People

The other night at a function at The Big Pointy Building, a sweet old lady wandered over to the kitchen area and asked for the way out. It's not the public exit, but there is a back way out and as she was here I gave her directions. But you need a pass and just to make sure she'd get out okay I said I'd take her down in the elevator and show her the way. She was a lovely old lady with amazingly polished speech. Very gracious. All manners. All charm. I took her down and showed her out and went back up to work, thinking I probably just did the wrong thing because there are bad fuckers about and you should trust no one. People, they ain't no good.

Then yesterday, I'm wandering around the Dank Street Festival, being amazed by so much great design. I love looking at a thing and seeing that someone has spent time creating this thing... a chair or a light that is so much more special than just a chair or a light. A person has applied themselves to thinking about this object and making it exceptional. People, they can be pretty good.

At one point I'm walking past the Dumbo Feather stand, a magazine I admire because it presents the best qualities of really good, creative people. I found this magazine when in Byron at a time I needed it and I read parts of it through tears (Viking tears, you understand). One of our suppliers was featured in that particular issue and a whole life other than Food Supplier opened up. Business owner, film maker, refugee with years stolen from her life. I was amazed.

Anyway, in the seconds I'm standing there looking at the stand and thinking about what a good magazine this is, a guy comes up and asks the woman at the stall if he can take her picture. She is the publisher and editor. The guy tells her he is a big fan. She smiles and looks slightly embarrassed by the attention. I carry a big, inner smile around for the rest of the day. People, they can be bloody brilliant.

Later on in an art gallery, surrounded by jewelry and metal installations, this woman behind the counter says she sees me and The Dreaded One all the time at trance gigs. She doesn't look like a doofer but we know who she is. She has a particular kind of dance. We start talking and it's the first time we've talked and I think again about how many of us want to get to know each other away from parties. Turns out she's into theatre in a big way, loves cabaret, has been to so many of the same shows I've been to.

Although we haven't spoken before, she asks if we know someone she knows, a girl with a guy's name. I know the person, have spoken to her once. A lovely person who exudes fun and goodness. She's sick. She's too young to be this sick, but that's how it is. She's doing as well as can be expected and she's even working at the next doof. I'm not sure why this person has mentioned this other person but it has affected me because too often at these parties, contact is fleeting. Maybe that's changing. Maybe I've been in the scene for long enough now that I want to know these party people. We spend time together, we dance together and we share loads of laughs, but there is other stuff to find out, other things to say to people, other things to share with them.

We say goodbye and walk away and I feel I should get this person's number. But we rely on the fact that we'll see them at the next party or the one after that. Given what we have just talked about, why should I feel so confident about that? People, they're so fleeting. You have to hold on to the good ones.

A View Of Concrete

Fun day today. I got a buzz out of stuff.

Started off the day doing a phoner with Damian Walshe-Howling, the guy pictured who played Benji in the hugely successful crime thriller mini series Underbelly. Chat went well, I think, and the story should be good. He came across as a bit like Brendan Cowell - no bullshit kind of person , articulate and intelligent and passionate about story-telling. I like this kind of people. I wish there were more of them.

I also think I've got tix to The Burlesque Hour at The Spiegeltent, currently on the forecourt of The Big Pointy Building. I am excited about this. I thought I'd missed out. I'm happy and grateful that I haven't.

And after doing a cocktail function for about 500 people tonight, I came home feeling tired and a bit bleh but a movie came on called Morvern Callar. Holy crap, what a totally good movie. I really enjoyed it. The shots... the storyline... the most realistic portyal of the state of mind you can be in when in a nightclub... just a really fucking good movie.

Also sent my short story Leaving Ruben Jane off today. Hope that one sees print some day.

Right. It's just about snowing here which is ridiculous. The wind is howling and it's freezing... what is going on?

Killer Joe Review

KILLER JOE

Talking to director Iain Sinclair recently about his production of Tracy Letts’ Killer Joe, I confess to being a bit worried that he wouldn’t be able to pull it off. A good storyline that the Coen brothers could do juicy things with on film, sure. But crowding the already cosy Downstairs Theatre at Belvoir with a live blues band as well as the cast? Not sure.

On Sunday afternoon in a full house I was bitch-slapped and told I was wrong. This was near perfect theatre.

Set in a trailer in Texas, the story follows drug dealer son who gets shafted and hatches a plan to kill his mother for her life insurance. The mother found his stash and sold it to fix the car putting the son on the wrong side of his dealer, so his plan to kill her seems reasonable enough to him. Other family members think it’s a great idea. Enter the local sheriff, Killer Joe, gun for hire and all round evil bastard. Everything turns to shit. These people are wrong. They are fucked up and feral, lacking in morals and prepared to do whatever it takes to survive. And they are very real. Real like scabs are real.

There are disturbing scenes in this play. It’s raw. It’s brutal. A few bums squirmed on seats, especially as the tension builds and things get nastier and nastier. On occasion it’s pretty damned funny too. There is a lot more humour (of the bleakest kind) than I was expecting. We laugh at how hopeless these people are, at how shallow they are. Underneath the laughter, however, is the uneasy knowledge that people like the Smith family do exist.

This was very well cast - Maeve Dermody was luminous as the young and apparently naïve Dottie and Robin Goldsworthy as the cunning and stupid Chris stood out, which is impressive given that the entire cast was utterly convincing.

I wasn’t sure how well a live band was going to meld with the play, but it worked. The Snowdroppers provided a break from the grim dealings unfolding and somehow gave the play more scope. Without the music, I think this would be a very claustrophobic piece; with the music it opened up and became something larger – a morality story, perhaps, rather than simply a story.

The play's director made a comparison between The Snowdroppers and Nick Cave, at least in their on-stage intensity, and yeah, there was an actual resemblance between the lead singer and Nick Cave. It was physical, to a slight degree, and it was there in the delivery, like when he was belting out some seriously good songs, he wasn't on stage but somewhere else, somewhere deep in the song. I want to see this band live again soon at a proper gig. They are very good.

I came away from Killer Joe feeling like I’d seen something special. Tough writing, brave performances and bold direction, sound and set design that takes you to another place. This is what theatre is all about.

At Belvoir Street Downstairs Theatre until 2 November.

LEE BEMROSE

A shorter, tidier version of this review should be out in the current issue of Drum, but this is the kind of theatre I think no one should miss out on, so if you don't read Drum but you are in Sydney and you want some seriously good theatre you have been told: do not miss Killer Joe. Miss it and I will hunt you down and mess you up.

You Are Like The Weather

I am not a morning person, at least not a work morning person. This is an established fact. Put me in a forest and I am very much a morning person. But work? Forget it.

A new work person for whom English is a second language observes this.

"What is wrong?" she asks as I button up my faux chef jacket.

"Nothing is wrong," I tell her, faux smiling the weariness from my tone.

"Hmm," she ponders back. "I think..."

She frowns, struggling to find the right words while I think oh God make this conversation end because at this time of the morning there are no right words.

"I think," she goes mercilessly on, "That you are... ah... you are like the weather." Accompanied by a hand waved in the direction of the day outside.

I look outside. It is a gloomy day. Bitch has just made me smile.

Horse Dreaming

I have a post coming soon about band riders (that wish list of stuff they have delivered to their changeroom). But first, this...

Weird dreams lately. Last night I had this really vivid one of someone coming to the front door of my house (not my real house now, but it was my house in the dream) riding a horse. The door was open and the horse wanted to come in, which it did minus the rider. It was a bit restless and stompy and agitated but I took it and calmed it and lead it from one end of the house to the other. It was surreal and strangely cute. So weird to have such a large animal inside the house. It seemed happy and curious. We got to the back door and I lead it up some stairs and back onto the road outside where the horse's rider ran up and climbed back on. I was left feeling amused by it all.

Just a few minutes ago I looked up dream symbols and found this about horses: "The Horse is a very strong dream symbol. It represents death."

