Helpless

Some moments in life stay with you.

There's a local street guy I see around, in various states of psychosis or inebriation. Sometimes he's well behaved, just clearly insane, but somehow aware of how correct behaviour should be. I've seen him rage on the streets. I've seen him cry. I've seen him plead for a sandwich or a piece of toast, because I am homeless and please help me.

He came into the cafe recently and asked if we could spare a couple of pieces of vegemite toast. He was expecting to be brushed off, waved away. He's jittery and twitchy and knows how the world is. No one has any time for him. Life is miserable, for him. There is no food and no shelter for him. Love and affection? When was the last time he felt love and affection?

You can't encourage these people, you understand. We have a business to run. Every day right now is a struggle. And the guy has been in before. He got his sandwich that time too, that time bought by a kind-hearted doctor.

Struggle.

I gave him his vegemite toast. His state was calm that day. He said thank you. He said “I'm good like that, I'm good when I'm good.” And he left. I watched him walk down the street, tearing open the bag to tuck into his warm vegemite toast on this chilly winter day.

Next day, on my walk home from my cosy cafe to my warm home, I saw him again. He was in the worst state I've seen him. Carrying his half loaf of bread, he stumbled in circles, didn't know what the hell was going on. He dropped his bread, picked it up again. Staggered and stumbled. He bumped into me, said he was sorry.

I kept going but had to wait at the intersection. Behind me now, the guy stumbled forward and hit his head on the traffic light pole. He exploded. “CUNTS! YOU ARE ALL SUCH FUCKING CUNTS AND I FUCKING HATE YOU!” His voice was raw. There was a raw gash under one eye, but it was not a fresh wound. He hurled his bread into the busy intersection of traffic, people in their cosy cars going to their warm homes.

“I fucking hate you. I really do.”

He crumpled to the footpath.

The traffic light changed, and I looked away. I looked ahead and crossed the road and kept walking towards my cosy and warm home.

And I didn't feel happy or blessed and the moral of the story isn't that we should all appreciate what precious things we have, I just felt like shit.

Gertrude Street Projection Festival 2015: Whoa!

The cafe is part of the quite wonderful Gertrude Street Projection Festival. We checked it out last night. Much wonder and fun. And a bit of unexpected hilarity.

We checked out the projection being shown from our cafe. It initially looks static, like a projection of a classic oil landscape. But it is moving footage, it's just that the motion is very minute. After watching the projection for several minutes, a slowly dramatic change takes place. A shadow from the left starts to take over the rusted orange hues more and more until the whole thing goes up in a lovely puff of smoke. And starts all over again.

There was a group of friends watching at the same time we were. Some of them noticed the tiny changes and ooh-ed and ah-ed. One of them got bored and wandered a short way down the alley, and triggered an overhead light to come on and artfully illuminate a doorway.

“Whoa! Check this one out! It doesn't start projecting until you walk across this part!”
“Whoa! How cool is that? And it goes back off after you move over here. So cool!”
“Oh wow!”

These probable stoners continued to marvel at the wonders of the movement detector switch that allows the tenants in the building above the cafe to find their keys in the dark as the climax of the actual projection took place.

“Whoa! Check it! Move back over here and... Amazing!”

Grumpy & The Dreaded One giggled their arses off as they made their way down Gertrude Street.

Cuckoo By Jane Miller, Review

Cuckoo
45 Downstairs
45 Flinders Lane,
Melbourne

Reviewed by Lee Bemrose

Strange one, this one. It suffers from what I'm going to think of in the future as The Cuckoo Effect. You're dying to know what The Cuckoo Effect is, aren't you. Well, I really enjoyed this play as it was unfolding whilst ignoring a few of the questions and quibbles The Little Voice was whispering in my ear. After all, it's an intriguing story, creatively told by a small cast of good actors. The intriguing bits are intriguing, the dramatic bits are dramatic and the funny bits are (mostly) funny, so shut-up, quibbly little voice and let me enjoy this thing.

And I did enjoy it. But the more distance there was between me being there seeing the play, and being away and looking back and thinking about the play, the more The Little Voice seemed to have a few valid quibbles. That's The Cuckoo Effect.

The story follows the lives of Mel (Natalie Carr) and Leo (Matthew Molony) and what happens to their lives when their apparently long-lost son J (Samuel Russo in a twitchy and unsettlingly quirky performance) turns up 17 years or so after he mysteriously vanished. The young adult claims to have been injured in a bicycle accident and in need of help. Mel is keen to help, but Leo is suspicious of this intruder with whom something is clearly not right. What follows is a story of love (and the dying of), desire, yearning, memory, regret, rejection and loyalty. All the ingredients are in place for some really good theatre, and it mostly delivers.

J's unexpected arrival opens up, for the married couple, new possibilities and a whole can of worms. If he is who he says he is, what happened? Where has he been? What went wrong? Who is to blame for his disappearance?

If he is not who he claims to be, who is he? What does he want? And how does he know how to manipulate them so easily?

The play is billed as a black comedy, and that's not an inaccurate description. There's a lot of psychological drama going on, as you'd expect with such a scenario, and there are plenty of laughs to be had. Indeed, this kind of story could be played as a straight and powerful drama. But the writer (Jane Miller) has chosen to infuse this quite serious story with humour.

And this is in part the source of some of The Little Voice's whispered quibbles. While the different and quite separate moods mostly work in isolation, they kind of jar at times. There isn't really a smooth transition between them, mainly because the drama and psychological tension is done so well, and some of the humour (not all) borders on farcical or the absurd, so much so that it clashes and jangles. The human frailty stuff is genuinely moving and natural. Some of the humour, while funny, just seems out of place or unnecessary. The character Dan (David Kambouris) - possibly the cop who delivered the news of the son's disappearance all those years ago and who is now a friend of Mel and Leo's – felt at times like a character from an awful sitcom like Hey Dad. Well played, but a frequently annoying character with frequently annoying “funny” lines.

There's also the suspension of disbelief problem. With a really successful story, you just agree to its unspoken terms and conditions and accept whatever unlikely romance or tragedy or fantasy the story suggests. You just let yourself get drawn in. With slightly less successful stories, you find yourself saying yeah but... but why don't they... but if this really happened...

I guess what's stayed with me the most are the naturalistic parts of the play dealing with emotional struggle. So well done. This is a story about the hopes of a missing child returning and the challenges that go with that, but it's also a story about fading love and rejection.

The flashback scenes are effective in giving clues as to what Mel and Leo's life was like prior to their son's disappearance, as well as the circumstances leading up to the event itself. They may have gotten on with their lives and eventually accepted that their son simply vanished, but we see that even in the most ordinary of families, all is not necessarily what it seems and blame and self-recrimination are simply burdens that must be endured if we are to get on with life.

There is real drama and tension as the three main characters become locked in a psychological battle for what they want or need out of this situation, and there is an air of creepiness or menace as well. The mystery of what has actually taken place remains right up to the quite poignant closing scene.

Season ends July 26

Sweating Rainbows

Some days, things just don't feel right, like you've swallowed fistfuls of butterflies and peacock feathers, and  now you've got this fever going. You can't think straight, can't make out just what's going on right in front of jittering eyes, everything shape-shifting and morphing. And you get those damned sweats again, those damned rainbow sweats.

