Stephen House Interview, Almost Face To Face

Stephen House, Almost Face To Face.

 
Written by Lee Bemrose

Almost Face To Face is the latest dramatic monologue from peripatetic award-winning writer/performer Stephen House. It's been a couple of years since the South Australian drifter performed his quite powerful Appalling Behaviour here, so I caught up with him to find out what he's been up to in that time, what drives him, and what to expect from his latest work.

So, what have you been up to since your last visit to Melbourne?
 My last show, Appalling Behaviour, kept touring. I did an Adelaide return (local council shows), a Tasmania Theatre Company season and a season at The Street Theatre in Canberra. I then spent some time in Sydney. I did an incredible writing development project with some blind artists at Tutti Ensemble SA, and had an extended stint in Whyalla SA doing a community youth theatre project for D-faces Youth Arts. Then as I often do… I disappeared from Australia and spent many months in Bali, Thailand and India – travelling, writing and existing.  

How was Appalling Behaviour received in those other cities?

The Hobart and Canberra seasons were both very successful and had incredible responses and reviews. It was wonderful to see it sit in a bigger company program at The Street Theatre (where it saw its 100^th show). It always astounds me how that show pulls people in and sees them discuss what it means to them and what it says about our current world. It still feels like it’s an important theatre piece for the here and now. And that’s rewarding. Also, it was selected for publication by The Australian Script Centre. 

Have you ever taken Appalling Behaviour overseas? Or is it something you would contemplate? 
Well no, I haven’t, but just recently I’ve been in a conversation with a company in New York who are keen – which would be awesome. Also, for the last year or so I have been chatting to a company in India who are also keen. And if I do take it overseas next year I’m pretty sure I’d head to Edinburgh Fringe. I’ve never done an Edinburgh Fringe. So yes, it is kind of looking like maybe travelling overseas in 2015.  

How long has travel been important to you?

I’ve been pretty much on the road since living in the back of my station wagon for a few years when I was an 18 year old hippie surfer. And I still am on the road (not in the back of the car... well, not too often these days). That’s about 35 years travelling. Fuck… where has my life gone! I’m always travelling. Though I do have occasional bouts where I settle in somewhere for a few months a time.  

Why is travel so important to you?

I feel alive, challenged, inspired, amazed, free, on the very edge (sometimes), and excited. I’m addicted to being on the road, often alone, but not always. I love new people that come into my world for an hour, a day or night, or a month… or forever – crazy, beautiful encounters that come along, like unexpected gifts. But also sometimes I feel isolated, lonely, frightened, confused, excluded, and wondering what the hell I’m doing with my life. But all the feelings that go with just disappearing into the world and sometimes not knowing where I’m going are real, and make me feel so very much like I am living life.  

In what circumstances do you feel excluded?Just now and then in another place in the world, watching locals go about their familiar lives, it hits me that I am often an outsider, a wanderer, a nomad… this isn’t my place, or my home or my way. I have flown in like a migrating bird stopping off on a long flight to somewhere else. Excluded kind of; but that doesn’t always mean feeling bad though, sometimes it means just being on the outside of, looking in. It can also be empowering, to not be a part of something.  

Do you feel you are more creatively stimulated when in a foreign country?

I’m quite creative wherever I am. Even in my new Melbourne life (a room I just scored in Brunswick Street), I will feel inspired, I’m sure. I often have a current project I’m working on when I travel. I’ve just come back from several months Indonesia and Thailand. I was learning lines for Almost Face To Face while I travelled. I was also thinking about my novel (still in thinking and writing stage). Often when I’m in another place I do have a new idea, so take a few notes. In fact the first draft of Almost Face To Face, was written years ago on an Australia Council Irish literature residency, then put it away and forgotten about. Sometimes it takes me years to get back to something that sprung into my mind while travelling around somewhere. 

You don't exactly do the tourist thing when overseas, do you. Typically, what do you do when in a new city? What kind of experiences do seek out?

I’m generally looking for somewhere new that I want to live for a while, or returning to a place from before. I have a few regular stops. One is Rishikesh in India. In Rishikesh, I do Yoga classes with amazing masters, I wander alone along the banks on Ganges and bathe in her clean icy holy waters – direct from the Himalayas. I wander through dense city throngs and lose myself, completely. I catch up with old local mates, meet travellers from all over the world, and I write, think, and wonder. In big cities, I usually have different routines than in quieter places (more art, music, theatre, partying etc.) After Melbourne I’m heading back to Bali, where I’m making a life. My days there are often writing, swimming and surfing, and wonderful mates from all over Indonesia… and the world, other nomads. I also try to work out how the hell I’m going to survive! But don’t get me on to that! How the hell am I going to continue to survive, like this? 

Your new play... tell us a little about it.

A fragile travelling writer arrives in Dublin after a devastating stint in Paris. His trip to Dublin is not without a few dangerous elements. He quickly falls into a chaotic underworld, inhabited by off-beat characters, and finds himself living in a small upstairs room with a woman trapped there by the way her life has gone. But he ventures out on to the street and falls further into the hidden underbelly of Dublin. His creative muddled and indulgent life sees him fall into this new world and write it all down (again). But nothing comes without repercussions and consequences, and he is finally forced to face up to what he has become in life. It’s a play about having the courage to move on from what is no longer needed or valid, and having the empathy and understanding to realise that not everyone else can do that. Some of us are trapped by who and what we are, and always will be. And that’s ok. The play hits that home, I think. 

So how autobiographical is it?
There is a part of me and my story in every work I create. Even Appalling Behaviour had more elements of me in it than people could ever know. There are parts of me and my life in all of my plays, and there are parts that grew from those parts and took their own life. My characters are not me, but they are a big part of me and my life, and I’m a big part of them and their life. But I never reveal too much about what (exact) part is me and real. I fall into worlds and write about them. I utterly live the worlds I write about.

What kind of play is Almost Face To Face? Drama? Comedy? Other?
It’s a drama with elements of stream of consciousness story-telling and streaks of dark comedy. But others are better judges of that than me.

Given that Almost Face To Face is set in Ireland, a country famed for its story tellers, do you thing you will take it to Ireland?I would love to take it to Ireland, and have thought about it. If fact regarding your question, the story telling tradition of Ireland had an effect on the style of this play and my inspiration for writing it. I performed a story telling type piece in Dublin many years ago. That experience has always stayed with me and had an effect on me as a writer performer, as did my time living in Ireland.

