The Cyber Dreaded One

Holy crappola. Check out The Dreaded One's new dreads. She has cyber-dreads. The cyber ones are like little tiny Slinkies, and some are highly UV reactive. We were in the theatre the other night and in one scene the lights went all UV to reveal some writing on the wall, and The Dreaded One's hair just kinda went whoomph and lit up in the dark like it had been plugged in. Pretty damn funny.

Unlike the play. Here's my Drum Media review:

The Future Planners

Weird one. Wanted to like it, concept was kinda cool, but for me it just didn’t work. Guess I’ve just blown any reason you might have for wanting to read on. But just in case you’re interested, here’s this...

Plot: Bonnie has had apocalyptic visions and has chosen Greg to cohabit her post-apocalyptic bunker. They eat tinned peaches and play games and remember the past. Greg isn’t all that happy about the situation and eventually leaves.

Sounds straightforward enough and there’s a universe of possibilities to explore, but it just didn’t have that secret ingredient that pulled it all together. Granted, in the end we’re not entirely sure if the whole thing is real or imagined, but along the way it all seemed a little contrived and it’s difficult to pinpoint just why this is.

The acting was not overly engaging. It rarely escaped me that I was watching actors performing on stage. Clearly they have trained but seem yet to relax and really flesh out their characters and really be in the moment, to use a dicky phrase. They are not awful, they just didn’t seem to fit as snugly into their characters as they should have. Part of the problem here could be that writer/director/ star Stephanie Ward should perhaps think about relinquishing some control. It’s a bloody ambitious project to write, direct and star in your own work, and you’ve got to be some kind of genius or split personality to pull it off.

But the acting wasn’t the only problem. The writing itself didn’t feel quite there. Again there was a sense of This Is Theatre. It felt a little self-conscious and had far too many attempts at humour that just fell flat. The characters play games to pass the time away and I wasn’t the only one who cringed when Bonnie lost the vowel game and had to do The Thing. Just. Not. Funny.

It’s a story about obsessive love, it’s two people in a room; those two ingredients are all that is required for great theatre, and although this is not great, it’s not so bad that I wouldn’t happily choose it over a night in front of the telly.

Q

Just Give Us The Information

I think I have a problem with focusing on the task at hand. I was in the process of trying to post a flier promo image on the shop's website tonight when I came across this photo.

Hands up who remembers my Owen The Penguin post. Hmm, not many of you. Anyway, there was a shot of a real fluffy penguin that was the cutest image ever, and I got my panties in a bunch because no one was leaving coments, so I threatened to Guantanamo the little fucker unless you left comments. It was all a bit weird because everyone started leaving comments saying I was a sick fuck or go on give it to the little bastard.

Fast forward many many months and I find myself in Brighton. There's a basketball throwing game on the pier where you can win a fluffy penguin bearing an uncanny resemblance to Owen. The Dreaded One and Bird said they didn't think I could win an Owen. As usual they were wrong and walked home with Owen tucked into the back of my purple poncho (shut up - it's Brighton where all the best people wear nothing but purple ponchos and fluffy penguins called Owen).

The oddest thing about this photo is that it is the result of two reasonably intelligent people spending the next two, maybe three hours Guantanamoing little Owen Hicks. Sure, it looks pretty bad for him now, but he was a stubborn little bastard and it took us hours to escalate the torture to this degree. He simply would not give us the information we wanted, which was... all he had to tell us was where the... information was. The information that we wanted. Which was very important information. But noooo. He was all, "But Missah Queeck, I don't have no infahmation. Ahm jus a liddle stuffed penguin wi' stitched up liddle penguin lips."

And Bird - playing bad interrogator - came over all, "CUNT! That's what you are, you little CUNT! Now give us the information before I kick your fuckin' face off and break that other bendy flippery thing... CUNT! By the time I've finished with you you'll have two FINGERS growing out of YOUR arse too!"

And good interrogator Quick said, "Chill, my delightful little minion. We've only just begun. How are your noose-tying skills?"

Right. I'm getting a little too into this. As we did on that day. Millions of photos. Ridiculous.

There really was a professionally-tied noose around Owen's neck by the end of the day. If only he'd given us the information. And if you click on the link at the side that says Remembering Argos, scroll down to the end (read the story if you want) you'll see a picture of me with Pigeon Christ looking over my shoulder, looking a little pissed off while his partner in torment hangs from a wall on the other side of the planet.

Sweet story huh?

Right, back to work.

Confessions Of A Sweaty Perv

I'm in my shop for three days this week. I like being here, as I've said before. I'm getting better at being pleasant and smiley and chatty. By and large the people the store attracts are pretty good people. They like the clothes and they like the music. Party people.

Yesterday, though, I felt like a sweaty perv. Actually, that's a bit harsh. Not a sweaty perv, just a bit pervy. A frustrated perv? Maybe. But there was definitely a slight degree of some sort of perviness at play.

Girl and her friend walked in. Girl was wearing low slung hipsters and had a gorgeous stomach and a near perfect arse. We get lots of good-looking people in here so it was nothing out of the ordinary. I smiled and said hello and she had a really sweet smile too. I said if she needs any help to just let me know, then I left them to it.

I looked up a couple of times and noticed the collection of items she was putting together... she apparently had a fondness for tiny little lycra things. Teeny little shorts and miniscule, sheer tops, and I found myself thinking in a pervy voice, "My god she is going to look so hot in those... can't wait till she comes out to show her friend."

Then I thought my god - does that make me a perv? Am I, in fact, a sweaty perv? I don't want to be a sweaty perv. But surely that thought was the thought of a total degenerate.

In the end, do you think Lycra Girl came out of the changeroom at all? No way. Not once. Each time she tried on another piece of tiny lycra she called her friend over to the changeroom, and the fact that I was disappointed by this just reinforced this whole pervy thing. Especially when I whimprered in a sweaty pervy voice, "But don't you want a guy's opinion?" (Okay, I didn't actually say that, but I thought it, and in my pervy state of mind it seemed like a perfectly reasonable thing to think).

She bought loads of stuff and as she handed it all to me I totally didn't have the urge to bury my face in them, breathe in her warm body scent and go phwoar, so I figured I wasn't such a sweaty perv afterall.

I told The Dreaded One about it and asked if it made me a perv, and she said, "You're a guy. Of course you're a dirty filthy sweaty perv. Complete and utter degenerate. Like, duh."

On Air

Went to the Earthdance launch party on Saturday night after work. Was bloody fun. Caught up with so many doofers, danced my arse off, drank lots of beer. The highlight for me was when I picked up my beer from the ledge on the DJ booth, I caught the eye of the DJ and gave him a thumbs down, pulled a sour face, let him know that the music he was playing sucked arse. The dance floor was rammed and the music was excellent. He totally fell back laughing. Gave one of those clutch the sides, head-tipped back, hearty jobs. It was bloody satisfying. Does it get any better than making someone laugh like that? He's a friend, just not one that I know all that well. Glad he was on the right wavelength.

Ooh - if you live in Australia, pick up a copy of the current issue of Men's Health. Page 96, feature about tattoos by me. It's my second feature for them, both have been outside their regular story types, which is satisfying.

Right. Have to try to put my links back after this silly business with blogger going down.

Off Air

I am having major dramas with this blog. I cannot open the main page. I cannot log onto any other blog that ends in blogspot.com. Fuckers. Other people have had the same problems. I've tried changing the template, fiddling with the feeds, whole bunch of stuff but I I can't get it working. Apparently others can see my blog, I can't. Any other website is fine, blogger homepage is fine, just not blogger's blogs.

Until I can get it sorted, there will be few posts. Might have to give this one away and start a new one somewhere more reliable, which is pooh.

Sorry. Bye for now.

Quick.

"Earthquake In Antarctic, Penguins Affected."

Saw the above headline on MSN. Clicked on it because, you know, it's penguins. The story basically said that the earthquake was so remote and so deep under the Earth's frozen surface that no humans would have felt it. An expert (in remote and deep subterranean earthquakes, I suppose) went on to explain, "It probably just frightened a few penguins."

There should be more headline humour like this in more mainstream media.

Talking Loud, Saying Nothing

Still no time to blog, been spending too much time in my (rather fetching) chef's uniform. Also been spending too much time on buses lately, and what the fuck is wrong with people and their mobile phones on public transport? Buses used to be quiet, meditative places. A little capsule you could sit in, gaze out the window and think about stuff. Or you could pull out a book and indulge in the luxury of a bit of a read. And not just newspapers but fiction. Don't know when reading fiction started being a luxury for me, but it is.

Now you get on a bus and every fucker is talking into their phone, and I've yet to sit in on a conversation that can't wait until said fucker gets the fuck off the bus. Currently I am really getting into Jeff Noon's Vurt, and there is always some oyster brain telling their phone about their job or what they plan to do for the weekend or how funny some movie is... FUCK OFF!

Tomorrow, I rebel. For tomorrow, I read Jeff Noon's Vurt... out loud.

Busy week, but wrote this, for anyone interested in a very good play showing at a cool little theatre in Sydney.

The Hilt

No time to blog. Just wanna say, Paris Hilton has made an album? Fucking hell. What next? I think The Hoff and The Hilt should make babies. I think that would be very funny.

It would also be funny if everyone started calling Paris hilton 'The Hilt' in honour of The Hoff who is an equally silly sleb, but if that happens, remember that you read it here first.

Cold Mashed Potato

I just ate a bowl of cold mashed potato and told myself that it really wasn't a bad as I expected it to be. Ate the whole lot, went yum.