Some days, you've gotta just roll with it, no matter how weird it gets.

Standard Units Of Measurement Revisted: The Piano

Just watched a news report that described a NASA deep space probe as being "The size of a piano."
When the fuck did they change the standard measurement of size from football fields to musical instruments?

I don't know how big a piano is. Is it bigger than a harpsichord? Do 16 theremins = one piano? How many banjos = one piano?

The Faffing Song

My turn to cook tonight. The Dreaded One makes a slightly... no totally and completely snarky and unjustified comment about we'd better hurry up because no we don't have plenty of time because you are not factoring in the Lee Faff Factor. I was bit hurt. Me faff?

At home. In the kitchen. I get cracking because of this "Faffing" accusation.

At an unspecified time after I get cracking, I find myself gazing into the middle distance as my mind goes to work on a new project. The project is a song called The Faffing Song, sung to the tune of Nick Cave's The Weeping Song.

"Ann go into the kitchen,
And see Lee faffing there,
Then go into the lounge-room,
Lee is faaaaaff-ing there too...

This is The Faffing Song,
A song in which to faff..."

My creative flow is interrupted by The Dreaded One who has apparently, with her ninja like senses, detected that cooking activity has ceased.

What are you thinking about, Lee?

Best you don't know, I tell her as I get cracking on dinner again.

The Faffing Song though, I have to do this.

Sometimes I Wonder

Sometimes I wonder

Looking at old photos,
Walking down a street
Leaving loved ones behind,
I don't care,
I've dis-engaged,
I'm focused on the road ahead.

Until I look at those old photos.
Those old faded memories,
And I wonder what happened,
Were you happy?
Are you happy?

Sometimes I wonder.

Asking The Big Questions

Yesterday a Porsche drove by that was the exact colour of our new fondue pot. So the big question that looms in my mind (because I am a big, looming questiony kind of guy) is, is it a Porsche-coloured fondue pot or a fondue pot-coloured Porsche?

Conversations With Our Customers - Mr Guatemala

A guy walks into the cafe oozing absurd amount of confidence. Says, "I'm after a pie. Yeah, I want a pie. You have?"

The daily pie special is a roasted vegetable, haloumi and tomato pie. This customer has too much confidence to eat a roasted vegetable, haloumi and tomato pie. This level of confidence requires something's flesh. He sees the house-made Moroccan lamb sausage roll. He announces that he will try a house-made Moroccan lamb sausage roll,  to takeaway.

Then he turns his confidence to me. I've been watching the guy deal with my helper and wondering just where in the fuck someone gets this kind of confidence. Is there a place you can go and swap some insecurity for some confidence? Why do I not know about this place? Why has no one told me? Perhaps I can trade a little paranoia for some sex appeal while I'm there.

"I might have a coffee while I'm waiting for my sausage roll," the guy tells me with a kind of nod and wink that is neither an actual nod or wink, his confidence a dazzling thing somehow magically just holding back from smarminess. How the fuck is he doing this?

"Um... okay," is my riposte.

"So what can you tell me about the beans?"

Oh God, I think. "They're not a brand you're going to recognise. They're not a 'label' brand. They're kind of our own blend."

"Your own blend?" His tone has turned its head ever so slightly to one side and raised one eyebrow as if to say prey do tell.

"Well it's our supplier's blend. I think she supplies a few select cafes around Melbourne. Like I say, It's not a recognised brand but we think it's good coffee."

"What can you tell me about the components?" he asks, his tone jutting its chin in a slightly outwardly-upwardly direction, making me want us to stop talking about things so that I can just make his coffee, since I can't be suddenly on a beach in Barcelona with my fellow nude Spaniards, sipping mojitos and discussing Gaudi.

Truth is, it's been so long since I've thought of the 'components' of our coffee beans that I can't quite recall them.

"Erm... it's a blend of beans from New Guinea, Guatemala... India..."

I'm really hoping something kind of big, like Armageddon, is going to happen right now because if it doesn't, I'm going to have to start pulling coffee growing countries out of my arse. And if I do that, I suspect this fucker will be right onto me.

"Ethiopia or - "

"I don't KNOW!" I whimper.

"Hmm. Well I like Guatemalan coffee. I'll take a long black."

"In a take-away as well?"

"Nah. hit me with ceramic. I'll sit outside and smash out a cigarette while I'm waiting for my sausage roll."

I fully expect him to shoot me with his two finger guns and make clicking sounds with his tongue.

I am very happy that he is gone, but equally sad that I now have to make this Guatemalan coffee appreciator a long black. On the one hand I am glad he is not a latte drinker because the result of my attempts at latte art are as unpredictable as Melbourne weather. On the other hand, with a long black there is nothing to hide behind. I like coffee and I think ours is good, but I am no connoisseur. This bastard, I feel sure, is.

Which is fine. All I have to do is not fuck up his coffee.

I make the coffee and take it out to him. The grind has been perfect. I manually stopped the extraction at 27 seconds because I like the number 27 (I just like to stop the extraction on a long black before 30 seconds - at 27 seconds - because some of the most legendary rock stars died at the age of 27 and so... er...). The crema - floated so deftly on the surface of the water - looks glorious in its deep caramel hue. It's a good looking cup of Joe. I feel confident.

But not confident enough to double shoot Mr Guatemala with my finger guns.

Service is busy. I'm getting nailed on the coffee machine but as Mr Guatemala's Moroccan sausage roll comes through, I grab it because I want to take it out to him and find out what he thought of the coffee. I need to know.

Outside. I walk towards him. I open my mouth to ask but he cuts me off with his diamond-hard confidence.

"You've got a good cup of coffee there."

"Oh really?" I sob. "Because you had me worried there. You obviously know your coffee." I wipe the tears from my eyes with the heel of my hand.

"Nah. I'm a discerning customer that's all. And a happy one. It's good stuff." His smile is all finger guns and click-clicks. He takes his sausage roll rides off into the sunset.

I skip into the cafe and kind of frolic in my Viking-frolicky way for the rest of this wonderfully sunshine-filled afternoon.

Not even Spoonwoman could bring me down now.

He's Got What Helfgott

We have a new semi-regular customer in the cafe. He doesn't play the piano (or maybe he does - what do I know?), but he reminds me very much of David Helfgott. His name is Pat, and he is a wonderfully quirky fucker. He introduced himself the first time he came into the cafe, then came in again and remembered my name, told me about his partner and his marital status and then made strange jokes all in his rapid-fire way of speaking. He is weirdly charming, totally oddball, and I am intrigued.

A week passed and he came in again. I think he is going to St Vinnies to have something done to his foot. He is hooked on our Moroccan lamb sausage rolls. He said "Hello Lee - my name's Pat," the words tumbling and stuttering out enthusiastically. The thought that I might not remember him was quite funny.

He came over after his meal to tell me again how much he likes our sausage rolls, then tried to get to know me, asking what I was up to this weekend and he bets I'm going to catch some football. Sadly, this is a conversational cul de sac with me because I am not a footy guy. We chatted for a bit though and he intrigued me more. Previously he had been making his wife of 30 years or more (but we're not hitched) laugh over lunch, so I sense he is a nice guy.

