Turns out the person lolling is a touring UK performer, in town for The Melbourne International Comedy Festival. She and her partner were staying at nearby apartments and they were drawn to the cafe because of the name. Apparently a certain John Fleming had said that she uses the word awesome an awfully lot, and so she was compelled to come in.

I don't know how many other cafe owners on Gertrude Street are also performing arts writers and reviewers, but this one certainly is, so this was all a lovely bit of chance encountering.

Especially as I enjoyed the show very much, my Australian Stage review being here. And I've enjoyed seeing these people in the cafe almost every day that they have been here so far. They are lovely, lovely people.

Here is a link to the story of Juliette Burton discovering Grumpy & The Dreaded One's Little Cafe Of Awesome as it appears on John Fleming's blog. I sincerely hope that by linking to his blog, which is linked to my blog, we haven't damned some poor souls to being sucked into the eternity of a link loop.

When I Grow Up is on at Trades Hall Meeting Room, 54 Victoria Street, Carlton, 7pm daily (not playing Mondays) and 6pm Sundays. Season ends April 20. Bookings at comedyfestival.com.au or on 1 300 660 013

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 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.

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 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.

Grumpy With Travel Luggage

                                                        

The Dreaded One and I are lucky enough to be heading overseas again. We dusted off our luggage recently and while she looked fondly upon her trusty steed, I instinctively lashed out and kicked the living shit out of mine, screaming hateful insults at it.

“Grumpy – what are you doing?”

“Sorry Dreaded One,” I panted from my exertions, wiping sweat and spittle from my face... and giving that son-of-a-bitch suitcase one last, heartfelt kick. “I think it's like when war vets have flashbacks. I just had a flashback.”

“It's a suitcase. You put clothes in it to go travelling. How can you compare that to a war flashback?”

“You weren't there,” I say as I massage the trauma from my forehead... attempt to massage the trauma from my... attempt to ease the trauma inside my head by massaging my forehead. “You didn't see the horror... the horror...”

“You are not Marlon Brando and I was there. You just chose poorly, that's all.”

Her words become echoey and my world goes wavy like some b-grade special effect indicating a shift back in time...in time... time... time...

It all started out pleasantly enough. After The Twisted Back Incident in Turkey, 2006 in which I had hoisted my back-pack onto my shoulders in such a swashbuckling manner and, well, twisted my spine into the source of the universe's most excruciating pain, I decided that I'd try one of those bags-on-wheels. Dragging, surely, must be less painful than hoisting-and-lugging.

My big mistake was in choosing a narrow wheel base model. Everything else about this bag was well made. Solid stitching. Handles made for heaving. Sturdy in every way.

Until you walked for more than 20 steps. Inside the shop when test driving, you could only go five steps. So you didn't get the death wobble effect that kicked in around 15 steps which got worse and worse until the bag keeled over on its side around the 20 step mark. On European streets. Every. Fucking. Time.

In Arles, Southern France, brief home of Van Gogh and his fleeting friend Gaugin. Two of the greatest artists of our times. In one year Van Gogh painted more than 300 paintings, such was the inspiration of this city with its ancient Roman ruins. But what is my burning image of this place? The combination of The Dreaded One's Nav Bitch sending us on a wild goose chase while my suitcase tipped over for the … oh I don't know... the squillionth time?

While bucolic French types with their baguettes tucked under their arm stopped to watch in Gallic bemusement, I lost it. I vented spleen. I raged. Seethingly, I bemoaned that we were not in America, because in God Bless America one of these bemused bystanders would at least be carrying a Smith & Goddamn mother fucking Wesson instead of a loaf of bread, and I could finally end this thing once and for all you Goddamn falling-over piece of shit luggage!

And it shames me to admit that as no Smith & Wesson was forthcoming, yes, I bludgeoned my luggage with a stolen baguette... baguette... baguette...

Echo and wobbly visuals and I was back in the here and now with The Dreaded One. Her with her expensive, well-chosen wheely bag with its wide wheel base and lack of death wobbles.