Then I thought to myself, you lazy fucking fucker. You didn't really enjoy that as much as you're pretending to, did you. Well no, not really, I admitted to me. You were just too lazy to get up and put it in the microwave oven for a couple of minutes, weren't you. Yes, I was. Lazy, lazy bastard.

The conversation with me about the cold mashed potato made me think about my writing. I've been telling myself that I'm writing all these theatre reviews as a way of studying them before writing my own play. This may be true in part, but then I'm putting energy into trying to get better paid review and feature writing work rather than putting any effort into writing something creative myself. It's either laziness or fear of failure.

I'm out of practice. I feel like I'm not going to come up with anything worthwhile, so I'm copping out. That's what I'm doing, isn't it. Yes, it is. Well what am I going to do about it? Huh? HUH?

Cold mashed potato really isn't all that bad.

Extras

I haven't been excited about a telly show for ages, but the new Ricky Gervais series Extras sounds good. Anyone seen it? It starts in Sydney on Wednesday. Should be fun.

Also, I read a review about this show and the writer was going on about the viciously cruel humour and everything, kind of saying that it's so ground-breaking. I dunno. For the style it is, I recall Best In Show and Waiting for Guffman. That squirmy'because-it's-true style of comedy.

Still, I'm sure it's going to be funny.

Negativity

I did an email interview with a prominent playwright this week. In reading up on him I came across a story about him punching someone who had said some negative things about him. The original story I read said that he hit the guy because he had written a negative review, but the playwright insisted that the reviewer had actually made some racist remarks and that was why he'd popped him. Fair enough.

Either way, I thought I'd ask what he thought about reviewers, and his answer was "I haven't read a review in years because quite simply most reviewers can't tell the difference between the written work and the performance."

Is it just me, or is that answer a bit bigger than it first seems? In reviewing, aren't we looking at everything? We're listening to the written work and we're watching the performance. It's quite possible for an excellent script to be mangled by bad actors, but you'd probably still recognise that the dialogue was good.

And then I wondered if he wasn't somehow blaming any bad reviews on the performance. Like someone giving a bad review should be able to tell, if they had half a brain, that it wasn't the script's fault. Weird, if that's what he was saying, because he works with top flight people.

I thought it was an interesting comment anyway. Wonder what most reviewers will think about it.

Went to the opening of a play last night. Pretty bleak stuff. Good overall, just bleak. Right towards the end a pretty important prop fell down. Huge curtain pulled right across the stage just completely fell down and fucked things up. Someone was doing some death stuff or something and suddenly the audience is stifling sniggers and the actors are trying not to smirk. Funny shit.

I got an email from the company director who was one of the actors on stage at the time. She said she really wanted me to write an honest review even if it is negative. Said she saw me in the audience but didn't come out after the show because she was in hiding. Said she'll still talk to me even if I write a bad review. I think she was amused by it (the curtain played a huge part in her final scene - a death scene) but also thought it was about the worst thing that could have happened.

I thought that was a really cool thing to do. Some people are just cool in small, really cool ways. She gave me the greenlight to rip the shit out of the play, so that's what I did.

(Kidding).

Pair On

Someone was telling me that they were having computer issues and called up a help desk They got someone with a thick Oirish accent. The conversation went something like this:

Not Oirish Person: "Hello. I'm having trouble with my computer and hoped you might be able to help me."

Oirish Person: "What seems to be the problem?"

Not Oirish Person: "It's just not working. I want it to be on and it's not on. I need it to be on."

Oirish Person: "Okay, first of all, have you paired up?"

Not Oirish Person: "Excuse me?"

Oirish Person: "I said have you paired up?"

Not Oirish Person: "I'm sorry - I have no idea what you mean by pairing up. I've never heard of that before. What does it mean?"

Oirish Person: (exasperated) "You know. The pair! At the pair point! Have you switched the pair on!"

Census Night - Woo Hoo!

It's census night in Australia and we have to tell the government who we are and what we do, and it's just drawn my attention yet again to the way in which I just never cooperate so that I can be neatly categorised. Left school in year 10, got a trade certificate in bricklaying, have no higher education, currently divide my time between freelance writing (I'm a sole trader), working in my clothing shop (I'm a company director... sounds nice but half the time we can't afford to pay ourselves even basic shop assistant rates), and doing food prep and service at the Sydney Opera House (I'm an employee)... like, my main job last week monetarily was the three days I cooked, I probably spent most of my time thinking about shop stuff, but my main job as far as interest and motivation goes is writing. It's completely pointless my filling the damn thing out. There should be a box to check that allows people like me to be exempt because information gathered about me is utterly useless. AND they've asked for the address of my main place of work last week. Who the hell knows the address of the Sydney Opera House?

Okay okay, the address is probably Bennelong Point, Sydney Harbour, I just felt like a bit of a rant. Don't like being asked so many questions that appear to have been designed solely to point out how not normal I am. Pricks.

A Review Of A Review

There is a theatre reviewer contributing to one of the things I contribute to, and his writing is so awful it makes me angry. Really angry. Urge-to-stab-marsupials angry. I can barely make it through the opening lines. In fact his opening lines are almost as bad as the closing ones, which are about as bad as everything in between. I just want to scream at the painful awfulness of it. There is no flow. He insists on breaking up as many lines as possible with parentheses containing what are clearly intended to be witty asides but which are in fact witless distractions. And fuck me the bastard loves a semicolon... semicolons are okay, but it helps if you know how to use them - and if you're not sure how to use them it's probably a good idea to keep their use to a minimum. It's like he writes his reviews, scoops up a fistful of sticky semicolons and throws them at the review, and wherever they land, well that's good enough for him.

Same goes for humour. You don't just interrupt the flow of the point you're making because you've just seen the opportunity to make some stupid little pun or irrelevant observation. In fact that's the whole problem - he's going for some avuncular old chappie tone in an obvious attempt to be likable. Well I for one don't like you one bit. Especially when you end all of your reviews with an exclamation mark. Fuck off!

Thing is, I can't be alone in my seething contempt for this guy's reviews. Others must be thinking the same. But can I tell him? Given that I write for the same publication, is it my position to tell him that his writing prevents me from finding out what he thought about the production? Would I be out of place to tell him that reading his reviews is like trying to listen to a favourite song when the reception on the radio is out of whack and in the end you'd rather turn it off?


I know a review is just a review and not a literary masterpiece, but it's gotten to the point now where I see his name and I refuse to read on... no, that's a lie. I see his name now and I read on to see if this one is more awful than the last one. Invariably, it is.

Right. Now that that's off my chest, I got me some marsupial stabbin' to do.

The Sydney Season Of Varekai Has Been Delayed

Funny. Deleted my previous post after a couple of days. I was being a self-pitying, whining little bitch. It was embarrassing. How cool would it be if you could do that with life, just delete the bad or embarrassing bits? That would be cool indeed. But you can't, so it's better to focus on the good bits, innit.

Wrote this on the weekend. Some reviewers seem to relish doing scathing reviews; I find it hard. Not that I needed to be scathing with this one, it wasn't that bad. But it is on the negative side. Weird thing about this performance is that I haven't read any other reviews of it. I usually check them out after writing mine to see if I got it badly wrong, but there's nothing, as far as I can see.

Also, I got a media invite to go to the raising of the Grand Chapiteau of Cirque du Soleil yesterday. They said the date may change and I didn't hear from them, so either it went up in spite of my absence or it's been delayed. Personally I like to think that everyone was milling about for a while before the announcement: "Look, sorry about this everyone. Thanks for coming and everything, but it looks like Quick isn't going to make it. He must be... I don't know, rescuing orphans from burning orphanages or saving whales or something. You know what he's like. Anyway, thing is, we're going to have to delay the setting up of Cirque du Soleil until he can make it. We'll get in touch with him, find out when it's convenient for him and we'll let you know. All right? Thanks everyone."

The deal was that media people get to stand inside the giant blue and yellow tent wearing hard hats while the riggers hoist the the thing. Like, did that excite the little boy in me? Fuck yeah. I mean, a hard hat! Too cool.

What's Going On

One of the things I enjoyed most about my job as editing and writing for the mag I left in March this year was reading submissions and deciding whether they were good enough writers to contribute. I was pretty selective but managed to spot a few good ones. Some have stayed in contact and send me their writing from time to time and I do the same when I need feedback. I've been asked to contribute to different projects some of them are involved with and that's as satisfying as anything can be. Just the other day a guy in Queensland wrote to say that he would like three of us who have been in contact over the last couple of years to contribute some leftfield stuff to his new mag. I like the mag, I am happy that he included me, and I'm happy to write for free even though I said that had to stop. There's just a kind of mutual respect at work, and that warms the cockles.

On the flipside, what is up with editors who can't be bothered even acknowleding receipt of queries? Like, I know how busy it can get when working on a weekly magazine, but there's always time to reply. I don't care - have a draft letter ready and just insert my name and hit send to let me know you're not interested. Even when I knocked people back I took the time (frequently too much time) to do it properly. Fuck it - hit reply, type thanks but no thanks. Delegate. Get the mail boy to tell me to stop pestering you. Wankers.

Just looking at a couple of queries sent recently and seeing that they can't be bothered replying, I just feel like saying (again) fuck it, I can't be bothered with this.

But it will pass. I have to focus instead on things like the fact that an editor of a mag keeps asking for my monthly humorous column and bothers to give feedback every time (he loves it), and that I have got work coming in, poorly paying as it is, and that writing is a thing I love, and that out there in the sea of wankers there are a few good people. And yes, it's not much money, but I have a couple of stories to work on today and a play to see tonight for review, and my mini play to re-write and send in in the next four days (eek), and it's all pretty good really. Guess I'm just temporarily fed up with dicking about and would like a proper, solid, actual bona fide Big Break. Ooh, poor me.