The dramatic monologue (it is what you do, isn't it?) would appear to be the most difficult form of story telling. Why do you do it when you could simply write a story to be read or a play for actors to perform?

Each time I embark on this journey with this form, I think why, why, why? It is so hard to crack. You can’t tell, not completely. It needs to be crafted in a way that some things are told, some are discovered and that the story filters out through a range of forms working together. Maybe the reason I do it is that it is such a challenge to get right. I love literary challenges. I never know if it is working until I get it in front of an audience. Its okay if they don’t like it (not everyone falls into the unusual worlds that do), but if they are with my story and engaged, then it has worked. That’s what I aim for. That they follow my story and want to know what happens. Dramatic Monologue for an hour alone on stage is a real challenge. Ah, scary! Why am I doing this, again?

What kinds of people will Almost Face To Face appeal to most?

I like to think that it’s a moving, human, sad and sometimes funny and beautiful story bubbling out of the underworld of Dublin. I think (and hope) that most people who see it will be taken on a real ride, somewhere special. My work is written for everyone; not only those who like to take risks. People that are interested in the human experience and condition should go with this work.

Do you have a line or passage from the play that encapsulates its spirit?

I don’t know if it encapsulates the spirit of the play but it encapsulates that moment of the play, and it’s a piece that often brings tears to my eyes, performing it…

Don’t’ go, he says. His call is like a knife in my heart. I so want take him away from this and them – from all that I am and have been too… find some of what is dragging me to escape and try for change and offer it up to him. But I can’t… I just don’t know how to give him anything at all, except money… I’m incapable… because I am struggling so hard to somehow help myself… to try to not be what I‘ve been for so, so long… that I have nothing left to help him along. And I’m nearly an old man. Fuck, what happened? Where do the years go?

Almost Face To Face is part of the Melbourne Fringe Festival. Season is at La Mama theatre from September 17 - September 28, 2014.

Master Class, 45 Downstairs, Review

Master Class

Reviewed by Lee Bemrose.



Initially, I confused Maria Callas with Diamanda Galas. The latter, I thought, would be a great subject for a play. When I realised my mistake I was a little disappointed because although Maria Callas did indeed lead an eventful life and was obviously worthy of celebrating in the form of a play, I don't really like opera. And after reading the press release properly, Master Class was going to contain some singing. Oh Dear. I wasn't sure about this. I mean, opera, really?

Right from the start, however, this play cast a spell. It's a loving tribute to La Divina, very funny, warm, and gives great insight into what it takes to be a great performer, to really excel at any creative vocation. I loved the writing, the acting, the structure of the story and – get this – the singing. Not ever having been to a live opera performance I have no idea why I thought I didn't like opera. The power of this kind of singing is extraordinary, and I do believe I'll be following up on this epiphany.

In 1971, after her career had peaked, Maria Callas conducted a series of master classes at the Julliard School in New York. Maria Mercedes takes to the stage as Maria Callas, an imposing, demanding figure oozing confidence, an acute sense of self and an enviable reserve of quips, one liners and comebacks. The character comes across as hard, driven and passionate. At times she seems more passionate about the artistic process than the feelings of her students (we, the audience, are addressed as her students), but there are moments where a couple of the students stand up against her and prove their talent when their tutor softens. You can't be this passionate about creativity and be a complete ice queen.

As the students finally get to sing, memories are triggered, actual recordings of Maria Callas are cued in their aural sepia tones, and Maria Mercedes does a wonderful job of revealing what it was like to be Maria Callas: to grow up poor through the Second World War; of what it was like to struggle with her weight, her craft and the importance of her perfectionism. We hear of her relationship with Aristotle Onassis and of what it was like to triumph against the odds to become La Divina. It's all quite nostalgic whilst remaining current and relevant to anyone unfortunate enough to want to succeed in the arts. These more personal, nostalgic sections are perfectly counter-balanced by the frequent laugh-out-loud ones.

And so we come to that singing. Other cast members were Cameron Thomas, kind of a piano-playing sidekick, and Georgia Wilkinson, Robert Barbaro and Anna-Louise Cole as the students in the spotlight. It was a revelation to me to be so close to fellow human beings with access to such rich, stirring vocals. Clearly there is a magical recipe of natural talent and rigorous training at play here, and these voices, mere human voices, have the power to stir emotions. It seems I don't dislike opera as much as I thought I did.

45 Downstairs was the perfect venue for this story to be told. It's a very open space, much like a small lecture auditorium, making the whole experience quite evocative of being back there, back then in the presence of La Divina.

Bravo.

At 45 Downstairs, Flinders Lane, Melbourne until August 28.

Conversations With Our Customers: Oh Lord

A guy places his coffee order. I ask him if he wants a copy of the receipt. He says, "Yes, I should take it or my boss might get angry.

I go full Hoges Ozzie wink 'n nod as I look at his preist collar and say, "You don't want to make your boss angry."

I really don't know if this was funny or lame Dad joke.

Silver Screen Daydream

(c) Lee Bemrose, obv.

And just as suddenly as she had come into his life, she was gone. For a while Ewan was in a mild state of shock. He felt the way you do when you walk out of a movie into the real world but your mind is reluctant to leave the movie behind. He was stunned that the whole thing had happened at all. Things like that simply didn’t happen to him. He was Ewan. Loner. Loser. He was not without some off-kilter charm, and he was not entirely unattractive, and at least he had a job, but he was still just Ewan.

They met in a bar. Only unlike in the movies, Ewan was drunk and alone, his mind some place he would never go to, playing out some scene that would never happen. Reality had dissolved. Ben had left but Ewan had decided to stay for one more drink. There were loud people all around, normal people with lots of friends and good jobs and interesting things to say. A B-grade comedy was playing silently on the wall-mounted television, and Ewan could pretend he was watching it, if he needed to. But he was thinking about this place, Paris, thinking about being an artist in Paris. He wondered what the air smelled like in Paris, wondered what the sky looked like, wondered what it felt like to stroll down the Champs Elysee at night, wondered how the sun felt on your skin sitting on the grass by the Eiffel Tower. He imagined a whole life where it was okay to be alone, where he didn’t have to speak, where his art justified his existence. He spent a little time wondering what kind of artist he might be. He thought about Lucy Jordan. He liked that old song, “... at the age of thirty seven, she knew she’d never...”

That’s when she sat down at his table. She spoke to him like they were old and comfortable friends.

“What are you thinking?” she asked him.