I'm going to try to make more time for him and get to know him because the quirky fuckers, they are colour and music.

Love And Information At The Malthouse, Review

Love And Information

Reviewed by Lee Bemrose



It's often fun to go into a play with the bare minimum knowledge about it. Don't read every review ever written of every production ever performed. Don't read interviews with the playwright or various actors or performers to get their take on the play, just go in blind and make your own mind up. Don't be swayed by the opinions of those bloody reviewers (seriously, what do those knuckle-heads know anyway?), get what YOU get out of the play. Definitely don't read publicity for the thing because the publicity machine only has one thing in mind, and that's bums on seats. Don't even read the program before going into the theatre. Just wing it. Dive into the abyss. Let the story pull you in and weave its magic. Let the themes appear to you of their own accord. Let the plot thicken and the characters develop...

All I can say with regard to Love And Information is thank God I didn't do all of this on this occasion because without sneaking a look at the program in the foyer before going in, I wouldn't have had lonely clue what the hell was going on before me. Even armed with the knowledge my program provided, I'm still not game enough to say I completely understood what was going on.

Effectively, from what this knuckle-head can gather, British playwright Caryl Churchill has written something of a game or a puzzle of a play. The play is written in seven sections, each with seven scenes which can be played in whatever order suits the director. There are additional sections to the seven acted out which contain scenes that may or may not be inserted throughout the play. Ultimately there are 76 scenes on offer, involving around 100 characters, played in this case by eight actors. With me? Good, because I'm not sure I am.

So there is no linear narrative. No story, as such, but perhaps many micro stories, all involving questions of love and information, more of the latter than the former, I think. Character development? Yeah kind of, occasionally, in teeny weeny ways. The whole thing really is a big, jangly, often frenetic, sometimes moody, frequently funny collection of vignettes. As such, there isn't the exquisite satisfaction of being told a story. There is no sitting back and letting The Story pull you into its world. This creature is too chopped up, too fragmented like a smashed kaleidoscope for any of that tell-me-a-story stuff.

The play seems to be prodding us to think about the nature of information. We live in the information age, so it's not a bad question to ask. Information is all around us. We devour it, we send it, we are it. Literally, we are information, it's there in our DNA. Information can change the way we see a situation or think of a person. Sometimes we don't want to know certain information, or wonder if we would have been better off not knowing it. Some information we keep to ourselves as secrets; and is this better or worse for them (or us). Certainly, friendship and love can be turned on its head with the appropriate information.

In spite of the absence of the snuggly blanket of a big old story, this certainly was an engaging performance. The stage was stark and white with movable white blocks for props and back-lit doorways around the stage through which the actors entered and exited again to make their hasty costume changes. Sometimes all the cast were on stage together, sometimes just an intimate two engaging in no more than an intimate two or three words. Settings were varied – domestic home; the office; a roadworks site; the gym; a psyche consultation room; a garden; a cemetery; a moving train carriage; a museum... sometimes it was non-specific, just friends in their bubble, swapping information. All scene changes were suggested by the choreographed rearrangement of these blocks by the energetic cast of actors.

The cast was brilliant. They had to chop and change myriad times and instantly change the tone from comical to tragic to mundane and back again.

The musical score by The Sweats was a large part of the performance and was all synthy energy early on, softening to some wonderfully haunting ambiance in the late scenes. The last couple of scenes were actually quite wonderful. The reading of the... the symbolism of the... the argument about the... You really don't need to hear this information right now from me. Best go see it for yourself. It's well worth it.

A Twisted Tale Of Demented Mind Games

Some customers walked in to the cafe today and said they had come here because they were told we made the best coffee in the area. This is a big call, given that we are on Gertrude Street. I asked who told them that, and they said one of the nurses at St Vincents. Said the nurse said we were pretty much the best cafe in the area.

Regardless of whether this is true or not, it's pretty impressive that someone thinks this is the case and is willing to recommend us as such.

The customers ordered three Grumpy Burgers and some vego quiche, so I'm guessing the nurse is also a big fan of our burgers. They enjoyed their food and coffee and left saying that they were glad the nurse had recommended us. Warm and fuzzies all round.

Until a hideous thought crawled across my mind the way a zombie demon baby will crawl across your bedroom floor tonight when you are asleep so that it can eat your eyeballs and suck your brain out of the empty eye sockets... what if Nurse Recommendy is that embodiment of evil herself, Spoonwoman? Fucking Spoonwoman!

This vile thought crossed my now tormented mind today after Spoonwoman came in for her afternoon large skim latte with one sugar and OUTRAGEOUSLY was pleasant again. She was really fucking nice. The fucking bitch! How dare she! She asked for her coffee with a please, thanked me when I gave her the coffee (even for this dark witch I will make the best coffee I can), and paid for a $4.20 coffee with a fiver and told me to keep the change. It was almost enough to make me reach out across the counter and strangle the pestilent life out of her on the spot. Because it was then that I noticed the St Vincent's logo on her jumper. All this time I had assumed she was in the area seeking psychiatric help to control the psychotic ways of her mind, and here she is a fucking nurse! Helping people!

The concept that I might have to be grateful to Spoonwoman is more than I can bear.

True Nature

A recent incident reminded me that I may have mislead some people. In spite of my writing and occasional extrovert behaviour when in the company of close friends, I am actually your poster boy introvert. I wish it wasn't so, and apologies, but there you go. We are what we are.

A Moment Of Clarity In The Shitstorm Of My Mind

Here's a thing. Here's a random memory from my most drug fucked days - not the worst days of my life. The worst days probably happened then, but some of the best days happened too. Some of the most enduring friendships came from those days. Glad I made it through. I almost didn't. Really, I almost didn't make it. I'll tell you about it sometime.

But here's a memory from those days. A new friend. We're out. We're out and we're fucked up in the most wonderful way. I don't really know this person but I like her. I don't remember where we were or where we were going or what was going to happen next. I don't really remember very much about that night at all, except that we were enjoying each others company, this new friend and me.

She made a joke about being transgender, transexual, something like that. And in my fucked up state of fucked-upness, I noticed her broad shoulders, her height, her big hands, her square jawline. In the calm backwaters of my fucked-up mind, a question: shit- is she a dude?

I was in a state. Remember this. I wasn't sober. I was a long way from sober. I started realising that I didn't have a clue about anything.

And looking at her, this new friend, I didn't care. It's too late, I thought. It doesn't matter because I already like you. I absolutely want you to be my friend for a very long time, whatever the deal is.

And a very long time later I'm happy to say we are the very best of friends. She is married now to a lovely and cool guy, and they have kids, this tall, broad shouldered, large handed and beautiful, caring, intelligent woman and her husband.

So there. There's a thing. A beautiful memory from my drug-fucked days.