Came across this site the other day. Hilarious and quite surreal that a muppet like this is in such a position of power. What is going on? http://www.slate.com/id/76886/

Sub Woofing

Glancing in the mirror this morning I noticed something weird about my left eyebrow. There was a gap. I vaguely remembered deciding that I really must trim my eyebrows now even though it was late at night and I was a liddle dwink 'n wobbly. Lesson learned (for now).

The theme of the weekend was "Not Clubbing." I recall a lot of time spent talking to people about how we're over clubbing and happy to move on to new things. Some of these people were in my clubbing clothing shop buying tickets to a party that was on that night, and our conversation was largely about which parties we were particularly looking forward to going to in the coming months. Yeah, never going clubbing again. EVA!

Went to a club on Saturday night, the one everyone had been buying the tickets to. Fucking funny. Put a bunch of psytrancers in a city club that usually plays R&B and it tweaks everyone's brain into overload. I was straight but had fun, got told that I have always been a moody bastard once, got hugged & handshook a nice amount of times, explained to a friend that the wet patch on my pants (spilled drink) was a result of my vibrating testicles... I forgot to explain to her that the joke was that when I was standing in front of the speakers the bass was so intense it was making my testicles vibrate, but that's okay because she just about fell on the floor laughing anyway ("I dunno how the wet patch got there. My testicles were vibrating and then there was a wet patch."). Someone who I didn't know told me that if I ever need LSD to just give him a call any time... needless to say, I don't have his number, never had his number, would never call his number if I had it.

Anyway, so that's me not clubbing.

Main thing that haunts me is that a person turned up who I hadn't seen in ages. Lovely person, but I just couldn't recall why I needed to have talked to her more. I only remembered this morning that we had a chat about a year ago and she had said she was actually giving up the clubbing thing to focus on producing music. She was a DJ who felt lost, creatively. I'd been saying that I also need to put more effort into creative stuff. She left that day saying that we should hook up a year from now and see how we're going on the creative front.

The clubbing/doofing scene can be so transient. The fact that we saw each other and didn't have that chat... the fact that in that 12 months I left my job and that stuff has slowly moved in another direction... crap. Wish it had all come back to me immediately, but it didn't. Hope I catch up with her again soon.

Meantime, if you have testicles, introduce them to a speaker stack. It's nice.

Positive People

I'm reeeeeally not in the right frame of mind for telling amusing anecdotes about gay hairdressers at the moment. Head is in a very weird place. Why? Because this half page story has done my head in. Really juicy topic, brilliant sounding performance, director doesn't want to be interviewed, called the choreographer at 2.30, he said he was just going into rehearsals and would call back at 4pm and it's now 5.pm and I've been sitting by the phone when I could have been doing stuff... grr. And I've just spent the past hour or so doing more background reading on the David Hicks case. Man, that is heavy, horrible stuff. If Orwell were alive today he'd definitely be writing about the US government. "Honour Bound To Defend Freedom" are the words written across the gates at Guantanamo Bay military prison. It would be funny if it were not so repugnant.

If I were in a better frame of mind, I'd tell you how when in the hairdressers yesterday, Guy asked me what I did for a living. I told him I'm a writer, told him about the tattoo story I did for the glossy that's out next month.

"Really," Guy squealed. "That's fascinating. You know what you should write about? You should write about the problems faced by positive people who want tattoos."

Initially I thought he meant optimistic people, even though that didn't make much sense. I quickly came up to speed though.

"Because my friend's positive and he said to me, 'Guy' he said, 'I'd love to get a tattoo but I can't because I'm positive', and so I said to him, I said 'Screw that, just be open and honest with the artist because, you know, lots of people are positive today..."

He went on about positive people lot, pausing to tell me that he wasn't telling me what I should write about. In fact he just paused, period. The scissors were just inches away from my hair, but idle. I considered lowering my hair towards the scissors as a subtle hint. Subtle, like shut up and cut my hair goddamnit.

"... because you know, even my clients could be positive. I could be positive. I could be positive and cut myself and bleed on the client because anything's possible."

Fucking hell, I thought, how do I end up with them.

Somehow, when I got a word in, I managed to tell him about my clubbing clothing shop and this, quite naturally (?) set Guy off on a monologue about his drug exploits, prefered drugs, best drugs for different times of the day... during the course of the conversation music came up (I know - I wondered what the hell music had to do with clubbing too) and it turned out that he's just recently cut the hair of a promoter friend of mine. I then got the lowdown on the drug problems my friend's flatmate is having, something I'd previously known nothing about. It was amazing.

Anyway, he washed my hair after cutting it and on the way back from the sink he asked if the pants I was wearing were from the shop. I said yes, and without skipping a beat he turned to one of the other guys and said "They are from his shop." I had no idea they had already discussed my pants. Could they gossip telepathically? Is that what happened? I sat down and the pair of them leaned over and started inspecting my pants and asking about other colours, and then guy fondled the fabric on my top and said how much he loved that too and I just about had to swat them away like moths.

Also, he did give really good head massage, which made me wonder this morning while in the shower, why is it that when you try to give yourself a head massage it feels like crap compared to when someone else does it, but when you poke yourself in your eye with your finger, it feels exactly the same as when someone else does it.

That's what I would have told you if my head was happier.

Oh great - the publicist who was going to sort out the choreographer has gone missing in action. Brilliant.

Play Update

The bit at the top of this blog about seeing funny shit in almost anything hints at the kind of therapy (if that's not too strong a word) that this blog is meant to be. Ideally I want to look around at the big and small hings that happen in my world and focus on the light side. Feels a little lame when all this stuff in the Middle East is breaking out. We are the most retarded species ever.

Still, the small and funny things are... small and funny I guess. And hopefully that's how my play will turn out. I was supposed to write up the story about the David Hicks theatre performance today, but the director is stressing and doesn't have time for any more press. Understandable, but a little inconvenient when I've promised a half page story to the mag by tomorrow. I'm now focusing on the choreographer instead and think it will be fine. The new publicist is really lovely and kept apologising for things not working out as they should have, and she laughed when I said I never expect things to work out as they should. It's not being pessimistic, more just falling back on the wise words of the great Douglas Adams who said, "Don't Panic." He was also pretty memorable in his views of deadlines when he said, "I love deadlines. I love the whooshing sound they make as they fly by."

Anyway, material is coming back from the choreographer tomorrow so I decided to have another stab at the short play. Went back to where I thought it was falling over, cut into it, changed course and new stuff emerged that had me laughing out loud. This is a good sign. First draft down, I decided to check out the list of tips the Short & Sweet competition organisers offer (yeah yeah, should have done that first but that's not how I work. I love doing things like this on instinct).

Anyway, all seems good. There's not one of their recommendations I go against, which still doesn't mean it's in, but it's a good sign. That and the fact that there were fine droplets of laughspittle on the screen during writing bodes well. And I'm glad The Dreaded One was undwerwhelmed with the previous version. Wonder what her reaction to this version will be like.

I still have 10 days to tinker, but I don't think it will take that long. If I can enter it early, I might even try banging out another. It's fun.

Ooh - and drop by tomorrow. I got my hair cut today at The Gayest Hairdressing Salon In The Known Universe and it was very funny.

The Turkish Purple Poncho Meets West Pier

This is me in my purple Turkish poncho standing before West Pier at Brighton. I wanted a shot of me before the pier because I have been quite fascinated with it for some time. Not sure why. I even recently wrote a short story set around it. For me it was just like seeing The Eiffel Tower for the first time, or how I imagine it must be like to see the Pyramids or The Great Wall Of China for the first time. But for the pier there has always been something about its wilful destruction that has fascinated me. And its refusal to give in. It can't last forever, of course, but for now it's still standing and has become iconic and I was really very happy to see it. I was in Brighton for one short week and kept wandering down to the beach whenever I could. You know when you finally arrive at a place you've always wanted to go and you keep thinking, "I'm here, I'm really here." It was like that, especially that morning.

I wanted a shot of just me and the pier, but this random jogger came into the shot, thumping me in the ribs as she ran past and shouting "Cunt!" for no apparent reason.

Weirdly, this strange person appears in other shots in Brighton, always raising her finger at me or pointing and laughing.

Ooh La La

Jesus in a G-string, what a hangover. Not sure how it happened, but I'm so hungover that I can barely raise the back of my hand to my forehead and moan in pain. My toenails even feel hungover. Spectacular.

I've been neglecting the trip photos, so here's this. It doesn't really capture the essence of Brighton or anything, but Brighton is where it was taken, and it does amuse me.

When we were in Spain people kept asking to have their photo taken with The Dreaded One and me... well it was just her they wanted their photo with, they just included me so as to not hurt my feelings.

On her way into the Opera House where she works as a chef, a group of traveling Americans did the same thing. THEN yesterday when leaving the supermarket apparently some woman who now owns The Kirk (an old church that used to be owned by a certain Madame Lash) ran after The Dreaded One and asked her to be involved in a regular Burlesque show she runs. The show is called Circus Burlesque Erotic.

I'm living with a damn celebrity. And a future erotic burlesque performer. You can't blame the woman for asking The Dreaded One to be involved. I mean, look at her. She just oozes eroticism.