It was only then that Ewan realised he had been smiling. How long had he been smiling like that? Jesus Christ, he must have looked mad. Alone and smiling at a sad song. And drunk. How did he get so drunk?

“Sorry?” he said over the noise, desperately stalling for time, wondering what was wrong with her. She looked normal enough, even a little on the attractive side. She was thin, serious looking, was wearing a scarf because scarves were fashionable this season, and a soft leather jacket that he would later learn she had bought in Portobello Road. She pushed her thick-rimmed glasses back up on her nose and sipped her red wine, then asked him again.

“What are you thinking?”

Ewan shrugged and sipped his beer and wished he had been drinking wine. What was going on here?

“Nothing.” Ewan replied. “Nothing really. Why do you ask?”

“You looked, I don’t know, far away, like you were dreaming of another life, in another place.”

Ewan looked at her properly then. He wondered how he looked as he smiled at her. He hoped he looked friendly and not just creepy. She was sitting at the table, her elbows resting on the table top, arms folded. She was looking right at him. They could be good friends, Ewan thought. Mates. Maybe more. To anyone who looked. Ewan wished that Ben would come back now. God that would be perfect. He wanted someone to see this. He looked around the pub as though there might be someone he knew.

“I was thinking about... I’ve been thinking about going to Paris,” Ewan said. “For a holiday.” And thought what? He’d been thinking no such thing. But he sounded so convincing he almost believed himself.

She folded her arms tighter, scrunched that cherry red leather. “Ah, Paris. I like Paris.”

It was then that Ewan noticed she had a slight accent. She sounded Australian, but British too. He liked that. It made her exotic. This was too good. Where the hell was Ben? Ewan thought about texting him and asking him to come back. But no, that would be stupid. She would end up leaving with Ben. Ben could fuck off and find his own exotic girl.

“You’ve been? To Paris?”

“I go all the time. I used to live there.”

Ewan swooned a little. He’d never had anyone this cool talk to him like this. She had lived in Paris and she was talking to Ewan. Ben’s not going to believe this...fuck Ben, stop thinking about Ben. Think about her. Don’t lose her. Don’t scare her off. Act cool. Play the role. Be cool. Can you be cool? Yeah, yeah, I just need to relax. Offer to buy her a drink... holy shit, why did you get so drunk? She finds out you’re pissed she’ll be out of here. Fucking hell, how do I keep this going? What do I say? She’s lived in Paris and I’ve been nowhere...say something and say it now or she’ll get up and go to another table...

“Wow. That must have been good. Living in Paris.” Ewan was a little impressed with how calm he sounded, and soon they were talking. Just talking. They told each other their names and she told him about Paris and he listened and nodded as though he were taking notes for his planned holiday. They had more drinks, and lost themselves in talk, and Ewan was funny and she laughed and she made him laugh, and somewhere in the back of Ewan’s mind was the realisation that this was possibly the happiest he had been in his entire, uneventful little life.

But it got better. In the following weeks there was more laughter and more drinking and more talking and more sex than Ewan had ever imagined. Well perhaps not more than he had imagined; he had a lot of imaginary sex. But it was more sex than he had ever really expected to have with the same person. They even fucked in the park a couple of times, in broad daylight. But mainly they did it at his place or hers, on the couch or in the shower, sometimes in the middle of cooking a meal when their mouths tasted of wine. It was delicious, raw, dirty sex and Ewan couldn’t shake that feeling that he was living in a movie. It was all just too good. It made Ewan feel like a different person. It made him feel like the person he always should have been. It made him feel like the lifetime of bumbling fuck-ups and mistakes had never happened.

And then she was gone. She went back to London, back to her life. And Ewan went back to his life, back to being Ewan. They both agreed that it had all been fun, but that was all. It was just one of those things. Ewan hoped that the manner he adopted indicated that this kind of thing happened to him all the time. Like, hey, I’m cool, whatever, it’s been a blast, have a happy life.

But that feeling lingered long after she had gone. Did that really happen? Had a woman really walked up to him in a bar? Had they really had what would have been referred to in a review, if it had been a movie, a torrid affair? How had it happened? Why Ewan? Was it ever going to happen again?

For a while Ewan tried to make it happen again, but it just didn’t work. He took to smiling at strangers in bars and pubs, but they didn’t see him. Or they ignored him. Just as they always had. In time he stopped trying to catch their attention and just accepted that it was never going to happen again. The world was simply too preoccupied with itself to bother with Ewan, just as it had always been. And in any case, the truth of it was, when he dug down deep enough and forced himself to look, the truth was that he didn’t want it to happen again. Not with someone new. Cora, it seemed, had taken something of Ewan away with her.

Ewan went back to his mundane job and his small group of misfit friends and getting quietly drunk with Ben, and dreaming of another life, in another place.

Ewan laughed when the first postcard arrived. It was so kitsch. A red double decker bus, a London Bobby, Big Ben and London Bridge, some stupid line about London. He flipped it over and read and smiled to himself. It was just a short note saying that she had been thinking of him and hoped he was well. He smiled until there were tears in his eyes. He had not really expected to hear from her, but he was glad he had. He went to the newsagent and bought the worst postcard he could find. It was so tacky it was brilliant.

Over the months he built up quite a collection of awful postcards from London and Paris (she had to catch the train to Paris from time to time for her job. Imagine!) and he visited all the tawdry souvenir shops in town to hunt down the ugliest of them from Sydney. It made more sense, of course, to email or instant message, but somehow they knew that this was better, that they both enjoyed this little game, the suspense of checking the letterbox each day and the small thrill of receiving the postcard. Ewan even enjoyed, in a strange way, the disappointment of the empty letterbox. It meant there would probably be something there the following day. Or the day after that. They had such a similar sense of humour that he knew she would be doing the same. That was the thing; they had clicked. And it got Ewan thinking.

Ewan looked at the ticket. He couldn’t believe it. Who would have thought? And his passport. His own passport. He shook his head in wonder. He looked at the photo again. He should have held his chin up a little more. Slight double chin. Never mind. He smelled the passport. He looked down at the blank pages. He smiled. “Thank you Lucy Jordan,” he said quietly.

Ewan had everything planned. Mrs Thompson, his neighbour, would call in and water the plants and feed the cat. He had considered asking Ben or his mother but they would snoop; Mrs T, he felt sure, would not. But he hid his stash of porn in a locked suitcase just to be sure. He said goodbye to Owen, trying, he knew, to load the moment with more drama than was reasonable. He just about conjured tears, but it was no good; the cat quite clearly did not give a shit. One last look around his neat unit, and it was time to go.