Currently Reading Medium Raw By Anthony Bourdain

"As I looked around the beach, I saw in the jaundiced light of my unhappiness, the full extent of the horror of this Island of Dr. Moreau I'd willingly marooned myself on. The full spectrum of plastic surgeries gone wrong - right there in the open, curiosities of the flesh, which at a lesser income level would have been confined to the carnival sideshow: mouths that pulled to the side, lips plumped beyond credibility, cheeks filled with golf ball-like lumps, and foreheads frozen so tight you could play a snare drum on them. Identical noses... eyes that refused to blink and could barely even close...
   And there was my date for the night, in her thousand dollar plain white T shirt. Searching - once again - for her cell phone."

I think I would like to hang out with Anthony Bourdain.

A Day In The Office

It's a good thing you can't see me from the front here - my tongue would be poking out as I try carefully to spoon just the right amount of Nescafe instant into each cup.

Nyuk nyuk nyuk.

This is me being a bit slammed on the coffee machine. Someone came in with a take-away order for 11 coffees, then, naturally, several other customers came in at the same time with multiple coffee orders. We ran out of space along the bench and had to stack the other lids in clusters wherever we could find space. Early on, this kind of thing would make me break out in a sweat of nerves and my hands would shake. These days, I love it. It's a puzzle, it's a game. Hannah, my helper, wrote the orders on the lids. I then got her to cluster the same types of milk together. I did all the shots, steamed the first of the milk and handed the jug to Hannah to pour and finish, by which time I had steamed the next jug to silky perfection. I merged smaller orders in with the big order so that those customers didn't have to wait right until the end of the big order. It's a small thing, but its a buzz. Being busy is a buzz.

And yes, I currently have a stripe of green hair on my shaved head. And those pants? Made by a talented friend, Sharron at Leafy Sea Dragons. I get plenty of comments on them and yeah, can see why. They're pretty cool.

Felt a bit tired by the end of the week. Was a pretty busy one. Expected yesterday to be quiet because of the long weekend but we got slammed. Busiest day of the week. 50 hours plus on our feet each week, running at times... it's exhausting.

Lots happening at the moment. We seem to be going through another busy period. We haven't done anything to promote the cafe so it's all word of mouth, the most honest kind of promotion. Although we did have a band record their music video clip in the cafe recently. Papa G & The Starcats. We'll get credit in the clip (for their song Smooth Lovin') and post a link here when it's out.

And we're off to the album launch of a former employee tonight. I used to love working with Alyx. Now I just have to be content with loving her music, which I do very much.

First theatre opening night in a while coming up on Tuesday, and I have a feeling  (because there's no rest for these weary bones) that we're going to a doof bright and early tomorrow morning. Just to go hard for the day and into the night, drive back on Monday.

Spoonwaoman V Squinchwoman

Dear Diary,
Spoonwoman has been mercifully not present lately. Sometimes I think I see the spectre of here there in the middle distance, only to realise that it's the reflection of a traumatic memory in the window of my mind. She haunts me. Currently there is no sign of her or her hellish torment, but I have no doubt she will return to torment me hellishly. This is Spoonwoman's raison d'etre.

To less sad tidings... a customer. Pretty, yes. French, ye... oui. We had an encount... a rendezvous which involved human interaction and currency exchange. A croissant and a baguette and a drop of youthful beaujolais. Then again, this is my delusional memory we are dealing with here, so perhaps it was a ham, cheese and tomato toasty and a bottle of coke. I really can't recall, because I was distracted. And the source of my distraction, Dear Diary? Well.

As she turned to leave she... this mademoiselle... did the most curious thing. She smiled, thanked me (merci, she said, merci beucoup), then kind of squinched both eyes shut. Fleetingly. Simultaneously. She performed what can only be described as a French Fleeting Simultaneous Eye Squinch.
And left. Without so much as an au revoir.

That eye squinch, it will haunt me. What did it mean? And if I should dream about Mademoiselle Squinch and Spoonwoman, what will happen?

As I go now into the frontier of the unconscious and enter the realm of sleep, I am nervous. For I have eaten rather a lot of cheese, and shit could get weird.

Pray for me, Dear Diary, and please come rescue me if I call your name. Especially if I am squealing things like "Get off me Spoonwoman it's horrible it's horrible!"

Until next time,

Yours,

Me.

13 Years Of Big Like

I'm kind of a solitary soul, but the friends who get in there usually turn out to be pretty special, even if they did crash into my life in unexpected ways.

This is Chloe who crashed into my life 13 years ago. We bumped into each other in a nightclub. I'm a little bit in awe of her. I love that we are such good friends after all these years, after such a potentially fleeting encounter.

In The White Room

In The White Room

In the white room
He opens the curtains
Outside, there is a garden.
It's a garden of stories
Stories of growth and dying.
The stories are secret stories
Secret stories of people
To be shared with people
Who will never really know these stories.
There is the story of Sarah.
There is the story of Chloe
There is the story Rachael who would never
Let him call her by her name.
There is the story of Kat
And the story of Christine and
The story of Nadia
And the story of Ann
The long and wonderful story of Ann.
Out there in the garden of growth and dying
Is the story of Them,
Their long history of adventures and quarrels
The story of her strength and his weakness
Their epic story of them.
He closes the curtains in this white room,
This blinding white room
With its electric white roar,
And blindly smiles his lonely smile.

The Spoonwoman Chronicles Part 2

So Spoonwoman - or as I like to call her, Fucking Spoonwoman - comes into the cafe today. She pays for yesterday's coffee, apologises for not paying for it yesterday like she said she was going to, AND she thanks me. Like, WTF? What the hell is she up to? What twisted mind game is she playing? She's supposed to be evil, not civil. Bitch is doing my head in.

The Spoonwoman Chronicles

Fucking Spoonwoman... she ordered coffee and then found she didn't have any cash in her purse. She asked if she could pay for her coffee later when she was on her 3pm break. I snarlingly, grudgingly said yeah sure, Spoonwoman.

Then she didn't show up at 3pm.

Spoonwoman and me, next time we meet, it's going to be apocalyptic.

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

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

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

Boy shrugs.

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

Boy shrugs again. “I am sad.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You daydream.”

“Yes.” Boy squirms a little.

“To escape.”

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

“I see. What do you daydream about?”

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

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

Boy looks at the man. “Started what?”

“Your journey.”

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

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

“How do you know that?”

“I know things.”

“What things do you know?”

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

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

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

Boy nods.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Old man?”

“Yes, boy?”

“How do you know these things?

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

"Yeehaw!"

Crack of whip.

*

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

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

Flashback - Godless by The Dandy Warhols

Just because I had forgotten just how much I loved their album 13 Tales Of Urban Bohemia. Which was (and is again) a lot. A LOT.

What Happens?

What happens
When the funny stops,
When the happy stops,
When the hoping stops,
When you realise that The Vibe was wrong,
And you can/t evvbe>n use
Your keyborad prpp;ly?

Blerk.

I want to know the answer
To this shitly worded
And quite possibly
poorly constructed
question of the thing:
What happens?

Actually, forget it.
I don't care.
I really don't care.
I truly don't care.
I honestly don't care.

I just don't care.