Sitting Ovation

I'm really enjoying the process of writing a play. Such a different process to writing a story. It's just dialogue really. I'm kind of bearing in mind that actors are going to breathe life into the words, the director is going to choreograph things, and the production people are going to pull a few tricks out of their bag. Not that I'm assuming it's going to make the shortlist, more that in writing narrative, you're on your own. With a stage play it's so collaborative right from the start.

This is why when I read out what I'd done so far I wasn't the least bit crushed or disillusioned or crestfallen when The Dreaded One smiled instead of laughed. Because even when the writing is complete, a play is still incomplete. I mean, I'm not a fucking actor. A trained thespian would have delivered their lines much more convincingly than I did. What's the saying? "Don't act, react." Well how can I react when I'm in my living room playing both fucking parts? When I've written both parts? Huh? Nuance would have made the lines a LOT funnier than when I read them. I don't care - sit there smiling politely while the audience in my imagination is going nuts and giving my play a standing ovation and screaming Author! Author! You think it's easy, Dreaded One? Write your own fucking play then. *Tosses fistful of pages into the air and flounces off stage with panties in a bunch*

Meh. Might hold off writing my acceptance speech for a bit. Might be an idea to finish writing the play first.

Two weeks to go.

Er... Numb

Need some blog time out because my head is weirding out on me. One of the stories I have to do is about a dance/mixed media production about David Hicks, the Australian terrorist suspect being detained at Guantanamo Bay, so I have a fair bit of reading both about his detention as well as those involved in the performance. Another story is about the world premier of a play written by the author taking a leak in this column I wrote last year (if I meet him or am in contact with him I might send the column to him - I'm reasonably sure he wouldn't have been keeping up with my rantings in a clubbing magazine).

There is also the short play, which I am keen to get into. I'd like to have had that finished today.

However it is now 3pm and I have spent ALL freakin' day reading about GST on the Australian Tax Office's website, dicking about with MYOB, trying to correct incorrect invoices and all sorts of other shit to do with numbers. Fuck! I don't like numbers. I don't like them at all. I think the world would be a much simpler place if there were no numbers. Kill all numbers... starting with the number 5. Aesthetically, it displeases me greatly.

At least if there were no numbers there would have been one (damnit - there's another of the fuckers!) less time The Dreaded One shook her head at me, when upon opening what could very well have been a bank statement, she asked me what it was. "I dunno," I replied vaguely. "Someone appears to have sent us some numbers."

Right, it's back to some work that doesn't involve numbers.

Play

The closing date for the Short & Sweet short play competition is July 31. I have never written a play before but have wanted to for some time. A short one would be a good way to start. The two ideas I've had pretty well suck. One is good for a short story, the other good for anything from a long short story to novel, movie or full length stage play (It's the one about Dora Maar who I now refer to as Dora, like she's a friend).

Anyway, sometimes I find that really talking hard at someone gets the thinkerator going and suddenly you can have a good idea come out of it. I feel sorry for the person I do this to (ususally The Dreaded One) because I'm generally reasonably quiet and thinky, then I just go BLAAAAAARP! I go on and on and walk around and flap my arms and think all over the place and she sits there probably thinking oh he's doing that thing again, and I kind of know that she almost doesn't need to be there because I'm really just letting my imagination off the leash but out loud and it was probably be okay if she just left to water the plants or something because I'd just follow her out onto the balcony talking like a mad fucker but I keep talking at her all the same, going over old short stories that I've suddenly remembered and wondering if they would translate to the stage and I can see her stifle a yawn and I can see that although she is not moving she is somehow shaking her head and saying where does it come from? How does he do this? If I tell people he has just talked my dreadlocks off they will not believe me.

And then it stops. I stop because I have remembered a story that I wrote that was not very good even though the concept is. It's a story that I always intended to go back to. It's a story that will absolutely perfectly translate to the stage. I have a few moments of quiet goosebumps and tingly nipples... then I start flapping my arms again and suddenly this little 10 minute play has become a full blown world-traveling theatre festival of short plays with the same theme. I'm calling for entries, organising the judging panel, it's gonna be hyoooge!

Coming back to reality, I like this idea. I told another friend about it and she thinks it's good. A 10 minute play should only take a day to write, surely. It's about 10 pages of script. That's a couple of hours of writing. July 31 deadline. If I can't do this, I am a loser. I don't have to win or even make the shortlist, although obviously that is the aim (and the rarely seen confident Quick thinks it can be done). But I have to write this play. I have three weeks in which to write it. That's plenty of time. Fuck it - If I'm serious about it I can have a first draft by the end of the day, weekend at the latest.

Hmm. Can I do it?

At Least I'm Not A Toilet Person

I didn't write my ten minute play, but did write my review of last night's performance, and it was still a pretty damned good writing day all in all. First email of the day was the glossy I'd been putting a story together for. I sent the copy in last week and they went silent, and I was starting to think I'd blown it, but they wrote to say the editorial is as good as the photo shoot and rounded up my fee and asked me to send in an invoice for a nice amount of money. AND I took a break away from the desk to mop the floors and clean the kitchen. If every work day was like this, I'd be pretty happy. Only way I could have improved it is by writing my ten minute play. Or a short story.

The other day at the TV shoot they were assigning us extras to various tasks for the scene. Some had to wander down the stairs, some play pool, some walk to the toilets, some chat at a table etc. One of the assistant directors asked another if she could borrow a couple of her extras and pointed to someone.

"No way," the AD replied. "They're two of my toilet people."

Funnier for me though was that as the AD wandered looking for tasks for the group I was in, she came across a pay computer terminal with internet access for the pub's customers. She looked at it long and hard, then turned to us and said, "Yeah, right, like someone's going to be in a pub and be sitting at a computer. Pffft."

Thing was, my eyes lit up like I was a kid before a Christmas tree. I was nanoseconds away from putting my hand in the air and saying, "Ooh ooh - me! Me! Pick me to be the one to be sitting at the computer. Pleeeeeease can I be the one who gets paid to blog."

I redirected my half raised hand and scratched my head and said, "Yeah, as if. Pffft."

The Week That Was... And Is Still Being

Saturday - I work in my clothing store. Very busy day because it's the night of a huge rave called Utopia. It's full of excited kids buying their outfits for the night. I'm flat out and loving it. Some of the kids are going to their first rave and ask me things like are there dress regulations. So cute. I'm having so much fun that The Dreaded One calls around, we open some wine and stay open, music cranked, ravers meeting friends at the shop, chatting and laughing. I almost want to go to Utopia.

Sunday - Wake up at 5am to drive to a bush party (see two previous posts for details).

Monday - I send writing samples to a few magazines. Clearly I do more than that, but I cannot remember what it was.

Tuesday - I'm up at 5am again, this time to drive to a pub that is the setting for a scene in a TV show called All Saints. It's pouring with rain and I realise 10 minutes into the drive that I have left behind the street directory and my diary containing my tax file number and the address of the hotel. Somehow I manage to remember how the street directory looks and I find my way straight to the place. Spend the morning miming with complete strangers again. Odd thing for a grown up to be doing by way of income. In the afternoon I get an email from one of the mags I write for asking me for the review that they had told me not to bother writing and which I sent to a new website (link at the right of the screen). I quickly write another review of the same play, being careful not to repeat myself in any way. Interesting exercise. I get it to the mag an hour later and he is very appreciative as he is short on content.

Wednesday - I meet two editors of a couple of magazines I approached about freelance contributions. I am a little nervous because I get nervous in these situations. However I seem to say the right things and they seem keen to have me on board. On the way out one asks me about my pen names and I mention that I write as Grumpy, and she is stoked because she used to think my columns (in the magazine I recently left) were funny and that makes me feel self-conscious but good. I then go to the shop and spend the day trying to get my head around the fact that one supplier has left us with $40,000 worth of stock on consignment. Um... holy shit? Also, I want to enter a 10 minute play competition. I have two ideas, one about Dora Maar, who I am quite obssessed with, the other about a person who has two shadows. The more I think about the Dora Maar one though, the more I think it needs to be a full length play. Bummer because I don't think the other idea is not going to work.

Thursday - I have to buy coathangers. Lots of coathangers. The Dreaded One has given me bodgy street directions and I drive in circles looking for the coathanger shop. In the end I realise that if I replace left with right and vice versa in her directions, all is sweet. I have coathangers. Lots of coathangers. And those little plastic stork things that you put in the gun and tag the clothes with... lots of them too. Then tonight I am off to the Opera House to review another performance, interpretations of the songs of Jacques Brel.

Friday - Will spend the day pestering magazine and newspaper editors again, as well as writing the review and maybe writing my ten minute play. Then tomorrow night I am going to a party attended by lots of theatre types because a part of me now recognises the importance of meeting people and making a good impression... scroll down a little to read about me making good impressions. Also, the person having the party is very nice and I feel a little chuffed that someone so well connected thought to invite me.

Saturday - No doubt I will be hungover. Then I will not be hungover, but I will be at the Opera House later in the day to work in the kitchen.

When I left school I have no idea what I thought I would be doing with myself in the future. If I could tell Leaving School Me that this would be a typical week though, I'm pretty sure I would have laughed my arse off at me.

Have You Any Spoons?

Also at the doof...

A random tripper asks, "Hey man. This might sound like a funny question, but do you have a... like... a spoon?

We are sitting down and my other tripper acquaintance literally falls over laughing at this.

"No," I tell him as I pat my pockets to check for spoonage. "No spoons."

"Oh. Well, like, it doesn't have to be a spoon. It could be a... a knife. Not a sharp knife. Just a blunt one would be cool. But a spoon... yeah... a spoon would be nice."

"No knife," I inform him. "No spoons."

"This is hilarious," my tripper acquaintance squeals in delight.