“So you will choose wisely this time?” she asks as I come back from my journey into the past. Arles... it had been the last in a long string of similar events. She had paid good money upfront. Time and time again I had thought how can you go wrong with cheap stuff made in China? Only to be now regretting the small mountain of discarded shit luggage I had contributed to. Death wobbles. Crap handles that fall apart at the touch. Wheels that fall of if you so much as frown at them. Never will I buy luggage made in China again.

“Yes,” I nod solemnly. “My back pack. Now there's some sturdy luggage.”

“The one that wrecked your back in Turkey? Oh. Oh good.”

Grumpy is Lee Bemrose, freelance writer and luggage basher. If you want him to write something for you he might just put down the baguette and take up his keyboard. He's at leebemrose666@gmail.com

Getting My Geek On

The above is soon to appear in the real world.  Having these cards printed to use for promotional purposes. They should be in my sweaty little hands this week, maybe next week. My friend The Design Assassin has put it all together and I'm pretty happy so far. Especially the QR code, that weird square pattern thing. It's a little bit of Shit That Is Amazing.

Got a smart phone? Download a barcode scanning app, then aim your camera at the square of Shit That Is Amazing and follow the prompts.

QR Codes (Quick Response Codes) are already out there and have been for a few years now, but it's new to me and therefore the newest, coolest thing ever. I love that it was a barcode invented by Toyota for factory purposes, but someone realised that with smart phone technology they would be perfect for marketting.

Shit is amazing.

Two weeks tomorrow and The Dreaded One and I take off. How do I feel about that? A bit strange... but it's strangely familiar. Only eight weeks this time but a lot of ground to cover in that time. Then back to Melbourne with no home and no job. Scary. Reckless. But living. Proper living.

Also, read my interview with Camille, who I happen to think is a gorgeous human.

Can't Wait For The Penguin

I am about to enter the world of self-publishing. I came very close today to publishing 17 Stories Of Love And Crime on Amazon's Kindle, only to find that it's not quite as quick and easy as it sounds if you live in Australia. It was a good day of learning though, and I think the stories will be up during next week. For all the frustration the internet provides, I am still amazed by its seeming magic. It will be fun to put writing/marketing skills to the test. I don't expect to make much money from this little project, I just want it to be fun and will be chuffed if a few strangers buy my book. It will be a good practice run for The Book Of Grumpy. I expect that to make me a bill-io-naire, and I will demand the finest wines known to humanity, and I will want them here, and I will want them now!

The shot above is the one I have chosen for 17 Stories Of Love And Crime (there are actually 19 stories... you get two freebies). It's a photo of Ann reflected in an artwork in a gallery in Prague in 2010.

Oh and I've just updated the cover shot by adding words to the image, something I had no idea how to do an hour ago. Not a bad job for a chump like me. Still, as I was working out how to do it I asked a friend, The Design Assassin, for advice. She has kindly offered to do it for me, so expect a better quality update soon.

Still, not bad.

Fishing

Here is a recent, slightly strange photo of The Dreaded One and me having fun at an outdoor party. Lots and lots of fun. Oh the fun we are having.

I have no idea what is going on in either of our heads at that point in time, but we are clearly very focused on whatever it is we are focused on.

And here is a recent conversation between The DreadedOne and me:

Me: "I'm going to put music on, so unless you want to use your phone it will be my iPod, and I know how much you don't like my music."

The Dreaded One: "I do like it."

Me: "But there will be Nick Cave and Tom Waits and Rowland Howard, and I know how much you don't like them."

The Dreaded One: "I do like them."

Me: "But I will sing along to them, and I know how much you hate my singing."

The Dreaded One: "I don't hate your singing."

Me: "But you don't like my singing."

The Dreaded One: "I do like your singing."

Me: "Yeah...but you don't like my singing a lot...

The Dreaded One gives me The Look.

Grumpy With Compliments

GRUMPY

Grumpy is freelance writer Lee Bemrose (leebemrose666@gmail.com). He likes being in his bubble.