The Dummy Spit

On the flight home on the weekend I settled in to read my book, Nick Cave's The Death Of Bunny Munro. There was a little kid across the aisle, a squirmer and a squealer. Awesome. At one point he literally spat his dummy across the aisle and it landed in my open book. The kid fell silent and looked impressed and shocked and a little bit frightened. His mother looked horrified and apologised like she thought I was going to get violent. I was just amused. Ain't never had a kid spit its dummy from a distance into the pages of a twisted novel I was reading.

Immortalised In Fiction

This from American musician and author Beth Patterson: "Two short stories are getting released a day apart from each other! This anthology contains my short story Tubular Hells. It takes place in Australia...it even mentions some of my favorite spots, such as the Rails, the Maldon Folk Festival, and Grumpy & The Dreaded One's Little Cafe Of Awesome."

That's a little bit cool.

Tindersticks - Show Me Everything

After lunch service at the cafe I switch to more guitar driven, brooding songs. It's my place, my time of the day. Sometimes I even sing out loud to some Nick Cave or Tom Waits. Every now and again a songs makes me stop the glamorous tasks of cleaning and tidying and go Huh? How good is this?

This was one such song. Love it when old songs are new to your ears.

3:10 To Humour, Rich Hall Review April 2015

Rich Hall – 3:10 To Humour

Reviewed by Lee Bemrose



I don't know about the title of this show – I really don't – but it feels like some numpty somewhere involved in making a world class comedy festival insisted that Rich Hall give his show a name, when in fact the show could have just as easily have been called “Rich Hall”. And I can kind of hear Rich saying something like, “Oh for fuck sake you Goddamn marketing numpty – why does my show need a name? Why do I need some stupid label? Tins of baked beans need labels – am I a tin of Goddamned motherfucking baked beans? Okay. Okay. How about... I dunno – 3:10 To Humour? That okay with you, you piece of shit marketing numpty?” Sure, it could be a pun on some obscure 1950s short story set in the wild west, but even so its relevance to the show's content eludes me.

Rich Hall is one of those comedy acts that really doesn't need to be labelled. He's Rich Hall, and that's that. And he's just about the funniest guy you're likely to see on stage so basically just buy a ticket and know that you will laugh your arse off. I'm a reviewer and I'm going to spend some of my own cash to see the show again, and I think that's a bigger endorsement than any shitty little five star deal.

Rich gives himself an off-stage introduction, then wanders on-stage looking like he just woke up 10 minutes ago and really couldn't care less. He tells us he is glad to be back in Melbourne and gets on with some of his observations of the differences between Australians and Americans. In politics, it seems, the concept of a coalition is head-bending to Americans. And maybe he has a point – just look at the coalition of shoe repairers and key cutters. I for one had never considered how odd this coupling was, but now that this outsider had pointed it out, why shoe repairs and key-cutting?

For some reason – something to do with the various Bush politicians being exactly the same - the comedian needed to do an impressively awful impersonation of one of the impressively awful Baldwin brothers which lead to Hall wandering slouch-shouldered off stage and into the audience to heckle himself. Back up on stage he did another of the Baldwin brothers (pretty much the same as the first), to come back down into the audience to harangue himself with even harsher abuse. This turned into him being an imaginary audience member heckling the heckler... you've got to love a valid point wrapped up in warped silliness.

And he is very good at verbal abuse, too. His banter with audience members frequently involves comically vehement insults which he totally dead-pans to hilarious effect. On this night he did an admirable job of not turning his ability to insult on a couple of particularly annoying “hecklers”. (I rabbit-ear the word hecklers because it was the lamest version of heckling ever. Drunk idiots incapable of stringing a sentence together, they shouted idiotic monosyllabic grunts far too frequently throughout the show). Where most of the audience were on the verge of telling these incoherent retards incapable of handling their booze to STFU, Hall engaged somewhat and even made one the star of an improv song, showing that this gruff, thunderous looking personification of a hangover has a degree of finesse about him.

The music is a lot of fun. He talks with someone in the audience and builds an improv song out of the snippets of their life he has extracted from them. It's clever and funny when it works, and just plain funny when he struggles to make it work.

The highlight of the show for me was his ode to Bob Dylan, Bob Dylan Is Getting Back Together. I hadn't heard it or heard of it before and as a result it was kind of... astonishing. I won't spoil it here by describing it, but it is one of the funniest things I've seen. The build up to it is perfect and... I really want to describe it here but will resist.

The bit when the harmonica blares out klaxon-like... no. I really must resist. Just go see it. This piece is almost the sole reason for me going back for more.

But outside of the songs, he has more stories and they are just priceless. As well as the observational stuff (politics, marriage, America's idiotic love affair with guns... lots of stuff with a message as well as just being funny), he has been the guest on many, many television shows and has a vast store of anecdotes to draw upon. His experience with the little guy on car show Top Gear is brilliant.

In short, I think a certain reviewer has a bit of a man crush on a certain dishevelled comedian and he is looking forward to their next date.

The Younger Women

There is always a younger woman.
You become her friend,
Her confidante,
No really, her very special friend.

I like that you have these occasional encounters,
And I like that Solitary-You finds happiness
In the company of other people
When you claim to not like people.

I like that there is love,
Platonic yet deep and friendly love.
I like seeing the happiness they give you
And the happiness you give to them.

But do you ever wonder,
Ever
How you would feel
If there was a younger man?

Late Night Musings

Another thought that keeps me up late at night... "I wonder if I am upsetting something in the order of life and the universe by using a Schick razor and Gillette shaving gel at the same time..."

Norman Gunston Interview With Sally Struthers... Inspirational.

As a serious student of the celebrity interview, this has always been my favourite. Just saw it again on a comedy doco after a million years, and I still love it so much that tears got in my eyes. I fucking love this.

Missing In Adventure

Good Lord that felt like a long four days off. Funny that only one of those days didn't involve doing some time in the cafe. Still, caught up with old friends and today chatted with another friend overseas and really appreciated the voice contact. Sometimes I think friends I haven't heard from for a while are just characters in stories I've made up. Hearing their voice, it's reassuring to realise that no, they are very real and very much loved and missed... they are just out there somewhere having adventures.

JubiLee Street... Because It Has Lee in it, innit.

This song fascinates me. The whole album Push The Sky Away... It's my favourite Nick Cave And The Bad Seeds album. I told The Dreaded One this yesterday. She told me that I already told her this yesterday. I told her yes I know, but it's even more favourite today than it was yesterday

The Broken Thing And The Kiss.

It's drunk, and you're late, but she still kisses you on the mouth in that late drunk way, and you think maybe the thing, that special thing, maybe that thing isn't broken after all.

Teaching = Sharing The Knowledge.

Dear All The Worst Teachers I've Ever Had,

You taught me how to be a good teacher.

Thank you.

The Broken Thing

It's a sad day when you realise
That that golden thing
That fragile thing
That amazing thing
That reliable thing
That thing you had
That forever thing

Is broken.

Ask No Question Of The Moth

Every now and then you hear a quote that speaks to you. This, for me, is one such quote:

"I have no news of my coming or passing away - the whole thing happened quicker than a breath; ask no question of the moth."

Farid al-Din Attar, courtesy of the wonderfully hilarious human, Judith Lucy, who I one day hope to hug. She is a warm and honest and very funny moth indeed.

Review of her show coming tomorrow.