"It's the first time I've ever been asked for a spoon at a doof, but it's only moderately amusing," I tell her.

"You don't understand," she squeaks, shaking with the unbridled delight of it all. "I have spoons."

"No."

"YES!"

"Did you say you have spoons?" asks Random Tripper, looking pretty excited about the prospect of having his spoon.

Laughing Acquaintance points at their bag as she topples over laughing again. I look in the bag. There are two spoons. I take out a spoon and Random Tripper looks like I am handing him the Holy Grail. He wanders off back to his group..

Another friend sits down. "What was that all about?"

"He wanted a spoon," I tell him, setting off more laughter.

"What did he want it for?" the new friend asks.

We look over and see a bunch of people huddled around a Nutella jar and torn bread rolls. Clearly they had been trying to figure out for some time how to get the Nutella from the jar on to the bread.

"I dunno. I'd been thinking... I dunno. They just wanted a spoon to get Nutella out of the jar."

"And I had spoons," Laughing Acquaintance chimes in before collapsing into a giggling heap once more.

The Funniest Man There Ever Was

So here I am thinking that we really are not going to go to any more parties until the end of winter, but yesterday morning (Sunday) the alarm went off at 5am and we got up to drive for two hours into the bush to catch the last day of a two day party. It was fun and it was a beautiful day, but I dunno, I'm not sure it was worth it. Sometimes they kick on but this finished at 3pm and there's nothing quite as depressing as the arse end of a doof when the music shuts down and the valley echoes with the sound of car doors closing and engines starting up. We had to sit it out for a few hours because we had to straighten up for the drive. We had the tent but just didn't feel like staying because no one else was. It was a pretty ordinary couple of hours, we were torn between saying stuff it let's keep drinking and sleep in the car and sobering up to drive home.

Also, how to have your ego deflated... I was chatting to someone, telling them some random story, and they laughed heartily, which was good. It egged me on, I kept talking, they rolled about laughing. Realising that I could do no wrong, I continued to entertain with my razor sharp wit and keen and quirky observations, and they were clearly listening to The Funniest Man There Ever Was.

But then I stopped for a moment as they wiped tears of mirth from their eyes. The penny had dropped.

"Hang on - have you taken acid?" I asked.

They practically fell over at the hilarity of this and managed to reply in the affirmative through howls of laughter.

I packed my anecdotes in their bag and wandered away to find someone else to talk to.

Dear Applicant

Nothing has quite the same impact as a "Dear Applicant" letter. Especially when you reeeeally wanted the gig, and when you open the mail at the end of a really cool day when you're feeling pretty good about everything in spite of stuff. It's like looking up in awe at a clear blue sky, and having warm bird shit fall into your eye.

Ooh - that last line's like a pome.

First Impressions

Woke up this morning writing Haiku again. Wrote a really nice one and was going to post it here, but a couple of weeks ago I came across a site that had helped themselves to one of my posts. They linked it back to my page but clearly claimed to have written it, and anyway, they had not asked for persmission. So I'm not posting anything I might be able to use in the real world... having said that I'm about to turn the following into my Grumpy column for Tsunami.

After writing the poem I remembered a silly incident when I was saying goodbye outside a pub to a couple of friends, a mate and his new girlfriend who I'd met for the first time. Did the blokey handshake with him, then did the peck on the cheek with her which I often accompany with a gentle squeeze of the shoulder if a hug is not going to happen. She turned ever so slightly at just the wrong moment so that I gently cupped and squeezed her breast. Horrified, I pulled back and acted as though nothing had happened and hoped that no one had noticed, looking around like gee isn't it a nice day. A frozen moment, then she said loudly in her polite British accent, "Quick - did you just fondle my breast?" While the mate looked at me with mock contempt and said my name threateningly. The Dreaded One smirked and shook her head.

I didn't hear the end of it for ages. Every time the couple introduced me to their friends it was with a warning. They'd move me back to arms length and say, "Watch him. Watch his hands. He moves fast."

Anyone else made a lasting first impression?

Some Theatre

Made it through another week of pseudochefing and in the middle of it wrote a story about a new theatre company called Alchemy. They asked me along to their opening night performance of Some Voices. Not often a new independent theatre opens up in Sydney. It's a cool little space and I hope it does well.

The play was about schizophrenia, and it was exactly the kind of theatre I like. Convincing performances, laugh out loud moments, and really thought provoking.

It was a small crowd consisting mainly of industry people and friends. I think they like to keep the opening night performance a little low key to ease cast and crew into it, iron out wrinkles etc.

Anyway, I offered to review the play as well as just come along to check the place out, and I'm still a bit of a noob at this sort of thing (meaning that I've done plenty but a part of me will always be a little surprised that I am doing it). Especially when I see others in the audience who pull out a notepad and pen. I don't do that. I've always just trusted my memory and gut reaction to the performance. Later I'll look at the program to confirm details, but really, taking notes? Don't you risk missing something? Some people get really obvious about it too. They make a minor production out of settling into their seat with their critic's notepad and pen poised in a very theatre critic way. They may as well wear a T shirt telling us they are a theatre critic.

One such guy was sitting beside me and I swear I've bever seen someone scribble with such intensity. He spent as much time writing as he did watching, and it was starting to really bug me. At intermission I asked The Dreaded One if she had noticed him and she said no, so when we filed back inside I said, "Pssst. Dreaded One, look at him now. Don't be obvious, I'm just going to lean back a little, you lean forward a little and have a look."

We pulled of this little manouvre like the pros we are.

"He's writing in his notebook now," The Dreaded One told me.

"I know," I whispered back.

"But nothing is happening yet. The second act hasn't even started."

"I know. He's a freak."

It really started to bother me to the extent that I was very tempted to lean over and say "Do you mind?" in an intimidating manner, or at least get up and move in an intimidating manner, but the play's power won out and pulled me right back in there. Very good writing by Joe Penhall. Want to check out more of his stuff.

After the play we milled around in the bar area and discussed the play, and the Alchemy person I'd interviewed came across to chat and ask what I thought etc (I swear I have out of body moments when this kind of thing happens, like this is just me and she's performed all over the world and has started up a new theatre company and she's asking for my opinion and listening as though it's important), and who should wander over but uberfreaky review guy. I do something with my eyes to indicate to The Dreaded One that THAT'S HIM! IT'S HIM! HE'S THE GUY! And then the Alchemy person introduces him to me as the play's director. We shake hands and swap pleasantries and he seems like a really down to earth and nice guy, not the least bit freaky.

"It makes sense now," I told the guy. "You were sitting next to me taking all these notes, and I was wondering what the hell kind of weirdo reviewer takes sooo many notes. I take back everything I thought about you."

Man did he tip his head back and enjoy a belly laugh. I think I accidentally made a good impression and left them thinking that I have a clue. Little do they know, I'm just me, rebel without a clue.

Blogversation

I really don't know what this blogging thing is all about anymore. I've started feeling like I talk in blog. Like, I think I've always thought in blog, even before blog existed, but I really think I'm starting to talk blog. Like I just wanna have the space in the conversation to go "Me blog blog blog blog blog me me blog blog," and then check my stats to see if what I have just blogged was earth shatteringly fascinating enough. It has to stop. I have to start acting as though humans have interesting things to say too.

Also, while we're talking about me... while I'm talking about me... let me start again. While I'm talking about how fucked up blogging can make you, get this bit of info that I bet everyone but me knows: If you sign up to have your blog listed in Blogwise, you presently join a queue of around 50,000 other bloggers and are looking at a wait of just over six months to be listed... Holy FUCK man! That's too many blogs. There are far too many people blogging. Get a goddamn life! Do real things! Buy a dog and take it for a walk, put your finger up someone's nose, fart shamelessly on a crowded bus, give flowers to random people in the street, read a book, marvel at the shadows the light makes through scratchy wintry branches... do anything but this fucking blogging nonsense, you hopeless egomaniacs.

That way, I'll move further up the Blogwise queue.

Chaipuccino

It's early and it's foggy outside and I have to walk across Moore Park to Fox Studios to work my arse off in a shitty kitchen with a nincanpoop (now there's a word that's underused... next time I get one of thos annoying call centre people it's going to be "Be gone, nincanpoop."). You know those jobs where you really don't want to do them? Where you wake up looking forward to the end of the day? It's one of those. Luckily it's only for another three days... God that sounds like a long time.

Most frustrating thing is it's a massive art expo. I'm out the back sweating in industrial noise, and then I go out the front for a moment and it's peaceful and civilised and there's art everywhere you look, and then I have to return to this weird world of chaos and ridiculous kitchen heirachy.

Also, there was not enough instant coffee so I made some chai, only there wasn't enough of that either so I put the rest of the instant coffee into the chai. It seemed like a good idea at the time. It's weird. I don't recommend it.

Right, I got me some chef stabbin' to do.

Marcus Sucks Arse

I have made a decision. And that decision is that chefs are the most seriously retarded fucktwats about.

Okay, some are all right, but Jesus, there's this piece of shit who thinks he was put here on the planet to show his minions how to do amazing things like How To Chop Onions. Fucking wow! Or no, Slice The Bread this way... oh I really can't go on. And none of us are his minions. We're all trying to get a job done. That's all. Make the food taste nice and present it well and serve it to the paying customers as though we hope they enjoy their meal. Fucker just doesn't get it. He thinks he's the superstar and if a waiter makes a mistake he comes over all body language and muttery and it just fucks up the working relationship between kitchen staff and service staff. What a numb nut.