I quite admire those people who always manage to say the right thing at the right time. Small, random compliments can really work some magic. I see peoples faces light up as a friend tells another friend how well they are looking, or how they like a piece of jewellery or they way they are wearing their hair today. I'm no stranger to these little compliments due primarily to the fact that I have some kick-arse clothes. I love my clothes, and I have an uncanny, sub-conscious knack for buying clothes that coordinate perfectly with all my other clothes and accessories. The Dreaded One finds this hilarious. It's like I can't buy stuff that clashes. If I had been born in the rugged wild west, it's a dead certainty that I'd be a dandy. If I was a superhero, I'd be Captain Coordinated. I'd look fabulous. All I'd have to do is walk into the room and the baddies would drop dead with envy because I'm just so impeccably dressed. I've been asked if I'm gay on many an occasion, simply because I'm such a stylish mofo. Given that I am rampantly heterosexual, do I take offence at this? On the contrary, I take it as a compliment. Water of a duck's back. The Dreaded One also finds the are you gay thing hilarious because, well, she knows how absurd the idea is. Queer eye for the straight guy? Pu-lease.

Erm... so anyway. Thing is with dressing well enough to get these compliments, you have to go for a look that isn't like everyone else. Sure, you can look stylish and like everyone else, but Grumpy's Secret To True Sartorial Excellence is to be individual. Avoid brand names. Avoid all the designers labels. Designer labels are for chumps. Don't shop at chain-stores. Look for the unusual. Looking sensationally stylish is like being funny; whatever you do, don't go for the obvious. And always remember...

Sorry. Getting a bit carried away again. What the hell was I getting at? Oh yeah... so I've got some pretty cool clothes and I sometimes get complimented on them. And it's nice. I have an AD 2013 jacket (this is a label worth checking out because no one in Australia knows about it and they make drop-dead cool stuff) that routinely has me stopped in the street with strangers saying “Oh my God that jacket is awesome!” And I shrug and say, “I know!” And then they usually ask if I'm gay.

Thing is, I admire people who compliment other people. It shows that they are being aware and it's just a bloody nice thing to do. It just doesn't seem to be in my natural make up to think to compliment other people. It's the bubble thing; I'm usually in a bubble, thinking about, I don't know – being a dandy in the wild west or something.

So I decided to make an effort and start complimenting people. As well as being a well-dressed mofo I was going to start being a really nice mofo.

At a trendy bar where everyone (except The Dreaded One and myself) looked fashionably identical, I was introduced to one of The Dreaded One's friend, and I really, genuinely admired her look. It indicated true confidence and true individualism. I was about to pay my first unprompted compliment.

“You know – it's really refreshing to meet someone who clearly doesn't care about their appearance.”

It was as though the world stopped.

“What do you mean?” The Dreaded One's friend asked.

The Dreaded One was looking at me with a familiar expression; don't say anything else, she was telling me with her eyebrows.

“I just mean,” I explained, “take your hair for instance. It's just so... bleh, and you're cool with that. I really admire... why has absolutely everyone in the bar stopped talking?”

I retreated back into my bubble. It's much safer in there.

An Interview With The Beards

I'm doing the occasional music/arts feature again and I do still enjoy it. I even had to interview electro Jam Xpress the other day and although not at all into their music or the scene where you'll hear their music played, I enjoyed the struggle of coming up with relaxed, intelligent questions that received relaxed, intelligent answers. With Jam XpressI did feel I had stepped through a hole in time and was back at my 3D World editor desk because researching music acts and DJs I didn't know about was something I did all the time... and the tone of promotional copy hasn't changed a bit in all that time. Everything is "a dancefloor stormer" and the artists have been "tearing it up across the country" etc etc. So cheesy.

But it's fun, especially when my editor is on my wavelength and lets me inject silly into the stories. It's like writing for my editor back at Drum who loved my stuff because she never knew where I was going to come from with a story. Ones like this. Fun stuff. And my current editor is pretty much the same.

If I could make a living from doing this stuff (and my Grumpy column), I would do it.