Ewan knew he shouldn’t feel as excited as he did as he swung his suitcase into the boot of the cab. But he couldn’t help it. He closed the boot and walked to the side and hesitated before taking the back seat.

“Domestic or international, the driver asked in a thick Mediterranean accent and with little interest.

Ewan paused a beat before intimating “International,” as though it was the kind of thing he said all the time. The taxi driver grunted as he pulled out into the traffic. Ewan looked at the security camera mounted above the rearview mirror. He did something subtle with his mouth before turning to gaze out the window. Three quarter profile. Perfect.

This is no good at all, Ewan thought as he took his new woolen coat off and wiped the sweat from his brow; he was trying to get into the spirit of things, but the London weather was not co-operating. 26 degrees and sunny? He wanted fog and frost and bitter cold, not summer heat. Didn’t fly half way around the world for something I could have at home. He considered saying this out loud so that a passerby might realise that we was an international traveler, but he realised he was being foolish; he was not here for the weather. He would save this line for another, more appropriate time. An uttered complaint about the food perhaps. Or the wine. Yes, he would peruse a wine list and mutter “Koonunga Hill?” And deliver his line and the waiter would be suitably impressed.

Ewan walked and walked that first day, eventually taking in too many tourist attractions. He had not intended to walk so far, nor see so many tourist attractions. He had actually intended to go for a bit of a stroll, wait for the tiredness to set in and go back to his hotel room for a sleep. But he got lost. Each time he thought he knew where he was it proved to be a trick, and there was another tourist attraction which he decided to see in case he never found it again. Eventually, hot and tired and unable to take in another single piece of historical information, he placed his fate in the hands of a London cabbie, a nice enough bloke who didn’t have the decency to ask where Ewan was from. Back in his hotel room Ewan lay down on his bed, his body aching, and closed his eyes on the blur of centuries of history.

And woke confused. Such dreams. But what is this? This place? These dreams. This room. What time? But day or night? And why don’t I know? Oh god, they were beheaded on this very spot? What? What? Beheaded? Who beheads? Who got beheaded?

When his world came back into focus, Ewan giggled a little; he was already looking forward to being home and telling anyone who cared to listen about all the things he had seen.

On the second day Ewan decided to deliver the postcard. He hadn’t wanted to visit on the first day; that would have seemed odd, he knew that. He had hoped he might bump into her in the streets of London. But no such luck. So it was back to the original plan. And here he was, standing on her doorstep thinking yellow, her door is yellow. As yellows went it was not bad, but yellow was not his favourite colour. In fact it was probably his least favourite colour. Sometimes purple really bugged him, but purple was usually in some sort of context, like hippies or something, and it could well have been the context and not the actual colour that bugged him; what use had hippies ever been? But yellow... yellow needed no context, and in fact it was doubtful yellow even had a context. Certainly there was no connotation or implication that sprung to mind... canaries perhaps, although it’s not like you always look at yellow and immediately think ah, canaries... why do you do this? Just knock on the yellow door and get this started. She will laugh so hard when she sees you... but what if she doesn’t laugh? Or worse, what if she laughs too hard? It should be okay. Waited two days. Wait on – flew half way around the planet and waited two days and that makes it all right? My God - is this not a case of stalking? Am I a stalker? She will let you know soon enough if she thinks you are stalking her, now will you just knock on the yellow door please?

Ewan raised his hand to the yellow door and paused. He thought about the thing, the part of him that Cora had taken. It was a small thing. He imagined it sitting in the palm of a hand, so bright you couldn’t see it properly. But it was the most important thing. The single most important thing. Whether she laughed too hard or didn’t laugh at all, he was going to tell her. He was going to say the words just like they do in the movies. And if it was wrong it would hurt, but he would turn and walk nobly away –

The door swung open.

“Jesus!”

An expletive apology tumbled from Ewan’s mouth.

“What are you doing? Almost gave me a heart attack.”

“I’m... er, I’m Looking for Cora,” Ewan said. He realised he was speaking in a slight British accent, similar to this woman’s accent. And he realised that he was blinking rather a lot. He resisted the urge to run his hand through his hair; a little bit of Hugh Grant went an awfully long way.

“Oh?”

“Yes, I was, erm, I... I was in the area and thought I’d pop in and... is... is she in?” Ewan asked as he squinted a little. He wasn’t sure where this Hugh Grant business had come from, but he was committed now. The accent stays, he told himself, so does the stammering and the blinking, but do not touch your fucking hair.

“No. No I’m afraid she’s not. She’s staying with her boyfriend for a while. Can I giver her a message?”

Ewan felt everything stop. He wanted someone to say cut! He wanted someone to say no no no that’s not the line! First positions everyone, get ready for another take and let’s get it right this time people. Aaaand...action.

“Boyfriend,” Ewan said flatly as he felt the postcard being screwed into the palm of his hand. “Ah.”

The woman stepped fully outside and locked the door.

“Yes, bless her. Think she’s in love with this one. Who shall I say called?”

He almost said Owen, but it was too close to his own name. Under no circumstances must she ever know that he had been here. Cora had not known the clumsy part of him, the stupid version the rest of the world knew. So instead he said that his name was Grant, told her twice so there could be no mistake, and said they had gone to university together and that he had been in the area, and that it had been several years since they had seen each other, and that he would call again soon.

Ewan had never been so embarrassed and depressed as he was for the rest of his stay in London. He stayed in his hotel room. He ate little. He drank a lot. He sent postcards back home. He berated himself and fabricated fictitious versions so that no one would ever know what a fool he was. For Ben and his friends, he had spent a wonderful month with her but it had not worked out. They would expect photos - he had lost his camera, and in any case did not want reminders of this beautiful thing gone wrong. His mother would be saddened to hear that the position he had applied for at the BBC had given to someone else - never mind, the company had paid for the flight and it had been an invaluable experience. Mrs Thompson... oh God, why had he told her he was going to Paris to get married to a woman named Lucy? Why had he done that? He would tell her that poor sad Lucy never made it, fell ill and didn’t make it. He had attended her funeral, not her wedding. Yes, that’s what happened.

As Ewan stood in the line amid the chaos of Heathrow Airport, shuffling closer to the check-in, he knew he had everything covered. He knew that no one would ever know the details of this mistake. He knew they would never guess the stratospheric level of his stupidity. His shame would be forever his own. And he knew their correspondence would cease.