Tough As Chuck

Me: OUCH!
Her: What happened?
Me: Zipper pinched me on my... manhood.
Her: Ow. You all right?
Me: Yeah, I'm fine. Bit worried about the zipper though.

Surround Me

First time I've heard the original version of this gorgeous song. Have only heard the something overdrive remix. This is beautiful songing. And yes I meant to write songing.

Been a day of music today. I really listened to Nick Cave And The Bad Seeds' Push The Sky Away for the first time today. It's a favourite album. The guy is a master song writer, story teller, singer and musician. All things considered, Surround Me by 3-11 Porter is probably shit in that it's their one and only hit, and Nick Cave has hundreds of beautiful songs and hits, but I still like it.

Been too busy to write much lately, but things are good. Another traveler co-worker left after too short a time and I was a bit unhappy about it. She was wonderful to work with, so very kind and gentle and intelligent, and her presence brought these qualities out in me, I think. Surround yourself with the kind of people you want to be, and you'll become that person. Fleur will be missed in the workplace, but unless I am badly mistaken, I think I have another friend.

It's sometimes easy to forget, but one of our motivations when starting the cafe was to make a place where we are all happy to come to. Both The Dreaded One and I had some bad experiences with employers and wanted to make sure that our workers didn't move on and feel the way we did about our bad employers. I think it's just about liking the people you choose and respecting them for who they are and what they do.

I think that they have all gone on to become friends who stay in touch after they leave, or who initiate after work drinks with us or social meets on the weekends... I think we're doing all right.

Surround yourself with good people. It's a beautiful thing.

Let Love Win

So much beauty it hurts. Hearing this, having seen these guys play live on the weekend, knowing the evil that is going on right now in the world... ergh. Headfuck.

I hope beauty and love prevails.

First World Problems? Moi?

Some aspects of this tale might come across as what some of you like to label "First World Problems" ... judgmental fuckers that you are.

So, like, I came back from an absolutely awesome dance festival feeling in absolute agony. Muscles so sore from sooo much dancing to soooo much good music. The soreness of my leg muscles triggered memories of happiness, which was horrible because my face muscles were also aching from all the smiling and laughter that had taken place over this treacherously Bacchanalian weekend.

Working in my cafe, I'd kind of hoped to ease into this short three day week after four days off, but noooooo... all of our regulars who made do with some other cafe the day before ALL came back for breakfast and coffee and then lunch as well and we got properly spanked. Jesus. It was relentless. And they told us things like how they missed us and that they were glad we were open again and I think this was their passive aggressive way of saying they think we should never close again because they like our breakfast and coffee and food so much.

Fuckers.

As if all that wasn't bad enough, I broke out in a sweat when I heard London Grammar on the radio... no doubt the torment of London Grammar cancelling their previous Melbourne gig (simply because I got all OMG OMG OMG!!! excited about them) burns in your mind, so you can possibly almost imagine the utter, utter, utter, utter, utter anguish that squished me when I suddenly wondered if perhaps their re-scheduled gig was tonight. WHAT IF LONDON GRAMMAR ARE PLAYING TONIGHT???!!! I CAN'T POSSIBLY SEE LONDON GRAMMAR TONIGHT BECAUSE OF THE SPANK AND THE SORE OF THE MUSCLES AND THE FACE-ACHE FROM SMILING AND LAUGHING AND DANCING AT AN AMAZING DANCE FESTIVAL!!! FUCK!!!

I have never - NEVER - been through such a traumatic episode in my entire life.

The only good that came out of this is that - and you are going to be so relieved to hear this - London Grammar are not playing until Saturday night. Oh what a happy ending to this nightmare of a day.

When You Have Those Memories That Make You Smile

Sitting in the Gasometer pub at the end of Smith Street, alone with my thoughts and an after-work pint of beer for company, I remembered another time in another pub. I think it was The Clock on Crown Street, Surry Hills. Sitting up there on the balcony  in full Sydney sunshine, I wasn't alone. I was with my beautiful friend Christine. What a luxury - afternoon sunshine, beer and a beautiful friend.

I remember being in a funny mood. As relaxed as I get with my closest friends. The very shy Funny Lee sometimes emerges. On this day, I was being a claws out fashionista bitch commentator on all the Crown Street fashion victims passing by. At one point during my commentary I thought Christine was being a bit quiet.

I looked sideways and saw that she was doubled over, almost crying in silent laughter at my silliness. A beautiful human, a beautiful moment, a beautiful memory.

And sitting in the Gasometer pub at the end of Smith Street, alone with my thoughts and a pint of after-work beer for company, I realised that I was smiling my head off at the memory.

Beautiful Strangers

I wanted to write something beautiful today
I wanted to write about the beautiful strangers
Who become friends
I wanted to write about the broken-getting-to-know yous in the work place,
And the eventual and lasting getting-to-know yous.

I wanted to come up with some poetic way
Of expressing my gratitude for recent and treasured encounters
(Without getting actual poetic because I am an actual shit poet)
Because my heart has been melted many times
By the kind hearts of these beautiful strangers.

I wanted to write something nice today
About these beautiful strangers
Who have enriched my life and have made me happy
With their honest individuality.

I wanted to write something beautiful today
But I was too busy.

Random Strangers

Sometimes strangers come along and they become a part of your life. And it's a beautiful thing.

Enjoy The Music While You Can

I saw Zoe years ago at a gig with Amanda Palmer and Meow Meow. Says a lot that I'd never heard of the cellist but that she stood out between such limelight personalities. I love the cello - it does wonderful things with your emotions. I loved what I was seeing someone do with the instrument. It was mesmerising. I loved seeing how absorbed by her music Zoe was. You can see it in this clip. She is obviously a passionate person.

Today she lost her partner of 17 years. The news made me incredibly sad because I had been hoping everything would be all right, but kind of thinking everything was probably not going to be all right.

Much love goes out to this beautiful soul.

Awesome Pants

Yesterday at a restaurant at Brighton beach, just as we were leaving, a young waiter dude came over to me and said, "Man - sorry but can I just ask where you got those pants? They're awesome." I told him that I got them at Rainbow, and this started a very, very, very enthusiastic conversation about festivals, Maitreya, psytrance and just how much the young guy loves psytrance and and and...

I think he'd probably had a pretty good night the night before. I didn't think he would be quite so enthusiastic later in his shift. I also thought it was pretty funny that he was having this kind of conversation with someone literally old enough to be his father.

I also recognised a kindred spirit and told him to feel free to drop into the cafe some time and we can talk some more about all things doof.

Was kind of cool meeting someone new to the scene who loves it so much.

An Unexpected Poop Of Happiness.

An Unexpected Poop Of Happiness

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Random People And Hearts Of Gold

Although I said I wasn't going to do it again, I did it again. I chose one single potential worker from the pile of resumes dropped off based on the resume itself and The Vibe.

The Vibe, it seems, fucking rocks.

While I doubt I will ever get another front-of-house cohort as perfect as the divine Miss D, this one is quite lovely and did something today that says wonderful things about her character and has made a big impression.