Long weekend now. The Dreaded One is champing at the bit to party today, we are partying tomorrow night (pirate party - woo!), that it's a long weekend means any form of recovery party is going to take place, and the Jam Xpress story and a Grumpy column are due on Tusday. And there may be another, unexpected writing project underway. Hmm. My Hunter S. Thompson style of partying does get me into trouble sometimes. Must be strong.

Meanwhile, have just opened a bottle of white. Cheers.

Oh and amusement... had this conversation with The Dreaded One Last night:

Me: You know before you said it's not always all about me?

Dreaded One: Yeah.

Me: What fantasy world are you living in?

Happy Birthday To Grumpy

My most recent Grumpy columnsoon to grace the pages of Tsunami. Had a bloody nice dinner with friends at Spice Temple, then went and partied and had some very big laughs. Not sure why I wrote this in the third person, just came out that way. Read. Enjoy. My lovely editor did. She also "adored" my piece on local band The Beards (also out soon). She lets me indulge in a very casual style, which seems to make for fun reading (certainly fun writing). I adore my Ed.


GRUMPY

Grumpy is freelance writer Lee Bemrose (leebemrose666@gmail.com) He had a nice birthday recently.



Grumpy doesn't like birthdays. He doesn't mind other people's birthday parties, he just doesn't like his own very much. Something probably happened to him on his birthday when he was Little Grumpy that made him sad.

But some friends made plans to have dinner on his and The Dreaded One's birthday on the weekend. He thought this would be nice. There was also a club night he wanted to go to on that night but Grumpy and The Dreaded One thought they probably couldn't afford to go. Sigh.

But then just before the weekend, Grumpy got home from work and The Dreaded One told him she had won a competition she hadn't even entered – two tickets to the clubnight plus accommodation in a 4 star hotel. The club was in the hotel complex, and there was a spa in their room, and there was a rooftop pool – right on top of the roof.

Dinner was very very nice, but Grumpy was very keen to get back to the hotel and crack into a massive night of partying. Grumpy likes hotels. He also likes massive nights of partying.

The hotel was excellent. The club was excellent. Grumpy has largely gone off clubs in favour of outdoor dance festivals, but sometimes clubnights work. This was one such night. Oh the fun Grumpy and The Dreaded One and all their friends had.

At one point, someone gave Grumpy & Co a birthday treat, and 10 minutes after having their birthday treats, the music stopped - the club was closing much earlier than they expected because it was in a hotel. Uh-oh.

Disappointed, the friends went back to their hotel room where suddenly they found millions and millions and millions of things to talk about. They laughed a lot and liked each other lots more than usual.

At dawn they went to the roof-top swimming pool, which was pretty cool. They had morning drinks as the sun came up, and soon the day was bright and fresh. And soon after that, Normal People came up to work out in the gym. The gym looked out onto the roof-top pool from behind big glass windows, and while Grumpy and his friends blobbed about in giggling heaps, The Normal People pedalled and ran and rowed and did funny things on a big steppy pully up-down thing. The Normal People were much funnier than they realised.

Soon some of Grumpy's friends decided to show The Normal People how funny they were. They went down to the big windows, stared right at The Normal People, and started pedalling and running and rowing and doing funny things on imaginary big steppy pully up down things. It was the funniest thing Grumpy and the rest of the party people had ever seen.

Then the funny friends became angry drill masters, shouting through the glass at The Normal People who were just not putting enough effort into it. “Pedal harder!” they shouted. “Run faster! Row harder! Go more crazy on that steppy pully up-down thing!”

One of the friends even ran on the spot in front of the treadmill-running person, looking over his shoulder in fright as though he was being chased by the running Normal Person.

It was around this time that Grumpy remembered that the theme of the night had been Aztec; half of the very loose people by the rooftop pool who were falling about laughing were dressed as Aztec warriors in leathers and feathers and runny make-up. The rest were just regular doofer types, dressed in leathers and feathers and fluff. What must The Normal People have thought?

Grumpy was pretty sure it was one of the better birthdays he'd had. If every birthday could be this surprising and this silly, he might celebrate them more often.

Grumpy With The Internet

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.