He's not quite sure what to make of me (like most humans), and I'm really into being chilled and just getting on with the job, but I do have a fierce streak in me that I might let off the leash tomorrow. I thought it was funny when people were calling me Chef, but this guy expects it and thinks it means something. (With the right kind of chef, maybe it does... but the ones I know don't mind me calling them by their name instead of by their title).

I really loathe people who are condescending and who think part of getting the job done is to make the people they are working with look stupid. This turd of a human has alienated all around him. And I have four more days working with him.

Think I'm just going to point to my bloodied eye with the end of a knife and tell him, "Last fuckwit chef who shouted at me did this. He doesn't shout so much anymore. I made his kids watch me stab his face off before stabbing their faces off. Kinda puts things into perspective, dunnit."

(That was me trying to sound a little like Begby from Train Spotting).

Times, Are They A-Changin'?

I have to write a story about a new theatre company and the director has asked me to come along tonight to the opening of their first production in their new theatre space, so I offered to review the play as well as write the story. I'm also seeing something at the Opera House tomorrow night (I never would have thought there would be a time in my life that I would be working in the kitchen at the Sydney Opera House part of the week, then going along to see theatre there later in the week to write reviews. Life is funny.)

I've also been quite hooked on Miss Snark's blog where there has been a lot of discussion about rejection letters for fiction lately, and all of this has really been getting the writing juices going again. I have about three volumes of rejection letters and have largely given up with fiction, but damnit, when it works it is the best thing in the world.

I sent off a story last night, one called Silver Screen Daydream, a sad comedy that I am quite happy with. Quite probably it will not be accepted, but it's fun that it's out there and might also be accepted. It was only languishing on my hard drive with no chance of anyone ever reading it. At least this way it now has a chance of being read by others. I have no idea why I have not been sending it around. I'm entering another new one in a competition. No humour in this one, just sadness, but I like it and I think it's got The Thing. Going to try somewhere like Granta with it too.

I think it's time to dig out a few more that I've neglected and maybe settle down and write some new ones and really, I have to have a go at a play. I decided to pretty well give up clubbing and doofing for the rest of winter, and I'm kind of wondering if I'll bother going back to it when summer kicks off. Clubbing and music and doofing have been my life for years now. I wonder what will happen.

Oh yeah - and I applied for the position of editor of a website that is very funny. Humour that's right up my alley. They wrote back to tell me how much they enjoyed reading my application and that they would be in touch in the next couple of weeks. I can't tell you (whoever you are) how much I would like to get that little gig. It probably won't happen and that won't be the end of the world, but hell, cross yer digits.

Phone Manners

Spending more time at home, I am getting more call centre calls, and I seem to be on heaps of lists as Mister Dreaded One. I just don't beat about the bush now and have just started hanging up. But the other day there was a call and it was the same accent and started off the same way: "Hello Mr Dreaded One -"

"NOT INTERESTED!" I cut in.

"Pardon?"

"I'm not interested in whatever it is that you're selling. Be gone!"

And hung up. And fumed at yet another mood-breaking intrusion. And then thought, it's tax time soon, and the accountant always deals with The Dreaded One and could well think that The Dreaded one's last name is the same as my mine, and the accountant has a very similar accent... woopsie. I might start making sure they are miserable call centre drones before being rude.

Eeeeewwww...

Gross picture warning... oh. It's probably too late for that, innit. Oh well. Sorry.

If you've been reading the last couple of posts you'll know about me crying tears of blood after being hit in the eye with a... a rocket ship. That's right, I'm an astronaut who got poked in the eye with a cartoon space ship. Pretty huh?

Red Eye Special

A couple of other funny things about thumping the daylights out of my eye yesterday... I was standing there with my hand cupped over my eye crying tears of blood (but not really crying) just seconds after doing it and a customer walked over to me and asked if I had this dress but in her size. Good thing she had her priorities sorted.

"What is your size?" I asked without missing a beat, "heartless bitch size?"

Naturally that's not what I said. Didn't even think of it until much later. I told her that no, there's only what's on the rack. I could see her looking at the blood, but all she said was, "Bummer," and went back to looking for her dress. Humans are so odd.

The other really funny thing was that when I got home I realised that I was wearing a top that I have only ever worn at home. Yesterday was the first time I have ever worn it outside the house. It's got this cartoon picture of a cyborg dog, a chihuahua with a couple of fuck off machine guns and the message 'Beware Of The Dog.' Ho ho. Thing is, the dog has an infra red goggle lens thing over its right eye. It's bright red, just like my right eye. Glad it's not a headless pooch.

I have to make up something a little more macho than getting hit in the eye with furniture because I have a feeling I'm going to be resembling Christopher Lee's Dracula for a few more days.

Eyeball Goes Boing

So I'm working in my shop today and while rummaging for something that had been tidied up, the handle from a drawer flew up and hit me fair in the eyeball. I knew it was bad. You know you get that pain where a voice in your head goes shit man, this isn't good. There was blood coming from the eyeball and I thought I had ruptured it. Not a good look in a flash clothing shop. Anyway, the bleeding stopped but it's swollen and the white of my eye is zombie flesh eater red. I was going to go to the medical centre to have it checked but after a while the throbbing stabilised to a steady throb and the damage seems to have stabilised too, so I think a doctor is just going to say nothing we can do but let the blood drain away of its own accord.

I was dealing with it and and the customers when a kind of friend came in and saw my eye. His reaction? To launch into a long winded story about how he injured his hand recently, at the end of which he paused, really looked at my eye and said, "OH MAN! SHIT MAN, YOU GOTTA GET TO A DOCTOR! THAT'S REALLY REALLY BAD MAN, YOU GOTTA SEE SOMEONE ABOUT THAT! OH MAN OH MAN..."

Then he left the shop quite hastily. Good thing because I was about to bitch slap the fucker and tell him to get a grip.

The Big Cucumber

The next photo I was going to post was of the spiral stairs inside the Sagrada Familia because it's a spiral that could be stairs going up or stairs going down. There's a guy's head in the photo shot from underneath, so the camera has to have been aiming up. Then again, there's someone's foot in there too as though the camera was aiming down. It's a bit like one of those drawings by Escher (or whatever his name was) where you can change the perspective by will. In the end though it gives me vertigo so I decided not to show it to you.

Anyway, The Dreaded one and I were stuck in that spiral staircase for so long with a million other humans and far too many school kids that we started getting a little bored, so the next photo I decided to show you was when I took an extreme close up of one of The Dreaded One's eyes, then she took one of mine, and I was going to call that post Wide Stairy Eyes. But the photos are so close up they are blurry and a little bit creepy anyway.

So the photo I decided was up next was of this building taken from the purgatory spent inside The Spiral Staircase Of A Million Echoing Screams. It's a shot of one of the weirdest shaped buildings I've ever seen. It's huge and surrounded by teeny weeny normal sized buildings and is shaped like a very big sex toy. It's Barcelona's headquarters of The Ministry Of Cucumbers. Actually I don't know what the hell it is. Suppossedly it was inspired by Sagrada Familia, which means its designer is a Gaudi wannabe. Dude, you ain't no Gaudi.

It's so big and attention seeking that I'm a little amazed it took several days to see it for the first time. Maybe I was just so obssessed about all the pretty things in Barcelona that I was somehow blocking out the ugly things.

Next post will be about the weekend, which was big, messy and a bit odd and involved porn, going out, hanging out with a famous DJ, a marriage proposal, and an uber cute and girlie poem written about me in my poncho. I'll bet it's the porn you come back for. See you tomorrow then.

Better Than Chocolate Monkeys

The nativity facade at Sagrada Familia. Queued for aaaages to climb for aaaages up the second tower from the right, looking at the shot. This was just one of the many days I wandered around shaking my head at the amazingness of stuff. You visit places like this and they blow you away. You spend the best part of a whole day there. You devour every bit of information there is. You read its rich history and look at faded photos of when it was first being built in the middle of a field and marvel that any human mind had such a vision. You touch the walls and you check the thing from every angle and think it's funny how you've seen pictures and known about it vaguely, but you never really thought you'd be standing inside the thing. And then you linger and loiter and finally it's time to go, and you realise that you don't want to leave. You don't want to stop looking at this totally amazing construction that refused to be destroyed and which is slowly being rebuilt because you know that when you turn and walk away from it, it could quite easily be the last time you will ever see it. I want to go back when they have finished construction and I want to see it lit up at night and I want to climb that tower again. Maybe I will. Maybe I'll see it through an old man's eyes. But then maybe that day was the first and last time.

Gaudi was a genius. I couldn't get my head around this hanging model he made, all strings and weights, the weights pulling down in the centre of suspended strings to form the perfect arch when visually inverted and a model based on it. I mean, what kind of mind thinks of things like that? It's real outside the sqaure stuff. Does anyone really think like that anymore?

Gaudi was a genius who got hit by a bus or a tram. He was probably a million miles away, busy thinking outside the square when he really should have looked up. I wonder what he was thinking. I wonder how the tram driver felt when he found out that he'd snuffed out such a great and celebrated mind.

Still, luckily for us Gaudi got whacked late in his life. Imagine if he'd been killed as a little boy. We wouldn't even know what we'd missed out on.

I was such a Gaudi fan by the end of that week in Barcelona. At park Guelle I found a mug in the souvenir shop that had an image of a mosaic that was somewhere in the park. The mosaic is of two blue fish. I bought the mug and went back to search for the real mosaic but it could have been anywhere. Couldn't find it. Another reason to try to make it back. It's like a treasure hunt, trying to find those two blue fish.

As you can see, Gaudi's church and park and so much of his art and design had a slightly more profound effect on me than the chocolate monkey on a doily.