Just like that. Way to give me the willies, dream people.

Dragon Dreaming Memories

Couple of shots from a memorable weekend. Top is me with a lovely person. Middle is me being puff-cheeked about something worth getting all puff-cheeked about ("It's all gone to shit!"). Why do I look so Grumpy when I was up to my neck in a totally gorgeous weekend? Last two are a couple of random shots that kind of capture the vibe of the weekend.

It will be interesting to see if New Person and I do become friends. You ever get that thing where you're sitting with a bunch of people and something just sparks between you? And you know you both get it? We sat and talked after the others left and then we wandered and talked and laughed and danced and we just got along brilliantly. But was it real and lasting or a fleeting thing due to the vibe of the weekend? Who knows. Doesn't really matter in the end because the afternoon and late into night were filled with laughs and it was just part of a very cool weekend.

I want to be back in the forest being silly.

Wishies

Had such extended, vivid dreaming last night. Could understand where some of it came from, didn't get some of it but just felt it meant something. There was a feeling of portent and fear. Something ain't right.

Still, what do you do? Sent off what I feel is one of my best short stories to a mag overseas (it's a dark love story... will I ever stop writing about love?) and have started compiling some funny stuff to approach agents and publishers with.

Meantime, I read about wishies while reading Isabelle's blog. I like the idea of something called a wishie.

Verbal Snapshots From Dragon Dreaming

Still a bit tired and sunburned to blog properly. Had an awesome weekend but it took it out of me a bit. Still, here are a few favourite quotes from the weekend...


Shouted smilingly at The Dreaded One and myself on the open-air dancefloor: "I never see you two trashed!"
This struck me as particularly amusing. Like, seriously.

Said by many people over the weekend: "So I hear you guys are DJing at the next party."
This was supposed to be a secret. Grumpy & Stompy still have our trainer wheels on.

Said by The Dreaded One (AKA Stompy) to me after a particularly delicious and goofy day talking shit and meeting new people: "I knew you were a gonner as soon as I heard her accent."
Me too. Didn't help that New Person and her partner were as lovely as her accent... which was really lovely.

Said to me by New Person after she asked me to pour her a vodka whilst she was swinging back and forth in our hammock back at our camp: "I knew there was a reason I wanted to talk to you more than talking to all the others."

Said to New Person immediately after the above quote and me pouring and serving requested vodka: "And why was that? You thought I would be your minion?"
She replied, "No, far from it." Which was lovely. Absolutely lovely. Said with a totally lovely accent.

Said to me about Dreaded One by New Person while wandering aimlessly: "She's gorgeous. You must feel pretty good having someone like her hanging on your arm."

Said by me in reply: "Absolutely."

Said by me repeatedly: "It's all gone to shit."
This after observing that the interior of our tent appeared to have sustained extensive damage after several large clothing bombs had been detonated.

This really was a good party. The music was great and all the right people were there. The DJing level intimidated the fuck out of us and we are going to have to get really serious very soon. But such a good party. I had been a little reluctant to go, but nup. These gatherings... these days they feel like my version of family. A family gathering in the forest with so many smiles and hugs... aw shit I love it. My favourite thing.

Dragon Dreaming, Canberra 2008

A doof, this weekend, just out of Canberra. It's called Dragon Dreaming. The weather has turned warm and there will be outdoor dancing and loads of friends. And the soft luminous blue interior of our tent. Like returning to a warm and soft and blue snuggly womb.

And a return to something earthy. Hugs. Laughs. What was your name again? And typically, friends who say they want to one day experience the outdoor party scene do not fllow through. Limp dicks that they are.

Today was pretty crap. Love the hard work and really like the good team at The Big Pointy Building... with one exception.

Ooh... gossip? Not from me.

Am looking forward to this party. Need some mental re-adjustment.

Killer Joe by Pullitzer Winner Tracy Letts at Belvoir Street Downstairs

My review of Killer Joe here.

I read up about Killer Joe and listened to some of the music by featured band The Snowdroppers, and because I didn't really connect with the music I didn't think I was going to enjoy doing this story. But once I got the director, Iain Sinclair, on the phone it was one of the most enjoyable phone interviews I've done in quite a while. Really bummed I only had a quarter of a page allocated. I think I'll try to check out this play after all.

(The following is my original draft for my own reference. I'm just a little bemused by the sub-editing. My mistakes weren't caught and weird changes were made. Me no understand).


DIRTY DEEDS

TRACY LETTS’ LATEST PLAY HAS TAKEN OUT A COUPLE OF PRETTY IMPRESSIVE GONGS. A LONG TIME FAN OF THE WRITER’S WORK IS THEATRE DIRECTOR IAIN SINCLAIR. LEE BEMROSE GRABBED A LITTLE OF HIS TIME AS HE PREPARES TO DIRECT KILLER JOE FOR BELVOIR STREET.

Catching up with theatre director Iain Sinclair over the phone turned out to be a bit tricky. He’s a busy man, currently working on two productions. One is The Convicts Opera for Sydney Theatre, the other is Killer Joe which will be staged at Belvoir Downstairs. Both productions are gritty, both feature music, but while Convicts Opera is very Australian, Killer Joe is as American as apple pie... albeit a morally empty apple pie with a bad-ass attitude and a loaded Smith & Wesson.

Set in a Texan trailer park, Killer Joe follows the story of white trash Smith family. When the mother sells her dealer son’s drug stash, the son comes up with a plan to kill the mother to collect her life insurance. His sister thinks this is a sweet idea, and so they enlist the help of the corrupt local sheriff.

Written by recent Tony and Pulitzer winner Tracy Letts, I wonder if the play could have been adapted and set in an Australian caravan park, but the director feels there are some fundamental differences between America and Australia and that such an adaptation would be wrong for this particular play.

“The play is all about Texan values. The whole world has been living under Texan values for some time with our friends in the Republican party over there. This is like a boiled down version of that kind of thinking.

“Trailer park culture in America is a very different thing to trailer park culture here. There’s also the fact that Tracy Letts is an Oklahoman, which is just the next state along. The way that he’s written this is so much in the rhythm and style of southern American thinking. Texas is a very specific kind of place. Cormac McCarthy in No Country For Old Men said something like there’s something about Texas, something in the soil that seems to be able to soak up cruelty and dish it back out at the same time.”

At the heart of Killer Joe is the decay of values. It’s an examination of what happens to people living in social and moral vacuum, and while we have our version of idle lives and emptiness of both space and values here, Sinclair feels that it’s just intrinsically different in The States. He paraphrases Robert Hughes here in saying that the great difference between America and Australia is that because America started out as a Utopian society they’ve got nowhere to go but down, and because Australia started out as the trash can of Europe we’ve go nowhere to go but up.

Certainly the characters portrayed in Killer Joe are down. And dirty. Other words that pepper the conversation about the play are fierce, tough, strong and (when describing Tracy Letts’ writing style) muscular.

“It’s such a fiercely dramatic piece,” Sinclair says, clearly a long-time admirer of the writer. “And the reason for that is he’s a Steppenwolf [Theatre Company] guy and they have a reputation for putting on tight, hard, lean and smart theatre.”

For this production, the director has invited tight, hard, lean grimy blues band The Snowdroppers to play live on stage throughout the play.

“There’s something about those guys that I haven’t seen on stage for a long time in a rock band – even though they have a 1930’s depression blues aesthetic going on. For me it felt the same way as when I was a young kid I saw Nick Cave on stage for the first time. They manage to carry on this theatrical intensity which matches exactly the tone of this play.”

The Snowdroppers play gritty music, but it’s kind of upbeat as well, even if the things they sing about are not. Sinclair says this also ties in well because Killer Joe is savage, but with moments of surprising tenderness and humour throughout.

WHAT: Killer Joe
WHEN & WHERE: 10 October – 2 November at Belvoir Street Downstairs Theatre.