What Ewan might never know was the turn his life might take. He might never know that if the story had been in the hands of another director, Ewan would have been told look up, look up now. Look at the passengers streaming through the arrivals gates. See the tired ones and the happy ones, all these lives streaming through and branching off into their own worlds. Look up now Ewan, look at the faces, find that one face in the crowd, that one in a million. There. Yes. That’s her. She’s the one. Read her face. She looks tired, yes, it has been a long flight, but there is more, so much more. Your reaction? You piece it together, you realise the misunderstanding. You are relieved and amazed, and somehow frightened by how infinitesimally close you came to missing each other. Go to her now, this director would have said, that’s what you must do, Ewan, before it’s too late, before you lose each other forever. As she turns and heads to the baggage collection area, that is your cue to go to her. You will not have to say anything. You will simply know, both of you will know and you will move into each others arms hold each other like you never want to let go, and it will be exactly like it is in the movies, the happiest of endings. But you must look up now, Ewan. Stop looking at the blank pages of your passport and look up...

Coca-Cola Amatil... The Day Of The Muppets.

Coca Cola, you Goddamned muppets.

So looking forward to ending the friendship. So looking forward to not seeing this fridge taking up valuable floor space.

Did I mention the word muppet? They have proved themselves to be muppets at every level.

Muppets.

Hamas and Israel

Israel... Hamas... war-mongering fuckheads who hate peace. Who never want peace. Who want to bomb the shit out of each other. Who want to bomb the shit out of peace.

Hateful fuckers, one and all. I don't doubt they are enjoying their bomb/killings festivities/suicide bombings... justify as much as you want, you murderous shitbags.

Of course, at some point, someone could say enough is enough... but nah. Lets keep hating and blaming and bombing and killing.

Good work, humans.

Conversations With Our Customers - Awesomness!

I know what Lou is really singing about, but it's a song that can also apply to less troublesome things, to nice things.

Gorgeous day today. On our way to The Commoner Restaurant, one of our favourite Sunday lunch destinations, a person started waving frantically at us from across the road. I didn't know who the fuck it was. The Dreaded One waved back as we started to cross the road.
"Who the fuck is that?"I asked.
"I don't know."

"Then why are you waving back at them?"
"Because when people wave at me, I wave back at them. It's just what you do."
Then the stranger started calling out, "Awesomness! Awesomness!"
Turns out she is a new cafe customer who came in when our EFTPOS terminal folded its arms and said fuck you on Friday. She seemed nice, had no cash so I said she could leave an IOU. She gave me the money right there in the middle of Smith Street. Fortunately, the little man in my head with the names file found her name quite quickly.
Also turns out that her partner builds recycled wooden things. We are thinking about a communal table for the cafe. It was all quite funny.
Then we had a lovely lunch at The Commoner. Upstairs this time, treated well by the amazingly lovely Jo. Really do love that place. The flavours of the food, the care and attention to detail...
Such a perfect day.

Purgatorio by 5pound Theatre, Review

Purgatorio

Reviewed by Lee Bemrose for Australian Stage

I admit to not knowing very much about this play prior to seeing it. I remember seeing Death And The Maiden, the movie version of the playwright's best known work – though perhaps not the most important by the prolific writer, thinker and teacher, Ariel Dorfman. And I remember always coming away from 5pound Theatre productions feeling satisfied.

Going in blind like this added to the sense of intrigue, of wondering just what was going on, which enhanced the whole experience, and I'd suggest that you do the same. Which means I'm suggesting you don't read the rest of this review. Just go along and see Purgatorio if you want a shortish play that deals with some big ideas about human nature, love, redemption, forgiveness and revenge. That's my short review.

Here's a longer version:

The play opens with a woman prowling what appears to be a cell. Could be prison. Could be in a mental institution. She seems tormented, would like to not be here. Oddly, there is a knife inside her cell.

A man appears outside her cell wall and proceeds to calmly interrogate the woman. He asks questions but his air is one of already knowing all the answers. His questions are leading. He wants a confession, knows there is one in there, is determined to get it. As it turns out though, he wants a lot more than just a confession.

Suddenly the situation switches. A man. A room that could be a prison cell. A female interrogator asking questions that she knows the answers to. Where are they? What have they done? Have they done it to each other? What do they want from each other. What is going on here?

The characters' back story is based on a classic, tragic myth (not telling you which one) and what might become of them as they wait in purgatory. Their stories do unfold and become clear through these interrogations and we see that at least in this case, love, hate, revenge, forgiveness and redemption are complicated beyond solution when taken to such extremes. And the crimes committed here are indeed quite extreme. Brutal revenge has been taken, forgiveness seems unfathomable, and yet these two characters seem caught up in a reluctant, twisted, volatile, eternal kind of love.

The audience is split into two because the stage is divided into two by a an opaque curtain representing the room's wall. I'm not sure why the play was staged like this. We could see the other character and the rest of the audience through the curtain, just not very clearly. Perhaps it was way of demonstrating division, of motivations being one sided. Perhaps the audience(s) came away with slightly different perspectives. Perhaps it was none of the above and I should stop speculating about the symbolism of the curtain and move on to the quality of the acting.

The acting was amply capable of dealing with this simple yet weirdly complex story. Freya Pragt as the woman and Jason Cavanagh as the man both had to switch between cold, calm accuser and complex, messed up human trapped by their actions and motivations in a place they don't (and perhaps do) want to be. Pragt was in good form as she finally revealed the treachery of her acts and still managing to elicit some unexpected sympathy from this audience member. Her story demonstrates that treachery doesn't always appear out of the blue, and that you can't seek revenge without having a reason for it. Perhaps if I was on the other side of the curtain (He's on about the curtain again!) I might have been more affected by Cavanagh's sense of yearning for something that could never be. Both played well off each other, especially given that they were mostly obscured from each others view for most of the play. And especially as the play is a bit of a head-bender; it's not set in our world or time, and time has simultaneously stopped and goes on forever, stuck as the characters are in an eternal loop.

Enjoyable on every level. I give if four curtains.

Long Spindly Arms

This is a very bizarre photo of me. I look like a humanoid alien with anorexia in the top half of my body.

Water-affected visuals aside, this is me enjoying the Peninsula Hot Springs. First full weekend The Dreaded One and I have had off in about seven months. We booked a day at the springs, two nights at a close by hotel thing (we booked a poolside room but got upgraded to a bungalow which is very cosy and cool), and oh man... we needed this. I feel so chilled.

Looking forward to our next visit.