Chocolate Dude

I'll get over this chocolate things obsession in a minute, but for now - check it. Not only do the Spanish make chocolate monkeys, they make chocolate dudes too.

This was on La Rambla, which is probably Spanish for The Mall. The vibe and the buzz here were vibey and buzzy, with outdoor eating places where they served beer in goldfish bowls (tacky as hell) and there were pet shop stalls where you could buy chameleons and aligators and turtles and all sorts of weird shit.

But really, life sized chocolate dudes. Who would have thought.

On a separate note, the word 'blog' is bloody awful. Apparently there is a world-wide campaign to come up with something more phonetically appealing. Any suggestions?

Easter Monkey On A Doily

Right. Going to start posting more photos. This was taken in Spain. In Sant Feliu de Guixols, to be precise. It's the place that we picked on the map whilst in the bus station in Figueres. It looked more or less on the way to Lloret de Mar (it was on the way as the crow flies, just not, as we were to find out, on the way as the bus drives). Glad we went there though. It was a little chunk of paradise perched on the edge of the Mediterranean. Wandered fully loaded up with our back packs and tent etc and found that although it was the off season, many places were already booked out. Ended up staying at a pretty upmarket resort because they had vacancy and what the hell.

Anyway, looking for somewhere to eat that first night, we found this guy. It was Easter, and where we have chocolate bunny rabbits to celebrate the miracle of the resurrection of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Spanish, it seems, have monkeys. Huge chocolate monkeys. On doilies. How fucked up is that? Dali must have had something to do with this.

The Dreaded One and I found a little tapas bar, ate and drank, discussed whether we had really just seen an Easter Monkey On A Doily, then went in search afterwards, and here you have the proof. Man, it makes our tin-foil wrapped bunnies look ridiculous.

One Deadline Gets its Arse Kicked

The good thing about doing crappy jobs (like the past week catering) is how good you feel afterwards. Same with looming deadlines. There was no room for error with that last writing job, and I was really nervous about it. I thought I had gotten over being nervous about writing for street press, but nervous I was because it was a more serious story than I usually write and... I dunno. I didn't want to fuck it up, is what it boils down to. Got the story in last night, publicist emailed this morning to find out if everything was okay, I emailed the editor to ask if the story was okay, and she said she was very happy with it. Big phew. That was a very nice way to start a new week.

That's two reviews and one feature for the new mag, all written at short notice. I hope that doesn't make me their Short Notice Guy. I'm guessing every mag has them. Then again, I do get a buzz out of looming deadlines. I need another deadline, man, need it real bad.

Backdraft

11.40 pm. I have a first draft down, and I think it's okay. I'm really quite nervous about this because it's the kind of earnest "journalism" that I am not quite used to writing.

On that note - I always call myself a writer as opposed to author or journalist, but an editor referred to me as a journalist this week and that made things happen and in the eyes of the person she said it to, I am a journalist. It's happened before... "Felicity - this is Quick. Quick's a journalist with etc." Funny. I really do think of myself as a writer and not a journalist.

Also, because of this silly catering job this week I've been wearing a chef's outfit again, and the runners and kitchen hands have been calling me Chef. Like a title type thing. It's fucking funny:

"Chef - what should I do with this thing?"

"Erm... put it over there?"

"Okay. Thanks Chef."

Also what is funny is that I set the barbecue fully on fire today. Christ on a pogo stick. It got really busy and it was just madness, it started with wafty flames that were quite pretty, but then it just kind of settled in and the flames got bigger. So I closed the hood and thought that lack of oxygen would put it out, but it drew air in from various venty bits and just got bigger. The Dreaded One was working with me today and she said, "Just ignore it. There's not much more that it can burn and it'll go out."

Several minutes later I was smelling molten plastic and there were plumes of acrid smoke and I started thinking that it's funny that we have a fire extinguisher but I've never really looked at the instructions. Like when you get on a plane and they go on about the escape procedure and you start leafing through the inflight magazine because you know your plane is never going to be one of the ones that crash.

Anyway, I was weirdly embarrassed about using the fire extinguisher. It just would have been too dramatic. And I was wearing a chef's outfit and not a fireman's outfit, so I disconnected the gas tank, moved it away and ran away.

I ran away and filled a container with water and ran back and doused the flames and they went out and that was nice because I really was starting to get concerned. There was a certain technique in my dousing of the flames because it was a small container and quite angry flames. Angry enough for the heat to crack the iron grill. Not bad.

Anyway. Film Festival story done. I think it reads just like the work of a "journalist". It comes out on Tuesday and I think it will be okay. I'm hoping it will be well-recieved. I just would have liked more time with it. And the freedom of another thousand words. We'll see what happens.

And Closer Still

11.40. answers are in. Am too tired to do anything with them. It's all very earnest. My tone will probably have to be earnest.

Nothing can be done tonight. I must sleep. Story will have to be written tomorrow night.

Nighty night.

Lotsa luv,

Quick.

And Closer...

8.35pm Friday night. No sign of the answers to my questions from the artistic director of the film festival. His publicist has said she is leaving the office for the night and that he will send the answers directly to me. I commenced writing a back-up story, but it was pooh. I need his answers.

Am really very tired after today. Rose at 6am, didn't eat a thing all day because I was so busy feeding others. Worked hard. Have just had vodka. I fear I shall be asleep quite soon. Have to rise early again tomorrow morning to do today all over again.

It's looking like I will be writing this story tomorrow night after an equally exhausting day. I hope I have the Q&A by then.

I don't like writing stories like this at all. I do like this vodka though. Need food, wine and sleep.

Send help. Or a day of niceness. Or answers to my questions.

The Line That Is Dead Is Getting Closer

Catering is hard work. I used to do a lot of it and was used to it, but for almost four years now I've been paying the rent by sitting on my arse and making words appear on a computer screen. I have become soft. I feel shattered after today.

The job was manning a barbecue at an expo type thing called Timber & Wood, and yeah, it was an expo about lathes and drills and saws and all manner of things timber and wood. Astonishingly, I think the crowds were similar in size to Sexpo, which is held at the same venue. Thousands of backyard shed types all getting off on the smell of sawdust. I couldn't believe it.

Naturally they were all the kind of thick-fingered blokes who love nothing better than a barbie, so from about 10am I was a blur of tongs and spatulas, and God know how many hundreds of meals I prepared. Plenty of good feedback, bugger all wastage, control under pressure, I kind of got a buzz out of it.

But I feel wrecked now because there was a lot of running around and lifting of heavy objects. I smell like a human sized sausage and I am resisting the urge to jump in a bath with the largest glass of vodka and orange the civilised world has ever seen, because...

So the film festival director was hard to get hold of. Spoke to the publicist and she agreed that an emailer would work and I build a story around the answers. I stressed that I must have the answers by tonight because I really want to get a first draft down, this being Friday night and the deadline being Sunday and I have to be at the Timber & Wood extravaganza all day Saturday and Sunday.

I opened my mail and there was an email from the publicist. This is good, I thought, the answers are in. The publicist said the film fest director just announced his resignation and the publicist was wondering if this would affect the questions I wanted to ask him. This is not good, I thought. He still doesn't have the questions?

I added one more relevant question and begged her to tell me I would have the answers tonight, and all is good, the guy is working on them as I write. I was so relieved I wanted to celebrate with a bath and the largest glass of vodka and orange the civilised world has ever seen.

Then Men's Health called about the photo shoot for the story I am doing for them. They really want this to look good and there's an art director and a photographer and the shoot is going to happen in the evening next week as some abandoned 2nd World War tunnels near Taronga Park Zoo. I like that the mag wants to go to so much trouble and everything, but I now have to say to some people I haven't even met before, "Meet me at night in a disused tunnel so that I can take photos of your tattoos."

Hmm.

Lines That Are Dead

So what happened next was, I became an into expert on the Sydney Film Festival, came over all what the fuck I'll sort something out tomorrow, felt suddenly tired, The Couch beckoned (seductive bitch), I decided a short nap before the play would refresh me, and voila! Sleep!

I was very pissed off because the play was one I had been looking forward to and the invitation had the words "Gala", "Media", "Opening" and Night" attached. Basically, free booze 'n schmooze. Damnit.

The artistic director of the festival is hard to pin down, so I've emailed some questions to him via his publicist, I have a vague idea of the direction the story will take and now have to write the story tomorrow night after ANOTHER gruelling day on this mega catering job. So, hopefully answers will be back by the time I finish work (shattered) on Friday night, first draft will emerge later that night, more mega catering Saturday, second draft Saturday night, more goddamned food and people on Sunday, final draft sent to the mag on Sunday night.

In amongst it all yesterday, my Men's Health editor was on the phone and that story is tantalisingly close to being sorted. He has to get back to me with details of the photo shoot, I have to confirm with the six subjects of the story... I actually really quite like deadline stress. I like the phone ringing. I like all the things I never used to like. I want more. I want more deadlines, goddamnit. This is exactly what I had in mind when I quit my job.

What's that Smirnoff? You want to enter me? Okay, coming my love...

Someone Bitch Slap Me

Just in case any of you were worried about me then, it's okay, I bitch slapped myself a couple of times and told me to get a grip. It's only a thousand words. It's just a story. I'm a writer. I will come up with something. And after all, God gave us the wee small hours sometimes for drinking, other times for meeting deadlines.

Right, an hour's reasearch and planning before heading off for an opening night. Weee... happy(ish) again.