Kitty Flanagan Review

Just saw Kitty Flanagan. God. So funny. So gorgeous. Just banged out a late night review of the show for Drum Media. The review went along the lines of oh my God she's so funny and gorgeous and I'm a dribbling idiot. The review is more about the night overall rather than her performance. Mostly her material was exactly the same as her show from about a year or so ago and the lack of atmosphere really made an impression.

But she is a very very funny human being.


KITTY FLANAGAN

The Gaelic Club is a weird venue. Something about the layout. Great times have been had there but I always suspect that this is because the party is better than the venue. Same thing happened on Tuesday night – early on the vibe felt soulless and empty, like a pub trivia night. Thank God the comedy was good.

A couple of suggestions: maybe try putting in some tables for punters to sit at and feel comfortable with getting up and down to get drinks. That school assembly arrangement was awful and it prevented people spending at the bar. Also, get rid of the muddy sounding chill music and retro rock for the overly long waiting time for the comedy to start. It felt like a wake.

The MC for the evening was Matt Dyktynski. He was relaxed and funny and had some good banter with the school assembly. He was good with accents and served up some genuinely funny moments.

First comedian up was a guy called Oliver (sorry – can’t read my scrawled version of his second name). He was Asian and played the Asian schtick and seemed pretty nervous. There were a few jokes at reality TV’s expense but my scribbles end his section with ‘pretty bad.’

Jason Chong didn’t look very Asian to me but check his last name. And he played up to the Asian thing too but in more confident style. He was very relaxed and at times very funny. He did a funny section with an Optimus Prime voice-changing helmet. Very silly and I want one of those helmets.

Then Kitty Flanagan came on and fuck me if I didn’t stop taking notes. Damnit. I got distracted by how funny she was. It wasn’t new material, but God it made the school assembly laugh. Seriously, we laughed till a little bit of wee came out.

The Gaelic Club has some good comedy acts coming up and they’re worth going to. The club just needs to work on the ambiance.

Comedy at The Gaelic Club happens on the last Tuesday of every month.

LEE BEMROSE

Ben Ely From Regurgitator

In the press release the painting was incorrectly called, simply, Toaster Head Boy. Apparently the correct title is Toaster Head Boy Dreams To Become A Destroyer Robot. I think it should be called Toaster Head Boy Zaps An Evil Robot In The Nuts. I don't have an image of the painting in question, so you'll have to go to the exhibition and check it out for yourself. Be quick though. It ends today.

October Grumpy Column

I read this story this morning and had lots of thoughts about it. My Grumpy column was due today so I thought I'd do a piece on it and incorporate my loathing of this advertising gem. Be warned if you haven't already seen the ad because it's pretty disgusting. One of the worst ad campaigns ever. Basically I'd say don't hit the link, but if you want to know what I'm on about, check it out.



Grumpy

Did you hear the one about the gun lobbyist, the lesbians and the bumper sticker? You know the one. True story. A Queensland guy had a sticker on his car that read “Gay Rights? The only rights gays have is the right to die.” A lesbian saw the sticker and has been awarded five grand because she was offended by it. One of her lesbian friends was also awarded five grand because she was also offended by the sticker in spite of not having actually read the sticker. She’d just been told about it. It’s comedy gold, really. The gun guy also copped a few grand in fines and that’s about the only bit I agree was right about the story. It is an offensive message. But then, have you ever seen a bumper sticker that isn’t offensive? I think everyone who has any kind of bumper sticker on their car should be fined for crimes against taste. Favourite one I saw recently was “Pig hunters stick it in deep.” Awesome. You can just imagine what kind of person drives that car. Relax, they’d say, it’s just a bit of a joke. Yeah well, a bit of a joke should be a bit funny.

In fact if I wasn’t so lazy, this would be my next get rich scheme: being offended. There are loads of things that offend me. Seen that offensive anti-smoking ad featuring the Leonard Cohen track Everybody Knows? Check it out on Youtube if you haven’t seen it. Totally offensive. How about you over-paid advertising monkeys target your audience a little better? I don’t smoke and yet I have clogged arteries, oozing tubes, manky feet, gangrene legs and cancerous teeth flashed across my TV screen with no prior warning whatsoever. All to an oh-so-clever soundtrack. I am deeply offended. I am offended by the images, by the fact that some faux genius probably thinks he’s created a piece of art and by the fact that governments pay for this kind of pornography while collecting taxes from the sale of cigarettes. If the offended lesbians scored five grand for one bumper sticker I reckon I must be owed at least 20 thousand.

In fact, how silly do we get about this? There’s this guy I work with who has that whistle thing through his nose hairs when he breathes, and I find that pretty gross. Ka-ching. Why wasn’t I onto this earlier? Getting rich couldn’t be easier.

4am epiphany

4am epiphanies. Don't you love them?

Cool People & The Terminator Bottle Of Bubbles

Almost three years ago a friend gave The Dreaded One and me a bottle of champagne for our birthdays (we're three days apart). We took the bottle to a doof but left it behind when we went to plant some trees.

The Dreaded One posted a query on a forum asking if anyone happened to pick the bottle up. Someone we knew in a distant way said that they found the bottle and they would keep it until next time they saw us.

As is the case with doof culture, you often don't see people for ages because often we only really get together for outdoor parties, and you just never know which party people will turn up to.

Recently we heard that these people lost everything they owned in a bad house fire. They're both sound and audio people and they lost a lot of electrical gear, all their furniture and all of their clothing. There is talk of having a fund raising party for them.

After I saw Bill Bailey on Saturday night and The Dreaded One came home after work we decided on a whim to go to a CD launch party by the guys who hold the tree planting parties. The couple who lost everything in the house fire were there and they laughed as they told us that our bottle of wine survived the fire. They still have it, as battered as it is, and we will get around to having it. We have to share it with them, as well as a back up bottle in case the heat affected this one.

Sometimes people are just very cool.

Also, we own decks. DJs Grumpy & Stompy - the fun begins.

Bill Bailey/Tinselworm Interview for Drum Media

Bugger. The bottom image was meant to be at the top and the top one at the bottom. My brain is noodle.

Anyway, this is my piece on Bill Bailey, finally out manny manny weeks after doing the interview. I really tried to avoid all the usual stuff and thought I had a couple of good quotes, but he did the Lisa Simpson bit on Denton verbatim. I know it's how these people have to do things but it was still disappointing.

Chatting to Manny was not. Bill is, I'm pretty sure, a very good man. It was a pleasure and fun and I wish I could have written more. Still, all good. It's the cover story for Drum's arts section in Sydney as well as Perth, so far. I think they'll also be using it in Melbourne and Brisbane.

I think I'm seeing his show next week, just a couple of nights after seeing Meow Meow's Vamp. Am I looking forward to next week? I think so. Much laughs to be had.

Vamp with Meow Meow & The Modern International Review

Here are a couple of pieces out in the current issue of Drum. Click on the image to make big, obviously.

Naturally the Meow Meow piece could have been longer but quarter page was all I was allowed. I'll see if I can transcribe the whole interview but I know what I'm like.

The Modern International was a really good play, seen in less than ideal circumstances. My plus one was really late and we got really shitty seats. Nevertheless, the play chewed up its running time of around two and a half hours with ease. It's good stuff.

I was less impressed with a tiny bit of sub-editing in the review. I'm usually not overjoyed but accepting with sentences appearing that I would never have written, or words are used that I would never have used, but there is an exclamation mark in this review! And I never use the damn things! Maybe when I'm taking the piss, but never in general writing! Because they are silly! Why is it there? What does it do besides make the sentence sound like it was written by a 10 year old? I mean, OMG!

Anyway, I asked the editor to please not ever put exclamation marks in my stuff if I haven't and she has agreed. I just hate the damned things.

My Bill Bailey story is out in the same issue. it's the arts section cover story and I think it's okay. I'll post it later.

Meow Meow's Vamp

Chatted to Meow Meow yesterday. She is divine, as ever. Piece comes out in Tuesday's Drum Media. I should probably transcribe the whole conversation here though. She was lovely. Really. Lovely. Uberly lovely.