Cafe at this stage seems to be chugging along nicely. Still no room for complacency or confidence, but chugging nicely is a good thing.

Oh - and once again I am reminded of people who should just stay at home rather than venture to another place. I wrote something about it back here. Although this weekend was not travelling and was not experiencing anything outside my comfort zone (quite the opposite) I was reminded by overhearing so many conversations that some people really should just stay inside their own home, because if they venture too far away, they become miserable and complain, often loudly. I've read lately of people becoming homesick after only a couple of weeks abroad... I just don't get the concept of feeling homesick. How in the hell can you feel homesick when you are in a foreign country with all it has to offer that you won't get at home? The longest I've been in foreign countries is about six months or more. I didn't feel homesick once. Not for a moment. I may have felt briefly frustrated at not getting how things worked or not being able to communicate efficiently, or not knowing exactly where I was, but this was all part of the wonderful adventure of travelling.

Even during this weekend away - which has reminded me that my actual natural habitat is luxury hotels (that's kind of a joke - I'm just as happy in a shitty hotel or a tent, if it's in a fun place) - I overheard people complaining. Okay, sure, the springs were more crowded than I was expecting and mostly overheard conversation is pretty dumb and group dynamics can be strange... but if you decide to do a thing, shouldn't you aim to have a good time and make the most of it rather than focus on the negatives?

Yes, is the answer to that rhetorical question. Fuck yes.

But if you can't help yourself, if you really must moan and complain rather than try to enjoy yourself, do it quietly. Keep it to yourself. Most likely it's your attitude that's bringing you down rather than actual stuff; no reason to broadcast and bring those around you down.

Conversations With Our Customers: The Soup, The Hug, The Scooter Dude

Strictly speaking, he wasn't a customer, but he promised that one day he would be.

New member of Team Awesome, Alyx, sits outside and has a bowl of The Dreaded One's minestrone, which many customers have declared the best they have ever had.

Grumpy watches from the inside as a guy on a little tiny scooter rolls to a stop and starts talking to Alyx. Grumpy assumes they must know each other, as there are smiles during the short conversation. Apparently the conversation went a little like this...

Little Tiny Scooter Dude, as he rolls to a stop: "Whoa. That soup looks awesome."

Alyx: "It's really good."

Little Tiny Scooter Dude: "I'm not hungry right now, but if I was I'd have some of that soup."

Alyx, smiling: "Okay. Good."

Little Tiny Scooter Dude: "I'll probably come back another time."

Alyx: "Okay. Cool."

Little Tiny Scooter Dude: "Yeah... you know, Melbourne's all right, but sometimes I just want a hug."

Alyx: "Oh. Right."

Pause.

Little Tiny Scooter Dude: "But I won't hug you. Because you're eating soup."

Alyx smiles and nods and keeps eating soup. Little Tiny Scooter Dude climbs back on to his trusty steed and rides off into the sunset.

A Random Customer Says Nice Things

A new review of the cafe is up on Urbanspoon. We read this at the end of a hard day, and it made all the hard work worthwhile.

New members of Team Awesome are on board now.

A Fucking Post About A Stuck Fucking Key. Fucking Fuck Etc.

Under-staffed, blackout just as lunch service starts, and just to finish off the day, this. Fucking key gets stuck in the fucking fire escape door.  I have honestly never encountered a more stuck thing in my life than this fucking key. It's, like, fucking STUCK!

Still, first world problems. Everything's peachy. It's all fucking peachy.

Conversations With Our Customers: That Time Warren Ellis Came Into The Cafe

So there was this time I was having a chat with Warren Ellis in Grumpy & The Dreaded One's Little Cafe Of Awesome and...well that's all, really.

Game Of Thrones With Fluffiness and Cameron Diaz.

"The pizza appears to be late."

Okay. So I really quite like Game Of Thrones. I like the adventure. I like the rousing stories and the larger than life characters. I reeeeally like the costumes. I like how they make you get attached to really good and noble characters who eventually get it in the neck because another less noble character wants to put sharp things in someone's neck because it advances their cause. This is, after all, the nature of life, no?

But really. Enough. Last night's episode was just too much. So much stabbing and throat slitting and being shot by arrows... I was quite traumatised by it all. I really liked those people, and seeing their hearts being broken and ripped out of their chests and the resulting mess of all of those sensational costumes... it was horrible.

So tomorrow night, no Game Of Thrones. It's gonna be romcom city, in the abode of Grumpy & The Dreaded One. Something with Cameron Diaz, perhaps. I still have fantasies about that dance Cameron Diaz did in those fluffy slippers in one of the Charlie's Angel's movies. Soooo yum.

There will definitely be tracky pants and snuggly blankets.

There will be a warm heater and snuggles on the couch.

And giggles.

Fluffiness and cuddles. I might even wear fluffy slippers and dance along to that scene in Charlie's Angels.

But if the pizza guy is late with his delivery and interrupts my Cameron Diaz movie, he will get it in the throat with an arrow fired from my crossbow with the cavalier precision you would expect from a battlefield warrior such as myself.

The insolent fucker.

Feeling The Love. Cafe, Work and Friends.

I bitched and moaned about having to do cafe stuff this weekend (our third weekend of not doing six day weeks for the past eight months), but bloody hell, what a lovely weekend it turned out to be.

The Dreaded One and I had to stay back on Friday after a busy day to move all the furniture and paint the floor with primer for our handyman guy to paint over the next day. Handyman didn't show on Saturday, so we painted the floor ourselves. We also bought this cool old chopping block to put the cash register on because the thing the cash registster had been on, courtesy of the previous cafe owners, was the most imbecilic piece of junk I have ever seen. Words fail me. I don't know what they were thinking. I'd post a photo of this hateful piece of shit except that I destroyed it Thor-like with a hammer after it fell over for the thousandth time on Saturday. The only thing fucktardier than making this shitful, poorly designed piece of demon poo was the fact that we put up with it for so long. What were we thinking?

Anyway. Now we have a neat, retro looking chopping block/cabinet thing THAT DOESN'T KEEP FALLING THE FUCK OVER, some very cool new art on the walls courtesy of photographer friend Steve Willis, some wonderfully whimsical little terrariums on the tables courtesy of writer friend Laura Brinson, and some nice looking outdoor furniture. I think we've gotten through the settling in period and can now start putting a bit more love into the cafe.

After painting the floor on Saturday we also managed to have friends over for dinner on Saturday night for the first time in ages. Cheese fondue and lamb shank tagine, LOTS of wine and fun conversation and laughs.