Stress Fractures

Excuse me while I vent... I said yes to some catering work because I need the dollars. It's made it a pretty full week - I'm basically working through until Sunday. I have to leave to see a play in the next couple of hours to review in the new mag I'm freelancing for. In theory, that's good because there will be drinks and I can unwind.

BUT the new mag had also asked me to think about doing a story on a certain major film festival that's about to start. I hadn't had time to think about it but didn't want to appear slack, so I did a bit of last minute reading and thought of an angle and sent it in just to say been busy, not slack. But the Ed sent it to the publicity people who liked it and want me to interview the festival director for the story. Not only is it a feature but it's the cover story, with the absolute latest deadline first thing Monday morning, which translates to Sunday night. I cannot fucking believe it. If I just had one day, it would be fine, but I'm playing with food and serving customers under stressful conditions all day long until Sunday night.

I hate cutting it this fine because... well what if shit goes wrong? They have booked the cover in, booked the story in and why did I say yes? What if the festival director is too busy or our hours conflict?

Just to spice things up a little, I've just realised I have no recording device for the phone interview and no time to buy one.

I think I am not going to enjoy this play tonight. I think my brain has stress fractures.

Swashbuckling Cherub

I've had this rather dashing facial hair thing going since being overseas. I kept thinking that it was a bit silly, but people kept saying they really like it, so I kept on with it was was really feeling quite the modern day swashbuckler.Thing is, to keep these things looking half decent you have to put in a bit of effort, always have on hand a sharp pair of scissors, couple of mirrors for the profile thing and time enough to really put in some quality preening time... and what the kind of sorry assed bitch has those kind of luxuries?

This week, unexpectedly, I'm a busy man (crap you should see how much I've bitten off... I am way silly), and in a fit of not-wanting-to-be-a-swashbuckler-because-I-am-too-busy, I shaved off my facial hair tonight. Personally, I thought I looked like a nudie swashbuckler but The Dreaded One just laughed. Brilliant.

Anyway, think cherub. I am Quick... Meddle with me good sir and you meddle with the last swashbuckling cherub you'll ever meddle with...

Advertising Nitwits

One of my favourite blogs at the moment is Overheard In New York. It's on my list at the right of the page here. Check it out of you want to laugh at the funny things people say.

Unfortunately I don't have very lemony fingers today (that sentence will make perfect sense to one other person on planet Earth), so I'm going to be lazy and post my latest Acid Tongue column. It's for the mag I used to work for. Weird seeing my name in there again. I don't think you need to have seen the offending (and offensive) advertisment to get the gist.



So I returned from overseas in a content frame of mind, my head filled with memories of things beautiful and wondrous, my inner aesthete and hedonist spooning each other in contented bliss. Then suddenly my mood of optimism and hope that the world really might be a shining paradise of jaw-dropping beauty... okay, I’m going to gag if I keep this up.

And speaking of gagging and spooning – how’s that new anti-smoking campaign, huh? Fucking hell, they’re at it again. The government and the ad industry spooning and murmuring sweet nothings and coming up with another way to squander millions (I think the NSW government threw almost two million at this baby). I’m not saying that gangrene is not an important problem or one which smokers shouldn’t be made aware of, but for Christ sake, target your audience will you. Like 75% of the Australian population, I don’t smoke. Like 100% of viewers confronted with this ad, I don’t want to watch it. Like everyone participating in the increasingly pointless brain massage that is telly-watching (gangrene foot fetishists aside), I hit the remote as soon as this abomination comes on. Result? Ineffective advertising.

Jesus, aren’t there schools of advertising? Aren’t there “gurus” enlightening advertising disciples about the Golden Rules Of Advertising? Aren’t there countless books available that teach advertising basics? What spotty geek came up with this idea? I can just imagine the ad pitch: “Whoa, dude! Let’s, like, totally gross everyone out with, like, manky toes ‘n shit. Awesome. We’ll have a close up of, like, The Foot Of Horror, and a doctor will draw a line where he’s going to totally amputate the dude’s leg. Man I am so going to win an award for this.”

And speaking of drawing the line, where do we draw the line with shock horror advertising? Increasingly graphic warnings don’t work, so the ante is upped. ‘Smoking is a health hazard’ didn’t work. The legions of puffers marched on. ‘Smoking kills’ didn’t work. ‘Smoking causes heart disease and lung cancer.’ Sorry, not good enough. Graphic pictures on the cigarette packets weren’t persuasive enough; still more people took up the habit. Now this bilge. What next? They’re a stubborn bunch, smokers. Unless they’re newly arrived Venusians, they know that smoking is a lethal habit, and it’s just retarded to make the rest of us suffer by springing shit like this on us whilst in the comfort of our own homes.

Gee it’s good to be back. Wait on... no it’s not.

Grumpy

This Is The Cult Of Snap!

Yesterday everything was pretty damned funny. I spent a lot of time giggling. Not girly giggling, more like if you can imagine Errol Flynn or Basil Rathbone giggling. I was giggling like a swashbuckler. It's just how I giggle.

Then today, I was the grimmest fucker you could imagine. My mood was hair trigger sensitive and blood thirsty, and I have no idea why. Everything was done the wrong way, people were stupid, there were no sytems where clearly systems should be in place, the slightest unexpected noise was an explosion of aggression.

I was aware that I had already huffed a few too many times and was trying to keep it under control, but The Dreaded One (who was yawning waaaaay too frequently all morning) came into the shop with me and had to go out the back for something. I was at the computer entering stupid new stock into the stupid datafrigginbase and the goddamnmotherfucking back door must have blown shut. So The Dreaded One let herself back in and asked, "Why did you lock me out?" My reply may have been a tad over the top...

"I DIDN'T LOCK YOU OUT," I snapped. "WHY WOULD I LOCK YOU OUT? I WAS HERE AT THE COMPUTER THE WHOLE TIME! WHAT A COMPLETELY STUPID THING TO ACCUSE SOMEONE OF DOING!"

"Okay. Calm down. I just thought you locked me out."

"I JUST SAID I DIDN'T LOCK YOU OUT! DON'T KEEP ACCUSING ME OF THINGS I DIDN'T DO. WHAT A TOTALLY UNREASONABLE AND UNJUST THING TO ACCUSE ME OF!"

A moment of baffled silence. "Why are you so angry today?"

"THERE YOU GO AGAIN UNFAIRLY ACCUSING ME OF STUFF! I'M NOT ANGRY. OKAY?"

Later, I had to change the clothes on one of the manequins, and I went all muttery because of his stubborn refusal to cooperate. "Stop struggling," I muttered vehemently as we wrestled about. "Insolent piece of shit... what did you say to me? Oh yeah? You just watch what you say to me clothes boy or I'll take your fucking head off. And don't you dare look at me like that."

I really don't know what it was all about. How is it possible for a reasonably intelligent person's temper to explode all because, as happened a short time later, a coat hanger doesn't fit through the neck of a T shirt as easily as it would if you were living in paradise?

I really need to break this mood before tonight because I'm being sent to review a contemporary dance performance. "Ooo-ooh, don't the dancers all think they're sooo clever..."

I think someone must be voodooing my sorry arse. Either that or I've got hormones.

Thank You For Calling

My loathing of people is a general thing, but there are some in particular I reeeeeally despise. Those people who call from market research companies and marketing promotion companies for example. I've given up on being polite to them. I know they're only doing their job and I don't get abusive, but I have no qalms about cutting them off and telling them point blank, "I'm not interested, I don't want any, I don't care, goodbye." Sometimes I just give them a Hollywood hang up.

Today, however, I realised that you can have fun with them.

"Hello. My name is Gwen. How are you today sir?"

"I'm well. Thank you for asking."

"That's excellent. I'm so happy to hear it. Sir, your number has been selected today for a very special opportunity. I'm calling from The Really Annoying Phone Company, and we're offering you the opportunity of owning a brand new phone... for free! Now the package we're offering you, sir, comes with two handsets and usually retails for more than $400... but we're offering it to you at absolutely no charge. Doesn't that sound good to you?"

"Well it sure does Glen, but I'm just not sure what you mean by my 'number' has been selected. Which number has been selected?"

"Sir? Your telephone number."

"Ah, see, that's what confused me. I don't have a telephone number."

"You... I... sir?"

"I don't have one. I don't even have a telephone."

".......?"

"Glen? Are you still there?"

"Yes sir. And it's Gwen."

"I don't believe in them, Glen. Telephones are against my religion, therefore I don't have one."

"Sir... I'm just offering you a free... what is this phone number?"

"You should know, Glen. You called me."

"But I... Then you must have a phone. And if you have a phone you must have a number... I am not understanding what you mean..."

"Thank you for calling. And have a nice day."

Spanish Socker

This is what I loved about the coast of Spain. We'd be walking along some windy track... that's windy as in it winds, not windy windy... as in the wind blows (ah, listen to me the wordsmith at work), and we'd come acros something like this. This around Loret De Mar where loud British people go to play soccer in their socks on the beach. Maybe they think it's why it's called soccer... or socker. Regardless, it was odd seeing so many different groups of people running around in their socks. It was like everyone hit the beach and saw other people doing the sock thing, so they all wanted to blend in and kicked their shoes off and ran around in their socks... in fact now that I think about it, that whole sock thing was really quite peculiar.

But this picture is not about playing socker. This is about wandering through a winding cliff-top track and stumbling upon too cool little cafes like this, where the wine is cheap and delicious and the view spectacular. About three seconds after I took this photo we were sitting down at that little table drinking said wine and gazing at said view. Perfection.

Hmm. I now have the urge to run around on an Australian beach in my socks, just to see what the attraction is. Wonder if it will catch on.