What really took me away was her real love of some of the great vamps through time. We talked about Sarah Bernhardt, Ishtar, Salome, Anita Berber, and Marchesa Luisa Casati, among others. I also told her about my fascination with Dora Maar. These are all pretty amazing women. Awesome women, really.

Tonight, my head filled with nouveau swirls and dreams of eternal elegance and style that is... you know, just stylish, I made the mistake of walking through Darlinghurst. Jarring headfuck of reality. There is no elegance in Darlinghurst. There is no style. My head-peace crashed into the gutter. I was a bit disturbed.

As funny as I think Meow Meow is, I'm going along to see her for her love of relics as much as anything else. She's hilarious, but she's also singing the songs of some of the forgotten great ones.

And that is a cool thing.

Photo by Karl Giant.
Vamp plays at The Studio, Sydney Opera House 24 September – 5 October.

Earthdance 2008

Earthdance happens this weekend. I am not going to the Sydney party because I'm working. If it was being held on the correct day, however, I would be able to go. But the Sydney organisors in their wisdom have moved the party a day forward.

This doco is worth watching if you want to know what Earthdance is really about. In the opening minutes several people mention that at the heart of the thing is the simultaneous pause for a prayer for peace. The point is that at hundreds of locations around the world, hundreds of thousands of party-goers stop playing and pray for peace while the same track is played.

It's a bit of hippie silliness, perhaps, but it's kind of cool too. Certainly doesn't hurt anything. Sydney has always had a bit of a problem with the prayer bit because GMT midnight is about 9am here. You turn up, you see a handful of bleary eye punters who've just had breakfast.

Still, to this year move the party to an entirely different day... missing the point completely.

Last couple of years the party has been a bit of a mess. The promoters talk only of making the party bigger and bigger each year. Punters treat it like Field Day or any number of other dance festivals, and that's more or less okay. Get wrecked by all means, but drop some change in the bucket and I guess it does some good... after costs have been deducted for putting the party on.

I'd like to be at Waveform. It looks good and it's at least keeping the spirit of the thing alive. Sydney is just missing the point.

pool (no water) Review

Review more or less as it will appear In Drum tomorrow. I think there were moments in the play when it got so dark, when the nastiest and pettiest of emotions were portrayed, that I thought something like, "Phwoar!"

A shallower bunch you've never met... unless you've hung out in an arty scene for a bit, in which case you've probably met them all. And yet, for all their shallowness there was some good in them all. Kind of. Imperfect humans, you are.

If you're in Sydney, definitely check this one out. It was a pretty good Sunday matinee audience yesterday, which probably says more than my little 300 (ish) word review. 300 words to review a play? What is that? Why not go all the way and ask for reviews in haiku form?


pool (no water)

If you like your comedy dark, scathing and brutally funny, you’ll probably like Square The Circle’s production of pool (no water).

The story follows an artistic group (The Group) and the bonds that keep them together. One’s career has taken off where the others’ flounder, and spiteful jealousy and bitterness is revealed. When the highly successful former member of The Group comes a cropper, the others make the opportunistic decision to photograph her unconscious and broken body though her prolonged healing process. They are artists, and as such feel justified in adjusting broken and bruised limbs to better capture the most flattering light, if that is what is required for a more artistic shot. The friend eventually awakens and realises what they have been doing, and is, to the surprise and disappointment of them all, grateful. She sees the power of the images and the potential for a great exhibition, once again taking centre stage. The Group feels that their creation is being taken away, and their facades unravel. In a haze of drugs, action is taken.

British playwright Mark Ravenhill appears to have a very cynical view of those in contemporary art scene. Here they are portrayed as a venomous, opportunistic bunch who inwardly drool at the prospect of success even though they claim it is irrelevant to their work. And scratch the surface of their bravado and what do you find? The same - often pathetic - insecurities that plague us all. So by and large, I reckon Mr Ravenhill nails it.

Not sure the ‘cunt’ diatribe nailed it so well here. Seemed too PC and would have felt stronger and more confronting if delivered by one of the male characters.

Still, this is a compact play with loads to say about the nature of ambition and friendship. All aspects of staging are pared back – minimal lighting, fluro and sterile like hospital lighting, effective but minimal sound design – so that this production is really about four solid performers (Angela Bauer, Guy Edmonds, Lisa Griffiths, and Sam Haft) delivering a gritty and sometimes disturbingly funny script.

Until 20 September at Darlinghurst Theatre
Photo by Alex Craig

LEE BEMROSE

The Jokey Doctor

Been a bit unwell lately but in keeping with my sub-header about sometimes having to squint a little to see the funny stuff, here's this...

The doctor pokes about, takes my blood pressure and heart rate and deems them both in good shape. She pokes about a bit more and a bit more forcefully and seems surprised there is no abdominal pain. I put my shirt back on and she leads me through to the room where I am to give some blood for a blood test. I take a seat and the blood-taking guy comes in while the other doc goes about her business, just in the background.

I sink in my chair because I have encountered this guy once before, long ago. He is The Jokey Doc, the kind of guy who believes that humour is the key to making us all feel relaxed and able to cope with what must be a strange and foreign world to us civilians. As such, one wall is festooned with jokey cartoons related to medical health, jokey greeting cards and jokey famous quotes.

"Feeling unwell, are we?" The Jokey Doc asks, feigning concern and unhappiness.

"Not at all," I don't reply. "Every now and then I just feel like coming along to places like this to piss into tiny little jars and let fuckwits like you shove needles into my arms."

From the background, the other doctor calls out to tell me that I am very dry. I would like to think she is talking about my sense of humour, but no, she has matched a colour chart to my urine sample. "Very dry," she chastises.

"Sorry," I tell her. "I thought I was drinking enough water. I'll try to drink more."

"Hmm," The Jokey Doctor tells me. "We lose a lot more water as well as minerals and salts than we think. As well as water there's also Powerade, Lucozade, Gatorade... In fact," (A comical, circular wave of the hands to indicate abundance), "We want you to get lots of 'ades'!"

Pause for comic affect. Thumb and forefinger to the chin as he contemplates his little double entendre.

"Which I suppose," he goes exhaustingly on, "is not really the kind of thing you want to hear in a medical centre."

Boom. Fucking. Tish. Clearly he has done that one a thousand times and is more pleased with how much he has refined it each time and how wonderfully fresh he makes it sound each time.

Fucker busies himself with tubes and needles for about two seconds before stopping and gazing whimsically at a distant memory. "You know - speaking of specimen jars reminds me of the time that I - as a pink-faced intern - handed my first specimen jar to one of many returned war vets. Of course, they didn't make specimen jars the same back then. They were much smaller. Unlike the returned vets... big burly men, they were..."

Fucking hell, Uncle Monty - just give me the fucking syringe and I'll do it myself.

His anecdote basically amounted to the war vet being bemused by the diminutive size of the jar in comparison to the gigantic size of his shits and did the intern have any idea of how big the war vets shits were and everyone was watching and there were a lot of war vets who did big poos that he had to hand out specimen jars to and it was going to be a long day.

"Listen, fucker," I almost say at the end of this delightful story. "If you don't put that needle in my arm very shortly I will put it right into your eye with astonishing frequency."

When he finally gets started, jokey Doc tells me that his rollicking number twos specimen jar story came to mind because he saw that the other doctor was giving me a number twos specimen jar, which confuses me because I hadn't thought she was.

Still, at reception sorting out the paperwork, I decide to ask because maybe she was giving me a take-home one to do the... erm... procedure in the comfort of my own home, which was thoughtful.

"So," I say into the eerie silence of the packed waiting room. "Is that it then?"

"Yes. All done."

"Ah," I reply trying to whisper but trying to not sound like I'm whispering. Either way, in this silence it sounds like I'm shouting. "Because the doctor said something about a (specimen jar)."