When I have such quality people over in my home - a place I usually need to spend time in in solitude - I'm content to sit back and soak in these people enjoying each other's company. They were noisy in the most wonderful way, and I loved it.

Today, Sunday, we installed the retro chopping block thing and got the cafe ready for tomorrow, then had lunch at The Fox.

Grumpy is happy.

Conversations With Our Customers: The Soup, It's Good.

Sweeping through the cafe, I saw a table that needed to be cleared. The couple had finished eating and were talking, I told them I'd clear the plate and soup bowl away. I picked up the lady's plate and started to slide the guy's soup bowl on its wooden board to the edge of the table so that I could pick it up. But it seemed to be stuck to the table. It wasn't budging.

Grumpy [internal monologue]: What the hell is going on here? It's like this board is stuck to the table or something. It's almost like the guy is holding onto it from the other end or something. It's really confusing and the longer it goes on the more embarrassing it's getting. It feels like I've been trying to pick the thing up for ages. I must look like such a useless twat.

Customer: It's very good lamb, vegetable and lentil soup. Do you mind if I finish it?

I then see that the customer has indeed been holding on to the other end of the board. There are still a couple of spoonfuls of soup left.

Grumpy: Oh my God I'm so sorry. How embarrassing. Of course. Take your time. No rush. What a twat. Not you - me. Me twat.

Customer, smirking: It's okay. Tell the chef it really is very good soup.

Your Dream Menage A Trois

Dead chicks I'd have a threesome with: Dora Maar, Gertrude Bell, and Amelia Earhart. (I booked in an extra in case one of the others couldn't make it).

These people are amazing women.

If two of them got jealous, I'd probably stay faithful to Dora Maar. Picasso wasn't worthy.

But then,she was soooo blindly in love with him that she probably wouldn't see that he was unworthy because he was so great and so famous with his paint and art and yadyada, and I'm just me with my nothing and more nothing and my Australian accent which totally sucks compared to even the worst European accent, let alone the Spanish and Italian ones which are just crazy hot. So Dora probably wouldn't even glance at me. Probably wouldn't know I existed, if we existed at the same time.

Good thing I made arrangements with Gertrude and Amelia.

Have you ever thought about your dream menage a trois with dead people?

Why In The Hell Has There Never Been A Movie Made About Gertrude Bell?

Everyone knows about Lawrence Of Arabia, but who knows about Gertrude Bell? I didn't, until now. What an extraordinary woman. Why the hell has no one ever made a movie about her?

Although in just trying to answer this question, it seems Ridley Scott might be on the case. 'Bout bloody time.

Conversations With Our Customers: The Dropped Spoon

The customer was an imposing figure to say the least. One of those very large but shapely bodies, low cut top oozing the purest essence of buxom. Dark clothes. Bare skin a gallery of expensive tattoos. Her face? Strong and pretty at the same time. She ordered a large, strong latte, but with a spoonful of honey.

She sat outside. I made her coffee and took it out to her. Placing the cup on the table, I somehow managed to knock the spoon from the saucer onto the footpath. We both reached for it at the same time. She got to it first.

"Sorry. I'll get you another one.

"No it's okay. That's fine. This one is fine."

"That's silly. I'll get you a clean one."

"Really, don't bother - I like it like that."

"Like what? Like it's been on the footpath?"

"That's right... I like it dirty."

Grumpy's internal voice goes erm doo doo doo erm for about three hours.

"Seriously, I'll get you a clean one."

"Seriously, if you do that... I'll get angry."

"Angry? And what happens when you get angry. You gonna spank me or somethi..."

Her reply? A single, slowly arched eyebrow.

I got the hell out of Dodge before I got in over my head.

Conversations With Our Customers: The Mess, The Sequel

Conversations With Our Customers: The Mess, The Sequel.
Little Old Lady (as Grumpy clears her table): Sorry about the mess.
Grumpy: That's okay. Don't worry about it.
Little Old Lady: Yes, I've been here before and I made mess that time and you said don't worry about it, so I've come back again to make another mess.
Chapeau, Little Old Lady, you wrinkly cheeky you.

Not So Common

A few weeks ago at one of our favourite Sunday lunch destinations, The Dreaded One and I found ourselves talking to the owner, a lovely person by the name of Jo. We first encountered Jo a couple of years ago, soon after we moved into the area and wandered by the restaurant and peered through the window. The restaurant appeared to be closed, so we kept walking. Jo had seen us peering inside and came running out onto the street.

"Come back! We're open!"

We went back. Have been going back ever since. We love this place.

Since then, we've opened our cafe, Grumpy & The Dreaded One's Little Cafe Of Awesome. Steep learning curve, lots of hard work. Just the way we like it.

On this day, we told Jo about our previous Saturday, when our Saturday helper phoned in unwell and it was just down to The Dreaded One and me to go it alone again. Naturally, we got slammed.

Jo listened to all of this. Bear in mind here that this is a good restaurant. It's whole other levels above our humble operation. But when we finished talking about what a hard day it had been, Jo said wait here, hang on a second. She disappeared and returned with her business card. She scribbled her name and personal phone number on it and said that on Saturday mornings, she's available to work and to just call her if we need help doing whatever.

I could tell, she meant it. What a gorgeous, wonderful offer. We would never take her up, of course, but that she made the offer and meant it... wow.

Then today, Jo pops into the cafe. As well as running her wonderful restaurant, she supplies other restaurants with wild mushrooms. She was delivering some to the nearby legendary Cutler & Co and dropped a few off to us as a gift.

And again said that the offer to help out still stood.

Some humans are just so amazing. They make you take a good look at yourself and make you want to be a better person.

Our First Critic Didn't Hate Us... Hoorah!

Here is a link to our first, anonymous serious review, from Brian Ward at Fitzroyalty. We haven't invited reviewers in, and quite frankly I don't want to know when they are in the cafe because it would make me nervous. I can happily crank out the coffee all day long but if friends come in, I suddenly sweat it about whether the coffee is going to be good enough or not. So reviewers? They are welcome, of course, and with the internet everyone is a potential reviewer anyway, but I don't really want to know when they are in.

I think we got off okay with this review. It's not exactly a glowing endorsement, but I think it's fair. This guy can be pretty harsh. We're just us, doing our thing. The Dreaded One is doing an amazing job, so much more than just cooking. And although the reviewer said he enjoyed his "Corn Critters", The Dreaded One has taken note and aims to add a little something to lift them a little. Constructive criticism, it's a good thing. Decent is okay but we can aim a little higher. We're a work in progress in so many ways.