We had some roadworks going on right outside the front door of the cafe and the day got off to a really slow start. Not a single customer for the first hour. Not good. A few regulars came by after that, commenting on the jackhammers and barricades.

At about 9.15 I texted Clara, our new helper of four days, and said if she wanted the day off she could have it because I think it's going to be quiet. She has made it clear that she wants some work but wants time off wherever possible to enjoy our fine city, being the traveler that she is. I really thought it was going to be a three person day today. She replied that yeah sure, if that's okay with you.

It started getting a little busy, and the roadworks situation quietened a little. They basically finished the heavy digging and left for the day. I pooped my pants a little because what if we had a busy lunch and we need four people? Goodcall?Badcall?nnnnng!!!

This is the bit that impressed. During a gap in the customer traffic, I texted Clare and said look actually it could get busy during lunch and would it be okay if you came in after all?

Most people would have switched to oh-cool-unexpected-day-off mode and said sorry, I've just made plans. I think that's what I would have done, unless this was someone I had been working for for a long time.

Her reply? "I was going to go to the beach but you guys are my priority, so if you think it's going to be busy I'll come in. I don't mind."

She came in. She was cool about it. Then we got properly fucking slammed. And she was still cool about it. I was in a happy mood because it had been a close call... and what a gesture from someone we've only had on board for a few days.

Very glad my arse was saved again. Mostly, though, impressed by the kind of person who does something like that.

The Chicken That Wasn't There.

This a story about the chicken that wasn't there.


I was looking forward to a left-over chicken snack, but, astonishingly, there was no chicken. Apparently I had already eaten the chicken, perhaps during one of my late night, gastronomic somnambulations. I don't remember eating the chicken, but all the evidence indicated that I had already eaten all the chicken. This was very confusing because I have no recollection of eating the chicken.

There was sadness, too, because I was really, really looking forward to eating some chicken.

Alas, the chicken wasn't there.

And that's my romantic tragedy - perhaps the greatest romantic tragedy ever told involving chicken -  titled The Chicken That Wasn't There.

Grumpy & The Dreaded One's Little Cafe Of Awesome, Review

Holy fuck. So much positive feedback from customers about the food today that I'm thinking about having the food drug tested. The Dreaded One is obviously seasoning everything with some properly wicked shit, man.

Also, here is our first review of the year. Not a bad one either.

Happy Friday, mofos.

Why I Hate My Best Friends

Dear All Best Friends From The Future,

Can we not meet please? Kind of breaks my heart a little bit when you go away. Will love you anyway because I know you're out there, somewhere. It just makes me sad when we actually meet. Because you always go.

Much love always,

Lee.

Conversations With Our Customers: The Complaint

So we got a complaint in the cafe today. Apparently a customer didn't really like our Mexican tacos very much because of the rich, smoky flavour (that would be the chipotle in amongst all the other ingredients). She also found the soft tacos wraps to be a bit too... (struggles with what she is trying to say)... a bit too authentic. Apparently she was expecting - from our Mexican soft tacos - something "a bit more Australian."

Some complaints, you can live with. Like the time in our catering years when someone complained that our blue cheese had a bit of mold in it.

Love humans sometimes. They can be hilarious.

The Happy And The Sad

The happy and the sad... it's all part of the thing. Happy that they are here, will be sad when they have gone away. And they always go away.

This is the dialogue that goes with the clip: " Do you want to see the most beautiful thing I've ever filmed? It was one of those days when it's a minute away from snowing, and there's this electricity in the air, you can almost hear it. And this bag was just, dancing with me, like a little kid beggin' me to play with it - for fifteen minutes. And that's the day I realized that there was this entire life behind things, and this incredibly benevolent force that wanted me to know that there was no reason to be afraid, ever. Video's a poor excuse, I know. But it helps me remember - I need to remember. Sometimes, there's so much beauty in the world - I feel like I can't take it, like my heart is just going to cave in."

Maximum Spank

Last week our banged up little cafe was the busiest it has been. Record week. Would like to be doing it every week. With the right team, we can do it.

At one point, stuck on coffees, exhausted and almost overwhelmed, I closed my eyes and said thank you to the cosmos. Not because we might be looking at a record week, but because of the help we had been given. A random traveler had left her resume, as so many of them do, and sensing we were going to be spanked this week, having had a good impression of said random traveler, I asked her to come in and help out.

These things can go either way. Some trial-shifters have done my head in after 10 minutes. But this one, she was a good one. There was zip. There was bang. There was energy and intelligence and that thing that happens when you know what they're doing and why they are doing it, and they know the same about you. You feel like two parts of a unit. It's a good feeling.

And that's why at one point, maybe more, I closed my eyes and said thank you to the cosmos.

The Health Inspectors - A Black Comedy Farce.

If I ever write again, I think I'll write a savage black comedy about the life of the average (and they are very average humans) council health inspector. They swan into your place of work dressed like they're going to the opening night of the opera, even though in reality they should be wearing overalls or other similar mundane attire, and find their special area of annoyance and begin to tell you - as you try to keep up with the busy, service-time influx of customers - that you must make this change or that change. They look so smugly chuffed that they get to tell you this as they consult their snappy electronic device as if to say "See? See? There it is. There's the rule in the regulations that stipulates why you have to change this thing, and aren't you impressed with my vast knowledge of the myriad rules and regulations that rule and regulate my world?"

They never know the actual, practical arguments for these rules and regulations (it's never anything major in a reasonably run place; just niggly changes that must be made because surely you want them to smile and pat you on the back on their next irritating visit). They don't consult the previous inspection report (common sense? Fuck common sense!) to realise they are directly contradicting previous sage recommendations. They clip-clop about on their teetering heels and mneh mneh mneh as if they are doing something meaningful like... anything remotely meaningful. Which they are not.

Ever worked in a commercial kitchen, Miss Poindexter? Ever run a business? What, exactly, qualifies you to even think you have a fucking clue?

This is what you think as you nod and say sure, we'll move the thing over there that the last council numpty made us move to where it is now, as we try to focus on the job of serving our customers.

This is probably what I will write about if I ever write again.

Dr Spock & The Salad Dressing

I look like some kind of alien. Like Dr Spock's cousin who hates - fucking HATES -  the way The Dreaded One is drizzling the salad dressing.

Except Spock probably wouldn't hate.

Still. Jesus. So glad I don't see me from the outside. It's difficult enough from the inside.

Maitreya 2015

Today, working in my cafe, a bright little moment that cheered my internally gloomy mood...

A new regular came in and asked for her coffee. I remember her from her first visit because she looks interesting and familiar amongst our otherwise pretty straight and corporate clientele. Suits and ambos and doctors and nurses, and this cool looking one with her tatts and specs and unruly hair, her bright eyes and that smile.

During the transaction of coffee and money, she notices my wrist band from last year's Maitreya festival, and says, "That was a fun party."

"Have you seen the photos of the new site?" I ask.

"No, but I'm excited because I hear there is water."

We talk for a bit more. I like her smile and her happy eyes, and I wonder if some day soon, we might be friends.

Not A Review Of The Very Excellent Nick Cave, Melbourne, December 2014

I'm not reviewing Nick Cave from last night because I was just a punter... and yet today as I made another punter's coffee, sentences like this drifted through my mind...