"Really? To take home? Didn't say anything to me about a specimen jar. Still, if you want a specimen jar I can give you a specim-"

"Can we please stop saying specimen jar so much please. And look no. I don't want one, it's just that The Jokey Doctor - "

"It's no trouble, really."

As the receptionist turns to go and find a take-home specimen jar, I make my quick exit and flee to the comfort and safety of my couch and doona.

Early Morning Love Song

I Don’t Want to Fuck You, I Just Want To Hold You

Near sleep and I have everything I want,
Your breath against my chest,
The heat of your skin against mine,
The beat of our hearts entwined.

Narcotic dreams
As I feel the soft weight of your breast in my palm,
Breathe the scent of your skin,
Breathe your essence in.

Lay against me,
Trust me,
Love me, Want me. Dream about me
The way I dream about you.

I want this to last forever,
Curve of your hips,
The sweep of your back,
Light lick of parted lips.

Intoxicated smile as you push against me,
Lost to me.
Fingers tighten,
Dream-smile breaking through.

I don’t want dreams,
I don’t want memories,
I don’t want the real world,
I just want this to last forever.

And right now, maybe just for now,
I don’t want to fuck you,
I just want to hold you,
Just want to hold you.

This Is Love

One song leads to another. I've stepped outside of psytrance for a bit and am into jangly, psychedelic sounds and bad love stories. I want growly guitar and stories about love and addiction.

PJ is babe.

Stagger Lee Goes To The Shop

I'm tweaking my murder love story Leaving Ruben Jane, getting it ready for an upcoming competition. I've been distracted and kind of dark and brooding and murdery. Last song I heard before going to sleep last night was the previous post's Stagger Lee.

So the sun was shining in this morning when The Dreaded One made the coffee and told me that that was the last of the milk and we'd have to go to the shop to buy some more.

"Stagger Lee wouldn't go to the shop to buy milk," I replied, barely awake and not really considering that she'd never heard Stagger Lee. "He'd go to the shop, murder the shopkeeper and take the milk."

"Is that right?"

"Yeah. Stagger Lee would take, like, all the milk. Because he's a crazy motherfucker."

Stagger Lee

Feeling a bit mad. Feeling like a bit mad is okay when I see people making music like this. I like this one a lot.

Me & The Boys

The girl has been away and I've been holed up boozin' and writin' Finished my short story called Leaving Ruben Jane. I think it's okay. Love and death and stuff. I think it's okay. I think.

It's just been me and the boys for the last few days. Nick, whose Ship Song is kind of what I'm aiming for in short story form... fucking hell he does love well; Tex, glowering bastard he is; and Tom. This clip is insane and brilliant. I hope he comes to Australia again. Just one more time please?

So just in case any of you were thinking that I'm nice and sensitive etc, get a hit of vintage Tom Waits. I love this track.

Right now I've got to go outside and smell a flower or look at a duck or something.

The Niggly Thing

As I left home for work this morning, I had that feeling, like something is not quite right. You get that feeling, you check for your keys. The Dreaded One is away for a few days so locking my keys inside is a fear that keeps me a wake at night... or it would if I didn't stay up all night anyway.

I check for my keys. They are there. I close the door and head off, still feeling that something is not quite right. I'm a good block away from home when I realise that I have left my phone behind. This is not good. This will totally bother me the whole day. I hesitate. If I go back and get my phone I will be late. I will feel more at ease having my phone with me but I will be late. I pause for just long enough to absently watch the 301 pull in, pick up my should-be fellow passengers, sit for a bit, then pull away.

Bugger. I commence walking to the station, deciding that I will somehow make it through the day completely phoneless.

As I approach The Big Pointy Building, something niggles. Niggly niggly niggly thing. Something is just not quite as it it should be. I would check that I am not wearing odd shoes and that my fly is zipped up but I have already done this several times and really need to get over these petty insecurities.

I get to Stage Door, the entrance to The Opera House and the kitchen where I faux chef. I look for my security pass and realise that I have left it behind.

Ah-ha, I think, that is The Niggly Thing.

But it is not The Niggly Thing.

I tell the security guy that I have left my pass at home. He asks for my surname. I tell him and commence spelling it immediately because every human known to humankind has trouble getting my last name right. On this occasion, my help only confuses the guy. I mean, he gets it, takes it in, has got all the letters right and in the right order, but he has the need to spell it back to me to confirm that we are in agreement regarding the spelling of my last name. What he comes back with is the most peculiar version of the phonetic alphabet I have ever encountered.

"So let me get this right... that's B for B-Grade movie?"

"... Yairs..."

Biting his tongue gently with his side teeth, the guy hunts and pecks.

"E for emery board?"

"Yes."

"M for... I dunno... Mary had a little lamb?"

"M for Mary had a little lamb. Yes. Very good."

"R forrrr... rose."

"Yes and actually that is the rest of the name. Rose."

"What?"

"You don't have to say O for origami maker, S for saxophone player etc. Just type in Rose. Bem - which you've already typed in - and Rose. It's actually not all that difficult."

Just then one of the other chefs walks in. He looks at me a little strangely, like why am I loitering at Stage Door?

"Left my pass at home," I tell him with a would-you-believe-it roll of the eyes while M for Moron says something about me not being on the system.

"But why are you here now?" other chef asks. "You're not rostered on until midday."

And there we have it - The Niggly Thing!

I tell the security guy to stop looking for me in the system because as impossible as it seems, he has clearly spelled my name incorrectly.

I head back home to collect my phone and my security card and to push the reset button for the day.

Saturn's Return, An Interview With Tommy Murphy

Sometimes the most fun in writing articles is coming up with the headline. Sometimes it can be a total pain in the arse... like when you are sure they are going to be easy and after the first and most obvious options are thrown away you almost go nuts trying to come up with something that's catchy and actually relevant and not just an idiotic pun. But it can be fun.

This play sounds pretty good. I'm betting it's going to be a winner.

(lost toy story), a Q & A with TJ Eckleberg

Here is a Q & A I did with TJ Eckleberg, the creative director of Shopfront Theatre for Young People. They are putting on a free, three day arts festival celebrating lost toys. There is something I find about the concept really appealing. Thought I'd post the Q & A here because I had to shorten it and write it as a story for Drum. I'm actually quite into Q & A's. More words from the horse's mouth and less from the writer.

I spoke to you last when you were preparing A City Of Shadows and Ice. How did that event pan out for you?
Hey Lee – Yeah I remember. Lovely to hear from you again. ‘…shadows and ice’ was hot, hot, hot and cold cold. Of course.
It was gorgeous – the fire and the sheets of ice and projections and so on… but standing watching the performers struggle each day with ice in the town square was pretty cold. I ought to know better. I’ve always thought you need to be careful what you call a project – or it comes back to haunt you. Consequently I named a project (lost toy story) and spent yesterday losing my pen in my pocket, my car, a café…

(lost toy story) is quite a wonderful concept for an arts festival. Where did it come from?
Firstly I was inspired by a beautiful public nativity installation in Brussels, Belgium in 2001– gorgeous, glowing, life-sized cows and glowing sheep curated in the old town square. And a book I gave a friend of mine that was essentially a collection of lost pet posters.

Put that with numerous conversations about hybrid arts, Transformers, electronics, pink bears and the desire of emerging artists to direct a piece of their own in a highly public setting… and it all just seems so obvious…

Why the parentheses and lower case in the title?
I guess it reminds us this is about the little things and the lost things. The things in parentheses and lower case – that are overlooked or unimportant or no longer particularly noteworthy. Toys are kinda like that. They seem so urgent and eternal, but they fade. It’s good to be reminded the little things play a big part in our lives.