The reviewer mentioned us again here. Again, this is good, we just have to work on how to make the coffee better than just good. Probably by getting an actual barista in. For now, though, I just need to lift my game.

New outdoor furniture is happening very shortly. Plans are underway for a new fit-out for the service area, website is being built as we speak... it's all very exciting.

The Speechmaker by Working Dog, Review

Here is a link to my review of Working Dog's first venture into theatre, The Speechmaker. It was good without being brilliant and will no doubt do well.

Conversations With Our Customers: The Avocado

A couple of Asian girls walk into the cafe. They look at the menu board for a while and speak to each other in their native language before one steps forward to do the foreign communication thing.

"Er... please, can we have one latte, and... mmm an avocado."

"A latte and an avocado. Okay. How do you want the avocado?"

"Sorry?"

"Would you like us to do anything to it."

She just frowns at this, like I'm some kind of weirdo. I'm just trying to help this be easier for all of us because quite frankly, we don't get many people coming in and requesting vegetables... or fruit, if that's in fact what an avocado is. Then again, dietary requirements these days being what they are, little surprises me.

"Do you want some lemon juice or vinegar with it?" I soldier on. On the odd occasion I have avocado, that's how I have it, with a little bit of malt vinegar.

The girl pulls a face like she just swallowed a mouthful of lemon juice. "What?"

"Okay," I say, hands raised in acceptance, "fine - just a plain avocado. Do you at least want a spoon with it?"

"Yes please. Spoon."

I go and prepare the avocado. I cut it in half, take the stone out, put the two halves in a small bowl and put a spoon in the bowl. I make the other girl's latte and take this rather odd little order out to these rather odd customers and put them on the table.

"Scyoo me, but what in the hell is this?" Asked with that same lemon-face expression.

Deep breath. "You asked for an avocado, so I'm giving you an avocado."

"Not avocado, AVOCADO!"

I try out her lemon-face expression to see if that helps the situation as I wonder what in the name of Basil Fawlty is wrong with this woman.

Then I realise. "Oh. Ooooohhhh. You want a latte and an affogato."

"That's what I said - a latte and an avocado!"

Just Loved American Beauty All Over Again

Lester Burnham: [narrating] I had always heard your entire life flashes in front of your eyes the second before you die. First of all, that one second isn't a second at all, it stretches on forever, like an ocean of time... For me, it was lying on my back at Boy Scout camp, watching falling stars... And yellow leaves, from the maple trees, that lined our street... Or my grandmother's hands, and the way her skin seemed like paper... And the first time I saw my cousin Tony's brand new Firebird... And Janie... And Janie... And... Carolyn. I guess I could be pretty pissed off about what happened to me... but it's hard to stay mad, when there's so much beauty in the world. Sometimes I feel like I'm seeing it all at once, and it's too much, my heart fills up like a balloon that's about to burst... And then I remember to relax, and stop trying to hold on to it, and then it flows through me like rain and I can't feel anything but gratitude for every single moment of my stupid little life... You have no idea what I'm talking about, I'm sure. But don't worry... you will someday.

Humiliation

Hate it when the police have you spread against the car & they pat you down & find one of those gay paper cocktail umbrellas on your person.

Following Ruben Jane On Your Friends House

A story of mine, Following Ruben Jane, that has never really been published before. Friends might have read it, but now strangers are reading it, thanks to Your Friends House. It's nice to have stories out there that I had just given up on ever being read.

Photo credit: Luciana.

Sales Reps... My Favourite People

I'm pretty good at just hanging up on telephone salespeople these days. Discount coupon schemers, energy consultants, they are all pretty annoying. I'm rarely rude to them because they are just a person doing something they are paid to do, but I am short and to the point with them. I do get a bit rude if they call back, or if they call during service. It's a cafe - here's a clue, don't call at lunch time.

Got a guy the other day who came into the cafe during a busy lunch. I thought he was a customer because he was waiting in line with the other customers. When I asked him what I could do for him, he presented his business card and told me that he represented a food supply company and he would like to supply our cafe.

I was pretty stunned. I mean, other sales reps, if they happen to come when it's busy, they wait at the side. You generally see them and when there's a gap you make contact.

But this guy waited in line, customers in front and behind. He did his introduction and brief sales pitch. I thanked him and said that we are very happy with our current suppliers. He didn't budge. He looked a bit affronted that I wasn't going to drop everything, sack our current suppliers and welcome him on board.

I repeated that we are very happy with our current suppliers but I'd keep his card if anything changed. He stayed there and asked who our current suppliers were, like he was perfectly entitled to engage in a bit of sales faff right there and then. I had to point out that he was standing in front of customers, that I wanted to serve my customers. He looked momentarily pissed off, stood to the side like he was going to wait and have another go before deciding that instead, he would leave.

Most stunning bit of amateurish sales repping I think I have ever seen. Quite brilliant in its awfulness.

On Being An Introvert

This is an interesting read from Sarah Wilson. I sometimes totally don't get why I am the way I am. Why sometimes I can't bear to be around fun people, why at other times I love being around them. (I'm content with my dislike of obnoxious, attention-seeking types). Why I so desperately need to be alone sometimes, as much as the times I need the right company. Or why I've always been so utterly shit at small talk.

The Dying

When he looked back, he could see a point where he lost interest in those who were perceived as being close to him, their love a clumsy misunderstanding. He withdrew and withdrew, and eventually they were distant. Even more distant than the ones who had not been close.

He retreated further and they grew more distant until finally he was alone, just the memory of them to keep him company.

And when he looked back, he could see a point where he lost interest even in the memory of them, and from this vantage point he wondered who they were.

And some great long time after this, he could not see them at all, could not recollect them, could not smile or shed tears at the memory of them. Had any of it been real?

He wondered if he had been part of them. One of them. But now, in not knowing who or what they were, he wondered about his own nature.

And when he looked back, he could see a point when he lost interest in himself and trying to understand any of it. He could feel himself fading into an unforgiving, infinite distance, and eventually... he simply ceased to be.

Love & Farts

I think the word should be "possibly", not "probably". Some of my most memorable farts have been forced ones, ones where I have sweated with the thought that this could well result in pants full of poo but taken that risk anyway. It's all about living outside your comfort zone, because that's where the magic happens.

Live it up, I say, and force that fart. You never know - it could be the best fart you have all year.