"Counterpointing the gorgeous simplicity that is Nick Cave's lyrics, vocals and piano of, say, The Ship Song, were other songs of a more chaotic nature. I would loved for it to have been Stagger Lee (he was never going to play that one), but it was probably Higgs Boson Blues or even something more fucked up, in which each performer seems to go off into their own crazy world for a while and do their own fucked up thing... Warren Ellis hunched and terrorising a small stringed instrument, making it squeal and cry and howl; Nick Cave might also have been howling, or hitting some random metal things; somewhere some kind of crazy bell and keyboards and strobing lights and savage lyrics that make sense in a darkly supernatural way. It's crazy, cacophony for sure, but it's the most wonderfully harmonious and exciting cacophony you're ever likely to hear..."

Back in the real world: And here is your soy chai latte.

Grease The Musical, Regent Theatre, Melbourne, Review

                                                                Photo by Jeff Busby

Grease, The Musical
Regent Theatre
10th December, 2014

Reviewed by Lee Bemrose
The latest in an increasing number of musical reviews by someone who doesn't usually go to musicals, but sometimes seems to quite enjoy them when he does go to them, if they are good.

Mention Grease and most people will probably think of the 1978 movie starring John Travolta and Olivia Newton John and which holds number one position as the biggest movie musical box office hit of all time. It's interesting to note that the original stageplay was produced seven or so years before that, and in its early days was apparently a much different creature - rougher, edgier and with a lot to say about the development of American teen and pop culture.

But the movie cleaned up Grease and turned it into a kind of shiny cartoon, and this stageplay is basically a faithful reproduction of that shiny cartoon. As much as I enjoyed this production, I'd be really keen to see one more faithful to the original concept.

If you don't know the story, it's a romance about teenagers Sandy and Danny who meet while on holiday. The romance ends when the holiday does, only for it to be reborn in a different form when Sandy unexpectedly enrolls at Danny's school, Rydell High. Danny's a greaser with a womanising reputation to uphold, and Sandy's a bit of a goodie-two-shoes. No one thinks they are right for each other. Danny snubs her whilst still having feelings for her, until Sandy has an epiphany; maybe if she tarts herself up and acts tarty like the other tarts, Danny will fall for her properly. She does indeed tart herself up and Danny does indeed fall for her properly. The end.

Not ever having paid much attention to the storyline or the message, I was a little surprised by what the story was saying. Nothing here about being individual. Nothing about staying true to yourself. Everything about bowing to peer pressure and blending in. The realisation that Grease was saying that true love is only possible when you tart it up a little had me and my plus one, The Dreaded One, bursting into song on the way home: "You're the tart that I want, you are the tart I want, ooh, ooh, ooh..."

But Grease as it is here is not really about the story or the message; it's about the music. The music provides a very efficient distraction from the message because it's mighty fine music. This is a slick production oozing with talent, and there is no way of not smiling, seat dancing and maybe even singing along on occasion.

The songs are such a star that the show starts with an instrumental medley of what we are about to hear, just to whet our appetite. To us ancients in the audience, these are very familiar tunes.

The show proper gets off to a clunky start with the teacher treating the audience like her class and teaching us the rama lama ding dong part of We Go Together. I reckon there's only ever about 10 percent of an audience who wants to join in segments like this, with the rest of us just wanting to sit back and be entertained. The director knows this too, which is why revver-uppers appear through the audience to try to get things going. Very awkward segment that went for too long and didn't add anything to the show.

While I've got my negative pants on... Bert Newton as DJ Vince Fontaine... hmm. A cynical person might suspect that Mr Newton was not hired for the part based on his acting talent so much as the name of a national treasure being the drawcard for a certain demographic. There was no attempt to become the character, he was just Bert Newton saying the lines of another character. When the energy of the show was humming along and the Radio WAXX DJ booth rolled out it was like burning up the quarter mile only to hit quicksand. But hell, at the end he seemed to enjoy being up there on stage and the old dears probably got a kick out of it so whatever.

Just a second while I take off my negative pants... there... and put on my positive pants.

The good bits were very good indeed. Songs like Born To Hand Jive (John Paul Young still has the stuff) and Greased Lightning are loads of fun and are done here so well. Lots of infectious fun. As is the very funny Beauty School Dropout... hilariously kitsch. Slower, emotional songs like Sandy and There Are Worse Things I Could Do were also done to perfection, the latter revealing an unexpectedly vulnerable side to the hard, sassy character Rizzo. Lovely.

The encore closing the show was lots of fun and the entire, large cast had clearly enjoyed themselves. My only gripe here was when John Paul Young cheekily sang the opening lines of Love Is In The Air... And. Didn't. Keep. Going. Very funny, you utter bastard tease.

Apparently the very early productions of Grease went for a raw, rough production, the very opposite of what we have here. It's a stunning spectacle of a show that looks and sounds great, and for the most part you'll enjoy yourself almost as much as the performers do. (Just don't think about the message too much).

Now playing at the Regent Theatre, Melbourne.
For more info, go to the Grease website.

Some Girl Kissed A Girl I Know

Jesus - previous post an awesome song by the genius that is Tom Waits, followed by a Glee version of a Katy Perry song... WTF?

This parallel universe blogging is due to the funny story an acquaintance told me recently. She was at a club, having a great time. A girl approached her and asked if she could re-apply this acquaintance's lipstick. Said acquaintance thought it was a cute offer and said sure. Said acquaintance closed her eyes and pursed her lips, whereupon Lipstick Grl proceeded to totally pash Purse-lipped Acquaintance. Apparently there were equal parts tongue, utter shock and mooshed lipstick in the encounter. That's lots of tongue and lots of shock, and a LOT of mooshed lipstick, in case you are wondering.

Reminds me of another lipstick-in-a-club story involving yours truly, but that's another story. Might post that tomorrow with another astonishingly unexpected music clip.

Hold On

I've posted this clip here before. It's Tom's birthday today, I believe. He's 65 and doesn't like to fly, so in all probability I will never experience him playing live unless I go back to the U.S. Bummer. First world problem, for sure, but bummer.

Nick Cave next week which will be amazing. Another of the boys I like to sing out loud to.

For now, listen to this song and watch this clip. So fucking sweet and sad and just beautiful. Tom has said that he likes beautiful melodies telling him terrible things. Maybe that's true, but he also likes to tell us beautiful things to sweet melodies.

the broken pencil

but when there is no more funny shit,
no more laughter,
no more silly,
too much serious,
too much conflict,
too much hate,
not enough love,
not enough compassion,
not enough sharing,
of too much food,
of too much shelter,
of too much stuff,
you find yourself
in the dark
alone,
silently screaming the question:
what is the fucking point?

no surprise
that there is no answer,
because there is no point.

Alyx Dennison at Catfish On Gertrude Street

Just saw this local performer again tonight. Amazed at her talent again. So impressed with her singing, song-writing and her affinity with kookiness. She is very funny, and this was a good thing to do on a wet Wednesday night.

It was a short tram ride up the road to a place across the road from our cafe, and so many places were full. Food was being eaten, music was being heard... life was being lived.