Toys have been an important part of the lives of even the oldest adults. Is the intention for this to be appealing to a broad range of ages?
Everyone knows what it is to lose a toy. And toys are people too. I think this is why the project has struck such a chord. We put posters drawn by young people about lost toys, in urban centres and cafes, and the response has been staggering – humorous, weird, enlightening… and sometimes a little too weird. People have called, emailed, even created their own posters in response. But I think it touches on the idea of loss without being too cerebral or uptight or conceptual. It’s good to have to ask yourself what became of something you set aside. And pretty much everyone you ask is eager to share a story about some precious toy that broke their heart.

Given that the festival celebrates toys that have been lost to the past, do you think preparation has affected the young performers and artists involved view the toys they have now?
I definitely think the telling of the stories has changed them. Yeah.

Toys represent fun, and in a sense having a festival commemorating toys that are lost could be seen as a little like telling a kid that it’s okay to have a new puppy but they must also understand that it is going to die one day. Aren’t you raining on a few parades?
Not at all. Teddy’s back man. AND he wants a hug! Ha. That’s the great thing. Even the things you think are gone, in so many ways, aren’t really. We remember the stories and we can pass them on, and find hope and connection in and through them. And turn them into posters and glowing sculptures and performance. We can use loss as an excuse to talk to one another, to remember and to get out on the streets.

I really like the idea of the memorial pond to lost toys. What can you tell us about it and what do you expect it to be like?
Not just lost toys – but lost things. It’s a little ritual in the middle of this crazy performance where you can take time out to write down something or someone you want to remember on a little sail, attach that sail to a little sailboat, light a candle in the boat and float the boat out into the water. There’s no real gimmick – it’s just a twist on a very traditional way of celebrating and remembering something or someone who is gone.

What particular toys will you be remembering during (lost toy story)?
I had a teddy when we went to America that got lost in transit. Five years later it got returned when we came back to Australia. I got the teddy back but something had changed. Seeing him now reminds me of a journey where I lost friends and a whole country. Other than that, I really miss playing games. Don’t you? It’s a real shame we’re not supposed to play Hide and Seek once we grow up. Or Red Rover Cross Over. Or What’s The Time Mr Wolf? They were fun.

Other highlights for you?
The young people. Always. They amaze me with their stories and courage and willingness to look and play and explore. Some of the songs have been gorgeous and jaw dropping (did I mention there have been twenty one tracks produced in an album accompanying the festival?). The young directors too – they constantly come up with ways of doing or creating that surprises me and makes me smile.

I’m a sucker for poetry. Can you give us any of the poetry that is part of (lost toy story)?
I want to go home
I don’t like being held upside down
Covered in food or ice cream for that matter
I don’t like my seams being torn
or my eyes hanging loose
But after they’re gone they make me sad
I’m missing the life I had
I want to go home.

Drum readers will be interested to see that Meem is involved. How did that come about and what can you tell us of his participation?
Meem has been totally integral – he’s been a friend for a while – through A mutal friend and longtime Shopfront collaborator Deepchild. I’ve had him in mind for a project and he was perfect for this – he worked so quickly and with so much empathy – the perfect sound artist – he was really able to get inside the heads of the young people and the directors. The soundtrack is stunning. But not only him. Byron Williams and Ozi Batla from The Herd, Vic McEwan from Box Freezer Romance, David Kirkpatrick and Phreaze all kicked in with production and song development. And on the odd occasion when I could drag myself out of interviews, I even managed to strum a guitar or press record myself. ;-)

Okay. I’m a modern and fast-paced dude whose toys are very electronic, very blinky and play music LOUD... and they are not lost. Why should I come to (lost toy story)?
Oh come on! When was the last time you saw a six metre glow in the dark hot pink teddy bear? Or real life Transformers roaming the streets? Or five pink bears who keep getting tangled in ribbon? Why stay at home and watch reruns of CSI when you can follow the important real life forensics of the MTU: Missing toy unit?

It’s time to remember. You can’t keep ignoring teddy forever.

WHAT: (lost toy story), a three day free festival arts festival.
WHEN & WHERE: 22 – 24 August, Hurstville CBD.

Lee Bemrose

Bonds & Bonding Pt 4

Here is my latest Grumpy column in Tsunami mag. It's a bit of an ongoing saga so if you're not up to speed about the misadventures of me and the tiniest panties in the world, read this, then this, then this. People other than me seem to find it all a bit funny. And there is more to come because I keep ending with To be continued... which means pretty soon I'm going to have to start making shit up.

So Pretty

Demet is someone I know. Recently I told her that she is pretty. I didn't know she danced like this. I think I have to upgrade my description.

An Interview With David Sedaris

Someone recently told me that they thought my Grumpy columns were like less gay versions of David Sedaris' writing. I took this as a compliment even though at the time I'd never heard of David Sedaris. Gap in knowledge revealed, I read up. Interesting.

Recently I received a press release about David Sedaris doing a reading at (you guessed it) The Big Pointy Building.

Wanting to add to my diminutive list of international A-listers who I've interviewed such as this one and this one, as well as pretty interesting local ones like this one and this one, I thought it would be pretty cool to try to get an interview with Mr Sedaris, since he is visiting Australia.

No such luck. Apparently, according to His People, David Sedaris is not doing interviews.

David Sedaris has done interviews. I have read interviews with David Sedaris and I have heard interviews with David Sedaris and just recently David Sedaris was on The David Letterman Show... and he wasn't giving Letterman a foot massage.

The only natural conclusion? David Sedaris is scared. He lies in his bed trembling for hellishly long nights, fear sweating through his pale and pathetic skin at the prospect of being interviewed by Mee. His People should have completed their refusal by saying "David Sedaris doesn't do interviews with Lee ... because he is intimidated by Lee's towering intellect and his supranatural wit and, you know, just his general braininess and all round magnificence and feels that meeting Lee in person would cause him to do something a bit embarrassing like wee in his pants with the excitement of it all."

"Nappies."

"What?" David Sedaris' People ask, sounding a little perplexed.

"He could wear nappies. Then no one would notice that he has weed his pants."

"... Umm... no..."

"C'mon. Those slim line Huggies? No one will suspect a thing."

"No. No, we really are not going to ask David Sedaris to wear Huggies in case he wees in his pants with the excitement of meeting you, Lee. Furthermore we really don't like the slightly surreal turn this imaginary conversation has taken and would really like to terminate it now."

"Go on then."

"Well we can't, can we. It's your imaginary conversation so you have to terminate it."

"Ah ha!. So if - by your own admission - it's my imaginary conversation I could, if I wanted to, just go directly to David Sedaris and have my interview with him."

"Well... yesss. We suppose that is possible."

"Right then. Tell Sedaris to put his Huggies on and get on the line."

"One moment please..."

Our Country's Good, Review

Saw this play last night. Review will be out in Drum Media on Tuesday. Meantime, here's what I thought in 350 words...


OUR COUNTRY’S GOOD

It’s a cheesy way to begin a review but it has to be done: this play’s good.

Based on Thomas Keneally’s novel The Playmaker (which was in turn based on actual events), Timberlake Wertenbaker’s play is set in the rough and grimy times of Britain’s colonisation of Australia. It looks at a bunch of convicts transported for petty crime who have largely given up hope of a better future. They dream of life back home but are resigned to living their bleak lives one day at a time in a foreign land and at the mercy of often hostile officers.

With ferocious lashings and hangings becoming commonplace, crimes of survival in these famine conditions are still on the rise so an alternative to punishment is sought; the convicts will put on a play.

Although the plan is met with resistance from many, the positive benefits gradually manifest themselves and it becomes apparent that this play – written in the late 1980s and set 200 years earlier – resonates strongly now. It’s an engaging and entertaining examination of ideas of the effectiveness of punishment and the importance of compassion, dignity and self-respect.

Set, lighting and sound design were excellent; immediately upon entering the theatre we’re transported in time and place to the creaking, misery soaked bowels of a First Fleet ship. An impressive start, the following couple of hours, for this particular bum on a seat, flew by. The large cast (all steadfastly in character even when on the periphery of a scene) is kept busy often with multiple roles and I was just in there, in the story, sometimes charmed, sometimes moved, sometimes amused, always engrossed.

It’s an amazing thing that these lives and events have been recreated from old journal entries and passed through time from one storyteller to another. Our Country’s Good is going to stay with me for quite a while.

At Darlinghurst Theatre until 23 August.

LEE BEMROSE

Anger Man

Heated early morning conversation. Verbatim. Much anger in the air. I hate starting off the day like this, but unfortunately day to day life just has its sour moments.

A while ago a good friend did shitty stuff and we parted ways. Once we used to give each other matey hugs in greeting but on the last time I saw him, he went for a handshake and I snubbed him. Didn't even say goodbye. Mostly, I'm not a hater, but when bad stuff happens and I think someone is not worthy of my friendship, it stays that way. Once we go down that path, there simply is no turning back.

So we get an email from this former friend and it's all chatty, starts off with 'Hi, how are you guys?"

I'm not a violent person, but the email makes me want to punch the computer monitor right in its face. I refrain and instead rant. Can you believe the fucker etc.

I shower and when I come out to make sure the fucker really does have the gall, I see a reply not yet sent from my beloved Dreaded One. She has opened with, "Hi X, we're good, how are you?"

I cannot believe it. I rant again. You send that email I will totally disown you I swear etc.

"Stop being silly," comes the reply from the kitchen. "Can you send that for me please? I forgot to hit send."

I really really cannot believe this. "I absolutely will not pollute my fingertips by sending that message. The fucker's a fucker and will always be a fucker."

"Oh stop it. What's the point in bearing a grudge? It's juvenile."

"Seriously - I am disgusted that you think it's okay to send that message. You are wet. You are a sap. You need to feel more hate. Sometimes it's justified."

"There's no point. Life's too short..."

I don't hear what comes next because I have left the room in seething disgust. When I calm down enough to return to the same room as the traitor, I hear the sound of email being sent and when I check, she really has actually sent this email of betrayal.

I am speechless.

When I am finally capable of speech, I come up with this: "What you're not understanding here is that every superhero needs an arch nemesis, and X is my arch nemesis."

"Well you're not much of a superhero if your arch nemesis is X."

"At least I have an arch nemesis," I counter with justified superiority.

"That's fine. I don't need to pretend I'm a superhero. C'mon - get your chef jacket. We're running late."

"Okay."

Heard On The Dancefloor

Sunday evening, I'm unexpectedly going a bit silly on the dancefloor. Been a shitty few days working at a pretty crappy job, so when we bump into someone who asks if we're going to the party, late lunch plans suddenly veer.

So I'm blowing off steam and having a blast. Big grin, lots of laughs, sexycool people dancing and living it up.

Then a friend walks up to me and leans over to say something.

"What?" I ask, expecting something flirty or funny, some silly bit of hilarity.

"I said SJ - I just got a text message from him. His dog died."

Possibly the last thing I expected to hear on the dancefloor. It is kind of funny in its inappropriateness, but kind of baffling too. Why did they think they needed to interrupt my mood to tell me right there and then? It could have waited. Maybe it's just me, but I really don't want to be thinking about dead dogs while I'm on the dancefloor. I'm odd like that.

The People We Used To Know

Got a random line of poetry
Got a dream
Got a memory
Got a destination, an idea,
Got a place I want to be.

I’m saying goodbye
I’m saying I’m coming
I’m saying it’s good to be back
To a place I’ve never been before.
I want to know what’s next.

I’m a dream
I’m a memory
I’m just some vague notion
Of how things might have been.
Just like you.

We swim through time
Drowning slowly
We remember sometimes, another time
We wonder what happened
As we fade
And become the people we used to know.

A Week At The Office

Today while manning a kitchen at Sexpo, I was surprised to feel in a good enough mood to be singing (quietly) out loud. My song of choice? It's Scandal In New York, featuring Uta Dare. I'm used to the Satoshi Tomiie remix so it was interesting to hear the original. Almost as interesting as it is to hear me singing the lyrics (you have to hit the 6 minute 40 second mark before the fun lyrics kick in).

Can't remember if I told you, but The Dreaded One and I are booked in to play a set in a few months in spite of never having DJ'd. We've got a pretty interesting track selection going, and Scandal In New York is one of my tracks. I'll probably make it the Satoshi remix, but the original is pretty good. So far, our set is going to kick some major butt. We're thinking our DJ name will be Grumpy & Stompy, because I am Grumpy and she wears Swear boots, which are stompy. Also, it's going to be a psytrance gig which involves a lot of stomping.

So, anyway, Sexpo. Got a call from someone looking for casual staff and I only had a couple of days at The Big Pointy building so I said I'd do three days at Sexpo. It's been funny and shit at different times. The food standards... well there are no food standards. It's fucking horrifying actually. I'm embarrassed to be seen there wearing my chef jacket. But it's swapping dollars for hours so there's no real room for weirdo concepts like professional pride. I do wish I had my shit together enough not to have to do silly jobs like this though.

Having said that, it's had its moments and the people are good (one of the service staff was one of these girls) and I've never seen porn stars in the flesh or giant walking penises before, so it's one to chalk up to experience. Got asked by a cute promo chick if I was going to the afterparty and I said probably not. She pouted and giggled off somewhere I'm kind of thinking I might try to find her and say oh all right you've talked me into it.

Both days so far have seen me start off in a foul mood because I am just used to things being better. Standards at The Big Pointy Building are high, man. This morning started off so badly - first job for me was to change the deep frying oil after I told them the night before it needed to be done earlier the previous day - that I swore if anyone gave me any shit I was going to leave. Someone asked about stock and I replied, "How would I know - I haven't looked yet because I'm changing the fucking oil."

Ooh. Cranky Lee.

Not a good start and not really a dynamic day, but you put the systems in place and do the best you can and you lighten the fuck up. Seriously, how can you stay Grumpy when a giant penis has just walked bobbingly by?

Also, I had been to see some really good theatre the night before. Go see Bubble if you're in Sydney. Really good stuff. Pity I wasn't reviewing. Maybe I will here later. I am going along to see Our Country's great for review tonight.

And the other night during a function at The Big Pointy Building, who should come into the kitchen to say hello? David Helfgott. What a bizarre and wonderful experience it was to meet him. Remarkable human being. A lovely little moment.

So, you know, I really shouldn't complain. I really should start off each day feeling happy, even if I am temporarily serving up bought-in, pre-packaged slop to the Sexpo punters.

A Person Dressed As A Blogger

I always root for the bull when it comes to bullfighting, so this story about a small stadium of bloodthirsty spectators comes close to amusing me. It was a bit like an extreme Mexican Wave.

What totally amused me was that when our sultry late night news reader told the story, she said: "The bull came in for a closer look at the damage only to be distracted by a person dressed as a clown."

Okay. It wasn't an actual clown, merely a person dressed as a clown. We need to make the distinction between real clowns and persons impersonating clowns. Because it makes all the difference. I want to know when my clowns are real clowns and when they are regular persons impersonating clowns.

Then again, maybe the emphasis was on "person". Perhaps they wanted to make it clear that it was someone on the humans' side and not a friendly fake clown, like a bull dressed as a clown.

Or perhaps the clown-dressed person looked like, say, a wombat, and the newsreader wanted to make it perfectly clear that nononono, it's not a wombat but a PERSON dressed as a clown.

I started seeing the rest of the news very differently. Suddenly there was a person dressed as a policeman, a person dressed as a politician, yet another person dressed as a person.

All brought to us by a person dressed as a news reader.

Vamp

Nothing to blog here. Nothing funny has happened.

Oh other than minutes ago picking up this brochure and thinking ooh it looks like... and turning it on its side to see if in fact it is a picture of the woman I wrote this really stupid song for and accidentally knocking over a glass of wine on my dining table in the process and completely smashing it. (Glass, not table, obv).

Nothing ever came of the song. See that heel on her left shoe? I feel it through my heart every waking hour...

I thought it was kind of funny that I smashed a good glass because this shot distracted me. I like to think The dreaded One thought it was funny too... even though she told me she thought I was a bit pathetic.

Assassins Review, And An Unexpected World Youth Day Rant

Here's the review of the musical theatre I saw last week. I didn't know whether to mention that all ticket sales go towards the Prostate Cancer Foundation of Australia or not. In the end I thought it best to just focus on the performance itself. It's hard enough to write a satisfying review in 300 words.


Saw a funny thing yesterday. On the way through Circular Quay where thousands of singing, dancing Catholics were gathering to catch a glimpse of the Pope, there was this frail looking old guy, stoop-shouldered and not a hint of happiness about him. He was just standing there staring out at the world through dull eyes. He was wearing a sandwich board that carried a message that went something like, "Wake up, ignorant people. God is just a concept created by stupid humanity."

I know I bagged World Youth Day and maybe there's some truth in the old guy's sentiment, but looking around at all this happiness and celebration, as manufactured as it might be, I couldn't help thinking yeah - but what are you offering?

It was a weird day. I worked on a barbecue outside The Big Pointy Building and we got slammed. I had brief conversations with some of the pilgrims. Almost all of them were happy and smiling, even the old and broken ones. They came from all over the world, a kaleidoscope of accents and skin colour. One guy took his meal and said to me, "Thank you brother. I am going to remember this day for a very long time."

Someone else held up their steak roll and their friend took a photo with us and the Harbour Bridge in the background, like: This is how Australians celebrate everything including a papal visit - with a barbecue."

I've been in those food situations before where there are massive queues and I can honestly say this was the most pleasant of them all.

So, miserable old guy with your sandwich board message, as manufactured as The Church may be, with its often grim history and with all of it myriad problems, the good bits are actually pretty good.

Better to dance and rejoice in something than stand around feeling pissed off because people are happy, don't you think Sour Old Guy? I mean, why the fuck did you even bother getting out of bed? I can't believe that your level of bitterness is so great that you thought it would be a good idea to get up out of bed, put on that ridiculous sandwich board and go outside to try to rain on someone else's parade, you misery stricken fucker. In fact you know what? Just because of you I really hope God is real, because I would love to see the look on your craggy old face when you realise that not only have you been a miserable bastard all this time but you've been wrong too. Haaha! That would be hilarious. You before God with your ridiculous sandwich board feeling like the utter twat you are. In fact I'm half tempted to go back down there where I don't doubt you are still standing like the morose cadaver you are, and gaffer tape you inside that sandwich board and spray a smiley face on one side and "The Lord Is Great" on the other. My God, Sour Old Guy, your version of hell would actually be a happy place, wouldn't it. A place filled with laughter and smiles and people doing good things for each other. You sad, sad...

Ooh. A rant supporting World Youth Day. Didn't see that one coming.

Mee, The Musical

There's been bugger all Faux Chef work for me this week so I've been saying yes to everything Drum has been asking me to write.

"Can you go to Underbelly Arts Festival and review it for us please?"

"Yes." (review to come out next week. Feature to the side came out a couple of weeks ago).

"Can you interview the guy from Kino Short Film Festival please?"

"Yes."

"Can you interview someone from Legs On The Wall about their new show Bubble please?"

"Yes."

"Can you write something about Reefer Madness - "

"Yes!" (This one is going to be a blast).

"What about doing a review of Assass - "

"YES! Okay? Yes. Whatever you've got, I'll do it."

Made me feel a little bit of a writing whore, but what the hell.

Then I'm in the shower and I start to think about the show I'm getting ready to go and see, and I'm thinking, wait on - why does Stephen Sondheim ring a bell, but not a very big or nice one. I think harder. I stop mid-lather... Noooooooooooo... doesn't Stephen Sondheim do musicals? YES! Don't I really really hate musicals? YES!

Fuck.

Jesus Cares

I have designed a T shirt. You can check it out here and even rank it and maybe even buy a shirt. I think it's funny. I think you should vote for it and maybe even buy one.

Something good has come out of World Youth Pointy Head Happy Clappy Cheesy Go Away Please Day after all.

Dear World Youth Day Sydney 2008

Dear World Youth Day,

Thank you for coming to Sydney. I work on a casual basis at The Big Pointy Building and although it's been pretty quiet for the last couple of weeks and there hasn't been much work, next week was looking good again. Lots of functions were booked in and I was looking forward to a couple of good shifts. But then the full extent of World Youth Day and its impact on access to The Big Pointy Building became clear and everyone canceled their functions to hold them somewhere more easily accessed. So guess what? No income for me. Hoorah! Thanks heaps for that.

Also, I recently joined an agency and they told me that it's really quiet at the moment because of World Youth Day. No work for Faux Chefs and not even any work for the legions of waiters relying on the catering industry for their income. Because although there is lots of catering taking place on your happy clappy day, it's all being done by volunteers. So on behalf of everyone struggling to make a living in the hospitality industry, thank you, World Youth Day. Big hugs and kisses of gratitude.

And look, it's not your fault especially, but all these ridiculous 'annoyance' laws? Thank you for being indirectly responsible for the authorities introducing yet more dodgy policing laws. Thank you so much.

And thank you for totally buggering up our roads and city access. Thank you so much for imposing yourself on those of us who didn't invite you here in the first place.

I love you World Youth Day.

Lots of love,

Lee.

Grumpy In The Flesh

Lazy post because I am lazy. But here's what the ed of Tsunami had to say about our deliciously boozey first meeting. Nice to know that I am not grumpy in the flesh. I really enjoyed that night. Gavin and Eliza are good people.

Recently I was telling someone about the difficulty I am having with my eye and because I couldn't remember the name of the condition, they laughed. That's nice, isn't it. Nice one, fucker.

Had no option but to strangle him with his own dreadlocks.

I'm giving this eye thing six months max. After that... I guess I'll give it another six months. Or laser the fucker. Am very over it.

The Mystery Of The Mysterious Poem

Cleaning out my bedside Drawer Of Shit, I came across this poem. A poem for me. A poem written about me. A poem written about me by someone called Jo.

Thing is, who the fuck is Jo?

It mentions my purple Turkish poncho, so the poem must have been written in late '06 or '07 after my Turkey trip... and I'm really hoping it wasn't written any more recently than that because I really don't remember Jo.

Getting more Sherlock on its arse, it has to be a doof Jo because I only wear my purple Turkish poncho to outdoor parties. So it was a winter doof (can't have been this year then as it's only winter now). The only doof Jo I know has really short hair and always looks at me suspiciously, like she knows I'm up to something and even though she doesn't know exactly what it is, she's on to me. There is no way she would write a girlycute poem about me being lovely and cuddly.

I think where the author says the bit about "a kool friend forever till the end", they must have meant till the end of the party. Or the end of the poem.

Baffled, I am.

Eye-ronic

I've been talking to The Cosmos a lot recently, my theory being that if I make friends with it, it will be good to me. Each time a nice thing happens to me I say, "Thank you, Cosmos, that was a very cool thing you just did for me and I appreciate it a lot."

And if a shitty thing happens to me I figure it's better not to point the finger of blame at The Cosmos (which would be pretty difficult anyway, when you think about it) but to accept that it was my fault and I had a shitty thing coming: "Ah - fair enough, Cosmos, I did that shitty thing the other day so I had a shitty thing coming my way. My bad."

Sitting here just now I've just realised what an ironic sense of humour The Cosmos can have. Some time ago I realised my vision was not as perfect as it once was so I had my eyes tested. I needed reading glasses. Then recently my left eye developed something called Central Serous Retinopathy, an annoying condition that in most cases goes away by itself after a few months.

The irony at play here is that it is now pointless wearing my reading glasses because although they improve the vision in my right eye, they magnify the shadowy distortion in my left eye... "Ha ha, Cosmos, good one. What a wicked sense of humour. Funny fucker, you are... love your work. So ironic. Love it. Brilliant."